Pontifax and I have gathered enough evidence to convince me she did it.”
“But not enough to convince the authorities,” Zintermi reminded him. “You say that Guigenor was recently seen conversing with members of the consulate of Kozakura, but that is not proof she studied with, or hired, any of their assassins. You have uncovered rumors of a failed romance between the young lady and the count, but these rumors cannot be confirmed and do not necessarily offer motive.”
Artus sat up. “Those suspicions should be enough to redirect the investigation, but Hamnet Hawklin and his allies are pressuring the watch to formally charge Uther and convene a trial. Without some sort of hard evidence against Guigenor-like finding the leather gag or the count’s missing wineskin in her possession, or having Leonska’s spirit identify her as the murderer-they’re going to do just that.”
“Perhaps you are searching for evidence that doesn’t exist.”
“Look,” Artus said irritably, “Guigenor is hiding something. She claims to be from the Dales. She’s not. Pontifax discovered she’s a native of Zhentil Keep, which would explain why the writing on the dagger was Zhentish.” He tapped his chest; beneath his tunic the skin was crisscrossed there with scars-the handiwork of Zhentish torturers. “And if she’s connected to the Keep, she’s trouble.”
Zintermi finally snuffed the remaining ritual candle. The oil lamps on either side of the door kept the room from sinking into total darkness, but shadows ventured out from the corners and slipped across the priest’s face. “There are things in your past you do not claim with pride,” he said. “Can your suspect not be afforded the same luxury? At the very least, Master Cimber, you should be more meticulous, more evenhanded. Might I suggest you delve into Uther’s history with the same eye toward inconsistency?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You have often repeated Uther’s quips about lawyers.
He is quite critical of anyone who pursues that profession, no? You might be surprised to learn that he was a barrister himself. In fact Uther can claim distant membership in the FitzKevrald clan, which has practiced at the bar in Waterdeep for centuries.”
The content of that revelation could not have been described as ominous, but Artus found himself unsettled by it anyway. Zintermi had a way of undermining Artus’s most carefully constructed theories, though he didn’t seem to gain any undue sense of triumph in doing so. That was his strength as a teacher. But the reason the explorer sought his advice so often was his practice of suggesting a better, more solid foundation to replace any he shattered.
The wise words Zintermi offered that evening were predictably simple: “Gather facts before you attempt to prove a theory. Observe, then conclude.”
Artus had the opportunity to put that advice into practice shortly after departing the temple. Doing so probably saved his life.
For each of the three nights since the murder, Artus had made his way to Marrok de Landoine’s estate. The nobleman had instructed the young explorer-there was no hint of a request about it-to provide a regular update on his search for the killer. So after leaving Zintermi, Artus once again trekked to Suzail’s most distant outskirts. There, the sprawling grounds of Marrok’s ancestral home presented themselves as a last bastion of carefully gardened topiary and well-scrubbed servants before a traveler would find himself surrounded by rough rolling hills and the even rougher farmers, ranchers, and hunters who tore a living from them.
As expected, Artus found the main gate unlocked. He trudged wearily up the long gravel carriageway, the crunch of his bootfalls sending alarmed rabbits scurrying for cover. Wan moonlight cast a pall over everything. Artus assumed the ghostly look of the fruit trees, the harsh hedgerows, and the nearly dark mansion to be the product of his overtaxed and under-rested imagination. The truth of it was, even the city’s most drearily practical clerk would have found the grounds strange and unsettling that night.
A dark shape stumbled from behind a tree, then disappeared into the entrance of a hedge maze. Artus saw the figure for only a moment, but it was clearly female. A poacher, he concluded. They were common enough on estates like Marrok’s, where the meticulously mown lawns rendered small game easier targets. This one was clearly drunk, though, far more likely to snare herself than any dinner. Artus felt a pang of sympathy for the poor woman, who very likely had children to feed in some hillside hovel.
That sympathetic inclination was quickly tempered by Zintermi’s advice, which had been lingering at the periphery of Artus’s thoughts all evening. At first Artus cursed the priest for making him suspicious of a drunken unfortunate. Nevertheless, he found himself observing his surroundings with a more critical eye. Had he not done so, he might have missed a telltale rustling in the hedges right before the attack.
Artus had a foot on the lowest of the steps leading up to the house’s pillared entry when she burst through the bushes like an enraged animal. She seemed oblivious to the scratches gouged into her bare arms by the branches. With both hands she clutched a large ritual knife. She drew the blade up over her head as she charged.
As he spun around to face her, Artus noticed all of these things dimly, just as he realized in a detached way that the woman was no professional assassin. The black hood concealing her face might be a favored guise of the ninja, but she was most certainly not one of their highly trained murderers. Her attack was clumsy, her movements graceless and stiff.
Artus easily ducked the blade swipe, then planted a kick in her midsection. He expected to hear her gasp, possibly even see her topple as the air exploded from her lungs. Instead she barely staggered a step before raising her blade again.
Artus drew his own dagger from the sheath in his boot. A gem in the hilt cast pale magical light in a circle just large enough to encompass both combatants. He sidestepped the woman’s second clumsy charge. As she moved past, he brought the rounded end of his knife’s handle down atop her skull. The blow didn’t faze her at all.
It did, however, loosen a coil of hair hidden beneath the hood. The escaped tresses snaked down to her shoulders. For a moment Artus mistook the flame-bright red hair for blood, so striking was its hue. Then a look of recognition flashed across his face.
“Guigenor!” Artus exclaimed.
The shouted name accomplished what no blow could: the woman stopped her attack. With one hand Guigenor drew off the mask that hid her pale, expressionless features. The fingers of the other hand opened slowly and the knife dropped to the gravel. With its golden handle, engraved with Zhentish markings, the weapon was a twin to the one he’d seen embedded in Count Leonska’s chest.
Finally the mansion’s main entry flew open. A small mob of servants flooded out with cries of “What’s going on there?” and “Be warned, we’re armed!” Artus turned his head for just a moment as they clattered down the steps. It was time enough for Guigenor to flee back into the bushes.
Artus might have caught her, but one of Marrolз’s men tackled him from behind. Before he could even cry out, two others had descended upon him, pinning his arms to the ground, kneeling heavily upon his back. “It’s her you want,” Artus wheezed into the gravel. “She’s a murderer.”
“I think we’ve enough proof of that now,” sighed Marrok de Landoine from the top step. “Well, let him up, you buffoons.”
Artus accepted a helping hand from a liveried servant.
“Someone should alert the watch,” he said to Marrok.
“Already done,” the nobleman replied. “I will, of course, sack the dolts who assaulted you.”
With an annoyed wave of his hand, Artus dismissed the offer. “Never mind that. We should be worrying about finding Guigenor before she hurts anyone else. She’s obviously unbalanced.”
“No fear,” Marrok sniffed. “My men will track her down. In the meantime, why don’t you come in. The watch will want to take your statement when they arrive.”
On his previous visits, Artus had been received in the foyer. And while that grand entryway had been constructed to impress-it was as large as the two rooms Artus rented over Razor John’s fletcher shop-giving his reports there left him feeling distinctly like a delivery man come to the wrong side of the house. Now Marrok led him down a long, carpeted hall, past ancestral portraits and brightly polished suits of armor, to a large book-lined study. It was all exactly as Artus would have guessed, a page out of the style handbook for old Cormyrean money.
“We should thank Tymora you escaped harm,” Marrok noted from behind the generously stocked bar. He sounded a bit disappointed in saying so. “Care for a brandy?”
Artus declined politely. He started to sit on a beautifully upholstered couch, then remembered his roll on the
