very life. There he is, Waterdhavian sewer rat, keeping track of his pay but not his responsibilities…“
“That’s why I’m here, actually,” I said, dragging a notebook and a fat-nibbed hunk of lead from my pocket, “my responsibility. It’s not just guarding you. It’s also convicting anybody that attacks you-or V’Torres.”
Tonias’s face grew a fiery red beneath his crown of gold hair. “Why aren’t you questioning him?”
“Hard to question an unconscious man.” I shoved a couple music scores off a chair, drew it up beside the bed, and straddled it. “Besides, he’s looks guilty enough. Everybody saw him stab you. That was no accident. That was attempted murder. The real question is, what happened with this sword of yours? Was that an accident, or…”
The flush of Tonias’s face waned the moment I’d pronounced V’Torres’s guilt, but his eyes still blazed as he said, “I wish to the gods I’d killed him. I wish to the gods the sword had cut his head clear off. I assure you, if I’d done it on purpose, it would have killed him. I hate the man. But the blow of my sword was completely accidental.”
I made a line of nonsense scribbles on my pad of paper. I never write real notes, but scribbling keeps people off balance. “That’s a funny kind of argument. You’re saying you had motive, means, and opportunity, and yet you didn’t try to kill him? That’ll be hard to prove.”
He glanced down. His jowls rippled as he chewed over a decision. At last, he said, “It’s easy to prove. It’s the easiest thing in the world to prove, only I won’t do it with all these people here.”
I glanced up. The priests of Lathander returned my questioning gaze, most of them young, clean-shaven, and naпve.
I gestured toward the man’s belly. “What’s the prognosis? He well enough for you folks to step outside?”
The chief healer nodded and smiled-even his eyes smiled. “The Morninglord has been generous, indeed. The wound closed with the first prayers uttered, and the patient is resting comfortably-”
“That’ll be the day,” sniped Tonias.
“…so I suppose we could step outside and see how V’Torres is doing.”
“Fine,” I said, dismissing them.
The priests filtered out, robes rustling in the stale air, and I closed the door behind them. Tonias glanced meaningfully at the guards at the head and foot of his bed.
“Not a chance,” I said. “They’re working with me.”
Grimacing reluctantly, Tonias said, “I had the motive and opportunity, but not the means. I would have loved to kill V’Torres, but I never would have tried to kill him with that sword.” He nodded down to the blood-crusted blade beside the couch.
I reached down and lifted the thing, amazed at its heft. This was no mere stage sword. The blade was broad and balanced, its hilt expertly wound.
“Look at it, Quaid. This is the real murder victim tonight,” said Tonias cryptically. The blade certainly was bloody enough to be a murder victim. V’Torres’s gore was drying all across its fine etching. “Do you have any idea what… whom you hold in your hand?”
“Whom?”
“That is… was Ranjir, an ancient elven singing sword. An intelligent weapon,” said Tonias sadly. “It was forged before the time of Myth Drannor. It fought in thousands of battles, many for the elven homelands they still hold today. It has changed the course of Faeruin. And now, it is dead.”
“Dead?” I glanced up and down the blade. “How can you tell?”
“Look at the ruby in its hilt. It once shone with an inner light. Now look at it,” he urged. “Look at it!”
I turned the sword over, gazing into an eye-sized gemstone set in the silver filigree of the basket handle. The stone was cracked, shot through with sooty blackness. I tried to keep the humor from my voice as I asked, “How did it die?”
“Blood,” Tonias responded, miserable. He folded his arms over his chest. “The sword was forged so that if ever in battle it was touched with blood, it would be slain.”
I was still studying the blown-out stone. “How did the sword fight in thousands of battles and change the face of Faerвn if it never drew blood?”
“By singing, it could create mass hallucinations, make a small force seem like an army, make enemies think they were wounded, make them faint, unconscious, believing themselves slain. It won its wars by singing, not by slaying… not by blood.”
“A singing sword,” I said, admiring the weapon. “Perhaps even an operatic sword? This would be quite an item for a person such as you to have. A wonderful prop that could turn a fine actor into a magnificent tenor.”
“He is a magnificent tenor,” the rebec player protested. “He has a beautiful voice. Sing for him, Tonias. Sing for him!”
Tonias patted her hand, defensiveness melting as he comforted her. “It’s no use. He’ll know soon enough.” He lifted his eyes to me, and the fire and irritation were gone, leaving only the red, wounded look of a lost child. “I am a good tenor, yes, but not a great tenor. Not the great tenor Tonias of Selgaunt. That was all an act. It was the sword singing, not me. So, you can see, Ranjir was my career, my life. I’d never have drawn blood with it.”
I nodded, sliding my notebook away. He was telling the truth, I was sure. Otherwise, he was throwing his career away for nothing. “So, you’re finished then, yes?”
Thnias snorted. “I’ll say the belly wound stole my breath. I’ll say I can’t sing four bars straight through. I’ll say something and retire from opera forever.”
I got up to go, still carrying the sword, but turned with one final question. “You said Ranjir was a murder victim. If you didn’t murder the sword, who did?”
The heat returned to his eyes. “V’Torres. He must have found out about the sword, that it sang for me. He must have found out how to kill it, and stabbed me to provoke me into using it on him. He may have attempted to murder me, Quaid, but he succeeded in murdering Ranjir.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why kill the sword?”
“Jealousy, pure and simple. He wanted to destroy my career just like he destroyed his own.”
It all seemed to be falling into place. I headed toward the door. “I’m confiscating the sword till this thing gets cleared up.”
Tonias waved the blade away. “It’s worthless to me, now. Do whatever you want with it.”
“I’d like to show it to V’Torres and see what he has to say.” I motioned to the two city guardsmen. “And I’m going to ask these fellows to stick with you until we’ve got this whole mess sorted out.”
“I understand,” Tonias said snidely, patting his girlfriend’s hand. “After all, somebody’s got to guard me.”
The other tenor’s dressing room was down in the bowels of the opera house-no windows, no silver mirrors, no fainting couch, no Shou Lung carpets. It was a cramped space of drippy brick. Flanked by guards, V’Torres lay on a moldy pallet on the floor. He wore black rags and clutched a metal flask in his hand. His face was grimy with stage makeup, his black hair a tangled mass above dissipated eyes.
The yet-smiling priest met me at the door. “We’ve been doubly blessed today. The Morninglord saw fit to heal this man, as well. He’s lost much blood, but is no longer in danger.”
I raked the bloody sword out toward V’Torres. “We’ll see how long that remains the case. Thanks for your help,” I said by way of dismissal. The priest made a shallow bow and ducked from the mildewy place.
I considered the wounded man, real-life equivalent of the leprous, murderous Garragius. “So, what do you have to say for yourself, stabbing your rival onstage, before thousands of witnesses?”
“I didn’t do it,” he rasped out miserably, and took another bitter swallow.
I nodded. Every man in the dungeons was innocent. “So, your dagger just slipped. Maybe you’d been drinking and started to lose your balance. Maybe the blade couldn’t help hitting the biggest thing around.”
“Not even that,” the man said darkly, coughing as the rot-gut brought tears to his eyes. “I stuck the dagger in the space under his left arm, just as I always do.”
“When you’re seeing double, it’s hard to know which left arm-”
“I’d had nothing to drink before the performance. It was only after… everything that I…”
“Then where did all the blood come from? And how did ten priests get a look at Tonias’s bowel? And why am I here having to talk to you?”
“I didn’t stab him.”
