Do the Weird Crime, Serve the Weird Time

It would be a grand funeral, promised Count William, he would spare no expense.

I began to work on Winslow’s eulogy. As is always the case when someone dies, I wished that I had paid more attention to him in the living years. His scholarship had been great. I really wished that he had finished his history of his own family.

I was pondering this loss to learning when Shina came running into my yard. I let her in.

“Robert. It wasn’t you, was it? Tell me you didn’t kill him.”

“Of course I didn’t kill him. Why would you think something that crazy?”

She reached out her right hand to me, opening it from the fist it had been. In her palm was the ring of the red knight.

“Have you told anyone?” I asked.

“No. Not yet. If you didn’t do it, someone wants it to look like you did. I found it under the table; I was cleaning up the house. I didn’t know if I should take it to you or to Gager.”

I reached for the ring, but she made the fist again.

“You’ve got to give it to me—so I can figure out what’s going on.”

“What if you did drop it?”

“Shina, you know me.”

“I know. I don’t know. What are the rules for murder and friendship? I don’t know. I should take it to Gager.”

“If you do, you’ll be putting a noose around my neck. Leave it with me for a night, I may be able to get the ring to talk.”

“You’re not that powerful a wizard, Robert, you know that.”

“Sometimes a person can be pretty powerful if his life is in danger.”

She started to release the ring.

“You must promise me,” she said, “that you’ll give me the ring tomorrow. I can say I just found it. I don’t want to be jailed for having interfered with a criminal case.”

“I promise.”

She handed me the ring, a simple circle of red gold with the word “judge” written in the High Speech. She made me promise several more times. She was scared, but I was terrified.

The red knight, Sir Starkad, had been a harsh man. My father, the swineherd, used to say that the best words that could be spoken of a man were “He was tough, but fair.” Starkad would not have needed “fair”—his justice was harsh.

* * * * * * *

Let me tell you about the ring. Last year at Carnival, Count William invited all of us poor teachers to a great costume ball and feast. Now, as you know, a scholar will not pass up a free meal for any reason. I dressed up as Sir Starkad, the founder of the Count’s family. I had a replica of the ring made as a magical focus so that I could conjure up the rest of the costume. I had even won a small prize for best costume (historical).

Winslow, the only person to attend the party without costume, had nothing but bad things to say about my choice. Who was I, a commoner, to wear (even in sport) the arms of a noble family? Count William announced a special prize for his uncle: Best Curmudgeon.

A few months after Carnival, I was looking for the ring. I wanted to melt it down for the gold so I could buy a particularly wonderful set of scrolls from Mordrake. I couldn’t find the ring, and chalked up the loss to my messy bachelor life. I hadn’t thought to tell anyone of my loss. Not that it would matter. The ring at the site of Winslow’s murder could convince any jury. He had complained widely of my presumption in wearing it.

In one of my books of magic was a spell to open the mouth of objects. It would cause a thing to reveal its history. A very advanced spell, this—but if I could discover the killer, I might be able to slip the noose. I hated the killer whoever she or he was. He (or she) had stolen my best enemy and wanted to frame me.

The spell was a simple one. It involved a red oil lamp with a wick upon which had been written certain characters and a few barbarous names. I performed it an hour after sunset. Nothing happened. I put a new wick in the lamp and tried again, pouring all of my magical strength into the operation. Nothing happened.

I felt weak and sad. I blew out the lamp, leaving the ring on my writing desk. I walked heavily over to my cot and threw myself down to sleep. I dozed off quickly. Then I heard or thought I heard the chair at my writing desk being pushed back. I couldn’t see in the darkness of my house, but I felt like someone was sitting at my table. I thought I heard someone writing.

“Shina?”

Nothing.

“Winslow?”

Still nothing.

I sprang up and ran over to the desk. No one seemed to be there. I lit a candle. No one there. But didn’t I leave the ring near the center of the table?

I decided I was having a really bad case of nerves. I left the candle lit and returned to bed. Amazingly I fell asleep again, as if something in the room drove away consciousness.

I dreamed a little dream. I dreamt first of rings. Rich noble rings sparkling with gems of this and other worlds. Poor couples’ wedding bands. Slaves rings from the southern deserts. Each of them rolling endlessly through the night. Each of them a symbol of something the wearer was bound to. Each rolling like the cycles of our lives from birth to death to be given to another in another life. Rolling along, controlling the paths of the life of the person wearing them. I was somewhere far above them watching them as bodiless observer, but I began to sink toward them, and the sound of their rolling grew into a great roar. I feared I would land among them and be worn to bits by their endless rolling. By this time I was thinking that the rings and all they implied ruled mankind. Who was the first to pledge his troth over a band of metal? Once that pledge was made, we lived in a world of meanings, a world where things could be done with words like “I do” or “I swear.” I was falling into the great river of rings which had rolled since my ancestors’ ancestors had decided to live by Law. How could I withstand that force? I had avoided the force by becoming a scholar, a semi-recluse, but now that world of men— with its endless rings—would have me.

I fell but as is the way of dreams, merely woke. I was awake for an instant thinking that I saw something sparkle upon my desk and then I returned to sleep.

I must have slept a great while for I know that my second dream was near dawn.

I dreamt I was at a masked ball in Count William’s home. I was dressed as the red knight, but there was another red knight. I approached this man angry at having my costume aped. The other red knight lurked in the shadows. When I came upon him I saw that his armor was not the festive stuff of Carnival fantasy. Battle had left its mark.

He raised his visor and I saw in inexpressible sadness in his gray eyes. I wanted to say something to offer some assurance to this man who suddenly seemed like a brother to me. I thought he has chosen the world of rings, not a do-nothing scholar like me. He lowered his visor and made his way through the crowd toward the throne. Some grave matter of state was unfolding.

I thought to follow him, but the masked crowd seemed suddenly thicker and noisier. I doubted that I could pass through them.

I looked for a pathway close to the walls. It was then I saw old Winslow sitting at his writing desk penning a manuscript. I’ll tell him that I’m sorry he’s dead, I thought, for such thoughts are in the way of dreams.

I made my way to him.

He was writing in his usual beautiful hand:

A History of the Carvenells

The first of the line prepares the last of the line’s doom.

* * * * * * *

I woke suddenly because something cold touched my cheek. Rolled over my cheek. The candle had gone out. I sprang out of bed looking for what had touched me. I threw my bedding aside on the floor feeling for something small. I found nothing. Then I went and got a candle, my fingers shaking as I put flint to steel. By its light I saw nothing, but the ring was gone from the desk.

I began lighting candles. I would flood my small house with light. I must find the ring before tomorrow. I had no doubt that Shina, already unsure in her resolve to let me have the ring, would tell Constable Gager of her