Read Online The Haunted Wizard - Wiz in Rhym-6 by Christopher Stasheff - Free Book Online
Authors: Christopher Stasheff
Tags: Fiction, General, Fantasy fiction, Fiction - Fantasy, Fantasy, Fantasy Fiction; American, Fantasy - General, Fantasy - Series, Wizards, American Science Fiction And Fantasy
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who warded him there, and I had to leap to guard him from behind until I was laid low in my turn by some other Merovencian bully boy."
"Probably the prince who stabbed Pargas, then." Matt turned away before the sergeant could object, and measured the distance from the stain to the bottom step with his eyes. "Ten feet clear of the stairs, at least. The prince fought a good way into the room."
"He was a decent fighter with a knife, milord." The sergeant's tone was neutral.
"And not very many noblemen are good knife-fighters, hm? Not his first tavern brawl, no doubt. Unfortunately, he made it far enough away from the walls so that virtually anyone could have come at his back."
The room was very quiet.
Into the silence, Sir Orizhan said, "Then anyone here might have struck that blow?"
"Anyone," Matt agreed. "Start asking questions, Sir Knight. You, too, Sergeant. I want to know where everyone was when the prince fell."
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They started asking. Half an hour later Matt had a complete picture of where everyone had been. Each one of them remembered whom he had been fighting, and their stories all checked—except for two men whose opponents had disappeared chasing the fugitive, but Matt was inclined to believe them, so the escapees couldn't have been the murderers. One of the Bretanglian troopers even remembered that he'd been fighting Pargas when Laetri screamed, and that he'd seen her over the pimp's shoulder the whole time. The serving wenches had all been hiding behind the bar, and all remembered each other's presence.
"It would seem that the murderer was the man who went out the window after all, milord," Sir Orizhan said.
"That," Matt agreed, "or somebody's lying. Let's go back to the castle, Sir Orizhan. I want a look at the body before I talk to its father."
"A look at the body? But why?"
"Tell you outside," Matt muttered, men snapped, "Come on, Sergeant. Let's go!" They strode out into the night—and Matt halted, turning to face the two men. "I didn't want to say this where the bystanders could hear—but if the man who went out the window didn't stab the prince with his own hand, and everyone else remembers who they were fighting, there's a very good chance the prince was killed by magic."
The knight stared, face sickening, eyes filling with dread— but Brock's expression turned stone cold. Prince Gaheris' body lay in state in the Great Hall, surrounded by candles and Bretanglian guards. His face and hands had been washed, but the servants couldn't undress him to bathe because of rigor mortis. Sir Orizhan had to do some fancy talking to keep the guards from objecting to Mart's inspection, and Sergeant Brock had to order them away from the casket—all the way to the edges of the room, so they couldn't hear the muttered conversation.
Matt turned the body over and stared at the wound in the back. Doublet and cut alike were stiff with dried blood. He swallowed heavily against nausea and whispered to Sir Orizhan, "You really think a knife did that?"
"Assuredly not!" The knight's face turned gray. Even Sergeant Brock turned pale. It was a huge, gaping, horizontal cut, at least six inches long. The edges were ragged, as though someone had cut in with a saw instead of stabbing.
"What weapon made that?" Sir Orizhan whispered "A sword," Sergeant Brock told him, "or a spearhead. Even then, the murderer must have twisted it and hacked a bit, to make the edge so ragged." Matt turned the prince faceup again. "A lump on the left-hand side of his forehead—Pargas scored once, at least. A few more bruises, but I don't see any blood on this side "
"No," Sir Orizhan agreed. "I have seen sticks hit men hard enough to make them bleed, but nowhere nearly as much as the prince did. The pimp could not have slain him, then, could he?"
"A club doesn't cut into a body too well, no," Matt acknowledged, "and it's hard to hit both the front and the
"Probably the prince who stabbed Pargas, then." Matt turned away before the sergeant could object, and measured the distance from the stain to the bottom step with his eyes. "Ten feet clear of the stairs, at least. The prince fought a good way into the room."
"He was a decent fighter with a knife, milord." The sergeant's tone was neutral.
"And not very many noblemen are good knife-fighters, hm? Not his first tavern brawl, no doubt. Unfortunately, he made it far enough away from the walls so that virtually anyone could have come at his back."
The room was very quiet.
Into the silence, Sir Orizhan said, "Then anyone here might have struck that blow?"
"Anyone," Matt agreed. "Start asking questions, Sir Knight. You, too, Sergeant. I want to know where everyone was when the prince fell."
Page 33
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
They started asking. Half an hour later Matt had a complete picture of where everyone had been. Each one of them remembered whom he had been fighting, and their stories all checked—except for two men whose opponents had disappeared chasing the fugitive, but Matt was inclined to believe them, so the escapees couldn't have been the murderers. One of the Bretanglian troopers even remembered that he'd been fighting Pargas when Laetri screamed, and that he'd seen her over the pimp's shoulder the whole time. The serving wenches had all been hiding behind the bar, and all remembered each other's presence.
"It would seem that the murderer was the man who went out the window after all, milord," Sir Orizhan said.
"That," Matt agreed, "or somebody's lying. Let's go back to the castle, Sir Orizhan. I want a look at the body before I talk to its father."
"A look at the body? But why?"
"Tell you outside," Matt muttered, men snapped, "Come on, Sergeant. Let's go!" They strode out into the night—and Matt halted, turning to face the two men. "I didn't want to say this where the bystanders could hear—but if the man who went out the window didn't stab the prince with his own hand, and everyone else remembers who they were fighting, there's a very good chance the prince was killed by magic."
The knight stared, face sickening, eyes filling with dread— but Brock's expression turned stone cold. Prince Gaheris' body lay in state in the Great Hall, surrounded by candles and Bretanglian guards. His face and hands had been washed, but the servants couldn't undress him to bathe because of rigor mortis. Sir Orizhan had to do some fancy talking to keep the guards from objecting to Mart's inspection, and Sergeant Brock had to order them away from the casket—all the way to the edges of the room, so they couldn't hear the muttered conversation.
Matt turned the body over and stared at the wound in the back. Doublet and cut alike were stiff with dried blood. He swallowed heavily against nausea and whispered to Sir Orizhan, "You really think a knife did that?"
"Assuredly not!" The knight's face turned gray. Even Sergeant Brock turned pale. It was a huge, gaping, horizontal cut, at least six inches long. The edges were ragged, as though someone had cut in with a saw instead of stabbing.
"What weapon made that?" Sir Orizhan whispered "A sword," Sergeant Brock told him, "or a spearhead. Even then, the murderer must have twisted it and hacked a bit, to make the edge so ragged." Matt turned the prince faceup again. "A lump on the left-hand side of his forehead—Pargas scored once, at least. A few more bruises, but I don't see any blood on this side "
"No," Sir Orizhan agreed. "I have seen sticks hit men hard enough to make them bleed, but nowhere nearly as much as the prince did. The pimp could not have slain him, then, could he?"
"A club doesn't cut into a body too well, no," Matt acknowledged, "and it's hard to hit both the front and the
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