Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

For years, the fifty noble houses of Mornedealth had divided themselves into factions of ten. Each of the five disliked the others, but the Greens and Blues, the most powerful, detested one another with extraordinary virulence. When the fire elemental’s depredations fanned their mutual hatred and suspicion, their enmity nearly plunged the city into outright civil war.

Strangely enough, that turned out to be a good thing, because it threw a scare into every noble with a particle of sense. In the aftermath, Pivar, a leader of the Blues, led a campaign to quell the factions. The forthcoming wedding represented the culmination of his efforts. When Baltes, a widower, married Pivar’s youngest daughter Lukinda, it ought to lay the rivalries to rest for good and all.

But only if the wedding came off as planned. On the surface, there was no reason why the murder and burglary, no matter how unfortunate, need prevent it. But my gut warned me that, if left unresolved, such an alarming, inexplicable calamity could bring the old malice and mistrust creeping back.

“So,” said Marissa, “what did you want to talk about?”

“First, tell me about Venwell. Did you train him?”

“Yes.”

“Was he an able, seasoned swordsman?”

“Very much so.”

I sighed. “I was afraid of that. Now I need to know how hard I can push these folk. I have things to say they won’t like. I won’t mean to denigrate their honor, but some may take it that way.”

She snorted. “Wonderful. Because they don’t like you.” Understandably so, I supposed, since for years, I made my living teaching Blues how to kill them. “I don’t know that you dare push them very hard at all.”

“Damn it, I have to do the job they brought me here to do. Will you back me up?”

She made a sour face. “Well, I did get you into this, even if I’m starting to regret it.”

“Let’s rejoin the others.”

“What do you have to tell us?” Baltes asked.

“Milord,” I said, “I’m no sage—far from it—but as Marissa told you, sometimes I have an eye for what’s odd about a particular situation. We have several oddities here. For starters, neither the sentries nor the watchdogs outside detected an intruder, nor have we found any sign of forced entry.”

“What of it?” Tregan asked. “As I understand it, there are thieves skillful enough to sneak into any house.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “But consider this also. Venwell died of cuts to the chest. He saw his killer. Yet he perished without even trying to draw his blade.”

“Perhaps,” Tregan said, “he froze.”

Marissa shook her head. “No. I schooled him too well.”

“It’s possible,” I said, feeling as if I were about to dive from a cliff, “he knew his slayer. If it was someone he trusted, that would explain why he took no alarm until it was too late, even though the killer had a naked sword in his hand. Similarly, if the culprit was someone who lives here in the mansion—or is currently a guest—he wouldn’t need to sneak past the guards and hounds, or break open a window or door.”

For a moment, everyone just gawked at me. Then a footman said, “But everybody liked Venwell.”

“That may be,” I replied, “but a thief still couldn’t afford to let him report that he’d seen him stealing the tiara.”

“Ridiculous,” Tregan spat. “Ours is a wealthy and honorable house. No one here would steal the gift.”

“Not even a servant?” I asked. “Or the least of your kin, perhaps burdened with gambling debts?”

“No,” Tregan said, “I don’t believe it.”

“Have you wondered,” I said, “why the thief took only a single article? A housebreaker could surely have carried away more. But if the murderer never left, if he needed to hide his plunder here in the mansion for the time being, he might have reckoned that the more he stole, the harder it would be to conceal. Or, if he’s a member of the household, it might have shamed him to take more than he reckoned he truly needed.”

Skinny and sharp-nosed like Tregan but younger, a Keenspur named Dremloc stepped forth from the mass of observers and planted himself in front of me. Here it comes, I thought. At least it looked as if he meant to deliver a formal challenge. I had a fair chance of surviving that, as I wouldn’t if he and all his outraged relations simply assailed me in a pack.

“You Blue bastard,” he said. “I say you’re a lia—”

But just before he could articulate that unforgivable word, Marissa sprang between us. She glared into his eyes, and he flinched. Since she’d trained him, he knew how deadly a combatant she was, and accordingly feared her more than he did me.

“Master Selden,” she said, “is under my protection. Is that clear?”

Dremloc scowled, but also inclined his head.

Baltes turned to me. “Do you have more to say?” he asked.

I had a nagging sense that I should. That I’d missed things a sharper eye and brain might have discerned. But it would have only have undermined his confidence in me to say so. “You’ve heard my conjectures, Milord. They point to an obvious course of action. Search the mansion, find the tiara, and hope its hiding place reveals who took it.”