"Wha?" he slurred. The bartender slapped both the beer and the remainder of the money down on the rough wooden table in front of him.
"Yours," he grunted. "Ya made a bet. Part paid off the tab, this's what's left."
Hardysty stared at him a moment, as Tal pretended to nurse his beer. "Ah," he slurred. "Bet. Yah." Clearly he didn't
expect
to remember the apocryphal "bet" that had been made on his behalf. All he knew was that money had somehow appeared that supposedly belonged to him, and he wasn't about to question the source.
He drank the beer down to the dregs in a single swallow—Tal winced inside at the mere idea of actually
drinking
the stuff. He knew what it was; the dregs out of the barrels of beer emptied at more prosperous taverns, and the dregs of brewing, mixed together and sold so cheaply that it often went as pig-slop. There was not a viler beverage on the face of the earth. A man that drank the stuff on a regular basis cared only for the fact that it would get him drunk for pennies.
Whatever Hardysty had been, the fact was that he was too far gone in drink to have had any connection to the murders. If he remembered who he was and where he was supposed to go from one day to the next, he would be doing well.
When Torney said he was cadging drinks, he meant it. He's probably a street-beggar for just long enough to get the money to drink.
Whatever had gotten him dismissed from the Church? Tal thought he remembered something about theft of Church property. Had the disgrace broken him, or had the drinking started first? Perhaps the thefts had gone to pay for drink.
This was one vice gone to excess that Tal never could understand; intellectually, he could sympathize with a man who had lost his head over a woman, and he could understand how the thrill of risk could make a man gamble away all he had in the heat of a moment—but he never could understand this rush to oblivion, be it by drink or by a drug. Why do something that made you feel
less
alive, rather than more? Why would anyone willfully seek to remove ability?
Hardysty dropped the mug down onto the table, stared at the pile of coppers for a moment, then shoved them back across the table to the bartender. "More," he said—which was probably what the bartender had expected him to say. Before Tal could blink, the coppers were gone.
Tal pretended to drink two more mugs of the awful stuff before staggering out into the darkness. At no time did the bartender ask him about his connection to Hardysty; at no time did Hardysty make any attempt to find out where the money had come from. That was typical behavior in a place like this one. No one asked questions, and information was seldom volunteered, though it could be bought.
At this point it was too late to look for any of the other former Priests, but he felt he had made enough progress for one night. He could definitely scratch Torney and Hardysty off his list. The practice of magic—especially magic as powerful and tricky as this one must be—required a sharp mind. Even sober, Hardysty wouldn't be capable of that much concentration. Dreg-beer came contaminated with all sorts of unpleasant things, and the people who sold it often adulterated it further. There was no telling how badly Hardysty was poisoned; the only thing that was certain was that he had no more than half the mind he'd started out this slide to oblivion with. He might just as well have taken two rocks and hammered his own head with them on a daily basis for the last few years.
Tal was grateful for the heavy snowfall; it kept footpads off the street. This was not a neighborhood he wanted to have to visit again by night. He was immeasurably glad when he got into a better area without an incident, and even happier when he reached the constabulary headquarters and was able to get his horse from the Ducal stables. The ride across town and over the bridge to the Abbey was quite some distance, but in contrast to his walk away from the docks, it seemed to take no time at all.
A person could draw quite a parable from those two, Torney and Hardysty, if he knew everything that brought them to where they are now. Torney was driven by love to give up everything in order to have it, but what drove Hardysty to oblivion? Greed? Fear?
That was the end of the puzzle for every really good constable that Tal had ever met. Once you knew who'd done the crime, you'd caught him, and you had him safely disposed of, you always wondered why he'd done what he'd done. Even things that seemed obvious were sometimes only obvious on the surface. Why did some people, born into poverty, go out and try to make their lives better honestly instead of turning to crime? Why did one child, beaten and abused, grow up to vow never to inflict that kind of treatment on his own children, while others treated their offspring as they'd been treated?
Tal didn't know, and neither did anyone else, but he sometimes had the feeling that the answer
was
there, if only he knew where to look for it, and was brave enough to search.
The next day, in absence of any other orders, he crossed the bridge again to resume his hunt for former Priests. Following Torney's information that one of them had changed his name to "Oskar Koob" and had set himself up as a fortune-teller, Tal went to the office in charge of collecting taxes on small businesses. "Koob" would not call himself a "fortune-teller," of course—fortune-telling was illegal, and possibly heretical. No, he would call himself a "Counselor" or "Advisor," and that was the listing where Tal found his name and address.
He had come prepared this time, dressed in civilian clothing, with a pouch full of letters and a few business papers that referred to him as a trader in semiprecious gemstones. There was nothing about him to reveal his true identity, although the papers all called him by his real name. There were so few people in Kingsford who knew what Tal Rufen really was that he felt perfectly safe in using a name he
knew
he would respond automatically to. In taking an assumed name, there was always the chance that you would forget who you were supposed to be for a moment, and give yourself away.
I just hope that this man hasn't got the ability to read thoughts.
Yesterday's snow had been shoveled off the streets and packed in piles against the walls of the shops and houses; today, although the sky was overcast, it didn't feel to him as if it was going to snow again.
So odd, to think that a few weeks ago I was wishing I lived somewhere where it snowed in the winter instead of raining, and now here I am. I
think
this is an improvement.
Somehow he'd gotten the impression that snow just didn't bring the numbing cold that winter rains did, because rain brought dampness that penetrated even the thickest clothing. Too bad
that
impression was wrong! And the thought that his feet wouldn't get soaking wet was wrong, too; it just took snow a little longer to melt and soak into your boots, but it happened all the same.
So much for theory.
But then again, he wasn't out walking a patrol anymore; he was in and out of buildings most of the time, not in the street. It could be the contrast that made him feel the cold more.
As he walked, he began mentally constructing the way he would think and react by the time he reached the right address. In his persona as a small merchant, it was natural for him to consult a fortune-teller; anyone making a precarious livelihood could be forgiven for being superstitious.
I operate on a very small margin, and anything I can find out to help me is going to make a big difference. I want to know the way that fashion is going to run—like that fashion for gem-cut steel baubles a while back. If I can anticipate a fashion, I can make a fortune. I want to know where I can buy stones cheaply, and I want to know if someone's going to make a strike so rich it will run the prices down and make my stock worthless. I want to know if there are going to be bandits, and which Faires are going to prosper this year.
All these things would make a difference to a small merchant operating in a risky venture. When Tal had them all firmly in mind, he cultivated just the right amount of nervousness mixed with eagerness. When he arrived at the door of "Oskar Koob" he was ready.
There was nothing in the plain house-front to suggest what Koob really was; the man was clever enough to run a very discreet service.
Too bad it isn't an honest one.
This was just one in a row of identical middle-class homes, all thrown up shortly after the Fire to accommodate people who still had money and the means to continue to make a living. Each was tall, narrow, with a set of stairs leading up to a front door, a window on either side of the door, and three windows in each of the remaining two stories. The buildings ended in attics that had a single window just beneath the gabled roof, and had identical tall wooden fences around the sides and back, dividing the yard from the neighbors' yards. This one was painted beige, and had a very modest little sign beside the door that read, "Oskar Koob, Counselor."
Tal lifted the polished brass knocker and knocked at the door; it was opened by an attractive young dark-haired woman dressed in a slightly exotic robe of brown embroidered with intricate geometric designs. She regarded Tal with a vacant gaze that suggested she'd been hired for her looks and not her intelligence. "I'd like to see Oskar Koob, please," Tal told her.
"You got an appointment?" she asked, without opening the door enough for him to see past her to the room inside.
"No," he replied doubtfully, wringing his hands for emphasis. "Do I need one? My friend didn't tell me I needed an appointment."
The girl assessed him and his clothing for a moment. "I'll see if the Master is free," she said, and shut the door, leaving him standing on the front step.
But not for long—the "Master" had probably been lurking nearby, perhaps at a window so that he could make his own assessment of the prospective client. Tal had made certain to dress as if he could afford Koob's fees.
The girl opened the door—completely, this time, so that Tal could enter. The foyer was nothing impressive, just four plain walls with doors in them. The girl disappeared through the left-hand one, and reappeared before he had time to have second thoughts and take his money elsewhere. "The Master's powers have told him that his usual morning client is ill," the girl announced grandly. "As soon as the Master has sent a messenger with the medicines he will concoct, the Master will be with you."
The Master never had a client to begin with, Tal mentally chuckled to himself, as he followed the girl into the right-hand room. The Master was wondering how long the current goose could be induced to lay magic eggs. The Master is thanking God or his own powers for bringing in a fresh goose to cultivate.
The room was precisely what he had expected—dark brown draperies concealed all four walls and covered the window; light came from an oil lamp hanging over the table in the center of the room. Draperies were fairly standard for "Consultants" like Oskar Koob—it was easy to hide confederates and props behind draped fabric. The floor was covered with a worn and faded carpet—and again, this was standard, for it was easier to hide trapdoors under carpet than in a plain wooden floor. There was a small table in the middle of the room, with a globe of smoky crystal in the center of it. There was a chair on the far side, and a slightly shorter chair on Tal's side. Without prompting, he took the smaller chair, and waited.
After an interval calculated to impress the person waiting with the importance of the one he was waiting for, Oskar Koob made his Entrance, sweeping aside the draperies which concealed a shabby door behind his chair.
Oskar Koob was ill-equipped for the part of a mysterious and powerful fortune-teller. He looked like nothing so much as a peasant straight out of the farm—complete with the innocent and boyish face that makes people want to trust such an individual.
Well, his face is his fortune, I can see that.
As for the rest, he was dressed in a sober black tunic and breeches, with a most impressive gold medallion around his neck. The fabric was excellent, the tailoring superb. Evidently the "Consultation" business was going well for Oskar Koob.
Tal rose immediately, and held out his hand. "Sir! I'm—" he began, but Koob hushed him with an imperiously raised hand.
"Silence," he commanded. "Take your seat again, my brother.
I
will consult with the spirits and they will tell me who you are and what your business with me is."
Tal did as he was told, and Koob seated himself behind the crystal sphere. He made several elaborate hand-movements above the sphere, muttering things under his breath as he did so, while Tal simply watched and waited.
"Your name is Tal Rufen," Koob announced, squinting into the ball. "You are a gem-merchant, and you wish to consult me concerning the best investments in stock for you to make."
Tal contrived to look and act astonished—never mind that the way Koob had probably learned all this so far was by means of a scrying-spell to read the papers in Tal's pocket. Koob continued to give him details about his supposed life, all of them lifted from the letters and other articles he had with him. It was an interesting variation on the same game Tal had seen run elsewhere—the difference being that there was no pickpocket accomplice to lift a pouch, learn who the client was by opening it and examining it, and replacing it without the client ever being aware that it was gone in the first place.
"Now," Koob said, deepening his voice, "I must call upon other spirits in the matter of your business. These are very powerful spirits, powerful, and sometimes dangerous. The spirits who know the future are far more risky to call upon than those who know the past and the present."
The light in the lantern dimmed, and an eerie glow came up from the crystal sphere in the middle of the table. As the lantern-light dimmed to next to nothing, strange sounds filled the room, the sounds of people whispering, the distant rattle of a tamborine, a few notes on a flute, a drumbeat echoing his heart. Then, as Tal looked away from the crystal globe, he saw things floating in midair—the face of a young woman, disembodied hands, the very tamborine he'd just heard.