“You factor what?”
“Today, ser, I factor nothing. There are no ships, and the people have no coins.”
Cerryl could sense the lies. “You mean that you report no factoring and you try to keep it hidden?”
Joseffal did not raise his eyes. “The great White wizard took the most part of what all of us had.”
“What did you factor?”
“Cloth, ser. Wools, linens, silks, velvets.”
“You didn’t factor…say…crossbows?”
The bewilderment from within the trader was clear. “No, ser.”
“Do you know any armsmen who have been in Spidlaria recently?” Cerryl persisted.
“No, ser. Except those in white.” The sweat dribbled down the side of the man’s face, but his words remained true.
Cerryl unrolled the paper Kalesin had given him. “What do you know about Yerakal?” He’d picked the name at random.
“Yerakal?” Another puzzled expression crossed Joseffal’s face. “He left long before even Kleth fell.”
“What did he factor?”
“He was a wool factor, ser. Just wools, from everywhere in the world.”
“What about Hieraltal?”
Joseffal swallowed. “Ah…he left also.”
Cerryl could sense the man’s apprehension, but his words came across as true. “And he was one of the ones who factored arms for Spidlar? Like crossbows and blades?”
“Ah…I’d be only guessing, ser, but some said he made golds on blades and bolts.”
“And he’s never returned?”
“No, ser.”
Cerryl asked about another three factors on Kalesin’s list before nodding. “We will have another talk about what you’re really factoring later, Joseffal. You may go.”
As the trader bowed and turned, Cerryl glanced at Kalesin. “A moment before the next.”
“Yes, ser.”
Cerryl dipped the quill in the inkstand and began to jot down notes about Joseffal and the “missing” factors. Then he nodded.
The second trader was burly, but he, too, kept his eyes averted as he stepped into the converted dining hall.
“Your name?” Cerryl asked.
“Aliaskar, ser wizard.” Aliaskar had a high, thin voice, surprising for such a big man.
“What do you factor?”
“Clay, ser.”
Cerryl wanted to laugh. Of course, with the need for pottery, china, and storage urns, someone had to factor clay.
“What do you know of crossbows?”
Aliaskar frowned under his lowered brow but answered, “They kill people. Beyond that, I little…”
Cerryl nodded and continued as he had with the first factor.
After each factor, he made notes on the sheets of paper.
Midday had neared when Reylerk stepped into the converted hall, bowing as he stepped forward, clearly not recognizing Cerryl. “You summoned me, master of Spidlaria?”
“I summoned all the traders and factors. You are Reylerk?”
“Yes, ser. That I am.”
“And what do you factor?”
“I once factored many things-timber, rare and precious woods, even the spidersilk from Naclos. Now there is little to factor and few who would buy such.” Like the others, Reylerk avoided Cerryl’s eyes.
Cerryl looked at Reylerk. “What do you know of how the mage Eliasar was murdered?”
“I know nothing…” The portly merchant’s words trembled, as if to reinforce his fear-and his lies. He coughed several times, dryly, as if forcing the cough, and his hand went to his mouth.
“Tell me what you know of crossbows.”
“They are weapons, ser.” The factor coughed again. “Save they are little use to a trader. They take too long to reload.”
“That is true. Have you traded in crossbows?”
“No, ser.”
Cerryl could sense that the crossbow subject was making Reylerk nervous, though the man hadn’t lied outright, from what Cerryl could tell.
“Have you met any crossbowmen in the past few eight-days?”
“No, ser.” Reylerk coughed and put his hand to his mouth again.
That had been an outright lie. “Reylerk…I spared you once. You are lying to me. Now…did you help plan the murder?”
The merchant gulped convulsively once more, swaying. Abruptly he collapsed on the stone tiles of the floor.
“Kalesin!” snapped Cerryl, sensing the ebb of both chaos and order that signified death.
The door opened, and the sandy-haired mage walked in. “Darkness!” His eyes went to the contorted figure. “Poison?”
“It would appear so.” Cerryl shook his head. “Have the body removed and dragged out past the others. Then turn it to ashes in the square.”
“Me…in the square.”
“Why not? Announce that he was one of those who plotted Eliasar’s murder. He was, but he wasn’t the only one.” Cerryl gestured for Hiser, who had peered inside the chamber. “Hiser. Kalesin will need an escort. This merchant admitted that he had helped plan Eliasar’s murder. He swallowed some poison before I could discover more. Kalesin is going to announce that in the square and then turn chaos on the corpse.”
“His…family…they will not…like that,” offered Kalesin.
“I’m sure they won’t. But the High Wizard would be most offended if he received an honorable burial after killing one of the most respected mages in Fairhaven.” Cerryl fixed his eyes on Kalesin. “Don’t you think so?”
“Ah, yes, ser.”
“Hiser, have one of your subofficers provide the escort for Mage Kalesin. I would like you to usher the remaining traders in to see me, as Kalesin was doing, while he is occupied.”
“Yes, ser.”
Cerryl waited until Kalesin left with two lancers and Reylerk’s body. Then he nodded at Hiser, and the questions resumed.
As Cerryl suspected, he learned little more about Eliasar’s death but a great deal more about which factors had traded in what-and received continued false protestations that no trading was occurring in Spidlaria.
He finished interviewing the factors Kalesin had rounded up early in the afternoon and retired with a pounding headache to the study. He carried a tray of bread and cheese and wine that one of Hiser’s lancers had gotten for him.
Lyasa was waiting, sitting in the straight-backed chair. She stood and offered a sheepish smile. “I sneaked in. I hope you don’t mind.”
Cerryl closed the study door and looked at Lyasa. The circles under her olive brown eyes were as dark as her black hair. “Sit back down before you fall over.”
“I look that bad?”
“Worse.” Cerryl offered a wry smile. “Tell me about it.” He set the tray on the edge of the desk closest to her. “Have some.”
“Thank you.”
He poured out wine, some into the goblet for Lyasa and some into the mug he used for water for himself. “You were going to tell me how bad things were and why.”
“Eliasar thought you could just ride lancers around and kill peacebreakers and then people would get the idea. It hasn’t been working that way.” Lyasa took a deep breath, then reached for the wine.
“I got that idea. What’s been going wrong?” Cerryl took a swallow from his mug, then broke off a chunk of bread.
“Nothing. Nothing’s going right, either. People are sneaking away along the coast into Sligo, or into the Westhorns through what’s left of Diev, or up the river woods into Gallos. Almost no one comes to the chandleries or the shops here-not during the day. I can see figures at night, but I can’t stay up all the time, and Kalesin doesn’t have the night sight.”
There is much Kalesin doesn’t have. “I am not surprised. He was not pleased when I showed up to take over Eliasar’s job.”
“He wouldn’t have been. He’s a lot like Kesrik.”
Cerryl nodded, recalling the blonde apprentice mage who had held far too high an opinion of his modest abilities-until, played by Anya, he’d run afoul of Cerryl and the High Wizard.
“What were you doing this morning?” Lyasa asked.
“Interviewing traders, asking questions, truth-reading-and getting a terrible headache.”
Lyasa laughed.
“And the feeling that I’d have an even bigger one if I knew what I should.”
“Maybe you know more than you think you do.”