“Check her first, freeman Golobol,” he added, pleased he’d hung onto the doctor’s name. “I’m afraid you’re too late to help Dokhnor now.”
Golobol was almost as dark as Moblay, but spoke Tarteshan with a different accent. As he turned to Evillia, she moaned and stirred. “She will be all right, oh yes, I am sure,” he said. “But this poor fellow-” As Radnal had, he felt for Dokhnor’s pulse. As Radnal had, he failed to find it. “You are correct, sir. This man is dead. He has been dead for some time.”
“How do you know?” Radnal asked.
“You felt of him, not?” the physician said. “Surely you noticed his flesh has begun to cool. It has, oh yes.” Thinking back, Radnal had noticed, but he’d paid no special attention. He’d always prided himself on how well he’d learned first-aid training. But he wasn’t a physician, and didn’t automatically take everything into account as a physician would. His fit of chagrin was interrupted when Evillia let out a shriek a hunting cave cat would have been proud of.
Lofosa bent by her, spoke to her in her own language. The shriek cut off. Radnal started thinking about what to do next. Golobol said, “Sir, look here, if you would.”
Golobol was pointing to a spot on the back of Dokhnor’s neck, right above where it bent gruesomely. Radnal had to say, “I don’t see anything.”
“You Strongbrows are a hairy folk, that is why,” Golobol said. “Here, though — see this, ah, discoloration, is that the word in your language? It is? Good. Yes. This discoloration is the sort of mark to be expected from a blow by the side of the hand, a killing blow.”
Despite Bottomlands heat, ice formed in the pit of Radnal’s stomach. “You’re telling me this was murder.”
The word cut through the babble filling the common room like a scalpel. There was chaos one heartbeat, silence the next. Into that abrupt, intense silence, Golobol said, “Yes.”
“Oh, by the gods, what a mess,” Fer vez Canthal said.
Figuring out what to do next became a lot more urgent for Radnal. Why had the gods (though he didn’t believe in six million of them) let someone from his tour group get murdered? And why, by all the gods he did believe in, did it have to be the Morgaffo? Morgaf would be suspicious — if not hostile — if any of its people met foul play in Tartesh. And if Dokhnor of Kellef really was a spy, Morgaf would be more than suspicious. Morgaf would be furious.
Radnal walked over to the radiophone. “Whom will you call?” Fer asked.
“First, the park militia. They’d have to be notified in any case. And then-” Radnal took a deep breath. “Then I think I’d best call the Hereditary Tyrant’s Eyes and Ears in Tarteshem. Murder of a Morgaffo sworn to the Goddess is a deeper matter than the militia can handle alone. Besides, I’d sooner have an Eye and Ear notify the Morgaffo plenipo than try doing it myself.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Fer said. “Wouldn’t want Morgaffo gunboats running across the Sleeve to raid our coasts because you said something wrong. Or-” The lodge attendant shook his head. “No, not even the island king would be crazy enough to start tossing starbombs over something this small.” Fer’s voice turned anxious. “Would he?”
“I don’t think so.” But Radnal sounded anxious, too. Politics hadn’t been the same since starbombs came along fifty years before. Neither Tartesh nor Morgaf had used them, even in war against each other, but both countries kept building them. So did eight or ten other nations, scattered across the globe. If another big war started, it could easily become The Big War, the one everybody was afraid of.
Radnal punched buttons on the radiophone. After a couple of static bursts, a voice answered: “Trench Park militia, Subleader vez Steries speaking.”
“Gods bless you, Liem vez,” Radnal said; this was a man he knew and liked. “Vez Krobir here, over at the tourist lodge. I’m sorry to have to tell you we’ve had a death. I’m even sorrier to have to tell you it looks like murder.” Radnal explained what had happened to Dokhnor of Kellef.
Liem vez Steries said, “Why couldn’t it have been anyone else but the Morgaffo? Now you’ll have to drag in the Eyes and Ears, and the gods only know how much hoorah will erupt.”
“My next call was to Tarteshem,” Radnal agreed.
“It probably should have been your first one, but never mind,” Liem vez Steries said. “I’ll be over there with a circumstances man as fast as I can get a helo in the air. Farewell.”
“Farewell.” Radnal’s next call had to go through a human relayer. After a couple of hundred heartbeats, he found himself talking with an Eye and Ear named Peggol vez Menk. Unlike the park militiaman, Peggol kept interrupting with questions, so the conversation took twice as long as the other one had.
When Radnal was through, the Eye and Ear said, “You did right to involve us, freeman vez Krobir. We’ll handle the diplomatic aspects, and we’ll fly a team down there to help with the investigation. Don’t let anyone leave the — lodge, did you call it? Farewell.”
The radiophone had a speaking diaphragm in the console, not the more common — and more private — ear-and-mouth handset. Everyone heard what Peggol vez Menk said. Nobody liked it. Evillia said, “Did he mean we’re going to have to stay cooped up here — with a murderer?” She started trembling. Lofosa put an arm around her.
Benter vez Maprab had a different objection: “See here, freeman, I put down good silver for a tour of Trench Park, and I intend to have that tour. If not, I shall take legal measures.”
Radnal stifled a groan. Tarteshan law, which relied heavily on the principle of trust, came down hard on those who violated contracts in any way. If the old Strongbrow went to court, he’d likely collect enormous damages from Trench Park — and from Radnal, as the individual who failed to deliver the service contracted for.
Worse, the Martoisi joined the outcry. A reasonably upright and upstanding man, Radnal had never had to hire a pleader in his life. He wondered if he had enough silver to pay for a good one. Then he wondered if he’d ever have any silver again, once the tourists, the courts, and the pleader were through with him.
Toglo zev Pamdal cut through the hubbub: “Let’s wait a few heartbeats. A man is dead. That’s more important than everything else. If the start of our tour is delayed, perhaps Trench Park will regain equity by delaying its end to give us the full touring time we’ve paid for.”
“That’s an excellent suggestion, freelady zev Pamdal,” Radnal said gratefully. Fer and Zosel nodded.
A distant thutter in the sky grew to a roar. The militia helo kicked up a small dust storm as it set down between the stables and the lodge. Flying pebbles clicked off walls and windows. The motor shut down. As the blades slowed, dust subsided.
Radnal felt as if a good god had frightened a night demon from his shoulders. “I don’t think we’ll need to extend your time here by more than a day,” he said happily.
“How will you manage that, if we’re confined here in this gods-forsaken wilderness?” Eltsac vez Martois growled.
“That’s just it,” Radnal said. “We are in a wilderness. Suppose we go out and see what there is to see in Trench Park — where will the culprit flee on donkeyback? If he tries to get away, we’ll know who he is because he’ll be the only one missing, and we’ll track him down with the helo.” The tour guide beamed. The tourists beamed back — including, Radnal reminded himself, the killer among them.
Liem vez Steries and two other park militiamen walked into the lodge. They wore soldierly versions of Radnal’s costume: their robes, instead of being white, were splotched in shades of tan and light green, as were their long-brimmed caps. Their rank badges were dull; even the metal buckles of their sandals were painted to avoid reflections. Liem set a recorder on the table Dokhnor and Benter vez Maprab had used for war the night before. The circumstances man started taking pictures with as much abandon as if he’d been a tourist. He asked, “Has the body been moved?”