Perhaps others might have stayed discouraged by the failure to either stop the murder or capture the murderer's accomplice, but Visyr was now more determined than ever to help. Bad enough to have one poor creature slaughtered right under his beak, but to have two? It was not fair! Whoever was doing this was not only a murderer, but a cheat who hid himself and did his evil work only through others! Other cultures had a right to their ways, and theories of honor were different place to place, but this was patently, universally not acceptable.
He spent a restless night, not tossing and turning as a human would, but staring into the darkness, reviewing his memories, trying to think of any other information to be gleaned from his brief encounter with the knife-thief.
But he couldn't think of anything. Or to be more accurate, he could think of one thing, but it made him very uneasy and was discouraging, not encouraging.
If he had gotten a good look at the dagger-thief, the man in turn also got just as good a look at him. There was only one Haspur in Kingsford, and the fellow was probably quite aware of how much Visyr could see in a limited amount of time. Or, in other words, he had to know that Visyr could identify him in a moment, now.
He has surely discovered that our vision is hundreds of times better than a human's. And he must have deduced how accurate my memory is. After all, how else could I be making these maps for the Duke? Even if he didn't know it already, that fact is easy to find out. It was possible that Visyr was in danger himself now, and it wasn't going to be all that difficult to find him. As T'fyrr's experience showed, a Haspur made a good target, especially aloft. He would be safe enough in the Duke's palace, but nowhere else.
This is not a good thing. Not at all a good thing. The only way to make myself less of a target—besides being totally absent—is to somehow foster the idea that my interference has only been a matter of accident, not intent. Would Ardis and Tal Rufen agree to that, I wonder?
Well, why shouldn't they? They had nothing to lose by it. The murderer might become more cautious if he thought that Visyr was spying from above, watching for him; they needed him to become careless, not more wary than he already was. They needed him to start taking risks, not go into hiding. Perhaps I ought to even stop flying altogether for a while. If the killer assumed that Visyr was only acting as any right-minded bystander would have, he should take only minor precautions. Perhaps he would simply make certain that he was not acting in the same area where Visyr was aloft.
Wouldn't he? Visyr wasn't entirely certain how a mad human would think, and the fellow must be mad to be doing this. Was it possible that a mad human would react to this situation by attempting to lure Visyr into an ambush so as to be rid of him?
But if he made himself less of a target, he not only would not be doing his job for the Duke, he'd be avoiding his responsibilities to the Justiciar.
He ground his beak; this was a most uncomfortable position to be in! Not only that, but it was one that went right against his nature. He could stick to safe and expensive areas of Kingsford and just go on with his mapping until the murderer was caught, but that wouldn't help find the killer, and although he had been reluctant at first to involve himself, now that he was in, he didn't want to give up.
It feels too much like failure, that's what it is. It feels as if I, personally, have failed. And I hate giving up!
Besides, I'm not sure they can continue without me. Maybe that's false pride, but the only breakthrough they've had was because I was able to see the murder in progress and act on it. I have been involved in this mystery in a key way twice now, so obviously the Destiny Winds wish to push me in this direction. Defying those Winds can kill, or worse, leave me with the knowledge of my failure. Flying with those Winds could raise me up, and save the lives of innocents. Or kill me just as surely, but at least it would be in doing something right!
He wrestled with his conscience and his concerns for half the night, or so it seemed. On the one hand, he wasn't a warrior; he never had been, and all of his reactions and attempts at combat thus far had been purely instinctual. Instinct wasn't a good quality to keep counting on in this case. On the other, how could he abandon these people?
He finally decided that the responsibility was great enough that the risk to his hide was worth it.
Well, it seems to me that the place for me to start is in looking for that black bird. It was at the first murder, and it was at the second. I don't know what it is, but it has to be involved somehow. The few people he'd spoken to about it, including Tal, had been mystified by his description, and absolutely adamant in their assertion that there was no such bird native to these parts. If it wasn't native, then what was it doing here? Its presence at one murder might have been coincidence, but not at two. And it had behaved in a way that made him certain that it did not want to be seen.
He felt himself relaxing enough to sleep once he'd made that decision, satisfied that he was going to take the right course. It would be easier to track another winged creature without exposing himself; after all, it couldn't fly as well as he, and he knew from his own experience how difficult it was for something his size to hide. And in the meantime, he had the probable advantage of much superior eyesight; he could fly at a considerable height and see it, where it likely wouldn't be able to see him. Even if it could, it was difficult to judge distance in the sky; it might assume he was a smaller bird, rather than a large one farther away.
He wondered what on earth this bird could possibly be. Maybe it was some sort of messenger to the accomplice; maybe it was the "eyes" that the mage used to view the scene. Whatever it was, it would probably lead him to the accomplice, if not to the mage himself.
The next morning, as soon as he was "publicly" awake, a message came for him from the High Bishop. It had evidently arrived in the middle of the night; in an uncanny reflection of his own thoughts, Ardis asked most urgently if he had seen a large black bird lurking about the two murder sites. And before he could form a reply, right after the arrival of the message came the High Bishop herself.
She didn't even return his greeting as she followed her escorting page into Visyr's rooms. "The bird—" she said, with intense urgency, looking as if she would have liked to seize his arm and hold him while she spoke to him, even though her hands stayed tensely clenched at her sides. "Tal said you saw a strange black bird at the first murder—did you see it yesterday as well? Was it big? Human sized? And incredibly ugly, with ragged feathers and a thin, slender beak?"
His eyes widened with startlement and he stared at her with his beak gaping open. "It did! It was!" he exclaimed. "How did you know? Did you see it? Did you know I was going to look for it today? How did you know what it looks like? I haven't described it that closely to anyone!"
"I know what it looks like because it isn't just a bird," she replied grimly. He waved her to a seat, and she took it, sitting down abruptly and gripping the arm of the chair as a substitute for whatever else it was she wanted to catch hold of. "It's a man—or it was. If the bird you saw and the one I'm thinking of are the same creature, it was a human—and a mage—and a Priest, before it ever was a bird."
Quickly she outlined what seemed to Visyr to be a most incredible story. If it hadn't been Ardis who'd been telling it to him, he would never have believed it, not under any circumstances. Oh, he'd heard of all the things that magic was supposed to be able to do, but it all seemed rather exaggerated to him. The only "magic" he had any personal experience of was not the sort of thing that could turn a human being into a bird! The kinds of magic he was used to could influence people and events, sometimes predict the future or read the past, or create impressive illusions. He'd heard of things that the Elves could do, of course, but he'd never seen anything of the sort—perhaps he had been among the Deliambrens too long, but he had a difficult time believing in things he'd never seen for himself, or seen sufficient proof of.
Still, it was Ardis who was telling him this, and she said that she'd been the one who'd done it, turned the man into the bird. What was more, she'd done it more than once, so it wasn't a fluke.
His beak gaped in surprise, and he had to snap it shut before he looked like a stupid nestling.
"I transformed another couple of excommunicates into donkeys," she continued. "Ones who were indirectly responsible for the Great Fire and were directly responsible for keeping those of us who could have quelled it from doing so. As such, as my fellow Justiciars and I saw it, they were accessories to hundreds of murders. It seemed to us that turning them into beasts of burden was actually a very light punishment—and it gave them the opportunity for repentance."
Visyr shook his head, unable to understand why she should have been concerned that these people repent. Like most Haspurs, he was somewhat incredulous at the concept of omniscience and deities at all, but allowed as how they might be possible, and it was certainly impolite to say nay around anyone who believed in them. Believing that human criminals turned into donkeys would want to repent to an omniscient deity went far past the high clouds of logic, to him, and into very thin air. Well, that doesn't matter, he thought. She's a human; who can understand a human completely? Not even other humans can, and Ardis is a Church power atop that. "But you can't turn them back into humans?" he asked.
"With time—I might be able to," she said, cautiously. "It would be a bit more difficult than the first transformation, because it would be layering one spell on top of another, but I think I could. The spell as I learned it was never intended to be reversed, even by the death of the mage who cast it, but I think I could work a reversal out. But Revaner—no. No, I couldn't. The circumstances that created him were so complicated and so unpredictable that I doubt I could reverse them. It wasn't just our magic that was involved, it was the snapping of the spell that he had cast, and the involvement of Bardic magic from two Bards who were acting on sheer instinct, and Gypsy magic from Revaner's victim. The chances of deducing just what happened are fairly low."
"And you still aren't certain that the bird I've seen and this Revaner fellow are the same." He ground his beak a little. "Still—whatever this creature is, I can't see how it could fail to have something to do with the killings. You don't suppose that someone else entirely found out how to change himself into a bird, do you?"
Ardis looked as if she would have ground her beak, if she'd had one. "I can't give you any reason why it shouldn't be the case," she admitted. "My main reason for thinking that it's Revaner is that the pattern of the murder-victims matches the kind of women that Revaner would be most likely to want to kill. On the other hand—"
"On the other hand, when you changed him into a bird, he wasn't a murderer." Visyr couldn't help pointing that out.
"No, he wasn't. He was unscrupulous, immoral, utterly self-centered, egotistical, a liar, a thief, and ruthless, but he wasn't a murderer." She wrinkled her brow as if her head pained her. "On the other hand, there is one way to overcome just about any magic, and that is to overpower it. And one sure way to obtain a great deal of power is to kill someone. Now, when you combine that fact with the motive of revenge—" She tilted her head in his direction, and he nodded.
"I can see that. Well, I was already going to make a point of looking for that bird, and now you have given me more reasons to do so," he told her. "And you have also given me plenty of reasons to make certain that it doesn't see me!"
Now Ardis rose, full of dignity. "I will not ask you to place yourself in further jeopardy, Visyr," she said solemnly. "If this is Revaner, he is very dangerous. If it is not—well, he may be even more dangerous. Please be careful."
In answer, Visyr flexed his talons, a little surprised at how angry and aggressive he felt. "I am more than a little dangerous myself," he said to her. "And I am also forewarned."
She looked him directly in the eyes for a long moment, then nodded. "Good," was all she said, but it made him feel better than he had since he lost the dagger-thief.
She left him then, and he took his mapping implements and went out to resume his dual duties.
Only to discover that now he couldn't find the damned bird!
He spent several days criss-crossing the city on every possible excuse. He thought perhaps that the Black Bird might have decided to lurk in places he had already mapped in order to avoid him—then he thought it might be in places he hadn't mapped yet. But no matter where he looked for it, there was not so much as an oversized black feather. It was as if the creature knew he was trying to find it and had gone into hiding. On the other hand, if all of their suppositions were true, and it was in league with the knife-thief, perhaps it had the suspicion that he was hunting it. At the very least, it now knew that there was danger in being spotted from above, and might be taking steps to avoid that eventuality.
Frustrated, he spent all of one evening trying to reason the way he thought a crazed human in bird form might.
It made him a little less queasy to think of it as a hunter as he tried to ignore the type of quarry it was taking; he came from a race of hunters himself, and it wasn't all that difficult to put himself in that mindset.
When one hunts a prey that is clever, particularly if one is hunting a specific individual, one studies that individual, of course. He'd done that himself, actually; the trophy-ringhorn that he'd wanted to take to Syri as a courting-gift had been a very canny creature, wily and practiced in avoiding Haspur hunters. It knew all of the usual tricks of an airborne hunter, and it would race into cover at the hint of a shadow on the ground. He'd had to spend time each day for months tracking it down, in learning all of its usual haunts and patterns, and in finding the times and places where it was most vulnerable.
Now, the Black Bird was probably not that clever a hunter itself. This creature was hunting prey that was not aware it was being hunted, nor were humans as versed as that ringhorn in avoiding a hunter, but the Black Bird still needed to find the moment that its prey was most vulnerable. It couldn't hunt inside buildings, and if it was going to hunt again but didn't want to be seen, it had to come out on the rooftops eventually. There was no other possible hunting ground for it.
That was how a Haspur would hunt in the same situation. But unlike a Haspur, the Black Bird might well have decided that there was another hunter that might be stalking it. So it was torn between two courses of action: don't hunt at all, or find another way to hunt.
It still has to find prey. It still has to find the prey's most vulnerable moments. But somehow it is managing to do so when I won't see it.
That would be very difficult to do, unless—
Unless it is hunting at night.
It was black, and perfectly well camouflaged by darkness. And if the records were to be trusted, there had been plenty of killings at night, including at least one possible killing here in Kingsford, between the first one he'd witnessed and the second. That meant it had hunted by night before, which meant it could probably see just fine at night.
Which, unfortunately, I cannot. But I am not limited to my own unaided eyes, which is something that I doubt it has thought of.
He could fly at night, he just didn't like doing so, because unlike T'fyrr, his own night-vision was rather inferior by Haspur standards. Once night fell, all of his advantage of superior vision vanished; he couldn't even see as well as some humans he knew. That was why he always got back to the palace before dusk, and never went out at night if he could help it. It was a weakness he had never liked about himself, so when the opportunity had arisen for him to compensate for it, he had. He had something in his possession that he hadn't had occasion to use yet, something that would render the best of camouflage irrelevant at night.
He chuckled to himself as he thought of it. There hadn't been any need to use it in Duke Arden's service, because it wasn't at all suited for his mapping duties. No one here knew he had it. And he rather doubted that anyone in all of this Kingdom had ever even seen this particular device.
He reached immediately for a bell-pull and summoned one of his little attendant pages. Talons were not particularly well suited to unpacking, but clever little human hands were.
At his direction, the boy who answered his summons dug into the stack of packing-boxes put away in a storage closet attached to his suite. The boxes were neither large nor heavy; the few that were beyond the boy's strength, Visyr was able to help with. In less than an hour, the page emerged from the back of the closet with an oddly-shaped, hard, shiny black carrying-case.
The page looked at it quizzically as he turned it in his hands. "What is this?" he asked, looking up into Visyr's face. "What is it made of? It's not leather, it's not pottery, it's not stone or fabric—what is it?"
Visyr didn't blame the boy for being puzzled; the material of the case resembled nothing so much as the shiny carapace of a beetle, and the case itself was not shaped like anything the boy would ever have seen in his life. "I'll show you what it is," he said to the youngster, taking the case from him and inserting a talon-tip into the lock-release. "Or rather, I'll show you what's inside it. The outside is a Deliambren carry-case for delicate equipment; what I wanted is inside. But you have to promise that you won't laugh at me when I put it on. It looks very silly."
"I won't," the boy pledged, and watched with curiosity as Visyr took out his prize. Indeed, prize it was, for arguing with the Deliambrens for its design and manufacture had fallen upon Visyr himself, and it was with no small amount of pride that he knew these very same devices would be in use by Guardians and rescuers, thanks to him.
A pair of bulging lenses with horizontal lines, made of something much like glass but very dark, formed the front of the apparatus. The device itself had been formed to fit the peculiar head-shape of a Haspur, and the hard leathery helmetlike structure that held it in place had been added in place of the straps that Deliambrens used so that no feathers would be broken or mussed when he wore it. That "helmet" was based on a very old and successful design, and the page recognized it immediately.
"It looks like a falcon's hood!" the boy exclaimed, and so it did, except that where the hood was "eyeless," this was not meant to restrict vision, but rather the opposite. With its special lenses in the front and the mechanism that made them work built in a strip across the top curve of the head, rather like one of those center-strip, crestlike hairstyles some Deliambrens wore, it almost looked fashionable, and certainly sleek.
That was so that Visyr would be able to fly with the thing properly balanced; in the Deliambren version, the mechanisms were all arranged around the front of the head, which would have made him beak-heavy. It would be very hard to fly that way.
"These are Deliambren heat-lenses," Visyr explained to the boy. "They let me see at night. If you'd like, I'll show you how."
The boy needed no second invitation; Visyr lowered the "hood" over his head and turned the device on, then turned the lights of the suite off one by one.
The page held the hood steady with both hands, as it was much too large for his head, and looked around curiously. "Everything's green," he said, dubiously, then exclaimed when he turned the lenses in Visyr's direction. "Sir! You're glowing!"
"No, it's just that you only see what is warm," Visyr told him. "It is a different way of seeing. The warmer something is, the brighter it seems to be through the lenses. I am very warm, and it looks as if I am glowing. Come to the balcony and look down."
The boy did so, picking his way unerringly across the pitch-dark room. He passed through the second room, came out on the balcony with Visyr, and spent some time exclaiming over what he saw through the lenses of the device. Even though it was broad daylight, the lenses worked extremely well, for things that were warm stood out beautifully against the cold and snowy background. The boy chattered on as he picked out a sun-warmed stone, courtiers strolling in the gardens, birds in the trees near him, and even a sly cat slinking along under the cover of evergreen bushes.
Finally, though, the cold became too much for him. They went back into the room, and Visyr took the "hood" from him and turned the lights back on.
He satisfied the page's curiosity then by donning the device himself. The youngster looked at him quizzically for a moment as Visyr adjusted the device for the sharpest images. "I wouldn't have laughed," the page said finally. "You just look like a hooded falcon."
"Well, fortunately, I can see much better than a hooded falcon," Visyr said. "And now that I've found this, you can go. Thank you."
The page was nothing if not discreet. Although he might be very curious why Visyr wanted this particular device brought out, he knew better than to ask, just as he knew better than to tell anyone about it.
Deliambren heat-vision goggles, Visyr thought with satisfaction. Not even the cleverest of hunters can avoid being seen when I have these on—not even if he decides to take to the ground and walk. The only way he can avoid me is to stay inside buildings. And a man-sized black bird strolling through the inns and taverns of Kingsford, even at night, is going to be noticed!
The Deliambrens had included this device in his equipment for the Overflight mapping, and he had simply brought all of his equipment with him when he'd taken the Duke's commission. It was easier than trying to unpack and repack again, or trust it to be sent from another location. Now he was glad that he had hauled it all with him. The goggles were so good, he could see things the size of a mouse on a summer day, and on a winter day, he could do better than that.
But—I think perhaps I won't tell Ardis and Tal Rufen about these, he decided. I think this will be my little secret.
If the Black Bird was out there at night now, with these, he was on an equal footing with it. Maybe better. It might have the night-vision of an owl, but with these, he had night-vision that an owl would envy.
He could hardly wait for nightfall.
When night came, he made sure that the power-cels were fresh, donned his "hood," and went out onto his balcony.
He perched on the rail of the balcony for a while, getting used to the way he saw things through the lenses. It wasn't quite the same as real, daylight vision; his depth-perception seemed flattened, and it was more difficult to tell distances accurately. He actually had to judge how far something was from him by the size it was. He'd never actually flown with these things before, and as he leapt off onto the wind, he realized that he was going to have to allow for some practice time after all.
His peripheral vision was quite restricted, which meant that he couldn't see as much of the ground below him at a time as he could unencumbered. As clever as they were, the Deliambrens could not give him lenses that gave him the same field of vision. That, in turn, meant that he had to take his time—not hovering, but not using what he would call "patrolling speed."
And although the hood and the lenses were relatively light, any weight was considerable to a flying creature. In a few short hours, he was quite tired and ready to quit for the night. He returned to the palace with a new respect for the night-patrols, who now quartered the borders of his homeland wearing these things every night of the year. They were truly great athletes to be able to take dusk-to-dawn patrols without any significant rest.
This is going to take time, he thought, a little dispiritedly, as he fanned his wings for a cautious landing on his balcony-rail. Not just one night, but several. And each patrol is going to take four times as long to fly at night as it does by day. And I still have to sleep some time.
He took off the device as he entered the balcony door, and removed the power-cells, putting them into the device that renewed them by day. He set the hood on a peg meant to hold a human's hat, and turned off the lights as he entered his sleeping chamber.
But as he readied himself for sleep, another thought occurred to him. Perhaps this wasn't going to be as difficult as he had thought, after all.
There are fewer places where humans are abroad after darkness falls, he realized. The Black Bird won't be in places where there aren't any humans. So my search can be much narrower. He could avoid the docks entirely, for one thing; there were absolutely no women there at night. Residential districts were quiet after dark as well. The Black Bird had to go where its prey was, and that narrowed the area of search.
It won't be as easy as I first thought, he concluded, but it won't be as difficult as it seemed tonight.
And with that comforting thought, sleep stooped on him and carried him away.
Orm spent the next week or so in a state of blissful calm. It was a wonderful time, and he finally recalled what it was like to serve clients rather than employers. He made a vow that he would never again put himself in this position; from this moment on, he would never have anything to do with people who wanted more than information. He had not realized how Rand's mere presence grated on his nerves until that moment.
But during that pleasant interval, Rand gave him no special orders, issued no edicts, made no outrageous demands, uttered no threats. Part of the reason for that might have been that a reasonably accurate copy of a sketch of Orm's face was circulating among the constables, and even Rand realized that if Orm ventured out before his disguise was complete, Rand would lose his all-important envoy to the outside world. Even Rand would have difficulty in paying the rent or acquiring food in the shape of the Black Bird, and he could not count on being able to find and kill prey to keep him human for very long on his own.
So Orm grew facial hair and altered his appearance. Meanwhile, taking advantage of his temporary human form, Rand spent most of his time away from their lodgings, giving Orm even more peace and quiet. It was wonderful; Orm put on weight by cooking and eating luxurious meals, secure in the knowledge that he could drop the weight as easily as he put it on. The most he heard out of Rand was the sound of footsteps through his ceiling, or ascending and descending the staircase.
Out of curiosity, once his disguise had been perfected, Orm followed Rand to see what he was doing—without his knowledge of course, and it was gratifying to see that the disguise worked so well that Rand didn't recognize him, at least at a moderate distance. Orm now had a jaunty little beard, a mustache trained so that he always appeared to be smiling, and darker, much shorter, hair. He was also some twenty pounds heavier, and he'd darkened his skin to make it look as if he'd been outdoors most of his life. He walked with a slouch and a slight limp, and wore clothing just slightly too big.
In this guise, he followed Rand out into the city, staying about twenty feet behind him. Rand went only two places: one, a tavern, and the other, an ale-house that served only drink, no food. He seemed to be spending most of his time plying off-duty constables with drink and talking to them at length. Now that was actually a very reasonable way to acquire information, and one that Orm had made liberal use of in the past, but was no longer going to be able to pursue. His disguise was a good one, but there were constables with a sharp enough eye to see past the beard, mustache, and other alterations to the things that didn't change. There wasn't much that someone could do about his eye-color or bone-structure, and although Orm had done a few things to make himself look slightly more muscular, anyone grabbing his arm would know that those muscles were made of wadding. He couldn't change his height significantly, and he couldn't do anything about his hairline, receding as it was. Orm would no longer dare to get within conversational distance of any constables unless he was able to ascertain in advance that they were particularly dim ones. And unfortunately, Captain Fenris hadn't hired very many dim constables; he valued intelligence in his men, and rewarded it.
So, while Rand pursued whatever hare he had started, Orm took the opportunity of his absence to begin protecting himself from his employer. He hadn't forgotten that threat of exposure, not for a moment, and if there was anything he could do about it, he would.
He still had no idea what it was that Rand had arranged to implicate him in the murders. Most probably it was something as simple as a written confession. He spent most of one day in Rand's apartment, looking at everything he could without touching it, and was unable to come to any conclusions.
He couldn't see anyplace where such a confession might be concealed, and Rand would want it to be found quickly after his death, so he wouldn't conceal it all that well. He would probably count on the fact that he had protected such a confession magically to keep Orm from touching it—
Perhaps, Orm thought, as he looked for what, to him, were the obvious signs of secret drawers or other such devices. Then again, once he was taken, he could count on the constables to tear his apartment apart and render the furniture down to toothpicks in an effort to get as much evidence as possible. So he could have decided not to waste precious magic, and hidden the confession without magic.
Rand might not be a thief or have ever fabricated places where small objects could be concealed, but he had money enough to pay those who could hide things so well that the only way to get them out was to know the trick or smash the offending object to pieces. Could a mage tell if something was hidden inside another object?
Does it matter? I think not. It would be easier to smash things and see if there was anything hidden inside. Quicker, too. He had to chuckle a little. Ah, the advantage of being on that side of the law!
He couldn't see any place where possible papers lay out in the open, and he really didn't want to open any drawers and search them.
The message could be magical in nature, but would Rand waste magical energy that could keep him human in creating a message that could be created in an ordinary fashion? That was a good question. Once again—it is what I would do, but would Rand? Rand hoarded his energies like a miser with coins, but would he spend them on safeguarding himself in this way? It was difficult to tell, but vengeance played a major part in his life, so perhaps he would spend that power to make certain of his revenge if Orm betrayed him.
But would he sacrifice a single day of being human? He's crazed enough to decide that he wouldn't.
It might simply be that Rand was counting on other factors to implicate Orm, though it was doubtful that he knew how much Orm had learned about magic from him. Rand could not help talking, boasting about his powers and his plans, especially in the euphoria that followed his transformation back into a human. Orm had picked up quite a bit about the way that magic worked, and he could be implicated simply by the fact that his magical "scent" would be all over this place. And even though he tried to cleanse the murder weapons, they would also carry his traces. But what Rand would not anticipate was that Orm could solve that little problem easily enough—and possibly render any written or magical confession suspect as well.
He took hair from his own brush, put it in a little silk bag, and left it among dozens of identical little silk bags holding other bits of flotsam among Rand's magical implements. He had not stolen anything, so he took the chance that the guard-spells Rand surely had on his equipment would not betray him. Evidently, they didn't; Rand never said anything, and Orm now had a piece of evidence that would bolster his own protestation of innocence. Why else, after all, would the mage have some of his hair, except to implicate an otherwise blameless man?
The hair could be used to do almost anything, including to create an illusion of Orm at the scene of one of the crimes—and that might take care of that incriminating sketch. After all, he'd "disappeared" after he went into the alley—and that could have been the illusion vanishing.
And why would Rand want to implicate an innocent man in his crimes? Orm had reasons, if anyone asked. They might not bother to ask; Rand was so clearly mad that they might assume this was another of his mad acts. But Orm intended to claim he'd had conflicts with his fellow tenant, and that Rand had threatened to seek revenge after one of them. The assumption then would probably be that Rand intended to escape, leaving Orm to take all of the blame for the murders. That was how constables tended to reason, and that interpretation suited Orm perfectly.
He also began establishing his own alibis and an unshakable persona as a solid citizen who couldn't possibly have anything to do with Rand and his kills. First, he obtained the registration records from a respectable (if common) inn that was within a short walking distance of his current neighborhood. It didn't take a great deal of work to alter the records so that they showed that he had arrived in Kingsford and taken up residence there in early fall, had stayed there until early winter, then removed himself to the apartment he now lived in. He slipped the records-book back into the inn the same night he obtained it. No one would notice the alteration; it was very likely that the people whose names he had removed were there under false identities in the first place. This gave him an arrival date that was much earlier than his actual arrival in Kingsford, and this was a date that conflicted with some of the other murders Rand had done outside of Kingsford. With the Church involved, there was every reason to expect that at least some of the killings in other cities would be tied to Rand.
That done, he began reaffirming his acquaintance with all of his neighbors. He already knew them, of course, and they knew him, but now he went out of his way to cultivate them. By dint of careful conversations, he was able to establish himself in their minds as having been in the general vicinity since that early autumn date listed in the inn records. All he had to do was to mention events in the neighborhood that had taken place during that time period as if he'd witnessed them, and agree with the version the person he was talking to related. And how did he learn of those events? By asking leading questions of a different neighbor, of course. It was an amusing game; he'd find out about event A from neighbor One. He'd then establish himself with neighbor Two by relating event A, then solicit event B from neighbor Two. He would take his tale of event B to neighbor Three, and so on, until he came back to neighbor One with the story of event G, and solicit the tale of Event H to take on to neighbor Two, beginning the chain again. Within a few days, at least a dozen people were not only convinced he'd been in the neighborhood, but that they'd actually seen him there at the times he spoke of.
It was amazingly easy to convince people of trivial things of that nature; he'd done it before when he'd needed to establish an alternate identity. As long as your version of what you wanted them to remember fitted with their real memories, you could insert yourself into almost anyone's recollections.
He also established himself in their minds as a very fine, affable fellow—and his fellow tenant as a rather odd duck, surly, unpleasant, possibly something of a troublemaker. That, too, was easy enough to do, since Rand didn't go out of his way to be polite when he was in his human form.
Now Orm needed a reason to be in Kingsford, which he established when his neighbors "knew" enough about him to want to know what he did for a living. His profession? Oh, he was a small spice-trader, a very convenient profession that required no apprenticeship and not a great deal of capital, merely a willingness to take personal risks and a taste for exotic places and danger. It was also one that required a great deal of travel, at least at first, as a young man would build his contacts with spice-growers or collectors in more exotic lands. It was also a highly seasonal profession; most trading took place in the spring and fall, with summer being the time for a small trader to set up at Faires, and winter being the time to rest and get ready for spring, which would account for his apparent idleness.
Now that he was of middle years, he presumably had his spice-sources in hand, and he should be ready to settle and operate from the secure venue of a shop. He needed a city where there was a great deal of trade, he told his neighbors, and Kingsford seemed like a fine choice of a home. Duke Arden was a great leader, the city was clearly thriving, the people here honest and hardworking—with the nearness of the Faire and the river, who could ask for more? He was looking for a place for a shop, trying to make sure he would have no rivals in the immediate neighborhood, hoping to find a suitable place that was already built, since he could only afford to lease the place at first.
This was a simple and understandable explanation for money with no obvious source of income, and irregular hours. It passed muster with all of his neighbors; the only danger was that one or more of them might ask him if he could sell them some exotic spice or perfume oil. Fortunately none of them did, so he didn't have to make an excursion out to obtain what he should have had at hand.
And having had their curiosity satisfied about him, that left Rand open to inquiry. The fellow upstairs—well, he really couldn't say what that man did. Never seemed to be at home very much, but never seemed to do anything that you could count as work, either. He added a touch of scorn to that last, as would be expected from a hard-working fellow who'd made his own way in the world without any help from anyone else.
And finally, he managed to get himself an alibi for at least one of the murders, the latest. He began playing daily games of fox-and-hounds with an old man living three doors down; by the time the week was over, thanks to Orm's gentle persuasion, the old fellow would honestly believe and claim that they had been playing fox-and-hounds every afternoon for the past month. Since a game of fox-and-hounds generally lasted all afternoon, any questioners would discover that he'd been with his neighbor at the time that Rand's accomplice was trying to make off with a murder-weapon.
Now he had his identity established as an honest small trader looking for a home to settle down in, and any claims that Rand made to the contrary would have witnesses with stories that directly contradicted the mage's claims.
Of course, given a choice, if Rand were caught, Orm would much rather be far away from Kingsford. He had running-money in a belt he wore constantly, and knew how to get out of the city quickly by means of routes that were not easily blocked. But in case he couldn't run far or fast enough, well, he had a secondary line of protection.
He completed his precautions with no time to spare; it wasn't long afterwards that Rand transformed back into the Black Bird.
But even then, in a pronounced change from his usual habits, the mage didn't stop going out—he simply did so by night, and for the first three days, he didn't summon Orm or attempt to give him any orders. This was definitely odd, and it was obvious that Rand was up to something new.
By now, Orm had found another four possible targets, so he had something to show for all the time that Rand had left him to his own devices. But this sudden interest in something besides the usual pattern made Orm very nervous. What was Rand planning? Given his habits of the past, it had to be dangerous.
It had better not be revenge on the High Bishop, Orm thought, more than once. If it is—I don't care what his plan is, I want no part of it. That's not dangerous, it's suicidal, and I am not ready to throw my life away.
Maybe he was planning how to leave the city; perhaps he had gotten information of his own on the whereabouts of the Gypsy called Robin. If Rand was going to pursue any of his three "worst enemies," Robin would be the safest.
But if he is going outside this Kingdom, unless it's to a place I already know, he can do it without me. Orm had no intentions of trying to learn his way around a new city with new laws and new customs—and coming into inevitable conflict with residents who were already in the same line of work that he was.
Or perhaps he was planning to leave in pursuit of his vendetta with Lady Lark.
I'm having no part of that. It would be as suicidal as going after the High Bishop! It would be worse! At least here I am operating in my own city—if Rand went off after Lark, we'd be in a Kingdom and a city I know nothing about. Go after someone who's in the King's Household and is allied with Elves? No thank you!
Finally the expected summons came, and Orm went up the stairs to Rand's apartment trying not to feel as if he was climbing the steps of a gallows. He opened the door to find the Black Bird waiting for him, perched on a stool, and watching him with its cold, black eye.
"I've got some possible targets for you," Orm offered, but the Bird cut him off with a shake of its head.
"I have an assignment for you," the Bird croaked. "I want you to follow a man called Tal Rufen. He's probably a Church Guard, since he lives at the Abbey of the Justiciars, even though he very seldom wears the uniform. I don't know what his rank is, other than that of Church Guard and not Guard Captain, but he's involved in trying to find us, and you can thank him for that sketch of you that's being handed around to all the constables."
Rand did not bother to tell him how he was to follow this "Tal Rufen" fellow; Rand at least gave him credit for expertise in his own area. Picking up a subject who came and went from a place as isolated as the Justiciar's Abbey would be a challenge, but it wasn't insurmountable.
"I want you to learn all you can about him, and every time he leaves the Abbey, I want you to watch his every move. I want to know the slightest of details about him; what he wears, what he carries, even what he eats and drinks." The Bird cocked its head to one side, but it wasn't a gesture calculated to make Orm feel amused. "No matter how trivial it is, I want to know it. I want to know this man better than his best friend. Do you understand all that?"
Orm shrugged and nodded. "Not easy, but not all that difficult," he acknowledged. "How long do you want me to follow him? Do you want me to try and obtain something of his?"
"Two days, at least, and no, I don't want you to get that close." The Bird gave a croak of what was probably supposed to be amusement. "I have reason to believe that he is the High Bishop's personal guard and assistant, and if he thought that something was missing, Ardis might try to trace it back to whoever took it."
Why is Rand so interested in this man? And why follow him? It didn't make a lot of sense, unless—
No one really made any attempt to pursue us until we came here. I wonder if this fellow has something to do with that. If that's the case, he may be the only reason why the High Bishop is interested. If Rand can eliminate him, pursuit may die for lack of interest, especially if we can be rid of him by somehow discrediting him. He nodded, and waited for the Bird to give him more orders. But Rand only yawned and said, "You may go. Come back up here when you have your first report for me."
Orm stood up and left, now very curious. But the only way he was going to satisfy that curiosity would be to follow Rand's orders and trail this Tal Rufen fellow.
The more I learn, the more I'll know—or be able to deduce. Whatever pie Rand has got his claw into, this Tal Rufen fellow is somehow involved.
His first difficulty was to discover what his quarry looked like; that was easily solved. He made up a parcel of unused blank books—blank books being the most innocuous and inexpensive objects he could think of—and paid a boy from his neighborhood to take them to the Abbey. He didn't want to send real books on the chance that Rufen might open the parcel and examine what was in it—and if by some horrible chance Orm managed to send books that interested him, Rufen might well try to find the rightful owner to buy them himself. That would be a recipe for trouble. These were inexpensive blank books of the kind that young girls used for journals and artists liked to sketch in. They would hardly be of any use to someone from the Abbey, who could get better quality versions of the same things simply by presenting himself at the Scriptorium, where they made hand-lettered and illuminated copies of books to add to the Abbey income.
"Someone left these at my table at lunch," he told the boy, "but I'm not sure who it was; it was crowded, and there were a number of people I didn't know sharing my table. A fellow called Tal Rufen from the Abbey was one of the people there, and I would think that someone from the Abbey would be the likeliest to have a parcel of books; go and see if it was him. I'll be here doing my inventory."
No boy would ever question an adult about a paid errand; for one thing, no boy ever turned down the opportunity to run an errand for pay, and for another, any boy would automatically assume that the business of an adult was too important to be interrupted for a simple errand.
He had paid the boy just enough to make it worth the trouble to go across the bridge in the cold and blowing snow; he waited until the boy was gone, then followed in his wake. Once the boy had started out on the bridge, Orm took up a position in a clump of bushes on the bank, watching the gate with a distance-glass until the boy arrived.
When the boy reached the Abbey, he was made to wait outside; rude treatment, that was just what Orm had hoped for. After a bit of time, a fellow in the uniform of the Church Guards came out and listened to the boy's story. He didn't even bother to look at the parcel; he shook his head, gave the boy another small coin, and sent him back across the river. Orm got a very good look at the man, and was satisfied that he would recognize him again; before the boy reached the bridge, Orm was hurrying back to his apartment, where the boy found him.
"It wasn't that Tal Rufen fellow, sir," he said, when Orm answered his door. The boy handed over the parcel—which was, remarkably, still unopened. "He says he isn't missing anything."
Orm made a noise of mingled vexation and worry. "Well, I'll just take it back to the inn and leave it there with the proprietor," he said at last, waving his hands helplessly. "I really don't know what else to do. What a pity! I'm sure someone is missing these. Well, you did your best, and I'm sorry you had to go out in all that snow."
He gave the boy another small coin, thus ensuring his gratitude, and sent him off.
Well, now I have a face. Let's see what that face does.
He bundled himself up to his nose with a knitted hat pulled down to his eyes, and took a fishing-pole and bucket of bait out to the bridge. There was reasonably good fishing in the clear water under the bridge, and he wouldn't be the only citizen of Kingsford who paid the toll to perch out on the span and attempt to add to his larder, especially not in winter, when a job at casual labor was hard to find and no one was building anything, only doing interior work. This would be the best place to intercept his target, and even though his target might well know what Orm looked like from the sketch circulating among the constables, not even Rand would be able to pick Orm out from the rest of the hopeful fishermen out on the bridge in the cold.
Nevertheless, it was a miserable place to have to be. The wind rushed right up the river and cut through his clothing; he soon picked up the peculiar little dance of the other fishermen as he stamped his feet and swayed back and forth to try and increase his circulation. By the time Tal Rufen finally appeared, mounted on a sturdy old gelding, Orm was more than ready to leave the bridge. He hauled in his line and followed in Tal's wake; the bridge guard looked at his empty string, gave him a grimace of sympathy, and didn't charge him the toll. Orm gave him shivering, teeth-chattering thanks, and followed in Tal Rufen's wake.
Orm's disguise was quite enough to permit him to follow Tal unnoticed through the city, but it wouldn't have gotten him into the Ducal Palace, and as Tal presented himself at the postern-gate, Orm went on with his head down and his shoulders hunched.
Now what? If he'd had several weeks to follow Tal Rufen, he might have been able to get himself into the palace by obtaining or creating a suit of livery and slipping over a wall or in the servants' gate. But with no notice, no idea that the man was allowed inside the gates, and no time to obtain livery without risk—it wasn't going to be possible.
His best bet at this point was to abandon the pole and bucket somewhere, and come back to watch the gate. There were plenty of places where he could loiter without attracting attention to himself. The palace was surrounded by the homes of the wealthy and powerful, like hens clustered around a rooster. But unlike the Ducal Palace, they did not have extensive grounds and gardens, only little patches of garden behind sheltering walls—which meant that the area around the palace was a maze of streets and alleys. In the summer and at night those would be patrolled by guards to discourage ne'er-do-wells and would-be thieves, but in the middle of winter no one would bother to patrol by day. The hard part would be to find a place where he could leave a fishing pole and a bucket without someone noticing and wondering where they had come from.
In the end, he had to wait for a rubbish-collector to come by, collecting rags and bones from the refuse of the mighty, and throw the items onto his cart when he wasn't looking. The rag-and-bone man would not question his good luck when he found those items; the poor never questioned windfalls, lest those windfalls be taken from them.
Now freed of his burdens, he hurried back to the palace and watched the gate.
Eventually Tal Rufen emerged, but without the horse—and no longer wearing his Church Guard livery. That probably meant that the man was planning on going about within the city.
I just hope he isn't planning on visiting any other places where I can't go, Orm thought glumly, anticipating more hanging about on freezingly cold street corners while the constable did whatever he was doing out of Orm's sight.
But luck was with him, for Tal Rufen headed straight into neighborhoods where Orm felt most at home. And then, to Orm's great pleasure, he went into a tavern. Orm followed him in, got a seat at a table near him, and warmed his hands on a mug of hot ale while the constable began interviewing people, who arrived punctually, one with each half hour, as if by previous appointment. It wasn't too difficult to overhear what he was talking about; Orm wasn't overly surprised to learn that Tal Rufen was looking for information about Rand—or rather, about the person or persons who had killed the girl called Curlew. Through some miracle of organization, he had managed to find many of the witnesses to the kill; by a further miracle, he'd arranged consecutive appointments with all of them. Why he was interviewing them here instead of in a constabulary, though, Orm couldn't hazard a guess.
Unless, of course, there were constables also interviewing witnesses, and there was no room to put all of the interviewers and interviewees. That idea rather amused Orm, the thought of the chaos such a situation would cause. Why, they might not have the room to actually interview criminals! It indicated to him, at least, that the authorities were grasping at straws, which was a comforting thought, given the inconvenience and worry that the sketch of his face had given him.
Needless to say, no one had much to tell Rufen, other than their obvious eyewitness accounts, many of which conflicted with each other. One witness swore that the killer had been snarling and swearing at the girl before he killed her, for instance; another claimed that the killer had slipped through the crowd unnoticed, dressed in the black costume of a professional assassin. What Rufen made of those accounts was questionable, though if he was a trained constable, he would already know that "eyewitness" accounts were seldom as accurate as their tellers thought. People would change their memories to suit what they thought should have happened—so for twenty people who saw something happen, there would be at least three who would make things up that fell in line with their own pet conspiracy theories. Orm had already taken advantage of that in manipulating the memories of his neighbors to suit his own purposes.
Orm had to admire Rufen's persistence, though; he gave no indication that any of what he was told bored or disappointed him. He merely listened and took notes with a rather ingenious little pen that never needed dipping in an inkwell. Deliambren, Orm guessed; most clever mechanisms were Deliambren.
That gave Orm another idea; he went out and purchased a change of outer clothing—this time something less threadbare, but all in black, like one of Shensi's artistic friends—a graphite-stick, and one of those inexpensive blank books. He returned to the inn, got another table near Tal Rufen, and ordered a hot drink.
When the drink arrived, he took turns sipping it, staring into space, and scribbling frantically in the book. After one amused look, the serving-wench left him alone. It would have been obvious to any dolt that Orm was—supposedly—composing something, probably poetry, and probably bad poetry. In actuality, he was writing down everything Tal Rufen wore, ate, drank, used, and said, in something that looked very like blank verse. Orm knew from experience that between his abbreviations and his tiny, crabbed, slantwise letters, no one could read his handwriting except himself, so he had no fears that one of the serving-girls might get curious and read something she shouldn't.
He'd used this particular ruse more than once in his career, but never had it been more useful than now. So long as a place wasn't jammed with people, and so long as he kept paying for frequent refills of his cup, no one minded a mad poet taking up a little table-space. He was clean, moderately attractive, and he gave the serving-wenches something to giggle about. None of them would make overtures towards him, of course—as a class, serving-girls were sturdily practical little things, and had no time in their lives for a—probably impoverished—poet. Any flirting they did would be saved for someone with a steady job and enough money in his pocket to buy more than an endless round of tea.
He continued the pretense of being a writer for as long as Tal Rufen interviewed people who had been present at the kill; pretended fits of thought gave him the opportunity to stare at the Church constable or anyone else for as long as he liked without anyone taking offense, because it looked as if he was staring blankly into space, and not actually at anyone. The serving-girls found it amusing or touching, according to their natures. Tal Rufen noticed, then ignored him, precisely as Orm had hoped. The last thing that a constable of any kind would expect would be that a man he was trying to track down would come following him, so Rufen paid no further attention to the "poet" at the corner table.
Orm was neither impressed nor amused by Rufen; he was adequate, certainly, and thorough, but hardly brilliant. In his opinion, there was nothing really to fear from this man except his persistence.
Orm took care to leave first, when he sensed that Tal was about to wind up his interviews. He thanked his latest serving-girl shyly, picked up the bag that held his other clothing and stuffed his writing paraphernalia into it, and left. He ducked into the shelter of an alley and changed his coat back to that of the fisherman, pulled a different wool cap down over his head, and waited, bent over and tying a bootlace, for Tal to emerge from the tavern.
When the constable appeared, Orm gave him a little bit of a lead, then followed him. From the inn, Tal went back to the palace, got his horse, and returned to the Abbey without making a single stop along the way. By this time, it was late in the afternoon, and Orm doubted that Tal would be doing anything more until the morrow. It would, however, be an early day for him; most of the people associated with the Abbey rose before dawn, and he suspected that Tal Rufen would be no exception.
Orm took his time, getting himself a fine dinner, and only returning to his apartment after dark. Coming in through the back, he listened for sounds of Rand, but complete silence ruled the place. Rand could not walk up there in his current form without making scratching noises on the floor; either he was asleep, or out, and in neither case would he be aware that Orm was back. Orm grinned; let him assume that his employee was out keeping an eye on Tal Rufen all night; it would avoid an argument. Besides, the heavy meal made him sleepy, as he had hoped it would. He was going to have to get up with the dawn if he expected to catch Rufen on his way out tomorrow, and that meant he really ought to go to bed now if he expected to get a decent night's sleep.
The following day, at dawn, Orm was back on the bridge with a new fishing-line and bucket, and while he was waiting for Rufen to put in an appearance, he actually caught two fish! Both were river-salmon, large and fat, and he gave one to the toll-guard who'd passed him through the day before. Let the man think that it was out of gratitude; Orm wanted to have a reason for the man to think well of him and let him out on the bridge without question if he had to come back here anymore. He and the guard exchanged a few words—Orm sighed over the difficulties of finding work in the winter, complained about showing up where there was supposed to be some work this morning, only to find a dozen men there before him. The guard made sympathetic noises, and promised that Orm could fish without toll whenever he was out of work. This pleased Orm twice over—once that the guard would not be surprised if he didn't show up for a while, or indeed, ever again; and twice because he wasn't going to have to pay out toll-fees for the privilege of spying on that damned Tal Rufen.
This time when Rufen appeared, it was at the side of a woman that Orm assumed was High Bishop Ardis. He recognized Rufen at a distance just by recognizing the old gelding, and there was someone else there with him—someone obviously of very high position within the Justiciars. It was a woman, dressed in a fine cloak and robes of Justiciar red, and although she was not wearing the miter of the bishopric, she was wearing a scarlet skull-cap edged with gold under the hood of her scarlet cloak. She was also mounted on a fine white mule, and most of the Justiciars rode very ordinary-looking beasts when they left the Abbey. Given all of those factors, it would have been more surprising if the woman hadn't been Ardis.
Orm followed them discreetly, but they went straight to the headquarters of the Kingsford constables, and from there to the Ducal Palace again. Both were places he couldn't go, so he loitered in the freezing cold until they came out again. They went straight back to the Abbey, and did not emerge again that day.
Uneventful—except that by seeing them together, Orm had actually established that Tal Rufen was acting for the High Bishop and as her assistant as well as her personal guard. If she'd had any other assistant, there would have been three or four people going across the bridge to Kingsford. That was useful information, and Rand would be pleased to have it.
The Black Bird was waiting for him this time, and from the look of him, was a bit impatient. Orm heard him scrabbling about upstairs as he paced, and went straight to his room as soon as he changed, with his notebook tucked under one arm. Rand's eyes grew alert at the sight of it. With talons instead of hands, of course the Black Bird was unable to read these things for himself, so Orm read to him from his own notes. The Bird's eyes grew very bright, and when Orm was done, he gave a cawing laugh.
"Good!" he said. "Very good! Excellent, in fact. You don't need to follow Tal Rufen for the present, Orm. I might ask you to resume later, but for now, the next couple of days, we can concentrate on other things. For one thing, there are some odd articles I'd like for you to get for me. One or two of those Deliambren pens, for instance; I'm aware that they'll be difficult to obtain, so make a concerted effort to get them."
Baffled, Orm nodded. I suppose that Rand is trying to find a way to take Rufen out of this equation. That makes sense; by now it certainly seems that Ardis is the main force behind investigating the kills. Without her pursuit of the case, it won't get very far. Without Rufen, Ardis will be effectively without hands and feet. The Bishop can't move around the streets unobtrusively, and she certainly can't interview the kinds of people I saw Rufen talking to today.
He wondered about the pens, though—unless—
A lot of spells have written components—with one of those pens, even the Bird might be able to manage writing.
Or perhaps he wanted to try writing letters.
It's Rand; he's crazed. He might just want a pen because Rufen has one.
That made about as much sense as anything.
The important thing was that it looked as if Rand was concentrating on getting Rufen disposed of; and for once, Orm was in agreement with the madman's ideas. If Rand decided to take the direct approach, perhaps even by eliminating the constable forever, well, Rufen wasn't going to be guarding his own back, he was going to be watching out for Ardis. And if he decided to take the indirect approach, there were any number of ways that Orm could think of that would tie Tal Rufen up in complications and even scandal until he was unable to do anything about the murders.
And meanwhile, he isn't going after anyone dangerous and he isn't ranting at me. That in itself was enough to keep Orm contented—
For now, anyway. It might be a warm day in Kingsford before he felt completely content again.