Murder in Cormyr - Chet Williamson [28]
The thought had certainly occurred to me. "Possible, I suppose. What was Dovo's manner in the smithy like?" I asked. "Did he get along with customers?"
"Yes, most of them. Some he rubbed the wrong way with his joking. When he found someone's weak spot, he'd play on it, you know? Then I'd have to… take him in hand a bit." His eyebrows raised as though he had just thought of something. "Just the other day in the smithy he had a run-in with the king's envoy, what's his name?"
"Grodoveth?"
"That's the one. His horse had thrown a shoe, and we were putting one on, when Dovo starts asking the envoy a lot of questions about what he's seen on his journeys, just run of the mill questions, but with an edge to them, almost as though he's making fun of the man.
"Well, I finish the shoeing, and Dovo is leading the horse out while the envoy's paying me, and something happens, the horse stumbles a bit, and this Grodoveth suddenly goes mad. He clouts Dovo on the side of the head, knocking him down, and then stands over him. If he made another move, I was ready to help Dovo, but he didn't. He just said, 'Be careful how you treat my horse, boy,' and that was all.
"He finishes paying me, then without another look at Dovo, leads his horse out. It's a magnificent beast all right, and maybe Dovo did yank its bridle too hard, but that was quite a clout. Still, some men love their horses better than women." Durn eyed my cup. "More tea?"
I declined, thanked him for the information, and left him for the happier cups of the Bold Bard. I hoped I wouldn't have seaweed on my breath. There were a lot of people I wanted to talk to.
14
And they all seemed to be at the tavern that evening. Nothing fills a drinking establishment quite as handily as a tragedy. People want to talk about it, and also want to feel alive and grateful that they were not the one to die. How people can feel more alive in a hot, smoky, reeking tavern than outside in the fresh air on a hilltop gazing up at the evening sky is puzzling, but human nature has always been so.
The first person I noticed in the press of people there was Mayor Tobald. A huge, half-eaten pork pie was on the table in front of him, and he was digging into what was left with his customary ardor for victuals-his way of feeling alive, I suppose.
Since I was acting under his authority, I felt that put us on an equal footing in the democracy of the tavern, so I sat across from him and bade him a good evening. "Ah, Jasper," he responded, "and how goes your work?"
I didn't wish to spill too many beans before I had a chance to talk to Benelaius. "Not too well, Mayor. But I'll persevere."
"Good man," Tobald said, wrapping his mouth around another forkful.
"Yes, I asked Grodoveth if he was aware of any brigands who might have been responsible for Dovo's slaying, but he knew of no such parties."
"Hmm, yes, well, if anyone would know, you'd think it*d be him. I mean to say, riding around all the time as he does, eh?"
"Indeed, sir. I was just wondering, sir, how did you come to know him?" "He was my student at the university." "University?"
"Yes, the University of Suzail. I taught there, you know, before my retirement. The academic life held too many pressures. A small, unhurried town like Ghars was much more appealing to me-just like the feelings of your master Benelaius-and more conducive to my scholarship. I'm writing a history of Cormyr, you know." I knew. Everyone in the village knew.
"When Grodoveth was assigned as envoy to our district," he went on, "I invited him to lodge at my house when he came through Ghars. He accepted, and I learned that he plays as fine a game of chess as any man in the village. That alone would be enough for me to put up with his… well, I mean to say, I've enjoyed his company immensely."
There was something that Tobald wasn't saying, but I didn't quite know how to tactfully draw it out. "So he stays with you whenever he's in town?" Tobald chewed and nodded. "And how often is that?"
"Oh, every few weeks or so. It's only