Do the Weird Crime, Serve the Weird Time

RING OF THE RED KNIGHT

I hadn’t liked the old man. Winslow Carvenell was a nuisance. Always measuring the border between our garden plots with a ruler—as though fearful a single tomato of mine might have cast a shadow over his roses. He was the most disagreeable sort of neighbor, and except for our mutual interest in the magical arts there was little in common between us. Neither of us were great enchanters, neither had great wealth. I had made my own through hard work and study, but an accident of birth had made my neighbor poorer than his kin.

But I was grieved when I heard he died and fearful when I heard it was murder. After all, he lived next door.

Shina, his maid, had found him with a cut from ear to ear. Someone had murdered him in his sleep. The maid, being resourceful, had called upon the constable before alarming the neighborhood. I heard of old Winslow’s death from him, but I knew I would hear all the gory details from her—for Shina had once been a love of mine.

Constable Gager arrived just as I was heading off for the Academy where I taught classes in thaumaturgy, beginning philosophy of magic, and magical epistemology. The constable had been a student of mine, years ago. I had failed him because he was too lazy to apply himself. He had improved with the passing of years, but his hatred for me had certainly not diminished. Such is often a teacher’s fate. He was suspicious of the fact that I had heard nothing, and advised me grimly not to leave town.

I was late for class, and some of my students had walked. So I conjured a small pink cloud in my likeness and sent it off to the tavern where they were sure to have gathered. It rounded them up in a few minutes, and I gave a fairly good lecture on beginning invisibility.

Shina was waiting for me when I got home. I had given her the word which unlocked my door when we were an “item” years before.

“It was awful, Robert,” she said. “He was slumped over his writing desk his throat slit from ear to ear. His journal is ruined, who knows how many years of research on his family is gone.”

“Who do you think killed him?”

“Winslow didn’t have an enemy in the world. Oh you and he argued over trifles, and Dieter Betz over at Miracle University argued over how to decipher certain ancient texts, and he’s never been too sweet on his nephew, which is sad since the Count will be paying for his funeral.”

“William pays for everything after all. Did Winslow have anything to bequeath?”

“His books and scrolls will go to the University. William came by and said he’d pay my salary for another month and that I could have any personal effects I wanted.”

“I’m really sorry, Shina, if there’s anything I can do—” That is probably the oldest incantation in mankind’s repertory—its magic had been used up centuries before Atlantis sank beneath the waves. But she put her head on my shoulder and cried softly for a very long time. I saw quite a few silver hairs in her blond hair and wondered how I had become an old scholar. Where was the young wizard I once was? How long had I played the part of aging scholar-mage?

* * * * * * *

The next day Count William paid me a visit. William was Winslow’s nephew. William was the son of Rudolfo, the older of twin brothers. Rudolfo got the title and lands by arriving four minutes before his brother. Winslow got a scholar’s salary and a small house from the university—one of the Count’s favorite charities. William was a good Count, I suppose, he gave great feasts and his costume parties in Carnival season were well known. He dropped by my humble home to borrow texts, commission poetry or merely to give brandies and wines. But I never stood in his presence without knowing to my very bones that I was in front of the man who owned me. It is said the mark of a good ruler is that their presence makes you want to serve, but that a poor ruler merely makes you know that you serve.

Count William asked if I would deliver Winslow’s eulogy. I accepted. He also told me that Constable Gager had a lead on the case. Someone had seen the murderer leaving Winslow’s home.

It would be a grand funeral, promised Count William, he would spare no expense.

I began to work on Winslow’s eulogy. As is always the case when someone dies, I wished that I had paid more attention to him in the living years. His scholarship had been great. I really wished that he had finished his history of his own family.

I was pondering this loss to learning when Shina came running into my yard. I let her in.

“Robert. It wasn’t you, was it? Tell me you didn’t kill him.”

“Of course I didn’t kill him. Why would you think something that crazy?”

She reached out her right hand to me, opening it from the fist it had been. In her palm was the ring of the red knight.

“Have you told anyone?” I asked.

“No. Not yet. If you didn’t do it, someone wants it to look like you did. I found it under the table; I was cleaning up the house. I didn’t know if I should take it to you or to Gager.”

I reached for the ring, but she made the fist again.

“You’ve got to give it to me—so I can figure out what’s going on.”

“What if you did drop it?”

“Shina, you know me.”

“I know. I don’t know. What are the rules for murder and friendship? I don’t know. I should take it to Gager.”

“If you do, you’ll be putting a noose around my neck. Leave it with me for a night, I may be able to get the ring to talk.”

“You’re not that powerful a wizard, Robert, you know that.”

“Sometimes a person can be pretty powerful if his life is in danger.”

She started to release the ring.

“You must promise me,” she said, “that you’ll give me the ring tomorrow. I can say I just found it. I don’t want to be jailed for having interfered with a criminal case.”

“I promise.”

She handed me the ring, a simple circle of red gold with the word “judge” written in the High Speech. She made me promise several more times. She was scared, but I was terrified.

The red knight, Sir Starkad, had been a harsh man. My father, the swineherd, used to say that the best words that could be spoken of a man were “He was tough, but fair.” Starkad would not have needed “fair”—his justice was harsh.

* * * * * * *

Let me tell you about the ring. Last year at Carnival, Count William invited all of us poor teachers to a great costume ball and feast. Now, as you know, a scholar will not pass up a free meal for any reason. I dressed up as Sir Starkad, the founder of the Count’s family. I had a replica of the ring made as a magical focus so that I could conjure up the rest of the costume. I had even won a small prize for best costume (historical).

Winslow, the only person to attend the party without costume, had nothing but bad things to say about my choice. Who was I, a commoner, to wear (even in sport) the arms of a noble family? Count William announced a special prize for his uncle: Best Curmudgeon.

A few months after Carnival, I was looking for the ring. I wanted to melt it down for the gold so I could buy a particularly wonderful set of scrolls from Mordrake. I couldn’t find the ring, and chalked up the loss to my messy bachelor life. I hadn’t thought to tell anyone of my loss. Not that it would matter. The ring at the site of Winslow’s murder could convince any jury. He had complained widely of my presumption in wearing it.

In one of my books of magic was a spell to open the mouth of objects. It would cause a thing to reveal its history. A very advanced spell, this—but if I could discover the killer, I might be able to slip the noose. I hated the killer whoever she or he was. He (or she) had stolen my best enemy and wanted to frame me.

The spell was a simple one. It involved a red oil lamp with a wick upon which had been written certain characters and a few barbarous names. I performed it an hour after sunset. Nothing happened. I put a new wick in the lamp and tried again, pouring all of my magical strength into the operation. Nothing happened.

I felt weak and sad. I blew out the lamp, leaving the ring on my writing desk. I walked heavily over to my cot and threw myself down to sleep. I dozed off quickly. Then I heard or thought I heard the chair at my writing desk being pushed back. I couldn’t see in the darkness of my house, but I felt like someone was sitting at my table. I thought I heard someone writing.

“Shina?”

Nothing.

“Winslow?”

Still nothing.

I sprang up and ran over to the desk. No one seemed to be there. I lit a candle. No one there. But didn’t I leave the ring near the center of the table?

I decided I was having a really bad case of nerves. I left the candle lit and returned to bed. Amazingly I fell asleep again, as if something in the room drove away consciousness.

I dreamed a little dream. I dreamt first of rings. Rich noble rings sparkling with gems of this and other worlds. Poor couples’ wedding bands. Slaves rings from the southern deserts. Each of them rolling endlessly through the night. Each of them a symbol of something the wearer was bound to. Each rolling like the cycles of our lives from birth to death to be given to another in another life. Rolling along, controlling the paths of the life of the person wearing them. I was somewhere far above them watching them as bodiless observer, but I began to sink toward them, and the sound of their rolling grew into a great roar. I feared I would land among them and be worn to bits by their endless rolling. By this time I was thinking that the rings and all they implied ruled mankind. Who was the first to pledge his troth over a band of metal? Once that pledge was made, we lived in a world of meanings, a world where things could be done with words like “I do” or “I swear.” I was falling into the great river of rings which had rolled since my ancestors’ ancestors had decided to live by Law. How could I withstand that force? I had avoided the force by becoming a scholar, a semi-recluse, but now that world of men—with its endless rings—would have me.

I fell but as is the way of dreams, merely woke. I was awake for an instant thinking that I saw something sparkle upon my desk and then I returned to sleep.

I must have slept a great while for I know that my second dream was near dawn.

I dreamt I was at a masked ball in Count William’s home. I was dressed as the red knight, but there was another red knight. I approached this man angry at having my costume aped. The other red knight lurked in the shadows. When I came upon him I saw that his armor was not the festive stuff of Carnival fantasy. Battle had left its mark.

He raised his visor and I saw in inexpressible sadness in his gray eyes. I wanted to say something to offer some assurance to this man who suddenly seemed like a brother to me. I thought he has chosen the world of rings, not a do-nothing scholar like me. He lowered his visor and made his way through the crowd toward the throne. Some grave matter of state was unfolding.

I thought to follow him, but the masked crowd seemed suddenly thicker and noisier. I doubted that I could pass through them.

I looked for a pathway close to the walls. It was then I saw old Winslow sitting at his writing desk penning a manuscript. I’ll tell him that I’m sorry he’s dead, I thought, for such thoughts are in the way of dreams.

I made my way to him.

He was writing in his usual beautiful hand:

A History of the Carvenells

The first of the line prepares the last of the line’s doom.

* * * * * * *

I woke suddenly because something cold touched my cheek. Rolled over my cheek. The candle had gone out. I sprang out of bed looking for what had touched me. I threw my bedding aside on the floor feeling for something small. I found nothing. Then I went and got a candle, my fingers shaking as I put flint to steel. By its light I saw nothing, but the ring was gone from the desk.

I began lighting candles. I would flood my small house with light. I must find the ring before tomorrow. I had no doubt that Shina, already unsure in her resolve to let me have the ring, would tell Constable Gager of her find.

I went through every nook and cranny. I unrolled my scrolls, threw down my books, forced my fingers into every chink in the walls. I looked under my washbasin, in my glasses, among my silverware. It was nowhere. The ring had rolled away, and with it no doubt any chance of my avoiding the noose.

I resolved right away to pack and leave the country. I could perhaps manage a spell to fly away—of course I would have to leave most of my treasures here. My precious books and scrolls! The wealth of a lifetime of learning.

I was packing a satchel when the knocking began. I had never heard so loud a series of knocks in my life.

“Open up, Robert Griffith. I have come to arrest you for the murder of Winslow Carvenell. If you don’t open this door, I shall break it down.”

I uttered the word, which opened the door.

“Caught you before you could leave!” boomed Constable Gager.

With him were Count William, a tear-stained Shina, and a burly peasant man I’d seen once in the farmer’s market.

“This man says he saw a figure dressed in red armor leaving the home of Winslow Carvenell and going toward your door. When I questioned Shina Auw she broke down and confessed having found the ring from your costume at the scene of the murder, and giving you said ring during a period of poor judgment.”

I had to hand it to Gager, a lesser man couldn’t have boomed his way through an utterance so long. At least if I am hung swiftly, I thought, I would not have to listen to his annoying voice too long.

“Where is the ring that Shina Auw gave you?” asked Gager.

I was pondering the reply when Count William walking past the constable said, “Here. On his desk.”

There was the ring all right. Had it been there all along mocking the mind I was clearly losing?

The Count walked to my desk. He reached to grab it, when it seemed the ring of its own accord rolled over and slipped onto his hand.

“No,” he said, “It’s a trick. It isn’t my ring. It’s his. I didn’t steal it from him. I didn’t.”

The Count’s face was white with fear. He was trying to pull off the ring but couldn’t manage it. Blood poured from his finger.

The Constable hesitated, not know whether to grab the Count or me or both.

The Count’s struggle was both comic and terrifying. He bellowed in pain and rolled on the floor as thought fighting a score of men. A huge bear of a man—his fight against a simple band of gold made no sense. I have heard few men be really afraid. Men talk about fear, or whisper about their fears, but only animals whimpered like this. I was appalled and enthralled.

The Count said, “I’ll confess. I killed him.. Just get the ring off. It bites.”

The Constable ordered me to remove my spell from the ring. I started to say that I hadn’t put any spell on it, but then I remembered my failed invocation from the night before. I said a couple of words to end the enchantment.

The ring came off, and the Constable took the Count away. The ring had bitten the Count severely; his finger was hanging on only by a scrap of bloody skin. I guess the enchantment had opened its mouth.

Over the next few months we learned the story. Winslow Carvenell had discovered a document describing the birth of the twins. The first-born twin had a large birthmark on his back, the younger was unblemished. Winslow, with the ugly strawberry-colored blotch on his left shoulder, was the true heir. The doctor who had delivered the children had mixed up the details later, and the old count was happier with an unblemished heir anyway.

Winslow had approached William asking for the title and lands. After all, Winslow would only get to enjoy it for a few years, and then it would pass back to William. William didn’t want to relinquish power—even for a few months to the grumpy old scholar. He decided to slay his uncle.

He knew that I had often quarreled with old Winslow. One day the Count had visited me hoping to find some way to incriminate me. I remember he had asked to borrow some ancient book of poetry, as I had searched among my badly organized library he noted that I was using the ring as a paperweight. This proved to him that I didn’t know the value of gold, and was therefore unworthy of it. Or at least was unaware if it. He stole the ring to plant in the scene of his crime.

William resides in the king’s dungeons, where I hear he has very bad dreams. The fonder of the line, the red knight, had been known for fearsome forms of justice. Apparently William dreams himself as a guest in his ancestor’s dungeon-courts.

I live much as I did before, but increasingly wonder if I should die ring-less. Now that I have penned this little story, perhaps I should try a sonnet for Shina.

Shall I compare thee to the mystery of dream?

Thou are more mysterious and more rare.

A good start....