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.