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Murder on the Dragonsbane

a Boris Blastfuse mystery by Valshon Sherillomar

Part I: All Aboard!

     The newly-constructed tower rose high into the night sky above the Argent Tournament grounds, newly bedecked in silks and garlands and expensive-looking baubles.  Far above at the tower's apex loomed the pride of the Horde, the first of the newly-conceived Titan-class airships to ever set sail... er, balloon.  The Titan-class was conceived back in the dark days of the Cataclysm; its sole purpose: to provide a mobile fortress that could bring down even the mighty and depraved Deathwing.  And so it was with great pride that the first of this mighty line was given the name Dragonsbane, to strike fear into the heart of its intended target.  Unfortunately, due to budget cuts, overengineering, and a shorthanded crew of goblin shipwrights, it had only recently been completed, long after Deathwing's honorable kill was stolen by Alliance dogs in their Skyfire, and also Thrall with a laser beam for some reason.      Be that as it may, the better-late-than-never inaugural cruise of the Dragonsbane was about to get underway.  Dignitaries, war heroes, and nobles from every corner of the Horde had come to see the new flagship into the service, their attendance having nothing to do with the lavishly-catered extravagant party being thrown for the occasion.  No, they were true patriots with absolutely no alterior motives, each and every one.      Far above, on the tower's upper landing, goblins ushered their esteemed guests onto the airship one by one.  The captain waited on the main deck, resplendent in his ceremonial (and surprisingly functional) battle plate.  A war hero of the Antorus campaign, General Zokthar Bloodtusk had been awarded command of the vessel due to his distinguished and exemplary service of the Horde.  He was a mountain of a man, left tusk broken off at an oblique angle, likely by the same blow that had earned him the jagged scar running across his nose and cheek.  His physique hinted at the brutal raw strength that had singlehandedly beheaded 12 demons and doublehandedly beheaded 16 more.       Beside him in a surprisingly elegant fur gown stood his daughter and only surviving relative Zigra, a short pudgy girl of about the age of 13.  She wore bone pins which valiantly attempted to keep her frizzy hair in check and a well-practiced bored expression on her face.  "Daddy, when we gonna leave already?" she whined in the antithesis of noble dignity.      "In a few minutes, Boarling," replied the General in a gentle grunt, "we still have to welcome our guests."  Zokthar seemed about as pleased with the prospect as his daughter.      As they spoke, the first guest was ushered aboard the Dragonsbane.  In a surprising show of interfactional tact it happened to be an aged pandaren, tendrils of flowing grey mustache drifting down across his ornate armor and an equally-decorative sword slung across his back.  "General Bloodtusk, I am Loremaster Tzu Xian-Lu," he introduced himself in a well-refined but guttural tone, bowing himself at a ninety-degree angle.  "It is a great honor to make your acquaintance and to attend this momentous event.  I can assure you it will be well-chronicled in the records of my people."       "Yeah yeah, I mean um, welcome aboard Loremaster," the General responded, waving him back toward the servants waiting to show the pandaren to his quarters       Close behind came the Forsaken emmisary, a surprisingly fetching woman (for an undead monstrosity) with flowing flaxen hair wearing a flirty blouse, tight leather pants and knee-high heeled boots, a suede mandolin case slung over her shoulder.  "General Bloodtusk," she chimed with a well-practiced curtsey, "what a lovely and impressive ship you have here!  I do look forward to the grand tour.  I am Ariaste Weaver, minstrel of much renown in the court of Sylvanas."       "Ariaste, welcome aboard," he responded with a lingering glance at the Forsaken woman's figure before she too took her leave.       On her heels strode in a rather impatient-looking sin'dorei with a regal bearing, clothed in a gorgeous purple gown intricately embroidered with golden thread, her platinum-blond hair expertly coiffed and expensive-looking jewelry gracing her neck, wrists, and most of her fingers.  "Magistrix Celiandra Vel'rathil," said the orc with narrowed eyes.      The Magistrix looked as though there were about thirty other places she'd rather be, but she kept her voice elegant and honeyed as she met the general's eyes in an almost challenging manner.  "I shall require bath salts and body oils suitable to a lady of my stature, and a terrace upon which to enjoy my Eversong wine."       "Um, the goblins will see to that," Zokthar expertly passed the buck, scratching his neck.  "Welcome aboard, Magistrix?" his tone sounded slightly hesitant.       As if to throw Celiandra into sharp relief, a troll clad in little more than a ceremonial kilt and a raptor-tooth necklace strode confidently onto the deck.  "Ey mon!" he said, painted face parting in a tusky smile, moving to clasp the general's arm by the elbow, "long time no see!"      "Witchdoctor Zin'Tiki," said the general, eagerly pumping the troll's arm, his tusked visage as well parting in a genuine smile, "It has been too long.  I hope things are well in the Echo Isles?"       "Eh, nuttin' da Loa can't handle in deir own way," responded the troll as he idled toward his goblin escort.  "We'll talk latah."       Like a thunderstorm darkening an afternoon sky strode on an imposing sin'dorei man in a jet blindfold, red tattoos and scars ornamenting his bare chest and malformed horns sprouting from just underneath his spiked raven hair.  His non-eyes seemed to smolder as he stepped forward, his demeanor foreboding.  "Well, it's good to see someone is getting rewarded for their service, General.  Not that you could ever give what I have given for the cause.  Edgar Lorde," he spat by way of introduction, "see to it I am not disturbed."  He stormed past the orc, his goblin escort scrambling to keep up.       Seeming more than a bit taken aback by the demon hunter's abrasive manner, a rather nervous-looking tauren in unassuming monk's garb over her deep chocolate fur clopped forward, offering a shaky bow that nearly connected her short curved horns with the deck.  "General, it is truly a great honor for a humble student such as myself," she said as she straightened, "um... I am Hao-Nao Tenderhoof, disciple to the esteemed Jhu-Long Qin."       "Hao-Nao?"  Zokthar did his best to hold back the snicker.  "Never heard of you, or him," he shrugged dismissively, "but I guess if you're who Thunder Bluff is sending these days, welcome aboard."       The last figure on the boarding platform strode confidently forward, exuding understated class from his black fedora and trenchcoat down to his immaculately-shined leather shoes.  The goblin took a drag off his aromatic cigar before craning his neck upwards, his canny eyes sizing up the general, his ship, and his crew in a single glance.  "Nice boat ya got here," the goblin drawled casually.  "Name's Boris Blastfuse, detective extraordinaire.  Kinda confused by the invite to be honest, but hey, free food's free food, am I right?"       "Y-yes?"  Zokthar didn't quite seem to know how to respond to this.  "Actually the goblin crew insisted we needed a Bilgewater representative, and um... well, the chief engineer's been dying to meet you."       Boris sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his bulbous nose.  "Lemme guess, Daphne Cogspark?"  At the General's incredulous look he explained: "Yeah, not a week goes by I don't get some sappy letter from the broad.  How she got my address I'll never know."  The dame was nothing but trouble, Boris knew that much.  "All right, all right.  One autograph, but when that's done you keep that stalker minx away from me, we clear?"       "Um... sure."  The General nodded over at one of the everpresent crew members as though telling him to relay the message.  "We set sail in ten minutes, dinner in the main hall in thirty."

Part II: Cold Ravines and Haut Cuisine

      The mighty goblin engines thrummed heavily to life and the Dragonsbane began to drift menacingly through the chill Icecrown night.  The glacier was cold below, empty, lifeless.  No trace of the undead menace that had swarmed these unforgiving lands not so long ago.  It was beautiful, in its own eerie way, the lights of the stars far above glinting and twinkling off the thick glacial ice below. Boris stood on the forecastle, thankfully alone for the moment as he smoked his cigar and took in the sights.  Most of the guests are probably gonna miss this view, he mused, best part of the damn trip if you ask me.  Of course there was a reason for his presence here on the prow, apart from the ephemeral need to smoke and think in solitude: it was the furthest place he could think of from the engine room where Daphne Cogspark was likely pining over him and contriving ways to catch his attention.  He knew he couldn't avoid her for the whole voyage but he could damn well try.       "Excuse me, Mr. Blastfuse?"  Boris' spine twinged at the unexpected sound of a goblin woman's voice behind him, but mostly relaxed when he realized he hadn't mystically summoned his nemesis.  He turned to face the young and not unattractive crewman.  Crewwoman.  Whatever.       "Yeah, whaddaya want?"       "Dinner is served in the Grand Dining Hall," she responded a bit nervously given his cold reception.  Grand Dining Hall.  Geesh!  Can't these people just call it a mess and be done with it?  "If you'll follow me?"       "Yeah yeah."  Snuffing out his cigar on the railing and straightening his hat he turned to follow the woman below decks.       The party was already getting in full swing.  True to its illustious and somewhat pretentious name, the Grand Dining Hall was elaborate and impressively vast considering it had to fit within the confines of an airship hold, no doubt an example of the sort of overengineering that had pushed the Titan-class project so far beyond its deadline.  A massive ovoid table was spread with a crushed velvet cloth, every setting bedecked with fine china, expensive silverware, and crystal goblets.  The table itself was adorned with all sorts of delicacies, from suckling boar to fresh Eversong grapes to surgeon caviar, and the drink selection was top-shelf.  Sylvanas' military budget at work, mused the goblin as he took his seat.      "I require potatoes," brooded the demon hunter in an apparently eternal sulk, glaring over at Hao-Nao, who hastily fumbled to hand him the dish, cheeks reddening in a slight blush.      Ariaste sized the Illidari up with a pensive expression.  "Edgar Lorde... is that any relation to the esteemed macabre poet of Lordaeron?" Edgar glowered in response.  "It is a name I took for myself when I gave my body and soul to protect this pitiful world," he fumed in as close to a conversational tone as he could apparently muster, helping himself to a large portion of the garlic-mashed spuds, "I doubt one such as yourself could understand."       "And what was your name before?" Ariaste asked musically, savoring a sip of the red wine as she continued to poke the demon hunter's buttons.       "I... don't want to talk about it."  Edgar pushed his chair away with an angry clatter as he rose, his stormy expression seasoned with something akin to embarrassment.  "If I'm needed I shall be wandering the decks aimlessly."  With this the Illidari abruptly made his exit.       "Well I never!" exclaimed Magistrix Celiandra in a contemptuous tone, painstakingly manicured hand going melodramatically to her elegantly-attired chest.       "Nevah what?" asked Zin'Tiki, leaning on his elbow to give the blood elf a curious gaze.       "I... well..." this appeared to have caught Celiandra off guard, "it's um... a figure of speech.  Everyone knows that!"       "Odd figgah a speech if no one know what it mean," responded the troll, returning to his haunch of meat and devouring it straight off the bone, not bothering with the cutlery.  He gave the Magistrix a toothy grin.       Tzu looked up briefly from his studious note-taking.  "Oh dear, I was hoping for some enlightenment regarding your curious idioms.  Oh well, I suppose I can do my own research later."       Zigra continued pushing her food around with her fork instead of eating it.  "This is boring, Daddy, I'm bored!" she huffed.  "I wish Mom was here.  At least she knew how to throw a party!"       "Now now, Bloodgourd," said Zokthar gently, hand going to his daughter's shoulder, "you know your mother died in glorious battle at the Wrathgate.  Maybe one day..."       "I can be a brave warrior like her.  Yeah yeah, I know."  The girl, unconvinced, returned to her brooding culinary sculpture.       "Geesh, ain't this an odd bunch," muttered Boris, keeping to himself as much as possible before glancing once more at Ariaste.  "Say, sugar-lips, maybe you should play us a tune or two on that midget guitar of yours?"       "Oh, I plan to," if anything Ariaste looked pleased by the slur, "but that can wait for the dance hall, I'd think."       "Sheesh, don't tell me..."

Part III: Ballroom Blitz

      If the Grand Dining Hall was impressive, the Grand Ballroom was doubly so.  Sheesh, is everything on this ship Grand?  And I thought this was supposed to be a warship!  Boris surveyed the elaborate (and quite heavy) marble floor, the velvet drapes, the tiered stage and the spotlights.  The hall was easily the size of a small airship in and of itself, the small group making use of its amenities a tragicomic picture of waste.       Edgar Lorde was nowhere to be seen.  Doubtless still brooding over whatever perceived slight he had received at dinner.  Demon hunters.  Ya can't live with 'em, ya can't... well, ya really just can't live with 'em.  Boris stoked up another stoagie as he watched Ariaste Weaver take the stage.  The girl was lithe, with legs that wouldn't quit and a chest that at put in double shifts on the weekends.  Truly remarkable for an animate corpse.  Surprisingly, her talents as a songstress were on par with her appearance.  Hard to believe... eh, but for now Boris stood back and allowed himself to enjoy the minstrel at work.

      'Twas a fair-headed maiden in Lord'ron's hall       Three by three she did see the men startin' to call       O'er the land, o'er the sea       She would stare silently       "Oh my fair Danny Hare will come callin' to me."

      It was a haunting performance (Was that tacky to say?) and Boris allowed himself to relax as he watched the guests pair up on the dance floor.  Yeah, dancing.  You kiddin' me?  Two feet tall here, at least find me a partner that don't make me look like some damn plushie!  Magistrix Celiandra took the first dance with General Bloodtusk, purely a diplomatic gesture to be sure but she seemed pleasantly surprised at how the orc carried himself on the floor.  Zin'Tiki scooped up a very reluctant-looking Zigra in his arms, treating the adolescent to what would likely be her only dance of the evening.  Hao-Nao actually mustered the courage to ask an oblivious Loremaster Tzu to dance, and the two carried themself with an exotic grace unique to those who steep themselves in Pandaren culture.       The music changed and the dancers switched partners.  Boris' observation was interrupted by young Zigra Bloodtusk storming over to the nearby table for punch.       "You don't seem very happy to be here, kid," said the goblin bluntly, rather tactlessly offering her a hit off his cigar.       "Ya think?"  The irritated girl waved off the noxious object like a dead rat, which to be fair it did kind of smell like.  "This was all Daddy's idea, he wants to make me some kinda warrior or something like that."       "You don't seem thrilled by that either."       She sighed, slumping and letting her guard down ever so slightly.  "Yeah, I'm really not.  This whole battle thing is really more Daddy's thing, and Mom's.  I'm studying to be a mage, and Daddy doesn't like that too much."       "She your teacher?"  Boris chin-nodded over to the Magistrix, who had just excused herself from the arms of Loremaster Tzu.       The orcish youth blinked in surprise.  "H-how'd you know that?"       "Simple observation, kid.  Best skill you'll ever learn."  He paused to take another drag off the cigar.  "Your old man's had nothing but glares for that woman since she stepped on board, but your eyes seem to light up when she's around, like you and her share some secret.  You couldn't very well seek out a mage among your people because he'd find out and put a stop to it, so you went to Eversong where she took pity on you.  That about right?"       "You're reading my mind!" she gasped, incredulous.       "Nope, just keeping my eyes open, kid."  The two fell into silence as he once again surveyed the hall.  Hao-Nao and the witchdoctor were paired now, and the Loremaster came to respectfully (and somewhat surprisingly) ask Zigra to the floor.  Boris was taken aback by a sudden tap on his own shoulder.       "Boris?  Boris Blastfuse?"  The copper-haired goblin wore a grease-stained coverall and a pair of goggles up over her forehead, keeping her slightly askew hair mostly out of her face.  "You look like you could use a dance partner."       "Um... sorry, kid, I'm allergic to dancing," he lied awkwardly.  "It's a um... family thing.  You must be Daphne."       The goblin woman gave a delighted (and decidedly annoying) squeal.  "That's me, Daphne Cogspark, Chief Engineer and resident genius!  There's no problem I can't.."       "That's great," Boris cut her off.  "Look, our deal was for one autograph, so let's make this quick."  He led the obnoxious woman out into the hallway, fishing around for a pen.       Daphne too quickly thrust her own pen in front of his face.  "Here ya go, hon!" she said, clearly swooning over the detective, "now um... where did I put that thing?"  She patted down her various pockets and pouches before producing a glossy photo of Boris himself.       "How the fel did you get that?" Boris challenged, glaring at the woman.       "Toldja, resident genius," she chirped with a wink.  "You wanna know more we could go discuss it in my quarters..."       "No offense, doll, but I'd rather die in a fire."  Boris snatched the photo angrily out of her hands, holding it against a nearby bulkhead to sign.  From the ballroom the Forsaken songstress could still be heard, having changed to a slower, more melancholy tune.

      Through the trees, through the tundra, through the cold bitter rain,       By my poison-tipped dagger many more shall be slain!       Carry on, Venomspite; bring your vengeance by night      ‘Til the halls of New Hearthglen fall silent again!

      Suddenly a blood-curdling girlish scream erupted from below decks, loud enough to stop the music and the dancers in their tracks.  Dropping the photo, Boris ran toward the stairs and the sound, followed closely by the other guests.  Practically throwing himself down the second flight and along the hallway, he stopped short at the sight of a very pale and stricken-looking Edgar Lorde.  Boris blinked, looking around for the source of the scream, before Edgar pointed shakily over the ship's aft railing, letting out an identical ear-splitting shriek before slumping heavily to the ground in a dead faint.       "Huh," said Boris as the Witchdoctor stepped forward to check on the fallen Illidari, "Wonder what that was aboouuu..."  His words were stopped short as he stepped close enough to the railing to see what Edgar had been pointing at, his eyes panning down as his jaw dropped, expensive cigar plummeting down toward the jagged ice far below.  Secured solidly to the railing was one of the airship's mooring ropes, at the end of which, like some macabre pinata, hung by the neck the lifeless husk of General Zokthar Bloodtusk.

Part IV: Shouldn't That Be Whodidit?

     "Okay.  You, you," Boris pointed at Tzu and Hao-Nao, "get over here and help haul him up.  Zigra, steel yourself.  Someone on this ship..." he walked to the rail, turning over his shoulder with a dramatic expression to address the guests, "is a murderer."       Gasps erupted from the gathered crowd, intensifying as Zokthar's cold, lifeless body was dragged back aboard the airship.  "Daddy!" came Zigra's anguished cry as she rushed forward, sobbing.       "Now, now." Boris placed himself perhaps unwisely in the youth's path, palms forward to halt her.  "I know it's hard, but that's evidence now, we need it as undisturbed as possible."       "He's right," said Magistrix Celiandra, striding forward to take the girl gently by the shoulders, "one of the guests has murdered our esteemed general in cold blood!"       "WaitwaitwaitwaitWAIT," Boris turned, almost offended, "what makes ya think one of the guests did this?  What about the goblin crew?"       "Oh, they're not really suspects," responded Daphne Cogspark.  "Just reliable, boring, non-suspicious goblins.  Ya might even call'em extras.  None'a them coulda possibly done this!"       "Oh really?" said Boris, whirling to meet the annoying woman's eyes.  "We'll just see about that!"

      Two hours later:

      "They're just reliable, boring, non-suspicious goblins.  None'a them coulda possibly done this," said Boris with a cross expression before turning to Daphne with a glare.  "Don't even start."       Daphne, who from the looks of things had indeed been about to start, simply rolled her eyes, giving the detective a sassy wink.       "So, who ya think coulda done someting like dis to mah friend Zokthar?" asked the Witchdoctor mournfully, eyeing the others with undisguised suspicion.       "An excellent question, my astute if near-incomprehensible fellow," responded Boris, producing an oversized magnifying glass from somewhere inside his trenchcoat.  "First things first, we need to look at the clues on hand.  Tzu, Hao-Nao, if you could?"      With the assistance of the two furred guests, Boris commenced a thorough examination of the body.  "Hmm," he said thoughtfully, inspecting the rugburned area beneath the noose, "my first thought was somebody musta knocked him out and done this while he was unconscious, but see... there's signs of a struggle.  Burns in the armor here, and underneath..." he nodded at his impromptu assistants, who carefully removed his chestplate, revealing several extensive burns stained a distasteful green hue.  "Now, I'm no medical expert, but that don't look healthy."       "It be magic, mon," advised Zin'Tiki, "da Fel unless I be missin' my guess."  His eyes narrowed, looking meaningfully at Edgar, who had by now recovered from his less-than-manly faint.  "Ju got anyting ta say about dat?"       The demon hunter paled noticably before turning his spectral sight upon the corpse.  "The Witchdoctor is correct," he acknowledged in a dark tone, "those are felfire burns.  Which... also explains the green goop on the deck there."  He nodded at the puddles of ooze that had apparently gone overlooked in the panic.  "But it was not me.  Such an act is beneath an Illidari."       "If not you then who?" Ariaste turned a suspicious gaze on Edgar, honeyed voice oozing with suspicion.  "You're the only fel user here, you disappeared at dinner and haven't been seen since, and you were the first one to lay eyes on the body."       "Any mortal can enlist demonic help," spat Edgar with narrowed eyes, "but I suppose I am doomed to be blamed for all sorts of depravity in which I had no part.  As though the horrible burden I must bear were not enough, I must suffer through a life of suspicion and distrust!" he put the back of one hand to his horned brow in a woe-is-me gesture.  "If you seek darkness, look no further than your own souls."       "Oh for the love of..." Boris pinched his nose again, eyes squinted and head bowed as he shook his head.       "He is correct though," chimed in the Magistrix, "any one of us could potentially have pacted with a demon to perform this disgusting deed, even that Pandaren!"  She pointed a finger at Tzu.       "Excuse me?" asked the Loremaster, apparently confused as to why he'd been singled out.       "No, ya know what?  That's good, let's start there, shall we?" asked Boris.       "Yeah sure, let's!" chimed in Daphne chirpily.       "That was a rhetorical question, doll."  Shaking his head as he turned, craning his neck to meet the pandaren's eyes, he studied his first suspect.  "Loremaster Tzu Xian-Lu," he said, starting to pace back and forth in front of him, "you're a military man, yes?"       "That is correct.  I fought many battles against the Sha, and even joined the fight against the Legion because nothing interesting was happening in my homeland."       "So... it was within your abilities to overpower the General, especially with demonic help.  And a man of your build should have no trouble slinging his body over the rail there.  True or false?"       "Err... true, I suppose.  But for what reason?  I have had no contact with the esteemed General Bloodtusk before today.  Besides, I was dancing with his daughter when the body was found."       Boris shrugged.  "That body coulda been hanging there for a while before Edgar found it.  Having an alibi at that precise moment won't necessarily clear your name.  Any of us could have slipped away and back, or for that matter had a demon do the deed by itself."       "I... suppose that is true, yes," acknowledged the warrior, scratching his furred chin thoughtfully, "but again I would ask... why would I do such a thing?"       "Why indeed?" asked Boris, turning just in time to shush Daphne who had been on the verge of answering another rhetorical question.  "And you, Edgar Lorde.  The disturbingly gorgeous bard has a point.  You're the only one we know could have done this alone.  You have Fel power within your blood, the raw strength to do the deed, and a very long time spent wandering the ship by yourself.  You certainly didn't seem very fond of the General..."       "I don't like any of you," stormed the demon hunter matter-of-factly.  "Unless you can produce proof of my malfeasance I will thank you to watch your tongue before I remove it."  Several of the guests gasped at the obvious threat.       "Just stating the facts here, kid, no reason to get your blindfold in a knot over it," explained Boris in a slightly more soothing tone.  "And let's not forget the reason you stormed off in the first place.  You admit you're going by a pseudonym, and yet refuse to tell us your real name.  Now, some would say that sounds like a guy with something to hide."       "I have absolutely nothing to hide from pitiful mortals such as yourself," hissed Edgar.       "Well then, out with it!  What is your real name?" Had the Illidari eyes, they would have narrowed in clenched fury.  "It is..."  He turned his back menacingly to the group, staring broodingly out over the rail at the glacier below. "...Areiya Sunshine," he finished, his voice an angry whisper.       "A-Areiya Sunshine?" Boris barely stifled a laugh that several others did not share his luck in containing.  "A-all right then, it all makes sense now."       Edgar growled, fingers clenching.       "And you, Ariaste Weaver," Boris whirled on the bard, "so very quick to point the finger.  You seem to have given this a lot of thought."       "I am a minstrel, good sir," she responded unperturbed with a curt nod, "quick thinking is my bread and butter... were I to require such things."  She glanced wistfully away.       "Quick thinking serves a lot of professions well, not all of 'em savory," responded the detective, "and I get the feeling there's a lot more to you than you let on.  That last song you were playing, for instance... Halls of New Hearthglen, was it?"  She nodded.  "Pretty grim material there.  And a lot of insider info on assassination.  If I didn't know any better I'd say a Deathstalker wrote it."       "That's because a Deathstalker did write it," she responded cooly, "Vera Hollows, to be precise.  As to your real question... yes, I am also among their former members.  I take pride in my service to Sylvanas, but in the end I grew... tired of killing.  I realized my true calling was elsewhere."       "So you could easily have killed the general?"       "Oh, no question, had I the incentive to.  But your body's wrong.  An assassin never kills with fire."  She approached the body.  "A firm snap of the neck," she mimed her motions without touching the corpse, "or a sharp stab between the second and third ribs and through the heart... or perhaps a clean slice across the jugular with a venomed blade... so much easier when they can't scream."       "Thanks, that'll do," said Boris, seeing how visibly upset the minstrel's descriptions were making Zigra, still seeking comfort in Celiandra's arms.  "Hao-Nao Tenderhoof," Boris moved down the line to the distraught-looking tauren, "student of Jhu-Long Qin, if I recall correctly.  You're a martial artist of some stripe, I take it."       "I... y-yes.  Primarily a healer, though of course the kind Master has taught me some forms of self-defense as well."       "Of course.  Though I'm not sure a kind master would have saddled you with a name like that."       "I beg your pardon?"  She raised a bushy eyebrow at the comment.  "I happen to think Hao-Nao is a beautiful name.  Master Qin tells me it means 'Lily Blossom' in his native tongue."       "Do... do you seriously not get it?" Boris looked incredulously at the very brown tauren woman.       "Get what?" she looked very confused by his remark.       "Never mind.  Anyway, you probably could have killed the general if you wanted to."       "If... if I wanted to, yes.  But... this was supposed to be a diplomatic mission.  A fun little cruise where nobody gets hurt."  The tauren looked clearly stricken by the scene in front of her.       "So you didn't have any secret side missions for your Master Qin?"       "Well, yes, but..." the tauren blushed slightly.       "But what?"       "Well..." she turned away, embarrassed, explaining quietly: "eating soup with chopsticks is hard.  I fear I have yet to master it."       "Erm, no further questions."  Boris then turned to the sin'dorei woman.  "Magistrix Celiandra Vel'rathil, you are an arcanist of some renown by your own admission, correct?"       "I have plumbed in my childhood secrets one such as yourself may despair of learning in a lifetime, yes."  She narrowed her eyes at the goblin.  "Surely you are not implying that I had anything to do with this distasteful atrocity?"  The melodramatic hand returned to her chest.       "Your people have a long history of Fel abuse, Magistrix, and as I'm sure you're aware the leap from arcane to demonic power is not a large one."       "This is true," she responded with a cool expression, "which is why we arcanists discipline ourselves from a very young age to guard against such corruption.  One does not rise to my exalted station unless one has learned control over such urges."       "Doubtless."  Boris shrugged slightly, easing a bit of the tension in his left shoulder.  "Zigra told me you're tutoring her in the arcane, is that correct?"       The Magistrix quirked a sculpted eyebrow at the orcish youth before giving a refined nod.  "I took pity on her, yes.  It was according to the wishes of her late mother Zukra, an associate of mine.  She even made me the child's godparent."       "And that didn't sit too well with General Zokthar I take it?"       "Heavens no!  I'm afraid he is... was rather... far too set in his orcish ways to see the value of having one of Silvermoon's premier arcanists at his daughter's beck and call.  Such an ingrate!"       "So you weren't fond of the General either?"       She blinked.  "Far from it, sir!  While it is... true I would rather we be on more amiable terms, I certainly had no hatred of the man!  Why, to break his poor daughter's heart like that... it would simply be unthinkable!"       "Somebody thought it," commented Boris, turning toward the next suspect.  "And the esteemed Witchdoctor Zin'tiki."      "Dat I be."  The troll gave a casual nod.       "Is it safe to say with the exception of his daughter you're the person on board who knew General Bloodtusk best?"       "Ya mon."  He glanced wistfully at his fallen comrade.  "Such a waste!  Zokthar be a good mon, he don't deserve ta go like this."       "No, no he doesn't."  Boris nodded respectfully.  "It's no secret that the general alienated a lot of Darkspears when he threw in with Garrosh Hellscream.  How did you take that?"       "Not well," the troll admitted bluntly, "but I undahstand.  I follow Vol'jin to da end of Azeroth, can I blame him fah doin' da same wit his leadahs?"       "I suppose not.  You're a spiritist, Zin'Tiki, is that right?"       "Da Loa been known ta listen every now an' then, ya," he responded with a humble shrug.       "As I recall there has been a history of fel magic and even demoniacs among your people.  Now... I don't really know the details here, but hypothetically speaking, you have the means to call a demon?"       "Da means can be had."  He crouched down, staring unnervingly into Boris' eyes.  "I get whatcha tinkin' mon.  It coulda been me.  I got da means an' mebbe da motive.  But you ain't seen what fel magic do ta my people.  Dey be... changed.  If I be consortin' wit' dose types, mark my words ya'd know it."       "And last but not least..." he turned to face the now stoic-looking (though still red-eyed) orcish girl.  "Zigra Bloodtusk.  You've been at odds with your father for a while, haven't you?"       She glared at him in contempt.  "You're not accusing me, are you?!"       "Answer the question, Zigra."       "Well... yes.  But I mean, that's normal, right?  Daddy never really liked that I wanted to follow the arcane instead of being a warrior like him and Mom.  He... he always wanted me to make him proud on the battlefield."  She sniffled before erupting in a round of fresh tears.  "I... I can't believe anybody would do this to him!  It's just so... so wrong!"       "How far along are you in your magical training?"       "Umm... I've learned a few cantrips.  Cleaning spells, small teleports... oh, and I can shoot fire pretty good."  She went wide-eyed as she looked toward the burnt body of her father.  "N-not that good!" she hastily clarified.  "Anyway, didn't you say those were fel-burns?"       "Yeah.  And from what I understand the fel's not hard to learn for somebody with a basic grasp of magic."       "Wait... you think I'm a warlock?!  Eww!"       "No further questions.  Now, if you all will join me in the Dining Hall..."       "Grand Dining Hall," corrected Daphne.       "In the mess," retorted Boris with an eye-roll, "I can dazzle you with my world-renowned powers of deduction!"

Part V: A Precipitous Denouement

     "Right, well..." Boris helped himself to a slice of cold boar, nibbling on it as he expounded, "first we gotta talk motive.  Frankly our stiff... er, I mean the lamented General Bloodtusk was not well-liked by anybody here except his daughter and the witchdoctor.  Now, we know the goblin crew didn't do it because..."       "Can we just cut to the chase already?!" whined Zigra, "I mean, he did it, that much is obvious."  She pointed an accusing finger at Edgar Lorde.       "Oh Zigra Zigra Zigra!"  Boris shook his head impatiently.  "You gotta look past the surface here."  He turned to address the sullen demon hunter.  "Areiya... that's a taurahe word, ain't it?"       "Y-you are correct," said Hao-Nao hesitantly. "i-it is a small fish we net in the coastal waters.  Clupea rufus, or in Orcish..."       "Red herring," admitted the Illidari despondently, "but what's in a name?  I still could have done it."  He seemed almost eager to be under suspicion.       "Well... I mean it is true you openly dislike... well, pretty much everybody near's I can tell, but that don't exactly give you motive to kill an ally who you never met in person before today."      "I... I still could have killed him!" blustered the Illidari.  "M-maybe I did it just to bring a moment of solace, however brief, to my pain-stricken existence!"       "Nah, you woulda made it far harder to point fingers," responded the detective, finishing the boar slice and lighting up another cigar (how many of those did he have on him?!).  "I mean, sulking around the ship by yourself, first to the body... speakin' a which, you seemed genuinely freaked by it."       "I... I was startled."  A slow blush started to creep over Edgar's face.       "Yeah, startled into fainting like a little girl," chimed in Ariaste with a smile, "that is so going in the song by the way."       "If not da girly screamah den who?" asked Zin'Tiki.  Edgar turned his back to the group, by now thoroughly embarrassed.  "Don' tell me da little girl did it."       "HEY!" yelled an indignant Zigra, "I'm not a little girl.  I'm not I'm not I'm NOT!"  The foot-stomping and pout did little to prove her point.       "While it's technically true 85% of murders are perpetrated by family members... and no I'm not just making that statistic up on the spot... in this case it wasn't."  Boris chewed on the noxious cigar pensively.  "Sure, they may have their differences, but why would she?  At the end of the day she loves her dad and she was genuinely heartbroken to see him go.  Ain't that right kid?"       "Yes..." sulked Sigra in response, "but I'm not a kid!"       "Whatever ya say, sweetie."  Boris hopped up on a nearby chair to pat the girl's cheek consolingly.  "Anyways, you're on the right track, Zin'Tiki, lookin' for somebody that knew the victim well.  Someone..." he narrowed his eyes, pausing for a good three seconds to build the suspense, "...like the Magistrix!"         "I beg your pardon?!" huffed Celiandra indignantly, glaring at this mere goblin who dared to accuse her of such a deed, "I'll have you know I have nothing but respect and admiration for Zokthar and his family!"       "Yeah, his family maybe," conceded Boris.  "I mean, you are the godmother here, ain't that right?"       "Well, yes..."  Her eyes narrowed at the insinuation.       "And ain't it true, furthermore, that guardianship of the sole heir means if anything happens to Zigra the family interests would conveniently fall at your feet?"       Celiandra let out a theatrical gasp.  "Are you seriously suggesting I could harm one hair on that dear child's head?!"       "I seriously am." Boris met the woman's fierce gaze unflinchingly.       She shook her head dismissively.  "As if I would be interested in a few meager orc holdings!  I have more than enough to my name without such trivial things."       "We're not just talking holdings here, Celiandra.  We're talking influence.  Power.  With claim to Bloodtusk's name you could bend even the Warchief's ear in a pinch.  Maybe get some more lucrative deals for your people or your House, that about right?"       "How dare you!" snapped the woman, beyond incensed, "such insolence, to bring such railing and slanderous accusations to bear against an esteemed Magistrix of Silvermoon, without one iota of proof to support your claim!"       "Proof?"  Boris grinned slyly.  "I am so glad you brought that up.  Fact: you disappeared from the Ball Room..."       "Grand Ball Room," corrected Daphne as she happened to pass by in the corridor.       "...right after the first dance.  Which'd give you more than enough time to intercept General Bloodtusk and have your minions do the deed."       "Are you seriously accusing me of being a warlock?!"       "Me?  No.  Your own words?  Yes.  Don't ya remember your telltale error, Magistrix?"       She glared at the goblin.  "There was no error because I am not a despicable fel user!"       "Oh but there was."  Boris grinned knowingly, "back when I first mentioned the possibility.  You told me you had learned, and I quote: 'control over such urges'.  Control.  A Magistrix would speak of resisting those urges, not controlling them.  No, you saw in the fel a power you could easily harness to your own ends.  True or false?"       "Enough of this foolishness!"  Celiandra's eyes glowed with an unbridled fury as she twisted her hands in clawlike gestures.  "Zhurthaal, arise and deal with these interlopers!"  as she spoke a swirling portal of green energy appeared out of the deck and a large felguard stepped through, axe at the ready.  "I had meant to keep things tidy here, but if I must destroy everyone on this ship then so be it!"       "I don't tink so."  Nimbly retrieving what looked to be a simple forked twig from his belt, Zin'Tiki pointed it at the wildly gesticulating sin'dorei and she suddenly  dropped to the ground as a golden-backed frog, ribbiting in irritation as the fel energies she'd been gathering dispersed harmlessly into the air.       "I live for this," hissed Edgar as he leapt into the air, large batlike wings unfolding from his back as he brought his warglaives to bear against the still-rampaging felguard.       "I've got her... I think?"  Hao-Nao nimbly grabbed an empty tankard from the table and somersaulted across the floor, slamming the vessel down over the hexed Celiandra.       "AAAGH!"  Having flurried the demon with a series of vicious swipes, Edgar took a nasty blow to the shoulder from the fiend's jagged axe, knocking him backwards onto the deck.  Before the demon could take advantage of the opening, however, a loud gutteral growl erupted behind it and it found itself engulfed in a pillar of white-hot flame, shrieking in agony as it blackened into a brittle statue and then crumbled to a pile of ash.       "I... welcome... death's... warm... embrace," choked out Edgar darkly, coughing weakly.       "Geesh, get up already.  He barely scratched you."  Boris offered the glaring Illidari a hand to his feet       "That's what you GET you nasty icky demon!" yelled Zigra, fury in her eyes fully the equal of the fire spell she'd just conjured.  "And YOU, Magistrix," she said, whirling around to face the frantically-hopping mug still being held closed by the tauren, "how could you?!  After all we've done for you!  To think I trusted you!"  She turned away, teary-eyed, into the waiting embrace of Loremaster Tzu.       "Don'cha worry, youngling," said Zin'Tiki as he took the tankard from the tauren, "we got good magic-proof cells on dis ship.  Pretty overengineered ting now dat I tink about it.  We be keepin' 'er good an' safe until she answah fah her crime."       "And it would appear we have Boris Blastfuse, Detective Extraordinaire, to thank for that," commented Tzu, clearly already composing his notes in his head.       "It's what I do."  Boris gave a casual shrug, taking a long celebratory puff on the ever-present cigar and grinning over his shoulder as though at some unseen camera.  "Now then... who's for dessert?"