by David Cook
“The warren doesn’t have many human-sized rooms,” Vil explained as he edged past Martine, “and Sumalo didn’t want us sleeping in the halls in case they need to be used in an emergency. Hope you don’t mind.”
“It’s fine. Almost as nice as your cabin.” Martine pulled off her boots and laid claim to one of the beds. Compared to the snow cave she had slept in several nights earlier, this was positively spacious. Besides, she couldn’t help noting, the company was much better.
Suddenly there was a loud, thunderlike clap, followed by the acrid smell of ozone in the air.
Vil sprang to his feet, practically upsetting Martine as she rose, startled by the explosive report. Quickly the pair sprang for their weapons.
With their blades flickering in magelight, the pair whirled on the source of the disturbance. A cloud of sulphurous smoke billowed in the doorway. When the smoke began to clear, a thin-faced man, smartly dressed in a traveling cloak, puffed and slashed doublet, and woolen breeks, strode out of the swirl of fumes, brushing tendrils of smoke from his slender goatee. In his other hand, the stranger carried a large satchel made of well-worn leather.
“Martine, my dear,” the stranger said in an easy, familiar voice, “put away your sword. You’re not under attack.”
“Jazrac?” the woman blurted, practically dropping her blade in the process. Vil stood alongside her, his sword wavering with uncertainty.
The wizard casually sauntered across the room, giving the small quarters a disparaging once-over. The light from the unflickering wall scones highlighted the silver and black of his hair with a theatrical glow. “Precisely, my dear Martine. It was the deuce to track you down. Now, may I put my bag here?” the tall wizard continued, hoisting his luggage. Vil let the tip of his sword sag to the floor in confused stupefaction.
“What—what do you mean, track me down?” Martine stammered. “What are you doing here, Jazrac?”
“I read your letter,” the wizard replied calmly as he plopped his satchel onto the furniture-laden bed. The straps undone, the bag opened with slight hiss, like the sucking in of a breath. “And that curious bit of carving you got that gnoll to do. That was a clever bit of work on your part. But as I said, you’re a hard one to track down. It took me a while to figure out just where you were.”
As he spoke, Jazrac reached into the small bag until his arm disappeared all the way up to the shoulder. He removed his arm to produce a thick bundle of scrolls, neatly bound with string. That set aside, he reached back inside the bag and rummaged for something else. Confused, Vil watched the unannounced visitor shove his arm into the small satchel again.
Martine had no patience with the deliberately obtuse tack her mentor was taking. “Jazrac, I repeat, what in the hells are you doing here?”
The wizard paused in his unpacking and stared at the woman with mock injury, his arched eyebrows raised even higher. “Why, Martine, I’ve come to find out what kind of a mess you’ve made of things.”
Eleven
Oh, gods, I’m doomed! Martine thought as she sagged against one of the paneled walls. At the same time, the color drained from her face, leaving her deadly pale. The thought that Jazrac needed to check up on her inspired in her a dread awe of the wrath the Harpers.
Where do I begin? How do I explain what’s happened? Martine couldn’t see any simple way to tell about her misadventures that wouldn’t cast doubts on her judgment. Lying was unthinkable. The woman knew there was really nothing she could do to avert Jazrac’s displeasure, and trying to conceal any of her errors would only make it worse. The knowledge that there was no escaping the truth didn’t help her either. The fear of her superiors was instilled too deeply to ignore.
“Excuse me,” Vil said sharply as he banged the flat of his sword against the wall. The loud crack was a sure attention-getter. “What in the world is going on?” The warrior looked to Martine for an answer, all the while watching the stranger from the corner of his eye.
The color rushed back into Martine’s cheeks and blossomed into a full blush as she was suddenly reminded that Vil was a spectator to her mortification. “Uh, Vilheim, this is Jazrac, Mage of Saerloon. Jazrac, this is Vilheim Baltson. He’s the one I mentioned in the letter.”
The wizard stopped unpacking, which was fortuitous, for the bed was almost overflowing with furniture, scrolls, bundles, shoes, even a thick pair of robes. Holding one hand to his chest, the senior Harper bowed slightly toward Vil, tilting the tip of his goatee toward the floor. “Greetings, Vilheim Baltson. Your home is extremely well built.” The wizard looked down at the sword Vil still held clutched in his hand.
“Greetings to you, Jazrac, but I must explain that this is not my cabin,” Vil replied, grinning at the error. “I’m not that good a carpenter. You’re in a gnome warren.”
“Really? I’ve never been inside one before.” Jazrac’s face brightened as he peered at the walls with renewed interest. “No wonder I was confused about the small size.”
“You don’t intend to stay here, do you?” Martine ventured. She pointed to the bed piled with things, a mound already twice the size of the wizard’s small valise.
“I’ve come to talk with you,” Jazrac easily replied, avoiding the question. His gray eyes were dark pits rimmed by deep creases, his sharp nose a brilliant highlight. Martine couldn’t guess her mentor’s thoughts behind his veiled expression, and so filled that void of knowledge with fearful imaginings.
Jazrac put her fears to naught with a shrug. “Well, I should explain for Master Baltson’s sake, I suppose.” With a flourish of his cape, the mage sat on the edge of the bed. The stack of scrolls behind him teetered ominously.
“I’m a Harper, and this young lady is a Harper, too.” Jazrac paused, awaiting some sort of reaction.
There was only silence. No gasped breath, no protestation of disbelief.
“So she told me,” Vil said calmly.
Jazrac looked crestfallen that his dramatic announcement had been spoiled. With one eye cocked toward Martine, he continued, “Well, we’re normally not supposed to reveal that, but I’m the reason Martine’s here. I sent her on a mission—”
“I know. To close the rift.” Vil’s bland interruption once again foiled the wizard’s theatrics. Now Jazrac fixed both eyes on Martine, missing the former paladin’s mischievous grin.
“Well, anyway,” Jazrac continued coldly, “since I hadn’t heard from my protege for some time, and then I get two alarming messages, I thought it best I come to see if all’s well. We Harpers do that sort of thing,” he added cavalierly.
“Indeed.”
Jazrac made a stab at small talk as he rebalanced the scrolls behind him. “I don’t imagine you know what a bother it can be, keeping tabs on each other. You seem more the independent type. You probably never had to worry about anybody else, eh?”
Martine bit her lip; she knew Vil was once a paladin. She didn’t know much about paladins, but she did know their lives were committed to serving others. Vil merely smiled wryly. “Oh, I’ve had a few duties in my life.”
“Indeed! Then you do understand how it is. I’ve come to see if everything is well—” here the mage hesitated significantly—“and talk Harper business with Martine.” He paused broadly, spreading his hands in an obvious hint. When Vil failed to move, Jazrac cleared his throat. “Harper business. Private Harper business.”
“I see,” Vil answered with mock naivete. “You want me to leave.”
Vil was mocking Jazrac, the woman knew, though she couldn’t guess just why. It probably had something to do with the traditional rivalry between paladins and wizards. She’d never known the two groups to get along well. Paladins were painfully noble and suspected the motives of most sorcerers, which naturally irritated the sorcerers. If I were a wizardress, it’d annoy me, too, she thought. Fortunately in this case, Jazrac didn’t even notice the warrior’s mocking tone. Perhaps he assumed Vil was simply dense. Martine had been around the warrior enough to know that wasn’t true.
I
t was time to intervene, though, just in case Vil got out of hand.
“Jazrac, can’t this wait until tomorrow?” Martine pleaded as she pushed herself wearily from the wall she’d been slumping against “These last several days have been really hard on me. Nothing’s going to change by tomorrow.”
The mage’s eyes wrinkled at her suggestion. “I think we should talk now. I’d like to know everything that has happened.” His tone was all authority.
“I’ll go see how the Vani are doing,” the warrior volunteered graciously. “I’ll be back in about an hour.” Vil sheathed his sword and quickly made his departure.
Although she didn’t want the warrior around for what was certain to be an unpleasant conversation, Martine still couldn’t help feeling she was being abandoned. She waited stiffly for the wizard to speak. Without a knife in hand, her fingers knitted and clenched nervously.
Jazrac coolly brushed some invisible dust from his clothes before he looked at Martine. The mask of affability he’d maintained since he arrived was gone.
“Now, tell me just what has been happening here,” he demanded calmly. “First I read that clever little ‘Captured by gnolls’ message. Then after days of silence, you suddenly report that everything is fine but your prize mount is dead. What is going on, anyway?”
Martine tried to swallow, then offered meekly, “I closed the rift and I’ve got your keystone.”
“Well, that’s good to hear, though I already knew about the rift. Both Elminster and I detected the change in the balance of things up here. What I want to know is the rest.” Jazrac stared at her, waiting for her answer.
Martine suddenly remembered a prayer to Lady Tymora she’d learned when she was young. Unfortunately, the memory had come too late for her to use it.
“Astriphie died on the glacier,” Martine murmured. Her voice cracked as she thought of the hippogriff lying broken and gutted on the ice.
“Details, Martine, always details. Now, how did the beast die?”
Oh, gods, what do I tell him? That I pushed Astriphie too close to the geyser? Or should I leave that part out?
“Astriphie got caught in a windstorm at the rift and was blown out of the sky. The hippogriff died when we landed. I thought it was important to get as close to the rift as possible in order to get done quickly.” Martine found herself wringing her hands, feeling like an apprentice reciting her lessons.
“Hmmm” was Jazrac’s only comment. “Then what happened?”
The woman avoided the wizard’s unwavering gaze, looking instead at the wood grain in the bare walls. “Then I closed the rift, like you showed me. And then something caught me.” Martine hurried through the last part, vainly hoping Vil would overlook it.
“Something?” the senior Harper asked pointedly.
“It was a thing of ice and cold. It called itself Vreesar,” Martine explained. “There was another creature with it. A mephit, I think. I killed it.”
“Hmmm.” This time the pause was longer and more profound. “Some type of elemental, no doubt,” the wizard murmured to himself. “And did you kill this creature as well or send it back where it came from as you were instructed?”
“I couldn’t send it back, Jazrac. The rift was already closed.” Feeling frustrated at the impossibility of the question and the need to defend her actions, the woman carefully undid the top strings of her blouse and pulled it open to reveal her shoulder. Livid unhealed scars were etched lightninglike across her skin. “That’s what the little one did to me. I’d crashed, I was half frozen, and I had broken a couple of ribs. I couldn’t fight it. It’s only by the luck of Tymora that I’m still alive. At least I closed your rift for you. And,” she added as she closed her blouse and furiously dug through her pouch, “I brought back your damned stone! Isn’t that enough?” Biting back her words so she didn’t completely lose her temper, she slapped the stone onto a bare patch of the bed.
Jazrac shook his head. “I’m sorry, Martine,” he offered, though he didn’t sound particularly sorry. “I’m sorry, my dear, if this is unpleasant for you, but if you want to be a true Harper, then you must realize that the bare minimum is not enough. This creature—Vreesar, was it?—should have been dealt with. You should have called for help.”
“I didn’t have the chance,” she protested. “I was captured by the gnolls.” In her nervous state, she started to pace the small room like a caged cat.
“You were able to get me a message, young woman,” the wizard reminded her. “You could have added one word: ‘Help.’ ”
“ ‘Captured by gnolls’ wasn’t clear enough? It was all I could think of at the time.”
Jazrac grabbed her by the arm as she paced by. “You’re supposed to be a Harper. I can’t go running every time you have a little problem. You’re supposed to be able to take care of yourself.”
“You just said I should have called for help.” The wizard’s inconsistencies were maddening.
“To deal with this Vreesar, not the gnolls. You did escape, after all. So what happened? And please remember the details.”
“I got away from Vreesar, but I was hurt and freezing. When I came across the gnolls, I decided the best thing to do was surrender.” She found herself twisting her fingers again.
“Wise choice.”
“I managed to convince them not to kill me,” the woman continued, though she decided to leave out the business of her marriage.
Jazrac twiddled his beard. “So you tricked one into writing that message.…”
“Their shaman—Krote Word-Maker. He’s my prisoner now.”
“A gnoll shaman prisoner … very interesting.” The wizard tapped the side of his sharp nose thoughtfully. “So how did you escape?”
Martine felt her shoulders tense. “The creature—Vreesar—came off the glacier and kind of took over the tribe.”
“Kind of?”
Martine took a deep breath. “He killed the chief and took his place. It’s a gnoll law. But then he wanted me to reopen the gate for him. I knew I couldn’t, so I escaped as soon as I could.”
The wizard scowled so that his fine goatee waggled sharply at her. “So now he leads these gnolls? I assumed you used good judgment and could recognize true dangers from inconvenience,” he said with cutting coolness. “This is bad. Your second letter didn’t say a thing about the elemental, did it?”
Martine turned away. “No, it didn’t,” she admitted.
“Why not, Martine?”
Now was the painful part, she knew. “I was afraid to,” she whispered as she turned back to face him. “I really wanted to do well, for everything to work out. I didn’t want you to think anything had gone wrong. Besides, it’s only one creature, and he can’t get back because you’ve got the keystone.”
“It’s never that simple, Martine,” Jazrac snapped. “We can’t leave things like this.”
“Why not? Aren’t you the one who always told me that the Harpers can’t get involved in everything?” The ranger flipped her black bangs from her eyes. “This is just the sort of situation you used to tell me about. Vreesar doesn’t threaten the safety of the Dales, or even the Heartlands. It’s a local problem, and we don’t get involved in local problems—at least that’s what you used to tell me.”
Jazrac stood up tall with his arms crossed so that he towered over her. “It’s not a local matter anymore, Martine. You don’t understand,” he said flatly. “You’re involved, which means the Harpers are involved. We didn’t let this Vreesar into our world, but because of you, the creature’s a threat to the safety of everyone who lives here. These gnomes, for example. True, you closed the rift, but what good is that if the results still destroy everyone in the vicinity?”
“Not much, I guess,” the ranger answered sheepishly.
“You shouldn’t have tried to hide things.” Jazrac’s chest rolled with a sigh. “Simply put, this has jeopardized your career. Yes, you’ve handled the mission, but not well. Not only that, I vouched for you before the others, a
nd now you’re making me look like a fool.” He thrust a long finger in her direction irritably. “Now we have no choice. We’ve got to straighten out this mess and, gods forbid, hope there isn’t any more trouble.”
Feeling miserable and humiliated, Martine sank onto the bedding in the middle of the floor. “There is—more trouble, I mean,” she moaned, holding her face in her hands. “The gnolls have attacked, and now the Vani are going to war.”
“Wonderful!” Jazrac exclaimed, his voice filled with sarcasm. “Well, then, my dear, we’d better get busy.” Assuming there was no more to discuss, the wizard began sorting through his unpacked possessions. “I’d like to talk with this shaman. Can that be arranged?”
Without looking up, Martine nodded numbly. “Someone—Vil or Turi maybe—can show you the way.”
“Vil, is it?” Jazrac murmured.
“He’s not my lover, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Martine said indignantly, her back stiffening. “Vil saved my life and has let me stay with him since.”
“Indeed.”
“Jazrac, don’t be such a prig.” The woman was too angry to be polite.
“You’re right. I’m being rude,” Jazrac said. “What kind of man is he?”
Martine considered the question before offering an opinion. “Trustworthy … decent … He says he was a paladin of Torm.”
“Was? What happened?”
“Something about his god abandoning him. It was during the Time of Troubles.”
“Hmmm … yes, that would make sense.” Jazrac fastidiously straightened his doublet as he went to the door. “Well, grab one of those chairs,” he instructed, pointing to the furniture heaped on the bed. “If we’re all going stay in one room, we’d better clear off that bed.”
Martine set to work numbly. By the time Vil returned, the tables and chairs were neatly placed against the wall of the hallway outside the room. The linens and quilts were divided into thirds. Two beds were laid out on the floor, while the small gnome bed was made up for the third. Vil took these new accommodations in stride.