Dark Tapestry

by Elaine Cunningham

  The Pathfinder Tales Library

  Novels

  Prince of Wolves by Dave Gross

  Winter Witch by Elaine Cunningham

  Plague of Shadows by Howard Andrew Jones

  The Worldwound Gambit by Robin D. Laws

  Master of Devils by Dave Gross

  Journals

  The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline edited by James L. Sutter

  Hell's Pawns by Dave Gross

  Dark Tapestry by Elaine Cunnningham

  Short Stories

  "The Lost Pathfinder" by Dave Gross

  "Noble Sacrifice" by Richard Ford

  "Blood Crimes" by J. C. Hay

  "Certainty" by Liane Merciel

  "The Swamp Warden" by Amber Scott

  "The Secret of the Rose and Glove" by Kevin Andrew Murphy

  "Lord of Penance" by Richard Lee Byers

  Dark Tapestry © 2011 by Paizo Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

  Paizo Publishing, LLC, the Paizo golem logo, and Pathfinder are registered trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC; Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, Pathfinder Campaign Setting, and Pathfinder Tales are trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC.

  Story by Elaine Cunningham.

  Cover art by David Bircham.

  Cover design by Crystal Frasier.

  Interior art by David Bircham.

  Paizo Publishing, LLC

  7120 185th Ave NE, Ste 120

  Redmond, WA 98052

  paizo.com

  ISBN 978-1-60125-350-7

  Originally published in Pathfinder Adventure Path #19-24.

  Chapter One: Double Dealings

  The old wooden tub had been built to hold a vineyard's harvest, so it was plenty big enough for me and the three other women who'd been herded into one of the blue "specialty goods" tents in the heart of Katapesh's marketplace. A faint odor of soured grapes rose from the tub, but after three days of forced march, water of any sort was welcome. The other women soaped and scrubbed with obvious pleasure, forgetting for the moment that they were slaves, or soon would be.

  I waved away the eunuch's offer of scented soap and sank below the surface. There I stayed until one of the guards, fearing that I sought to drown myself and thus deprive his master of my slave price, hauled me up by my ears.

  If I were the type to scream with pain, this would have warranted a shriek that would deafen banshees. Elven ears are damnably sensitive. I could hardly fault the man for making use of such convenient handles, but I could make him pay for the foolishness of dragging me up face to face.

  My short-arm jab caught him just under the chin and sent him staggering away from the tub, his last, shattered breath rattling in his throat. The other guard scowled and drew a short, curved sword from his belt. My fellow captives shied away, huddling together as they put as much space between them and me as the tub allowed.

  "Do you know how long a crocodile can hold its prey underwater?" I bared my teeth at the guard in a reptilian smile. "Would you care to find out?"

  Before he could respond, the tent's entrance curtain parted. Long shards of late afternoon sunlight stabbed into the tent as a tall female hyena-woman, thin as a racing whippet and furred the dusty gold of a sandstone wasteland, pushed her way inside.

  "Leave her be," she demanded.

  My defender's voice held all the music of a crate being dragged across gravel. Hyenafolk are not fashioned for human speech, but they can shape words around their natural sounds. In doing so, they speak two tongues at once; their yips and snarls and howls carry meaning amongst themselves that is hidden from their human listeners. But Ratsheek speaks only in a growl, the better to hide her moods and purposes. Small wonder her tribe doesn't trust her. Even so, she handles most of their business affairs, for she deals easily with humans. The hyenafolk see this as another cause for suspicion. They are more right than they know.

  The guard kept coming. Ratsheek stepped between us and swatted his sword arm out wide. "I said, leave her be," she snarled. "This woman is Channa Ti. She is a druid, worth more than the other three combined."

  The eunuch—who'd retreated behind the high-heaped wardrobe table at the first hint of violence—lowered the large perfume bottle he'd hoisted in his own defense. Doubt creased his chubby face as he studied me.

  "The elf-blooded make poor slaves," he said, repeating conventional wisdom, "and though I've served my master faithfully for twenty years, I have yet to find a buyer for any druid."

  "So?" The hyena-woman's sneer bared fangs. "Twenty years a merchant, and you've never put camel fat in a crock and sold it as butter?"

  "I'm an honest man," he protested, splaying a hand over his heart.

  "An honest merchant who traffics with hyenafolk slavers?" scoffed Ratsheek. "A rare beast indeed! The Ruby Prince should hear of this. He'll want you stuffed and mounted in his trophy hall to keep company with his blue narwhal and black unicorn."

  The argument and insults went on, but I didn't care to listen. I dipped back under the water, and this time the guard let me be.

  Water does more than cleanse me; it heals small hurts and strengthens the magic I can call. Every now and then a child is born with a particular affinity for one of nature's elements. I am a creature of water. This is either exceedingly handy in a desert clime or of no use whatsoever, depending upon whether I wish to drink or to fight.

  I had need of water, of healing. It is impossible to fight a tribe of hyenafolk and come away unscathed, even if the warriors mean to capture you rather than kill. New knife cuts and claw marks scored my arms, erasing the thin white scars left by the blood-oath Ratsheek and I had sworn years ago—two desperate slaves, working together to escape. We'd had a friendship of sorts. I'd never really trusted Ratsheek, but neither did I expect her to hunt me, kill my companions, and return me to the nightmare we'd escaped.

  I climbed out of the tub. Some wounds are beyond water's power to heal.

  The other women had been readied for auction. A green-haired gnome, a rarity in these lands, wore the amber-hued shift of a master brewer. The last two women, though less exotic, were obviously with child. No surprise there—wet nurses were valuable slaves.

  The furred slaver nodded in approval at the younger woman's red-brown complexion, the mark of Osirion's ruling cast. She moved on to the next slave, seized her chin with a black-taloned hand and turned her face this way and that. A sly smile curled up along her muzzle.

  "Dust this one's face with henna powder. No reason why they both can't fetch top price."

  Ratsheek's smile grew as she paused before me, the black tip of her nose only a hand span from my face. Since hyenafolk, like most other canines, pant rather than sweat, they generally smell better than humans—except, of course, for their breath. The charnel stench made my stomach lurch and twist. I distracted myself with a fantasy of tying that muzzle shut and staking the slaver out in the desert sun to simmer in her own foul juices.

  My thoughts must have shown on my face, because the smile dropped off Ratsheek's muzzle so quickly I expected to hear it shatter on the floor.

  She turned to the eunuch. "Dress this one in blue silks and all the cheap silver jewelry you have. Paint her eyes with kohl and silver dust. She'll sell as a water witch. The more exotic she looks, the better price she'll fetch."

  "But she's a half-elf!" he shrieked, raising both hands and shaking them as if imploring the gods to intervene. />
  "So cover her ears with a turban and none need know. Find me one human who isn't worried about the drought, or fearful of worse to come. Once her master learns what she can do, half-elf or not, he'll be thrilled."

  "Or dead," I said pleasantly.

  Ratsheek shrugged. "That works, too. Dead men seldom seek refunds."

  This reasoning calmed the merchant considerably. I dressed in the clothes he handed me: loose pantaloons, a tiny vest, and a silk turban, all in silvery shades of blue. I expected the traditional slave sandals, hobbled together with a length of chain, but Ratsheek gave me my own boots back. They were the finest things I owned, eelskin tanned a pale gray. Wearing them, I could run as swiftly as falling rain.

  The moment this thought took shape, I darted for the curtained door and out into the marketplace. I am not one to allow much daylight between idea and action. Sometimes this is a flaw; today it served me well.

  The two hyenafolk slavers stationed outside the tent yipped in surprise as I pushed past. I leaped off the terrace to the street below, rolling as I hit the awning shading a jeweler's display. I landed in a crouch, my half-hearted attempt at a turban unfurling around my shoulders.

  Shouts of alarm and protest rose on all sides, but I could still hear the snap of canvas behind me as Ratsheek stormed out of the slaver's tent.

  "The perfume sellers!" For once Ratsheek's voice abandoned its mood-veiling growl, rising into a hunting howl that rang with sincerety. "Head her off, or we'll never find her scent!"

  I cursed under my breath and changed my course. Sometimes Ratsheek was far too clever.

  There was but one path to take. A tall Mwangi man wearing a thief-stopper's red vest blocked it, his mahogany arms thick with muscle and spread wide. Hesitation flickered in his eyes—I am often mistaken for a Mwangi woman—then turned to outrage when he noted my elven ears.

  I didn't slow down or try to avoid him. As his arms closed around me, I brought my knee up, hard. He grunted out a curse and his grip relaxed for a moment, long enough for me to pull a knife from his sash and let myself fall to the ground.

  Men expect struggle, but a sudden shift to dead weight generally takes them by surprise. Before he could adjust his grip I'd already rolled aside and gotten my feet beneath me.

  The aisle between the fruit merchant stalls was narrow and crowded. I shoved aside an urchin who was covertly filling his pockets with kumquats. He stumbled and dropped a handful of stolen fruit. The merchant bellowed with rage at the revealed theft. Leaning over his table, he seized a handful of the boy's hair and began to shake him, looking for all the world like a sewer dog who'd gotten hold of a rat.

  I used the distraction to snatch up a hooded cloak some merchant had hung on a basket hook. Swirling it over my shoulders, I set off at a brisk pace. I followed the aisle around a sharp turn—where it ended at a tall stone wall.

  "Winter melons?"

  What kind of man is Vanir Shornish?

  I glanced at the old woman in the last stall and shook my head at the fuzzy green fruit she held in her hand.

  "Fresh dates?" she persisted. "Figs? Or perhaps some incense to burn in yon temple?"

  The cant of her head drew my eye into her shop. Her tent framed a narrow wooden door set into the wall. She cleared her throat and reached for a bell pull…

  …which led up to an unusually large and sonorous gong.

  Knowledge and cunning glinted in the old woman's eyes as she regarded me. She gave the alarm pull a significant little shake and lifted one eyebrow in challenge.

  I gritted my teeth and stripped several of the rings from my hands. "Temple incense, please."

  She examined the cheap jewelry, sent me a glance heavy with reproof, and handed me a single stick of incense. She kept her hand on the bell pull until I passed through the door.

  Taloned hands seized my borrowed cloak and shut the door by slamming me up against it. For one brief, stunned moment I stared into Ratsheek's face.

  "You weren't chasing me," I said as realization took hold. "You were herding me."

  The hyena-woman smirked and cast a glance over her shoulder. "Didn't I tell you she was clever?"

  "You did indeed. Well done. Oh yes, very well done."

  I could hear the smile in the man's voice, which was thin and lightly accented, precise to the point of being prissy. When he stepped into view, he proved a good match for it. My would-be master was a small man, his beard neatly trimmed and oiled, dressed in pristine white under the knee-length, embroidered purple vestments of a Vudrani cleric.

  Ratsheek released me. As the cleric dropped a small bag into her outstretched hand, I reached for the knife I'd taken from the Mwangi thief-stopper. I'd been a slave once, and had no intention of repeating the experience.

  "Oh, there's no need for that, dear lady. None at all." The cleric spread his hands palms-out and inclined his head in a polite little bow. "You misunderstand this transaction. Ratsheek has accepted an introduction fee, nothing more. The amount she accepted to arrange this meeting is far less than you would have fetched at auction, but far more than Ratsheek's portion of that would have been. So we are all happy, are we not?"

  He beamed at me, obviously expecting me to share the sentiment.

  I wasn't happy, not by a long road, but I'll admit to being curious. But I held my tongue until Ratsheek had left and shut the door behind her. "You said something about an introduction."

  The man bowed again. "I am Vanir Shornish, a humble visitor from Vudra. Your name is known to me, as is your reputation."

  Well. In my experience, that was seldom good news.

  "What do you want?"

  Judging from his startled expression, he was not accustomed to plain speaking. "It is a sensitive matter, you understand. Discussing it in public would not be prudent."

  I glanced pointedly around the walled garden. Not counting the statues, we two were the only inhabitants.

  "My room in the temple guesthouse is ideal for our purposes," he went on, gesturing to the round white tower rising from the north corner of the garden.

  A room in the temple guesthouse—now, that was interesting. The Vudrani worshipped many gods, most of them minor powers with regional portfolios. Many people from Katapesh and Osirion found their religion trifling, even amusing. I was of a different mind. A jungle is full of colorful little lizards and brightly colored birds, gaudy and harmless, but only a fool would suppose nothing deadlier could live among the trees. The elves of the Mwangi Expanse are given to proverbs, and one came to mind now: The unseen serpent boasts the deadliest venom.

  "Which god does Vanir Shornish serve?"

  "I might ask the same of Channa Ti," he replied, favoring me with a smile that was oily enough to grease a caldron. "Druids are clerics of nature, are they not? You are an honored colleague, and a kindred spirit. I would wager much gold on this."

  "You already have."

  He laughed delightedly. "So I did. It's settled, then."

  I did not fail to notice that he'd sidestepped my question, nor did I ignore the skin-crawling aversion this man was beginning to inspire in me. But I let him lead me to the guest tower and up a winding stair to a third-floor room. After all, he did save me the time and trouble of killing whoever bought me at the slave auction. I could at least hear him out.

  Whoever Vanir Shornish might be, he was important or wealthy enough to rate a lavish room. My eyes went first to the tall windows, noting the sturdy iron rods that secured the draperies at top and bottom. Fine carpets covered the floor and softened the white stone walls. The bed was heaped with pillows and discretely tucked into a curtained alcove, giving prominence to the low table and the refreshments it held. This was clearly a room meant more for business than pleasure, which suited me perfectly.

  The floor cushions piled by the table shifted and a strange, small creature crawled from its makeshift nest. I blinked with astonishment at a tiny blue elephant, no bigger than a lap dog, that yawned widely and then stretched itself li
ke a sleepy cat.

  Vanir beamed with pride. "You are admiring Janu, I see. He is wonderful, is he not?"

  "What corner of the Impossible Kingdoms did that thing come from?"

  The cleric's smile never faltered. "We have many such creatures in my native land. The Vudrani are fond of companion animals. Surely you, a druid, would understand that?"

  "Most druids would. A few of us are bound to elements rather than animals.

  "Water," Vanir said, nodding. "So I have heard. How fortunate I am to find someone so uniquely suited to my purpose."

  I gestured for him to continue, but he had turned away and was stooping to pick up the little elephant. He rose, cuddling the beast against his shoulder, and offered it a sugared almond. The elephant's tiny blue trunk curled around the treat and tucked it into its mouth. Crunching happily, the creature rubbed its head against Vanir's shoulder and raised adoring eyes to his face.

  The man chuckled and tickled the elephant behind one ear. "Charming, is he not?"

  "If you say so. Why am I here?"

  Vanir set down the elephant and skimmed his fingers over the pattern of light and dark wood inlaid into the table's surface. A hidden drawer slid open. He took from it a scroll, which he unrolled and handed to me.

  The parchment was old and strange, some sort of map surrounded by tiny runes. I am no scholar and had no hope of reading the scroll, but I knew the nature of that parchment the moment my fingers touched it. Only whaleskin was this strong and elastic. Neither parchment nor the ink upon it could be damaged by water, and under any conditions such a document could last a very long time. And old it undoubtedly was, for despite its durability, this type of parchment had gone out of favor several centuries past. Gham Banni, the Pathfinder venture-captain to whom I reported, once told me that any such scroll was probably ancient, of evil origins, or both.

  Only the merfolk knew the secret of tanning whaleskin into parchment that could outlive centuries, and it had been long years since honest folk learned that a deal made with mermaids was no simple thing. They deemed it their right to demand a favor from anyone who used or even carried their goods. Such favors usually resulted in bloodshed and sunken ships. No honest man would be willingly beholden to a mermaid, and any wise ship captain would toss anyone carrying such a map into the sea—after dumping a load of bloody chum to draw sharks.