by Ed Greenwood
"The stablemaster, then?" Arkuel asked, as his blade slid back into its sheath. Somewhere off in the hills to the north, a wolf howled.
"He has something to watch, over by the well," Malark said. "Dancing lights. Come, now-quickly and quietly, to the wall." He strode across the innyard, his underlings at his heels.
At the base of the wall, the archmage's body shifted shape again, rising into a long pole with broad rungs; it gripped the windowsill of their rented room with human hands. The pole sprouted two eyes on stalks that peered back across the innyard. The stablemaster stood, axe in hand, watched the bobbing lights suspiciously.
"Hurry," commanded a mouth that appeared on the crossbrace Arkuel was reaching for. He flinched back and almost fell from the ladder.
"Don't do that," he pleaded, catching himself.
"Move!" the ladder responded coldly. "You too, Suld. Our luck can't hold all night." But they all reached the chamber and closed the shutters without incident.
Malark wondered, as he erected a wall of force between himself and his underlings, just what would go wrong when the time came. Everything had gone smoothly, yet he could feel in his bones that the secret of spellfire was not fated to come within the grasp of the followers.
Such hunches had given him sleepless nights before, but this time he fell asleep before he could fret. Soon he was falling endlessly through gray and purple shifting mists, falling toward something he could not quite see that glowed red and fiery below. "Horsecobbles," he said to it severely, but the scene did not go away, and he went on falling until he reached morning.
"I would speak with the cook," the traveler said. "I eat only certain meats and must know how they are prepared. If you have no objection-?"
"None," Gorstag rumbled. "Through there, on the left. Korvan's the name."
"My thanks," the dusky-skinned merchant said, rising. "It is good, indeed, to find a house where food is deemed important." He strode off, leaving Gorstag staring after him in bemusement. After a moment, the innkeeper caught Lureene's eye and nodded at the kitchens, pointing with his eyes. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and straightened from a table where a fat Sembian merchant was staring at her low-laced bodice. Turning with her hand on her hip in a way that made Gorstag snort with amusement, and the eyes of every man at the Sembian's table involuntarily follow her, she glided toward the kitchen.
The stranger was suddenly at Korvan's elbow. "What news have you for the followers?" a silky voice said in Korvan's ear. The cook froze. He then turned from a pan of mushrooms sizzling in bacon fat and reached for the bowl of chopped onions, his long cook's knife still in one hand. He nodded briefly as his eyes met the merchant's.
"Well met," he muttered, as he turned back to the pan and dumped the onions in, tossing them lightly with his knife. "Little news, but important. A herder saw a girl who used to work for me here, a little nothing named Shandril who ran off a few tendays back, in the Thunder Peaks with the Knights of Myth Drannor and Elminster of Shadowdale. She had just wielded spellfire, and burned 'a dragon or something;' Rauglothgor the Undying, I fear. This man said he heard The Shadowsil's name mentioned, and that there were gold pieces all around-"
"There will be, indeed. Sir Cook, if you do the boar just so," the merchant replied smoothly. Korvan, looking up with knife in hand, saw Lureene gliding into the kitchen behind him. He glared at her.
"What keeps you, girl?" he growled. "Can't you seduce patrons as fast as you used to? I'll be needing butter and parsley for those carrots, and I need the fowl-spit turned now, not on the morrow!"
"Turn it, then," Lureene said crisply, "with whatever part of you first comes to hand." She swept warming rolls from the shelf above the stew cauldrons into a basket and was gone with an angry twitch of her behind.
The merchant chuckled. "Well, I'll not keep you. Domestic bliss, indeed. My thanks, Korvan. Is there anything more?"
"They all went off northward, the herder said, from where he saw them, near the Sember. Nothing more." The onions sizzled with sudden force, and Korvan stirred them energetically to keep them from sticking.
"Well done, and well met, until next time," the silky voice replied, and when Korvan turned to reply, the merchant was gone. On the counter beside Korvan were three gleaming red gems, laid in a neat triangle. The cook's eyes bulged. Spinels! A hundred pieces of gold each, easily, and there were three! Gods above! Korvan snatched them in one meaty fist and then stood, eyes narrowed in suspicion. What if this was some trick? He'd best not be caught with them about the kitchen.
The kitchen door banged. Outside, Korvan glared all around until he was satisfied that no one watched. With a grunt, he put his shoulder to the waterbarrel just outside the back door. Ignoring the water slopping down the far side, he tipped it so that he could lay the gems, and a dead leaf to cover them, in a hollow beneath the barrel's base. Carefully he lowered the barrel again and straightened up with a grunt to look about again for spying eyes. Finding none, he rushed back into the kitchen again where the smell of burning onions greeted him.
"Gods blast us!" he spat angrily as he raced across the kitchen. Lureene stuck her head in at the door from the hall that led to the taproom and grinned at him.
"Something burning?" she inquired sweetly, and withdrew her face just before the knife he hurled flashed through the doorway where her smile had been, and clattered off the far wall.
Korvan was still snarling when Gorstag found the knife, minutes later. "How many times have I told you not to throw things?" the innkeeper demanded angrily. "And a knife, man! You could have killed someone! If you must carve something to work off your furies, let it be the roast! The taproom is filling up right quickly, and they'll all want to eat, I doubt not!" Gorstag tossed the knife into the stone sink with a clatter and went out.
Lureene, seeing his face as he went behind the bar to draw ale, sighed. He smiled all too seldom, now, since Shandril had run off. Perhaps the tales in Highmoon all these years had been true: Shandril was Gorstag's daughter. He had brought her with him as a babe when he bought the inn, Lureene was sure. She shrugged. Ah well, perhaps someday he'd say.
Lureene remembered the hard-working, dreamy little girl snuggling down on the straw the other side of the clothes-chest, and wondered where she was now. Not so little, anymore, either…
"Ho, my pretty statue!" the carpenter Ulsinar called across the taproom. "Wine! Wine for a man whose throat is raw with thirst and calling after you! It is the gods who gave us drink-will you keep me from my poor share of it?"
Lureene chuckled and reached for the decanter she knew Ulsinar favored. "It is patience the gods gave us, to cope when drink is not at hand," she returned in jest. "Would you neglect the one in your haste to overindulge in the other?" Other regulars nearby roared or nodded their approval
"A little patience!" one called. "A good motto for an overworked inn, eh?"
"I like it!" another said. "I'll wait with good will-and a full glass, if one is to be had-for Korvan's stuffed deer, or his roast boar!"
"Oh, aye!" another agreed. "He even makes the greens taste worth the eating!"
He fell silent, suddenly, as his wife turned a cold face upon him and inquired, "And I do not?"
Ulsinar (and not a few other men) laughed. "Let's see you wriggle, Pardus! You're truly in the wallow this time!"
"Wallow! Wallow!" others called enthusiastically. The wife turned an even stonier face upon them all.
"Do you ridicule my man?" she inquired. "Would you all like your teeth removed, all at once and soon?"
The roars died away. There were chuckles here and there. Gorstag strode over. "Now, Yantra," he said with a perfectly straight face, "I can't have this sort of trouble in The Rising Moon. Before I serve all these rude men who have insulted you and your lord, will you have the deer or the boar?"
"The boar." Yantra replied, mollified. "A half-portion for my husband." Gorstag stared quickly around to quell the roars of mirth. The innkeeper winked as he met the eye of
Pardus, who, seated behind his wife, was silently but frantically trying to indicate by gesture and exaggerated mouthing of words that he wanted deer, not boar, and most certainly not a half-portion.
"Why, Pardus " Gorstag said, as if suddenly recalling something. "There's a man left word here for any who makes saddles of quality that he'd like a single piece, but a good one, for his favorite steed. I took the liberty of recommending you, but did not presume to promise times or prices. He's from Selgaunt and probably well on his way back there by now. He'll call by again in a few days, on his way out from Ordulin to Cormyr. Will you talk with me, in the back, over what I should tell him?" He winked again, only for an instant.
"Oh, aye," Pardus said, understanding. There was no Sembian saddle-coveter, but he would get his half-portion of boar out here, in the taproom, and as much deer as he wanted in the back, with Gorstag standing watchful guard, a little later. He smiled. Good old Gorstag, he thought, raising his flagon to the innkeeper. Long may he run The Rising Moon. Let it be long, indeed.
Late that night, when all at last were abed, and the taproom was red and dim in the light of the dying fire, Gorstag sat alone. He raised the heavy tankard and took another fiery swallow of dark, smoky-flavored wildroot stout. What had become of Shandril? He was sick at heart at the thought of her lying dead somewhere, or raped and robbed and left to starve by the roadside… or worse, lying in her own sweat and muck in slave-chains, in the creaking, rat-infested hold of some southern slave-trader wallowing across the Inner Sea. How much longer could he bear to stay here, without at least going to look? His glance went to the axe over the bar. In an instant the burly innkeeper was up from his seat-the seat where unhappy Yantra had sat-and over a table in a heavy but fast vault. He soon stood behind the bar, the axe in his hands.
There was a little scream from behind him-a girl's cry! Gorstag whirled as if he was a warrior half his age, snake-quick and expecting trouble. Then he relaxed, slowly. "Lureene?" he asked quietly. He couldnt go-they needed him here, all these folk… oh, gods, bring her safe back!
His waitress saw the anguished set of his face in the firelight and came up to him quietly, her blanket about her shoulders. "Master?" she asked softly. "Gorstag? You miss her, don't you?"
The axe trembled. Abruptly it was swept up and hung in the crook of the old innkeeper's arm, and he came around the bar with whetstone, oil-flask, and rags with almost angry haste. "Aye, lass, I do."
He sat down again where he'd been, and Lureene came on silent bare feet to sit beside him as he worked, turning the axe in his fingers as if it weighed no more than an empty mug. After a long minute of silence, he pushed the tankard toward her. "Drink something, Lureene. It's good… you will be the better for it."
Lureene sampled it, made a face, and then took another swallow. She set the tankard down, two-handed, and pushed it back. "Perhaps if I live to be your age," she said dryly, "I'll learn a taste for it. Perhaps."
Gorstag chuckled. The metal of the axe flashed in his hands as he turned it again. Firelight glimmered down its edge for an instant. Lureene watched, then asked softly, "Where do you think she is now?"
The strong hands faltered and then stopped. "I know not." Gorstag reached for the brass oil-flask and stoppered it. "I know not," he said again. "That's the worst of it!" Abruptly he clenched his hand; the flask in his grasp was crushed out of shape. "I want to be out there looking for her, doing something!" he whispered fiercely, and Lureene put her arm about him impulsively. She could tell Gorstag was on the edge of tears. He spoke in a tone she'd never heard from him before. "Why did she go?" he asked. "What did I do wrong that she hated it here so much?"
Lureene had no answer, so she kissed his rough cheek, and when he turned his head, startled, stilled his sobs with her lips. When at last she withdrew to breathe, he protested weakly, "Lureene! What-?"
"You can be scandalized in the morning," she said softly and kissed him again.
12
Shadows Creep
The hawk circles and circles, and waits. Against most prey he will have but one strike. He waits therefore for the best chance. Be as the hawk. Watch and wait, and strike true. The People cannot afford foolish deaths in battle. War to slay, not to fight long and glorious.
Aermhar of the Tangletrees, Advice before the Council in the Elven Court, Year of the Hooded Falcon
"I–I am too tired, lady," Narm said apologetically. "I cannot concentrate." Jhessail nodded.
"I know you are. That is why you must. How else will you build the strength of your will to something sharper and harder than a warrior's steel, as the old mages say?"
Jhessail's smile was wry. "You will find, even if you never adventure from this day forth, that you will almost never have quiet, comfort, good light, or space enough to study as you are taught to do. You will always be struggling to fix spells in memory while over-tired, or sick, or wounded and in pain, or in the midst of snoring, groaning, talking, or even crying. Learn now, and you will be glad of it, then."
"My thanks in advance, then, good lady," Narm returned as wryly. Jhessail grinned.
"You learn, you learn," she said. "Well… why are you not staring at the pages before you? The spells will not remember themselves, you know."
Narm shook his head, a half-smile of frustration on his face, as he said, "I simply can't! It's not possible!"
"So says the warrior when told to learn spells and become a great mage," Jhessail countered, sitting suddenly in a smooth swirl of silver-gray robes. "So, too, the thief. But you already cast spells! I have seen you… the smallest cantrip you work says you can. 'Can't' died when you read your first runes, lad! You sit there and lie to me with open face and open spellbooks both? You can do better than that!"
"Aarghh!" Narm answered in frustration, striking the table with his fist. "I cannot think with you talking to me, always talking! Marimmar never did this to me! He-"
"Died in an instant because his foolishness was far greater than his art," Jhessail replied. "I expect more of you than that, Narm. Moreover, you must expect different ways of mastering art whenever you seek a different tutor. Question neither the methods nor the opinions freely given, even if they make you flame within, and do not belittle the knowledge imparted. It will shut off, as one shuts off a tap, and you will get no more for all your pleading and coins. You would be a mage, and know not what sort of pride you will have to deal with, yet? I know well-I'm dealing with your pride, right now!"
"I-my apologies, Jhess-Lady Jhessail. I have no wish to offend you. I-"
"— can avoid such offense by looking to your pages and trying to study through my jabber, and not wasting my time! I am older than you by a good start, lad. I have less left to me than you do, by far, if you have the wits enough to live to full growth-an increasingly doubtful prospect, it is true, but one that I will cling to nonetheless."
Narm tossed up his hands in wordless despair and bent his head to the spellbook open in front of him. Jhessail grinned again. "Well enough. Remember-no, don't look up at me. You know I'm beautiful, and I know it, too, but the art of Mystra is far more beautiful. Its beauty lasts where mine will wither with the years. Remember that I have learned some art from Elminster himself-" Narm looked up in surprise. Jhessail scowled and pointed severely down at his book again, "-and I'm fast running out of severe things that he said to me, to parrot back at you. So for the love of Mystra, Narm, look down at your spells and try. That way I can lecture you on the kings of Cormyr, or the court etiquette of Aglarond, or recite the love songs of Solshuss the Bard, and not have to tax my wits so."
"Aye, I–I'll try. One question of you if I may, lady, before I do." Narm looked up at her. Jhessail smiled and nodded. "Elminster spoke so to you? Why?"
"Because he considered it necessary, as I do, at this stage in the training of one who wields the art. Your Marimmar obviously never knew such discipline. Illistyl, who wields far less powerful spells than he did, has known it, and is the better for it. Elminster considere
d his tutoring remiss if a mage did not know such frustration.
"The art is a thing of beauty in itself, and it can also be helpful and creative. Too many spellcasters neglect such facets of art in their haste to gain wealth, and influence-and enemies-by mastering fire and lightning. Remember that, Narm. In years to come, if you forget everything else I taught you, remember that. You saw The Shadowsil's death. Elminster trained her for a long time. You saw what a fascination with power, and power only, can do."
"Aye… but why else become a mage?"
"Why? Why!? Why become anything other than a farmer, a hunter, or a warrior? Those three professions the world forces upon any born here, if they try to scratch out a living for themselves in the wilderness. All else-carpentry, painting, weaving, smith-work-one does because one has the aptitude and the desire.
"If power is all you want, become a warrior-but mind you always strike at the weak and unprotected. Your arm may grow weary with all the slaying, but power you'll have and power you'll use over others-until, of course, you fall before the greater power of another. Keep up questions of this ilk, Narm, and you'll find I can keep up the testy temper of Elminster! Why aren't you looking at your books?"
"I-aye. Sorry, Lady Jhessail." It was Jhessail who threw up her hands in despair this time.
"Gods above," she sighed. "To think that I once behaved as this one does! It is a wonder, indeed, that Elminster did not deem the form of a slug or a toad would do me more fittingly, to end my days! Patience, above all, patience! Pity the poor student of art; he still has this lesson ahead of him! Pity the little leucrotta, indeed!"
Narm looked up, alarmed. Jhessail winked, and then screamed, "Again you allow meaningless noise to distract you! You call yourself a magic-user!?
"Have you ever seen a rat? Oh, they'll crouch back to avoid a stick-but if you run about yelling, and they are eating in the grain sack, they'll go on eating as long as they can. If they must run, they'll run with mouth full, and fully intending to return! Have you no more brains than a rat? Study, boy, study! Kings are born to their station; rats are born to theirs, too. All the rest of us must work for it! Study, I say!"