Pathfinder Tales: Lord of Runes

by Dave Gross

  My imagination careened at this suggestion that Ygresta’s codex had a connection to the runelords of Thassilon. Yet it was Illyria who arrested my attention. Her girlish demeanor put me on my back foot. Accustomed if not immune to the designs of women drawn to my wealth and title, I found myself quite unable to determine Illyria Ornelos’s motives. Was she attempting to manipulate me? Or were her flirtations as genuine as they were obvious? As though caught in some transgressive act, I cleared my throat. “There is no need—”

  “Wrath, envy, greed, sloth, lust, pride, and gluttony.”

  As she pronounced the final word, I found myself with another tart in my mouth. A sudden intuition caused me to choke. Setting aside the uneaten portion of the pastry, I scanned the library books for a particular volume.

  “What are you looking for?” said Illyria.

  “Gluttony is the sin of necromancy.”

  “That never made sense to me,” she said. “Most undead don’t eat anything.”

  “But the exceptions are striking. Vampires crave blood, for instance. And ghouls crave rotting flesh.”

  “Zombies eat brains.”

  “That is a myth perpetuated by penny dreadfuls. How could you credit such a ridicu—?”

  She was laughing again. “For such a clever man, you are rather easily gulled.”

  “Only by—” I stopped myself before concluding, “alluring young women.” Instead, I tossed aside a copy of an old volume of the Pathfinder Chronicles and found what I had been seeking: Anders’s The Fall of Thassilon. “Only when distracted.”

  “Distracted by what, pray tell?”

  She could fish for compliments all she wished, but I would not bite. “By the thought that the runelords were all wizards, and all wizards collect their spells in grimoires.”

  “You don’t think honestly believe the professor left you a runelord’s spellbook, do you?”

  “I recall a reference to a Gluttonous Tome in which Runelord Zutha collected all of the spells known to the necromancers of Thassilon.”

  “That sounds familiar. I think it was one of the lost texts in the lecture.”

  “What do you remember about it?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid.”

  I found the relevant chapter in The Fall of Thassilon and summarized for her. “The runelords foresaw Earthfall, the terrible meteorite strike that destroyed their empire and ushered in a thousand years of darkness. They devised various means to survive the event, or to instruct their followers how to return them to life. Karzoug was one. And here, Zutha was another. He compiled the Gluttonous Tome, an enormous volume of leathered human flesh bound in bone and inscribed with the blood of a thousand slaves.”

  “Charming.”

  “There is little here to describe its contents, except that it contained ‘both his knowledge and a portion of his power, that it might never be stolen from his person.’”

  “It doesn’t seem likely that a wizard as powerful as a runelord would worry about burglars.”

  “Must I remind you that one of the most fearful aspects of necromancy is the power to steal one’s life essence?”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I hardly ever use that sort of thing. Not unless a boy tries to get fresh.” She went to the desk and leafed through the codex.

  I found no further reference to this Gluttonous Tome in The Fall of Thassilon. I set the book aside and envisioned my memory library. From the imagined shelves of my past readings I drew a slim volume. History retains little of the cataclysm known as Earthfall, when the Starstone fell to Golarion, its impact leaving the crater that became the Inner Sea. The collision destroyed two great empires: Azlant, which sank into the sea, and Thassilon, much of which remains buried beneath mountains and steeped in swamps across northwestern Avistan, where we now stood.

  Much of the information in my imaginary library involved the survivors of Earthfall, most of them descending into barbarism after the deaths of their great wizards. Their priests and scholars dissolved into sects. New warlords arose, their conquests muddying with dogma and propaganda what could be reliably understood about their cultures.

  Searching for references to the magic of the runelords, I found far more romance than chronicle. Too many historians embellish and amalgamate their meager facts.

  That thought reminded me of Ygresta’s golem and the mystery of its absence. Like the study of history, my investigations depended on balancing fact with hypothesis. The latter could suggest a direction for exploration, but only on fact could one lay a foundation for the truth.

  Between my borrowed books and my memory library, I had too few facts on which to build a more substantial theory. I needed more information, and I had an idea where to find it.

  “I must go to Kaer Maga,” I said.

  “How wonderful. I have always wanted to see the City of Strangers.”

  “But you have an eclipse party in Riddleport.”

  “Oh, that tedious thing. I’d much rather have a ride in your famous Red Carriage than another sea voyage.”

  “But your friends are expecting you.”

  “Do you always do what your friends expect?”

  “They invited you.”

  She understood what I had left unstated, but she did not accept it as an answer. “They will certainly understand that I couldn’t refuse your invitation. You should probably offer me one now, so I won’t have to lie when they ask me.”

  Her manner had gone far beyond impertinent. My initial suspicious arose again. She wanted something more than she had revealed. Worse, she had abandoned all pretense of flirtation in favor of absolute bullying. “Lady Illyria, what exactly do you want from me?”

  She fixed her gaze on me. “Everything you promised.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “The stories you told my parents and all their friends. I heard all of them.”

  “After you had been sent to bed? I hardly think so.”

  “Please. I was one of five sisters. I learned to escape the nanny before I could walk. Whenever she put us away, I just crept back out and listened from the top of the stair. To this day, I remember every detail of your Pathfinder stories.”

  “Surely not. No doubt your imagination has exaggerated my little stories.”

  “Your guide on the expedition to complete your Bestiary of Garund was a boy named Amadi. He was a talented artist, and he helped you catalog your discoveries.”

  “Much of that information appeared in the Pathfinder Chronicles, which you told me you read.”

  “You fell off the first time you rode a flying carpet in Qadira, but the satrap’s concubine saved you with a spell that made you light as a feather. You were so grateful that you cheated the bandits out of thirty-four camels and gave them to her new husband as a dowry.”

  “It was less cheating than leveraged negotiation.” I was impressed that she remembered the precise number of camels.

  “But you never reported that in the Pathfinder Chronicles, did you?”

  “No.” In fact, it might have been indiscreet of me to share the story of my duel with the Keleshite prince. Fortunately, he was long dead at the hand of another, whose torments they say lasted thirty-seven days before the djinn ended his agony along with his life. I had been sometimes reckless in my younger years.

  “A noble lady of Ustalav seduced you in Caliphas. You fell so desperately in love with her that you arrived six weeks late to Lepidstadt University. You never revealed her name, however, so I suppose you are still a gentleman even after telling that story.”

  I winced at the thought of a child’s overhearing such an intimate story. “That sort of anecdote is exactly why parents send their children to bed before cordials.”

  Her lips formed a wicked angle. “I didn’t just hear your stories. Sometimes I stayed up even after the adults had gone to bed. I spied you canoodling with my mother’s friend Sestina.”

  “Ah.” That was even more indiscreet than my tale of Caliphas.

  “‘Ah’ was def
initely one of the sounds I overheard.”

  My face burned. “Is it your intention to embarrass me? Is that what you want?”

  An exasperated sigh escaped her. “What I want is everything you described in your stories. I want mystery, adventure, far lands and dangerous people. I want what you have. I want it for myself.”

  “Then why not join the Society?” Nobles were not unknown among the Pathfinder Society. Some hesitated to join because of the menial tasks demanded of applicants—a requirement easily avoided by placing a purse of platinum coins in the right hand—yet some of my most cherished Pathfinder colleagues, as well as one of my most persistent nemeses, were noble men and women. With her intelligence and knowledge, Illyria would soon distinguish herself among the famous company of adventurers, geographers, archaeologists, and secret-seekers of all stripes. Neither station nor nationality offered impediment to membership.

  “How many of your stories took place during Pathfinder expeditions?” she said.

  “Most of them. Well, many of them. Quite a few, anyway.”

  “You see? I don’t want to be a Pathfinder. I want to be like you, free to travel the world without waiting for some functionary to send me instructions.”

  Overlooking the fact that as a venture-captain I had been the very functionary she disdained, I pointed out the obvious. “Your family has more than sufficient means. What prevents you from mounting your own expedition anywhere you like?”

  “I don’t want to go alone.”

  “Of course not. That is why one hires guards and bearers and guides.”

  “That isn’t what I meant. I didn’t spend my teenage nights dreaming of going on an adventure with hirelings.” She stepped close and caught my coat by a button hole. “I dreamed of going with you.”

  Her overture took me by surprise. Wonder rendered me mute and paralytic as our faces drew close. A scent of violet in her lip rouge. The flutter of her eyelash upon my cheek. I could not tell which of us was moving toward the other.

  “Boss! Boss!” Radovan’s voice accompanied a tumult of footsteps.

  I retreated a discreet step away from Illyria, who turned and pretended to examine the nearest book as Radovan burst through the door. I felt equal measures of relief and frustration at the interruption.

  Arnisant pushed past Radovan to sniff my feet and Illyria’s. His initial wariness of her had dissolved after we left Ygresta’s chambers, reinforcing my belief—or was it a hope?—that what the hound found objectionable lay within the Acadamae, not in her person.

  An armored woman followed Radovan into the room.

  She was tall even for one of the Ulfen, the hardy warrior tribes found primarily north of us in the Lands of the Linnorm Kings and wintry Irrisen. Her attire needed more tending than she gave it, but her easy bearing gave me hope that she was as much a professional as Radovan estimated.

  “Boss, Lady Illyria, let me present Janneke Firepelt.”

  Janneke made a greeting gesture of the eastern clans, plucking the air above her heart, her lips, and her brow before nodding to me. I returned the gesture and replied in Skald, the tongue of her people: “May there be no lies in our hearts, on our tongues, or upon our thoughts.”

  She blinked in surprise that a Chelaxian should know Ulfen customs. Her eyelashes were the same red-gold as her hair. “Excellency. Lady.”

  “Janneke’s got a line on Zora.”

  “Zoran,” insisted the bounty hunter. “And I have several leads, but one is stronger than the others. You’ll be more interested to hear what I squeezed out of the fence.”

  “Indeed I might.” I cleared some books and offered her the largest of the chairs. Taking the hint, Radovan cleared the divan for Illyria and me. As he finished, I caught his eye. “Drinks?”

  With a nod, Radovan went to the sideboard, where the wine I had kept from Ygresta’s store room had remained largely untouched since my visit to the Orisini Academy.

  “Nothing for me,” said Janneke. “Not while on the job.”

  “The boss don’t mind,” said Radovan.

  “I’ll have a drink when the job is done.”

  While Radovan poured a glass for me and another for Illyria, I gestured for the bounty hunter to share her news.

  “Zoran’s been wanted all over Varisia for nearly six years. For most of that time, he was known for burglaries of noble houses. Silver and gold, jewels and art. Never anything from a vault.”

  “Purely a second-story gal, eh?” Radovan settled into his own chair. Arnisant sat on the floor beside him, looking up once in hope of a treat before settling his head on his enormous paws.

  “A couple years ago, this fence says Zoran stopped visiting so often. He assumed it was just a dry spell, but Zoran would leave town, sometimes for months. When the fence pried, Zoran said he’d been working for a special collector. The fence warned that the Cerulean Society wouldn’t like that if they weren’t getting their cut.”

  “What’s this Cerulean Society?” said Radovan.

  “Thieves’ guild,” the rest of us said in unison.

  “Fancy name.”

  “It didn’t matter to Zoran,” said Janneke. “He told the fence he couldn’t move the sort of things he’d been stealing.”

  “Arcane objects?” said Illyria.

  Janneke tapped the side of her nose. “Powerful ones. Things this fence could never afford.”

  “That must have meant much more danger for this Zoran.”

  “Right, and not just from the Cerulean Society,” said Janneke. “The fence could tell Zoran was more scared of whoever he was stealing for, and that scared the fence enough to stop pushing.”

  “This information conforms to our current hypothesis,” I said. “But it does not tell us where to find this Zoran.”

  “That’s the good part,” said Radovan. “Go on, tell him what else you found out.”

  Janneke shot him a look that said she did not need his help. “Zoran visited the fence two nights ago. He wanted to move some decorative plaques on the quick, and he couldn’t wait for a good price. Zoran also had a bag full of loot, but he wouldn’t show it. He said it was too hot to sell in Korvosa. He’d have to take it north.”

  “To Janderhoff?” I said.

  “It’s possible.” Janneke sounded dubious. “The fence said he got the impression Zoran meant somewhere farther north, like Kaer Maga.”

  Illyria and I exchanged a nod.

  “That’s just where I would go to sell stolen magic,” said Illyria. “Especially if I had stolen it from the Acadamae grounds.”

  “The bloatmages of Kaer Maga seem less daunting when the alternative is to remain and face the wrath of an entire university of wizards,” I said. “Do you know whether Zoran has already left the city?”

  “I don’t,” said Janneke. “But in the past I’ve heard he travels with Varisian caravans. I asked around in Thief Camp. None have gone north in the past three days, but one is leaving tomorrow morning. That’s as much as I found out before a Sczarni cutthroat marked me as a bounty hunter, and the rest of the Varisians clammed up.”

  “Excellent! Can you drive a carriage?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you free to accompany us to Thief Camp and, if necessary, on to Kaer Maga?”

  “Kaer Maga, huh? That’s a long ride to a bad town.”

  I named a figure. Janneke hesitated before saying, “For the whole trip?”

  “That is a daily wage.”

  She pursed her lips but stopped herself before whistling in appreciation. “And I collect the bounty when we catch Zoran?”

  “The bounty is all yours. I wish only to question the thief, and you may have him.”

  “After I get my cards back,” said Radovan. “From her.”

  “All right,” said Janneke. “But I want a contract and a guaranteed two weeks’ pay minimum if we go a day away from Korvosa.”

  My estimation of the bounty hunter’s professionalism increased. She knew how to barter, and she u
nderstood the value of a contract. “You shall have them both. Can you be ready to depart within the hour?”

  “I can go right now.”

  “Excellent. Radovan, see that the carriage and team are prepared.”

  “Way ahead of you, boss. I did that before we came up.”

  “Well done.”

  “Just one thing. You don’t want to hire more guys? I mean, what’s this Thief Camp?”

  “It’s where all the moths and horsers go to avoid the city watch,” said Illyria. Radovan blinked at the terms. She explained, “Varisians and Shoanti.”

  “So it’s a rough place?”

  “Not for a rugged fellow like you.”

  “While Thief Camp has a deserved reputation for lawlessness,” I said, “it is also a staging area for Varisian caravans. We may even bolster our supplies and hire additional guards there, if all goes well.”

  Illyria turned to Radovan. “When was the last time all went well?”

  “That never happens.”

  “Radovan,” I said.

  “Right, right.” He gathered my belongings and placed them inside my satchel. I knew from experience that collecting his belongings from the adjoining room would take something less than a minute.

  “Lady Illyria, I must take my leave of you now. If you have not left for Riddleport by my return, may I call on you at your father’s house?”

  “You may not,” she said.

  “But why? Have I done something to offend—?”

  “Don’t be preposterous, my dear count. You can’t call on me at my father’s house because I am coming with you.”

  “But, no. That is not what I meant to suggest.” Ignoring me, she helped Radovan gather books for my satchel. When she started taking them from him to put them in order by topic, he retreated to stand beside me.

  “So she’s coming?”

  “No,” I said quietly.

  “Then how come you’re whispering?” He picked up the confectioner’s box and reached for the remaining tart. “Hey, you gonna eat this?”

  Before he could touch it, I snatched it up and popped in it my mouth. It provided small comfort.

  6

  Thief Camp

  Radovan