by Kate Novak
Several of the groom’s relatives, faced with a mad assassin, fled the area as quickly as possible, leaving the tent sides flapping where they’d torn up the stakes.
Olive, her ode interrupted, her audience gone, moved toward the fight. She helped Akabar up from the ground as she demanded, “Just what does she think she’s doing?”
“I think the sigils,” Akabar explained in a whisper, “are trying to make her kill that man because he sounds like the king of Cormyr.”
Olive glanced over at Giogi, who was now crawling along the ground. “But he doesn’t look anything like Azoun.”
“The sigils don’t know that,” Akabar pointed out, wracking his brain for some way to put the warrior woman out of commission without injuring her too severely.
A northerner of huge girth tried tackling her from behind. Alias pivoted, jammed an elbow into the man’s belly, and backhanded him in the face with the handle of the knife. Bleeding from the nose, the man fell into the crowd.
Having lost her target, Alias’s eyes swept through the tent. She spotted Giogi cowering beneath the punch table. She dove for him just as he managed to scramble to the other side.
Dimswart, realizing that it would not look good if one of his clients murdered one of his new in-laws, grabbed Akabar’s shoulder. “Do something,” he demanded.
Akabar nodded his head, but he hadn’t prepared any magical spells that would be useful at a wedding celebration-turned-brawl.
Olive seized control of the situation by grabbing Dragonbait. “We have to stop her!”
The lizard cocked his head in confusion.
In a flash of inspiration Akabar cried, “Stop her, before she gets hurt!”
Dragonbait nodded. Dodging the confused, fleeing guests, he tackled the central pole of the tent. The huge beam slid across the grass, pulling the walls up and the roof down. Stakes ripped from the ground, and the pole toppled over with a thud, bringing acres of tent down and putting an end to the pandemonium with a great whoosh.
The Sigils
Akabar was one of the first to emerge from under the cloth, his red and white silk robes only slightly stained with grass. He immediately scanned the area for Alias’s figure, but his view of the grounds was blocked by the growing throng of refugees. He waited by the edge of the collapsed structure, assisting others to their feet and hoping the swordswoman would appear.
When Giogi emerged from beneath the tent, he kept crawling until he bumped into the knees of a dowager Wyvernspur.
“Giogioni, you are a fool,” the lady declared. “This civil unrest is a direct consequence of your open disrespect for our sovereign. I’ve warned you time and again that you were courting disaster.”
“Yes, Aunt Dorath.”
“Get off your knees, you idiot.”
“Yes, Aunt Dorath.”
The bride and groom and their attendants rolled out from the tent, giggling hysterically. Lady Leona emerged near Dragonbait, looking less than amused. Upon seeing whose scaly hand had helped her rise, the woman jerked her arm back while blasting the Turmishman with a withering glare. She looked about impatiently for Sir Dimswart.
When the sage finally appeared, empty mug in hand, Leona drew him aside. In quiet but threatening tones she declared, “I will not have Gaylyn’s wedding day ruined. I am taking our guests into the garden to continue with the celebration. You must deal with this … situation.”
Spying Olive Ruskettle, who was smoothing out her bulging pockets as best she could, Leona made her way to the bard and escorted her to the garden.
Dimswart turned to Akabar. “Your adventuress has caused a great deal of trouble.” His voice was even, but his upraised eyebrows made his point.
“If you could have spared fifteen minutes from testing ale this morning,” Akabar said in equally polite tones, “and not kept her waiting, this would not have happened.”
“You forget she is my hireling,” Dimswart said. “I am not hers.”
“In the south we say the gods bless all duties faithfully performed. Alias has accomplished her task, while you have yet to complete your end of the bargain.”
Dimswart grimaced but accepted the chastisement with good grace. Like many sages, he liked to consider himself a man of the people. It wasn’t in him to behave haughtily. “That’s still no reason to start a brawl at my daughter’s wedding,” he replied with a sniff.
“It was not her, I believe, but the sigils.”
“Really?” Dimswart’s scholarly curiosity was peaked.
Akabar described how Alias’s glove had burned just prior to the attack.
“Fascinating,” the sage muttered. “Where did she go?”
A handful of servants rolled back the tent, revealing a few more guests, but no Alias. The refreshment tables stood on the bare lawn like the skeletal remains of some huge beast. The ale keg was immediately carried off to the garden, followed by the punch bowl and tables to hold them. The food was a little crushed, but already reserves were being carried from the kitchen.
Akabar spotted Dragonbait circling the beaten grass where the tent had stood, emitting interrogative whines.
“He sounds confused,” Dimswart commented.
Akabar went to the lizard. “We’ll find her, don’t worry.”
Dragonbait gave him a distressed look and issued a sort of chirp.
“You look in her room,” he ordered the lizard. “I’ll search the stable.”
Their search of the house and grounds came up empty. Akabar found Dragonbait on the lawn, staring off at the horizon.
“We’ll have to try the roads,” the mage said. “I need to study my spells. You pack and ready the horses.”
An hour later, Akabar, dressed for traveling, cornered Dimswart, demanding Alias’s information.
With a shrug the sage ushered him into his study and reviewed what he had discovered about the sigils on the swordswoman’s arm.
“Where will you search?” Dimswart asked Akabar when they’d finished.
“I’m not certain,” the mage answered. “There’s a good chance she’s gone back to Suzail, since that’s where we first met. But if she’s gone in another direction …” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged his shoulders.
“Why are you bothering, Akash? She’s nothing to do with you. You just met the woman.”
“She needs help. Isn’t that reason enough?”
“A lot of people in the Realms need help. That doesn’t usually get them the attention of wealthy Turmish merchants. House Akash probably wouldn’t think too highly of you galloping off after some northern warrioress.”
That was true enough, Akabar knew. House Akash, his first wife’s firm and its partner, Kasim, his second wife’s business, would probably never understand. He shrugged again. “The dragon destroyed my inventory. I have no other duties in this region.”
“Any other merchant would cut his losses and head home while he still could,” Dimswart pointed out. “But not you. You’ve got it bad, haven’t you, my friend?”
Akabar stiffened angrily.
“Adventure-lust,” Dimswart sighed. “Not content to remain a greengrocer, are you?”
No, I’m not, Akabar realized. How is it this northerner understands me better than I understood myself?
“You could have picked an easier quest to begin with,” Dimswart continued. “This woman, these sigils, are very dangerous. They represent very evil powers.”
“You have a saying up north, do you not, concerning the number of times opportunity knocks. Besides, I like her.”
“No reason why you shouldn’t. She’s talented, headstrong, arrogant. The two of you have so much in common.”
Akabar grinned. “All the things upon which my friendship with you is based. Amarast, Master Dimswart.”
“Amarast, Akash.”
Dragonbait was waiting in the stables with the three horses they had bought after freeing Olive Ruskettle. He left Olive’s mount, a pony she had named High Roll, behind for the halfling. A
kabar had named the first horse, a white stallion, Windove, in honor of its speed. The pack horse, a black gelding, they jokingly called Lightning because it was the only mount docile enough to allow Dragonbait’s touch. Alias had chosen a purebred chestnut for herself. “That one’s a real lady killer,” she had said when they bought it.
“Lady Killer,” Akabar whispered as he patted Alias’s horse before mounting Windove. He shuddered, wondering if the chestnut’s name hadn’t been a bad omen.
He and Dragonbait walked the horses out of the stable and away from Dimswart Manor. The mage led them toward the main road to Suzail. Dragonbait, still dressed in motley, snuffled and snorted in the road’s dust. Akabar had just mounted when he caught the sound of short legs trotting toward them. A shrill voice blew over the hill.
“Akabar, you charlatan, wait up! You’re likely to get hurt traveling out here alone!”
“If we double time it,” the mage said to Dragonbait without looking back, “we can probably lose her in the dust.”
Upon hearing the halfling’s voice, however, Dragonbait’s face broke out in a grin and he halted, keeping a firm grip on Lightning’s reins. Since the pack horse held most of Akabar’s belongings, the merchant-mage had no choice but to wait, too, as Olive Ruskettle came charging over the hill, bouncing up and down on her pony.
“You can’t leave yet,” Akabar said. “The celebration is supposed to last until midnight.”
“Look,” Olive said, “I’ve done my three sets. If I don’t put my foot down, that Leona woman will have me singing till I lose my voice. They don’t pay me enough to lose my voice.”
“They won’t pay you at all if you don’t give them satisfaction.”
“Show’s what you know, clod. I’m an artiste. I get paid in advance. Now, which way do you think our lady’s heading?”
Akabar scowled. He wondered if it were really true that someone as supposedly wise as Dimswart had paid Ruskettle in advance, yet it seemed impossible that the woman would leave without what was owed her—and not just to help Alias. Akabar remembered the way she’d smoothed her pockets after crawling from under the tent. Even if she hasn’t been paid, he realized, she’s already picked up her share of the wedding loot.
Akabar’s fists clenched in frustration, but there was nothing he could do. “We are going to look for her in Suzail. It’s only a half day from here, and she knows the city.”
“Ah, Suzail, gem of Cormyr, home of his most serene and wise marshmallowness, Azoun IV. Think she’s going after the king after practicing on that Wyvernspur buffoon?”
Akabar scowled. “Your disrespect for your own lawful king is appalling.”
Olive laughed. “Down south your leaders behead people for that sort of talk, don’t they? We halflings have a saying: If you take your leaders too seriously, they’re going to start taking themselves too seriously. Azoun’s all right, for a human. But he is a marshmallow. He let his pet wizard keep him at court today, didn’t he?”
“Perhaps the mage Vangerdahast had some idea of the danger there,” Akabar said.
“Which leaves my original question. Do you think our madwoman’s going to try something foolish in Suzail?”
“I fail to see what interest you have in the matter.”
“I already told you, I owe her. I pay my debts.”
“With whose money, I wonder?”
The halfling gave the mage a sly smile, unruffled by his distrust. From what Olive had seen, Alias did not rely on him for advice, and it was Alias who interested her. The halfling had no doubt the attractive warrior and her magical arm would lead to a fortune. And even if the swordswoman didn’t, she would make a good subject for a song.
As they traveled south, Akabar remained buried deep in his own thoughts, trying to make up contingency plans should they discover Alias was not in Suzail, or worse, that she was, as Olive had suggested, attempting to assassinate King Azoun. Dragonbait loped along beside the pony High Roll, with the bells from his jester’s costume jangling. Olive chattered away to the lizard about all the celebrations she’d played at. Akabar wished she had lost her voice singing.
At dusk, three hours later, Dragonbait suddenly stopped moving. He tilted his head and placed his hand over his chest. Then, he moved on down the road with more energy.
“Think he’s picked up her scent?” the bard asked.
Akabar studied Dragonbait. “He senses something.”
They arrived in Suzail shortly after dark. Without hesitation Dragonbait led them right to The Hidden Lady and into the tavern room. Akabar wondered if the lizard could sense Alias’s presence, or if, like a dog, he simply expected her to be there. Whatever the case, there she was.
She sat in a booth at the back. The hem of her blue gown was dirty and tattered. Her legs were drawn up to her chest in a tight ball, and her head lay on her knees. She was crooning a love song, explaining the tears of Selune—the mysterious glittering shards that followed the moon’s path. In all her travels, the bard had heard neither the haunting lyrics nor the lovely melody, marred somewhat by the swordswoman’s sniffling and drunken timing.
A toppled mug oozed thick mead over the oak table in front of Alias. She took no notice of the group as they approached—until Akabar’s height blocked out the light from the hanging lamp that illuminated her table. She stirred herself and, with some effort, raised her head to look up at the trio. Her eyes were rimmed with red.
“Go way,” she croaked.
“Are you all right?” Akabar asked.
“It’s a shame you had to leave,” Ruskettle chirped up. “I thought I might not survive the crush of people when the tent fell, but it was all for the best. Imagine trying to sing to three hundred people in there. The party got much better after we moved. Everyone said so.”
Dragonbait looked at Alias with his head cocked, making a soft mewling noise. The bells on his jester’s hat jingled when he moved his head.
Again Alias told them, “Go away,” but her voice was much softer.
The barkeep came to the booth. “Did you want company, lady?” he asked protectively.
When Alias did not reply, the barkeep asked the others what they were having.
Dragonbait pointed to the overturned mug of mead. Akabar ordered white wine.
“I’ll have a Red Rum Swirl,” Ruskettle said.
“Never met one,” the barkeep answered.
“How ’bout a Dragon’s Bite?” the bard asked.
“What’s that when it’s at home?” the barkeep asked.
“All right. A Yeti’s Breath. You must know that one.”
The barkeep shook his head.
The halfling sighed. “Rivengut then.”
“Sorry, all out. Don’t get much call for it so’s I don’t order much of it.”
“I’ll have a Black Boar then.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Before the man could walk away, the southern mage took his arm gently and whispered, “How many has she had?”
The barkeep held up two fingers.
“Two? Just two?” Akabar mouthed.
The bartender shrugged his shoulders, unable to explain Alias’s intoxication.
Akabar slid into the booth next to Olive. Dragonbait perched on the stool at the end of the table. “Would you like another drink?” the mage asked Alias.
“They can’t make good liquor in this god-forsaken hellhole,” said the woman warrior, not raising her head.
“I’ll say,” agreed the halfling, “Imagine not knowing how to make a Yeti’s Breath. Now there’s a drink with … um.” Olive grew silent under Akabar’s glare.
Dragonbait reached over and placed his hand on Alias’s shoulder. She tried to shrug it off at first, but when the lizard gave a little worried chirp she let the hand remain.
The barkeep brought their drinks and another mead for Alias.
“Perhaps a tray of food would be in order,” Akabar suggested.
“Great idea,” Olive agreed. “I’m star
ving. Would you like to hear the ode to the couple?” she asked Alias. “Since you didn’t get to hear all of it before. They made me repeat it three times afterward. Everyone was so impressed by it.”
“Not now,” Akabar answered quietly, elbowing the bard.
Ruskettle frowned and guzzled her drink. She set her glass back down on the table and took a deep breath. “Hey! That wasn’t a Black Boar. Barkeep!”
“It happened again, just like the last time,” Alias said softly, her voice cracking on the final word. “I should have known it was coming. I remember my arm hurt. I didn’t want to lunge at that poor fool or grab that knife, but I wasn’t in control. It was like a nightmare. Then the tent fell. I ducked out before anyone else and took off.
“I couldn’t stop myself from running. Whatever was controlling me would have made me run until I dropped, but I caught a ride into Suzail on a farmer’s wagon. When I remembered the information Dimswart had for me, I tried to jump off and go back, but I couldn’t move. It wasn’t until twilight that I was free to do as I choose. I came here. I didn’t know where else to go.” She put her head down again on her knees, and her lean form shook with sobbing.
Dragonbait pulled the hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear. He stroked her head gently. Ruskettle waved her empty glass, trying to attract the barkeep’s attention, but finally settled for stealing Alias’s untouched mug of mead.
Akabar stared at the table until the warrior had calmed down. Then he asked, “So, was it the sigils that made you drink yourself into a stupor?”
Alias’s head snapped up, and she glared at the mage. “Listen, Turmite, you don’t know what it’s like to not remember anything. To not know if you’re going to forget even more things. To not know who you’re going to attack next. First a priest, then a Corrnyrian noble—”
Olive, whose mind had been occupied with memorizing snatches of the song Alias had been singing when they arrived, looked up suddenly, asking, “Did you say a priest?”