by Kate Novak
She looked up at the old man and held his eyes for a dozen heartbeats. “Why?” she whispered.
“Try to remember this, Alias,” he said, “good and evil aren’t always.” He turned about and began climbing back up the hill.
“Aren’t always what?” Alias called after him.
“Good and evil,” he called back.
Alias watched until his retreating form disappeared into the darkness. She had no idea what he meant, but she was grateful for the light.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Then she jumped. She thought she heard the old man whisper, “Ye’re welcome, Alias,” right in her ear. Only a freak breeze and my imagination, she tried to assure herself. Even so, she scurried down the path and headed back to town, tired of the night’s adventuring.
* * * * *
Back atop the hillock that once held the hut of the river witch Sylune, the old man used a stick of charred wood to sketch out Alias’s five sigils on one of the flagstones. He tapped the unknown one with his stick and frowned.
“Why is it,” he muttered, “that the years seem to fly by, but the nights seem to last forever?”
Olive’s Deal and Dragonbait’s Secret
It was long past midnight when Olive weaved her way to bed. The local merchants had been thankful for the figurative nose-tweaking Ruskettle and her companions had given the Iron Throne by destroying the kalmari, and they showed their appreciation in the form of several kegs of Jhaele’s finest ale.
It was no Luiren Rivengut, Olive thought, but still a potent brew. With Akabar off kissing up to some high sage, her high-and-mighty ladyship disappearing into the night, and the lizard watching everything mutely from a corner, someone had to accept all the congratulations and free brew being passed around.
Actually, Olive had a dim recollection of Alias returning to the inn. At the time, the bard had feared the sell-sword might resume her foray into musical entertainment, but Alias had simply hurried to her room.
The trouble with humans, thought the halfling as she rested on the second story landing, is that they’re no fun at parties.
She glared at the stairs she had yet to climb. And their buildings are the wrong size, she added. No doubt her ladyship thinks it amusing making me climb steps that come up to my knees.
Olive wondered if some servant would carry her up to her room if she pretended to pass out. More likely, she realized, they’d call out her ladyship or her pet lizard to dispose of my body. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I’d never willingly suffer the indignity of being carried by a human. It’s bad enough putting up with the pats on her head. Some day, Olive knew, she’d take a bite out of one of those hands—when she could afford to be considered a “tempermental” artist.
“Happy thoughts, Olive-girl,” she muttered to herself. That was her motto when living among humans. No matter how patronizing or cruel or stupid they are, she told herself, keep a smile plastered to your face. Tonight wasn’t too hard. This celebration, she realized, was the group’s first tangible reward since they rescued me from the dragon.
Olive ordinarily would have considered herself a fool for offering to share the loot she’d secreted from the red’s lair, but the halfling had been grateful to Alias for her rescue. She’d even forgiven the sell-sword for lugging her around like a sack of potatos as they made their escape.
For a foolish human, Olive thought, her ladyship sure knew what made dragons tick. Olive shivered at the thought that, were it not for Alias, she would still be a prisoner beneath the Storm Horns, wasting away until she was too feeble to sing. Then the dragon would make a light meal of her, an appetizer before a hearty meal of a herd of cattle or a brace of villagers.
This thought distressed Olive so badly that she craved the comfort of a late snack. However, the thought of all those stairs deterred her from raiding the kitchen.
She scrambled up the remaining stairs quickly, to get them over with, then zigzagged down the long corridor to the Green Room. She was sober enough, however, to notice the bits of shaved wood on the floor before the door.
Olive had put the wood shavings between the door and the jamb at halfling waist-level, where a human was unlikely to spot them fluttering to the floor should they open the door. In her mind rose the image of someone malicious pawing through her things, looking for treasure.
The halfling knew that the mage hadn’t come back yet and the lizard was still sitting by the taproom hearth. Could it be her high-and-mightiness? Olive wondered. Or an outsider?
Olive turned the knob slowly and eased the door open a crack. With her eye to the opening, she could see the human-sized overstuffed chair and tea table that stood opposite the bed. A single, tallow taper illuminated the room, affording Olive a sight to warm the chilliest of halfling hearts. A small figure seated in the chair was counting and recounting high stacks of thin, glittering, silverish coins.
“Ahem,” Olive coughed politely.
The small, seated figure looked up. An inhumanly wide grin spread across his childish face. He was a male halfling dressed in the robes of a southerner.
“Excellent,” her guest said. “I wondered how long it would be before you stopped taking bows and decided to retire for the evening.”
“An artist never tires of her audience,” Olive replied as she entered the room, scanning it for other intruders. There was no one else. “Though, alas, the opposite is often true,” she added.
“But there are audiences, and there are audiences.”
“True enough. But that is a discussion for another day. Who now graces my presence with this display of breaking and entering?”
The little figure slid from the chair and took a moment to smooth his robes. Then, he thrust out a hand and said, “Call me Phalse.”
Olive closed the door behind her and stepped forward. She gave Phalse’s hand a single, brief squeeze, as was the custom among halflings. “False what?” she asked.
“Just Phalse will suffice for now,” the intruder answered, smiling smugly.
He had the most peculiar eyes, Olive noted. Dark blue where the whites should have been, sky blue irises and pupils the blue-white of hot iron. It must be some trick of the candlelight, she decided.
“You are Olive Ruskettle, companion to the warrior Alias?”
“We’re traveling in the same direction,” Olive corrected, hoisting herself onto the mattress and perching on the edge. Phalse hopped back into the chair and leaned back against the cushions with his legs stretched out across the seat.
“And your destination is …?”
“I’ll know when I get there,” Olive replied. “Bards need to travel, to gain information, pass on tales.”
“I see,” Phalse said. “I think I have a tale for you.” Carefully, he pushed a single stack of coins across the tea table in Olive’s direction.
The bard kept her eyes on the coins. From the bed, she could see they were not silver, but platinum. Keeping her voice as level as she could, she said, “I’m always interested in tales.”
“I thought you might be,” said the other halfling, flashing another wide grin, a grin too wide for a human and almost too wide for a halfling. “It’s a tale about two people who were traveling in the same direction. One was a woman, the other a human female.”
“Is this woman a bard?” Olive asked.
“If it makes a suitable story,” Phalse replied, pushing another stack of coins toward Olive.
“This human female had done something horrible. She was a very sick human female—she carried a curse, you see, a curse which could not easily be removed. Fortunately, certain powers were seeking to capture and imprison her until such time as a cure might be found for her.
“Unfortunately, part of this human female’s curse was that she deliberately avoided these powers. As a matter of fact, this human female killed all the agents sent to bring her back to those who would help her. Of course, the woman who was a bard knew nothing of this; she did not realize what peril she was in.”
> A third stack of platinum joined the first two.
“Horrors,” Olive said, her voice still even, her eyes still glued to the money on the tea table. “What could this woman who was a bard possibly do when she found out these things? I take it this human female was much, much bigger and stronger than the woman who was a bard?”
“True,” Phalse said, “but according to the tale a helpful stranger approached the woman and offered her a ring set with a yellow stone.” He twisted his wrist and revealed a golden band set with a large, jagged crystal.
“Nice palm,” Olive complimented. “I almost didn’t see it. What does this tale say is the ring’s power?”
“The tale doesn’t say, exactly. Only that the stranger offers it to the woman who is a bard as a token of appreciation from these powers, should she agree to continue traveling in the human female’s direction and keep an eye on her.”
“I fail to see why any woman, bard or no, would hang around a human female if she were so powerful and posed such a threat. Would this human female have a short, dragon guardian and a human mage for companions?”
“It would make a good tale,” Phalse agreed.
“Personally, were I this woman,” Olive said, “I would seek to put great distance between me and the human female in question, having been warned that she poses such a danger. What could possibly encourage the woman in your tale to remain near this dangerous human female?”
“Well, for one thing, this woman wanted to do the right thing and help these powers find this human female before she did anymore horrible things. This woman who was a bard was brave and clever enough to manage it.”
Phalse shoved his remaining stacks of coins toward the others. One of the stacks toppled, and the slender coins bounced and rolled about the floor in a mercantile dance. Phalse did not interrupt their ringing, clattering music. He simply continued to smile.
As Olive watched the spilled coins, her mind raced toward a decision. She had no reason to doubt this “tale” was not a true one, and several incidents supported it. Alias had, by her own admission, attempted to murder a priest and later, right before Olive’s very eyes, tried to assassinate a Cormyrian nobleman. Who knows what else she had done? Olive thought. The tale would explain why Alias chose to travel north to Yulash and avoid Westgate, as well.
If her ladyship’s road leads to imprisonment and not treasure, Olive realized, this would be a good time to begin saving for the inevitable rainy day. Besides, the sell-sword knows a lot of interesting songs. Naturally, we’ll have to come to a parting of the ways in the future. She sings just a little too well, and she sings for free—very unprofessional. I have enough problems without adding competition from my own bodyguard to the list.
“If I’m to wear this ring myself,” the bard said, “I have to know what it’s for. I’m no fool.”
“The ring will let these powers know your location at all times, so they won’t lose track of the human female’s trail. Then these powers can all close in on her at once, making her capture a little less … messy.”
“Is that all?”
“That is sufficient. For the moment.”
“If these powers are so powerful, why don’t they just use scrying magic to keep track of her?”
“Alas, something very peculiar about the woman prevents them or anyone else from doing so.”
“How’d you—um—this stranger know where to look for her to offer the woman bard this ring then?”
“The human woman is known to frequent certain haunts. These were staked out by various agents, including the humble stranger.”
“Couldn’t they plant the ring on the human female?” Olive asked.
“No,” Phalse explained. “It must be carried by a halfl—by the woman who was a bard.”
“What makes this humble stranger so certain that the woman who’s a bard won’t accept his offer and then throw away the ring and leave the company of this dangerous human female?”
“In that case, she could easily be found by scrying magic, and she would be dealt with … accordingly.”
“The woman who was a bard might develop doubts about the humble stranger’s motives and throw away the ring and remain in the company of the human female.”
“In that case, eventually, the powers seeking out the human female will find some other way of tracking her. Then the woman who is a bard will realize she should have kept her end of the bargain. Alas, by then it may be too late, since the servants these powers might have to employ to capture the human female are neither gentle nor kindly beings. And the humble stranger would not be inclined to intervene on behalf of the woman who was a bard to ensure her safety.” Phalse’s smile was now as wide as a cat’s, revealing a mouth full of sharpened teeth.
“You’re not a halfling,” Olive said, a note of surprise escaping into her otherwise steady speech.
“Dear Olive, I am as much a halfling as you are a bard.” Phalse’s smile spread until it almost split his head.
Olive gave Phalse a blank stare.
“Oh, I realize that everyone you’ve run into so far assumes that a halfling bard is merely one of those wonderful things they have never experienced, but the well-traveled will always recognize you for a charlatan.”
“I can sing, play, and compose original verse,” Olive replied, her tone quite chill. “It seems to me, therefore, that the burden of proof lies on my detractors. Threats of slander are ill-advised, especially here in Shadowdale where I already enjoy the gratitude of the population.”
Phalse bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Bard or no,” he said, still smiling that frighteningly large smile, “you are a halfling, and I have never seen a halfling walk away from a table full of coins.”
Olive did not reply immediately. She would like to turn down Phalse’s offer, just to replace that grin with a look of astonishment. People did not endear themselves to her by suggesting she did not take her art seriously. But the platinum coins were so beautiful. Not only their color and size and shape and the ringing sound they made, but the sheer number of them. Enough to wash your hands in, as her mother would say.
Olive sighed. “You are a good judge of halflings.”
“I’m sure you know the saying—a halfling will never sell her own mother into slavery. Not—”
“—when she can be rented at a greater profit,” Olive said sourly, beating the pseudo-halfling to the punchline. She hated that joke.
Phalse interpreted her knowledge of the saying as agreement. “Do we have a deal?”
Olive gave herself a moment to brood over the offer. As far as she could see, it would bring her no harm. Phalse’s friends would take care of the sell-sword long before she caught on to Olive’s treachery.
The halfling would miss the warrior. She’d have to get Alias to teach her as many songs as possible before Phalse’s friends caught up with her, but then the songs would be Olive’s. The unpleasant scene tonight, where Alias had swept the halfling’s audience away and then returned it like a plate full of meat cut up for a child, would never happen again.
She’d miss traveling with this particular set of companions, too. They were the first adventurers who hadn’t forced her into the role of cook. But who knew? Maybe Akabar would come out of this unscathed and she would travel with him to the south.
Olive had no doubt that Phalse’s friends would succeed. And Dragonbait would probably lose his life defending Alias, though gods knew why. Olive didn’t see that her decision made too much difference in the long run. She was, at worst, only hastening Alias’s capture.
“I find your tale most interesting. Well worth the price. Leave the ring. And the coins. The woman who is a bard will stay with the human female.”
* * * * *
Akabar awoke with a stiff back from having spent an uncomfortable night in an overstuffed armchair. The morning light illuminated dancing dust motes in Lhaeo’s office. The scribe sat at the desk, still scribbling on parchment, just as he had been when Akabar dropped
off last night.
Akabar yawned and stretched. “Noble scribe, I don’t suppose the sage is awake yet?”
“Oh my,” Lhaeo said as he looked up at the Turmishman with a startled expression. “He’s been here and gone. He rises early, when he does go to bed.”
“What!” Akabar shouted. “You mean he’s left?”
“Oh, yes, definitely. He’s gone on an extended tour of the planes. You just missed him.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Well,” the scribe replied matter-of-factly, peering over the rim of his wire-framed lenses, “I didn’t have the proper form.”
The door nearly snapped off its hinges as Akabar yanked it open and threw it against the wall. But, like many wizard-built things, its fragile appearance was deceptive. It had survived many men angrier than the mage and would survive many more in the future.
Lhaeo made a reproving tch-tch sound as the Turmishman stalked away from the building without closing the door behind him. With a wave of his quill pen, he closed the door quietly, and the scribe returned to his work.
Akabar stalked down the hill, cursing vehemently. He reached into the tongues of Calimshan and Thay to find the right invectives, pronouncing them all on the head of the Sage of Shadowdale. The availability, and hence usefulness, of any sage always seemed to be in inverse proportion to his learning. Dimswart had not exactly been a genius, but he had been a pleasant host and a useful resource. Elminster must be the most learned sage in the Realms, Akabar concluded, owing to the fact that no one could ever talk to him!
As he passed the warning sign at beginning of the path leading to Elminster’s, Akabar heard a voice coming from behind the weaver’s shop. Its tone was low and serious. Akabar would have ignored it, mired as he was in frustration and anger, but he caught the words, “Alias, the warrior woman.”