by Kate Novak
Cassana laughed. “So tell me, who are you and how did you come to know this sell-sword who looks like me?”
All the while they were being rowed to land, Cassana tried to pump information from Giogioni. He explained he’d met Alias at a wedding, that she was merely a passing acquaintance, but this did not satisfy the woman with the strange resemblance to his attacker. Unwilling to reveal the truth, Giogi began to invent details of an imaginary conversation he held with the sell-sword. Remembering Alias had rescued Olive Ruskettle, he said they had discussed music.
He grew increasingly uncomfortable in Cassana’s presence. She moved alarmingly close to him and insisted on arranging his alternate travel plans to Westgate. She’s just the type of woman Aunt Dorath is always warning me about, Giogi realized. Not that I need any warning—with my sixth sense when it comes to danger.
He was very tempted to ask what had happened to the halfling he had seen her with earlier, but he realized just in time that that might give away what he had overheard.
He found the answer to his question soon enough. As they rowed up to the dock, the halfling reached a hand down to help Cassana up the ladder lowered to the longboat.
“There’s another boat to Westgate pulling out in an hour. I’ve arranged passage,” Giogi heard the halfling say.
Fervently Giogi prayed Cassana would forget him in a rush to get to her next ship, but he saw her whispering something to the halfling. Phalse looked down at the Wyvernspur noble with curiosity.
If I know anything at all, Giogi thought, I know that going with that woman and halfling would be a serious mistake. I need a distraction. Something to take their mind off of me, before I end up in the sorceress’s pocket.
Giogi handed up his gear and climbed the ladder. Cassana did not even have a chance to introduce her companion before Giogi shrieked. “Oooh! Keep it away!”
“My dear Giogioni, what is wrong?”
Giogi pointed a shaky finger at a pile of crates on the dock. “A snake. A huge snake.” He spread his hands out the tiny distance of two hand spans to be sure his exaggeration was not mistaken. “It crawled into that pile of boxes. I don’t mean to be such a ninny, but a snake swallowed my Aunt Dorath’s pet land urchin once. It was horrible.”
Phalse was no longer paying attention to the young Cormyte. He was too busy searching through the crates for what he had been led to assume was the snake Cassana had kept trapped in her pocket. The sorceress, however, instinctively checked her pocket first, but that moment of inattention was all Giogioni needed.
Scooping up his baggage, he fled from the dock into the city of Teziir, desperately searching for a horse, a coach, or any quick means of escape from this den of foreign villainy.
Brunch in Shadowdale and the Trek North
“Well, that’s a switch,” Alias muttered as she drew back the curtains to let daylight into her room. Dragonbait lay by the fireside, snoozing away. She was awake before him. Of course, he’d been up late last night keeping an eye on Olive, and he had walked, not ridden, from Cormyr.
He must need rest very badly, she thought, more than the rest of us. And he’s done the most to earn it, too. Still, she couldn’t help wondering mischievously what he would think and feel and do if she were gone when he awoke.
When she’d returned to The Old Skull the night before, he’d been standing near the door of the inn, obviously torn between keeping an eye on the halfling and leaving to find the swordswoman. She had offered to stay in the taproom with Olive so that he could retire, but he had shaken his head in refusal. Alias, feeling worn from their forced march and with her ankle throbbing from her trip in the darkness, had accepted his gallantry gratefully and gone to bed herself. She had no idea what time he’d come up to sleep.
Now she felt just a touch guilty. She crept about quietly as she dressed. Another pang assaulted her conscience as she sat on the bed, pulling on her boots. Dragonbait always slept on the floor. It had never occurred to her to rent him his own room; she’d always assumed he would want to stay near her. She might at least have asked for something with an extra bed for him. “I’ll make it all up to you. Somehow,” she whispered to the sleeping lizard as she slipped out of the room and very gently pulled the door closed.
The taproom was empty when Alias came down the stairs, but Jhaele popped her head out of the kitchen to wish her a good day and ask if she’d slept well.
“Very well, thank you,” Alias assured her. “Do you have any idea where my friends have gone?”
“Did you try their rooms, lady?” Jhaele asked. “I would have thought they’d all still be sleeping.”
“Oh. No, I just assumed they’d be up and about by now.”
Jhaele shook her head. “Mistress Ruskettle didn’t retire until the very small hours, and she drank a good deal of bottled sleep, if you catch my meaning. And your Mister Akash was out all night. Didn’t come home until after dawn. Same with the lizard-creature. He sat by the fire until morning, slipped upstairs for a minute, then left the inn for about an hour and returned with Master Akash.”
Alias ordered breakfast, then took a seat at a table. She stared around the room, feeling a little sad. Everything here was so familiar (except of course the new lord, Mourngrym, and the elusive Elminster), and it hurt that no one remembered her. Last night, however, she’d come to the conclusion that that was part of her curse. Besides making her forget things, the azure brands made other people forget her. Both conditions were bound up in the same spell.
Akabar came down the stairs just as Jhaele was bringing in a tray loaded with waffles, ham, fruit, and tea. “I’ll whip up more of the same,” the innkeep offered.
Alias nodded and pulled out a chair for her companion.
“I understand your meeting with the wise Elminster kept you out all night,” she said. “How’d it go?”
Akabar smiled weakly. “It was all right, I suppose.”
“And?” Alias prompted. “What did he have to say?”
“Say?” Akabar echoed.
Something in his manner made Alias suspicious. “Something bad?” she whispered after Jhaele had laid out extra tableware for Akabar and left.
Akabar shook his head. “I waited half the night to see him, and I came away with nothing more than what we learned from Dimswart back in Suzail.”
“Did he mention the lay of Zrie Prakis and Cassana?”
Akabar made a noncommittal noise as he poured syrup over some waffles.
“Did he?” Alias asked, taking the syrup from him.
“Did he what?” Akabar grumbled, feigning listlessness.
“Did he tell you about the lay of Zrie Prakis and Cassana?”
“No, he didn’t,” Akabar answered and promptly stuffed his mouth with waffles to give himself time to think. What was he going to do? So far, all his answers had been the truth. He had waited half the night for Elminster and longer. He had not learned anything new, and Elminster had not told him about any lay. He could not keep up the ambiguous and vague answers much longer, though. He would either have to admit his failure or lie to her.
He had thought that, when the time came, one action or the other would come easily to him, but they did not. He had been little help protecting Alias, rather the reverse, needing her to rescue him from the kalmari. Now his role as information-gatherer had completely collapsed. His pride could not cope with the admission of his own uselessness.
Yet, surprisingly, the alternative—lying to her—did not come any easier. In his dealings as a merchant, Akabar could stretch the truth with a skill that would make Olive Ruskettle’s head swim, but that skill did not extend to deceiving women. He had never been able to lie to his wives either, even though it might have made some of his nights a little less tumultuous.
“What’s the lay of Zrie Prakis and Cassana?” a shrill voice chirped. Olive climbed into a chair and promptly popped one of Alias’s strawberries into her mouth.
“Apparently,” Alias explained, “they were lovers befo
re they went at each other in the duel that killed Zrie Prakis.”
“Ooo. You humans are such fascinating people. Did Cassana throw herself off a cliff in remorse?” Olive asked, using an extra fork to swipe a large piece of one of Alias’s waffles.
Alias shook her head. “No. She did keep his bones, though. By her bedside as a keepsake.”
“Yuck,” the halfling muttered as she chewed.
“Definitely. I’m surprised Elminster didn’t mention it. It’s supposed to be a common story up north. There’s even supposed to be an opera about it.”
“Perhaps Elminster is not a big opera-lover,” Akabar sniffed and stuffed more waffle into his mouth.
“I don’t blame him,” the bard said. “I’ve heard that people commit murders at operas, and no one notices because everyone on stage is bellowing at the top of his lungs.”
“I don’t see how this story about the mages helps us any,” Akabar said.
“It doesn’t, really,” Alias admitted, “but I just wanted to show that you’re not the only one able to get information. I pick up bits here and there.”
Inwardly injured by the swordswoman’s remark and encouraged by the presence of the halfling, Akabar somehow found the strength to invent a meeting with Elminster.
“I got nothing from this supposedly renowned sage but the standard material we already know. He might have looked it all up in the same book Dimswart used. He had no idea what the last sigil was, either. His reputation is overrated. It must be based on past victories. I only hope when I’m that decrepit and befuddled, I’ll have a profitable business in the hands of my daughters and not have to rely on gulling foolish adventurers.”
“Elminster was decrepit and befuddled?” Alias asked, remembering Mourngrym’s description of the sage as the wisest in the Realms. Still, perhaps Mourngrym’s standards weren’t up to those of Cormyr or the lands farther south. She had harbored one odd idea, however, so she had to ask, “What did he look like?”
“He looked like a spider,” lied the Turmishman, leaning over the table and speaking in a low voice. He had to be carried about from room to room. His hands were shriveled into useless sticks, so that he had to be dressed and fed by his manservant. I know. I watched him eat. It was most unpleasant.”
Alias pondered the mage’s description while she sipped her tea. She had suspected her goatherd to be Elminster, though he had tried to lead her away from that idea. Powerful, famous people often traveled around dressed as commoners, at least in lays and songs. But if the sage was chair-ridden, her goatherd had to be someone else.
That didn’t mean she valued the old man’s advice any less, and she certainly appreciated his finder’s stone, kept safely tucked away in her boot top. It made her feel a lot less nervous, knowing he had been just a wise, old man. Had Elminster himself taken such an interest in her singing, she’d know she was in more trouble than she could handle.
Jhaele brought out another breakfast tray and unloaded the contents onto their table.
“Pass the strawberries,” Olive demanded, dumping the contents of the fruit bowl on top of another grilled cake and handing the empty bowl back to Akabar, who put it aside without noticing. He was nearly holding his breath, afraid Alias might make some comment about Elminster that Jhaele would hear and contradict, belying his story.
“I need to do some shopping,” Alias announced, draining her tea cup. “Would you mind very much taking care of the food provisioning?” she asked the Turmishman.
“Not at all,” Akabar assured her, forcing a smile to his lips. That’s all he felt good for lately, buying the groceries from other greengrocers like himself.
Alias rose from the table and went over to knock on the kitchen door. Jhaele handed her another tray.
“I’m taking this up to Dragonbait,” she explained to the others.
“Why? Is he sick?” Olive asked.
“No. I just thought he deserved breakfast in bed for a change.”
Akabar tried not to look too anxious when he asked, “When are we leaving here?” The sooner they were gone from Shadowdale, the sooner his lie about Elminster would be safe from revelation. Also, it would be easier to keep an eye on the lizard when they were on the road.
“About two hours. There’s a way station up the road about ten miles. I’d like to reach it by nightfall.”
“Anything I can do?” Olive asked offhandedly.
“Keep out of trouble,” Alias suggested.
“I might manage that,” the halfling said with a prim nod.
Dragonbait was still asleep when Alias returned to the room. She set the tray down by his nose. He inhaled before he opened his eyes.
“Hungry, sleepy-head?”
The lizard sat up and smiled. His cloak fell away as he broke off some waffle and popped it in his mouth.
The scent of lemon wafted about the room. Aren’t we too far north for lemon trees to bloom? Alias wondered.
She began packing up her clothes. The turquoise wool tunic lay across a chair. Last night it had been mud-spattered from her fall. Now it was mysteriously laundered and dried. She gathered it up in her hands and went to sit beside Dragonbait.
“Look, you’ve got to stop doing things like this.”
Dragonbait tilted his head and made a chirping noise.
“Don’t give me that I-don’t-understand look,” Alias said. “I don’t care if you tease Olive, but I know you understand me. I want you to stop this servant routine. You’re not my servant. You’re … my traveling companion. I know I’m lazy about looking after my things sometimes, but you’ll spoil me if you keep this up. I know how useful you are. You don’t have to keep proving it to me. Do you understand?”
Dragonbait met her gaze with his unblinking yellow eyes. He nodded.
“All right, then. Better finish your breakfast. We’re leaving in a few hours. I’m going to the smithy to have the kinks ground out of my blade. You can bring your sword down too if you want.”
Suddenly anxious to leave for the open road, Alias hurried to finish packing. While the lizard polished off his meal, she wrote out the words to the Standing Stone song and left them for Jhaele to give to the songhorn player.
No one in town would let them pay for supplies or services. Mourngrym had passed the word that bills were to be submitted to the tower. Alias was glad she hadn’t assigned the halfling any shopping tasks. Who knew what the bard would pick up on the town’s tab? For herself, Alias picked up a new dagger and shield from the smithy and had him sharpen her blade.
Dragonbait looked a little anxious about turning his own bizarre weapon over to the craftsmen, but the man reassured him with the special care he took handling the sword before he began working on it.
They left town four hours before sunset. A few townsfolk bid them farewell as they traveled along the road, but Alias caught no glimpse of her goatherd.
* * * * *
The weather held fair and warm, and no extraordinary encounters marred their travels. A singularly stupid troll attacked Dragonbait on watch their second night out from Shadowdale, but when the rest of the party woke up the troll was burning merrily on the fire. The next day, they lost several hours in the Elven Wood, hiding uncomfortably in a damp cave to avoid a large party of orcs.
Their stay in the town of Voonlar was cut short when a sheriff’s deputy’s purse was found in Olive’s room at the inn. Rather than arrest them, the deputy accepted an apology accompanied by the return of all his gold, thrice what could have possibly fit in the leather pouch. They also had to agree to leave town immediately. Alias was ready to throttle the halfling, but Olive argued her innocence so vehemently that the swordswoman believed her.
More than the loss of a night in clean sheets troubled Alias. There were rumors of a war to the east, and she hadn’t had any time to confirm them.
They camped outside of town and continued toward Yulash in the morning. Twice that day the shadow of some great, flying beast crossed the sun, causing all the horse
s to panic and rear on their hind legs.
Still, Alias remained unperturbed. She felt that “they,” the people who had branded her, had given up. There were no more disturbing dreams or giant monsters or assassins in black. The swordswoman was willing to bet that the kalmari in Shadow Gap had been their last card. I’ve passed out of their range, she assured herself. Only Moander is up here, and he’s been locked up beneath Yulash.
By twilight they were in sight of the great mound on which the city of Yulash stood. The single hill sloped gently, resembling a giant shield lying face-up on the plain. According to Olive, once upon a time an individual standing in the highest citadel atop the crown of the hill could see the smoke rise from the dark furnaces of Zhentil Keep, and the fog roll off the shores of the Moonsea.
“One of the merchants in Shadowdale told me that the Yulashians could have seen the glow of fire when dragons destroyed Phlan, except they were being destroyed by dragons themselves at the time. A horde of them came down on the Dales two years back,” Olive explained. “Destroyed one of Shadowdale’s high-muckety witches.”
“Sylune,” Alias snapped.
“Yes. That was her name. Anyway, the dragons left Phlan and Yulash in ruins, killed all the rulers and mages, and scattered the commoners.”
“Now Zhentil Keep forces occupy the rubble,” Akabar reminded them. “Its altitude makes it a strategic location.”
As the darkness settled, they could see there were fires on Yulash mound, punctuated by flashes of fireball and other magical flames.
“The war is at Yulash.” Alias spat with annoyance.
“Hillsfar forces trying to take it away from the Zhentil Keep army stationed there,” Akabar guessed.
The next day they traveled more cautiously as they passed great, burned stretches of overgrown fields, untended orchards completely shattered by lightning, and ridges of ground torn up by the claws of great beasts.
When piles of rusted weapons and rotted carrion began to dot the side of the roads, they dismounted and walked beside the horses and pony to calm them and to avoid presenting themselves as targets.