Tantras
Page 26
“I doubt it,” Kelemvor replied. “We’d be fighting in a week in the close quarters of a ship, at each other’s throats in a month.”
“You think so little of our relationship?” Midnight asked, genuinely surprised.
“Not at all,” the fighter said as he placed his arm around her waist. “But we both need the hint of danger in the air and open spaces to roam, don’t we? Makes life a bit more exciting.”
Midnight laughed a small, sharp, bitter laugh. “I’ve talked to gods and seen them destroyed, been put on trial for the murder of the Dales’ most powerful mage, and sentenced to death. I was nearly drowned in the Ashaba, and I’ve been hunted like a dog by the soldiers of a mad god. Boredom would not be unwelcome at this point, destiny or no.”
As the boat came within a hundred yards of the port, watchmen pointed the heroes to a small bay near the north end of the harbor. A small delegation of men, including two soldiers armed with swords and crossbows who wore the symbol of Torm—a metal gauntlet—met the heroes as they climbed from the ship and secured it to its moorings.
“Please state your business,” a middle-aged man at the head of the delegation asked them, a bored expression on his face.
Midnight explained all they had been through in Scardale, although she left out their true purpose for journeying to Tantras.
“If you’ve made an enemy of the Black Lord, then you’ve made an ally of all of Tantras. My name’s Faulkner,” the middle-aged man told them happily.
As he stepped onto the dock, Kelemvor turned to Faulkner and asked, “What causes that odd light in the sky at night around here? We could see it from our ship when we were just halfway across the Dragon Reach!”
“Night?” Faulkner asked and snorted. “Night doesn’t come to Tantras anymore. Not since the time of Arrival, when Lord Torm, the God of Loyalty, revealed himself to us.”
“No night? It must be confusing,” Kelemvor muttered.
“Tantras is the city of eternal light,” Faulkner added and shrugged. “Our god sets the hours of the day for us; he puts loyalty in our hearts and reason in our heads. There is nothing confusing about it.”
Midnight realized that Adon was trembling slightly. Whether it was fear or rage that had been locked within the scarred young man, his emotions had been stirred by Faulkner’s words. Then the cleric turned and walked from the delegation in silence.
“You must excuse Adon,” Midnight told them desperately, her fear of insulting the soldiers evident in her voice. One of the other members of the delegation stepped forward.
“There’s no need to worry,” a young soldier named Sian said. He was a younger man, with thin black eyebrows and curly, black hair. “It’s rather obvious your friend was a cleric. How long has it been since he lost the way?”
As they slowly followed Adon’s path along the dock, Midnight explained how Adon had been scarred at the hands of the Gond worshipers in Tilverton, how he had lost his faith in himself and the Goddess of Beauty, whom he had worshiped most of his young life.
Sian nodded. “Many have lost their faith now that the gods walk in Faerun instead of the Planes. Perhaps your friend will find the peace he so requires in our fair city.”
Midnight felt Elminster’s sphere of detection resting against her back, through her backpack. “I’m afraid we won’t have much time for rest,” the mage said in a low voice as she turned and walked with Kelemvor and the delegation to the main buildings of the Port of Tantras. Adon was waiting with the watchmen when they got there.
In the next few hours, the heroes purchased fresh clothing and were given a brief description of the city’s layout. Tantras, like most cities, was protected by a wall. In this case, the wall encompassed the vast port city, stretching in a winding path to the rocky shore. A series of towers lined the northern ridge, where the Citadel of Tantras was located. The Temple of Torm—the focus of the city ever since the god himself arrived there—was located in the northern section of town, and most of the streets that led to it were on a sharp incline. A huge bell tower lay at the southern end of the city, with a military complex close by, making the area off limits to civilians. There were several abandoned temples in the area, and a shrine to Mystra in the far south, near the bell tower.
“Other than these landmarks, Tantras is quite unremarkable,” Sian concluded.
“Not completely unremarkable,” Adon noted, his voice completely flat. “It looks as if you’re preparing for war.”
Sian narrowed his eyes and stared at the cleric for a moment. “You’ve just come from Scardale, haven’t you? We’ve had several reports that confirm your description of the city’s condition. If Zhentil Keep and Lord Bane are trying to annex new territories and expand their evil empire, what makes you think they’ll settle for controlling only half of the Dragon Reach?”
“It was just an observation,” Adon replied coldly. “Besides, I would have expected Torm to protect you.”
“The city wasn’t built with the idea of a resident deity,” Sian said. “Torm’s arrival is fairly recent. The presence of our god should be a deterrent to any enemy, but the people are prepared to fight for themselves anyway.”
“I notice a number of refugee camps in the area,” Midnight noted, changing the subject as quickly as she could.
“The chaos in the Realms has driven some of our neighbors to seek the protection of our city,” Sian replied. “Others have fled south to Ravens Bluff or north to Calaunt. Hlintar has been practically deserted since an unnatural windstorm tore through the town and unearthed the graves of a few thousand of the town’s former residents. The skeletons came to life, and now the dead rule the city.”
Ten minutes later, the heroes were alone on an avenue that paralleled the harbor, then stretched off toward the business district to the south. A wandering band of mimes and showmen passed the heroes and performed snippets of a half dozen different stories that ranged from bawdy, ribald comedy, to dark tragedy. The heroes tried to ignore the performers, but they had to part with a few gold pieces before the artists left them alone.
Merchants also lined the street, hawking their wares at the tops of their lungs. From the looks of many of the tradesmen, the chaos in the Realms was affecting business for the worst. Kelemvor simply browsed, though, and Midnight found a new braid for her hair. Adon wandered to an outdoor eatery.
The cleric was sampling an odd-looking combination of bread, filleted meat, and a tangy red sauce topped with ground black peppers. “Delicious,” the cleric told the vender, then passed the wooden bowl on to Kelemvor, who also sampled the food.
“There’s an inn ten blocks from here that posted a vacancy sign this morning,” the vender told the heroes. “You should get there before all the rooms are taken.”
The cleric paid for the food and thanked the vender for the information. Then the heroes went in search of the inn. After becoming lost three times in the winding city streets and receiving directions that only led them deeper into the twisted city center, the heroes found the Lazy Moon Inn. As they entered, a young man wearing a red frock with gold trim appeared before the heroes.
“How long will you be staying?” the boy asked, his voice cold and efficient.
“We don’t know yet, but this should cover everything,” Kelemvor said gruffly and slapped a few coins into the boy’s hand. “We’ll take two rooms,” the fighter added. “At least until the end of the week.”
The inn was of a simplistic design, with a large taproom, kitchen, and storeroom on the ground floor, and guest rooms on the upper two floors. A shield bearing the symbol of Torm lay on its side in the corner, next to the boy.
The young man insisted on carrying the heroes’ travel bags, although he was clearly struggling to keep his balance as he led Kelemvor, Midnight, and Adon up a wooden, spiral stairway that led to the third floor of the inn. After dismissing the boy and checking over their rooms, the heroes met in the taproom. It was well before eveningfeast, so few other people were present.
“If we find it,” Adon said darkly, drumming his fingers nervously on the greasy, unwashed table.
“We will find it,” Midnight noted firmly, turning to look at the cleric. “The sphere of detection Lhaeo gave us will shatter when it’s near an object of great magical power, such as the missing Tablets of Fate.” The mage paused and turned to Kelemvor. “As to their appearance, Mystra’s final message to me at Castle Kilgrave contained an image of the tablets. They are made of clay and stand less than two feet high. Fiery blue-white runes line their surfaces. They radiate powerful magic.”
“But magic is unreliable,” Kelemvor grumbled, waving for the barmaid to bring him an ale. “Who’s to say this sphere of yours is even going to work? And where will we look? We can’t cover every square inch of this city on our own. It’s far too large.” The green-eyed fighter scowled and looked away from his friends. “Besides, we have to assume that Bane will send agents to find us. His people might even move the tablet before we can find it.”
Midnight ran her hands over her face and looked to the open doorway. The perfect sunlight from without had not changed since their arrival. “If we are to believe the men who greeted us at the dock, we’ll be able to search in daylight. That, at least, will work against many of Bane’s agents.”
The barmaid brought the fighter’s ale, and the heroes were silent until the pretty girl left them. As soon as she was out of earshot, though, Kelemvor pounded the table with his fist and hissed, “We can’t go completely without sleep. Do you want to leave yourself open to attack because you’re too tired to properly defend yourself? We need a better plan than just searching the city at random until we find the damned tablet.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Midnight snapped, the weariness in her soul bleeding through to darken the tone of her words.
The fighter sighed and closed his eyes. “First, we should split up,” Kelemvor said. “We can cover far more ground that way.”
The mage shook her head. “We have only one object capable of locating the tablet. If I take the sphere, what can you two possibly hope to accomplish on your own?”
Kelemvor ignored the edge in Midnight’s voice and tried to calm himself. “I tried to get Bane to tell me where the Tablet of Fate was hidden. He wouldn’t tell me directly, but he did say something about ‘having faith.’ I didn’t make anything of the remark at the time, but it could be an important clue.”
A thought shot into Adon’s mind, and the cleric smiled. “The temples,” he said simply. “Bane could have been playing off the word ‘faith.’ Not unusual for a god these days.” Adon ran his hand over his scar. “And Faulkner said there were a number of deserted temples in the city. The Tablet of Fate could be hidden in one of them.”
“Well, that’s a start anyway,” Midnight told Adon, then turned to the fighter. “As to your other question, Kel, there’s only one thing we can do with the Tablet of Fate when we find it. Elminster explained that there are Celestial Stairways—paths to the Planes—scattered throughout Faerun. Only gods or mages of Elminster’s class can see them and touch them. A mortal can walk through one of the stairways and not even know it’s there.”
Midnight paused and considered her next statement carefully. “I’ve seen two Celestial Stairways, and I think we should bring the Tablet of Fate to one of these paths and give it to Helm. But first, one of us must gain an audience with Torm. He’ll know where the closest stairway can be found.” The mage paused again and put her hand on Adon’s shoulder. “This should be your task. As an experienced cleric—”
Adon rose from the table, his chair falling away behind him. “I will not!” he shouted, and the few patrons in the taproom turned to stare at him. “I cannot speak with a god!”
A few murmurs ran through the room, and Midnight hardened her heart to the sight of the frightened, childlike cleric. “You must,” the raven-haired mage said at last. “Kelemvor is needed to look for safe passage for us, so we can leave Tantras quickly—once we find the tablet.”
The fighter took a swig of ale. “Aye,” he grumbled. “We must assume the Celestial Stairway will be somewhere far from this city. If it’s not, all well and good. But if it is, we must be prepared.”
The cleric’s hands were trembling, and his flesh had gone pale. When he saw the inn’s patrons staring at him, though, Adon picked up his chair and seated himself at the table once more.
“I intend to return the Tablet of Fate to the Planes,” Midnight said with a finality that frightened Kelemvor, though he couldn’t tell why. “It’s the only chance we have of ending the madness that has infected Faerun. As for our immediate plans, we should start the search immediately, and meet back here in two days.”
“There’s only one thing you’re overlooking,” Adon noted softly, his hands covering his face as he spoke in a low, trembling voice.
“What’s that?” Midnight asked.
“There are two Tablets of Fate,” Adon answered bitterly. “What happens when you stand before the God of Guardians with only one of them and he demands to know what you’ve done with the other one?”
“I’ll tell him the truth,” Midnight said flatly. “Helm has no reason to harm me.”
Adon chuckled a strained, nervous laugh. “Strange,” the scarred cleric commented. “I remember Mystra trying to do the same thing you propose … before Helm tore her, limb from limb, that is.” Adon rose from the table and left his companions to ponder the observation alone in his room.
Eventually, though, Midnight and Kelemvor left the table to return to their rooms. The heroes had just reached the stairs, when a white-bearded minstrel carrying a harp entered the Lazy Moon and approached the bar.
“We do not perform charity work,” the innkeeper growled with a voice that reeked of snobbery. “If free lodgings are what you seek, I would advise the local poorhouse.”
The heroes turned away and walked up the stairs, and the minstrel watched them until they had moved from sight. Only then did the white-bearded man turn his attentions to the innkeeper.
“I have money, and I have very little patience,” the minstrel snapped as he opened his hand and displayed a fistful of gold pieces.
“How long will you be staying?” the innkeeper asked politely, his back straightening, his tone instantly changing.
The minstrel frowned deeply. “I don’t need lodgings. I need information. What can you tell me about the couple that just went upstairs?”
The innkeeper looked around to make sure that no one was listening. “That depends on what it’s worth to you,” he whispered slyly.
“It’s worth a great deal,” the minstrel said as he shook his fistful of gold pieces and stared at the stairway, just where the heroes had stood. The smile faded from the minstrel’s face. “More than you could ever imagine.”
Fingers greedily kneading the air, the innkeeper grinned. “I have a great imagination.”
“Then tell me everything,” the minstrel said quietly as he handed the gold to the innkeeper. “For there is little time, and I have much to learn.…”
Outside the Lazy Moon Inn, the heroes said their farewells. Midnight kissed Kelemvor for the fifth and final time, then brushed the hair from his face. His strong, proud features were much more relaxed these days, now that the curse had been removed. Today, however, a shadow of worry and doubt had fallen upon him.
“Perhaps we should stay together after all,” Kelemvor told the mage. “I don’t like the idea of you risking your life—”
The mage placed her fingers to Kelemvor’s lips, then calmly noted, “We’re all at risk. The best chance we have is to get what we came for and move on quickly. You know that we can cover more ground and accomplish our task faster this way.”
The fighter covered the mage’s hand with his own. �
�Aye,” he grumbled, and kissed her fingers. “Be careful.”
“You’re telling me to take care?” Midnight asked sarcastically and patted the side of the fighter’s face as she said good-bye to Adon and left the Lazy Moon Inn. She traveled south for two blocks until she came to a one-story, gray stone building with no visible windows. A sign had been placed above the ragged doorway, and it read, “The House of Meager Living.”
The mage pushed at the partially open door, but it wouldn’t open. At first she thought the door was simply stuck, then, through the door, she saw a man’s arm fall to the floor. There was a soft moan from inside the building and Midnight pushed harder at the door. The sound of a body sliding across the floor accompanied her efforts. Once the door was open far enough, Midnight slipped inside the dark building.
The interior of the House of Meager Living was lit by a handful of small torches set in metal braces attached to the main support beams. A dozen metal beds bereft of any covering were scattered throughout the room, and well over seventy men, women, and children crowded the single room that took up most of the building’s few hundred square feet. Volunteers moved among the poor, the homeless, and the sick, bringing food from an open kitchen at the rear.
Midnight looked down and saw the man who had been lying near the door. He was in his late forties, and he wore a tunic that might have once belonged to a guardsman, save that there were now holes where any official markings might have been. Sandals made from worn strips of leather hung on his feet, and his hands were pressed tightly to his chest.
“Can I help you?” Midnight asked softly as she took a step toward the man and bent down. Suddenly the man struck out, his movement surprisingly quick. Midnight fell back, avoiding the blow, and realized that the man held a large, rusted spike in his hand. The mage scrambled backward, moving out of the derelict’s range. But he didn’t try to strike her again. He merely hugged the spike to his chest and stared at the floor.
Midnight felt hands grip her arms, then she was dragged to her feet. The mage turned to face a middle-aged woman and a boy who might have been her son. Both were dressed in the same clean, white clothes as the other volunteers.