*****
Khouryn combed through Vigilant’s bronze and white plumage, checking for broken feathers and parasites with the two-tined iron fork designed for the purpose. Smelling of both bird and musky hunting cat, the griffon lay flat on the stable floor so the dwarf could reach all of her. In fact, she looked like she’d melted there. The grooming had produced a state of blissful relaxation.
“It sounds like everything went all right,” Khouryn said.
“Maybe,” Aoth replied. He’d already finished with Jet’s aquiline parts and started brushing his fur, first against the grain and then with it. The black steed’s eyes were scarlet slits. “But I hate talking to zulkirs-or lords or whatever-and getting mired in their lies and intrigues.”
Khouryn worked his way along Vigilant’s limply outstretched wing. “Such is the lot of a sellsword leader. But I don’t blame you. I’m not even sure I understand, from your account, what the palaver was fundamentally about.”
“Nor do I. The brawl? Our presence in Luthcheq? Some rivalry between our employer and Lord Luthen? The hatred between Akanul and Tymanther? Or between Chessenta and High Imaskar? Take your pick. It was all tangled up together.”
Khouryn spotted a nit lurking at the base of a feather. He set down the fork, took up his tongs, pulled the larva out, and crushed it. “Why do all these people despise one another anyway?”
“Aside from recent transgressions, you mean? As I understand it, everything goes back a long way. The dragonborn and genasi fought when they lived wherever it is they used to live. When the Spellplague scooped them up and dumped them in Faerun, they brought their quarrel along with them.”
“Now, the Chessentans,” Aoth continued, “started out as slaves of the old Imaskari Empire. Who were notable wizards, which accounts for the Chessentan hatred of magic. I’ve heard the new realm of High Imaskar isn’t really the same animal as the old one. It doesn’t keep slaves, for example. But the name is more or less the same, the people look the same, they have the same gift for sorcery, and that’s close enough to stir up the Chessentans. They’ve been poking at the new Imaskari since the latter first announced their presence to the world. You could actually argue that the current ‘piracy’ is justified retaliation, although I wouldn’t say so to the locals.”
“In other words,” said Khouryn, “it’s all stupid.”
“Well, of course you’d think so. Who ever heard of a dwarf holding a grudge?”
Khouryn strained unsuccessfully to stifle a chuckle. “Fair enough. It’s simply that there’s something to be said for fighting in a righteous cause.”
Aoth swished his brush down the length of Jet’s tail. “We did that in Thay and again in Impiltur, and look at the shape we’re in.”
“I recognize it’s a luxury, not a necessity. Still, it would be nice if those eyes of yours had given you some insight into why Nicos and Luthen are at odds, or whether Zan-akar was telling the truth about anything.”
The Spellplague had done more than extend Aoth’s years. It had sharpened his sight to a preternatural degree. He could see in the dark and perceive the invisible. No illusion could deceive him. On rare occasions, he even saw hints of a man’s true character or intentions, or portents of the future.
Aoth hesitated, scowled, and then said, “To be honest about it, when I first met Nicos, I glimpsed the form of a green dragon.”
“What? What does that mean?”
“I have no idea. We can be reasonably sure there’s no big green dragon living in Luthcheq, so it must have been symbolic, which is another way of saying it could have meant any damn thing. Maybe just that my three lieutenants were going to get involved with a couple of dragonborn.”
Khouryn tilted his head. “You talk like you didn’t even bother to think about it. Since when do you discount the value of information, no matter how cryptic? How many times have I heard you say, ‘Collect all the facts you can; any one of them could mean the difference between victory and defeat’?”
“In the field, yes. At a royal court, it’s different. Knowing people’s secrets is dangerous, and so is meddling in their business. In retrospect, I feel stupid for telling the war hero that Akanul has ties to High Imaskar. I spoke without thinking.”
“You may have earned a measure of her trust. Or gratitude.”
Aoth grunted. “I suspect it takes more than that, and I certainly made an enemy of Zan-akar. All the more reason to keep our heads down, play constable with as little fuss as possible, and then head out to fight Threskel or the Imaskari as soon as Shala will allow it.”
TWO
18-29 CHES, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
With his mail, shield, spear, and other weapons, Aoth looked like a warrior and had hoped the citizens of Luthcheq would take him for that and nothing more. But almost immediately they’d started whispering behind his back and making signs to avert the evil eye. He suspected that Luthen or Zan-akar had put out the word that he was actually a war-mage.
He stopped leading foot patrols thereafter. No point agitating the locals more than they were already. Instead, he and Jet had taken to monitoring the city from the sky.
An easterly wind carried them to the religious quarter, where the gilded dome of the temple of Waukeen, goddess of trade, gleamed at one end of a mall. At the other stood the colonnaded house of Amaunator, lord of the sun, with an enormous sundial out in front.
Drumming and chanting, Tchazzar cultists paraded past the instrument. Some carried crimson banners. Others had combined forces to animate a dragon made of red cloth. Capering inside it, they made it weave back and forth in serpentine fashion.
At first no one seemed to mind. Then half a dozen priests in yellow robes strode forth from Amaunator’s temple. The stout sunlord in the lead, his vestments trimmed with gold and amber, started haranguing the marchers.
“Fly lower,” said Aoth. “Let’s hear what he’s saying.”
Jet swooped and set down on the roof of the Red Knight’s house, a comparatively small box of a building that, with its battlements and barbican, looked more like a fortress than a shrine. Aoth hoped the patron of strategists would forgive a fellow commander the intrusion.
Nobody mortal appeared to notice his descent. The sun priests, and the dragon cultists’ reaction to them, had already captured everyone’s attention.
“Dragons aren’t gods!” insisted the chief sunlord, his voice raised so everyone could hear. “And your display, in these sacred precincts, is an affront to the true gods!”
“Tchazzar saved his people,” replied the skinny adolescent girl at the head of the procession. She’d daubed scarlet symbols on her forehead and cheeks, and had a fervid, feverish cast to her expression. Someone had given her a fine vermilion mantle to throw on over the shabby garments beneath. “He also rose from the dead. That’s what gods do. And now that we need him, he’ll come back again. We only have to believe.”
“Child, you don’t understand these matters. You can’t. You lack the education.”
“I’m glad. Because I see that all learning does is blind you to the truth.”
The high priest took a breath. “Put your faith in the Keeper of the Yellow Sun and the other powers of light. And in the war hero they’ve appointed to rule us. That’s who will save you.”
“When?” called a man with a pox-scarred face. “Threskel and High Imaskar and the filthy wizards are destroying us! What are your gods and Shala Karanok waiting on?”
“Perhaps,” the cleric said, “they’re waiting for their people to stop behaving in a manner that’s both blasphemous and treasonous.”
The marchers shouted back, jeering at him.
“My children,” said the priest, “I tried to counsel you. As you refuse to heed me, I’ll have to resort to more drastic measures.”
He beckoned for the lesser sunlords to gather in. A couple hesitated or looked alarmed, but they all obeyed. Their master started chanting, and they joined in.
“They’re not,
” said Jet in disbelief.
But apparently they were. Trying to perform some ritual of chastisement with the targets standing unrestrained just a few strides away. Did they imagine Tchazzar’s worshipers would simply wait idly for them to finish?
If so, they were doomed to disappointment. The thin girl-the cultists’ prophetess, apparently-shrilled, “Stop them!” She lunged forward, and the marchers surged after her.
Jet perceived what Aoth wanted through their psychic link, or else he simply recognized himself what was required. As he sprang into the air, he gave a screech that froze some of the folk below in their tracks. Aoth pointed the long spear that served him both as warrior’s weapon and mage’s staff, rattled off words of command, and cast a wall of leaping, crackling yellow flame between the cultists and the priests. That brought the rest of the rushing men to a sudden, stumbling halt. It startled the sunlords into falling silent too.
Then Jet made a couple of low passes over the crowd, like he was deciding whom to snatch up in his talons and devour. Scowling, Aoth tried to look equally intimidating.
When he judged that their little pantomime had done as much good as it was likely to, he had the griffon land on top of the sundial. Evidently it was just his day to take liberties with the property of the gods.
“Captain!” called the chief sunlord.
Aoth dismounted. “If anyone makes a move,” he said, ostensibly to Jet but loud enough for everyone to hear, “kill him!” The griffon crouched and glared as if he’d like nothing better than to pounce over the blazing barrier and down into the marchers. Aoth then strode to the edge of the sundial and looked down at the man who’d hailed him.
“I’m Daelric Apathos,” said the sunlord, “steward of the Keeper’s house. Thank you for holding back the rabble.”
To Aoth, the fellow sounded more stiff than grateful, but it seemed best to take the statement at face value. “That’s why I’m here, Sunlord. To keep the peace.”
“Hold them back for a few more moments, and my clergy and I will complete the malediction.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Daelric blinked. “I assure you, I only intend a mild rebuke. It won’t be that much worse than the average sunburn.”
“And I assure you, if you start praying again, I’ll snuff the fire, climb back on my griffon, and leave you and the Church of Tchazzar to sort things out for yourselves.”
The high priest sneered. “I should have known better than to expect piety from one of your kind. The war hero will hear how you denied me in my hour of need.”
“I bet she will.” Aoth paced to the front of the sundial. Peering out across the wall of hissing flame, still burning hot and bright with no fuel but magic to sustain it, he located the prophetess. “As long as I’m collecting names, I may as well get yours.”
She drew herself up even straighter, as though to assert that she wasn’t afraid. “Halonya.”
“Well, Halonya, you and your friends go march somewhere else.”
“It’s our city as much as it is that priest’s. We have the right to walk the street. Any street, including this one.”
“I’m an officer of the watch, which means you have the right to walk where I say. Now go, or the next fires will drop right on your heads.”
Halonya held his gaze for another moment, then nodded curtly. She pivoted and started to lead her fellow cultists away. They followed, but not without some glaring, spitting, and obscene gestures to demonstrate their dislike of Aoth.
The sunlords were more restrained about it. But their stony faces conveyed the same sentiment.
“This is nice,” said Jet. “At least they agree on something.”
*****
Gaedynn spotted three lights shining close together in the dark street below. He sent Eider, his griffon, named for a love of swimming unusual among her kind, swooping lower.
The lanterns belonged to a patrol, but not one of the Brotherhood’s. The men were locals. Their lights revealed an eviscerated corpse. A circle of spectators, some in their nightclothes, had assembled to gawk at it. A couple cried out when Eider touched down. The griffon gave them a disgusted look.
As Gaedynn dismounted, he caught the smells of spilled blood and waste. Judging from the fallen wooden bucket and the communal well just a stride or two away, the dead man had ventured out for water. The killer had left a green handprint on the brickwork surrounding the hole.
Gaedynn looked for the sergeant in charge. That appeared to be a blunt-featured man who was evidently putting on weight, since even with the bottom buckles left unfastened, his leather cuirass was too tight for his flabby body. His face pale in the lantern light, swallowing repeatedly, he stood and stared at the dead body.
“When did this happen?” Gaedynn asked.
The pudgy man shook his head. “Who knows?”
Gaedynn stooped to examine the remains. He’d spent most of his youth as a hostage among the elves of the Yuirwood. It had been an alarming experience at times, particularly when his father’s continued misbehavior made his captors think they really ought to kill him in retaliation, or what was the point of having a hostage in the first place? But it had taught him woodcraft, and to him it looked like claws rather than a blade had ripped the victim. Which didn’t necessarily mean that a human wasn’t responsible for the crime.
Gaedynn rose and waved a hand at the gawkers. “Have you questioned them?”
“If any of them had seen the murderer, they’d be dead too.”
“Not if the killer didn’t see them,” Gaedynn said. “Now, have you questioned them?”
“No.”
“Well, someone should start, or at least make sure no one wanders off. The rest of us need to try to pick up the killer’s trail. I’ll look from the air…” He belatedly noticed the watchman’s scowl. “What’s wrong?”
“Maybe your flying beasts and fancy gear impress Nicos Corynian. But you’re no better than us, and we don’t take orders from you.”
“My friend, I realize I’m not your commanding officer, and I would never presume to tell you how to proceed, except that you don’t appear to be proceeding. And how will that look when you report to those who do command you?”
The sergeant somehow managed to look nettled and sheepish at the same time. “It’s just… we’re used to dead bodies, but not like this.”
“I understand.” Gaedynn glanced around, taking in the several streets and alleys snaking and forking away from the central point, then turned his gaze on the rest of the watchmen. “We’ll need to split up to have any hope of catching the murderer.”
“We don’t all have lights,” a watchman said.
“Then commandeer them,” Gaedynn said. “Quickly! For all we know, the killer is only a few moments ahead of us.”
And that, he realized, was what they were afraid of. No one actually wanted to catch up with the fiend. Not by himself and in the dark.
“The whoreson probably headed back to the wizards’ quarter,” said another man. “We’ll have the best chance of spotting him if we all head in that direction.”
“We have no idea where he’s headed.” Gaedynn turned back to the sergeant. “But search as you think best. Just look somewhere, and we’ll rendezvous back here.”
He hurried back to Eider and swung himself into the saddle. The griffon trotted, lashed her wings, and sprang skyward.
Gaedynn laid an arrow on his bow and, guiding Eider with his knees, flew a spiral course away from the well. He looked for motion atop the roofs and in the air.
For a while he was optimistic about spotting it. As he understood matters, the sole witness claimed the killer had fled the scene of his first atrocity by traveling over the housetops, even if said witness wasn’t clear whether he’d jumped like a squirrel or flown like a bird.
But all Gaedynn found were bats, owls, scurrying roof-dwelling rats, and an elderly astrologer leaning on a gnarled cane as he studied the moon and her trailing cloud of glittering tea
rs. And when Eider had wheeled her way over a good quarter of the city, it was time to admit their quarry had eluded them.
He hoped the watchmen had had better luck. But he doubted it, and when he returned to the well, he found them loitering around empty-handed.
“Useless,” sneered an onlooker to his companion, just loud enough for Gaedynn to overhear.
*****
“We need to run them off,” Randal said.
“Yes,” and “Right,” said some of the other boys.
But Theriseus asked, “Why?” Towheaded and gangly, not much good at games, he was just like that, always asking questions. Sometimes it made him seem clever, and sometimes stupid.
Either way, Randal had an answer for him, because he’d listened to his father talk-well, yell, really-about that very subject.
“They strut and push people around like they conquered the city or something. But they’re just sellswords, which means they’re just animals who kill for coin.”
Theriseus shrugged. “That doesn’t sound too different from the regular watch. They clubbed that one drunkard to death after he wouldn’t put down the knife.”
“Oh, it’s different,” Randal said. Even if he was vague on exactly how. “So, are you up to it, or are you too scared?”
“I’ll help,” Theriseus said, as Randal had known he would. The lanky blond boy might think a little differently than his fellows, but he prized his membership in the Black Wasps just as highly. In the rookeries where their families lived, if you weren’t in a gang, you weren’t anything. And you couldn’t belong to the Wasps if you were scared to take a dare.
Randal led his fellows down an alley choked with slippery, ripe-smelling refuse. Up ahead, the passage met a street. Having studied their routine, he knew a sellsword patrol would march across the intersection in just a little while.
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