Song of the Saurials

by Kate Novak

  Akabar stepped to one side. “Your lordship, Alias, Dragonbait,” Akabar said, “may I present, Zhara, Priestess of Tymora.”

  Zhara took a step forward. She was as tall as Alias, but her green eyes and slender brown hands were the only parts of her body not covered by the blue robes of her calling or the long blue and white veil draped across her face. “I am honored to meet you,” Zhara said softly. She curtsied low, but she did not remove her veil.

  Mourngrym bowed and Dragonbait nodded, but Alias eyed the priestess with annoyance. She didn’t like clerics or priests. Dragonbait was always trying to convince her that she felt this way because Cassana and the swordswoman’s other evil makers had enchanted her, but Alias rejected that idea. She didn’t like members of the clergy because, as far as she was concerned, they were a nearly useless bunch of fools—even those who served Tymora, Lady Luck, the goddess of adventurers. Why in the world is Akabar traveling with a priestess? she wondered.

  As if he read her mind, Akabar explained, “Zhara is my third wife.”

  Anger and disappointment stabbed at the pleasure Alias had felt at seeing Akabar again. A moment ago, she had imagined their reunion would be just like old times, but the presence of one of his wives put a damper on that hope. With the exception of Dragonbait, Akabar was the swordswoman’s oldest friend in the world. He had helped Alias on her quest to discover her origins, but if Alias had had her way, she’d have never met this woman.

  Tb avoid just such a meeting, Alias had once claimed that she was unable to stand the heat of the south and declined an invitation to accompany Akabar to his home in Turmish. The swordswoman hadn’t wanted to face the scrutiny of his wives. Though she’d never been south, Alias had heard how insufferably proud southern women were of the way they lived: their modest dress, their subservient soft speech, their efficient households and businesses, their innumerable children. They were all greengrocers, Alias’s term for boring nonadventurers, and Alias couldn’t imagine them welcoming a wandering sell-sword with no real family. Even more unbearable than the thought of their disapproval had been the thought of sharing Akabar’s company and attention with women he was closer to than he was to her.

  “I was under the impression that southern women didn’t travel away from home,” the sell-sword said coolly as she sat down at the table and motioned for Akabar to take the seat beside her.

  “My sister-wives, Akash and Kasim, have charged me to protect our husband from the barbarians of the north,” Zhara replied matter-of-factly, slipping herself into the chair that Alias had intended for Akabar. Akabar seated himself between Zhara and Dragonbait.

  Uneasy because of the tension he sensed, Lord Mourngrym turned toward the door of the inn. “If you’ll excuse me,” his lordship said, “I think I’d better head back home before the rain starts falling harder. I’ll leave you to rehash old times.” He bowed once again to Akabar’s wife, then strode off, with Scotty balanced on his shoulder.

  Akabar sighed inwardly as he glanced from Alias to Zhara. He hadn’t expected Alias to get along with Zhara. Although the sell-sword was too proud to admit it, he believed she was jealous of his wives. He hadn’t expected Zhara to show jealousy, though, but then Alias was special to him, and Zhara knew that. At least the women’s coolness toward one another would give him time to explain about Zhara to Alias.

  Akabar glanced at Dragonbait, who was watching Zhara curiously. The saurial paladin gave Akabar an inquiring look. He can smell what Zhara is, the Turmishman thought. Will he have the wisdom to keep it to himself? he wondered.

  Dragonbait shrugged and looked down at his teacup. Akabar, he realized, thought Alias loved him and would become enraged with jealousy if she knew all that Zhara was. The paladin knew Alias far better than the merchant-mage, and he knew that Alias did indeed love Akabar, but not the way Akabar thought she did.

  Despite Alias’s adult body and brilliant mind, Dragonbait had come to understand that her emotions were no more mature than a child’s. The paladin suspected that the Nameless Bard, who denied his own emotions as a matter of pride, had been unable to give Alias skill controlling her feelings when something upset her. Like a child, Alias grew jealous easily, and it wasn’t easy for her to accept that she couldn’t always be the center of attention. Akabar was right to worry about her reaction when she learned of Zhara’s true nature. What the merchant-mage did not realize, however, was that Alias wouldn’t react as a woman but as a child.

  Still, it would be bad to put off explaining about Zhara, the paladin thought. He would give Akabar a day to work up to it, but no more.

  From the unpleasant, but fortunately weak, stench of brimstone that wafted from Dragonbait, Alias could tell there was something about Akabar’s wife that interested the saurial. Nevertheless, Alias ignored Zhara and focused all her attention on Akabar. “So what brings you this far north so late in the year?” she asked the Turmishman.

  Instead of answering Alias’s question, Akabar asked one of his own. “Have you been well since I saw you in Westgate last year?”

  Alias’s brow knit in puzzlement. “Of course. Why shouldn’t I be? Akabar, what’s wrong? Why are you here?”

  Akabar drew a deep breath. “I came to Shadowdale to seek Elminster’s advice. I also hoped to find you here, in order to warn you.”

  “Warn me?” Alias asked, more confused than alarmed. “What about?”

  “The return of the Darkbringer,” Akabar said.

  “The Darkbringer! You mean Moander?” Alias asked.

  Akabar nodded.

  “Akabar,” Alias reminded the mage, “after you destroyed Moander’s body, most of its worshipers killed themselves. Cassana had the Fire Knives assassinate those who didn’t, so she wouldn’t have to share me with them. Dragonbait and I spent the past two summers checking out all the Darkbringer’s temples. They’ve all been abandoned. Without worshipers in the Realms, it could be centuries before Moander can regain enough energy to make a new body and return here from the Abyss.”

  “I have been troubled by nightmares of late,” Akabar explained. “Zhara tells me they are warnings from the gods of light.”

  Alias sighed in exasperation. “Akabar, after all Moander put you through, of course you’re going to have nightmares about it for a while. It’s only natural. The gods don’t have anything to do with it.”

  “The dreams did not begin until this past spring, nearly a year after Moander’s death,” Akabar countered.

  Alias shrugged. “Spring is when you destroyed Moander. Maybe the weather just reminded you of him,” she suggested.

  “Spring weather in Turmish is nothing like spring weather in the north or even in Westgate, where Moander died,” Akabar persisted.

  Dragonbait rapped on the table for attention. Alias watched the saurial’s paws flutter about the tabletop, then move to his lips. Finally he pointed at her and Akabar.

  Alias shook her head. “They’re not related at all,” she told the paladin.

  “What’s he trying to say?” Akabar asked curiously.

  “Nothing important,” Alias said.

  Dragonbait shoved his elbow into Alias’s side. The sell-sword glared at her lizard companion, and Dragonbait glared right back at her. The contest of wills lasted only a few moments, but it astonished Akabar. He’d never seen Dragonbait challenge Alias before. When the mage had traveled with the pair, Dragonbait had been as submissive to Alias as a Turmishwoman was to her husband in public. Obviously the relationship between the saurial and Alias had changed in the past year. Alias looked away from Dragonbait, muttering, “All right. Think what you want, but you’re wrong.”

  “What is it?” Akabar demanded.

  “Dragonbait thinks I should tell you that it was last spring when I started singing strangely.”

  “Singing strangely? I don’t understand,” Akabar said, his eyebrows arching.

  “Somehow the melody and the lyrics of songs I was singing came out twisted. And I didn’t even realize I was doing i
t,” Alias explained, obviously disturbed.

  “Do you have dreams about Moander?” Akabar asked.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Alias replied. “I never remember my dreams when I wake up. Dreams are for sleeping.”

  “You remembered the dream you had about Nameless in Shadow Gap,” Akabar reminded her.

  “That was different. That was a magical dream caused by the witch Cassana, sent in order to distract me from the ambush she was laying.”

  Akabar stroked his beard thoughtfully, then suggested, “Since you do not remember your dreams, it could be that the gods are trying to warn you through your songs.”

  “Akabar, why should the gods go to all the trouble to send you dreams and ruin my songs when they could just send a letter?” Alias asked skeptically.

  “If you do not believe Zhara and you do not believe me,” Akabar said, “you certainly would not believe a letter, Alias. The gods know the way to your heart is through your music.”

  Alias sighed. She’d known, of course, that Akabar was a scholar of religion, but this sudden devout belief that the gods were speaking to him and her made her uneasy. It was this new wife’s influence, she was sure. “Well, if the gods are causing me to sing this way,” Alias said, “they certainly have lousy taste in music. And they could work on making their lyrics a little less obscure, too.”

  Zhara, who had been silent for a long time, spoke out suddenly, with anger and passion. “You cannot expect the songs of the gods to be of the same simple sort you northern barbarians delight in,” she said.

  Alias glared at the priestess. “My songs are the best in the Realms,” she growled.

  “They are nothing compared to the words spoken by the gods,” Zhara replied heatedly. “Our prayers to them are the most suitable music we can make.”

  Realizing that it was futile to argue with a religious zealot, Alias turned her attention back to Akabar. “I don’t suppose the gods have given you any details about what you’re supposed to do about this return of Moander,” she said.

  “Yes, they have, as a matter of fact,” Akabar replied, and his face looked suddenly haggard. “I must find Moander’s body in the Realms and destroy it again. Then I must find its body in the Abyss and destroy it there. Only then will Moander be destroyed forever,” he explained.

  Alias looked at her friend with astonishment and fear. He was absolutely serious. He meant to fight the god again. If Dragonbait hadn’t recruited the help of an ancient red dragon, who had died battling Moander, she and Akabar would still be under the god’s domination now, unable to fight the abomination’s awful power to control their minds. Now Akabar not only wanted to fight Moander in the Realms, but also in the Abyss, where it would be surrounded by numbers of powerful minions. The swordswoman was sure the mage couldn’t have come up with such a dangerous idea on his own. She glared across the table at Akabar’s new wife, and as she so often did, she channeled her fear into anger.

  “This is all your doing, isn’t it?” Alias snarled at Zhara. “You lousy priests are always trying to convince some nice, noble soul to go out and get killed trying to destroy some great evil that no one in their right mind would want to run into. Not even the mighty elven kingdom of Myth Drannor, in the height of its powers, could destroy Moander. You softened Akabar up with sweet talk and then start blowing his nightmares out of proportion. I’ll bet you even used your priestly magic to set him on this stupid quest, didn’t you?”

  Alias looked back at the Turmishman. “Don’t be a fool, Akabar,” she pleaded. “You’ve done more than your share. You should never have married this priestess. She doesn’t care about you. She’s only interested in what you can do for the glory of her goddess.”

  Akabar’s jaw trembled and his face went livid. Instinctively Alias backed her chair away from him. Zhara laid one of her slender hands on her husband’s arm and said something in Turmish that Alias didn’t understand. Akabar closed his eyes and calmed his temper with several long, slow breaths.

  Beneath the table, Dragonbait’s tail slapped warningly at Alias’s knee. The swordswoman shot an angry glance at the paladin. Dragonbait was rubbing his chin. He was asking her to apologize to Zhara, but Alias remained adamant. She didn’t care how Akabar felt about Zhara. Zhara was obviously using him.

  A youth dressed in a page’s uniform, his hair dripping wet from the rain falling outside the inn, interrupted the uneasy silence that had settled over the table. “Excuse me, lady,” the boy said timidly.

  Alias looked up. She knew the boy. His name was Heth, and he was one of Lord Mourngrym’s pages. She smiled to put the boy at ease. “Yes? What is it, Heth?”

  “Alias of Westgate, the tribunal of Harpers requests that you come come before them,” Heth said formally.

  Alias started. For a short while, she’d forgotten her anxiety about Nameless. Now it returned with double force. Her face went pale and her lips trembled. Nameless’s fate was in her hands. If she said or did the wrong thing, they would exile him again, send him away from the Realms, away from her.

  “What tribunal?” Akabar asked.

  “The Harper tribunal that is rehearing Nameless’s case,” Alias said, rising to her feet. “I asked to speak to them on his behalf.”

  Despite his offended pride and the insult she had just delivered to his wife, Akabar couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the warrior woman. Alias had always had difficulty trusting other people and growing intimate with them, but she had accepted Nameless as her father. Akabar didn’t like to think of the grief she would suffer should the Harpers be so merciless as to recondemn the bard.

  “I would have thought the Harpers had taken care of that last year,” Akabar said. “What’s taken them so long?”

  “It took Elminster all last year to convince them that they should rehear the case,” Alias explained. “Now I have to go.”

  Akabar stood up in front of the sell-sword. “I’ll go with you,” he said. “I, too, will speak on his behalf, for he saved my life.”

  The page looked confused for a moment, uncertain how to respond to this stranger.

  “Heth,” Alias explained to the page, “this is my friend, Akabar bel Akash. He knows all about Nameless. May he come with me?”

  “He is welcome to accompany you, lady,” Heth replied, “but I do not know if the tribunal will hear him.”

  “Then I shall speak very loudly,” Akabar said.

  Alias looked up at Akabar with a grateful smile. At least Zhara’s influence was not so complete that the Turmishman could not spare time from his insane quest to help a friend.

  Dragonbait chirped, and Alias turned her head to watch him sign. “Dragonbait says he’ll look after Zhara for you,” she explained to Akabar. Though I’m sure the shrew can handle herself, she thought, but she managed to resist saying so aloud. She wished the paladin would come along with her instead of remaining with Zhara, but she didn’t want to argue with him in front of Akabar.

  Akabar motioned for the page to go ahead. Alias went to speak to Jhaele for a moment, then grabbed her cloak from a hook and joined Akabar and Heth at the door. The swordswoman and the Turmishman followed the boy from the inn out into the drizzling rain. They walked in silence down the main road that led west toward the Tower of Ashaba. Over the tops of the trees, they could make out the tower’s peculiar off-center spire, which gave it the nickname “the Twisted Tower.”

  Despite its notoriety, Shadowdale was a small town, but the Tower of Ashaba was a massive and impressive structure nonetheless. It served as a home to not only the Lord of Shadowdale and his family, but also to most of his court and household staff, not to mention numerous adventurers friendly to his lordship. Mourngrym had invited Alias to winter there, but Alias could only think of the tower as Nameless’s prison, and she had declined. She wouldn’t have accepted at any rate. As much as she liked Mourngrym, becoming his guest would have meant giving up some of her independence. She felt more comfortable paying Jhaele for a room at the inn.


  As they passed Elminster’s tower, Akabar glanced sidelong at Alias. She looked nervous. Having already swallowed his anger at her earlier behavior, the mage was determined to reestablish their friendship. He began with what northerners called “small talk.”

  “Have you heard anything of Mistress Olive Ruskettle since she took her leave of us in Westgate?” the Turmishman asked.

  Alias looked at Akabar and grinned. Olive, at least, was something the two of them had always agreed upon. The halfling thief had attached herself without invitation to their adventuring party the previous year, only to make a tremendous nuisance of herself, betraying them to Alias’s enemies and only at the last moment helping to rescue them from fates worse than death. Olive hadn’t actually taken her leave of them at the end of their adventure. She’d left in the middle of the night with a good deal more than her share of the treasure they’d taken from the sorceress Cassana’s dungeon. To the halfling’s credit, she at least left them all the gold and silver coin, preferring the more portable gemstones and jewelry for herself.

  “I believe she’s in Cormyr,” Alias said. “Travelers who have passed through there speak of a halfling bard who sings some of the best songs they’ve ever heard and who claims to have been the mastermind behind the destruction of the Fire Knives assassin guild, the Darkbringer, a red dragon, a lich, an evil sorceress, and a fiend from Tarterus. She was aided, naturally, by her faithful assistants, an anonymous southern mage, a little-known northern sell-sword, and a mysterious lizardman.”

  “That sounds like our Olive Ruskettle, all right,” Akabar agreed.

  “I almost wish she were here now,” Alias said. “If anyone was able to talk her way around this Harper tribunal, it would be Olive.”

  Akabar chuckled, “Remember the saying, ‘Be careful what you wish for.’ ” He sensed the nervousness in her voice, and made an effort to reassure her. “Alias, Elminster is speaking on Nameless’s behalf. The Harpers will be influenced by the sage’s wisdom. Even if they are not, the Harpers are good people. They couldn’t be so cruel as to return Nameless to exile after what he has suffered. They may not forgive him, but they will realize that isolating him serves no further purpose. Don’t worry.”