by Tim Pratt
The wizard, a pudgy fellow with ginger hair and a perpetual smirk, chuckled. "I don't think Piero's going to do anything but sulk in his mansion for a while. He's a laughingstock. But I wanted to head south anyway. I've never seen Absalom." He shook Zaqen's hand. "Thanks for bringing me into this. It was a fun project. The short-term flaming sword enchantment I'd done before, but the inverted-clairaudience spell that allowed me to project my voice through the blade was a nice challenge—"
"Do the voice again!" Hrym cried from his bed of coins. Rodrick, seated in the corner, rolled his eyes.
The wizard cleared his throat, squinted his eyes, and shrieked, "I am Magnos! Fear my blazing wrathful blaze of wrath!"
"Beautiful," Hrym said.
"We should have hired an actor to do the voice," Rodrick muttered.
Once the young wizard left, Zaqen and Rodrick finished their packing, carefully wrapping the magical pitcher in cloth and stowing it upright in one of the saddlebags. "I wish we had a lid for this thing," Rodrick said. "If it tips over, all our supplies will be doused in seawater."
"No one ever said magical artifacts were convenient."
Rodrick looked pointedly at Hrym. "Don't I know it."
"I must say, I'm impressed," Zaqen said. "The way you pulled all that off. Spreading the rumors about a golem with a talking sword of fire in town, making Piero really work hard to track Magnos down, making him pay for the privilege of a meeting ...I can see why you've made a living as a thief and a liar."
"It was my idea," Hrym said. "Why are you giving Rodrick all the credit, when all he managed was the tedious execution? Though it's almost a shame Magnos was imaginary. It would be entertaining to have a nemesis, locked forever in a battle of wills, struggling through the ages, with humans as mere pawns in our long game ..."
"I'm sure if you ever meet another talking sword, it will be happy to hate you forever," Rodrick said. "I have great faith in your social skills. I suppose we should take the same advice you gave the wizard and get out of Restov, Zaqen. We bested one of the best duelists in the city, and other swordlords might decide they want to challenge us too. The sword-obsessed do that sort of thing, in my experience."
"We'll go to New Stetven and wait for my master to find us," she said.
"Or we could run off together, my darling, and make a living selling seawater to wandering gillmen and homesick landlocked sailors."
"Tempting," Zaqen said. "But you aren't my type. Too..." She wiggled her fingers. "Normal."
"That may be the cruelest thing anyone's ever said to me," Rodrick said.
"Oh?" Hrym said. "Then I'll have to start trying harder."
Chapter Eighteen
When the Sea-Priest's Away
If my city had been burned to ashes by marauding red dragons," Rodrick said, "I think I'd refrain from rebuilding the place entirely out of wood."
The two of them were lounging in a pair of chairs on the front porch of the Flaming Riders, beneath its sign that depicted three knights on horseback, with riders and horses all aflame. They had a good view of the people bustling through the wide street, and the buildings crowded together on the far side. Some were two or even three stories tall, and whether carved, painted, and gilded, or raw, rough, and rustic, everything was made of wood. There were raised wooden sidewalks along each side of the street, too, which made a nice change from dodging around steaming heaps of horse dung.
"People build with what they have." Zaqen said. "The locals call this place the City of Wooden Palaces. The Gronzi Forest is west of here, and these folk have made a living logging at the outskirts of that forest for a long time. The Ruby Fortress, where the king lives, is made of stone, though. As always, rank has its privileges."
Rodrick grunted. "Didn't the whole royal family get assassinated here or something?"
"You like to pretend ignorance, but I think you know more than you let on," Zaqen said. "Every member of House Rogarvia vanished, actually. All of them, without any sign of violence, disappeared without a trace. It's all very mysterious."
Rodrick scratched his chin. "There's an old game, but a good one, where you find a likely looking girl or boy, coach them very well, and then bring them forth as the long-lost, last surviving heir—"
"Ha. Your false king would be murdered before you even got the rumors properly started. It's not as if the throne is sitting vacant, you know, or as if the current occupant is desperate for the royal family to return and take the kingdom off his hands. There was nearly a civil war when the family vanished, but one of the other noble houses seized the throne and created at least the illusion of stability. There still could be a civil war anyway. Things are unsettled here, and Brevoy is a nation with sharp divisions—the remains of the old kingdom of Issia in the north and the remnants of Rostland in the south. They were two peoples in two lands for a very long time, and not always on friendly terms. When you try to unite two separate cultures that way, there are bound to be ...schisms."
"I do love a nation teetering on the edge of chaos," Rodrick said. "There are lots of opportunities in a place like that. And any time you have two sides, you can play one against the other to your own advantage."
"There is something to be said for chaos and destruction," Zaqen said. "At least it's never dull."
"I wouldn't say that. This is pretty dull. We've been sitting here for three days, and while I don't mind the chance to sleep in a bed on so many consecutive nights, at what point do you think we should give up on Obed, divvy up the treasure in the saddlebags, and say our farewells?"
She shook her head. "My master still lives. We have a mystical connection. Not so strong that I can use it to locate him, or to know what he's thinking or feeling, but I would be made aware if he died. For one thing, the geas that compels me to follow his orders would be lifted if he died, and I still feel its power pressing on me, so—"
"Geas?" Hrym said from inside his scabbard, which leaned against the wall between their chairs. "The priest has a spell on you to compel your loyalty?"
Zaqen nodded. "Yes. Though I consented to it willingly."
Rodrick let out a low whistle. "Why let him chain you that way? I thought you were devoted to him anyway, because of some good turn he did you?"
"I was. I am." She shrugged. "I told him the geas was unnecessary, that my service was pledged to him, but he thought it would be best. He knew the way ahead of us would be dangerous and taxing, and he wanted to be sure he could depend on me absolutely, without even the necessity to worry, wonder, or question. I am not made to be a perfectly obedient slave—I can advise, and argue, and I can reason with him. All those things are permitted. He does value my counsel, believe it or not ...but in the end, if he orders me to do something, I have to do it, or pay certain unpleasant consequences."
"I can't believe you took such an oath." Rodrick could think of nothing more ghastly than being in thrall to another's will.
Zaqen's mouth twisted into a quirky smile. "I could hardly pledge my loyalty, and swear to do whatever he asked of me, and then refuse to submit to the geas. Any objection would only have proven his point—that he couldn't depend on me to follow his will in all things. If I intended to obey his every command anyway, the geas would cost me nothing. So you see, when I told you I wouldn't join you in betraying my master, I told only the truth—I couldn't help you, even if I wanted to. Which I don't."
"Why tell me this now?" Rodrick said.
She shrugged again. "Because you suggested that we might at some point give up on Obed and go our separate ways. I wanted you to know that's not an option for me, not as long as he lives. And while you can leave, without your payment, of course ...when Obed returns, he will not be happy that you and Hrym have left. Your absence would be an impediment to achieving his goals, and he can be unpleasant when he's frustrated."
Rodrick sighed. "At least let me know if he dies?"
"You'll be the second one to know." She giggled. "Well, third, really, after Obed himself."
; ∗ ∗ ∗
That night, someone pounded furiously on the door of Rodrick's room, and the rogue rolled out of bed, taking Hrym in his hands before he called, "Who's there?"
"Zaqen," came the reply. "Cilian is here with me."
He opened the door. Zaqen's face was solemn, and Cilian was filthy, mud-streaked, and frowning. "Come in. What's happened?" He wasn't sure if he hoped Obed was dead or not.
"All Cilian has told me so far is that they were attacked," Zaqen said. "I thought it best if we heard the story at the same time."
Cilian took a seat, cross-legged on the floor, while Zaqen and Rodrick sat on the bed. The huntsman licked his lips. "Obed lives," he said, "but he is in dire circumstances. We entered the great forest without incident. I was able to avoid the most dangerous beasts and slay the small ones that troubled us, and though he is not a man of the land, Obed can move silently and with care when he wishes. As we penetrated the deeper forest, the canopy became so thick that it seemed as if night were falling, a perpetual twilight—"
"Yes, fine, what happened?" Zaqen snapped. "I know people always say ‘start at the beginning,' but I'd rather you skipped to the end."
Cilian blinked at her, then nodded. "We found the object we sought. Hidden just where Obed had foreseen, buried beneath a great altar stone, now furred with moss and cracked by time. We recovered it—the key—and camped in the deep woods until day broke. Then we continued on our journey. We were near the outskirts of the woods when ...when ..." He hung his head. "We were ambushed," he whispered. "It is my fault. I was not cautious enough. The edge of the forest is not home to many beasts, as there are woodcutters and colliers aplenty there, and the tromp of human feet drives the wild creatures away. So I let down my guard, thinking we had only to stroll some few miles through the thinning trees, and then to the road that would lead us back to New Stetven."
"But you were attacked by bandits?" Rodrick said. After a few days in the city, he'd heard plenty about the bandits—most notoriously a group led by a man named Duma the Sly—that preyed on travelers who strayed near the forest, robbing and beating them, only to disappear into the woods, where the forces of the law rightly feared to tread.
Cilian nodded. "Yes, to my shame. I was fetched a great blow to the head from behind, and darkness took me. I woke hours later, blood and dirt caked on my wounded head, and found Obed sprawled on the forest floor, gasping and thrashing."
Zaqen closed her eyes. "They took his ring, didn't they? The one set with a pearl."
Rodrick had noticed that ring, the way any thief notices something they intend to take for themselves in the future, but he didn't understand why Zaqen mentioned it, particularly. "I imagine they took all his rings."
"They did," Cilian said. "But that ring—"
"It's his ring of land-walking," Zaqen said. "It lets him travel in the upper world without ill effects. Without that ring, Obed can't spend more than a day out of the water. No gillman can. Their organs begin to fail."
"I don't know how long I was unconscious," Cilian said. "Perhaps half a day. Obed was wounded as well, but he was also delirious, speaking in languages I did not know, and calling for aid from strange gods, but sometimes he begged for water. Though I know little of gillmen, I thought water might help soothe and heal him, so I lifted him in my arms and carried him back into the deeper woods, toward the last body of water we had seen: a natural stone pool perhaps the size of this room, fed by a creek. I slid Obed into the water, and he sank to the bottom. I feared that he had died, but I waited, and watched, and at the midpoint of the night he rose from the water, and whispered an incantation—or, I suppose, a prayer—healing both his own wounds and my own. He was too ill to travel immediately, he said, and would need to immerse himself in water often during the journey home, which might not be practical. He told me to come and find you, and so here I am. He waits in the pool for us still. "
"Can we make him a new ring?" Rodrick said. "Do you have any magical friends in New Stetven?"
Zaqen shook her head. "No. Obed didn't ask me to cultivate any contacts. I don't think he expected to do real business here—it was just a place to stay during our foray into the forest. Even if I knew wizards...making a ring or necklace that allows the wearer to breathe while underwater is fairly common magic. But making a ring that lets an aquatic creature travel freely in the air?" She shook her head. "It's a specialty item. Obed's ring came from one of the Low Azlanti settlements under the sea. Perhaps back in the River Kingdoms, in Outsea, there might be such magic, but I'm sure there's also a great demand for that kind of spell among the sea-folk there, and they wouldn't be likely to part with such enchanted items willingly."
"Then we'll just have to steal the ring back from the bandits," Rodrick said. "That's what Obed wants us to do anyway, isn't it?"
Cilian nodded. "He requires us to recover the lost key, which was also stolen. He asks that we obtain his ring while we do so."
"All right," Rodrick said. "What can you tell us about the bandits? I know you were knocked out, but you're a tracker—were you able to glean any knowledge from examining the site of the attack afterward?"
Cilian nodded. "There were at least five of them, and no more than eight. They moved among the trees, traveling through the branches, dropping to the ground only occasionally. Tracking them might be difficult—"
"Oh, we can find them," Rodrick said. "I'm not worried about that. I just want to know what kind of resistance we'll be facing when we do find them."
"The object we found, the key," Cilian said. "It is the jeweled skull of a dog. Obed told me the skull is reputed to howl in the presence of demons." He looked at the ceiling for a moment. "I can therefore say with some confidence that the people who attacked us and stole our possessions were not demons."
"That's reassuring," Rodrick said.
"It is," Zaqen said. "It means they're most likely men, and men die easily."
"That would make me feel better if I weren't a man, too."
"I feel pretty good about it," Hrym said.
Chapter Nineteen
The Jeweled Skull in the Forest
Why did we have to bring all this gold?" Rodrick said loudly, swinging the heavy canvas bag from his left shoulder to his right. "It's killing my bad leg lugging this weight. And are you sure cutting through the woods is faster?"
"You don't think you're overselling things a bit?" Zaqen murmured, shuffling along beside him under the deep shade of the towering trees. In a clearer voice she said, "Stop your bellyaching. Ever since you wrenched your knee you've whined like a spoiled child. It's your own fault. If you hadn't gotten drunk you wouldn't have fallen down the stairs."
They trudged along slowly, not wanting to stray far from the spot where the bandits had attacked Obed and Cilian, bickering as loudly as they could without actually shouting. Rodrick had never been comfortable in the deep woods, largely because dire bears and ambulatory carnivorous plants could not be won over by a charming line of patter and a warm laugh. There were too many shadows, too many rustles, too many strange hoots and growls and chirps. Despite Cilian's assurances that this was the edge of the forest, it felt sufficiently remote and primeval to make Rodrick nervous. A bandit attack would be a relief, even if they weren't trying to provoke one; at least bandits were people, driven by normal things like avarice and cruelty. He knew how to cope with those.
"Perhaps the bandits are hunting elsewhere today," Zaqen whispered after a while. "If we went to Obed, I might be able to use a bit of his blood to cast a divination and track the whereabouts of his ring—"
A piercing whistle rent the air, different from the other bird cries. That was Cilian's call. Rodrick grinned and looked up.
A male halfling dressed all in shades of green and brown dangled from a tree branch, twisting wildly in a tangle of spider silk that bound his legs—one of the many traps Zaqen had prepared earlier. He cursed at them fluently as he struggled.
Rodrick whistled twice, and a single, brief chir
p returned from wherever Cilian was hiding: just the one bandit, then. That was easy.
"We were hoping we'd run into you." Rodrick slung the canvas bag off his shoulder and unwound the ties that held it closed, then drew forth Hrym, who didn't gleam because of the deep shade, but who was still impressively icy. "My sword and I would like to ask you a few questions."
∗ ∗ ∗
Zaqen crushed a stinking beetle in her fist, casting some spell that made the halfling freeze in place. He tumbled out of the tree, landing on the ground without altering his posture, like a dropped statue of a human rendered in two-thirds scale. Zaqen propped the halfling against the tree, where he leaned as stiffly as an axe handle, only his eyes mobile. The bandit was steely eyed until Hrym said, "What are you staring at, tiny human?" Upon hearing the sword's voice, the halfling's eyes went wide.
"He's a halfling," Rodrick said. "Not a tiny human. And he's paralyzed, or something, so I don't think he's intentionally staring at you."
"You bipeds draw so many arbitrary distinctions between yourselves," Hrym grumbled. "Halfling, human, what's the difference? What a ridiculous thing to think about."
"I suppose you wouldn't mind if I called you a short sword, then?" Rodrick said. "Or a—"
"I am a longsword," Hrym interrupted angrily, "the most perfect design of all the swords, not an unwieldy oaf like a greatsword, not a mincing little rapier, a longsword—"
"He doesn't even realize he's made my point for me." Rodrick sighed. He crouched down so he could look eye to eye with the halfling. "I have friends. Two friends. One a priest in dark blue robes, one a huntsman in leathers and fur, the latter a half-elf. Do you happen to recall robbing them a few days ago?"
"He can't speak," Zaqen said. "He can't do much except breathe."