Azure Bonds Page 11
“Didn’t Akabar tell you?” Alias retorted icily. “I tried to kill the priest who attempted to remove this curse. But it wasn’t a curse, it’s a thing alive in me.”
“The thing, not you, tried to kill the priest,” Akabar corrected.
“What difference does it make? I can’t get rid of it. It’s not going to let me go back to Dimswart to get the information he found for me. Gods! I’m lucky it didn’t make me kill Dimswart.”
“Maybe this thing was keeping you from the scene of the crime, so to speak,” Akabar suggested. “Unless it can make you deaf, I hardly see how it can prevent you from learning Dimswart’s information.”
“What?”
“I brought Dimswart’s information.”
Ruskettle’s ears perked up, and the bells on Dragonbait’s cap jingled again as he tilted his head with interest.
“Well?” Alias prompted.
“First, I want you to promise me something.”
“I don’t have to promise you anything. This is my information. I earned it.”
“True. But who knows what might happen if you try to return to the sage’s manor to ask for it.”
Alias snarled at the mage. “You desert snake—”
“All I want,” Akabar interjected, “is for you to let me accompany you on your quest to remove this thing.”
“Are you crazy?” Alias hissed. “Don’t I have enough trouble without dragging my frien—complete strangers in on it.”
“Who better to drag in it than frien—complete strangers?” Akabar smiled, then he lifted his head proudly. “Besides, I still owe you a debt of honor for helping me to recover my spell book.”
Yes, Alias realized, even if he wasn’t so anxious to prove he isn’t a greengrocer, he’d help me because he’s the type who takes debts of honor seriously. “I’m not exactly socially acceptable these days,” Alias pointed out weakly.
“As a rule, men of my nationality are not invited to many parties in the north,” Akabar replied with a shrug.
While Akabar was insinuating himself into Alias’s quest, Olive was frantically trying to make up her mind. People who tried to kill priests weren’t, as a rule, to be trusted, she argued with herself. But it would make such a fascinating addition to the song. Better make it a lay. Or maybe even a book. The Magic Arm Chronicles, as told by Olive Ruskettle. All thoughts of danger faded before the imaginary promise of gold and fame. Besides, Olive told herself, I have to find out the rest of that song about the tears of Selune.
“Hang on,” the halfling interrupted. “If anyone owes this swordswoman a debt of gratitude, it’s me. She saved my life. If you take this one along,” Olive said to Alias, jerking her head toward Akabar, “you’re going to need someone to keep him out of trouble. A fast thinker.”
The corner of Alias’s mouth twitched in amusement. She had no illusions about Olive. Pure greed motivated her. Still, the halfling’s debt was even greater than Akabar’s. It was likely she’d prove more hindrance than help, but at least she was an experienced traveler.
“My journey may prove perilous,” Alias warned, hoping to discourage the small woman.
Olive shrugged. “As the halflings in Luiren say, From perils come pearls and power.’ I’ve seen my share of danger.”
“And more than your share of pearls, I’ll warrant,” Akabar muttered under his breath.
Alias looked at Dragonbait. “I don’t suppose you’ll be leaving my side either.”
The lizard tilted his head with a jingle.
Something inside Alias’s chest grabbed her heart. She had an uncomfortable suspicion the lizard wouldn’t know what to do if he wasn’t serving her.
Alias sighed. “All right. You can help, but remember—I tried to talk you out of it.” She turned to Akabar. “Now what did Dimswart tell you?”
The mage pulled a small package from a pocket. He unknotted the yellow cord that bound it and flipped away its leather wrapping. Within lay five copper plates.
“Flaming dagger,” said the mage, laying the first plate on the table. A flaming dagger sigil was etched into the soft metal surface, and beneath it in neat, delicate letters of Thorass, was a paragraph of explanation. “Interlocking rings, mouth in a palm, three concentric circles, and a squiggle that looks like an insect leg.” Akabar laid down a corresponding copper with each description. “Which would you like me to cover first?” he asked Alias.
Alias pointed to the plate with the flaming dagger. “The assassins who attacked me carried a card with this design.”
Nodding, Akabar stacked the five plates together with the dagger on top. “The symbol is derived from a Talis deck. In Turmish, we use the suit of birds, but here in the north it has been converted to the suit of daggers. In either case, the suit represents money and theft of the same. The symbol was adopted by a small group of thieves and assassins in Westgate that calls itself the Redeemer’s Guild, but the group is more commonly known as the Fire Knives—from its calling card.
“The Fire Knives are not native to Westgate, but came originally from Cormyr where they ran a very profitable operation. Until, that is, they incurred the wrath of His Royal Majesty, Azoun IV. He broke their charter, executed their leaders, and sent the rest packing across the Lake of Dragons. They set up shop anew in Westgate, with the permission of the local crime lords, the Night Masks. Naturally, they have no love for Cormyr, its king, or its people.”
“Do any of them carry their symbol as a brand or tattoo?” Alias asked.
Akabar shook his head. “It has never been reported that they do. Of course, your attack on someone who sounded just like King Azoun was the sort of thing they desire. Somehow, they might have ensorceled you to do so.”
“Then why did they attack me the other night?”
“Perhaps they thought you discovered their plan and would warn His Majesty,” the halfling guessed.
“No,” Alias said. “I had no idea I was going to do something like I did. Besides, they went to a lot of trouble to capture, not kill me.”
“Perhaps they were planning on delivering you to the king’s court,” Akabar mused. “You know, Azoun might have come to the wedding. His mage, Vangerdahast, advised him against it. At least, that was the rumor I heard.”
“It’s just coincidence that I ended up at Dimswart’s,” Alias replied.
Akabar shrugged. “Perhaps. But if Azoun had attended—”
“I’d have tried to kill him instead of that fool Wyvernspur.”
“Not a chance,” Olive said. “Vangerdahast goes everywhere with His Marshmallowness. He would have fried you with a lightning bolt before you got within an arm’s length.”
“I don’t think this conjecture will get us very far,” Akabar said, confused. “Shall I continue with the other sigils?”
Alias nodded, and Akabar held up the card bearing the sign of three rings, each interlocked with the other two. “The trinity of rings is pretty common as well. It was used by several trading houses about the Inner Sea until the Year of Dust, over two centuries ago, when it was taken up as a banner by a pirate gang in Earthspur. After a few years new pirate leaders toppled the old and adopted a new banner.
“Since then the circles have been used as a signature mark for a notable Cormyrian portrait artist, as a stamp for a Procampurian silversmith, and the sign of an alehouse in Yhaunn in Sembia. The alehouse, by the way, was fireballed fifty years ago by a wizard because their symbol happened to be his sigil. He claimed the exclusive right to use it. He was a pompous northerner known as Zrie Prakis.”
“I knew some fell wizard had to be involved,” muttered Alias.
Akabar held up a finger to continue. “Prakis protected his mark religiously, seeking out any others who used it and destroying those who would not give it up. It’s a mark of his success that the symbol is now considered unlucky among many taverns, silversmiths, and artists. However, Zrie Prakis was supposed to have died in a magical battle some forty years ago, somewhere near Westgate.”
Alias nodded, remembering how the sigil had blazed from the monster’s chest.
“Anyway,” Akabar concluded, “Master Dimswart got a cleric to do a divination for him. The exact question was: Does Zrie Prakis, whose symbol was the triple rings, still live? The answer was: No.”
“Well, I’m not a work of art or a silver dinner service,” Alias said. “That leaves me branded by a defunct pirate gang or an alehouse. Neither very likely candidates.”
Akabar, though tempted, did not disagree with her about the alehouse. He held up the next copper plate engraved with the insect leg-shaped squiggle. “The sorceress who destroyed Zrie Prakis was named Cassana of Westgate. This happens to be her sigil. To the best of Dimswart’s knowledge, Cassana still makes her abode in Westgate. She’s reputed to be fairly powerful, but she’s extremely reclusive. No one’s seen her for years. She’s not dead, but she must be getting on in years.”
“Maybe this Prakis fellow had an apprentice,” Olive suggested. “The apprentice is greedy for power, see, and he teams up with his master’s enemy, this Cassana, and tells her how to defeat him. Then, when Cassana kills Prakis, the apprentice takes his master’s sigil.”
Akabar’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Your expertise on the workings of betrayal is quite interesting.”
Olive smiled sweetly. “Over the years I’ve made a study of all the evil you humans perpetrate on one another.”
Alias’s head began to throb. Anxious to get this discussion over with, she pulled out the next copper plate, but the writing blurred before her eyes. She held the plate up to Akabar. “What about this mouth in the hand?” she asked.
“Dimswart found this most curious,” answered the mage, running his fingers along the engraved fangs in the mouth. “This is a holy symbol—or the unholy symbol, rather—of a cult that has been dead for a thousand years or more. They worshipped Moander the Darkbringer. He, she, or it—the texts keep changing the pronoun over time—had a huge temple complex in the days of Myth Drannor, the elven kingdom, and was a continual menace to the forest peoples. Eventually, the elves burned the complex to the ground, slaying all its priests and banishing the god-thing from the Realms.
“The town of Yulash was built on the site of the complex, but Yulash has itself long since been turned to rubble. Hillsfar and Zhentil Keep are continually battling over its strategic location. Dimswart gave me the name of another sage who may know more, but he warned me that getting an appointment with this person may prove to be a problem.”
Alias held up the last copper plate. The blue upon blue bull’s-eye was represented on sheet metal by three concentric rings, its deepening shades of color not represented at all, but described in the upper right hand corner. Nothing was written below the sigil. Alias looked up at Akabar, her eyebrows raised.
The mage shifted nervously. “Dimswart has seen naught like this in his travels or his books. He thinks it’s something new, perhaps an up-and-coming power. Note that the two magic-user’s sigils are grouped together, but this sigil follows the marking of a dead and banished god.”
“So Dimswart thinks it may be another cult,” said Alias. She picked up her now empty mug and stared into it. The halfling studied the ceiling beams.
“Actually, that was my own observation,” Akabar replied. “Balancing the sigils seemed logical to me, but …”
“But we may not be dealing with balanced or logical people,” Alias concluded for him.
Akabar nodded. “The evidence that the Fire Knives are involved is pretty incontrovertible. The attack of the summoned earth elemental would seem to indicate that some mage is definitely at work here as well. The pattern circling the symbols is common throughout nations of the Inner Sea, symbolizing unions or contracts. Ivy and rose vines are generally used for weddings, dragons for royal charters …”
“Serpents for evil pacts,” Alias added in reference to the serpentine pattern that wound around the runes on her arm.
“What about the sixth party?” Olive asked.
“What sixth party?” Akabar demanded.
Alias held out her arm, wondering herself what Olive was talking about.
The bard pointed to the swordswoman’s wrist, where the serpentine pattern that linked the five sigils wound about an empty space.
“There’s nothing there, you fool,” Akabar snorted.
“Not yet, there isn’t,” Olive said. “Maybe Alias escaped before they got around to adding it, or maybe they’re waiting for a sixth member to pay up their dues. Maybe a sigil’s going to grow there.”
Alias shivered and curled her arms back around her knees.
Akabar tried giving the bard a kick on the ankle to shut her up, but the little woman’s feet swung too far off the floor for him to reach.
“As much as I’d hate to slander a patron,” Olive continued, “I think you need better advice than Dimswart’s given you.”
Alias was inclined to agree. “Where’d this other sage live, the one Dimswart recommended?” she asked Akabar.
“Shadowdale. That’s rather far off though,” the mage pointed out. “It would be simpler to investigate Westgate first.”
The barkeep came to their table and wordlessly unloaded a platter of sandwiches and fresh drinks.
“Shadowdale is on the way to Yulash,” Alias said.
“But it makes more sense to head for Westgate,” Akabar argued. “The Fire—” he looked up at the barkeep “—two of the five guilty parties work out of Westgate. Another one died there.” He smiled at the barkeep. “Thank you. That should do nicely for some time,” he said, dismissing the man. “We can reach Westgate by ship in two or three days. If we can discover nothing there, then a trek to the north would make more sense.”
Alias remained silent, feeling nauseated at the sight of food. With a last paternal glance toward the swordswoman, the barkeep left the table and returned to his other duties.
Olive picked up the five copper plates and began idly shuffling them. Her little hands moved the pieces with amazing dexterity.
Annoyed, Akabar reached over and lifted the sigil engravings from the halfling’s palm. He rewrapped and tied them and handed the bundle to Alias. “So, shall I arrange passage for the morning?”
“I’m almost positive I came to Suzail by boat,” she mused.
“By ship,” Akabar corrected.
“Couldn’t we travel to High Horn and circle around the Lake of Dragons?” Olive suggested. “The roads to Westgate are pretty good.”
Akabar remembered the little woman had claimed to dislike sea journeys.
“We’re going to Yulash,” Alias said quietly.
“What?” both the bard and the mage demanded in unison.
“Suppose I came to Suzail from Westgate,” Alias whispered, “fleeing from whoever did this to me—the Fire Knives or this Cassana person. Instinct tells me to avoid Westgate. I don’t know why—I can’t remember. Maybe I was there and tried taking care of someone else the Fire Knives don’t care for—then I could be wanted by the law, as well as by the underworld. Besides, I don’t want to take on two enemies at once. I’ve already waltzed into one dragon’s lair this month. I don’t intend to do it again for at least another year. In Yulash, as far as we know, I have only one enemy. Also, this master sage you mentioned is on the road to Yulash. We may get more information from him.”
“But the temple in Yulash is destroyed,” Akabar objected. “Yulash is in the hands of the Zhentarim, and they’re not … decent people. It is too dangerous.”
Alias frowned. “Look, Akash, whose quest is this, anyway? You want to accompany me, you can come with me to Yulash. If you’re afraid, you can go to Westgate without me, or better yet, just go home and forget about me.”
> Akabar colored. Whether he was more angry that Alias would not take his sage counsel or embarrassed that his honor and courage had been called into question, Olive could not tell for sure. She chimed in, “If this sage in Shadowdale can help, we may not even have to go to Yulash.”
Alias turned to glare at the halfling. “I’m going to Yulash,” she hissed. “I leave in the morning!” With that, she rose from the table, staggered two feet, and passed out on the wooden floor.
“Better make that late morning,” Akabar sighed. He rose to settle accounts with the barkeep while Dragonbait and Ruskettle hauled the fallen warrior to her room.
Trek Through Cormyr
It was almost noon when the party left Suzail. Akabar had spent the morning purchasing supplies. His was the easy job.
Olive and Dragonbait had the dubious honor of tumbling Alias out of bed so she could lead them to Yulash. The swordswoman cursed them both feebly. When they finally got her to sit, she threw up. Finally, they got her cleaned up and dressed. She moaned all the while and wept some, too.
“To hear her complain,” Olive sniffed, “you’d think she was a fifteen-year-old debutante suffering from her first drunk. Is she always like this?” she asked Dragonbait.
The lizard made no sound or gesture in reply.
The halfling looked about the room for another bottle of liquor. According to the barkeep, the swordswoman had had only two mugs of mead. Granted, it was good, potent stuff and the barkeep’s mugs were a generous size, but that couldn’t possibly be enough to leave a seasoned warrior so incapacitated, Olive decided. Yet, there was no sign of alcohol in any of Alias’s belongings.
Olive remembered her aunt who would go into a crying jag after a single glass of wine. It wasn’t the booze, her mother had explained to her, it was the feeling in her heart when she drank. The halfling wondered how anyone could be so depressed. Alias had her health, gold in her purse, she wasn’t love-struck over anyone, and this afternoon she’d be three steps ahead of the law on open road. Who could ask for more? Humans! Go figure. Olive sighed and ran a cool, damp rag about Alias’s face.