Song of the Saurials Page 20

Alias handed a sweat scraper to the ranger.

  As Breck began cleaning off Alias’s horse he said, “I’m sorry I accused you of helping Zhara escape.”

  Alias shrugged. “You didn’t know how I felt about her.”

  “You didn’t like her even before you knew she was your—um—one of your look-alikes, did you?” Breck asked.

  “No, I didn’t,” Alias said.

  “You know, she doesn’t seem all that bad. Uh … she’s loyal to her husband at least,” Breck said.

  “Hmph!” Alias snorted. “She’s just a good actress,” the swordswoman replied spitefully.

  “Dragonbait seems to like her.”

  “Dragonbait is a fool,” Alias snarled.

  Startled by the swordswoman’s vehemence, Breck didn’t reply. Alias finished grooming Breck’s horse in silence. Then she pulled her saddlebags off her saddle and walked away to another tree at the edge of the clearing. She sat down beneath the tree and began to remove her armor.

  When Breck finished grooming Alias’s horse, he strolled over to the cooking fire. Dragonbait and Zhara had made up a delicious-looking stew from the rations and some wild herbs the saurial had collected along the trek. The saurial signed something to Zhara.

  “Dragonbait wants you to take a bowl to Alias.” Zhara explained to the ranger.

  “Uh, sure,” Breck said. “Does she usually stay angry with you for a long time?” he asked.

  Dragonbait signed something for Zhara to translate.

  “She’s never been angry at him before,” Zhara said.

  “Great,” the ranger muttered. “As if we didn’t have enough problems with this hunt.” He carried some bread and a bowl of stew for himself and one for the swordswoman over to the edge of the clearing, where Alias sat polishing her sword.

  Alias looked up when the ranger approached. “I’m not hungry,” she said.

  “You’ve got to eat,” Breck insisted squatting down beside her.

  “What’s the point?” Alias asked.

  “The point!” the ranger exclaimed. “The point is that you promised Lord Mourngrym you’d help me bring Akabar and Grypht back to the tower, which you can’t do if you fall off your horse from hunger. And if keeping your word to Mourngrym isn’t enough, remember, Grypht knows where Nameless is. I thought you wanted to find Nameless.”

  “I do,” Alias said, a spark of hope in her voice once more.

  “Then eat your dinner,” Breck said.

  Alias took the bowl from Breck.

  “Mind if I join you?” Breck asked.

  “Suit yourself,” Alias said. “I’m afraid I’m not very good company just now, though.”

  “Neither am I, so we should get along just fine,” Breck retorted, tearing the hunk of bread in half and tossing her a piece.”

  Alias grinned ruefully.

  “I never did hear what you had to say about Nameless,” the ranger said.

  “I don’t know what I was going to say,” Alias admitted. She scooped up a mouthful of stew. When she was finished chewing and swallowing, she asked, “What do you want to know about him?”

  “Do you love him?” Breck asked.

  “He’s my father” Alias answered, as if that explained everything.

  “But do you love him?” Breck asked again.

  “He made me everything I am,” the swordswoman said. “I owe him my life.”

  Breck took a mouthful of stew.

  “I told Morala I loved him,” Alias continued. She tried to convince me I shouldn’t. You’re not going to try to do that, too, are you?”

  “I don’t know Nameless well enough,” Breck said, shaking his head. Privately the ranger wondered what game Morala had been playing. “Were those his songs you were singing last night at The Old Skull?” he asked.

  “Mostly,” Alias replied.

  Breck waited until she’d sopped up the last bit of gravy from her bowl with the remaining bread, then asked, “Would you sing that song about the nymph again—for me?”

  Alias looked down at the ground, hiding her look of uncertainty and fear. She wanted Breck to admire Nameless’s work. The song about the nymph would sound so natural out here in the forest. She had to risk singing the song, even if its meaning became twisted. “Of course,” she said to Breck with an unsteady smile.

  Alias set her bowl down and cleared her throat with a sip of water. With a hostile glance toward the sky, she directed an impromptu petition to the gods: I already know about Moander, and I want to help Nameless, so please don’t ruin this song.

  In the peaceful forest surroundings, Alias began singing, far more softly than she had been able to back in Jhaele’s noisy tavern. She began the song with a series of wordless siren calls, then sang the first lyrics: “ ‘Dappled sunlight dances around a foxglove spike, then transforms into a vision both warm and womanlike.’ ”

  Breck leaned back against a tree and closed his eyes.

  Alias’s eyes wandered around the moonlit clearing, imagining the sun on the golden-leafed trees and the bright berries and wild flowers. She sang the song through without a hitch. When she was finished, she glanced at Breck to see if he was pleased.

  The ranger’s cheeks were tear-streaked. He opened his eyes and looked at Alias with a hint of embarrassment. “I’m … I’m sorry,” he said. “It makes me think of Kyre.” He dabbed his eyes hastily with his sleeve. “I’ll take first watch. You’d better get some sleep.”

  Alias nodded wordlessly, and Breck moved away to another spot by the clearing’s edge.

  All he could think about was Kyre, Alias realized in frustration. He wasn’t interested in Nameless. She punched her saddlebag angrily. No one cares about Nameless except me. She wrapped her cloak tightly around herself and laid her head down on the saddlebags. And no one cares about me, except Nameless.

  Akabar and his fiend-spawn wife can go chasing after Moander, if they want, and Dragonbait can go with them, for all I care. But once I find Grypht and make him give me the finder’s stone, I’m going to search for my father.

  Olive bandaged, by herself, the wound the beholder had inflicted upon her. She was still too angry with the bard to accept any help from him. She felt betrayed by his declaration that he intended to deal with Xaran. She had expected him to have too much self-respect to deal with such a creature. After informing him curtly that Flattery had looted the workshop and left behind a death trap for him, she’d stalked off to a corner to steam in silence.

  Finder appeared not to notice the halfling’s anger. He began feverishly turning his workshop upside down, looking for something, anything, that he could use against the orcs. He’d been unable to get the other door leading out of the workshop to open, so now their only way out lay beyond the orcs. Unfortunately, Finder’s search bore precious few results. Flattery had either known or discovered every last hiding place his maker had, for he had taken everything but Finder’s musical instruments. Those he had tossed carelessly in a corner and apparently fireballed them. Only one instrument, a brass horn, survived the blast unscathed.

  Finder pulled the horn out of the pile of charred yartings, melted flutes, and cracked harps and brushed it off carefully.

  “Not completely stingy with your luck today, are you, Tymora?” the bard muttered.

  Olive, too curious to remain silent, asked hopefully, “Is that horn magical?”

  “Why don’t you try it and find out for yourself, Olive?” Finder suggested, handing her the instrument.

  Olive needed both hands to hold the heavy brass horn up to her lips. She puffed out her cheeks and blew with all her might, but without results. “My mouth is too small,” she said, handing the horn back to the bard.

  “Astonishing, considering the amount of noise that manages to come out of it,” Finder said, straight-faced. He held the horn up to his own lips and blew a hunting flourish, then a military call to arms. Finally he fastened the horn to his belt, like a weapon.

  “Well? Is it magic?” Olive asked again.
r />   Finder nodded.

  “What does it do?”

  “With the right command words, it will bring down the house,” the bard replied, “literally.”

  “Considering that orc audiences aren’t particularly noted for their appreciation of music,” Olive said, “that could be useful.”

  Finder bent back over the pile of destroyed musical instruments. He pulled out a harp. Its wooden frame was broken and charred, and the strings were all snapped and frayed. He slid open a tiny secret compartment in the harp’s base. “Did I leave something in—Aha!” the bard exclaimed as something small and glittering dropped into his hand. “Here, Olive. You should wear this,” he said and held out an earring.

  Without taking it, Olive eyed the piece of jewelry appraisingly. From the wire ear loop hung a platinum pendant set with a brilliant white diamond, which the halfling estimated must weigh more than a carat. The workmanship was obviously elvish and very beautiful. “A little fancy for entertaining orcs, isn’t it?” she asked, trying to resist her desire to accept the gift.

  Finder sat down beside her. He removed the tiny gold loop earring she already wore and slipped the wire loop of the diamond earring into the pierced hole in her earlobe. He flicked at the diamond pendant to set it swaying. “Olive,” he asked suddenly, “do you speak any elvish?”

  “Not really,” Olive answered, shaking her head. In spite of her anger with Finder, she couldn’t help but be delighted by the feel of the tiny pendant bumping against her neck. “Except some numbers and a few words—for trading.”

  “The elves have a saying: ‘May you hear as clear as a diamond.’ How’s your hearing, Olive?”

  Olive looked at Finder with a touch of confusion. Then it dawned on her. “You’re speaking elvish!” she exclaimed. “I understood you perfectly! The earring’s magic, too!”

  Finder nodded. “You should be able to understand most of the languages of the Realms with it,” he explained. “Still angry at me?”

  “I should be,” Olive said haughtily.

  “I know. But are you?” he asked.

  Olive sighed and shook her head from side to side.

  Finder smiled and took a gulp of water from Olive’s water flask. “Olive,” he began, “is that all Flattery’s image said—that he cleaned out the lab, and I should be dead?”

  “That was it,” Olive lied. “Then he sent the spokes of disintegration around the room and cropped off my hair.”

  Finder ran a finger along the strip of soft, auburn fuzz that was all that was left of Olive’s hair on the crown of her head. “I suppose being short has its advantages,” the bard joked feebly.

  Olive sniffed. “So does crawling around on your belly, but its not very dignified,” she said.

  “Olive, will you give it a rest?” the bard growled. “We haven’t any choice but to deal with Xaran.”

  “No, I will not,” Olive replied, stamping her foot. Her anger returned instantly. She couldn’t allow herself to be bribed by diamonds, magic or not. “You cannot make a deal with a beholder,” she told Finder. “Didn’t you learn anything after Cassana and Phalse left you to rot in Cassana’s dungeon?”

  “Olive, we are not exactly negotiating from a position of strength,” the bard said, indicating the empty room with a wave of his hand. “We haven’t even got a potion of healing for your shoulder.”

  “You didn’t know that before, when you started dealing with Xaran,” Olive accused him.

  “Immortality is nothing to sneeze at,” Finder said angrily.

  “Fine!” Olive snapped. “Swallow it whole. I hope you choke on it.”

  “Oh, for—” Finder broke off and sighed. “By now, immortality is a negotiating point I’ll probably have to relinquish. There’s nothing here I can offer him, and I have no intention of spending another year building simulacrums for evil monsters.”

  “So you’re going to sell out Akabar just so you can get out of here alive?” Olive asked.

  “So we can get out of here, Olive,” Finder said.

  “I’ll make my deals with a dagger,” the halfling said.

  “My, but haven’t you gotten proud and brave in the past year?” Finder said sarcastically.

  “I had a good teacher,” Olive sputtered. “At least, I thought I did.”

  The side of Finder’s face twitched as if he’d been slapped. He grabbed the halfling by her shoulders and pulled her close so their faces were only inches apart. Olive flinched from the pain in her wounded shoulder, but didn’t say a word.

  “Listen to me, Olive Ruskettle,” Finder demanded. “There is no dishonor in surviving. You may manage to kill a few orcs, but they’ll get you in the end. They won’t kill you right away, though. Oh, no. You’re an attractive female, and the fact that you’re small won’t protect you one bit. They’ll find that all the more amusing. You know what sort of monsters they are.”

  Olive shuddered and the blood drained from her face, but she wouldn’t concede. “I won’t let you betray Akabar,” she said, holding back a sob. “Xaran must have some way to make sure you don’t cheat on any deal you make. Suppose he charms you with one of his magic eyes? Then you won’t have much of a choice.”

  “I doubt Xaran’s enchantments would have any power over me,” Finder said.

  “Xaran could put a magic choking collar around you in case you didn’t come back, or send a party of orcs to escort us, or use me for a hostage.”

  “I won’t leave here without you, and whatever guarantees Xaran decides to use, we’ll find a way around them,” Finder assured her. “Besides, Xaran only said he wanted something Akabar had, not that he wanted to kill him. Suppose Akabar wants to sell this thing, whatever it is, to Xaran. Hmm?”

  “Akabar is a cloth merchant. What’s a beholder going to do with cloth? Hang curtains in the orcs’ warren?” Olive asked with sarcasm.

  Finder released Olive’s shoulders and tugged playfully at the diamond earring. “You are such a stubborn woman,” he said. “Trust me. I’m going to get us out of here alive, and I won’t let anything happen to Akabar, but I need your help.”

  Olive looked up into the bard’s blue eyes. She felt like a moth drawn to a candle. She was probably always going to end up being drawn into Finder’s schemes—at least, until she got burned in one of them, like a moth in a candle flame.

  “Here,” she said, handing him his dagger. “I found it in the tunnels. You may need it.”

  Finder’s face lit up at the sight of the heirloom weapon. “You really are my little Lady Luck, aren’t you?” he said, taking the weapon.

  “Maybe that’s why you have so little luck,” Olive bantered.

  “When you have talent like mine,” the bard boasted, “a little luck is all you need.”

  Olive shook her head disapprovingly. “Let’s just get this little tea party over with,” she muttered.

  Finder removed a light stone from the wall and gave it to the halfling to hold. He held his dagger out in his right hand and took up Olive’s free hand in his left. “Stay close,” he ordered, leading her to the door.

  You’re so bright, what moth could resist? Olive thought ruefully.

  Finder traced the treble clef symbol with his finger. The door opened inward a foot. The orcs in the corridor immediately begain to shriek and holler. Finder jerked Olive through the door and whistled three notes. The door slammed shut behind them.

  Six especially large orcs with loaded crossbows blocked their way. There must have been at least another twenty sitting in the corridor beyond. The monsters squinted in the light of the stone Olive held up, but they could obviously see well enough to shoot at the human and the halfling.

  Undaunted by the numbers of the enemy, Finder took charge immediately. In a fighting stance, with his dagger flashing in the light, he snarled at the assembled orcs.

  “Take us to Xaran!” he ordered.

  The orcs growled. The largest one snarled at Finder in common, “Throw down your weapons—and that light, too.�
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  Finder stepped close to the orc who had spoken. Ignoring the crossbow bolt pointed at his belly, he snarled back, “You will take us to Xaran as we are, or I will see that Xaran punishes you for your insolence.”

  The monster cursed in orcish. Olive, wearing the magic earring, understood the words clearly, though she wished she hadn’t. The large orc turned his back on Finder and walked down the corridor. Finder followed behind, close enough to smell the stench of the creature’s clothing as he pulled Olive behind him.

  Some of the orcs ran ahead and disappeared through the gap in the corridor wall, dashing down the tunnel beyond to alert the rest of their tribe. Most of the orcs waited for their leader and the prisoner to pass, then they stood up and followed. Olive could see them pointing at her and hear them whispering foul words and feel their eyes on her.

  Just before they stepped through the gap in the wall, another especially large orc blocked the leader’s path and said in orcish. “Xaran is only interested in the bard. We were promised any treasure he brought out of the magic room. By rights, the little one is ours.” The other orcs rumbled approvingly.

  The leader of the orcs turned to Finder. “My brother is right. Xaran is interested in only you. Leave the halfling behind,” he ordered.

  Olive suddenly remembered what it was like to be her old, terrified self again. She clung to Finder’s hand but did her best not to whimper.

  Finder looked over both the leader orc and his brother with obvious disdain. “She’s mine,” he said.

  “Xaran does not care about the halfling,” the leader said. “He will not punish us if we do not bring her.”

  “But I will,” Finder barked in orcish. “Slowly,” he added threateningly.

  The leader orc snarled, but he turned and led them on. His brother eyed Finder with hostility. Finder returned the look with an even fiercer one, an undisguised hatred that startled the orc into stepping backward.

  Finder squeezed through the gap in the wall, pulling Olive after him, and they made their way down the tunnel beyond to the orcs’ warren.

  Dragonbait started awake at Breck’s touch on his shoulder. The ranger looked deeply disturbed. The saurial chirped quizzically.