3. A Sojourn in Peltarch

A Sojourn in Peltarch


  • Foreword

    The following story is set in the city of Peltarch, and quite obviously, inspired by the Narfell campaign setting. That having been said, please bear in mind that the characters and plot contained within this tale are not intended to be continuous with canonical plot lines for the server. There are no PCs in this story, except perhaps for the rare cameo. And inconsistencies with the “real” Peltarch are not my goal, but they are to be expected. The bottom line is that the content of this story has no bearing on any of the events occurring in game or elsewhere on this forum.

    These remarks aside, my first and only ambition is that anyone who happens to read this story will be entertained. This work has been created first and foremost for my own enjoyment in writing. I share it here in the hope that someone may have a corresponding if not equal enjoyment in reading.


  • Chapter 11: Dinner at the Chandlery

    The Uthbanen Chandlery was in a shabby part of old Peltarch, where low tradesmen sold their wares and kept their shops. It was not quite the slums, but not quite the Commerce district either, occupying instead a kind of dreary middle realm between poverty and respectability.

    Aldous made his way toward the chandlery in the twilight hours of the evening. The streets in the Docks district were narrow and winding, an easy place for the casual visitor to wander astray, but Lenkas had given him explicit directions and had marked the chandlery door by hanging a bright lantern outside. Aldous found the place easily enough. He carried a wicker basket on one arm and a long parcel under the other. The parcel was wrapped in dark oil cloth and tied with blue yarn.

    Aldous approached the door to the chandlery. He tucked the parcel under his opposite arm, freeing up one hand, and knocked.

    The door rattled momentarily and a deadbolt snapped open inside the wooden frame. The door swung free to reveal a middle aged man in a brown smock and wax-stained apron. Aldous immediately marked him as Lenkas’ father; the resemblance was unmistakable.

    “Good evening, Master Uthbanen,” Aldous bowed low, balancing his various encumbrances with practiced grace.

    “Good evening, my lord, and welcome to the house Uthbanen,” said Master Uthbanen. “Please come in. Lenkas is upstairs in the kitchen.”

    Aldous had long since given up correcting people concerning his social standing. For some reason, the denizens of Peltarch had a tendency to address a man as “lord” simply because he wore clean boots and a well-laced shirt. He had decided the cause was a lack of formal nobility in Peltarch society. Instead, wealth served as a proxy for high birth. From the point of view of the common man, it was better to err on the side of caution than to risk offending someone important, so any gentleman with the appearance of breeding was automatically addressed as “mi’lord”.

    Master Uthbanen ushered him inside the chandlery, which smelled strongly of beeswax and tallow, pleasant in a homespun way. The place was of course well illuminated by candlelight.

    “Our living quarters are up the stairs in the back, mi’lord,” said Master Uthbanen, securing the door. “Go on ahead and I’ll be right behind you. I’ll need to tidy up down here a moment and blow out the candles.” He directed Aldous toward the rear of the building.

    Upstairs Aldous found Lenkas and his mother in the kitchen, busily preparing dinner. They worked at a short counter, Lenkas cleaning fish and his mother stirring a cast-iron pot. Their backs were to him, and they did not notice his arrival.

    “Margaret, the young lord is here!” The elder Uthbanen called from downstairs.

    The older woman looked over her shoulder and started.

    “Oh, mi’lord, I did na’ see you there!” She turned and laid her wooden spoon in a clay rest on the counter.

    Lenkas glanced briefly at Aldous and made a quick wave before turning back to his work at the counter.

    Lady Uthbanen dried her hands on a nearby dishcloth and then approached to greet Aldous. She gave a credible if wobbly curtsy and smiled charmingly. Aldous bowed again, once more balancing the basket and parcel while somehow managing to make a graceful obeisance.

    “Oh, let me take those, my dear.” Lady Uthbanen rushed forward and caught the handle of the basket. Then she colored, “I mean, mi’lord.”

    Aldous smiled and gave her the basket. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Mistress Uthbanen. Please call me Aldous.”

    She hefted the basket. “My dear, this is quite heavy. What in the Realms have you brought us?” She placed the basket on the counter and smoothed her apron once more.

    Aldous smiled again, and was about to speak when Mr. Uthbanen arrived at the top of the stairs.

    “Gods, Margaret, take the man’s cloak,” he grumped. He held out one hand, and Aldous handed him the parcel.

    “You can just lean that in the corner, Master Uthbanen,” he said.

    Margaret hustled to help Aldous with his cloak, lifting the heavy wool garment from his shoulders and hanging it on a hook by the stairs. Aldous unbuckled his sword belt with his rapier and boltcaster, and hung these on a free hook as well.

    “There’s a fine bottle of port in the basket,” offered Aldous. “I also brought a wheel of dry Norwick cheese, and two bottles of Rawlins wine.”

    “Very kind of you, mi’lord,” said Master Uthbanen.

    “Please, call me Aldous. Your son and I are good friends. ”

    The older man nodded and scratched his chin. “Very kind of you, mi’ . . . Aldous. Very kind. In that case call me Lerris. And please make yourself comfortable. Why don’t you take a seat in the rocker over by the hearth?”

    He gestured to the sitting room, which featured a few wooden chairs and a small hearth with a charcoal fireplace. Aldous looked around and was surprised at how diminutive the Uthbanen household seemed. Most essential facilities were crowded into one room, including kitchen, dining area, and hearth. Furnishings consisted of small stick furniture and threadbare cushions.

    Aldous moved into the sitting room and took the offered rocking chair, which was surprisingly comfortable if somewhat petite for his tall frame.

    “Where are the girls?” he asked.

    Margaret and Lerris glanced at one another. “The girls are in their room,” said Margaret. “We did na’ want them to cause a disturbance this eve.”

    “Not at all,” said Aldous. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting them.”

    “Be careful what you wish for,” said Lerris, pulling up his chair across from Aldous by the fire. “They’re a handful. Two handfuls, in fact.”

    Aldous chuckled. “So I’ve heard,” he said.

    “They’ll join us for dinner,” said Margaret. “Until then, they’ve got to work at their lessons. Lenkas has been teaching them to scribe.”

    “Is that so?” Aldous arched a brow. “Two more recruits for the college?”

    “It pays better than chandlery,” said Lerris. He took an iron poker from beside the fireplace and stirred at the coals. “And ‘tis a better life. Nothing against having an honest trade like waxwork. Just want something better for the girls.”

    “How are they coming along?” asked Aldous.

    “Credibly well,” called Lenkas from the kitchen.

    The elder Uthbanen shook his head. “Not so well as Lenkas, I’m afraid. You know our boy taught himself to read? Then he set his mind to learn writing.” He shook his head. “There was no stopping him.”

    Aldous nodded. “Lenkas has one of the best minds I’ve ever seen,” he said, then turned back to the kitchen. “Margaret, there’s a delicious bottle of red in the basket. Would you like my help in getting it open?”

    “Got it,” said Lenkas, lifting the lid on the basket and removing two bottles. He held up each bottle and checked the label. “The Phoenix Zalish? Seventeen years old?”

    “That’s the one,” said Aldous. He turned back to Lerris. “You are in for a treat, Lerris. This is one of my favorites wines from this region. Have you ever tried it?”

    Lerris gave him a sidelong look and a smirk. “I don’t rightly recall,” he said. “Not much of a wine drinker, myself.”

    “You’re right fond of the ale,” called Margaret from the kitchen.

    “How’s the chandlery business, sir?” asked Aldous.

    “Surprisingly good,” said Lerris. “There’s always a need for candles, ‘specially during the winter when the nights run longer. The temples use a good bit of wax, and I get a regular call for special orders from the Enchanter’s Guild. Special recipes with special ingredients blended into the wax. Last week, I made a single half-pillar with diamond powder mixed in. The customer paid the cost of the diamond of course, and that one candle paid for my whole month’s expenses.”

    “That’s a good customer,” said Aldous. “Are you the sole supplier?”

    Lerris waved a hand dismissively. “They buy from all over the city, and it’s rarely the same fellow twice that places the order. Hard to build up a relationship that way. Luck of the draw when they chose my shop. I’m hoping Lenkas can get me in with the college, though.”

    Lenkas came over with wood goblets in hand, each filled with the Zalish wine. Aldous took a sip and found it to his liking. He watched Lerris take a tentative drink from his goblet. The man’s eyebrows shot up and he lifted his head, eyes glazing momentarily, mouth forming into a soft smile.

    “Now that’s right fine,” he said. “That’s right fine indeed.” He looked down at his glass. “This must have cost you a fortune, boy. Lenkas can’t afford this, unless he’s making more then he lets on.”

    Aldous grinned. “I have a few connections,” he said. “I just wanted to demonstrate my appreciation for all of the support Lenkas has shown me over the past few months at the College. He is an excellent scribe, and he knows his way around the library like a . . . uh . . . like a librarian, really.”

    “Isn’t that what he is?” asked Lerris.

    “Not exactly,” explained Aldous. “Lerris and I are scribes.”

    “Right, a scribe,” said Lerris. “Same thing right?”

    “Well, the two roles are related,” said Aldous. “The libraries keep the collection of books, whereas we scribes are responsible for making new copies of books from the collection. So, we actually have limited access to the stacks . . . the, uh, the area where the books are kept. Lenkas is a journeyman scribe. I’m just an apprentice. So he has access to the first two levels of the stacks, whereas I am still waiting for promotion.”

    “So Lenkas is your boss?” asked Lerris in a low voice.

    Aldous raised a brow. “I hadn’t really . . . I . . . I’m afraid so,” he chuckled.

    Lerris smirked at that. “Boy!” he called to Lenkas. “You need to give this one a promotion.” He raised his goblet of wine in the air.

    Lenkas gave them a quizzical look from where he stood in the kitchen, and Aldous spread his hands and shrugged innocently.

    Dinner was served shortly thereafter, and the girls, identical twins at seven years of age, were released from their incarceration. They were all energy and giggles and were full of questions about Aldous and his fancy boots and cuff links. They were surprisingly well behaved, however, once seated at the table.

    Dinner conversation remained fairly pedestrian. Aldous and Lerris continued their discussion of the chandlery business, and Aldous learned more than he wanted regarding the politics of the candle-making guild and the daily aches of pains of working in the shop. The food was credible; a spicy fish stew and plain, steamed wheat berries and leeks on the side. Margaret served the Norwick cheese from the basket, which paired remarkably well with the stew. Soon the whole family was positively glowing from the rich meal. The bowls gradually emptied and the conversation eventually began winding down.

    “Well, there’s a little something I wanted to do tonight,” said Aldous, taking advantage of a lull in the discussion. “As you all know, Lenkas has been a great help to me. He has guided me through my first few months at the scriptorium. He lifted me up when I was down. He inspired me when I was exhausted. He taught me how to make it through the afternoon when I could barely hold myself awake at my desk.”

    Master and Mistress Uthbanen studied their son with affectionate pride, and the twins beamed at him.

    Aldous turned to one of the girls. “Alie, could you fetch the present that’s over in the corner?” he asked.

    The girl’s eyes grew big and she shot a glance at her mother.

    “Go ahead,” her mother prompted. “Do as your guest asks.”

    The girl stood from the table and went and retrieved the gift from where it stood in the corner, her eyes wide.

    Aldous pointed. “Give it to Lenkas,” he said.

    Alie handed off the parcel and bounced back to her seat, while Lenkas hefted the gift in his hands.

    “Go ahead and open it,” said Aldous.

    Lenkas untied the blue yarn and slowly unwound the oilcloth wrapper. It was a rapier with a glittering steel guard and hilt, sheathed in a serviceable wood-and-leather scabbard. Lenkas held the sword awkwardly.

    “It’s . . . amazing,” he said. “This is a very generous gift.”

    “’Tis beautiful,” said Margaret. “The hilt is gorgeous. ‘Tis the finest thing we own.”

    Lerris had a skeptical look, but his response was polite. “’Tis a very nice gesture, young lord,” he said. “We are honored by your kindness to our house.”

    “Now, I know Lenkas doesn’t know how to fence,” said Aldous. “But . . . that’s the other part of the gift. Lenkas, I’m getting you lessons at the club.”

    Lenkas raised a brow. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I remember you had a difficult time getting in . . .”

    “I’ve pulled some strings,” said Aldous. “We’ll talk about that later.” He held out one hand. “Here, I’ll show you something.”

    Lenkas passed the rapier across the table, and Aldous pulled on the handle, exposing a foot of sharpened steel.

    “This is a not a practice foil,” he said. “It’s a gentleman’s blade, to be carried in the city streets for self-defense, and let’s be honest, public image.” He smiled at that, though none of the family smiled back. They seemed bewildered at the sight of the blade.

    “This blade is almost an exact copy of my own, so it has a Cormyrian style hilt, although the maker’s mark on the pommel is from right here in Peltarch. The scabbard is ironwood wrapped in leather, and capped with steel at either end. The hilt looks silver, but it’s actually brushed steel. It won’t tarnish like silver, and but it will nevertheless require the occasional polish.”

    He then pointed to the blade, which had a single shallow fuller. “This edge is a working edge, not too fine for hard use, but sharp enough to draw blood with accidental contact. So handle with care. It will need some occasional maintenance with a hone, but as long you aren’t cutting vegetables with it, you’ll have no trouble keeping it sharp.”

    He slid the blade back into the sheath and handed the sword back to Lenkas.

    “It’s all yours now,” he said. “Oh, and I’ll need to get you a proper sword belt. I’ll have one delivered tomorrow.”

    Lenkas leaned the sword against the wall behind is chair. “That is a princely gift, friend,” he said.

    “And now, for my next trick, something for the girls,” said Aldous. He stood from the table and fetched his cloak from a hook by the door. “Alie and Brie, can you come into the sitting room?”

    “Go ahead,” said Margaret.

    Aldous hunkered down in front of the girls and pulled his cloak across the front of his body. The girls watched with rapt attention.

    Aldous gave them a serious look.

    “Remember, this is not a permanent gift. It has to go home with me at the end of the night. But, you can play with her until I leave. Now, I’m going to say the magic chant. When I pull the cloak away, you are going to see something magical. Do you understand?”

    The girls nodded in unison.

    “Okay, here we go. Abracadabra, primrose and fur, bring me a feline, with the loudest purr!” Aldous lurched to his feet, swept his cloak aside, and stepped back. There, looking disheveled, was a massive gray cat with green eyes. One ear was turned town, and her eyes were narrowed with displeasure.

    The girls screamed with delight while Lenkas and the parents cheered and laughed. Lerris and his wife exchanged looks of wonderment. Within an instant, the girls descended on the cat with arms extended

    “She’s so beautiful! She’s so soft!” Emma submitted to their attentions with an expression of mixed bemusement and irritation.

    You will pay for this indignity, human. The words floated in the back of Aldous’ mind. They were faint, almost impossible to discern, like the vestiges of a dream soon forgotten.

    He turned his attention back to the dinner conversation, and watched the girls out of the corner of his eye. Emma paced around, at first discomfited but nevertheless appreciative, as the girls petted her. Soon she settled by the fire, wallowing in the attention. In a few moments, a loud purr emanated from the sitting area.

    You are forgiven human; they are a suitable tribute. Once again Aldous shook off the errant impression.

    While the girls doted on Emma, Aldous, Lenkas, and the elder Uthbanen conversed well into the night. They discussed the latest news around the city, the recent upheaval in the Senate. Another senator had been killed by an Uthgart assassin, and the city government had announced a state of emergency. The legion had been called up and mobilized and was camped outside the city walls, and rumors were rampant of an impending war against the barbarians.

    All attempts to discover the identity and motives of the assassinations had proven futile. Both assassins had been killed in the attack, and attempts the resurrect them for questioning had been unavailing. For reasons that the clergy could not discern, neither body could not be reanimated. Dark magic was at play, but the Mage’s Guild had detected no enchantment on the assassins or their gear. The Uthbanen family worried that war would put a strain on the city’s economy and resources. They had begun hoarding supplies of grain and tallow and charcoal in their cellar below the chandlery.

    As the hour grew late, Aldous excused himself at last and bid his farewell to the Uthbanen family. He received a solid handshake from Lerris, and a warm hug from Margaret. He tousled the girls’ heads and headed downstairs into to the chandlery. Lenkas grabbed his cloak from a hook and followed Aldous downstairs for a private word.

    Lenkas caught up to Aldous in the dark environs of the chandlery workshop and clapped him on the shoulder.

    “Thanks again, old man. You do realize, however, that the Narfell Fencing Club will never allow entry to a chandler’s son, right?”

    Aldous turned. “Of course, but you will not be a chandler’s son.”

    “I won’t?”

    “Naturally not. You’ll be my cousin from Cormyr, on an extended visit to sew his wild oats in the wild North.”

    “Ah . . . how will that work? My clothes . . .”

    “We’ll find you a suitable costume. We’ll agree on suitable back story, and you’ll need to come up with a fair imitation of my accent.”

    “That nasal sounding drawl? Perish the thought.”

    “That’s your price of entry into high society,” said Aldous.

    “That’s too steep a price, old man,” teased Lenkas.

    Aldous turned to leave, but Lenkas stopped him. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I have some information for you about the figurines.”

    Aldous paused and leaned on a counter near the doorway. Lenkas was little more than a shadow in the candlelight, but a familiar shadow nonetheless.

    “Oh? And you waited all night to tell me?”

    “There really wasn’t an appropriate time until now. It’s something I’ve been working on for the past few weeks, but I wanted to be confident in my results. As you are aware, I’ve been making an exhaustive search of the library stacks. My search hasn’t been entirely in vain.

    “As you might imagine, there are precious few books on Uthgart creative works. I had to get into some of the ancient chronicles of travelers among the primitive tribes. Few authors describe tribal artwork directly, but they mention it in passing. One of the traveling bards actually made a list of different art forms favored by various clans within the overall region.”

    “This seems awfully academic,” said Aldous.

    “It is awfully academic,” said Lenkas, “but it gets interesting. Among the Uthgart clans the favored art forms were cave and hide painting, tattoo work, clay pottery, and stacking stones. Notice anything missing?”

    “I’m not certain,” said Aldous. “Maybe sculpture? Pottery?”

    “I already said pottery.”

    “Right, sculpture then.”

    “Exactly,” said Lenkas. “Sculpture. The Uthgart tribes didn’t make sculptures of the human form. The figurines you’re looking for are purportedly ancient wood carvings, or . . . sculptures . . . done in the likeness of individual people. The Uthgart people didn’t do works like that until the last two millennia when they came under the influence of foreign races.”

    “That seems pretty thin,” said Aldous. “And also, how does this get us any closer to the figurines.”

    “Okay, well there’s another layer here. You’ve been told the figurines are carved in the likeness of individual people. Up until the last few hundred years, Uthgart artists were doing crude, iconic work. It wasn’t until recent times that they ventured into anything resembling realism.”

    “So you’re saying that the figurines are much more recent that my employer believes.”

    “Possibly,” said Lenkas. “But I have another theory. See, the problem with these carvings is that they’re wood. But to this day, the Uthgart sculptures, such as they are, don’t work in wood. They work exclusively in stone. Wood carving has always been considered something childlike and trivial, something for elves and settled men. Stone sculpture, on the other hand, is a warrior’s medium.”

    “One can only imagine what they think of chandlery,” said Aldous.

    “Perhaps that accounts for their barbarism,” countered Lenkas.

    “So what are you getting at?”

    “Well, the native tribes of this region are actually quite diverse. The Uthgart tribe is by far the largest cultural group, but there are other, related clans. Have you ever noticed how the last names of the people here tend to start with the same three letters, ‘U-t-h’?”

    “I had noticed that,” said Aldous. “I never really questioned it. Every place in the world has its common nomenclature.”

    “Well, in this region, ‘uth’ it’s an old word meaning ‘people’. A lot of the native tribes referred to themselves as ‘people’ in their old tongue. So for example, the term ‘Uthgart’ means ‘people of the . . . of the ‘gart’ apparently, whatever that means.”

    Aldous folded his arms. “I know you’re going somewhere,” he said.

    “Well, the Uthgart had a cousin tribe called the Uthnael, who were just about the polar opposite of the Uthgart tribes we know today. Whereas the Uthgart are numerous and warlike and masculine, the Uthnael were few in number and strangely peaceful and oddly feminine in their culture. Whereas the Uthgart are highly social and outwardly focused, the Uthnael were isolationists and were known for being dreamers and shamans.”

    “Alright,” said Aldous. “Two different tribes, very different cultures.”

    “Right,” said Lenkas, “and one other thing. The Uthnael tribe was far more advanced than their Uthgart brethren in the realms of art and magic. Their painting, their sculpture, their iconography . . . all of their creative works were more intricate and detailed than those of their contemporaries. They even had a complex system of phonetic writing. For them, art and magic were intricately connected. They couldn’t separate the two. And listen to this . . . they were master wood carvers.”

    Aldous nodded thoughtfully. “So . . . you believe that the figurines originate from the Uthnael . . .”

    “That’s right,” said Lenkas. “Your employer has been misinformed about their origin all along. Maybe they’re not as important as he believes.”

    “You know something interesting?” said Aldous. “I know some people named Uthnael.”

    “Really?” asked Lenkas. “That’s odd that you say that. In all of my years in Peltarch I’ve never encountered anyone with that last name.”

    “I don’t think it’s particularly common,” said Aldous. “But this is great work, Lenkas. Absolutely capital. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

    “I do try,” said Lenkas.

    “Also, maybe I can use this to keep Johan off my neck. Over the last three months, I have looked under every tile and cobble to locate these figurines, but the trail is cold as ice.”

    “Well, I hope it helps.”

    “I’ll see you tomorrow at the Scriptorium,” said Aldous, and opened the door to leave. He paused on his way out.

    “Start working on that accent,” he said. “The sooner we get you into the Narfell Fencing Club, the sooner your can meet some real live Uthnael barbarians.”

    “Looking forward to it,” said Lenkas.

    Aldous stepped out into the cold winter night and pulled the door closed. Behind him, he heard the deadbolt snap back into place.


  • Upon arrival at the monastery, they requested an audience with the abbot, an elderly, dark skinned woman by the name of Shavana with a voice like fine sandpaper. Shavana had ruled the Order of Querin for as long as any living monk could remember, and none knew her race, nationality, or point of origin. None questioned. Shavana was just Shavana, the heart of the monastery. None could imagine the Order without her.

    The monks were granted their audience, and found her ensconced in her office behind a worn desk in an equally worn chair sipping a rich cup of tea laced with butter and cream and salt. In the corner a brazier burned with coals of incense that filled the room with a smoky scent that was simultaneously sweet and acrid. The three monks entered, and bowed, and Shavana’s attendant brought in three chairs so that all could sit comfortably. The same attendant returned moments later with three mugs cups of the same rich tea and closed the door tight to provide for their privacy. Adelan related the story of Leitha’s confession. When he finished, Shavana fixed him with a look of mock disapproval.

    “You have always been an indispensible member of this monastery, Adelan,” she said, “but you are a terrible monk. I should have known you would bring the eye of the storm right to my doorstep.”

    Adelan bowed his head. “I defer to your wisdom, Mother.”

    “The whole point of monastic life is to withdraw from the commotion of the outside world, not throw yourself into it like a fox into the chicken wire.”

    Adelan kept his eyes on the floor. “You are of course, right, mother. I am far too preoccupied with the distractions of the world.”

    “Well, I do need a few members of the Order like yourself. If nothing else, you keep me from growing old too quickly. What say you, Bother Thormod? What do you think of this?”

    The elder monk took a long, slow sip to tea from his cup. “The girl must be protected,” he said at last. “Not only for her sake, but for the sake of the city. We should bring her to the monastery. She has already put herself in our power through her agreement to abide by our ruling, and she is terrified of prosecution. We could prescribe a long period of atonement, during which she would live here in the women’s cloister.”

    “Hmmm, that seems somewhat severe, brother. Monastic life is not for everybody. This girl does not seem well suited to it. Her blood runs hot, and she has a disobedient streak that overrides her better judgment. Bring her here, and she will be over the walls at the first full moon.”

    Brother Thormod looked uncertain. “Perhaps you are right, mother.”

    “You are the opposite of Adelan, dear. You are a perfect monk. You have attained a rare freedom from earthly desire, and you have forgotten what it’s like to be ruled by your emotions. Perhaps someone more sentimental would provide a more appropriate perspective in this particular case. Sister Hjaldi, what is your view of the girl? What should we do with her?”

    “Well, Mother, I agree that she must be protected, and we must find some way to bring her fully into the embrace of Tyr. However, you are right that she would be miserable here. It would be best if she could stay at home with her father and serve out her penance as time allows.”

    “Which would take decades,” said Thormod. “No offense, sister, but her crimes are grievous. She has stolen legion grade weapons from a city armory. She has aided and abetted a violation of the home of a respected Peltarch citizen, and the theft of an artifact that is presumably of incalculable value, which remains missing by the way and is now in the hands of thieves and murders. And, we must not forget the small incident where she committed a murder.”

    “Was that not in self defense?” asked Shavana.

    “It was not self defense when he lay unconscious and she pushed him off the rooftop.”

    “Was the main ever raised? Do we know what became of him? Did the City Watch recover his body?”

    “That remains uncertain, Mother,” said Adelan. “I can look into the matter, if you would like.”

    “It matters not whether he was raised,” said Thormod. “Once the life force is extinguished from the body, the crime is classified as a murder.”

    Shavana raised one hand in a placating gesture. “Brother Thormod, you are right of course. Her crimes are severe, and her atonement must be in proportion to those crimes. In addition, the results of her actions are an important factor in assigning her sentence. A man who throws a spear into a crowd and fails to strike a victim is less to blame than a man who throws a spear into a crowd and kills a child. Both may be equally repulsive to our moral sensibilities, but the man who kills is the man who hangs. The problem here, of course, is that we know not what was thrown, nor where it has struck.”

    “Mother?” asked Adelan, sharing glances with the other two monks. “You have lost us.”

    “The artifact, children. The artifact. What was taken, and where has it gone?”

    “Mother, if I may interject,” said Hjaldi. “There are intervening factors here. If a man throws a spear into the crowd and harms no one, and then another man takes up that spear and kills a dozen, the fault lies with the second man, not the first. Poor Leitha cannot be accountable for the actions of those who came after her. She trusted in a man that she loved, a man who demonstrated all manner of goodness, and she could not have foreseen the intervention of others.”

    “I suppose that is a fair point,” admitted Thormod, “but she is . . .”

    “Let us leave aside the question of penance for a moment,” said Shavana. “There are larger issues here. If I understand correctly, the burglary that took place in the Mage’s Quarter this summer was a major event in the public life of the city, was it not? I am removed from such things, but even I heard the flap that followed in the wake of that crime. Brother Adelan, you seem to follow the city’s . . . convulsions. Would you please comment?”

    “It was a major event, mother. The Senate was in an uproar for weeks, and the City Watch has been more than usually . . . oppressive . . . ever since that time. From what I understand, the theft of the artifact was the first successful burglary in the Mage’s Quarter in recent memory. The old families no longer feel as safe. There are even rumors that it set off a feud within the Guild itself.”

    “And what if it were made public that Kaelan Thorne’s daughter was the architect behind the theft?”

    There was a long silence. After some time, Adelan spoke. “Hard to say, Mother. It would not go well for Thorne himself. The daughter would almost certainly be imprisoned. Thorne is a neutral figure, but Lady Triessa is a “dove”. If he were perceived as having aligned himself against her, he would almost certainly be forced to take refuge among the expansionists. He is already in danger of sliding in that direction. After all, if the legion goes to war again, Thorne would make a fortune. It is a testament to his integrity that he hasn’t aligned with the expansionists already”

    “This is already making me nauseous,” said Shavana. “What should we do?”

    “Hide her, protect her, and cover up her involvement,” said Adelan. “It would be best if the artifact were recovered and returned to Lady Triessa. With Leitha’s help, we might be able to track it down. She at least has a chance to identify the individuals that intercepted her and Asgall on the rooftops.”

    “And what of her penance?”

    “Defer it,” said Adelan. “Until the artifact is recovered and the theft is pinned on her dead lover and his accomplice. For the time being, she should remain at home with her father and return to her lessons at the Academy, as if nothing ever happened.”

    “I see. Is that how you propose to hide her then? In plain sight?”

    “Anything else would potentially draw suspicion, Mother. If she left home and started serving the church tomorrow, her father would undoubtedly make a public scene. People would wonder why a prominent mage’s daughter is doing penance. Word would spread.

    “Besides, monumental as it was, this theft is already old news. Last week’s assassination of Senator Westbrook is the new obsession. If anything could overshadow a burglary in the Mage’s Quarter, that would be it. The City Watch will be too busy dealing with the aftermath of the assassination to devote much attention to this matter. It is a perfect time for us to tie up loose ends.”

    Brother Thormod broke in. “Brother Adelan, are you suggesting that that the Order should become an accessory to these crimes after the fact?”

    There was an awkward pause.

    “I hadn’t really thought of it that way,” said Adelan. “You may have a point, brother.”

    “Wait a minute,” said Hjaldi. “Leitha has given a legally valid confession, and we are prescribing a penance. Just because the penance is deferred does not mean that it will be waived. Also, if I understand Brother Adelan correctly, one of our goals here would be to facilitate a recovery of the artifact.”

    “That’s right,” said Adelan. “I am not suggesting that the penance will be waived. Leitha will serve out her crimes. But there are political dimensions here that cannot be ignored.”

    Shavana sighed. “I went into the Order with the assumption that I would leave anything resembling politics far behind me. How wrong I was.”

    “I do not like it, Mother,” said Thormod. “I have never heard of ‘deferring’ a penance. It is most unprecedented.”

    “You are right, my dear son,” said Shavana, “and you are the closest to Tyr of all of us. But alas, we are not in Tyr’s embrace yet. Still we must cope with the other powers of this realm.

    “Adelan, see if you can help the girl. You have my blessing. But, keep me apprised of the situation. I want a monthly report, and know that I intend to hold your Leitha to her end of the bargain. Service to the church will be the price for her freedom.”

    “I understand, Mother, it shall be as you say.”

    Shavana continued. “You all know of course that this conversation is confidential. Nothing spoken here today leaves this room. Adelan, you may reveal such information as you think necessary to protect the interests your new ward. However, be discrete. I do not want the Order drawn into the power struggles of the old families. That would be courting our demise.”

    “I understand, Mother.”

    “Very well, you are all excused. I will see you at the evening meditation.”

    The monks left Shavana’s office, descended to the lower floors, and then made their way out to the monastery grounds. Shavana watched them out her window as they departed. She shivered just a little and took her shawl from a hook on her bookshelf and wrapped it around her shoulders. A unseasonable, cold wind was blowing out of the north. She hoped it was not an omen.


  • Chapter 10: The Confession

    Leitha sat alone in a simple, high-backed chair in a quiet side-chapel in the east wing of the Temple of Tyr, her eyes focused on the altar before her, a striking tableau of ornate masonry and fresh-cut flowers featuring a bas relief of the symbol of Tyr. Behind her were arrayed three chairs of a similar style, arranged in an even row, also facing the altar. The chapel was otherwise empty, and the double doors behind Leitha were closed and securely locked.

    To her right, in the periphery of her vision, there was a row of south-facing stained glass windows that captured the light of the morning sun and scattered patterns of color across the floor of the otherwise stark stone room. The multicolored light lent the chapel a sense of warmth and peace and made it a comfortable, reassuring place.

    Still, Leitha could not quiet the anxiety that simmered within her. She took a deep, unsteady breath and willed herself to remain calm, telling herself again that she had no cause for concern. Brother Adelan had assured her that the Rite of Confession would be strictly confidential and that afterwards Leitha’s penance would be reasonable. More importantly, the Rite of Confession would assure her safety from the possibility of prosecution for her crimes. So long as she adhered to the penance required by the church, the monks could provide her with absolute immunity from secular law, no matter how grave her violations. Nevertheless, despite these assurances, Leitha could not banish her trepidation now that the hour had arrived.

    She flinched as she heard the rattle of a key at the door, but she resisted the urge to glance behind her. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed firmly on the altar of Tyr. Adelan had informed her that he would be accompanied by two other monks, and that all three would listen to her confession and would decide together on the terms of her penance. According to the terms of the ritual, she would not face her confessors while she spoke. Instead, both she and the monks would keep their eyes on the altar of Tyr and their minds on the justice and mercy of the maimed god.

    Leitha felt chills on the nape of her neck while the chapel door opened and the monks entered, their soft boots whispering gently on the stone floor. The door was closed and securely locked behind them to assure the privacy of the ritual. There followed rustling of robes and the faint creaking of the high backed chairs as bodies settled into place, then a deep, strange silence while the monks sat motionless, tuning their minds to the will of Tyr. After a few moments, Adelan’s voice emerged from the silence.

    “You may begin.”

    Leitha hesitated, uncertain as to whether she should speak. Was Adelan addressing her or was he speaking to one of the other monks? Was this the beginning of the rite? Would there be some recitation of intent or invocation of holy words? She wished Adelan had been more thorough in his description of the Rite of Confession.

    Adelan cleared his throat. “You may begin, child.”

    The word “child” could only mean her. Still she hesitated, feeling suck inside, not knowing how to begin. “What . . . what do I do?” she asked, her voice meek.

    “What you came here for. Tell us your sins.”

    Leitha drew a deep, wavering breath. That familiar feeling in the pit of her stomach was back. There was nothing more to be done. No way out but forward.

    “Alright,” she said. “Fornication, theft, violence, and . . . and murder.”

    For a moment she had a surreal feeling, a sensation of disembodiment, as if she were hearing the voice of someone else, some fallen woman, listing the sins of a life gone off course. Surely this could not be the daughter of Kaelan Thorne. The quiet that followed was agonizing.

    “How did these things come to pass?” Again it was Adelan who broke the silence. The other monks remained mute, motionless in their chairs.

    “You . . . you want me to tell you how it happened? As in, what . . . er . . ?”

    “Tell us your story,” said Adelan. “Tell us what took you down this path.”

    “Where should I begin?”

    “From the very beginning.”

    Leitha was silent for a long moment. “It is a long story,” she said finally.

    “It is your confession. You may tell as much or as little as you wish. I would suggest that you err on the side of telling too much. You will find that we monks of Querin have remarkable patience.”

    “Very well,” said Leitha, and so began her story.

    If she could go back in time and identify a single moment, a turning point where things went wrong, it would have to be mid-summer, two years gone, on a field trip with some other students in the Academy. They had traveled as a group to the waterfront at the very northern edge of the Docks District. She had been in her seventeenth year at the time. Her finance teacher at the Peltarch Academy, an exclusive learning center for the children of the Mage’s Guild, had believed it would be important for the students under his supervision to have an opportunity to observe first-hand the flow of commerce through the port facilities of the city. Leitha had come home from class and presented the idea to her father, and he had agreed to provide a note of permission allowing her to accompany the others on the school outing.

    One week later, teacher and students traveled by carriage down to the very northwestern edge of the Docks District. They traveled in three private carriages bearing twelve well-bred youth from the Mage’s Quarter. Their drivers had followed a route carefully selected to avoid the seedy neighborhoods that clustered near the shore, and had proceeded in roundabout fashion to the waterfront itself, a bustling nexus of commercial activity.

    The students had been warned to dress in modest garments and sturdy shoes on account of the sanitary conditions around the docks. Nevertheless, when she stepped out of the carriage, Leitha felt conspicuous and overdressed in her brushed wool skirt and linen blouse. Even her red hair, tied in a demure bun, seemed to mark her in the crowd. She briefly wished she had brought a scarf or a shawl to cover her head and tie under her chin.

    As their teacher got his bearings, Leitha participated in a general milling around and gawking while the chaperones, two off-duty legionnaires, attempted coral the youth and herd them off to the side of the walkway. The students were well behaved, of course; horseplay was not tolerated in the Academy. It was more a matter of getting everyone together in a single group and keeping them separated from the general flow of traffic. They saw fish mongers hawking their wares, wagons laden with all manner of goods trundling past, longshoremen hustling and pushing along the quay. More than once Leitha caught the appraising look of some fisherman or sailor with an eye for a girlish figure and soft complexion. She refused to meet their untoward looks or blush at their scrutiny, affecting instead an expression of boredom. She did not wish to appear snobbish, but neither did she want to humor such coarse men. She strained not to wrinkle her nose at the stench of the fish and the dirty water, and she refused to hold a handkerchief to her nose, as some of the other girls did.

    Once the group got moving, the day turned into an exciting and memorable experience. They toured a trading vessel that regularly sailed on the Icelace Lake, bringing furs and timber and metals from the northern shores. She learned that there were logging and mining camps on the opposite side of the lake, which operated with frantic intensity during the summer months but were forced to close in the winter as a result of freezing temperatures and heavy snow. There were also trading outposts where Peltarch merchants bought furs from the Uthgart tribes, wild cousins to the more domesticated neighbors to the city’s immediate south. She recalled from her lessons that the Uthgart peoples were a diverse group inhabiting the entire region around the city, with numerous divisions and factions among their numbers. Although they had a common ancestry and culture, much of their history was unwritten, lost in the unrecorded past. Those who lived in the north were especially wild, eking out a mean existence with primitive bronze and stone tools amid harsh conditions.

    She met Asgall in the unlikeliest of places. He greeted them at the gate of a muddy lumber yard situated on the bank of the Rawlins River at the far western edge of the waterfront, where the river flowed into the lake. He was well but modestly dressed in grey woolen breeches and a leather waistcoat and thigh-high leather boots that protected his breeches from the mud. He bowed with casual but comfortable deference to the class and its teacher. At that time, he had been the supervisor at the lumber yard, and was delegated to serve as their guide while the students and their teacher toured the facility.

    He was sufficiently handsome to be attractive in spite of the eye patch. In fact, what would otherwise have been a defect on a lesser man was more of an accent for him, lending him an air of mystery and ruggedness. It gave the impression of someone with a rough past, someone who knew how to handle himself in any situation. As soon as his back was turned the other girls were whispering and elbowing one another in the ribs. Leitha colored and tried to shush her companions and admonished them to pay attention to what their guide was saying as he lead them on their tour.

    He showed them the layout of the yard and explained how the timber was sourced in the Rawlinswood and then shipped downstream to a sawmill in Norwick. There it was processed into rough-cut lumber and sent further down the river to Peltarch, where it was delivered as finished product to the city. Local carpenters would come to the yard and purchase the various cuts necessary for their work. Asgall even explained how the prevalence of timber-and-plaster framing in the Commerce District was a direct result of the availability of cheap lumber from Norwick over the past century.

    He showed them various cuts of lumber, thick beams for framing homes and fine planks for sealing the hulls of ships. He also showed them the various devices for lifting and maneuvering the heavy beams, tall structures of wood and chain many times the height of a man. He admonished them on the need for caution around the heavy equipment, and advised them to stand well back from the banks of the river. The waters of the Rawlins were treacherous this time of year; the pacu fish schooled together in the mid summer and were known to swarm. She had read about such incidents in her books. Supposedly the little silver fish could strip a cow to the bone in minutes.

    Much of what Asgall told them was lost on her, preoccupied as she was by the sound of his voice. She could not help but notice that his accent was highly unusual. He spoke with a soft, lilting tongue that made him seem both gentle and sophisticated, an accent vaguely reminiscent of the local Uthgart brogue, but subtly different, less in the nose and more in the throat. From time to time he met her eye, and she would feel her pulse quicken and her cheeks start to color. There were at least one or two instances when she felt his gaze linger for an instant too long, as if his interest were more than just polite, though she quietly rebuked herself for an active imagination.

    Then something unexpected happened toward the end of the tour. Asgall had taken them down to the edge of the stone quay and was showing them how the lumber was unloaded from the river boats. The longshoremen who worked in the yard were operating one of the beam-and-chain contraptions, a type of crane that hoisted the lumber from the ship’s deck and then swung it over the water for loading on a wagon. One of the workers on the ship was momentarily distracted by the presence of the tour and failed to notice that he was standing in the path of a swinging beam. The rough section of lumber struck him across the shoulders, sweeping into the water.

    Immediately, there was a tumult of shouting and activity on the ship and along the quay. Workers yelled and gesticulated, pointing at the water, arguing among themselves. The waters of the river were deep and murky and filmed with dreck from the yard, and the sides of the stone quay were sheer.

    Their tour guide strolled to the edge of the stone quay, removed his waistcoat and boots, and, as casually as if he were taking his weekly bath, dove into the filthy water. There was a sudden silence as the dock hands realized that their superior had just put himself in harm’s way.

    A moment later Asgall appeared thrashing at the surface, gripping the unconscious man under one arm, frantically trying to swim with his other arm. Through the film of oil on the water, Leitha could see darting shapes gathering near the two men. The small bodies of fish began to gather, their numbers growing and their movements increasingly frenzied.

    The foreman’s voice, deep and sonorous from years of calling orders, cut through the yard.

    “Lower the boom!”

    The beam-and-chain contraption swung around and dipped toward the water, dropping to within a few feet of the water’s edge.

    Asgall thrashed his way over to the crane, one arm around the dock-worker’s chest, holding his head out of the water. With a sudden surge of effort he lunged upward and managed to grasp one of the chains hanging down from the crane.

    “Raise boom and swing her about!”

    The crane hoisted the two men from the water and swung toward shore. Asgall clung to a length of chain with one hand, holding the dock worker by the collar in the other. His face twisted with the strain. The crane moved over the quay just as Asgall’s grip lost purchase, and he and the dock worker collapsed together in a heap on the flagstones. His eye patch was ajar, and for an just a moment Leitha could see the cloudy, milky white consistency of his left eye.

    A crowd swarmed the two men, obscuring them from Leitha’s view. The teacher, his face pale with shock, turned to his students and ushered them away. The students groaned and protested, expressing concern for their guide and his man, but the professor assured them that both men would be fine and persistently herded his students back to the carriages for a rapid departure.

    The second time she saw Asgall was about two weeks later in the Mage’s Quarter. It was a late summer afternoon, and she was on her way home from the Academy, walking with books tucked in one arm, when she noticed him sitting at an outdoor table at a street-side café. He was dressed an elegant suit, breeches and waistcoat of brushed wool, and he sat alone with only a book and a glass of wine for company. He looked up as she passed, and his eye caught hers, and he stood hastily and bowed low as she passed.

    “Lady Thorne,” his voice was soft but clear, and the greeting was unmistakable.

    She did not wish to be rude, so she turned and answered him. “Master . . .”

    “Asgall, just call me Asgall.”

    She colored slightly, embarrassed on his behalf. To omit a family name marked him as a man of common breeding, an artisan or a laborer, or even worse, a upstart tribesman from the provinces.

    “I remember you from the school tour,” he offered. “Your group departed before I could say farewell.”

    Leitha inclined her head. “You were . . . occupied,” she said. “The teacher told us they revived your man. You were very brave.”

    He waved on hand dismissively. “A man is not brave when he acts on impulse,” he said. His voice had that soft, melodic quality she had noticed on their first encounter. Leitha could not help but like this man. He seemed so comfortable yet distinguished in his suit.

    “I did not see anyone else acting on impulse,” she offered.

    “I do not claim to be wise,” he replied, smiling at his own self-deprecation.

    There was an awkward pause, and then they spoke at the same time.

    “Well, I should . . .” Leitha began.

    “Would you care to join me at my table, Lady Thorne?” he asked.

    Leitha hesitated. The invitation was most improper; the man was a complete stranger and far below her station. But something about Asgall fascinated her. He was not like the boys in her Academy, eager youths full of pride and ambition with a desperate need to prove their mettle. Instead he seemed to possess a profound sense of comfort with himself and his place in the world, as if he had already demonstrated whatever it was young men needed to prove. Even more, there was something else about him, something special that Leitha could only dimly perceive, like a flame flickering at the very edge of her peripheral vision. Leitha longed to know this man better, to understand that indescribable quality that infused him.

    And so she took a seat at his table, despite the impropriety of his invitation, and joined him in conversation. At first they talked only of trivial things, books and wine and the city of Peltarch, but in time she found herself opening up and speaking without inhibition, disclosing aspects of her life that she would ordinarily hold in reserve. She told him about her father and his work, about her passion for the arts, about the loss of her mother, and about her secret, painful desire to see the world outside of Peltarch. Asgall proved to be a rapt listener with a keen memory.

    Later, as the evening deepened and they parted ways, he promised to come again to the little café on the boulevard, and to share conversation with her another time. Within two weeks, she saw him again, in the same gray suit, with the same glass of wine, and even the same book, though this time with a small golden flower tucked into his lapel.

    After that their meetings became regular, once a week, always at the same café. Asgall always wore the same suit, drank the same wine, brought the same book. She wished she remembered the title. Finally, he worked up the courage to ask her to dinner, and she worked up a good lie for her father, and they met at an fine restaurant in a quiet plaza in the Civic Center. She remembered that night so well. The lamplighters had lit up the plaza as dusk settled in, and she had wrapped herself in a warm shawl against the cool evening breeze. After dinner they had walked arm in arm, just wandering together and listening to music of the city around them. From a street vendor Asgall bought her a single flower to match the one in his lapel, only this one was a brilliant blood red.

    She smuggled the flower home that night and pressed it in her tome of Peltarch history, and began sleeping with the book beside her bed. By this time she was totally in love with Asgall. Her days at the Academy and her nights at home served only as time to ruminate on her thoughts of her next meeting with him.

    They often went shopping in the Commerce District in the shops and stalls near the commons. Sometimes she would buy a new blouse or a dress, but mostly they just walked together and explored the taverns and cafes. Often as not, at the end of their date together, he would ask for her money and then combine it with his own and give it away to the street urchins that ran near the Docks District. Sometimes he would tease them and join in their games of dice and chance, always managing to lose his entire purse for the evening. Leitha did not mind giving up her silver and coppers, and even a few gold pieces, to watch him so happy. She never joined in the games, but always watched patiently from nearby.

    A turning point in their courtship came in the following year, in the high summer, when the sun was blistering hot and the city was sweltering in the midst of the long dry days. Asgall rented a petite skiff to take her out swimming on the lake. Her heart had raced at the thought of baring herself in his presence, but she knew that she was ready and had an aching desire for intimacy with him. They had sailed out on the lake in blinding heat, Leitha taking shelter from the sun under a sailcloth canopy in the small ship. Asgall manned the craft with casual ease, and took them farther and farther from shore. Just as they were preparing to drift and swim, an unseasonal squall swept down from the north and slammed into them with devastating fury.

    It was the only time she ever saw Asgall frightened. As the swells began to rise, he furled the sail and canopy and took the oars, rowing fiercely south and east toward the distant shore. Leitha clung to the gunwale at the bow of the ship amid tossing waves, watching Asgall work the oars, his face ashen and his expression strained. In due time he was forced to abandon his attempt to make for shore, instead using the oars to steer the craft, keeping it pointed into the swells, fighting to keep their fragile craft from being swamped among the whitecaps. Leitha crawled back near his feet and grabbed a bucket, bailing water from the deck.

    After the storm passed, Asgall apologized to her profusely, promising that he would never put her in such danger again. He rowed them to shore, escorted her to the Dancing Mermaid, and rented her a room where she could rest and compose herself before returning home. The staff of the Mermaid built a fire so that she could dry her summer dress, and Asgall arranged for a carriage to return her to the Mage’s Quarter. As she stepped up into the carriage she paused a moment, then stepped back down, grabbed him by the lapels and kissed him with passion.

    They canceled her carriage ride and returned to their room in the Mermaid and made love for the first time. Leitha found the experience physically uncomfortable, though Asgall explained that the discomfort would subside after the first few times. Afterwards he told her that, no matter what happened, if she ever had need of him, to look for him in the central tower of the temple of Tyr. She tried to inquire further as to his meaning, but he refused to elaborate, repeating his cryptic instruction. That was how she met Brother Adelan. After Asgall’s death she had gone into the tower, and of course it had been empty. She had fled when someone else arrived, and Brother Adelan had followed her home.

    “I remember that well,” said Adelan. “There was something about you that spoke of tragedy. You dropped your jade comb, and you fled when I tried to follow you.”

    “I was trespassing in the tower,” said Leitha. “I suppose you may add that to my list of sins.”

    “I have always wondered how you gained entry,” said Adelan. “The door was securely locked. I remember it well, because I had to obtain the key in order to let that young man into the tower.”

    “Oh, that will be clear soon enough,” said Leitha. “Making love to Asgall was not my only sin.”

    “So you have said,” replied another, feminine voice, this one over her right shoulder. “But you must know, lovemaking is not a sin in the eyes of Tyr. So long as there is love and mutual respect, it matters not whether wedding vows have been exchanged.”

    “That is a point of debate within the church.” The third monk spoke. The voice was masculine and older, with a stern resonance that bespoke authority. “Some of our more conservative brethren believe that matrimony is a prerequisite to legitimate relations.”

    “Still, for our purposes,” he continued, “you have yet to describe anything that would require atonement. Except lying to your father, of course.”

    “There may be some mitigating factors in that regard,” said Adelan. “Please, Leitha, continue with your story.”

    After the incident on the lake their relationship deepened. Most of their time together was now spent indoors. Asgall moved his residence from the Docks to the Commerce District, and Leitha met him often at his apartment, spending long hours in his bedchamber. For awhile they did little else besides constant lovemaking.

    They also talked for hours about the city. She taught him much of life among the elite: the local customs, the mores of the upper classes, the complex web of relationships and commercial holdings that defined a family’s standing in Peltarch society, and most of all, at the core of everything, at the very center of the web, the incredible power and influence of the Mage’s Guild. During their walks together in the markets, she taught him to dress in the fashion of the high gentry.

    Asgall soaked up knowledge like a sponge. By the end of their first year together, he lost his unusual brogue and learned to speak a perfect local accent. He could give a flawless imitation of a dockyard twang or a gentleman’s drawl. Leitha missed his soothing brogue, but he was still the same Asgall, still vibrant and full of life and generous beyond reason.

    The first signs of trouble began when Asgall began asking her about the home of Lady Triessa. At first he merely expressed an appreciation for its architectural style and lavish grounds and inquired as to who might own such a magnificent structure. Leitha explained that Lady Triessa was an unmarried half-elven woman just entering the second century of her life and that she was well connected in Peltarch society and an honorary members of the Mage’s Guild. Although she had no discernible magical talent of her own, Lady Triessa’s family was ancient, and she had inherited fantastical wealth, and she employed a number of accomplished mages on her staff. Asgall listened intently and pressed Leitha for information, inquiring about the Lady Triessa’s personality and habits and routines, and Leitha was forced to admit that she knew the woman only by reputation.

    On another occasion, Asgall expressed a fervent desire to see the inside of the mansion and asked Leitha whether she might be able to arrange for an invitation. Leitha had been forced to explain that gaining admission would be nearly impossible. Asgall simply did not have the connections or the reputation to even make such a request. Although Leitha had met Lady Triessa on several occasions, she would be unable to make a formal introduction, particularly when she still kept her relationship with Asgall a secret from her father.

    Eventually, Asgall revealed his intentions in plain terms. He had learned from “friends” that Lady Triessa possessed a powerful magical artifact. Supposedly, this artifact was of great personal importance to Asgall, although for reasons that he could not disclose and refused to explain. Nevertheless, he expressed an intense desire to obtain the artifact, whatever the cost might be.

    Leitha was of course deeply unsettled. No matter how she pressed him for an explanation, he refused to provide more detail. She asked him about the artifact itself, what it looked like, the nature of its magical properties, but he refused to disclose even that much information. She asked him about his “friends” who had learned of the artifact, and again he declined to comment further. She pointed out that she knew almost nothing of his past, and he apologized profusely and said only that the past would remain behind him. Finally, Asgall pleaded with her to speak of the matter no more, and swore to her that his interest in the artifact was rooted not in greed or personal gain, but solely in matters of kinship and honor. Seeing his agitation, Leitha let the subject drop, but over the next few weeks worried over how to resolve the situation.

    The next time the subject arose, it was Leitha who raised it. First, she suggested that she might be able to contrive a way to get herself into the mansion and to speak with Lady Triessa about the artifact. Asgall was amenable to the idea, and they discussed various scenarios, but nothing seemed satisfactory. Asgall was adamant that Lady Triessa should not be made aware of their interest. According to him, she was most likely unaware of the artifact’s true nature, and he did not want to provoke her to investigate the item further.

    Months went by, and Asgall grew increasingly agitated. He would fall into long periods of melancholy, and Leitha felt helpless, unable to lift his spirits.

    Eventually, he revealed that he knew the exact room where the artifact was kept on display and the precise window that would allow access to the room. Finally, he revealed that he intended to enter Lady Triessa’s estate by main force, to break into the display room, and steal away with the artifact before he could be caught.

    Leitha explained to him that his plan was impossibly stupid. Lady Triessa’s grounds and mansion would be protected by magical wards that Asgall could not hope to overcome. Furthermore, she would no longer consort with a someone who would not reveal his own past, and who clearly intended to break the law.

    It was after this conversation that she broke off her association with him. Months went by, and for a long, miserable winter they remained apart. She went to the Academy each day and walked home each night, feeling alienated at both places. After her time with Asgall the other students seemed shallow and dull, and her father was increasingly obsessed with his work. She spent the bulk of that winter in her room, painting bleak scenes of gray skies and dark mountains, ships on the lake tossed in the swells.

    At last, when spring came, she found herself in Asgall’s bed again. There was no choice in the matter; she was for him, and the moment they parted the light had gone out of her life. They made love feverishly for a month, but he was still despondent and restless and she knew he still thought of the artifact at Triessa’s estate. Finally, she intimated that she would help him retrieve the item, suggesting that she might be able to help him overcome the magical wards around the building. After some hesitation, he reluctantly agreed to accept her aid.

    At first their quest seemed hopeless. Leitha knew that Lady Triessa’s magic defenses would be extremely sophisticated. To make matters worse, any mage with sufficient knowledge to penetrate the wards protecting the estate would most likely be a member of the Guild, and no member of the Guild would even consider such a scheme. Virtually every mage in the city spent their whole life climbing through the ranks of the Guild; nobody would risk the disgrace of being caught in the commission of a crime against another member.

    The more they talked, however, the more they began to consider new possibilities. Leitha insisted on being involved in every detail of the planning. If Asgall would be placing his freedom in jeopardy, indeed his very life, then she would ensure that his attempt was successful. Asgall grudgingly agreed that she could accompany him on the night of the theft, though only on the condition that she would not set foot on the grounds of Triessa’s estate. Leitha agreed to this condition, knowing that she could ignore it if she chose.

    And then, in a perfect twist of irony, it was her father that provided the solution. One night over dinner, as she endured another lecture about his work, she realized that the means of breaking into Lady Triessa’s estate might be at her disposal. Her father was an enchanter who crafted magic items for the Peltarch legion. His laboratory contained a portal with direct access to a cache of legion-grade magic items for both regular footmen and the special units. Arcane topics had always bored her in the past; now she listened with keen interest.

    She and Asgall began studying the arts of stealth and burglary. He would spend his evenings in the slums of the Docks District, and although she could never get him to speak about his connections there, he nevertheless learned a great deal about climbing and rope-work and was generous in sharing his knowledge with her. One day he brought home a bag of padlocks and a small leather case with thin metal tools and taught her how to open locks through the skill of manipulating the tumblers. Leitha was a quick study, and she mastered the basics in a few weeks and transitioned to more advanced techniques in the following months.

    All the while she listened more and more closely to her father and began asking questions about his work. She even took an elective in magic at the Academy and began to learn spellcraft and basic casting, sharing her knowledge and her books with Asgall when time allowed. Eventually, she stole downstairs in the night, down into the basement to her father’s laboratory, and through the portal into the legion arsenal where a treasure trove of lethal and clever devices awaited her eager hands.

    “I think we can take a break for a moment,” Adelan’s soft voice interrupted her narrative. “Do you require any refreshment? A cup of tea or a mug of cold water, perhaps?”

    “Yes, please,” said Leitha, realizing that her throat had gone dry from the long narrative. “I suppose I’ll have some tea.” Somewhere along the line she had lost her fear of self-disclosure, and her narrative began to flow freely. She felt a satisfying sense of liberation now to speak of it all.

    One of the monks left and returned moments later and from behind handed her a large, steaming cup of tea. Leitha saw briefly that it was a woman’s hand and arm, clothed in the rough spun robes of the order of Querin. Leitha also noted the changing angle of the sun in the stain glass windows and estimated that several hours had passed. She had talked for a good portion of the morning, and the day was now moving toward afternoon.

    The woman who had handed Leitha tea returned to a chair and spoke.

    “You tell a tragic story,” she said. “Adelan told us that your friend did not survive. We are sorry for your loss.”

    “As am I,” said Leitha, feeling a profound sorrow deep within. “I still don’t know what he stole, and I was so close to finding out. I suppose now I’ll never know.”

    “What of the items that you stole from the legion?” asked the older man’s voice. “What happened to them?”

    “I still have a pair of wands and a pair of boots,” said Leitha. “As for the rest of it . . . Uli’s and Asgall’s items are lost.”

    “Then you understand that you have put others in danger. Legion grade weapons in the wrong hands will surely do harm.”

    “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” said Leitha.

    “It is often the case that our actions have unintended consequences,” said the elder monk. “That is why we look to the law for guidance. When the outcome is uncertain, we cleave to the wisdom of Tyr.”

    Leitha said nothing, and the silence dragged on until finally broken by the elder monk.

    “Very well, then, child. Why don’t you tell us what happened.”

    Night settled over the Mage’s Quarter, a night that promised to be cold and wet and dreary. The skies had clouded early in the day and a drizzle had started in the afternoon, hardening to a heavy rain late in the day. The rain let up about an hour before dusk, and now a thin fog rolled in among the dripping gables and rooftops. As darkness fell, the self-lighting lamps of the Quarter flickered to life, providing weak illumination in the fog.

    Three figures walked the streets at this late hour, linked arm-in-arm. They were alone in the dark and the damp. Few ventured out in the late evenings in the Quarter; on a dreary night such as this the cobblestone avenues and byways were deserted. Even the night watchmen huddled in their shacks and towers, warming themselves over hot braziers, enjoying hushed games of chance and cards.

    For Leitha and Asgall and Uli, however, the weather conditions could not have been more perfect. They strolled at a leisurely pace down a wide and empty boulevard, enjoying the sense of anonymity that the mist and the darkness afforded. The street they had chosen just happened to run along the southern border of Lady Triessa’s property. Leitha walked between the two men, linking her arms through theirs, savoring the scent of damp leaves that rose from the nearby grounds. They were separated from their objective only by a narrow stone wall approximately twelve feet high.

    The three companions paused in their late evening stroll. One of the men, named Uli, unlinked from Leitha’s arm and bent down to secure the laces on his boot. He was a good man, a longshoreman from the docks who worked regularly in the lumber yard during overflow shifts. He and Asgall had become fast friends over months of working together, and according to Asgall, Uli was “one hell of a scrapper”, whatever that meant. Leitha had found the man course but kind and, true to Asgall’s assurances, tenacious in the face of a challenge.

    Uli stood up and after fussing with his boot laces and favored them with a nervous grin. It was time. Leitha felt that old familiar feeling the pit of her stomach. Now that the moment was upon them, she could not believe what they were about to do.

    Leitha feigned a nonchalance that she did not feel. “Well, gentlemen, we can’t dally in the rain all evening, can we?” she asked.

    Asgall placed on hand against the side of her cheek and kissed her soft on the lips. “I’ll be back in a twinkling,” he said.

    Leitha blushed, thankful that the darkness hid the color in her cheeks. Her heart was pounding, not from the kiss, but from the audacity of what they were about to attempt.

    Asgall turned and took two steps toward the Triessa estate wall. He planted both feat and leapt, clearing the wall in a single bound, vanishing into the mist. The legion jump boots Leitha had stolen from the armory amplified the power in his legs, allowing him to leap extraordinary distances.

    Uli gave her gentle punch in the shoulder, his eyes reassuring. “We’ve got this all planned out, lass” he said. “Back in a wink. Just stay in your hiding place, and we’ll see you soon.” With that, he turned an leapt, following Asgall over the wall.

    According to the plan, Leitha was supposed to wait outside the grounds, hidden on the roof of a mansion adjacent to the Triessa estate. When the deed was done, they would all rendezvous on that rooftop, then make their way from rooftop to rooftop and out of the Quarter. Ordinarily, travel across the rooftops would be impossible in this part of the city, given the width of the avenues between the buildings. However, the jump boots would be enable them to leap from one rooftop to the next with little difficulty. They had even spent a few nights playing on the rooftops in the Commerce District, just to get accustomed to using the boots.

    Leitha allowed the men a few minutes to make their way and then glanced in either direction down the boulevard. Seeing that the street was still deserted, she sprang atop the estate wall. The enchanted boots stuck fast to the wet stone, providing excellent purchase even in the rain. She had to hand it to her old man; he did quality work.

    From the wall she leapt again into the branches of a nearby tree, a massive and shaggy oak with ferns growing on its thick boughs. She balanced carefully as she walked along the thick branches, hopping from one to the next, gaining elevation with each hop. Eventually she made her way to the branch she sought and prepared for the third and most difficult bound, twenty yards to a neighboring tree. She ran the length of a slender bough and then leapt again, grasping desperately for her intended destination. She caught the branch and just managed to keep her grip on the slick bark and pulled herself up on the limb in an awkward scramble. This second tree was taller than the first, and it had thick foliage to conceal her presence. She ascended among its limbs to a high, concealed vantage point.

    From her new perch, Leitha would have a clear line of sight to Asgall’s intended point of entry. In addition, she had kept her agreement with Asgall. She had not set foot on the grounds of the estate, the term “grounds” being interpreted in its most literal sense, of course. Besides, the notion of having her remain outside the grounds was an unnecessary precaution. About a month ago the two men had conducted an exploratory visit to look for wards and traps that might present a problem on the actual night of their burglary. Both of them had quaffed potions of true sight to be certain they would not miss anything important. They reported the mansion had glowed like a festival bonfire, from all of the magic woven into its construction, but the grounds themselves had been pristine, totally natural and free from magical influence.

    Leitha reached into the pocket of her jacket and produced a small vial that glowed faintly purple in the darkness, a potion of ultravision. She drank the potion carefully and waited for it to take effect. Gradually, the dark of night faded into a gray twilight world with sharp edges and distended shadows. The street lamps burned in the distance with an almost painful intensity. Through the murk she spotted moving shapes, limbed with faint hues of violet and rose. She saw birds huddled on a limb thirty yards away, bats flitting among the peaks and chimney’s of Triessa’s home. In just a few moments, her eyes picked out Uli in his designated position, crouched in some bushes about thirty yards from the window where Asgall planned his point of entry.

    A few moments later, Asgall appeared on a high peak on the rooftops of the mansion. He moved with ease, his own pair of jump-boots affording him excellent purchase on the otherwise slippery tile. He settled into a crouch near a chimney above the target window. Leitha knew he would attach the magic grapnel there. The grapnel would hold the weight of two or three men, but would detach itself from the roof when a command word was spoken by a person holding the other end of the line. It was nevertheless necessary to attach the grapnel to something that would not itself come loose. Asgall had chosen the brick chimney as a solid anchor.

    Having fixed the grapnel in place, Asgall made a throwing motion. Leitha could not make out the rope in the darkness, but she knew Asgall had heaved it over the side of the building. She watched him back slowing toward the edge of the roof, hand positioned to feed the rope along his left side. A moment later he was suspended over the side, swinging in the air, quickly establishing control of his weight on the line.

    The magic wards securing the window were far too complex for the three thieves to disable on their own, even with the magic items Leitha had obtained for them. In the end, they had decided on a brute-force approach. If you could not untangle the knot, you had to cut through it.

    Asgall descended until his feet were braced against the thick glass of the window. It was there that, according to plan, he triggered their wand of timestop. A shimmering sphere appeared around the window, making Asgall more difficult to perceive. Leitha’s breath caught. The sphere was much brighter than they anticipated, glowing like a beacon in the night. A moment later Asgall surfaced out of the sphere, climbing hand over hand up the rope. He reached the ledge of the window two floors up, pulled the slack rope up after him, and then waved his signal.

    Uli fired the blast wand at the window. Leitha saw the pulse of light, a narrow, focused beam, that allowed the wand-holder to aim his shot. This was followed by a pulse in the air, like a translucent wave on the surface of the lake. The wand struck the glass window at the very center of the sphere of timestop. Nothing appeared to happen. Leitha’s bit her lip with worry. After observing the blast-wand’s effects on rocks on the Nars pass, they had expected the window to give way like fine tissue, leaving a hole in the side of the building. Apparently, Triessa’s mages had magically hardened the glass. Leitha saw the blast wand pulse again twice more.

    Asgall waved a signal and Uli signaled back. Leitha wondered briefly what was happening. Asgall slid down his rope again, back into the temporal bubble. She could not quite make out what he was doing, though he appeared to be bracing himself against the wall. A moment later she saw Asgall heave outward, pulling on the window frame, and the window and casement grudgingly came free, tumbling away in a single piece to the ground below.

    The window landed in total silence. In setting up their point of entry, Uli had cast a sphere of silence at the window itself. Because the sphere was centered around a point on the glass, it had traveled with the window as it fell, muting the impact with the ground below. The timestop sphere, however, remained in place, suspended in the air. Leitha wondered what would have happened if the sphere had moved; she shuddered to consider how little they understood the powers at their disposal.

    She breathed a sigh of prayer thanking Tyr that the window had fallen soundlessly, and she asked him to preserve Asgall for just a few moments more. So many things could have already gone wrong. The timestop would wear off any moment, and then Lady Triessa’s defenses, whatever they might be, would awaken. She watched Asgall scramble over the broken window sill and disappear into the room.

    Within a moment he was out again. Either he found what he wanted or the room was empty. Regardless, he was wasting no time. He leapt from the window and landed on his feet, using his jump boots to absorb the impact. He then pulled down his rope and grapnel and stuffed them into his pack. Then he was running and cinching his pack into place at the same time.

    He was halfway across the grounds when the timestop sphere vanished and the wards activated. Instantly the lights in the mansion flared to life, and there was a blast of magic from the now vacant room. Leitha watched as a thick layer of ice formed around the edges of the gash in the wall where the window had been. Something massive moved in the darkness beyond. Then she could spare no further time to watch. She needed to get moving; they would be expecting her at the rendezvous point.

    She turned and leaped from her tree. The jump-boots sent her flying out into the night. For a moment she seemed to hang in the mist, feeling exhilarated and free, seeing the lights from the streetlamps burning with their unnatural intensity in the weird hues of the ultravision. Then all of a sudden the outer wall of the grounds and the street beyond were rushing toward her with alarming speed. She tried to turn herself to land on her feet like Asgall had done, to allow the boots to cushion her landing, but her body over-rotated in the air. She plunged head and shoulders first toward the cobblestones below.

    At the last instant she triggered her ring of slowfall. Suddenly she felt like she had dived head first into a jar of thick jelly. She sank to the ground and regained her feet, then leapt to the top of the wall. From there she was able to make the porch roof of the adjacent mansion, then two quick bounds to her designated perch.

    Asgall and Uli were waiting for her, their expressions disapproving.

    “Did you get the artifact?” she asked.

    “Got ‘em,” said Asgall. “Let’s go.”

    “Them?” she asked.

    “Talk later,” he grunted. “Time to move.”

    Asgall turned and ran across the rooftop of the mansion and then made the leap across the street to the next roof. Leitha and Uli followed close on his heels.

    They moved rooftop to rooftop, just as they had planned. Leitha was thrilled by the run and the sensation of flying that came from leaping in the jump boots. The experience was made all the more exhilarating as the rain picked up again, falling in cold, heavy drops and obscuring visibility. Still their enchanted legion boots stuck fast to the slick tile. For awhile she felt like they moved in a private, shrouded world, a parallel dimension of their own, free and hidden by the rooftops and the rain, while the rest of Peltarch slumbered in their homes.

    They made excellent time, traversing west across the Mage’s Quarter. After a short while they leapt over the wall into the eastern end of the Civic Center and began making their way toward the heart of the city. There was no sign of pursuit. Still Asgall pushed the pace, moving from one building to the next. He had planned their route meticulously in the nights before. He always knew just how far the boots could take him, exactly where to find the best place to make a jump.

    At last they paused for a rest on a wide, gently sloping rooftop on a government building near the western edge of the Civic Center. The building provided an good place to rest and catch their breath; the surface of the roof had a gentle incline in comparison to many of the other buildings they had traversed. Leitha rested bent over with her hands on her knees, gradually catching her breath and letting her heart rate subside. Uli and Asgall were perspiring visibly, though neither man seemed winded. Asgall grinned at them, his one eye glittering with the thrill of the run. The rain briefly slackened to a light drizzle.

    “That was fine work,” he said. “Just a little farther, and there is a window we . . . ”

    He never finished the sentence. Uli lurched forward and collided into Asgall. The one-eyed man huffed in surprise and stagger back a pace. Leitha saw a crossbow bolt protruding from Uli’s lower back, and she shrieked in fear. Then Asgall was slamming into her, forcing her to the ground, his hand covering her mouth. They slid for some distance down the slippery tile slope, and the roof edge loomed precariously near. Asgall managed to wedge his feet against the roof and stop their slide.

    “Quiet,” he hissed. “Keep your wits. Crawl to that eave, there.” He pointed to a juncture where two sections of rooftop connected at an angle, creating an overhang. The recesses of the overhang lay deep in shadow. “Lay flat and stay hidden.”

    Leitha did as she was told, slithering across the wet tile. She wedged herself under the eave and watched Asgall as he crawled over to administer to Uli. The longshoreman lay on his side, gasping in pain from the bolt in his back.

    Moments later four figures appeared out of the mist along the peak of the roof-line. They blended well with the night, clad in black breeches and jerkins, their faces concealed by veils of dark cloth secured just below the eyes. Nevertheless, despite their camouflage, Leitha’s magically enhanced vision picked them out like beacons burning in shades of purple and violet.

    Two of the men approached down the gentle slope of the roof, their eyes hard above the dark veils. The two others remained on the peak-line, winding their crossbows. Leitha opened her mouth to shout a warning, but just at that moment Asgall looked up and saw the four men arrayed before him. Leitha’s shout died in her throat, and she huddled back in the shadows.

    One of the approaching men pulled down his veil, revealing his features. He had a pleasant face and titled eyes, but when he spoke, his cold voice sent a chill down Leitha’s spine.

    “You fellows chose the wrong roof on the wrong night. I don’t know who you are, but this isn’t your territory. My crew holds the Civic Center east of Uthgraen Avenue.”

    Asgall rose to his full height, standing over Uli who still gasped in pain. Asgall was a full head taller that the other man, although the other was thickly muscled, with an exotic short-sword in his belt. Asgall was unarmed but for a small belt-knife.

    “We’re just passing through,” said Asgall. “We didn’t know this was yours. You’ll never see us again.”

    The man folded his arms. “Fair enough, but I still need tribute. Why don’t you toss me your pack, and you can go on your way.”

    Asgall hesitated a moment, then dug into his pack and produced a small pouch. He shook the pouch and it clinked with the sound of metal coins.

    “Ten gold pieces,” he said. “A tidy sum for ten minutes work.” He tossed the purse at the man, who caught it deftly out of the air and tucked it into a fold of his jerkin.

    “That’s a start,” said the man. “Thing is, I got a whole crew to feed. That and a little bird told me you fellas just came out of the Quarter. Nobody’s pulled a job in the Quarter since . . . well . . . since forever. The way I see it, you must have gone after something real special.”

    Asgall said nothing.

    “And you came back out,” the man continued. “So I figure you probably got what you went looking for. So, like I said, toss me your pack.”

    There was a long, tense silence.

    “Well,” said the man. “We han’t got all night. The way I see it, you han’t got much choice. I don’t see you carrying any steel, and I’ve got two crossbows on the roofline, and three more boys in hiding nearby.”

    “It’s in my partners pack,” said Asgall. He crouched and put his hand on Uli’s knapsack.

    From his crouched position, Asgall leapt forward. The jump boots shot him high in the air, carrying him well over the heads of the leader and the other nearest assailant. Both of the forward men started backwards in surprise as Asgall flew over them.

    He landed directly in front of one of the crossbowmen and grabbed the bow, pushing it aside, at the same time giving the fellow a hard shove. The bowman staggered back and lost his balance, while Asgall wrenched at crossbow. The man cursed and slipped and disappeared over the edge of the roofline. Leitha heard him give a shout of surprise that was cut short.

    Asgall mounted the crossbow his shoulder as he turned on the second bowman. The other bowman fired but rushed his shot and missed, the bolt narrowly sweeping past Asgall’s right shoulder. Asgall’s shot came a second later and took the man in the center of his chest, the bolt punching cleanly out his back. The man sputtered, blood foaming on his lips. He looked down at his breast and touched the red wound with one hand, his expression disbelieving. A second later his knees buckled and he slumped to the tile, then slid down the roof and off the edge.

    Asgall turned and faced his two remaining assailants. The men had drawn their blades, and the leader’s exotic short sword gleamed cold in the weird light of Leitha’s ultravision. They faced Asgall up the slope of the roof, stunned by the audacity of his attack.

    At last the self-proclaimed crew leader spoke. “Shar’s eyes, man, you . . . you killed them! That . . . that was a bad move, old boy, a very bad move.”

    Asgall said something then in a coarse language that Leitha did not understand. The gesture that accompanied his comment, however, was universal. He hefted the crossbow like cudgel.

    “I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you’re going to be dead tonight,” said the leader. “And no rez for you, asshole. The only thing left of you will be bones on the river bottom.”

    Three more men landed on the roof nearby, not twenty feet away from where Leitha lay in the shadows. One of the men carried a short bow, and the other two had long daggers in their hands. They moved up the slope of the roof toward where Uli lay, grouping together with their confederates.

    How did they get legion boots? Leitha’s heart was pounding. It had never occurred to her that there might be other thieves on the rooftops with gear similar to what she had stolen from the legion arsenal.

    She had no weapons, no means of defending herself. None of them did. Asgall was outnumbered four-to-one. He backed slowly toward the western edge of the roof.

    “Go ahead and run,” taunted the leader. “We got all night.”

    Preoccupied as they were with Asgall, none of the assailants noticed as Uli struggled to his feet. Even in the weird shades of the ultravision Leitha could see that his face was ashen, and his legs trembled. His shaking hand reached to his belt and pulled something free. He struggled to raise his arm. Leitha saw a brief flicker of focused light.

    The noise of the blast-wand seemed to shatter the very air. Broken tile shot in all directions, and a cloud of debris enveloped the rooftop. There was a ringing in her ears that muted other sound, and Leitha lost her sense of direction in the haze.

    As the dust settled and thinned, she found herself alone on the rooftop. Asgall and Uli and their assailants were gone, and there was a gaping hole in the tile. Through the ringing in her ears, she could dimly perceive the whistles of the City Watch around her, sounding an alarm. One of the assailants lay twisted and limp not thirty paces away, his short bow beside his lax hand, the arrow miraculously still knocked on the string. The contents of his quiver were spilled across the tile.

    Leitha crawled out of her hiding place, her hands and insides shaking. She stood and looked about, wondering where Asgall had gone. In the distance to her west, she saw flickers of violet, perhaps the fleeing shapes of some of the assailants.

    Then suddenly the crew leader appeared out of the fog and the dust, not ten feet away from her. The left side of his face was covered in blood, and he staggered on the tiles, disoriented from the blast.

    Their eyes met, and both of them paused. Leitha frozen with uncertainty, the man blinked with confusion. Slowly, understanding dawned in his eyes.

    “Well, what have we here,” he slurred. “Looks like our friends brought a nice bit o’ tart. Come here, darling.”

    He moved toward her with purpose, no longer armed but still a serious threat.

    Leitha shrank back in fear. “Keep your wits,” she thought to herself. “Don’t think, just act.”

    Leitha leapt, just as Asgall had done, the jump boots propelling her through the air in a fast arc over the crew leader’s head. This time, however, he was prepared for the trick, and he turned and rushed at her the moment she shot past. His gait was uneven but he still moved quickly.

    Leitha landed and snatched the short-bow from the rooftop and spun. The draw was far heavier than she expected. She put her whole body into the pull and felt a hot lance of pain in her shoulder as she wrenched back at the string in the same motion pressing forward at the limbs, opening her chest with the effort.

    The arrow took the man in the shoulder, passed clean through, and knocked him backwards. His head cracked against the tile.

    Still, he rolled over his shoulder and somehow regained his feet. He rubbed at this head. “You bitch,” he said. “That’s gonna cost you.” He advanced on Leitha, his arms extended, his hands grasping, as if he would overpower her by brute force alone.

    She whipped him across the face with the short bow. The strike turned his head and stopped him in his tracks. She took advantage of the opportunity to strike him again, raising the bow high overhead and bringing it down with a sharp crack on the top of his skull.

    The bow snapped into two pieces. The man went limp, slumping to the tile and sliding toward the edge. He stopped just short, lodged against an ornate piece of cornice-work.

    Leitha walked over, placed the toe of her boot against his shoulder, and nudged him over the edge. She heard wet, muffled thud as he landed on the cobblestones below.

    She turned away and walked back up to the peak of the roof and looked off into the distance for Asgall. The whistles of the City Watch were growing louder. She could not remain here for long. The rain coming down hard now, obscuring her vision.

    Asgall had been standing near the northwestern edge when Uli triggered the blast wand. She assumed Asgall would go north and west toward the waterfront, toward his home territory. It made sense; it was all too easy to lose oneself in the narrow, twisting alleys of the Docks District.

    She took a dagger from one of the dead bodies on the rooftop, and went after Asgall, moving again from rooftop to rooftop. Her magically enhanced eyes pierced the darkness with ease but could not penetrate the downpour that now inundated the city. She was already soaked to the skin and was starting to chill, despite her exertion.

    At last, her eye caught a flicker of violet in the distance to her left. It was the ultravision, signaling the presence of living creatures. She must have passed him! She angled to her left, moving south, then dropped down into an alley and moved toward a tall building that appeared to be an inn.

    She was standing in the alley when she saw him plunge over the side of the roof, his fall stopped short by the noose around his neck. The noise of the pouring rain drowned out her scream.

    Leitha related the last of her story in mechanical tones. She told her confessors how she had stayed away from home for the rest of that night, had gone to Asgall’s apartment and hidden herself away to dry off and change her clothing. Thereafter she had gone to the tower, and then Brother Adelan had followed her and returned her lost comb.

    At last she explained her reasons for wanting to participate in a Rite of Confession. She had seen Asgall’s likeness on a public board and had become concerned that the City Watch might be looking for the thieves who had broken into Lady Triessa’s estate. She wanted protection from the possibility of legal prosecution, and she understood that the church could under certain circumstances provide that protection.

    “I just want this to be over,” she said. “For awhile I wanted to find the people who killed Asgall . . . now I just don’t know.”

    Brother Adelan spoke first, his voice soft. “I am sorry for the loss of your friend,” he said. “You tell a sad story. Please know that the monks of Querin will support you in whatever way we can.”

    “Poor child,” said the female monk. “You have suffered so much. How old are you . . . not twenty years, no?”

    “Nineteen.”

    “Nineteen,” repeated the lady monk. “And in love. And your mother gone, and your father an old fool obsessed with his work.”

    Leitha said nothing.

    “She is old enough to know right from wrong,” said the elder. “She stole from a legion armory. That is a high crime carrying a severe sentence. Men have been ha . . . have been judged harshly for less.”

    “I am sure we can devise a penance that is suitable,” said Adelan. “Her crimes are serious, but her intentions were harmless. Leitha, will you accept the judgment of the church and the penance we prescribe for you? Think carefully on this. You will find our requirements extremely burdensome, but in the end you shall be free.”

    “Yes,” said Leitha. “Whatever you think best.”

    “Is there anything else we should know?”

    “Well . . . there is perhaps something more. After Asgall died I did some paintings of the things that happened that night. I can provide portraits of some of the men involved. I don’t know if they are still alive, but it might be helpful to the City Watch in tracking down whatever it is they took. I was so angry at those men. I had originally intended to seek them out for . . . for revenge. I don’t know. I gave the paintings to a local art dealer, the Uth’daen Gallery. I am not certain what happened with them. I think there may have been a show sometime in the last few nights.”

    “I see. Anything else?”

    “No. That’s all. After that I saw the painting of Asgall in the Commons, and I came to the church and spoke with you.”

    “That is good,” said Asgall. “Thank you for telling us about the paintings. We will look into the matter for you.”

    “However,” the voice of the older monk broke in. “You understand that part of your penance will be to set aside your plans for revenge. You must understand, you cannot be absolved of your old sins while you are plotting to commit new ones. Can you abide by that restriction?”

    “Yes,” said Leitha. “I suppose I can.”

    “We will need some time to consider your deeds and the appropriate atonement,” said Adelan. “Why don’t you come back in two days. We can talk at that time. Come by in the morning, around the tenth hour, and I will meet you in the east gallery by the alter.”

    “Thank you,” said Leitha.

    “You may remain here as long as you wish,” said Adelan. “We are going to see ourselves out.”

    The monks rose and left the room, leaving the door cracked behind them.

    Leitha sat and stared at the altar for awhile. It was well past noon when she left the chapel and hailed a carriage to take her home.

    When Leitha’s confessors left the small side chapel in the Temple of Try, they returned to the central vault, with its grand columns and masonry, and made their obeisance at the main altar. Thereafter, they departed the city on foot and walked to a stable beyond the city walls, where they hired a mule team and a wagon to carry them on their way to the Monastery of Querin. Their ride to the took perhaps an hour, carrying them high into the hills outside the city.


  • Chapter 9: A Gentleman's Games

    The next morning Aldous arrived at the scriptorium, claimed his usual seat at the back of the room, and commence work on the tax compendium that he so loathed. Lenkas was conspicuously absent, his chair empty and his work from the day before untouched. There was nothing unusual about an absence; it was common for a scribe to spend a day or two pursuing other interests. The daily routine of sitting and copying for hours put a strain on the body and mind that demanded the occasional hiatus. Nevertheless, Aldous could not help but feel a nagging concern for his new acquaintance, along with a faint longing for the comfort of a familiar presence.

    He dined by himself at midday in the Feasthall and followed Lenkas’ advice of avoiding grains and potatoes. The afternoon passed uneventfully, and he found that he was able to remain awake and alert at his desk. He made rapid progress in his work, feeling a rising satisfaction at the prospect of finishing and moving on to something more interesting.

    The following day was much the same: rise with the sun, don the purple robes, breakfast in the common room of the Mermaid, and a walk through the city in the early morning to the Bardic College. It was a short distance from the Mermaid to the college, and he savored the experience of a city coming awake in the early hours. The morning sunlight slanting between buildings, and a cool breeze drifted off the lake and through the streets and byways. Horse carts clopped and clattered as they rolled along, and bakers worked in their kitchens, the scent of fresh bread wafted through the air. He took his time walking to the college.

    He arrived late at the scriptorium but found Lenkas still absent. Elder Rothgal assigned him another, substitute mentor for the day. The man was a portly older fellow who had worked for years in the Hall of Scribes and was overflowing with valuable advice but spoke in a constant monotone that made Aldous pine for the quiet and solitude of his writing desk. The afternoon dragged, and Aldous excused himself early to take a long walk home.

    He tried to retrace the route he and Lenkas had walked two nights earlier, in hopes of finding the Narfell Fencing Club again. He first walked over to the Brindled Boar, then turned and tried follow their path back to the Mermaid. Instead, he became hopelessly lost and found himself on the front steps of the Senate, a massive but elegant marble building fronted by towering white columns. He admired the architecture for a few moments, then hailed a carriage to convey him back to the Mermaid. On the way he asked the driver about the Narfell Fencing Club.

    “Do you know where to find it?” he inquired.

    “Oh, nay, dun’ know where ‘tis,” said the driver. “Dun’ get much call to go th’r. Folk that belong to such a club ha’ private carriage. Think it’s over by Marin street, near the Huntsman.”

    “Is that a tavern?” asked Aldous.

    The driver glanced back over his shoulder. “Aye, suppose, though ya need the blue blood to get in.”

    “The Huntsman,” Aldous mused aloud. “Well, thank you for the information.”

    On the third day, Aldous arrived at the scriptorium to find Lenkas’ desk empty again, and he began to feel genuinely concerned. It seemed out of character for the young man to remain absent for such a length of time, and Aldous began to wonder whether some misfortune may have befallen him. Perhaps the lad had taken ill, or had suffered some type of accident or injury. He inquired with Elder Steils but received only a grunted response and an impatient wave from over the top of a large tome, something to the effect of, “The lad is away, now off with you.” He even went in search of Elder Rothgal but was informed that Rothgal was spending the day in the vaults, and was not to be disturbed.

    He stayed through evening bell and once again walked over to the Boar and once again attempted to retrace the route to the Narfell Fencing Club. This time he paid close attention to street names. When he found Marin he turned and headed northeast until he saw a small sign painted with a gentleman on horseback. Ornate lettering spelled out “The Huntsman”. Aldous grasped the brass door knocker and rapped lightly on the door three times and waited patiently for a reply.

    A older gentleman in a forest green tunic trimmed with silver answered the door. His hair was long and gray and worn in a long braid in accordance with Peltarch custom. Aldous had begun to realize that his short ponytail, the ubiquitous fashion in Cormyr, was considered a child’s haircut here in the North. He resolved to let his hair grow to a more respectable length. The gentleman in the doorway looked him over, his glance taking in the purple robes.

    “Aye?” he asked expectantly. “How may we assist you?”

    “Forgive my intrusion, good sir, but I am somewhat lost. I was wondering if you might direct me to the Narfell Fencing Club.”

    The man regarded him in silence for an uncomfortably long moment.

    “You do understand that the admission to the Club is by invitation only.”

    Aldous nodded his head, as if the answer were expected.

    “I do understand, good sir. I am . . . uh . . . merely a student of architecture from the Bardic College, and I understand the building is of some architectural value. I wished to make observations and take down notes.” He pointed to the leather satchel hanging at his side, as if by way of explanation.

    “I see. In that case, you are not far off. Walk two streets east and turn left. The Club will be on your right.”

    Aldous made a shallow bow. “You have my gratitude.”

    “Good eve.”

    Aldous followed the gentleman’s instructions and found the Narfell Fencing Club much as he remembered it, an elegant, monumental building with marble steps leading up to a colonnade, behind which were tall, ornate windows. It was much in the same style as the Peltarch Senate, only on a smaller scale and with more elaborate ornamentation. Little gargoyles crouched on the cornices, and the windows were decorated with false lintels and bas reliefs. The building actually was an impressive example of the local architecture. To that extent, at least, Aldous had been true.

    His made his way around the side of the building and removed his leather satchel. From within he produced his lan Thalmyr family ring, which he slipped into place on the index finger of his left hand. It was a large, gaudy emerald of deep green, set in deep yellow gold. He had taken the precaution on this day of wearing his usual attire under the purple robe of the scriptorium, and he untied the rope sash at his waist and removed the outer garment, folding it as neatly as possible and stuffing it into the leather satchel. He hid the satchel under a shrubbery by the side of the building, walked back around to the front entrance, and knocked on the door.

    He was answered by a young man with an oval face and sharp brown eyes dressed in fencing leathers. He had a metal helm tucked under one arm. He hardly glanced at Aldous as he pulled open the door and stepped aside.

    “No need to knock,” he said. “Come right in. The class is about to begin. Do you have leathers? I see that you don’t. Somebody may lend you theirs when it’s time to spar. Come on then, let’s not dally.”

    Aldous blinked in surprise and then stepped through the door into the Narfell Fencing Club.

    “I’m Aldous,” he held out one hand.

    “Sebastian,” the other man replied. “Grab a practice blade.” He indicated a rack against the wall.

    Aldous could see a number of people in the main ballroom, all strung out in a line, facing a lean, older gentlemen dressed in faded leathers. One hand held a blade and the other rested against his hip, and he looked over at Aldous and Sebastian with an annoyed expression. With his free hand he waved them toward the line of other students.

    “Perfect timing.” Aldous smiled to himself. He hurried over to the rack to take a blade, then took his place in the line and the far outside end, nearest the entrance. He glanced over at Sebastian at his left and then turned his eyes to the instructor.

    The older gentleman gave him a pointed look. “No jewelry,” he said in a clipped tone. The entire class watched as Aldous fumbled at a pouch at his belt, tucked away the ring, and retied the strings. When he finished, the instructor turned and began the lesson.

    “Now that we are all settled, I would like to review a few points from our last lesson. Please assume the guard position.”

    The entire class turned sideways and pointed their right foot forward, bending the knees in a manner that would allow for quick movement back and forward. They held their blades forward at medium height, level with the bottom of the rib cage. Aldous imitated the position, a classic middle guard: versatile, unimaginative, boring, but probably the appropriate choice for novice fencers.

    He followed along as the instructor led them through a sequence of basic drills, including the usual forward lunge, the circular parry, high and low thrusts, and other movements. The class was clearly aimed at students with little experience in the craft, but he nevertheless enjoyed settling into the familiar activity, reawakening muscles long dormant since his departure from Suzail.

    The instructor, whom the students called “Master Sorensen”, consistently patrolled the line and dispensed individualized attention for each class member. On each such visit, Aldous was chastised for keeping his stance to narrow. The wide stance favored by the instructor provided excellent stability but at the cost of hampering versatility and lateral movement. Aldous politely endured the critical comments without protest. He was here to make friends and hopefully gain membership in the club, and challenging the opinions of the local instructor would facilitate neither of those ends.

    After a long period of repetitive drill, Master Sorensen announced that the students would have the opportunity to engage in some open sparring. They milled about, gathering their protective gear and donning their helms and trying some warm-up exercises. Lacking the necessary gear for a sparring session, Aldous moved off to one side and worked through a few exercises, casually observing the other students in their preparations. After a few moments, Master Sorensen noticed his separation from the others.

    “Lacking the equipment, are you?” he asked.

    Aldous paused in his exercises and politely lowered his blade.

    “I, uh, forgot my gear today,” he lied.

    “Well, we have an odd number without you,” said Sorensen. “Let’s get you suited up.”

    “I’ve got him.”

    Aldous turned and noticed a pair of gentlemen and a lady sitting at a polished, mahogany bar on the far side of the ballroom. They had been facing away from the class, sharing a quiet conversation over glasses of sherry. Now one of the men stood from the crushed, red velvet of his barstool, unfolding to an impressive height. He had thick, strong arms and a shorn scalp, and wore a fine wool tunic the color of dried tabac leaves. He moved with sure, athletic strides to the back of the room and exited through a small door underneath a staircase.

    “Wait over there by the bar,” Master Sorensen pointed with his blade. Aldous did as he was told and waited for the man to return.

    The other man at the bar eyed him appraisingly, but with apparent boredom. He had dark hair, worn long but loose, gathered at the nape of the neck, and a neat, trim moustache. His black velvet pants were high waisted and slashed with red down the outside seams. Aldous nodded politely and the man nodded in return, then turned back to the bar and sipped at his sherry.

    The woman appeared to be disinterested. She was strikingly beautiful, lean and graceful with long scarlet hair and brilliant green eyes. He briefly wondered if she might be half-elven. She wore a red silk blouse belted above form-fitting leather breeches.

    The shaven-head man returned and handed Aldous a set of fencing leathers that were battered and scarred from apparent years of use. They were heavier than Aldous preferred, and somewhat too large, but they were more than adequate for some light sparring. Aldous hurried to put them on, and the man helped, holding the jacket while Aldous worked his arms through the sleeves.

    “These should keep you well protected.” The man as cinched tight the laces in the back of the jacket. He then assisted Aldous first with one glove and cuff and then the other.

    “I appreciate the loan,” said Aldous with a grimace. He was beginning to relish the prospect of a good fight. “I’ll try not to get any holes in them.”

    The man smiled faintly. “Nay, you can’t harm them,” he said quietly. “They’re made for heavy sparring. Just see that you play safe.”

    Aldous donned the fencing helm with its full face guard and eye-slit. The rancid smell of sweat was palpable inside; that was to be expected. He hurried across the room and took up position across from Sebastian. Some of the other students had already started sparring, and Sebastian was eager to get started.

    “You ready?” Sebastian asked, his voice strangely deep behind the helm.

    “Aye,” replied Aldous. “Ready when you are.”

    Sebastian saluted with his blade, and Aldous did the same, thereby signaling the start of their duel. They both assumed a guard stance and inched toward one another, gradually closing the distance between them.

    One of the essential skills of physical combat was the ability to see and judge the distance to one’s opponent and to have an almost intuitive gasp of the opponent’s reach. Sebastian was slightly shorter than Aldous, which meant that his reach was shorter, as well. Aldous was surprised when the young fellow tried a lunge from far away and came up short. Aldous did not attempt to parry or even move out of the way. The attack was so far short that there was no need to respond. He just remained still and waited for his opponent to recover.

    “That one was a bit outside,” he commented.

    Sebastian backed away a few inches and returned to his guard position.

    “Do you want to try again?” asked Aldous.

    There was no comment from Sebastian. One frustrating aspect of practicing with helms was the inability to see your adversary’s expression. Aldous hoped that he had not insulted the youth in an attempt to be helpful.

    As they closed distance Sebastian tried again, this time from within an effective range. The lunge was forceful but slow and clumsy, and Aldous took a step back, twitching the thrust aside with a quick parry.

    “Much better!” he said, trying to put some enthusiasm into his voice. “That was a good attempt, but next time you must not herald the attack.”

    Sebastian was silent

    “Do you understand what I mean by ‘herald the attack’?”

    “Nay,” came the response, low and grudging.

    “You gathered yourself for the lunge. That’s like . . . sending a herald to announce your attack. Never do that. Every action should come as a . . .”

    Aldous darted forward and touched the tip of his blade against his opponent’s side, rebounding immediately to guard position.

    “Complete surprise,” he finished. “Also, speed is far more important than power. Put the blade where you want it, fast, and let the steel do the rest.”

    Sebastian was silent as they squared off again. The two men closed to within striking distance and crossed blades. The lunge came fast and unannounced this time, and Aldous felt the point of the blade contact his leather cuirass, pushing him back a step.

    “That was good,” he said, hoping the smile could be heard in his voice. “Caught me.”

    The next exchange was similarly effective; Sebastian was a promising student, with a natural grace and athleticism that allowed him to incorporate each new technique that Aldous showed him. Master Sorensen watched them with approval and approached only once to deliver his usual gripe about Aldous’ stance. His voice however lacked its previous tone of admonition. Sebastian said nothing as they practiced, just worked quietly and efficiently at improving his technique.

    At last, toward the end of the sparring session, Aldous grew bored of playing practice dummy. As Sebastian attempted another attack, Aldous parried high with his blade pointing down and pushed his opponent’s blade away to the right. In the next motion, he sidestepped to the left and then flipped his blade around in a rapid arc, bringing it down in a vicious cut at his opponent’s helm. He stopped his blade just short of completing the strike. It would be in poor taste to deliver a ringing blow to the head of this young pupil, and he did not want to alienate himself from the group. Nevertheless, Sebastian cringed away from the slash.

    “Stop!” Aldous heard Master Sorensen shout, curt and authoritative, from the far end of the line. The older gentleman strode along the row of students until he was just a few feet away. He placed the point of his sword on the floor and leaned casually on the pommel, regarding Aldous with a bland look.

    “That is an illegal technique,” he said. “Quite against club rules. No slashing cuts to the head. Also, you stepped outside the line of engagement. That would be a point against you.”

    Aldous removed his helm and made a polite bow. “Please accept my apology,” he offered. “I was not aware of those particular rules. I shall have to make an effort to become better acquainted with them.”

    Sebastian also removed his helm. “Not at all,” he said earnestly. “I have learned a great deal tonight. I am in your debt.”

    “I’d like to see that again,” a new voice. Aldous glanced over and was surprised to see that the man at the bar, the one with the neat moustache and black ascot, had stood up from his stool. He and his companion, the tall, muscular fellow who had lent his leathers to Aldous, crossed the ballroom and approached to a more comfortable distance for conversation.

    The man in the ascot pointed with lazy index finger, a languid gesture.

    “Can you show that again, with the footwork?”

    Aldous looked uncertainly at Master Sorensen. “Go ahead,” said the instructor in an acerbic tone. Sebastian was already putting his helm back on.

    “Slowly,” cautioned Aldous.

    Sebastian made a slow thrust and Aldous walked through the combination in steps: high parry with point down, push the blades to the right, sidestep left, reverse the sword in the air, slash down and across the head and neck. He snapped the downward cut and stopped it just short of contact. This time Sebastian held his ground, perfectly still.

    “Fascinating,” said the man with the ascot. The taller man just folded his arms, his expression amused. Master Sorensen wore a look of uncertainty.

    “But where are my manners,” the man continued. “I am Cedric Uthnael, and this is Prefect Hanil. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

    “Aldous lan Thalmyr.” A short bow. “The pleasure is mine.”

    “This is your first lesson at the Club? Who is your sponsor?”

    “Ah, I just knocked on the front door, and class was beginning,” said Aldous.

    Master Sorensen’s brow creased in a frown. Cedric and Hanil exchanged amused looks.

    “You understand this is a private club,” said Cedric. It was not exactly a question.

    “Ah, well . . .” Aldous flushed slightly. Hanil smirked, though his eyes remained friendly.

    “Never mind that,” said Cedric. “Where did you learn sword-craft? Your technique is most unusual.”

    “In Cormyr, actually,” said Aldous. “In my youth. I had a martial education. Later I played in the fencing halls in Suzail. It’s what young men do there for diversion.”

    “Cormyr.” Cedric’s mouth twisted, as he repeated the word. “What did you say your name was?”

    Aldous shifted uncomfortably. “My family name is lan Thalmyr,” he repeated.

    Cedric tilted his head, as if listening. “Hmm, it has a familiar ring. At any rate, I should like to see more. How about a little practice bout between you and Sebastian here. I’m sure my young nephew would be amenable.”

    Sebastian saluted with his blade by way of reply. All eyes turned to Master Sorensen.

    The Master looked uncomfortable. “It would be most unusual to permit a non-member to enter into a competitive match.”

    “But not strictly prohibited,” rumbled Hanil.

    Master Sorensen tilted his head, as if reflecting. “I suppose a short exhibition would be harmless, assuming that our, ah, guest will consent to the exchange.”

    Aldous was quite astonished. He had not expected to become the center of attention this evening. Quite the contrary, he had been under the assumption that he would be denied entry to the club. He had been fortunate to arrive just as class was beginning.

    The prospect of an exhibition match carried a number of risks. If he humiliated Cedric’s nephew, he would probably alienate the uncle, the one person who had taken an interest in him. On the other hand, if he toyed with Sebastian and allowed him to score a few hits, then he might come across as patronizing or even obsequious.

    The final truth, however, was that his presence in the club was now at the sufferance of Master Sorensen, who for reasons unknown seemed to display an odd deference to Cedric. There would be only one way forward. Cedric had taken an interest in him only because he had noted something unusual about Aldous’ technique with a sword. He had to pander to the man’s curiosity. And that meant he would have to test the limits of Cedric’s protectiveness toward his nephew.

    He removed his helm and made a short bow. “I should be honored to provide a short demonstration,” he said.

    “This would be strictly off the record books,” said Master Sorensen.

    “Agreed,” said Cedric. “And gentleman’s terms only, no house rules.”

    “Are you certain?” Sorensen looked uncertain again. “Sebastian, would you agree to this? Do you understand what it means?”

    “I’m sure it’s fine,” said Sebastian, with an uncertain glance at his uncle.

    “It means that the house rules will not apply. Any technique or strike is fair game, so long as the contestants conduct themselves as gentlemen.”

    “I have seen nothing thus far to suggest that the distinguished gentleman from Cormyr would behave otherwise.” Sebastian shrugged, putting on a brave countenance.

    “You will be at a disadvantage,” said Sorensen. “Your training thus far has focused solely on the fundamentals, and on sparring in accordance with house rules, which are highly restrictive.”

    “I am already at a disadvantage. He is obviously far more experienced.” said Sebastian. He shrugged again. “It is only an expedition match.”

    “Aldous, do you consent to these terms?” Sorensen turned to him.

    “I do consent,” said Aldous.

    “Very well, then, let us move to the center ring.”

    Sorensen directed Aldous and Sebastian to opposite sides of a large ring outlined with faded paint in the very center of the hardwood floor. Aldous observed that he would have plenty of room in which to maneuver.

    Everyone in the room gathered around the ring to watch the contest. The students in their fencing leathers arrayed themselves along one side of the ring, and Cedric, Hanil, and the woman in red stood in a small group next to Master Sorensen on the other. Hanil leaned over and whispered something to the woman in red and she gave a quiet, throaty chuckle. Cedric glanced at the pair with an expression of sly amusement, while Master Sorensen wore a serious expression faintly suggestive of disapproval, as if the entire affair was an affront to his ethical sensibilities.

    Once everyone was in position, Sorensen stepped into the ring.

    “This is an exhibition duel between Sebastian Uthnael and Aldous lan Thalmyr. The outcome of this match will not be recorded on the Club records, and the house rules such as the terms of engagement and the right-of-way shall not apply. The combatants are free to move about the ring of their own volition, heedless of the lane of engagement, and to strike as they see fit. They will however adhere to the terms of honor. There will be no strikes to the groin or throat, and they will at all times preserve the nobility of the craft and the dignity of their opponent.”

    “Do the contestants agree to terms?”

    Aldous and Sebastian both answered in the affirmative.

    There will be five passes. On each pass, the first combatant to touch his adversary with the point or edge of his blade shall win a point, and the pass shall be concluded. The adversaries will then return to their starting positions and begin the next pass.”

    “Do you both understand the format of the duel?”

    Once again both Aldous and Sebastian answered in the affirmative.

    “I will serve as the arbiter of any disputes regarding contact with the blade. In the event that I am unable to make a determination, the pass will be repeated until a definitive outcome is established. You may begin.”

    Sebastian saluted from across the ring by raising his blade and touching it to his forehead, first to Sorensen, then to his opponent. Aldous followed in his example. They donned their helms and stepped into the ring.

    They approached one another cautiously, moving slowly into range. Sebastian lowered himself into a wide dueling stance as taught during the class, whereas Aldous stood upright and casual, his blade held low in a gesture of nonchalance. Aldous chose his posture to maximize mobility, and to contrast as sharply as possible against Master Sorensen’s instruction.

    As Sebastian crept to within striking distance Aldous faded right, moving toward the front side of Sebastian’s body. The youth was slow to pivot and consequently failed to keep his blade between himself and his opponent. Aldous dropped into a lunge and immediately scored a hit to the center of Sebastian’s chest. There was a low mummer from the audience, perhaps surprised that a point had been scored so early, followed by a polite round of applause. Master Sorensen called the point and they returned to starting positions.

    On the next pass, Aldous took the opposite tack and faded left, to the outside of Sebastian’s forward shoulder. The lad responded by angling his blade, trying to keep his sword aligned with his adversary, but he failed to adjust his body position, leaving himself open again. Aldous ducked forward and thrust under and to the left of the guard, scoring a shot to the ribs. In a real fight, he would have placed the point directly into the pit of the arm. In this case, however, he lowered his point of aim and landed the thrust on his opponent’s side, where the fencing leathers provided ample protection. Another point. Again Master Sorensen stopped the match and returned them to starting positions. Again there was a round of applause.

    Through the slit in his helm, Aldous could see the expressions of his audience. Master Sorensen seemed a taken aback, and the large man, Prefect Hanil, wore a wry smirk. The lady with blonde hair eyed Aldous appraisingly, and the man named Cedric, whom Aldous suspected as being the putative leader of the group, wore a look of mixed amusement and fascination. That was good; Cedric did not seem especially bothered by the rapid demise of his nephew.

    In the third pass he met Sebastian head on. The youth made a straight lunge and Aldous caught the rapier with his own. He used the base of his blade in combination with the cross-guard to redirect the point of Sebastian’s sword away from his side, while at the same time twisting the angle of his own blade, so that the point scraped along the side of Sebastian’s helm. Master Sorensen called yet another point, and they returned to their places again.

    In the fourth pass, Aldous determined to let Sebastian have more of a fight, and the lad performed well. He approached more cautiously and kept himself carefully behind his blade as Aldous faded first left, then right. The youth tracked him doggedly, pivoting the angle of his body to present the smallest target possible. He learned quickly from his mistakes. He could have made a name for himself in the fencing halls of Suzail, given sufficient time and dedication.

    Aldous engaged with him for a moment, exchanging thrust and parry and riposte. The swords sang as they worked back and forth in an extended rally, and Sebastian came alarmingly close to scoring a hit, with Aldous narrowly avoiding the edge of his blade. At last, emboldened by the intense exchange, Sebastian committed himself to a lunge. Aldous twisted to the side, reached out and caught the extended wrist. A sharp tug dragged the youth off balance and sent him sprawling onto the floor. There was a gasp from one of the students, followed by scattered applause. Master Sorensen frowned with disapproval. Aldous realized he may have infringed on the borders of the man’s sense of honor.

    Aldous offered Sebastian a hand and pulled him to his feet. There was a hearty applause from the audience.

    “Sorry, lad,” he said.

    “Nay, it was well played,” came the reply. The backed away, saluted one another, and resumed the pass.

    They exchanged a few more thrusts and parries before Aldous scored his fourth point. He beat Sebastian’s blade aside and whipped the edge of his rapier down across the lad’s armored bracer. In unarmored combat, the strike would have been debilitating, rendering the sword hand useless. Sorensen grudgingly called another point in his favor.

    For the last round Aldous allowed another extended exchange of thrust, parry, and riposte. He stayed in line with his opponent and restricted himself to the most fundamental techniques: bland, simple attacks and parries. After a brief session, he permitted a touch, and the fifth pass was over. The two combatants returned to their respective sides of the ring, then saluted their judge and each other. There was enthusiastic applause all around, from both the students and from the small group of observers on the opposite side of the ring. Hanil grinned, and though Cedric retained a serious mien, his bearing seemed to suggest approval. Even the woman in red, thus far the most reserved of the group, clapped with reasonable effort.

    The two contestants strode to the center of the ring, where they clasped forearms. Aldous slapped the youth on the back of his leathers.

    “You did well, lad,” he said.

    Sebastian smiled appreciatively and shrugged. “I did horribly, but I learned a great deal.” He turned to Cedric. “Well, uncle? Was our little duel to your liking?”

    “Aye, nephew. It was most entertaining.”

    “I think he went easy on you,” said Hanil.

    “Oh, of a certainty,” said Sebastian.

    “He certainly does not play by the established rules,” said the woman in red, arching one brow.

    Hanil folded his arms. “The established rules don’t mean much outside those doors.” He pointed at tall oak doors standing at the entrance to the hall.

    “That is what sets us apart from the common folk,” said Sorensen. “A sense of order and fairness. And honor.”

    “I saw no dishonor here,” said Cedric. “Only skill.”

    “I should like to see him against you, Master,” said Sebastian. Aldous cringed inwardly at the rude comment.

    To his credit Master Sorensen was unruffled. “That would be an interesting match,” he admitted. “Though I should like to watch him some more first. He is full of tricks.”

    Sebastian grinned. “What do you think then, uncle? Can we keep him?”

    “Oh, I think we must, nephew.”

    Aldous was inducted into the Narfell Fencing Club that evening as a provisional member under the sponsorship of Sebastian Uthnael, though it was Cedric who paid the staggering initiation fee and first annual dues. Aldous would be allowed to visit the club at his leisure and to use club facilities, which included access to the Huntsman. However, he was forbidden from sparing with other members unless accompanied by his sponsor. In addition, he would not be allowed to compete in official club events until he had memorized the house rules, which were numerous. He signed his name in the club registry without ceremony, but with warm congratulations all around.

    Afterwards Sebastian showed him to a public bathhouse where they soaked their tired muscles in steaming pools of scented water fed by a natural spring beneath the city. Aldous rented a private room where a matronly woman with strong hands applied warm oil to his skin and massaged his back, her thumbs digging into the knots between his shoulders and along his spine. She then turned him over and proceeded to massage his chest and thighs, working her way to his hips while his manhood stirred to life. She teased him enticingly with light touches where he most needed relief.

    It was at that point he asked her whether she was a skilled “orator”, and she just smiled and gave him a price in gold. He accepted the terms, and she excused herself from the room, explaining that another girl would see to that particular need. After a few minutes, an underfed looking lass with red curls and freckles appeared through the curtain and took matters into her own hands. This one proved to be most skilled. Aldous made a mental note to do something nice for Sebastian.

    On the way home he rented a carriage to take him back to the Narfell Fencing Club, where he retrieved his leather satchel from the shrubbery beside the building, hoping that nobody would see him. The hour had grown quite late, and the streets were dark and empty, and he was able to reclaim his belongings without embarrassment.

    Johann was waiting for him in his room in the Mermaid. He had his back to the door, but Aldous recognized his silhouette in the lamplight.

    “Have a seat.” Johann did not turn to face him. “You’ve been out late.”

    Aldous laid his belongings at the foot of his bed. “I’ve had an eventful day,” he said. He took a decanter of port and two glasses from his mantle and placed them on the dining table, pouring first a glass for Johann, then one for himself. He noted that Johann had dark circles under his eyes, telltale signs of exhaustion.

    “Drink deep,” he said. “You look like death.”

    Johann took the glass in front of him and sipped from the port.

    “You do have good taste in wine,” he said. “But I have no time for extended pleasantries.”

    “What brings you then?” asked Aldous

    “I have lost a friend.”

    “I’m sorry to hear that. How can I help?”

    “You can’t,” said Johann bluntly. “Our mutual employer has been keeping me extremely busy. You heard about the assassination?”

    “Aye, Senator Westbrook.”

    “They tried to resurrect the assassin for questioning, but the priests of Tyr were unable to revive the body. Almost as if he were a construct or a soulless man. Westbrook has been resurrected of course and is in hiding.”

    “That’s disturbing news,” said Aldous, unsettled.

    “It means the mage’s guild has become suspect in the assassination, which is very bad,” said Johann. “Two thirds of the Senate have some type of deep connection to the guild. A feud between the mages could be devastating for the city.”

    “In what way?”

    “We’re talking about an internecine proxy war between multiple, undisclosed factions in the city. Nothing of the kind has ever happened before. Nobody really knows how far it could go.”

    “As if that isn’t enough to worry about, our mutual employer is putting increasing pressure on me to find the missing figurines. Leave no stone unturned. That sort of thing.” Johann drained his glass. “I’ll have another please.” Aldous poured him another.

    “Which brings me to my lost friend. He was a good man: discrete, smart, experienced. We worked together for more than twenty years. And he was well outfitted, equipped with the best magical protections I could provide. And I can afford to provide the best. If anything had befallen him, I should have known immediately.

    “This was the individual I assigned to watch over you. Naturally, after the events of the last few weeks, I was concerned for your safety. I committed one of my most seasoned agents to monitor your surroundings. He was supposed to stay here at the Mermaid, to make sure you weren’t followed or interfered with in any way. Unfortunately, as of the day before yesterday, he failed to make certain reports at certain times. Our last contact with him was a few nights ago.”

    Aldous was not surprised to learn that he was being monitored. In fact, he had assumed as much. Johann would have someone watching him not only at the Mermaid but throughout the city. Bait was only useful if you had a line attached to it. However, he also knew that there was little choice in the matter, and making a fuss would only complicate his relationship with Johann. The man was under considerable strain already.

    “I, ah, appreciate the concern,” he said. “And I’m sorry to hear about your friend. Is there anything I can do to help? I assume you’ve been looking for him.”

    “We found a bloody glove in an alley near the Peltarch commons. We took the glove to a diviner, and confirmed the blood was his. I then took the glove to a necromancer, and I spoke to his shade.”

    Aldous felt the blood drain from his face at the mention of a necromancer. One did not speak of such things openly.

    “Please do not judge my actions harshly.” Johann broke off his story, seeing his discomfort. “I only wished to know the fate of my friend.”

    “Understood,” said Aldous.

    “At any rate, his shade knew nothing of what happened. Whoever killed him struck suddenly, and kept his identity hidden. There was a long interrogation, though he never saw the man’s face. I’m afraid my friend had no choice but to reveal certain information that we would have preferred to keep confidential. Based on the questions asked, I would say the interrogator knew a great deal about city politics.”

    There was a long silence as Johann looked down into the tawny liquid in his glass. Aldous mirrored him, waiting for the man to speak. Finally, Johann broke the silence.

    “I know that you are blameless in these matters. Else this conversation would have been conducted under very different circumstances.”

    “I am sure,” said Aldous.

    “However, I need you to understand the gravity of our task here. I need to find the figurines as soon as possible, so that I can liberate resources to deal with the . . . the events of real significance now transpiring in the city.”

    “Alright,” said Aldous.

    “I also intend to find my friend’s body and arrange for a resurrection.”

    “Understood.”

    “What I need from you is, to stop playing around and get to work.”

    There was another uncomfortable silence. Finally, Aldous spoke first.

    “With all due respect,” he said. “It would be helpful if we shared information. I have no leads. I am not permitted to speak to Lady Triessa. The only people with any connection to the crime whatsoever are both dead. I have not been allowed to inquire with the City Watch or the Legion.”

    Johann stood and drained his second glass of port. “Not my problems,” he quipped. “Just be creative.”

    He paused on his way out the door.

    “Perhaps your friend Lenkas will produce something useful. Incidentally, he suffered a grievous wound on the way home the other night. I would have thought you would have checked on him by now, rather than prancing around the city like a highborn wastrel. I sent over a healer from the church of Tyr to see to him and his family, compliments of Aldous lan Thalmyr. No doubt you’ll find him at the scriptorium tomorrow morning. As I said, it’s time to get to work.”


  • Chapter 8: A Troubled Bargain

    The Hall of Scribes was a large stone chamber with vaulted ceilings that housed row upon row of purple-robed scholars laboring at their desks. The chamber was cool and eerily silent, apart from the low, susurrus rasping of the quills and the occasional whisper of one scribe to another. Sunlight spread generously through south-facing windows and filled the room with warm illumination, and little motes of dust floated in the radiance, suspended on currents of air, stirred and lifted by the movement of the scribes at their work.

    There were perhaps eighty scribes in all, not the Realms’ largest scriptorium, but enough to be respectable. Aldous was seated at the back of the room toward the south wall, where the light streaming in from the windows above was weakest and provided the least amount of warmth. His newly acquired purple robe itched at the neck and the sleeves, and he scratched compulsively at his wrists. After a moment’s futile effort he sighed and resolved to endure the discomfort and returned his attention to his work. The library had given him a thick volume of numerical entries recorded by a traveling tax collector for the Senate. He was supposed to transcribe the entire volume and then return the original and the copy to the elder scribes for storage in the vaults. It was perhaps the least desirable assignment of which he could conceive, but he understood that a novice had to pay his dues. It would have helped if the damned collector had received some degree of training in penmanship.

    Aldous worked at the tax records for about an hour when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He turned and found standing beside his desk a slight young man in a purple robe with sharp features and a dark blonde braid down his back. The young man’s eyes were friendly, and he leaned down, hands on knees, speaking in a hushed tone.

    “Sorry to disturb you,” he said. “Elder Rothgal said that I am to help you become acquainted with the college. I am your mentor for the next few weeks.”

    Aldous set his quill in the inkwell. He offered his hand.

    “Aldous lan Thalmyr,” he whispered. “From the city of Suzail.”

    The youth smiled and took the offered hand. “Lenkas Uthbanen. From Peltarch.”

    “Well met.”

    Lenkas lifted his gaze and studied the volume that Aldous was in the process of copying.

    “Tax records.” He shuddered. And then after a moment, “You’ve a good hand for copy. You’ll do well here. Have you blotted any pages thus far?”

    “Only two,” said Aldous. He pointed to the two sheets of parchment laid at the foot of his chair.

    Lenkas reached up and leafed through the stack of finished copy. “Two in about three hundred,” he noted. “That’s very good. They charge ruined pages out of your pay, but I can already see that you will acquit yourself well here. I’ll find you at the midday bell and show you to the Feasthall.” He turned and made his way through the rows of scribes hard at work, and made his way to his own desk in the center of the room. Aldous watched him pick up a small, razor-sharp scalpel and pare the end of his quill with two quick slices. The youth then returned to work copying what appeared to be an elaborate historical or religious text. Aldous looked down at the metal nib on the end of his quill, surprised to consider that Lenkas was working in the old way, with a bare quill, sharpened and split up the center. He then glanced again at his own page, wondering how long the scriptorium would require him to copy tax records and other such dull material before permitting him to transition to works of real scholarship. He was not certain how much of this he could endure.

    It was about another hour to the midday bell. Aldous tried his best to lose himself in the simple movement of quill on parchment, to ignore the itching sensation around the neck of his robe and the gradual tightening of the muscles in his back and shoulders. In due time, however, he heard the bell tolling from outside in the distance, releasing him from the doldrums of municipal accounting.

    The scribes stood and stretched and began talking amongst themselves in hushed tones. There was no prohibition on noise during the midday hour, but for those who labored with quill and ink the scriptorium was a kind of sacred place, where shouting and loud voices did not belong. They kept their conversation low and respectful and their movements slow and devout.

    Aldous watched Lenkas put away his quill and stopper his inkwell. An open well was a disaster waiting to happen; Aldous had already been scolded once for leaving his desk without properly putting his place in order. Having finished, Lenkas turned and hurried back to greet Aldous, as fast as decorum would allow. He grinned as he approached through the rows of desks.

    “I hope you’ve an appetite,” he offered. “The Bardic College serves up some of the best food in the city.”

    “I’ve the appetite of a bear,” said Aldous. “I’ve had only tea and fish this morning. ”

    They turned and made their way through the hall, toward the front entrance, which opened onto the center courtyard of the college. As they approached the great doorway, they were intercepted by a tall, regal gentleman with a long, gray beard. He wore the ubiquitous purple robes and had a long, red sash hanging around his neck marking him as an elder among the scribes. His robes were worn with age, suggesting not shabbiness but comfort and distinction.

    Lenkas ducked his head, an informal bow. “Elder Rothgal, I was just showing our newest initiate to the Feasthall. I thought to introduce him to the culinary genius of the Bardic College.”

    Rothgal inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the younger scribe, then turned to Aldous.

    “How are you settling in?” he asked.

    “Very well, Master Rothgal” said Aldous, bowing awkwardly. “Thank you for asking.”

    Elder Rothgal raised one hand, as if warding off something unpleasant. “Please, Aldous, you may refer to Elder Rothgal, or simply, Elder. We are not formal here at the Bardic College.”

    “As it please you, Elder,” said Aldous.

    “And his work?” he turned pointedly to Lenkas.

    “He’s a good fist with a quill, Elder. Fast and precise. Only two wasted pages in, say, four hundred.”

    “Hmm, four hundred pages, how long has he been with us?”

    “Only a few days,” Lenkas turned to Aldous for a more precise answer.

    Aldous took the cue. “This would be my fifth day.”

    Rothgal raised a brow. “Your fifth day, indeed. You are quite prolific, novice. We could use a few more like you.”

    “I aim to please, Elder.”

    “That is good. You are from . . . Cormyr, are you not? I can hear it in your accent.”

    “Suzail. You have a good ear, Elder.”

    “And your last name, I think I saw it on the rolls. It is . . . ‘lan Thalmyr’, as I recall.”

    “Aye, Elder, that is right.”

    “Let me see if I remember my etymology. The prefix ‘lan’ is a diminution of ‘the land’ or ‘of the land’, and indicates a landed family. The name ‘lan Thalmyr’ is thus a short-hand expression to say ‘of the land of Thalmyr’, thereby signaling that your family’s holdings are called ‘Thalmyr’. You are therefore a member of the noble class, and your family presides over a fief named Thalmyr, is that right?”

    Aldous cringed inwardly. “You are most learned in the ways of my country, Elder. Have you traveled there often?”

    Rothgal smiled condescendingly. “The distance is too great to travel there often, Novice. What are you then? A third or fourth son? You have strayed too far from your fields to be in any danger of succession.”

    “A third son,” Aldous mouth twisted wryly. “My father is the Earl of Thalmyr, with my older brothers standing in line head of me in succession.”

    “And your own title?”

    “Officially, I am but a knight.”

    “Officially?” Rothgal raised a brow. “A knight by birth you mean, not by trade.”

    “Aye, that is correct,” said Aldous.

    “Well, you should know that we have all kinds here. You will find there are other persons of rank and title among the scribes, many of whom have joined us specifically to escape the world of gold and politics. When we don the purple robe, we leave our lives behind, and each is judged only by his contribution to the life of the mind.”

    “You have described me to perfection, Elder,” said Aldous. “I do not wish to be set apart, except by accomplishment, of course.”

    “See that you keep to that view, Novice. I have a strong premonition that you will go far here at the college.”

    “Thank you, Elder.”

    “Well, the two of you had best run along. Initiate Lenkas will show you to the Feasthall. We’ve a long afternoon ahead of us.”

    Aldous groaned inwardly at the thought of the long afternoon ahead. They bowed and hurried out the doors and into the central courtyard of the college.

    The Peltarch Bardic College comprised a cluster of old, monumental buildings arranged in a circle in the heart of Peltarch. It was a city within the city, constantly bustling with activity and boasting its own little city wall. The wall was too low and narrow and too poorly supported to serve as a genuine military fortification, but it served nicely to separate the college from its surroundings. In the main, it diverted city traffic around the college and afforded a measure of privacy to the academes and their staff, preventing casual passersby from intruding on activities of the college.

    Within the wall, the wide circle of buildings surrounded a spacious central courtyard. In the center of the courtyard, at the very center of the college, was a lively fountain with a marble statue of Sune that was sculpted with such skill that she appeared to be alive. The pure white marble was so polished and so smooth that from a distance the body of Sune appeared soft and supple. Even her gown, hewn and polished from the marble itself, draped like a delicate, diaphanous fabric that hung precariously from her shoulders, leaving nothing to the imagination. She balanced on one foot, her other leg extended gracefully behind her, toes pointed due east. Her arms were lifted in the air, her back arched, her breasts pushed forward. Her eyes were set with opals that glittered in alternating hues of red and orange and green, seemingly alive with inner fire.

    Lenkas blushed furiously as they neared the fountain. “That is, uh, the statue of Sune.”

    Aldous eyed the sculpture appraisingly as they passed. He felt his loins shift in response to the revealing likeness of the feminine form. “The sculptor certainly was talented,” he observed. They hurried on past the statute and toward the Feasthall.

    As they continued on their way, moving a safe distance from the statue, Lenkas slowed to a more comfortable pace.

    “Are you finding everything to your liking thus far?” he asked.

    “I am,” said Aldous, “though the afternoon sessions are extremely long. Three hours of copy in the morning, then five in the afternoon. That second leg seems an eternity.”

    “It gets easier with time,” said Lenkas, his tone sympathetic. “Your back will grow accustomed to the seat, and your thumb and wrist will get stronger, too.”

    “Aye, I suppose,” said Aldous. “How long before we are granted access to the vaults?”

    Lenkas raised brow at that. “The vaults? A scribe does not gain access to the stacks until after the first year, and even then the access is limited to the first floor. Over time one may be rewarded with access to the higher floors. The basement vaults, however, are another matter entirely. Only the Elders are allowed admission there.”

    “Ah,” was all Aldous managed, suddenly deflated. “I had hoped it might be sooner than that. Much sooner, truth be told.”

    “Oh? Were you hoping to conduct some research?”

    “Aye,” said Aldous. “It seems rather pointless now.”

    “I might be able to help you,” offered Lenkas. “I have access to the first three floors of the stacks. I haven’t been with the college for a full year, but I am, ah, one of the more productive scribes. I have the habit of working late hours. I do not require much sleep.”

    “In truth?” asked Aldous, raising a brow. “You would help? I would be extremely grateful. I’m certain I could return the favor someday.”

    “No need,” smiled Lenkas. “What are you looking for?”

    “I’m looking for some books on Uthgart shamanism and art forms. I’m specifically interested in their wood carvings, and their enchantment practices.”

    There was a momentary pause in the conversation. Lenkas raised a brow. “That’s, uh, a remarkably specific topic. What piqued your interest in our barbarian neighbors?”

    Aldous laughed, “You would never believe it if I told you.” He suddenly felt a sense of warmth and gratitude toward this slight youth. He could understand why the scriptorium would have granted him privileges so quickly. There was something disarming about him.

    “I don’t mean to pry,” said Lenkas, abashed. “It just seemed like a specific request.”

    “Very well,” said Aldous. “I’ll offer you a bargain. Help me delve into the stacks for Uthgart lore, and I’ll tell you one of the strangest stories you’ve ever heard. My portion will be paid up front, tonight over ales at the Brindled Boar. I’ll buy the ales. After you’ve heard the story, you can decide whether to help me or not.”

    Lenkas grinned. “Sounds like I’m getting the better end of the deal. I accept.”

    The Main Hall loomed before them, and they went inside to join the other scribes in the Feasthall at the midday meal.

    After a congenial lunch Aldous and Lenkas returned to the scriptorium with the rest of the scribes to continue the day’s labors. The afternoon was long and tedious, and Aldous drowsed at his desk, struggling to maintain his concentration on the tax records. Nevertheless, he managed to add another forty or so pages to the growing pile of finished copy. Eventually the sun made its way across the sky and began to dip toward the horizon, and the light from the great windows on the southern wall began to fade. At last the evening bell rang in the distance, signaling that the day was finished.

    Aldous stood and stretched his back and shoulders and tidied up his desk. He closed the tax compendium and marked his paged with a slender ribbon of silk. He also stoppered his inkwell, as directed, and dried his quill and placed it vertically in a small brass stand. At last he stowed his finished pages in a slot beneath his desk, and then looked around for Lenkas.

    Lenkas was waiting by the main entrance, talking with some of the other scribes. He turned and waved when he saw Aldous approaching and broke away from the group, meeting Aldous in the center of the hall.

    “You survived the afternoon,” he offered in a low voice.

    “I had to go outside and take some walks,” replied Aldous. “I don’t know how you managed to stay awake all afternoon, day after day.”

    “You made the mistake of having the rice for lunch,” said Lenkas. “The secret is to restrict your diet to meat, eggs, and vegetables before evening. Rice, bread, anything made from grain will cause fatigue. Also, potatoes. Those are the absolute worst. I nearly made a comment during lunch when I saw your portion, but I didn’t feel it was my place.”

    “I’ll have to remember that,” said Aldous. “However, I hope the prohibition on grains does not extend to beverages. That would surely interfere with our bargain for this evening.”

    Lenkas grinned. “Absolutely not. The prohibition is only in place at breakfast and lunch. The ban is lifted at evensong, and anything is fair play.”

    “To the Brindled Boar, then?”

    “To the Boar. You can begin your story on the way.”

    They exchanged pleasantries on the way to the Boar, and each learned something about the other’s interests and life story to that point. Aldous described his family situation in Cormyr: a noble family, two older brothers, two younger sisters, and the constant duplicity and treachery of the court in Suzail. He explained his desire break away from the family’s constant feuding and strife, the overweening pride of his brothers, the petty bickering of his sisters.

    He was somewhat disappointed to learn that Lenkas was a commoner, the son of a chandler that operated a shop in a two-level building on the eastern edge of the Docks District. The chandlery and storefront were downstairs on the first floor, while the family’s residences were upstairs on the second floor. Despite humble origins, however, Lenkas possessed a keen mind and a quick wit, and Aldous could understand how such a person would quickly attain privileged status among the scribes. He was also surprise to realize that Lenkas was only a six years his junior. Aldous had believed him at least a decade younger. He decided that a mild temperament and a relatively sheltered family life had lent the young fellow an air of innocence that belied his age. By the time they reached the Boar, Aldous determined that he would not allow the lad’s humble origins (he could not stop thinking of him as a “lad”) to stand in the way of their friendship. Part of removing himself from the world of the court necessarily required that he develop an appreciation for the common folk.

    They arrived at the Brindled Boar, just as the sun was starting to set. It was much like any tavern in Faerun, a smoke-filled room with low ceilings and rough-hewn beams. This particular tavern however was jammed into the basement level of a huge stone building on the southwest side of the City Center. The only indication of its presence was a wooden shingle hanging out front, painted with a brown boar with golden stripes. Despite this rather poor exterior presence, it had a strong a reputation for good food and ale, and it had become a favorite gathering place for members of the Peltarch bureaucracy and the lower-level gentry.

    By the time Aldous and Lenkas arrived, the Boar was packed tight with clientele, and the noise was extraordinary. Their conspicuous purple robes earned Aldous and Lenkas more than a few sideways looks, but Aldous paid no mind and Lenkas was oblivious. At last, one man more courageous or less inhibited than the others worked up the nerve to inquire.

    “Oy, what’s with the robes?!” he shouted over the din, pointing and gesturing with one finger.

    “Scribes!” shouted Aldous back, indicating the silver feather embroidered on his lapel.

    “Tribes?!” inquired the man at the top of his lungs, his expression incredulous.

    “Scribes!” shouted Aldous again, miming the act of writing in the air.

    The man nodded sagely, as if he had been initiated into some secret knowledge. Then, as if on impulse, he shouldered his way through the crowd, drawing closer.

    “Wait here a moment!” he shouted into Aldous’ ear, then turned away and pushed over to the bar.

    After a lengthy period of shouting at the barkeep, gesturing wildly, and using what Aldous assumed was a variety of colorful insults, the man returned with three huge tankards of ale. His hands shook with the strain as he gripped all three tankards in a cluster.

    “I got us doubles!” he shouted over the din, passing a tankard each to Aldous and Lenkas. “Best to get the largest size, because Tymora knows when we’ll get another round!” He pointed with his thumb to the crowded bar.

    Aldous lifted his tankard in salute, and they all three toasted and drank together. The ale was dark and smooth and worthy of the reputation of the Brindled Boar.

    “Let’s step outside and talk!” shouted their new drinking companion. He was a large man with black hair in a bowl cut, dressed in a fine tunic of pale green silk, which had unfortunately acquired a long dark stain down the front.

    They squeezed through the crowd, through the doorway, and out into the street. Aldous was instantly relieved by the cool air and the sensation of once again being able to hear himself think.

    They moved away from the door and turned to face one another, forming a small group of three arranged for conversation. Several other clusters of people stood around outside doorway, all apparently with the same idea to take solace from the noise in the tavern.

    “We owe you some thanks,” said Aldous, lifting his tankard once more. “I’ve never seen it so busy.”

    “It’s always this busy at this hour,” said their new acquaintance. “The name’s Frederick.”

    “Well met, Frederick. I am Aldous, and this is Lenkas.” They each in turn clasped forearms in the local fashion. Frederick weaved a little as he greeted each of them, obviously well saturated.

    “So you fellows are . . . scribes? Did I understand that a’right?”

    “Aye,” said Lenkas. “We work at the scriptorium at the Bardic College.”

    “These robes are the vestments of the Order of Scribes,” said Aldous, plucking at his lapel. “We came here directly after evening bell, so there was no opportunity to change.”

    “Ah,” nodded Frederick. “The Bardic College, eh? Can’t say I’ve ever been. I would imagine you all keep pretty well informed, eh?”

    Aldous grinned. “You might say that.”

    “The College is the epicenter of learning in the northern climes of Faerun,” chimed in Lenkas.

    “Hmm, right, I thought as much,” Frederick nodded knowingly. He raised one finger, as if to say something profound, and then put it down and continued. “So then, you fellows know about what happened this afternoon in the Senate, aye?”

    Aldous and Lenkas shared a glance.

    “Ah, not exactly,” said Aldous. “Did something usual occur?”

    There was an awkward pause.

    “Uh, yeah, you might say that,” noted Frederick gravely. “Can’t believe you lads don’t know already. ’Tis all anyone is talking about.”

    “We have been secluded at the scriptorium,” said Lenkas. “We are never disturbed at our labors unless there is an alarm at the college.”

    “Well, what happened?” asked Aldous, impatient. “What did we miss?”

    Frederick gave them a serious look, leaned forward, and waved them in closer. His next words were a whisper, barely audible. “Senator Westbrook was murdered on the Senate floor, not four hours gone.”

    Lenkas paled. Aldous gave a low whistle in surprise.

    “On the Senate floor?” replied Aldous in a whisper just as low. “Did you see it happen?”

    Frederick shook his head, and stood tall again, resuming a normal tone. “Nay, heard it about it just now in the Boar. There are at least six different stories circulating, but they all agree that he was cut down in cold blood on the Senate floor.”

    “Gods, did they catch the perpetrator?” asked Aldous. He glanced again at Lenkas. The lad seemed shaken by the news.

    Frederick shook his head. “Not before he shouted something in that ugly language of theirs and then cut his own throat.” He drew a finger across his own neck. “That’s what they say. Appeared from nowhere. Pulled an old bronze broadsword out of a shoulder scabbard, and then cleaved the senator down the middle. Head to mid chest, here.” He pointed at his solar plexus. “Then hacked the Senator’s head clean off in two pieces. Brains all over the floor.”

    Lenkas made a face in disgust, and Aldous shook his head.

    “Tyr preserve us,” breathed Aldous. “He actually . . . cut his own throat.”

    Frederick drew his finger across his neck again, this time making a wet sounding noise. “The legion rushed into the Senate Chamber, but before they could reach him, he put the edge of his own sword to his own neck and cut his own bloody throat. That takes stones, eh? What kind of man could see that through, eh?”

    “Well, he could have been drugged, or perhaps under a gease,” said Lenkas. “Or under the command of a powerful charm spell.”

    Frederick squinted at him. “You a mage?”

    “Nay,” Lenkas’ reply was short, clipped. To Aldous he seemed tense.

    “Or perhaps a fanatic,” offered Aldous. “Perhaps his god told him to do it. This is the north after all.”

    “Did anyone hear what he said?” asked Lenkas.

    Frederick shook his head. “Some said it was an Uthgart war cry. Others say he was calling upon Tempus to destroy the city. Like the murder was a ritual sacrifice or something.” He waved his hand. “Talk to ten different people, get ten different accounts. Thought you scribe fellows might have the inside scoop.”

    Aldous made a tight smile. “We’re the last people to know anything. We just know everything after that.” He tipped back his tankard and drained the last of his ale.

    “’Course they’ll resurrect Westbrook, if they haven’t already,” Frederick continued. “Bloody stupid trying to assassinate a Senator, leastwise where you can’t dispose of the body. Only thing the bloody bastard accomplished was his own suicide. Gods damned savages can’t be reasoned with, though.”

    “Mmm hmm,” said Aldous. “Thanks for the drink. We’ve got to be going. Early day tomorrow at the scriptorium. Nothing worse than scribing very small script with a very large hangover.”

    “I should think not,” said Frederick. “Well, good on you lads. Be seeing you if you’re back at the Boar.”

    “Aye, be seeing you,” said Aldous, making a mental note to stay away from the Boar in the future.

    They left their empty tankards near the stairs leading down into Brindled Boar. Darkness was falling fast on the city, and the laternae were out, lighting the streetlamps. Aldous proposed that they relocate to the Mermaid, and Lenkas agreed. On the way there, they conversed in hushed tones about the death of the Senator, and Aldous learned why Lenkas had seemed so shaken. Senator Westbrook had been a favorite among the scholars and a patron of the arts, one who had visited the Bardic College on a number of occasions. During one such visit, Lenkas had met the senator personally and had shaken his hand. Westbrook was not known for being especially bright, but he was universally admired for his gentle temperament and his kindness toward everyone he met, regardless of their position in Peltarch society. He was also a constant advocate for peace, and had recently opposed several initiatives at expanding the city’s holdings in the east, where a number of skirmishes with the wild tribes had recently flared.

    On the way to the Mermaid, in the gray hours of twilight, they passed by a great hall with an ornate façade. Two great double doors opened into the hall, and tall windows lined the front of the building, which was well lit within, allowing them a clear view of the interior. They could see great globes of light suspended from the ceiling, and men and women in formal attire moved from one room to another with grace and ease, bearing glasses of wine that glittered a deep, tempting red.

    In the central assembly hall, however, there was a crowd people in a state of excitement that was anything but elegant. They were gathered around in a circle, watching some type of spectacle that Aldous and Lenkas could not see through the mass of people packed together. The men cried and cheered and gesticulated wildly and shouted obscenities, and the women flushed and fanned themselves in the heat of the room, and even they shouted the occasional epithet. Aldous and Lenkas could make out none of the noise, but through the clamor of the crowd they could hear the clash of steel on steel.

    Aldous stopped before the entrance, catching the sleeve of Lenkas’ robe.

    “Let’s see what this is about,” he said.

    “I don’t think we’re allowed . . .” started Lenkas, looking nervous. Aldous clapped him on the shoulder.

    “Don’t fret, lad, we’ll just have a quick look.”

    They approached the entrance, making their way up a few marble stairs to the platform at the doorway.

    As they approached, a large man in an elegant but too-small jacket stood up from a stool in an alcove just inside the doorway. He moved into the space between the double doors, blocking their entry.

    “Are you members of the club?” he asked in a bored voice that implied the obvious answer.

    Aldous tried to peer around him at the contest in the main hall. “What is this place?” he asked.

    The large man placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back a step.

    “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “You pups aren’t getting in.”

    “There’s no sign,” said Aldous.

    The man pointed with an open palm at the night behind them. “Move along,” he said.

    “We’d best get going,” said Lenkas.

    Aldous held his ground spoke again to the man in the doorway. “Sir, just tell me the name of this establishment, and we shall depart with all speed.”

    The man sighed heavily. “This is the Narfell Fencing Club,” he said. “Now on your way.” He cracked his knuckles conspicuously.

    Aldous gave a short bow, a gleam in his eye, and turned on his heel and proceeded down the steps with Lenkas hurrying after him.

    They found the crowd at the Mermaid nearly as raucous as the one at the Brindled Boar, but the Mermaid’s common area was larger and more spacious, and they quickly searched out a sheltered place for conversation. Aldous told Lenkas the story of his journey to Peltarch, and described his first night in the Dancing Mermaid, the dead man hanging from a noose outside his window. He also confided in Lenkas about his encounters with Johann and the mysterious benefactor who seemed obsessed with finding the Uthgart figurines.

    Lenkas listened attentively, asking a question here or there, seeking clarification on this or that detail which Aldous had omitted. He otherwise did not interrupt or comment, but showed his interest simply by the intensity of his expression and cogency of his questions. At last, Aldous drew his story to a close.

    “I am looking for a drawing or description, anything that might provide some idea of what the figurines would look like,” he concluded.

    Lenkas grinned. “Well, first I must say you have been true to your word. That is one of the strangest tales I have heard in a long while.

    “But second I will agree to help with your research. I’m certain that we can find some information in the library regarding Uthgart woodcarving or enchanting. Perhaps I can even find a description of what you’re seeking.”

    “Those preliminary remarks aside, I must admit, your task seems impossible. Even if you do learn how to identify the carvings, the people who have stolen them will probably take pains to secret away their stolen items.”

    “Aye, I am sure you are right,” Aldous brooded over his dark ale. “I am on a fool’s errand.

    “Not at all,” said Lenkas. “A fool’s errand is an impossible task assigned to keep an unwanted person occupied and distracted for an extended period of time. However, the essence of the trick is that the fool does not realize that his errand is pointless. You, on the other hand, are aware of the futility of your task. It is your benefactor who is the fool, or so it would seem.”

    “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

    “Do you have any idea of who your benefactor might be?”

    “Not really,” said Aldous.

    “Well then, I would advise caution. Just consider the situation for a moment. How do you know that your benefactor is really a man? Maybe your benefactor is a woman, or an elf, or a group of people. Perhaps Johann is just the minion of some cult or evil society, and even he doesn’t know the true identity of his employer. Or what if this person is the real thief, and he’s just using you to cover his tracks.”

    Aldous nodded thoughtfully. “You raise some interesting possibilities. Perhaps I should insist on a meeting.”

    “If I were in your position,” said Lenkas, “I would never continue in the employ of someone who kept their identity a secret. Also, I hope you will understand, but under the circumstances I would rather not become too deeply involved. I can perform research in the library, but that would be the extent of it. Your endeavor sounds extremely dangerous. ” He shrugged as if to apologize.

    “Perfectly reasonable,” said Aldous. “It is a comfort just to have another mind to engage with the problem. I am afraid this mystery is quite beyond my acumen.”

    “We can talk about it anytime,” grinned Lenkas. “I will enjoy trying to puzzle together the clues.”

    “There are no clues,” said Aldous and drained his ale.

    They finished their conversation, and wandered outside to the Peltarch Commons, where twilight had faded into full night. Thy sky was cloudy, and neither moon nor stars were visible. The streets were quiet and deserted, and a cold wind cut across the lake and through the city. They shivered in the damp despite their woolen robes. A few of the laternae still made the rounds, tending to the streetlamps, and Aldous stood outside the Mermaid with Lenkas until a lamplighter approached the Commons. Lenkas requested that the man walk with him to the family chandlery at the southern edge of the Docks District, and the man graciously agreed. Aldous clapped Lenkas on the shoulder, thanked him once again for the promise of assistance, and returned to the warmth of the Mermaid to retire for the evening.

    Lenkas and the lamplighter headed north and east, making their way toward the Docks district. Behind them, unseen by all, a man in dull peasant’s attire leaned against the exterior wall of the Mermaid. He glanced once at the entrance to the Mermaid, then once in the direction where Lenkas had gone. After a moment’s hesitation, he turned and followed after the departing scribe.

    A few moments a large man in a black cloak appeared out of the shadows on the edge of the Peltarch Commons. He had close cropped hair and broad shoulders and narrow hips, and he stood tall and straight with perfect posture. He gazed for awhile in the direction that Lenkas and the lamplighter and the man in peasant attire had gone. He grinned once, mirthlessly to himself, and pulled up the hood of his cloak, moving swiftly north and east, vanishing once again into the darkness, the hue of his cloak blending perfectly with the starless night.


  • Chapter 7: Searching for Answers

    Note that "Mistress Kaelman" has been changed to "Lady Triessa". Just a name change, because I realized that "Kaelman" and "Kaelan" (Leitha's father) were remarkably similar.

    Leitha stood at her window sill and looked outside at a warm and sunny morning on the grounds of her father’s manse. A mild breeze moved among the trees, and the leaves in the branches sighed and murmured, a subtle chorus that sang in the distance for miles and miles. The grove on her father’s estate was joined in song by the darkly forested hills to the north and east, and the long grasses in the Nars pass to the south.

    Standing at her open window, looking out at the grove, it was hard to believe that the city of Peltarch, with its labyrinthine streets of gray stone and white plaster, was her true and only home. She had never been to the northern hills, or to the Nars pass, or much of anywhere outside the city walls. Her father was too immersed in his studies to countenance the thought of travel. Where her father remained, she too must abide.

    She smiled gently, enjoying a moment of contentment and personal satisfaction. Today was the first day of freedom. Her term of confinement was over. One month gone, but she had not been idle.

    In her left hand she held a short, recurve bow with limbs fashioned from layers of yew and horn. To her right stood a small wooden stand supporting a quiver filled with arrows. With her free hand she waved to the servants out in the grove. One of the servants worked a rope and pulley, hoisting a target into the air, level with her room on the second floor.

    Leitha selected an arrow from the quiver and fit knock to bowstring. She inhaled deeply, drew the bow, took aim at the target.

    The bow had been a birthday present from her father. He had given it to her two years ago on her sixteenth anniversary. It was powerfully enchanted, like all his gifts. One could expect nothing less from Peltarch’s foremost scholar of enchantment.

    She had to admit, he did quality work. The pull was light and smooth as cream, a deceptive quality that concealed the bow’s power. Despite the light draw, the bow could shoot farther, and hit harder, than some of the heaviest longbows in the Peltarch legion. She should have been unable to draw, or even string, such a weapon. With Kaelan’s enchantment, however, she could
    practice all afternoon with only a hint of fatigue in her shoulder.

    She held the string at the corner of her mouth and released her breath slowly, exhaling half-way. She focused her attention on a small mark, a tiny blemish in the center of the bulls-eye. At the optimal moment, she relaxed the fingers of her right hand, allowing the bow-string to thrumm forward of its own accord, enjoying the surge and vibration of the bow. She did not pluck the string upon release as a beginning archer might do. She kept her left arm straight, holding herself absolutely still. A split second later, she heard the satisfying thwock of quarrel meeting target. Only then did she relax and allow herself a small smile, knowing without looking that her arrow had found its mark. Sometimes she just could just feel the perfection inherent to the shot.

    Thrumm, thwock. She repeated the shot, again and again. Not until the quiver was empty did she squint her eyes at the distance, trying to discern where her arrows had gone. She waved at the servants, signaling them to bring in the target for a closer look.

    The servants lowered the target from the tree limb, and carried it forward for her to observe. She smiled with satisfaction. All of her arrows were grouped tightly in and around the bull’s-eye.

    She waved to signal that the day’s practice was done and turned away from the window, her bow in hand. Her large canopied bed was neatly made; her maidservants must have come into the room while she was practicing. They had tidied the bed without making a sound, mindful of her need for concentration. Her paints and easel were likewise put away, the easel folded up in the corner, her paintings hanging neatly in a space-efficient rack. A suitable wool skirt and blouse were laid out on her bed with the jade comb and a pair of flat-bottomed calf-skin slippers.

    She picked up her bare left foot and gingerly stepped through her bow, placing her leg between the string and the limbs, bracing the front of the bottom limb in front of her right leg, against her shin. This movement positioned the lower limb of the bow between her legs with the string running diagonally in front her body. With her left hand behind her left shoulder, on top of the bow, she bent forward slightly at the waist, pushing her hips back, and flexing the back of her left thigh into the bow. Her body quivered slightly as she slowly flexed the limbs, pulling the top limb down and forward. With her right hand she carefully removed one loop of the bowstring and allowed the bow to relax, freeing it from tension. The limbs settled forward, curling into an odd shape now that the string had been removed.

    She racked the bow and slipped the string over a peg on her wall. With a thrill of excitement, she dressed for the day and all but ran downstairs to the kitchen.

    The weather was uncommonly fair in Peltarch that morning, and the streets of the Commerce District were busy with traffic on foot and horse. People of all ages filled the main roads. Merchants and craftsmen hurried about their errands, and idle shoppers strolled among the markets and stalls. Carts and carriages trundled along the thoroughfares, the curses of their drivers audible at great distance. Children played in the byways and alleys, darting alarmingly through the traffic, while young couples strutted brazenly along the avenues, showing off their latest fashions, the boys in tight leather pants and puffy shirts, the girls in even tighter pants with loose blouses and plunging necklines. Such brazen sensuality sent a rebellious message to the prudish gentry of Peltarch society, though somehow here in the Commerce District it was tolerated. It was the place to see and be seen, where the wealthy mingled with the common folk, whether by accident or design.

    She moved with familiarity among the shops, pausing here and there to enjoy the sights and scents of the outside world, so long denied her. She bought roasted almonds, coated in caramelized honey, enjoying them primly, one at a time.

    She saw some scrawny children at the edges of the Docks District and took them in hand to a nearby street vendor selling roasted turkey legs. For only a few silver pieces, she filled their bellies, watched them tear into the tender meat with ferocious abandon, laughing and gesticulating wildly as they did so. She left them to their enjoyment, pressing on through the crowd.

    Months ago she would have simply avoided such creatures out of habit, viewing the poor as belonging to a separate world. Asgall had changed that. He would have emptied her purse for the little rascals, playing dice with them for an hour or more, finding some clever way to cheat so as to lose every toss. She could think of him now without tears, though the knot of pain inside her was still tight and raw.

    She continued on through the markets until she found the shop she was looking for, a small, elegant stone building, seemingly out of place in the eclectic neighborhood where it was located. She entered through an ornate door paneled in oak inset with glass stained crimson and azure. A small chime rang as she entered.

    The inside of the building possessed the same elegance as the exterior: polished wood paneling, thick wool rugs woven in subtle patterns of deep red and blue. The walls were painted a sandy cream, hung with paintings in a variety of styles, all of exceptional quality.

    The proprietor looked up and smiled from behind the counter as she approached. He was a small, portly man with salt-and-pepper hair and dark, trim beard. “Welcome to The Uth’daen Gallery,” he said. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

    “Good afternoon,” said Leitha absently, making her way toward the counter, stopping to linger at one of the more impressive works, a vivid tableau of the Icelace Lake with the Giantspire mountains in the background and a storm sweeping down from the north. A small silver plaque below the painting displayed the title: “Autumn”.

    The proprietor approached, while Leitha watched him out of the corner of her eye. “It’s a breathtaking piece, isn’t it?” he asked softly.

    Leitha nodded slowly. “It’s stunning,” she said. “It makes you see the lake in a new way. We live in the middle of such a beautiful world. It’s there every day, and we so seldom take the time to appreciate it.”

    “That is the purpose of really great art,” he replied. “It makes us see the world anew. It lifts us out of our own lives. It opens our eyes to possibilities we could otherwise never imagine.”

    Leitha turned to him and offered her hand. “Leah Naegrath,” she said, using the fictitious name she had picked out in advance.

    “Meilen Uth’daen,” he replied. He took her hand and made a shallow bow, his movements smooth and graceful despite his somewhat excessive girth. Part of her mind noted that his clothing was perfectly tailored to fit his frame, lending the impression of a man of care and discipline. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I thank you for visiting my humble gallery. Are you here to purchase one of our paintings?”

    Leitha shook her head. “I’m afraid not, Master Uth’daen,” she said, “I’m here on an personal matter. On behalf of a friend.”

    Uth’daen’s brow furrowed for the briefest second as he listened. “And how may our gallery be of service to your friend?” he asked.

    “Well, you see, he is an artist, a painter,” she said. “He’s quite brilliant, but he’s somewhat reluctant to come forward and display his work to the public eye. He is well known in the city government, and he is worried that revealing his artistic sensibilities might muddle his reputation.”

    Uth’daen crossed his arms but regarded her with interest. “Go on,” he said. At that moment the door chime rang. Leitha lowered her voice.

    “Is there somewhere we might speak privately?” she asked.

    “Please wait just a moment in the east wing,” he lifted one arm and gestured with an open hand, directing her to a doorway to her left. He then turned and stepped past her toward the new guests.

    “Welcome to The Uth’daen Gallery,” she heard him say as she stepped into the adjacent room.

    The east “wing” was another large room, displaying six or seven substantial works. There was a painting of haystacks on one wall, a portrait of stern man in a burnished breastplate on another. One of the paintings depicted a waterfall into a deep pool where a nude couple swam, their bodies suggestively apparent through the surface of the water. Leitha admired this last piece for some time, noting the technical skill of the painter in portraying the movement of the water and the translucency of the pool. The man’s hair was long and red like Asgall’s, though the woman’s was dark as a raven’s wing. At last she heard Uth’daen conclude his dialogue with his other customers, and she turned to face him as he entered the room.

    “My apology for the wait, Lady Naegrath,” he offered. “My staff is frolicking in the city today. They were utterly intolerable until I dismissed them for the remainder of the day. These sunny afternoons are so precious this time of year.”

    Leitha allowed herself a smile at that. “Aye, we are moving into autumn,” she agreed. “The weather has been so drear lately.”

    “I believe we were discussing your friend,” he said. “I regret to tell you this, but the gallery does not display works from unknown painters. Most of our contributors struggle for years, if not decades, before finding a place here. Most of them have attended the Venger School of Visual Art at the Peltarch Bardic College. I am sure your friend is very skilled, but showing his work without requiring suitable references would be unfair to others who have toiled for so long to find a place here.”

    “I believe that people would love his work as I do,” said Leitha, placing a hand over her heart, her eyes pleading. “I only want him to see that.”

    “Please, Master Uth’daen,” she placed a hand on his forearm. “I only ask that you view the paintings. They need not be displayed in the gallery. Just tell me if you see in my friend the same brilliance that I see.”

    Uth’daen colored slightly and relented. “Very well,” he grumbled. “I will look at the paintings, so long as you understand that displaying them here in the gallery is utterly out of the question. I mean no disrespect to you or your friend, Lady Naegrath. I am sure he is quite capable.”

    Leitha beamed at him.

    “Thank you so much, Master Uth’daen. Would tomorrow morning be acceptable?”

    Uth’daen seemed to consider. “That will be fine,” he said. “Have your delivery man come around behind the building and ring the bell there. One of my assistants will be available to bring in the paintings. I should have time to look at them around mid-day.”

    “Thank you again,” she said, touching his arm a second time.

    On her way back toward the Mage’s Quarter, Leitha took a long detour through the open market in the Commerce District. She wandered through the stalls, reluctant to return home, browsing without purpose. She bought lunch from a street vendor, grilled salmon and green onions over sticky brown rice. Later in the afternoon, she passed by the Dancing Mermaid and wandered through the Peltarch Commons. There on the public board she saw something that piqued her interest.

    It was a rudimentary painting of a man with red hair and a patch over one eye. It reminded her instantly of Asgall. The painting was crude, but it had a certain resemblance to her deceased lover. Red hair was common in Peltarch, but few men grew theirs long like Asgall, and of course even fewer wore an eye-patch.

    The likeness was certainly not a masterwork. She noted the garish skin tone and asymmetrical features. The eyes were gray and lifeless, the background dark and dreary.

    She thought of the portrait she had painted during her time of internment, the emotion she had invested in that likeness. She had labored for days over that painting, had struggled so passionately to capture the man’s exultant spirit, his incredible inner fire. In the end she had been dissatisfied with the results. The likeness had been accurate, but something essential was still missing.

    She turned her attention back to the painting before her. Yes, she decided, it must be him. She felt a smirk playing at the corner of her mount. All of the time and emotion working in the quiet of her room, and instead it was this . . . this thing . . . on display in the public commons. The irony and the absurdity of the situation slowly dawned on her, and she found herself wondering what Asgall would have said. No doubt he would have made a number of disparaging remarks about the artist.

    She found herself laughing, a low and throaty chuckle that rose from deep in her belly. She assumed an expression of mock seriousness, placing one placing one finger against her cheek as if studying the portrait with great care. An instant later she let out a burst of laughter, folding her arms under her breasts, smirking at the absurd thing before her.

    “You’re not looking so good, old man,” she quipped at the painting.

    A couple strolling by, their leather pants so tight as to leave nothing to the imagination, looked at her askance, as if she were mad. She noticed them in her peripheral vision, but paid them no mind. She was unconcerned with the opinions of merchant-class riffraff.

    It was then she noticed a scrap of parchment tacked at the base of the painting.

    Seeking information concerning this man. Modest reward for good details. Inquire at the Dancing Mermaid, Suite 4B.

    Her pulse quickened as she read the note. There could be only one meaning. Someone was looking for Asgall.

    Suddenly she felt shaky and sick to her stomach. She turned and walked away from the public board, averting her gaze, her eyes glancing first to one side and another.

    She had been so foolish, so self-absorbed. This whole past month in her room, she had dwelled within her own little world, her own pain of loss. Meanwhile, beyond the grounds of her father’s manse, the world had moved forward with a will of its own.

    On impulse, she hailed a private carriage on the edge of the Commons and slipped inside, instructing the driver to convey her to the Temple of Tyr. In the quiet of the passenger compartment, she slowed her breathing and tried to compose her thoughts.

    She had been involved in a crime. She had stolen valuable property from a wealthy and prominent member of the Mage’s Guild, and then that property had been lost. She was the sole surviving member of a band of thieves. And now some unknown person was looking for Asgall, trying to track him down. It had to be Lady Triessa or someone in her employ, perhaps even the city authorities. There were people who specialized in tracking down thieves, people who were extremely skilled in that regard. And the penalty for being caught . . . she did not even know what the penalty was, only that the consequences would be catastrophic for her.

    She placed a hand to her temple, feeling light-headed. What a stupid, love-sick wretch she had been. How could she have allowed him to talk her into something so utterly foolish and unnecessary? He had seemed so invincible, so much larger than life. She had put her trust in him utterly, and in the end he had come to ruin.

    She took the jade comb from her bun, allowing straight, red hair to fall freely about her shoulders. She studied the comb in her hands, noting the subtle whorls just below the surface of the semi-translucent stone. The comb always gave her comfort, always elicited early childhood memories of her mother, singing by her bedside. Her heart slowed and she calmed.

    The likeness on that public board was of Asgall, not her. And Asgall was dead; whoever it was would never find him. Uli was most likely dead too, killed in the explosion. Perhaps she was not in immediate danger. Perhaps she was safe. She looked out the window of the carriage and saw clouds rolling in from the North.

    The carriage arrived at the Temple of Tyr, and Leitha stepped out, handing the driver a silver piece for her passage. As she emerged from the carriage she noticed Brother Adelan, the handsome monk who had recently visited her father’s estate. He was standing by the door in the customary place of the temple greeter, and he waved at her as she approached.

    She waved back before she realized that her hair still hung loose about her shoulders. She blushed and turned away, quickly binding her hair in a loose bun, securing it with the jade comb.

    Brother Adelan’s eyes sparkled with amusement as she approached.

    “Welcome to the Temple, mi’lady,” he said. “Are you feeling quiet well?”

    She blushed again. “Quite well,” she said, more sternly than she intended. “I have only come to thank you for what you did. I am in your debt.”

    “There is no debt,” said Adelan, spreading his hands. “Your donation to the temple was most generous. The Order of Querin thanks you.” He made short bow, his hands at his sides. “Also, the tea your father ordered for the monastery has been exceedingly popular. There are few changes in monastic life. We are all aflutter over the new tea.”

    Leitha smiled at that. “You have been very kind to me, Brother Adelan. More than you know.” She passed by him and went inside the temple.

    She wandered among the columns awhile, deliberately avoiding the central tower. She spent some time leaning against one of the tall pillars, just breathing the cool, humid air, the faint scent of earth and masonry. She placed her hands against the rough, tree-bark texture on the surface of the column, and looked up where it disappeared into the shadows above. In the dim, twilight world of the temple, the vaulted ceiling high above was little more than a vague blur of shadow. She thought she could perceive branches reaching out from the top of the column, like arms holding up the heavens.

    It was a strange architecture for the god of justice. A dark, cavernous vault and tree-like columns would have been more appropriate for Silvanus perhaps, or some nature deity. Nevertheless, she felt comforted, safe here in the shadows, as if she were enfolded in the embrace of something vast and ancient. She closed her eyes a moment, and was surprised to find tears running down her cheeks again.

    She wiped them away and turned to go, when she saw Brother Adelan coming in the front door.

    And then an idea came to her, and she stopped, transfixed in place. She knew then what she should do. After a moment, she saw Adelan walking toward one of the vestibules, and she hurried to intercept him.

    He saw her out of the corner of his eye and turned at her approach.

    “Ah, Lady Thorne, we meet again,” he smiled in greeting. “And to what do I owe this honor?”

    “Greetings, Brother Adelan, please forgive me for imposing on your time,” she curtsied. “I was wondering if we might speak in private?”

    He turned and bowed to her, a slow, smooth motion that bespoke confidence and respect. With that one simple gesture, he put her at ease. Surely this man would bring her no harm, no matter what she asked of him.

    Adelan glanced around them and then turned back to her. “For the time being, it would seem we are alone here. How may I be of service, mi’lady?”

    Leitha hesitated a moment. It was not a thing to ask lightly. She had nowhere else to turn.

    “I . . . I was wondering if you would administer the Rite of Confession.”


  • Chapter 6: The Power of the Unknown

    She moved silently on four paws across a smooth-grained floor, the hardwood familiar and comforting beneath her delicate pads. She could feel each seam between the planks, each knot in the wood. It was a pleasing surface, solid and even, suitable stalking one’s prey and springing to attack.

    She moved with confidence despite the near total darkness. The man had put out the lanterns and pulled the drapes, and the fire had dwindled to mere pinpoint coals. Even to her eyes the room was murky, the furnishings little more than vague black shapes looming above her. She felt her way forward, her long whiskers gently probing the gloom just ahead.

    She reached the doorway to the room and paused a moment. Her ears turned back, listening to the man breathing noisily in the bed. Such an ugly, clumsy creature, but he had kind hands. She felt a profound love for him, though she did not understand why. She had only known him a short time.

    She brushed a whisker against the rough wood of the door. It was hard to leave this place, this comforting lair with her master inside it. But he was naïve and slow and vulnerable, and she had a persistent urge to watch the night and keep him safe.

    The door was closed tight and locked, but that was no obstacle for her. She phased a short distance forward and found herself in the hallway on the other side. Here the dim light of a lantern at the end of the hall provided ample illumination. She suddenly felt exposed, scampered for the staircase.

    Down the stairs to the floor below, then down another broad staircase to the common room, empty and quiet in the pre-dawn hours. A lingering scent from the kitchen suddenly titillated her, and she made a quick detour to investigate.

    The bouquet of inviting smells grew more potent as she made her way into the kitchen. An old matron slept in a chair in the corner, breathing noisily the same way her master did. This one was a stranger, however, and therefore of no significance. She slipped past without disturbing the portly woman’s slumber, and sprang onto the central table.

    The stove itself smelled particularly appealing. Somebody had been frying fish and had failed to clean away the thin splatter of grease that had formed around the pan. She bounded across the gap between the counter and the stove and spent a few minutes licking the stove’s surface. The flavor of the cold grease was exquisite.

    Then the unthinkable happened, the absurd. Rough hands seized her around the waist and lifted her into the air. The matron.

    “Got you, ya little thief!” crowed the old hag. “You were a bit too slow this time, weren’t you?”

    She squirmed and twisted, and even clawed just a little, but the matron held her fast, arms extended.

    “My you’re a hefty one,” the matron groused. They moved toward a barrel in the corner, a barrel lined with a cloth sack.

    Panic filled her. She loathed the thought of confinement.

    She phased for the second time. It made her feel just a little sleepy, but the sensation was fleeting. Suddenly she was in free-fall, and she twisted in the air, hitting the ground on all fours. Soon as she touched down, she shot under the island table in the center of the kitchen. The matron moved to block the doorway.

    “Damn these old hands,” muttered the matron. “I’ll have you yet, you little bandit.”

    She crouched and waited under the table. Her tail flicked side to side, communicating her annoyance.

    Predictably, the old matron approached, bending down to peer under the table. The old hag kept herself between the feline and the door, but her immense bulk no longer filled the door frame. The feline leapt forward, grazing past, leaving the portly old dame flailing to maintain balance. In a moment of inspiration, the feline threw herself bodily into a stack of crockery on the way out the door. Cast iron pots and pans clattered to the ground with a horrendous and prolonged crash that reverberated up the staircase.

    Somewhere in the back of her mind she could sense her master’s presence. He stirred in his bed, but the noise did not awake him. That was good. He spent alarming lengths of time in wakeful activity; it would do him well to have a proper evening nap.

    She trotted gracefully through the empty common room, and phased through the front door of the Mermaid. She could have perhaps tried the wall, but it was difficult to phase through stone. Afterwards she would always go immediately for a nap. The door, by contrast, was as nothing. She passed right through. She felt sleepy again, but after a moment the feeling subsided.

    Once she regained her energy, she made her way around the building into the alley behind.

    It was quiet in the alley, empty and cool. The night air carried the first hint of autumn, and a faint breeze tickled her fur. She kept to the shadows, moving low along the cobbles, and took up position behind a worn rain barrel. She knew her master’s window would be on the third floor above; she had sat on that window sill for many long hours during the day. It was a pleasant view of the world from a lofty perch. But tonight he had pulled the curtains and closed the shutters, so she would have to keep her vigil here.

    The night sky above was cloudy, with neither moon nor stars, but for her eyes the ambient light from the distant lanterns in the main streets was more than sufficient. She waited a long while, listening to the roaches and the mice scurrying about, enjoying the complex bouquet of the night’s perfume. She did not indulge her love of the hunt. She merely sat and watched, wary and unsettled.

    In time, she saw what she feared. At the far end of the alley, a man shape, shrouded by a cloak. Slowly, it walked toward her. She should have been able to hear the sound of its large, leathery feet on the stones, but it was eerily quiet as it ghosted toward her.

    She laid back her ears and stalked out from behind the barrel, holding forth with a bloodcurdling yowl. Let this one know that she would not tolerate its presence in her territory.

    The figure stilled, standing in place, not more than ten yards away now.

    She stalked into the center of the alley facing it directly, growling low in her throat, then letting out a menacing hiss.

    The figure in black raised on arm, a slender rod held in its hand. Just as a flash of light issued from the rod, she had an premonition of danger. She bounded aside as something brushed past her, smashing into the cobbles. There was a sharp crack as a few of the stones shattered, and the dry, burnt smell of stone dust blossomed in the air.

    This one was too much for her. She had to warn the master.

    Awake, she projected the thought, sending it toward a faint bundle of thoughts and emotions that brushed against the edges of her mind. Awake. Danger is here. She felt him stir in his sleep, then slide back into dreaming.

    There was no time to use the front entrance of the Mermaid. She ran straight at the wall of the Mermaid and leapt upward, planting her front paws against the vertical stone, and then allowing her back legs to coil up beneath. She planted her back paws against the stone, her momentum holding her against the wall for the briefest of moments, enough for a powerful, vertical bound. She elongated herself upward, reaching, front claws straining for the wood beam that marked the base of the second floor.

    Her claws barely found purchase in the smooth, varnished hardwood, but she heaved herself upward, ignoring the slivers of pain her paw-pads. Alternating between front and back claws she climbed a thick diagonal beam that ran upward across the second and third stories and passed above her master’s window. Looking over her shoulder at the flagstones below, she saw the figure in black raising his wand.

    She let herself drop. As she passed her master’s window, she phased into his room, landing with a thump on the hardwood floor. A wave of exhaustion began to build within her. She could feel her consciousness slipping away.

    Awake, she projected again. He is come. She pounced at the bed, and darkness enveloped her.

    Aldous awoke, rolled out of bed, and smoothly grasped the boltcaster from his nightstand. A moment ago he had been vaguely aware of tossing and turning in his sleep, dreaming about a cat in the alley outside. Within an instant, however, his mind was clear as crystal, focused with perfect lucidity on a premonition of danger.

    The far window exploded inward. Glass and wood alike shattered and flew across the room, shredding the curtains and pelting the wardrobe on the opposite wall with shards and splinters. Seconds later a masculine figure swathed all in black came sailing into the room, great cloak billowing in the air.

    The man landed lightly, gracefully, at the opposite end of the room, little more than a blur in the darkness.

    Aldous raised his bolt caster and fired.

    The bolt caster was a hybrid weapon, part magic, part mechanism. It was, in essence, the functional equivalent to a crossbow, firing real, physical bolts with razor sharp, steel points. But whereas a crossbow used physical force to propel its missiles, the bolt caster relied exclusively upon magical energy. And while a cross bow could be fired only once, the bolt caster could fire again and again, a new bolt summoned into the firing position after the last one found its mark.

    Aldous felt the bolt caster recoil in his hand. He saw the bolt streak into its target. The figure in black reared up and fell backwards, tumbling into the wall, catching a tattered fringe of curtain in one hand and tearing down the drapes as he fell .

    Aldous fired again, twice more. Both bolts slammed home. The figure in black slumped against the wall, motionless.

    Aldous waited for a long moment, watching the still figure across the room, then cautiously lowered the boltcaster. He was suddenly aware of the cold evening breeze, which had come flooding into his room through the broken window. Somewhere outside, a nightingale sang a haunting tune.

    Whoever he was, the man was dead. A chisel-tipped bolt from the caster could punch through steel plate. Aldous had arranged the bolts to alternate between chisel points and broadheads. All three bolts had found their mark; at such short range it would have been difficult to miss. He turned to light a lamp.

    Something hit him, slamming him horizontally across the room, smashing him into the wall. He found himself staring up at the ceiling, a splintering pain in his shoulder, his arm twisted at an impossible angle. The boltcaster clattered across the floor. Through a mist of pain, he watched the black cloaked man move into his field of vision, standing over him. The man was hunched over, breathing heavily, clutching his abdomen.

    Aldous watched as the man reached up and pushed back the hood of his cloak. His features were vague, shrouded in the darkness of the suite, but Aldous could see that the man had a strong, masculine jaw and close cropped hair.

    The man produced a potion within the folds of his black robes and brought it to his lips, quaffing it down in a single swallow. He moaned with what seemed a mixture of pleasure and relief, and threw down the empty vial, shattering it against the floor.

    With one hand he reached down and grasped Aldous by the roots of his hair, dragging him into a sitting position against the wall.

    “Where is the figurine?” his voice was smooth, deep, commanding.

    Aldous was too dazed to comprehend. He just stared at the shadow that held him.

    A heavy hand was raised, slapped him across the face.

    “Where is the figurine?” the man repeated in his unnatural voice.

    Aldous raised one arm and pointed to the writing desk.

    “There,” he croaked. “On the . . . on the desk.”

    The man stood and turned, crossing swiftly to the desk. He picked up stacks of paper and tossed them aside, scattering them across the room. After a moment, he turned and lighted a lamp, allowing some modest illumination to fill the room, and proceeded to search the desk with greater care. At last, he turned back to Aldous.

    “Where.”

    Aldous pointed again at the desk. “The cat . . .” he managed. “In the hutch.”

    “Cat? No.” He came back over to Aldous and squatted down in front of him. Now in the light, Aldous could see the man’s features. He appeared to be of middle age, with refined, handsome features, and warm brown eyes.

    “I have already searched the hutch. What I am looking for is not there. It is a figurine of a man, about this high,” the man explained. He held his hand to indicate a height of about four inches. “Carved out of ironwood in the likeness of a barbarian warrior. It was last seen in the possession of a man who died in your room. Where is it?”

    “I . . . I don’t have it,” managed Aldous.

    The man lifted his hand and slapped Aldous across the face again. His ears rang with the blow, and points of light swirled at the edges of his vision.

    “Are you lying?” asked the man.

    Aldous shook his head. “No.”

    “Where is it?”

    “I don’t know. I never saw it.”

    The man stood. “You are lying,” he said. “I will make arrangements . . .”

    At that moment, something happened in the center of the room. There was a shimmering in the air, a vortex shape, a whirlpool forming in the air, only vertical, like a hole in a wall. Gradually, the vortex opened, becoming a perfect circle of gray mist that spilled into the room.

    A portal. Aldous had seen its like once before, at a demonstration of magic long ago in distant Cormyr. A famous mage had used the portal to travel from one place to another. He had called it “teleportation.”

    Even through the haze of pain, Aldous half-expected someone to come walking through the portal. Instead, a crystal sphere arced out of the mist and dropped to the floor, bouncing on the wooden planks, slowly rolling toward the bed.

    The man turned at the sound. Within a second he took in the scene of the portal and the crystal sphere and reacted, pulling his hood over his face and crouching into a ball, enveloping himself in the black cloak.

    The crystal sphere exploded with light. Waves of magical energy rippled outward, a multitude of colors and patterns that saturated the room. Aldous shivered and twitched as he felt the energies wash over him, a welter of sensations ranging from extreme heat to intense cold. He shut his eyes against the sudden brilliance and gritted his teeth until it passed. Aldous felt himself pinned in place against the wall, unable to move, unable even to speak.

    Soon as the light faded, the man in black unfolded from his crouch, seemingly untouched by whatever magics had issued from the sphere. He stood tall and produced slender rod from his belt and pointed it at the nearest window. A light flashed from the tip of the rod, and the window, shutters and glass, pieces of frame, and even a significant portion of the plaster wall, exploded outward into the alley beyond. He took two strides and leapt into the cloudy night, vanishing.

    Aldous could only watch in silence as three men dressed in the red and gold of the Peltarch legion filed through the portal into the room. They carried tower shields and short lances and swiftly formed a three-point formation around the portal, shields facing outward. After a moment, a figure in dark crimson robes stepped through, his aura glowing with magical wards. Runes and glyphs hovered in the air about him, slowly weaving in strange patterns.

    At last, a familiar figure appeared through the curtain of blue mist. Johann, plain and homely as ever, wearing gray wool breeches and a brown leather jerkin.

    “If only we could see through these bloody things before walking through,” he said irritably to no one in particular. “I always feel like I’m going to step down in front of a moving carriage.”

    “That is what the Immunes are for,” said the mage in crimson robes, his voice strange, distorted through the aura of his wards. “They would warn us if anything was amiss.”

    “Assuming they were in fit condition to issue a warning,” snapped Johann.

    “They are very capable, sir,” said the mage softly. “They have trained for this their whole lives.”

    Johan grunted absently by way of reply and surveyed the room.

    “I guess that was the entrance,” he pointed to the far window. “And that was the exit.” He pointed to the nearer window, close by where Aldous sat bound against the wall, bound and mute. Johann looked him over appraisingly.

    “Well, no doubt our friend here saw the whole thing. Let’s patch him up and see what he has to say.”

    A short time later, Aldous sat at his dining table, wrapped in a stout wool blanket amid the shambles of his suite. His arm and shoulder were healed; Johann had provided a potion that had restored him fully. One of the legionnaires stood guard at the door outside while two others waited in the street below. Johann and the mage studied the frame of the window that had been blasted outward, talking quietly between themselves.

    Eventually, Johann crossed the room, taking care not to tread too heavily on the debris. He joined Aldous at the table.

    “I trust you’re feeling better,” he offered, his expression grave.

    Aldous nodded and offered a wan smile. He still felt pleasantly euphoric from the healing potion. “Much better,” he confirmed.

    “Good,” said Johann. “Are you feeling well enough to talk about it? I’d like to understand exactly what happened here.”

    Aldous shrugged. “It wasn’t so bad, really. I got worse from my brothers growing up, the broken shoulder notwithstanding. What would you like to know?”

    “Well, if you wouldn’t mind, start from the beginning and tell me everything that happened, step by step . . .”

    Aldous related the events of the evening. He said nothing about the cat dream or his premonition of danger. Instead, he told Johan that he had been awakened by the sound of breaking glass, and had reached instinctively for his boltcaster. He showed Johann the magical device, but the smaller man was disinterested. The boltcaster was an unusual piece, but undoubtedly mundane to one accustomed to travel by teleportation.

    Otherwise, Johann listened attentively. He was especially focused on the black-cloaked man, repeatedly questioning Aldous regarding the man’s appearance. At his prompting, Aldous recounted the verbal exchange with the black-cloaked man several times, repeating each question and answer word for word. At last, Johann stood and clasped his hands behind his back, walking over to the broken window where the man had entered, staring out into the alley beyond.

    At last he turned. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have intervened sooner.” He gestured widely at the ruined suite, the mess of parchment scattered on the floor. It was mixed in with broken glass and splintered oak, trampled by the heavy boots the legionnaires. Months of writing, ruined. “Seems we made a bit of mess.”

    Aldous smirked. He should have been bothered by the destruction of his writings, but the healing potion kept his emotions comfortably numb. “Not your fault,” he replied. “Actually, your arrival was rather fortunate. I wasn’t exactly winning this time.”

    Johann chuckled. “Don’t feel bad,” he said. “I doubt there are many in Peltarch who would have done better, under the circumstances. Your assailant was obviously very well prepared.

    “In fact, although your assailant is something of a mystery, your encounter with him has revealed a great deal. We have a basic physical description. We also understand a few things about him, namely, that he possessed great physical strength and endurance, and had access to some legion-quality magic items.

    “For example, the wand he employed to, ah, gain entry to your suite was most likely a legionnaire blast-wand, designed for breaking apart timber fortifications such as palisades and stake-walls. I am surprised to learn that such a thing has made its way into the hands of the general populace.

    “It is equally illuminating that he recognized the suppression orb. He obviously had either seen one before, or had an intuitive grasp of its intended purpose, and understood how to defend against it.”

    Aldous nodded. “For that matter, not many people have ever seen a portal before,” he said, pleased to have something to add to the discussion.

    “A fair point,” said Johann, “Although any mage of sufficient power can form a portal. This man was specifically aware of the tools and tactics of the Evocati .

    “Most interesting of all, however, was what this man said. He was looking for one of the Uthgart carvings. Not all of them together. Just a single, specific carving. He knew exactly what it looked like: the size, the material, the subject matter. That means, whoever has the carvings is still in Peltarch, or has connections who are still in Peltarch. And they are missing one single carving. They have nine, and they are missing one. And they want to find that missing one. Badly.”

    He paused a moment, as if considering, and then added, “In which case, they must have some understanding of the power inherent to the figurines.”

    He clasped his hands behind his back and stared out the window in silence for awhile. After an awkward silence, he turned back to Aldous.

    “It seems my decision to keep you involved in this matter was a good one. This has been a very interesting development. I am now hopeful that we will recover the Uthgart carvings.”

    “Glad I could help,” said Aldous. “Seems all I’ve got to do is lay down for a good night’s sleep and close the windows.”

    Johan grinned mirthlessly.

    “I have spoken with Lady Cailin, the owner of the Mermaid,” he said. “They are making arrangements for you to have another room. Obviously, it would be unsafe for you to remain here.”

    Aldous nodded. “Thank you,” was all he said.

    Later that night, Aldous sat in the warm environs of his new room. It was indeed smaller and simpler that his previous suite, but he felt safer and more secure knowing he was on the opposite side of the inn.

    He remained wrapped in his wool blanket, which also lent him an added sense of warmth and security, and cradled a warm cup of tea in his hands. After the events of the evening, he had far too much on his mind for sleep.

    While he had appreciated the rescue, he found it entirely too convenient. Johann had shown up just at the right moment, had responded to the attack with almost perfect timing. There was only one explanation. Apparently, Aldous had been under some type of steady surveillance. And equally apparent was that Johann had kept a small team standing by, ready to respond at a moment’s notice, all members of the Peltarch legion, no less.

    Aldous sipped at his tea, considering. It was not that he minded being watched over. Certainly, under the circumstances, it seemed prudent for him to have some protection. What bothered him was being watched over secretly. He wanted to know who his guardians were, and exactly to what extent his privacy was being compromised. Furthermore, he wasn’t quite certain whether the surveillance was for his own protection, or because his employer simply did not trust him. He felt like a pawn being pushed into the center of a chess board.

    Or bait, he thought to himself.

    He remembered fishing trips with his brothers in the rivers and streams of the mountains southwest Suzail. They would take a small piece of burnished brass or silver and secure it to a slender length of fishing line. They would let it drift in the current, moving this way and that so the light would catch the polished metal, glittering in the water. The fish, attracted to that bright piece of metal, would strike at the barbed hook on the end of the line.

    He was the lure. Johann was the hook.

    But who is the angler? he wondered. Who was the man holding the string? So far, Johann had given him no clue as to the identity of their employer.

    And what will rise to the bait? Every year there were fisherman who went missing in the Sea of Stars. Sometimes things came out of the deep that were better left undisturbed.

    He turned his gaze to the table in front of him, where two objects rested side by side.

    The first was the crystal sphere, the “suppression orb” Johann had called it, a perfectly round ball of smoky quartz, its light dim, the magic all but spent. He picked it up from the table and tucked it into a knapsack. A souvenir, a reminder, of the power of the unknown.

    The second was the cat figurine with its deep emerald eyes. Misty had found the figurine tangled in his bedclothes during the move, though he had clearly remembered placing in the hutch of the writing desk.

    He picked up the figurine and placed it in his lap, cradled on his soft wool blanket. In his mind’s eye, he remembered the cat-dream with astonishing detail: the smooth, contours of the floor against his paw-pads, the quiet of the Dancing Mermaid at night, the dark-cloaked figure in the alley, firing a bolt of magic in the night . . .

    He studied the figurine in his hands. Awake, he projected the thought, sending it toward a faint bundle of thoughts and emotions that brushed against the edges of his mind.


  • Chapter 5: Canvas and Paint

    for Jade

    Note: Brother Cormac, who first appeared in Chapter 2, has suffered a name change. He is now Brother Adelan. I thought the latter name fit him better. I'm not sure why.

    Leitha made her home from the Temple of Tyr. She followed along a broad thoroughfare, north and east toward the Mage’s Quarter. The cobblestones were slick from the previous night’s rain, but the sun was warm overhead. She shielded her eyes against the harsh glare of sunlight on wet stones.

    She could have hailed a carriage to take her home, but instead she proceeded on foot, preferring to remain alone in her grief. She took refuge in the distraction of the walk home, balancing along the uneven cobbles, struggling to maintain her footing in sharp heels. She dreaded her arrival at home. Would her father realize she had been away from home the entire night? Would he believe her lie that she had slipped away at early dawn to go shopping in the city and attend the afternoon service at temple? Most of all, how could she hide her grief at the loss of Asgall?

    “Mi’lady! Wait, mi’lady!”A voice from behind her, oddly familiar. She turned and looked back, eyes widening in surprise and consternation. It was the monk from the temple. He had followed her, no doubt to inquire about her intrusion into the main tower. It was not a conversation she wanted to have.

    She turned and hurried forward and away from the monk, pushing her pace. The monk followed after her, about fifty yards behind. Leitha didn’t know the penalty for breaking into the tower, and she didn’t want to find out. Some of the temple officials could be extremely harsh. No doubt this monk would inquire as to her identity, her name and her family, why she had entered the tower alone and uninvited. He might well know her father, if only by reputation, and she did not want the incident reported at home.

    A visit to the tower was easily explained as a sightseeing venture. More difficult to explain would be her ability to circumvent the lock on the tower door.

    She continued to hurry forward, but the monk, in his well-shod leather boots, continued to gain on her. Twice she nearly twisted an ankle, dancing awkwardly on the uneven stones. When he halved the distance between them, she decided it was time get serious. She made a sudden turn to her right, around a corner and into an alley. There she slipped off her shoes and ran in stocking-clad feet to the opposite thoroughfare. She was young and strong, the fastest girl in her academy, and she reached the end of the alley in an instant. There she turned right again, back toward the temple, an unexpected change of direction, thinking to lose the monk in the side streets.

    To her chagrin, he appeared suddenly at the next intersection, almost on top of her. The shrewd monk had turned at the same time as she, into a parallel alley, and had come out into the same street. Only now, because she had doubled back, and because he had moved more slowly, he was right in front of her. His eyes widened in surprise as he recognized her. He glanced at the shoes in her hand, and then down at her wet, stocking-clad feet. He raised one hand.

    “There is no need to . . .” he began. She turned and ran.

    “Mi’lady, wait! There is no need to run!” he shouted after her. She heard him give chase, his boots slapping noisily against the wet street. After a few moments, he fell behind, the sound of his footfalls diminishing. She glanced over her shoulder and saw he had given up the chase. He had slowed to a walk and appeared to be holding his side. She allowed herself a smirk of satisfaction.

    She turned east, into another alley-way, which lead her all the way to the city wall. There she turned again and hurried along the wall, following the narrow lane in the wall’s shadow as it curved north toward the Mage’s Quarter. After a short while, she reached a corner where the high city wall intersected a smaller, lower wall that divided the Mage’s Quarter from the rest of the city. There she angled left, heading north and west, following the lower wall. Eventually she approached the easternmost gate into the Mage’s Quarter.

    It was a discrete entrance, just wide enough for foot traffic, but too narrow for a carriage, one of several ways into the Quarter that offered a discrete point of access. A small guard station stood just outside the gate, screening unwanted trespassers and turning them away from the city’s wealthiest neighborhood.

    Just out of sight of the guard station, Leitha slipped on her shoes, then approached the gate. The guards recognized her on sight and nodded as she passed through.

    Passing into the Mage’s Quarter was like entering another world. Few citizens of the city of Peltarch ever set foot there. To them, the Mage’s Quarter remained a mystery, a few peaked roofs and spires behind a forbidding stone wall.

    In contrast to its cold exterior, however, the inside of the Quarter was a warm and orderly environment. The temperature was always a few degrees warmer than the rest of the city, or a few degrees cooler on hot summer days. The air was perpetually freshened by the breeze off the lake, but a faint, almost pleasant scent of mortar and smoldering tallow still clung to the masonry.

    Leitha made her way home through broad, tree-lined avenues, shaded with exotic maple and ornamental birch. The streets were smooth, even, and wide, set with heavy flagstones and graded with precision. Tall mansions lined the avenues, some clustered intimately together, others set apart with expansive grounds. Running fountains and marble statuary were abundant in the little plazas scattered throughout.

    Her route home took her deep into the Quarter. Here the mansions were even larger, and nearly all of them had grounds. She turned casually onto an unobtrusive stairway that lead up into a garden. The long, flat steps were lined with thick hedges. A great, rare maple stretched thick limbs overhead, its foliage a canopy of orange and crimson. Its fallen leaves carpeted the steps, like a red, terraced stream flowing down the hill.

    She ascended the steps into a petite, enclosed garden. A lily pond, fed by a small fountain, sang softly in the afternoon sunlight. The fountain was carved in the likeness of a fish, its scales gleaming with enamel glaze in hues of green and blue, its eyes glowing a burnished gold. A small shrine stood next to the pond, a simple arch decorated with the elder symbol of Mystra, the silver, seven-pointed star.

    Leitha hurried through the garden. She did not pause to reflect on the beauty of the place, for she had passed this way a thousand times. She slipped through a gap in the hedge and entered into a spacious grove, a grassy field planted with rows of oak trees. Ahead she could see her father’s mansion, a stately, stone edifice in the center of the grove. Slipping off her shoes again, she ran through the grass to a side entrance, picked the lock on the door, and went inside.

    Safe in her room, she quickly undressed and put away her clothes and belongings. The cloak went on a peg by the door. Her leather breeches went into a chest at the back of her closet, along with her dagger, her lock picks, and two wands. The white blouse went into a hamper with her small-clothes.

    She touched her hair and cursed silently, tears welling unbidden in her eyes. Her jade comb, a gift from her mother, was gone. She cursed herself for taking it with her, running through the city streets. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, crushing away the tears, willing herself to focus on the present.

    There was a knock on the door. Her heart leapt to her throat. She hurried to the closet and pulled a nightgown over her head. She tousled her hair and pulled the door open, just a crack. She peeked out.

    “Yes?” she asked, softly.

    “Pardon, mi’lady, your father would like you to join him for supper,” a tall, lean figure in the hallway, just visible through the crack in the door.

    “Thank you, Brandon, I was just having a little nap. Please tell him I will be down at the evening bell.” She moved to close the door.

    “Ahem,” Brandon cleared his throat softly.

    “Was there more?” she asked curtly.

    “He said you were to come immediately, mi’lady.”

    “Very well,” she said, a lump forming in the pit of her stomach. “Please tell him I will dress and come down right away.” She snapped the door closed, turned and sat herself on the edge of her bed.

    The pit in her stomach deepened. It was customary for her to attend supper with her father, but the usual hour had not arrived. Something was amiss. Truth was, she had not been home since the prior evening. She had been out all night and all of the morning and afternoon. And he had been aware of her arrival from the very moment she had come home. He must have set the servants to watching for her. There was no telling how much he knew.

    She took a deep tremulous breath, went to the closet, and picked out a plain, gray woolen skirt and a fresh white blouse. She arranged her air carefully, tied a proper bun, and secured it with pins. She nearly cried again thinking about her jade comb, but found a substitute in her jewelry box, an exquisite piece in mother of pearl.

    Her father, Kaelan, was waiting for her in the dining hall, a large, ponderous room poorly illuminated by lamplight. Normally, on an evening such as this, they would eat on the veranda, enjoying a view of the sunset over the Icelace Lake and the forested hills leading down into the water. Tonight, however, he had chosen a more formal setting, an ill omen for the evening to come.

    He sat in his usual place at the head of the table, his back straight and strong. He was wrapped in his usual charcoal colored robes, a sturdy, soft material, similar in consistency to wool, but far more comfortable. His hair had gone silver with age, but it remained thick and luxurious. He wore it neatly in a long braid down his back. A cup of hot tea steamed by his right hand. An arcane tome lay open on the table before him.

    He studied the tome intensely, and he did not look up as she arrived. She seated herself demurely to his left, the traditional place for a first daughter.

    “Help yourself to some tea,” he said, the only sign he noticed her arrival.

    She took her cup and poured the tea from a pot on the table. Her father continued to study his tome; that pit in her stomach stirred.

    “Since when does my daughter use the servant’s entrance?” he asked softly, his eyes never leaving the pages of his book. The words struck her a glancing blow. For a moment, she was unable to speak, wondering again how much he knew.

    “I . . . I did not want to disturb your studies,” she said meekly, looking down at the edge of the table. She could feel the color draining from her face. There was a long silence.

    “I do not tolerate dishonesty. You know that.” His voice was hard but restrained. She glanced up and saw the book had been closed and set aside. “I will give you one more chance. The truth this time.”

    Leitha kept her face turned down and closed her eyes tightly against the tears that threatened to come again. She drew a deep breath.

    “I . . . I didn’t want you to know,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

    “The truth, and then another lie,” he quipped. “That is not what I expect from you.”

    Another long pause.

    “How can there be peace in our house when there is no trust between father and daughter? Have I not instilled honesty in you from your earliest days? Have I not taken every care to provide you with a complete education and upbringing? Do you not enjoy every privilege that a father can possibly bestow? In return, I have asked for only one thing. Your loyalty. And when you lie to me, you betray that loyalty. Because you are my only daughter, I will ask you one more time. But I shall not ask again. Tell. Me. The truth.”

    Leitha felt the tension drain away. At that moment, she knew . . . he was fishing. He did not know the whole truth. He probably knew about her absence throughout the day, but he clearly did not realize she had been gone throughout the night. Had he known that, the consequences would have been unthinkable, unimaginable, not some mere speech about honesty and loyalty. He was trying to draw her out, to make her guess at what he knew, make her confess to what he did not.

    The only question now was how much information to give, how to twist the truth to pacify him, to make him believe that she was still his good and loyal daughter. Lying to him tasted like grease in her throat, and at the same time, like sweet honey, a nectar of freedom.

    “I . . . I went down to the city,” she said, keeping her eyes down. “I wanted to go shopping and see the ships.”

    He remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

    “And I . . . I went to the temple, to the day service, to see the view from the tower.” Enough of the truth to have the ring of plausibility.

    Her father took a sip of his tea, then set his cup gently on the table.

    “You went shopping,” he repeated. “Shopping.” Leitha held her silence.

    “Shopping and to the temple.” He spoke as if testing the words, as if weighing them in his mind. “You have concocted the most innocent story a woman could devise. And I am to believe you snuck out of the house and then snuck back in simply for the purpose of going shopping? You lied to me about shopping? Frankly, Leitha, that defies plausibility. I have never prevented you from going to town before, simply for the purpose of shopping and going to the temple. ”

    He shook his head. “You are not telling the truth, Leitha. You are hiding something from me. Something of which you know I would strongly disapprove. ”

    Suddenly, she felt cold. She felt a shiver pass through her.

    “I will have it out of you,” he said softly. “So help me, you will tell me the truth, one way or another. You think I will tolerate this kind of dishonesty from my own daughter? You think I will allow you to lie to my face?”

    He stood and clapped his hands together twice. At the signal, Brandon entered the dining hall.

    “Brandon,” she heard her father say. “Go to Leitha’s room and remove everything in it. Lay out her belongings in the sun room. I want to see everything, I mean everything, in her possession, even the smallest pair of earrings.”

    Leitha put her head in her hands, her eyes closed tight against the tears that now seeped forth and ran down her palms and forearms. She could only imagine his reaction when he found the dagger, the wands, the lock-picks. In an hour or two, her life would be changed forever. She did not know what her father would do, but she knew it would be dire.

    Brandon hesitated for a moment, confused. “Ah, is that wise, mi’lord? A lady’s belongings . . . ” He trailed off.

    “Under the circumstances, I have little choice,” said Kaelan. “My daughter refuses to tell the truth.”

    Brandon made a short bow, turned, and left the room. “Yes, mi’lord.”

    Kaelan turned back to Leitha. “Ordinarily you would be confined to your room,” he said. “Under the circumstances, however, you will wait in library. I suggest you concern yourself with St. Adamo’s Confessions for the next hour or so. One such as yourself should find it particularly instructive.”

    He turned to leave when Brandon appeared in the entry again. “Mi’lord, there is visitor for you. A monk from the temple of Tyr.”

    Kaelan paused a moment, head turned slightly to the side, his expression tense. “Really. From the temple of Tyr? Show him in. Have him join us here in the dining hall.” He returned to his seat at the head of the table.

    Leitha just sat in her place, her face in her hands. In an hour, maybe less, life as she knew it would be over. Her father would learn the truth, or enough of the truth to guess at the extent of her betrayal. She could not imagine what he would do. But her relationship with him, such as it was, would be over. She would be cast out of his life, one way or another, forever.

    She did not sob. She just sat there, trying to hold in the tears, trying to imagine what her life would become. Strangely, part of her looked forward to the cataclysm. Not the confrontation itself; that would be dreadful. But to the aftermath, the solace of separation, the finality. She would be free at last, and she would be alone. She had always been alone, but now at least she would be free in her solitude.

    From somewhere within she gathered her strength. She put her thoughts away, and poured herself another cup of tea from the pot, trying to submerge her awareness in the scent and sensation of the warm drink. She wiped the tears from her face, and composed herself for their guest.

    A moment later Brandon appeared again in the doorway. Another figure followed him through, a large, solidly built man in monk’s habit.

    Brandon announced the visitor in his somber, resonant baritone. “Brother Adelan of the Querin Order of Tyr.”

    The monk made a deep bow and stepped forward into the room. Leitha looked up, her eyes widening in surprise. It was the monk from the temple, the one who had pursued her all the way from the tower steps. How had he found her here, and how had he gained entrance to the Quarter? No doubt he was here to report about her breaking into the tower. So much the better. Better to get it over with, better to have him here to witness, to dampen her father’s rage.

    She was surprised to see, however, the monk wore a kind expression. He did not appear angry or indignant. He did not have the air of someone coming to air a grievance.

    He walked slowly along the side of the long dining table, on the side opposite Leitha, approaching the head of the table. When he came close enough for conversation, he stopped and made a second, brief bow. He did not look at Leitha, but studied Kaelan directly, his gaze intense but kind.

    “Forgive my intrusion on your supper, Master Kaelan. I am here on a short errand, and I promise to be brief,” he said.

    Kaelan raised one hand in acknowledgement. “It is no intrusion, Brother Adelan. A servant of Tyr is always welcome in my home. Would you care for some tea?” He gestured to the pot in the middle of the table. “Or perhaps to join us for our evening meal? Dinner has not yet been served, and we have few guests.”

    “You are very kind,” the monk replied, “but I must refuse. I have come uninvited to your home, and I would not impose on your hospitality.”

    “You would not be imposing, brother,” said Kaelan. “Your presence here does us honor. Please, let us provide you with some refreshment during your visit.”

    The monk paused a moment, as if reflecting. “Perhaps some tea,” he said at last, “if you are certain I would not be intruding.”

    “Not at all,” said Kaelan. He stood and clapped his hands together.

    “Brandon, bring us another pot of tea. How is supper coming along?”

    “The roast will not be ready for another half-hour, mi’lord,” said Brandon, then added hastily, “The soup, however, can be served immediately.”

    “Bring out the soup in a quarter hour. And ah, Brandon, that other matter can wait for awhile.”

    “Yes, mi’lord.”

    The monk smiled. “You are too kind,” he said.

    Kaelan gestured to chair beside him, to his right, inviting the monk to take a seat at the table. As the monk settled into his place, a servant whisked into the room with a fresh pot of tea and a third cup. Kaelan shot Leitha a pointed look, and she quickly stood and walked around the table to stand between her father and the monk. There she accepted the third cup from the servant and filled it from the pot, placing it in front of the monk. She made a brief, almost imperceptible curtsy, and returned to her seat.

    Adelan at his tea. “Mmm, quite good,” he commented. “Quite savory. . . are the leaves roasted?”

    “I couldn’t tell you,” said Kaelan. “Brandon buys it somewhere in town. He does have exquisite taste, however.”

    The monk nodded approvingly, “Perhaps I shall speak with him before I leave. We could use something new at the monastery.”

    “I’ll send him to the town on the morrow for a bulk quantity,” offered Kaelan. “We’ll have it delivered to the monastery in the afternoon, or as soon as available.”

    The monk smiled at that. “Thank you, Master Kaelan. You are most generous. The Order of Querin will be most grateful.”

    “Of course. Now, to what do we owe the honor of this visit? I would not rush you, but likewise I would not detain you unnecessarily. Is there anything we might do for you or the other servants of Tyr?”

    “Ah yes,” said Brother Adelan. “Well, you see, it is a small matter, but something I thought might be of personal importance.”

    Here it comes, thought Leitha. Strangely, she just felt numb. Part of her wanted to cringe, part of her wanted to burst out laughing. Balanced between these two extremes, she just sat quietly, watching her life unravel.

    “A certain young lady was at the temple today,” continued the monk, inclining his head in Leitha’s direction. “One assumes she was there to attend the afternoon service. I myself saw her descend from the central tower sometime after the service.”

    “In addition, I noticed that she dropped this on her way out,” the monk reached into one of his sleeves and produced the jade comb, placing it on the table in front of him. “It is obviously an item of some value, and I wanted to see it returned.”

    Leitha stared at the comb in disbelief. It was . . . impossible. For a moment she didn’t believe her eyes. What incredible good luck to have the comb returned! And the monk had said nothing about her breaking into the tower. Weren’t the monks sworn to honesty, to speak no falsehood? She held her breath.

    For a moment, all three of them were motionless, Leitha sitting demurely in her place, the monk awaiting a response, her father wearing an expression of surprise and confusion. At last he spoke.

    “Uh . . . thank you, Brother Adelan. I and my daughter are most grateful.” He turned and looked at Leitha with an incredulous expression. As if on cue, she bowed her head to Brother Adelan, her mind still strangely numb, unable to think what to say. Her father picked up the jade comb and passed it to her.

    “I was just inquiring with my daughter as to her activities today. She had told me about her visit to the temple, and frankly, I was concerned that she wasn’t being entirely honest with me. I know that your vows forbid you from fathering children. But believe me, they can be most difficult at this age.”

    The monk smiled warmly at that. Leitha suddenly noticed he was quite handsome. “So I have heard,” he said. “In fact, as I recall, I gave my own parents no end of difficulty.”

    After a brief pause, he continued. “Well, I would not wish to intrude on a family’s business. But I can attest with certainty that your daughter was, in fact, at temple this afternoon.”

    Leitha put one hand to her mouth and suppressed a giggle. Instantly, her father’s eyes pinned her. She reddened and kept her gaze averted.

    So that was it then. The monk would not spill her secret. All of a sudden, she felt giddy, elated, happy to be alive. She had done it. She had spent the night out, and the entire following day, and she had gotten away with it. By a hair’s breadth, but she had done it. And if she could do it once, she could do it again . . . She would have to be more careful next time. Much more careful. But there would absolutely be a next time, just as Asgall had taught her.

    His name flashed through her mind, a spike of grief. Her elation evaporated in an instant, and she again took a deep breath and tried to focus on the moment, submerging her awareness in the cup of tea before her.

    The conversation moved on, and she heard her father and the monk talking in earnest tones about the latest developments in city politics. There were always rumors of war. The Uthgart tribes were perpetually restless, chafing at what they perceived as the city’s encroachment on their hunting grounds and tribal territories. Not a day passed without report of some incident at the fringes of the city’s claimed lands. Her father seemed quite eager to learn the temple’s position on matters of war and territorial expansion. He seemed to hold the view that expansion was foolish and unnecessary, but that the tribes should be dealt with forcefully. Brother Adelan essentially agreed that expansion was needless, but spoke in moderate tones, counseling caution and restraint in dealing with the local tribes. He spoke highly of Norwick as being the key to stability in the region, although he noted that even within the temple there were varying opinions regarding the Uthgart tribes. Some viewed the tribes as violent savages devoted to cruel gods, while others viewed them as primitive societies in need of Tyr’s deliverance. He seemed to belong in the latter category.

    The meal drew to a close, and Leitha waited nervously for Brother Adelan to excuse himself. She was uncertain what to expect from her father now that the monk had corroborated her story. She was fairly certain, however, that he would be appropriately pacified.

    At last the monk began to express his appreciation for the meal, thus signaling his impending departure. They all stood. Kaelan and the monk clasped forearms in the old style. Leitha made a brief curtsy, as was proper for a girl of her age. The monk turned to leave, walking toward the entry of the dining hall.

    A thought came to her, and she acted on impulse. As the monk neared the entry to the dining hall, she called out.

    “Brother Adelan!” she cried. He turned at the sound, and she hurried along the banquet table to catch him. She met him at the opposite end of the table.

    “I wanted to thank you for the return of my comb,” she said. “It was a gift from my mother. I could never have replaced it.”

    She took the mother of pearl comb from her hair. “Please accept this as a donation to the temple. It will fetch a good price at market. It is the least I can do after the kindness you have shown.”

    Bother Adelan smiled gently and bowed his head. “The Order of Querin thanks you, mi’lady,” he said formally. “We will light a candle for your departed mother.”

    Brother Adelan turned and left, and Leitha returned to her seat. Her father sat for awhile, brooding into his tea, saying nothing.

    “I still do not understand why you felt the need to sneak into the house by way of the servants door,” he said at last. “I assume this is some kind of adolescent game.”

    After another awkward silence, he continued. “In the future, you will refrain from engaging in such adolescent behavior. You will conduct yourself as a woman grown, in a manner befitting your station.”

    He stood and pushed in his chair. “For the next month, you are confined to your chamber.”

    “Yes father,” she said meekly. He stood, took up his tome, and strode from the dining hall. Leitha tucked the jade comb into her hair, where it belonged, and returned to her room to begin her month-long sentence.

    Back in her room Leitha went directly to bed, exhausted in body and spirit. She did not mind the punishment. In fact, she could not have imagined a better arrangement. In her grief over Asgall, she wanted nothing other than solitude, time to be alone, to think and dream of him, to hold fast to the memories.

    The next day she wept through the morning and hardly stirred from the bed, accepting neither food nor drink from the servants. Let her father think he was responsible, if he was even aware of her sorrow. More likely he was occupied with his work, relieved to have her put away. Brandon came and went, fussing over her like a mother hen, until she banished him with harsh words.

    It went on like that for awhile. For days she hardly stirred from the bed, wrapped in the blankets, consumed in her grief. The sadness weighed heavily upon her, pressed her down, like a lead ballast around her neck.

    Eventually, however, she rose from the bed, donned an old skirt and blouse, and began again to take food and drink. She noticed that she had lost weight; her hips bones, formerly well-muscled, felt sharp and lean. But the sadness was not so heavy, and a new emotion flicked in her breast, something hot and abrasive that she could not define. Her strength slowly returned. All the while, her eyes gravitated toward the easel and canvas standing in the corner of her room.

    She had only begun painting about six months ago, but she had proven remarkably talented. She had graduated quickly from water colors to oils, and then back to watercolors, preferring their luminous quality over the solidity of oil. She had an incredibly keen sense of visual aesthetics, an affinity for the relationships between colors, the balance of light and shadow, the arrangement of elements on a page or canvas. She really believed that, given sufficient time and commitment, she could have become one of the city’s more celebrated artists. She just wasn’t sure that she wanted to invest that time and make that commitment. At the moment, however, the desire to paint stirred in her with a poignancy and an urgency that she had never before experienced.

    She began with the usual, ladylike subject matter: plants and flowers, landscapes and waterfalls. And as she painted time flowed past, fluid and swift. A week passed, then another. She called to the servants for more canvas and more paints. Soon her room was filled with painted works, projects finished or abandoned, hanging from the walls or piled in corners.

    Sometimes she would paint all day and into the evening, sometimes late into the night. As night descended, she lighted the lamps in her room and arranged them around the canvas. The servants would be abed; her father deep into his work in the catacombs below the estate.

    Free from the possibility of disturbance, her own work moved into darker territory. A cityscape by night. Tile rooftops illuminated by the late summer moon. Figures swathed in shadow and starlight and weird magics. Scenes of frantic flight and combat, blades bared and spells flaring. Asgall hanging from the side of the inn, a stranger in the window straining to reach him. She replayed that night over and over in her memory. And finally, the portraits came, the faces of her friends, the faces of their assailants, the faces of those who had died, and those who had lived. They burned in her memory with a murderous intensity, and she committed each one to canvas and paint.


  • Chapter 4: A Portrait for the Dead

    He awoke in the morning with a splitting headache. The room was mercifully dark, the curtains drawn. He knew it was morning only by the faint, pale light that bled weakly into his room around the edges of the windows. He held his head against the pain and groaned with self-pity.

    He just lay there for a while, languishing in bed. After some time, he pushed himself into a sitting posture, feeling tired and groggy, his thoughts muddled by discomfort. He hadn’t drunk that much last night. In fact, he distinctly remembered having restrained his drinking in an effort to remain sober, and he had felt quite normal at bedtime. What on earth had caused this horrible headache? He had a dim recollection of chasing that infernal cat around the room in the middle of the night. He had felt fine at the time.

    He pushed aside his blankets and shuffled over to a window. He moved the curtains aside, ever so slightly, allowing a thin sliver of light to spread into the room, turning his head to protect his tender vision. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that that someone had slipped a note under the door.

    More shuffling over to the door, he picked up the neatly folded piece of parchment.

    Please accept my sincerest apologies for the rather nasty aftereffects of Rawlinswood wine. One would imagine your head is splitting right now. I have arranged for a remedy with breakfast. Happy hunting. J

    Aldous reached over and tugged sharply on the bell-pull. That remedy, whatever it was, could not arrive soon enough.

    Breakfast arrived on a tray, delivered to the dining area of his suite. Aldous settled himself at the table and took an inventory of morning’s repast. It was the usual fare, consisting mostly of fish and steamed wheat-berries. Fortunately, he spotted a bubbling flask that was no doubt Johann’s “remedy.”

    He fumbled in the pocket of his robe and produced his monocle, inspecting the potion briefly. One should always understand the nature of one’s medicine, especially where magic was concerned. Sure enough, the potion glowed with a faint aura, a pure, deep royal blue indicative of restoration magic. There was not even the hint of another shade, not the pink of charm, nor the white of divination, nor the dark purple-black of necromancy. Safe enough. Aldous turned up the flask and downed it in a single swallow.

    He sighed with satisfaction as a sense of well-being swept through him. A light tingling ran down his back and through his limbs, and the headache lifted immediately. His emotions stirred, and a powerful feeling of euphoria filled him. He relaxed back into his chair and grinned, enjoying a few ecstatic moments of profound, irrational satisfaction.

    The sense of euphoria quickly dissipated, leaving Aldous feeling rested, strong, and alert. He suddenly had a healthy appetite, despite the unappealing fare, and he tucked into breakfast with enthusiasm.

    As he finished his meal, he stood from the table and made a mental inventory of his plans for the day. It was already mid-morning. He had awakened early, but had been slow getting out of bed. Time was already getting away from him, and there was much to be done. In particular, he felt a certain obligation to commence his search for the Uthgart carvings. Johann had been very generous with wine and hospitality, not to mention gold coin, and Aldous was grateful for the opportunity for gainful employment.

    Aldous went to the nearest window and pulled aside the curtains, allowing the full light of morning to fill the room. It was a sunny day in Peltarch, and in the streets beyond the alley behind the Dancing Mermaid traffic was already teeming on foot and on horseback. In the distance, he could hear the shouts of hawkers and merchants mingled with the curses of disgruntled carriage drivers. The scent of the city carried on the breeze: brine and horse manure and wood smoke, and beneath it all the cool humidity of the Icelace Lake.

    Aldous moved around the suite, throwing wide the windows, allowing a cross-draft to flow through the room and air out the environs. The musty smell of linen and tallow gradually began to dissipate.

    Aldous breathed in the rich scent of the outside air, enjoying the sense of vigor that still infused him. The “remedy” had worked wonders; he would have to inquire with Johann as to its source. With renewed energy, he began to consider the problem before him.

    Locating the Uthgart carvings would not be an easy task. In all fairness, it was probably impossible. The carvings were gone, and would likely be transported to a remote location in Faerun for sale in some outdoor bazaar. They would never be seen in Peltarch again. Likely they were already stuffed in the back of some wagon, along with a whole collection of other stolen goods, a hundred leagues down the road.

    Despite these misgivings, Aldous believed that he could make a positive impression on his new benefactor by undertaking a thorough and exhaustive search for the carvings. Even if he was unable to locate the carvings on his own, perhaps he would uncover information leading to the apprehension of the thieves involved. In this way, the fate of the carvings could be revealed, even if the carvings themselves were never recovered.

    Pursuing a search for the carvings was simply a matter of gathering the available signs and remnants of the crime and attempting to form an understanding of how the carvings had been stolen and who had stolen them. The main problem was that the signs and remnants were relatively few and far between. To make matters worse, Johann had imposed some rather cumbersome restrictions. Aldous had been informed that he was not to approach Mistress Kaelman, the former owner of the carvings. Even worse, he was not to inform the legion or the city watch of his involvement in the matter.

    The reason for these two requirements, according to Johann, was that he wanted Aldous to approach the problem from a completely independent perspective. He did not want all parties to the search to start thinking in exactly the same way about the problem, which could result in some type of “group blindness” as he called it. Johann’s own men would be speaking to Lady Kaelman and the city watch, and they would report directly to him.

    Aldous had accepted Johann’s explanation without protest, but it had left him wondering. His part of the search would be extremely difficult without access to the victim of the theft. Even worse, the most promising lead was the identity of the murderer, Raffe Thielman, the man who had attacked Aldous in his room, and who was known to have served in the Peltarch legion. Hence, the best approach to the finding the carvings would be to interview people who had known Raffe and might be able to provide some insight into his activities. Denied this source of information, Aldous would be left with very little material to get started.

    Aldous turned from the window and scratched thoughtfully at his chin. There was nothing to be done. He must work with the materials available to him. At the very least, he had three things the others did not: (1) the wakizashi formerly owned by Thielman, (2) the cat figurine, and (3) his memories of the night of the theft, which he had written down on parchment. He walked over to his writing desk and cleared its surface, sorting his various notes and manuscripts into neat piles, which he then stored away on his bookshelf. Returning to the desk, he laid out the three items: the wakizashi, the cat figurine, and the thin stack of parchment comprising his memoir. He examined each item in turn.

    The wakizashi was an exotic weapon, unlike anything Aldous had seen before. As the son of a minor noble house in Cormyr, he had been endowed with a thorough military education that included training in a wide array of bladed weapons: broadswords and sabers, heavy falchions and light rapiers, even axes and pole-arms. The wakizashi, however, was subtly different from any blade he had ever handled. He drew the rare sword from its scabbard and balanced the blade on his palms, studying its length with an appraising eye. Overall the wakizashi resembled a conventional saber, though it had several distinctive features that made it unique. It had a chisel-shaped point, a minimalist guard, and a long handle that would permit a two-handed grasp. A wave pattern, almost like a water-mark, ran the length of the blade. The hilt was consisted of braided cloth over some type of pale, course hide that Aldous did not recognize. Was it dragon skin, perhaps? He could not be certain.

    Aldous moved to the middle of the room and tried a few practice cuts, first with one hand, then with two. The weight and balance of the blade felt solid in his hands, and the two-handed grip allowed for fast, sure strikes, much more powerful than the conventional, one-handed saber.

    He sheathed the blade and returned it to his writing desk. It was a beautiful piece, a collector’s item to be sure, but not something he would carry and wield for self-protection. Johann had said that the wakizashi required special training, and for Aldous, nothing could replace his rapier and dagger. As if for reassurance, he went to his bedside and picked up his rapier and ripped it from the scabbard. He assumed a guard stance, the slender blade balanced in his palm felt like a natural extension of his body. He had practiced with the rapier for so many hours, and so many years. It felt like an indelible part of him, an essential element of his very being.

    Suddenly, he had an almost physical desire to spar and train. In the weeks during his travel to Peltarch, there had been no opportunity to exercise, nobody with whom to practice. Undoubtedly, his skill had begun to diminish; his sense of flow and timing would be just off. He resolved that, on the morrow, he would find and join a practice yard.

    After a short episode of dawdling with his rapier, Aldous returned to his writing desk to examine the two remaining pieces of evidence. He looked first at the cat figurine.

    It was about a hand tall, from its haunches to the tips of its ears, cast entirely from bronze.
    The ears were perked forward, as if listening intently, and the tail was wrapped demurely around its side. He studied the eyes: small, multi-faceted emeralds set into the bronze.

    Overall, the workmanship of the bronze seemed crude, rudimentary. The cat’s shape was obvious enough, but its features did not have the refinement, the living detail of master work. The artist who had cast the figurine either had lacked the requisite skill, or had failed to invest sufficient time and care, to create a truly exceptional cast. Either way, it was still a remarkable piece. Although the detail was lacking, the proportions were perfect, the cat’s posture was natural and authentic, and the emerald eyes made a striking contrast against the deep, rich bronze.

    The most intriguing feature of the figurine, however, was the magical aura that surrounded it.
    A faint radiance shimmering near the surface, plainly visible in the light of day. Aldous could see the aura even without the aid of his monocle. He had spent many hours browsing antique shops and magic emporia, and he had never before been able to see a magical aura the unaided eye. Whatever it was, the figurine housed an incredibly powerful enchantment, the nature of which was entirely a mystery.

    Aldous set down the figurine on his desk. No doubt it had been stolen, along with the Uthgart carvings, from Lady Kaelman’s collection. No doubt she would have wanted it returned. The problem was, Johann had asked him not to speak with Lady Kaelman. Aldous did not know why he hadn’t mentioned the figurine to Johann in the first place. He resolved to raise the issue at their next meeting. He mentally noted that the cat figurine was unlikely to lead to further information, and stored it in a cubbyhole above his writing desk.

    At last he was left with his memoir of the night of the theft, the final remaining source for potential information leading to the Uthgart carvings. He leafed through the pages, running through the events in his mind. He remembered the driving rain outside, the noise from the swinging shutter in the next room, the sudden crash against his window. Again he relived the frantic effort to save the life of the one-eyed man, the desperate fight against the strong, compact assailant with the wakizashi. He strained his mind to draw forth some detail, some clue, that would reveal the identity of the hanged man. In the end he arrived at . . . nothing.

    In truth, his memoirs provided almost nothing of value.

    He slumped in his chair and pulled his poniard from his boot and shaved a few hairs from the top of his forearm. He sheathed the poniard, stood and paced for a few moments around the room. He went to the window sill and looked outside, watching the foot traffic in the street. At last he laid down on his bed and crossed his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling, studying the dark wood paneling.

    The whole undertaking was bloody impossible. There were too few clues, and he had no connections in the city. He was cut off from the most promising sources of information. The entire notion was absurd. What he needed, what he didn’t have, was some likeness of the hanged man. If only the man had been so accommodating as to have carried a portrait of himself on his person the night of the murder. Perhaps an oil painting he had commissioned that same day, rolled up in a leather tube in his pack. He could have then dropped it out of his pack on the floor of the suite. Aldous chuckled at the thought.

    After a moment, he snapped his fingers. “Brilliant!” he said.

    The Peltarch morgue was essentially what Aldous expected: heavy blocks of gray stone with small high windows. The holy symbols of Ilmater and Kelemvor, small and indistinct, were graven above the door, along with a faded inscription, “Gather ye mortals at the City of Judgment.” The front doors were dark mahogany banded with black iron, each set with a heavy door-knocker, one in the shape of divine celestial holding a ring of brass, the other in the shape of a demon with a ring of iron in its mouth.

    Aldous clapped his companion on the shoulder. “Looks like a wonderful place to spend the afternoon,” he said.

    The young man was small and lanky with a spray of acne across his cheeks. His soft, brown hair was curly and disheveled, hanging just above his eyes. He wore a plain, homespun cloak and breeches and carried a bundle on his back, slung across a wooden frame. His face paled slightly as he regarded the door to the morgue.

    “Come along, then,” said Aldous, and walked up to the door. After a moment’s pause, he chose the Celestial knocker and pounded three times. The impact of the metal ring drummed dull and lifeless against the dark wood. After a long moment, Aldous tried again.

    “Maybe they aren’t home,” ventured the young man.

    Aldous shook his head. “Nay, lad. Did you see that column of smoke above the roof? Somebody is tending the crematorium.”

    Just as Aldous reached for the handle, the door cracked open. He took a quick step back and nearly lost his footing, stumbling in surprise.

    The door groaned outward a few inches and stopped. A thin, gaunt figure swathed in ragged, brown sackcloth peered at them through narrow opening, eyes narrowed against the harsh light of day.

    “Yes?” the voice was dry rasp.

    “Good afternoon, father, we do not mean to trouble you,” said Aldous. “We are here to visit the morgue on an errand of some importance. Might we have a few minutes of your time?”

    The small, frail priest regarded them sternly for a moment. Aldous felt the sharp stench of stale sweat pricking at his nostrils. The brown-haired youth coughed once and cleared his throat. At last, the priest pushed the door a few inches wider, just enough to allow their entry.

    “Come in,” he said, withdrawing into the darkness beyond the doorway.

    Aldous clapped the young man on the shoulder again and pulled open the door to allow him to pass through with his pack and bundle. The youth hesitated a moment on the threshold, but Aldous nudged him along and followed behind, herding him into the darkness beyond the doorway. The heavy door boomed shut behind them.

    It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. There were no windows or even lamps, only the flickering light of fires set in alcoves in the walls. These were few and widely spaced, and did little to illumine the large, high-ceilinged entry hall of the morgue.

    Aldous could just discern a great statute the center of the room, a figure in full armor on a massive throne. Most likely it was a statue of Kelemvor, lord of the dead.

    The priest was waiting for them just a few feet away in the weird twilight of the morgue. He said nothing, politely allowing their vision to adjust to the dim light. Inside the morgue, his odor was less sharp, less noticeable, mingled with the strong aromas of smoke and charcoal and incense. After a moment, the priest spoke.

    “We do not allow ourselves the luxury of sunlight and lanterns,” he rasped. “The dead must do without, and so must we.”

    Aldous bowed his head in respect.

    “I understand, father,” he said. “We are grateful to the church for . . . uh . . . its services to the dead.”

    The priest did not respond.

    “Uh, in fact, we have come to make a donation to the church, and also to ask for a boon.”

    The priest held out his hand expectantly, and Aldous fished around in his belt pouch for some coin. He removed several gold pieces and placed them in the priests hand. The clink of gold was conspicuous in the silence of the morgue.

    “Ilmater’s blessing upon you, child.” The priest held up one hand in a gesture of benediction. Aldous felt a chill run through his body, like cold fire. For a moment, he felt weak in the knees, but the sensation passed quickly.

    “Now, what boon do you ask of the church?” asked the priest.

    “The night before last you would have received two bodies. They would have arrived together, having been delivered by the City Watch. One of the men had an eye patch. He had long red hair, and the look of an Uthgart tribesman. The other man would have been well-muscled, with hair that was close-cropped, like a legionnaire. If it would be permitted, we would like to view their remains.”

    The priest regarded them in silence for a moment.

    “Ah, we would be most grateful for the privilege,” said Aldous. “Naturally, in exchange for this boon, we would make a significant donation to the church.”

    “What is your purpose in viewing these bodies?” asked the priest.

    “Both men are suspected of crimes. We wish to take down their likeness in charcoals and paint,” said Aldous.

    “Crimes?” asked the priest. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Would this not be a matter for the City Watch? Your companion there looks rather young to be a member of that august organization.”

    “I am assisting the City Watch in this matter,” lied Aldous. “The young man is an artist in my employ.”

    “You are a member of the City Watch?” asked the priest. “Do you have a badge of office and official seal?”

    “I am not a member of the City Watch,” said Aldous. “I am assisting the City Watch. They have asked me to assist in finding some missing property. Creating a likeness of the thieves is part of my search.”

    “Part of your search. It seems to me . . . what are your names, Child?”

    “Aldous,” Aldous said sullenly. “This is Thelain.”

    “It seems to me, Aldous and Thelain, that your search is progressing in the wrong direction. You should look among the living, not among the dead. The dead have no further congress with the world, once they are brought here.”

    Aldous resisted the urge to grind is teeth. “I understand, father,” he said gently. “However, I believe that having a likeness of the thieves will allow me to make a general inquiry as to their . . .”

    The priest interrupted him, holding up one hand in a gesture of authority. “I am sorry, I cannot allow it. The morgue is not a playground for the living. It is a hallowed refuge for the dead.”

    “Father, I implore you,” Aldous pleaded. “I have very few clues on which to proceed. We will not take long, and as I said, I am prepared to make a significant donation to the church.”

    “How significant is that, child?”

    “Ten gold pieces.”

    The priest snorted. “The priesthood of Ilmater has no need of worldly possessions. We are sustained only by our suffering. You may see yourselves out.” The priest turned away, proceeding into the darkness toward the statute of Kelemvor.

    “Fifty gold pieces!” exclaimed Aldous, mentally kicking himself.

    The priest stopped and turned.

    “Fifty gold pieces. Your need must be great, child. Let me speak with Brother Scour and see if the bodies are still with us. It has been some time since the delivery you mentioned. It is possible they have already been committed to the flames.”

    The priest turned and disappeared into the darkness of the room.

    Aldous turned to his companion.

    “You’re going to need a lantern to see the bodies,” he said.

    “W-what if they are already burned?” the youth stammered. “Do I still get the fee?”

    “We’ll see,” said Aldous.

    “Fifty gold pieces is a lot more than you’re paying me.”

    “Let’s just see if the bodies are there,” said Aldous.

    After a few moments, the priest reappeared, accompanied by another figure in sackcloth robes. This second priest was much larger than the first, a tall, lanky man with large hump in the center of his back. Despite being thick framed, this second priest had the same gaunt, emaciated look of the first, and the same sour odor.

    “This is Brother Scour,” said the original priest. “He is responsible for preparing the bodies for cremation. He says that he remembers the delivery you mentioned. The bodies have been cleansed and wrapped in linens. They are ready for the furnace, but still intact.”

    “Ah, excellent!” said Aldous. “So we are all set then. Shall we proceed?”

    “There is the matter of payment,” said the priest.

    “Of course,” said Aldous, he removed his belt pouch and counted out forty-six piece of gold, six silver, and twelve coppers. “Ah, I’m a little short,” he said.

    The priest smiled, his teeth jagged and yellow. “Ilmater’s mercy is endless,” he said. “Now, you may follow Brother Scour.”

    Before Aldous handed over the gold he stopped. “There is one other thing,” he said. “My assistant will need some lanterns so that he can view the bodies and paint their likeness. He cannot make a likeness in the dark. In consideration for this rather generous sum, I will require the use of two lanterns.”

    The priest turned to Brother Scour. “Show them to the bodies. I will go down to the storeroom and fetch two lanterns,” he said.

    He turned back to Aldous. “You may have one turn of the hourglass,” he said. “No more. After that, you may remain as long as you wish, but the lanterns must be put out.”

    Aldous looked at his companion, and the youth nodded.

    “Very well, father.”

    Brother Scour lead them beyond the entry hall to a large, vaulted chamber that served as a preparation room for the cremation process. The center of the chamber was occupied by a number of large stone slabs, on which corpses lay in various stages of repose. At the far end of the chamber, the furnace was a narrow, horizontal slot in the wall, glowing a deep red, like a laceration in the stone. As Aldous and Thelain entered the chamber, they could see a third priest in the distance, tending contents the furnace, prodding with a long metal pole.

    Brother Scour showed them to a table where the bodies were wrapped in linen cloth, ready for cremation.

    “These bodies are old,” he said, this voice thick with the local Uthgart accent. “Ready to be burned.”

    Brother Scour reached down and moved one of the bodies, repositioning it on the table. With two meaty hands, he grasped the linen shroud and ripped it lengthwise, exposing the naked corpse.

    “Wrong one,” he noted. With a casual display of strength that belied his emaciated frame, he picked up the body and heaved it over to the adjacent table.

    Aldous and the young painter shared a discrete glance at one another, both incredulous.

    The priest moved to the next body and ripped open the shroud. Even in the dim light of the cremation room, the man’s face was unmistakable. A sallow, scarred visage with a single eye stared up at them. The eye patch had been removed, leaving only an empty socket.

    “This is the one,” said Aldous, fighting a sudden wave of nausea. “This is the victim. What about the other one?”

    Brother Scour and proceeded to the next body. It took two more tries, but he finally found the remains of Raffe. Both corpses were completely naked, now that the thin, linen shrouds had been torn asunder.

    “What happened to their belongings?” asked Aldous.

    “Things go box,” Brother Scour pointed to a stack of wooden crates near the far wall. “Boxes go Father Prime.”

    “Father . . . Prime?” asked Aldous. “Is that the priest we met in the entry hall?”

    “Father Prime,” Brother Scour nodded vigorously, bobbing his entire shoulder girdle in time with his head.

    Aldous shot another glance at Thelain.

    “You going to be okay?” he asked.

    Thelain nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s just the smell.”

    “I wish you hadn’t mentioned that,” replied Aldous, suddenly aware of the stench that pervaded the room, a piquant mix of incense and rotting corpse. “I was getting used to it.” He turned back to Brother Scour.

    “Can you prop them up?” he asked. “And Father Prime promised us two lanterns.”

    After some extended grappling with the dead, Brother Scour managed to prop the two bodies into sitting positions, while Thelain set up his easel. He quickly assembled a wooden frame, and Aldous assisted him in stretching a canvas.

    Father Prime appeared with the two lanterns and even went so far as to light them. He then produced a rather small hourglass and set the glass on the table.

    “When the hour is past, the lanterns will be extinguished,” was all he said before vanishing again into the darkness of the morgue.

    After the first half-hour it was evident that Thelain would have insufficient time to paint both portraits. As a result, Aldous encouraged him to concentrate on just the one. The eye patch had to be improvised over the empty socket. The youth repeatedly complained about poor lighting, and Aldous made a request for two more lanterns, which was refused.

    Eventually, Aldous watched the sand dwindle in the hourglass, and he extinguished the lamps as agreed. Given the poor condition of the victim’s remains, the meager lighting, and the rather mediocre skill of the artist, he was not confident of the results. He would have to evaluate the portrait in the light of day.

    They packed up Thelain’s equipment in the darkness, thanked Father Prime, who watched them closely as they departed, and made their exit from the Peltarch morgue.

    They blinked in the harsh light of day on the doorsteps to the morgue. Aldous took the painting without looking closely at it and promised payment on the following day. He and Thelain parted ways, and Aldous hurried back to the Mermaid, eager to be away from the morgue. He carried the portrait gingerly, careful not to smudge the still-damp paint.

    When he returned to his room, he propped the painting on his writing desk, standing back and appraising it in the ample light of the late afternoon. Aside from the rather hastily blotted eye patch, there was almost no resemblance between the painting and the original. The hanged man, as Aldous had remembered him, had been ruggedly handsome, almost wolfish in appearance, with a wild mane of russet hair. The portrait before him on the other hand, had sunken cheeks, yellow skin, the lank, drab hair. Aldous could not tell whether these defects were the result of the poor condition of the corpse, the bad lighting in the morgue, or the ineptitude of the painter. It was probably a combination of the three.

    He sighed and took down the painting and propped it in the corner, facing the wall.

    Perhaps tomorrow he would think of something new. At the moment, however, he was at an impasse. He stood there for a few moments, contemplating the problem, staring at the floorboards.

    He had just decided to head down to the common room for dinner, when he was startled by a horrific growl from the other side of the room.

    He flinched visibly and turned, his hand grasping in vain for the hilt of a rapier that was not, at the moment, attached to his belt.

    It was only the damned cat again. How had it gotten into his room this time? The infernal creature was balanced on the sill of the open window, looking out at the alley below. It’s back was arched and its tail stiff. Aldous watched while hit hissed malevolently at something in the streets outside.

    “Alright,” said Aldous. “That’s enough of frightening the neighbors.” He walked assertively over to the window, determined to pick up the cat and relocate it to somewhere else in the Dancing Mermaid.

    The creature started as he approached and leapt down off the sill, giving him wide berth on its swift route to the underside of the bed.

    “Naturally,” said Aldous. He continued to the window, curious as to what had aggravated the beast. Probably a rival tomcat intruding on its territory.

    The alleyway below was empty. Aldous was about to turn away when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a figure in the distance. Clad all in black, with a deep cowl, the figure stood at the far end of the alley, facing the Dancing Mermaid. After only a moment’s pause, the figure turned away and vanished around a corner.

    “Hmm, perhaps a mourner,” Aldous thought, idly. At that moment, a cold breeze swept in across the Icelace Lake and sent a chill down his spine.

    He closed the windows against the onset of evening and went down to the commons for dinner.


  • Chapter 3: Three Encounters

    Leitha stood in the high chamber in the tower of Tyr, looking out across the waters of the Icelace Lake. The fishing boats were out today, scattered across the vast expanse of blue, their white sails shining in the late afternoon sun. It was a beautiful day, bright and cool, and the wind flowed through the wide open windows of the tower, pulling gently at her cloak.

    The day was beautiful, almost perfect, but it was nothing without him. The warm afternoon sun only served to remind her of days gone by, of times spent with him, wrapped in his embrace, staring at the same sun, the same lake, the same white sails. She had never wanted those days to end. She had known, without the slightest doubt or reservation, that she had found true love. There were times with him when the world around her was suffused with golden light, a light she could sense but not see, and nothing past nor future was of any consequence.

    She would never feel that again, now. Dream had turned to nightmare in a single, horrible night. Even now the images of the previous evening flickered through her mind. Fleeing across the rooftops, jumping frantically from eve to ledge, clawing at gray tiles. Shadowy figures in relentless pursuit that leapt from one roof to another with inhuman grace. Jagged bolts of lightning as the storm raced inland from the lake. The flicker of magic light. Uli aiming the blast-wand and vanishing in an explosion of stone and tile. And in the end, it had all been for nothing. The artifacts lost. Asgall lost. The only think that mattered in her world, gone.

    She placed one hand against her brow and steadied herself against the stone window-sill. Her head ached from a night of weeping, but the insatiable emptiness inside her, the inherent wrongness of the world, would not abate.

    “If you ever have need of me, and all seems lost, look for me in the high chamber.”

    His words, that day on the pier. She had asked him what he meant, but he would never say more. He had always been full of cryptic remarks, fond of little mysteries and games. But she remembered those words well, because for once he had been absolutely serious. He had made her repeat them back to her. No matter what happened, to look in the high chamber.

    She turned and leaned back against the window sill, looking around the room.

    “Well?” she asked of the empty room.

    But she knew he was no more. She had seen him die, had seen him hanged from a rooftop on some merchant’s inn, watched him twisting and kicking on the end of a long noose. Even when a guest from within had come to his aid, opening a window and hauling Asgall inside, she knew it had been too late. She could only watch from the street below, petrified with fear.

    She studied the inside of the high chamber. It was a perfectly circular room, all cold gray stone and mortar. There was no ornament, no decoration, just a round chamber of stone with an arched ceiling, the austere simplicity of the Tyran monks and nowhere to hide.

    She had come here secretly, wanting to be alone. She bypassed the lock at the bottom of the staircase with ease, securing it again behind her. One of the things he had taught her. He had delighted in teaching her forbidden things, in taking her outside her sheltered world in the upper echelons of Peltarch society. And they had delighted together in finding ways to be alone, slipping away from her father’s watchful eye. Her father had expressed grudging approval when he had observed how she become an increasingly regular visitor to the temple.

    She took a deep breath, fought off another wave of tears, and tried to imagine her future without Asgall, a desolate future, without hope or meaning. She had thought being in the temple would soothe her pain, but it had only made her feel worse. She had best be getting home, before father grew worried and then wroth. She would have to steel herself to hide her grief.

    She heard footsteps on the stairs below.

    At first the sound thrilled her, as if somehow she would find Asgall making his way up the temple steps. But she knew that to be impossible. Asgall was gone. More likely it was a monk or priest, come to pray in the high chamber.

    She wondered what the penalty would be for trespassing in the tower. Probably nothing serious for one such as her. Still, it was time to leave.

    She started down the steps. When the footsteps below paused, she paused too, then shrugged and continued her way down the stairs. Eventually she rounded the bend and saw the man approaching, laboring up the stairs to the high chamber.

    She saw him first, before he saw her. His face turned up to look at her, and she felt her eyes widen in surprise. He was no monk, but a young, athletic man in a well cut shirt and breeches, with a curved sword riding on his hip. There was something familiar about him that she couldn’t quite place. She hurried past, averting her gaze, down the spiral staircase.

    “A pleasure to meet you too,” she heard him say from above. But the sardonic comment was lost on her; she only wanted to be away from the temple now. She flew down the stairs, down and down the endless spiral, and then out the door into the temple. A monk exclaimed in surprise as she passed, but she gave him no chance to respond. She made her way swiftly down to the lower level and out the temple door. From there, she made her way north and west, through the Civic Center, and into Peltarch’s finest residential district. And then beyond, to the mage’s quarter, where luxury gave way to opulence.

    Aldous raised his wine glass and swirled the red liquid within, appraising its luster by lamplight. The rich burgundy vintage glowed softly in the gentle illumination, leaving a faint, translucent patina on the side of the glass. He smiled in satisfaction. His host had spared no expense to gain his attention, and he was flattered and intrigued to have attracted the interest of someone so obviously well connected. He half dared to hope that it might lead to some form of gainful employment, liberating him from the family teat.

    His host was a small, plain man named Johann. At the moment, Johann was distracted, fussing with the place setting immediately before him. Aldous glanced at him out of the corner of one eye, while still pretending to appraise the wine. The man appeared to be aligning his silverware with a jeweler’s precision.

    “The wine will be to your liking” Johann remarked, glancing up. “It’s a rare vintage, from my own private cellar, of course. The grapes were gathered wild from within the Rawlinswood. It is said that the spirit of the forest infuses the essence of the grapes, lending the wine a primal vitality that cannot be equaled by domesticated wines.”

    Aldous lowered the glass, brought it under his nose, and inhaled the bouquet. In truth, he knew little of wine, though the scent of this particular glass was promising, musky and floral but appropriately restrained. Whether it contained the spirit of the forest he could not say. Either way, he would be pleasantly drunk in short order.

    He took a generous sip, letting the draught linger on his tongue, sucking a breath across his pallet to open up the flavor. It was exquisite, of course. He had never been an avid drinker of wine, but he would have to make an exception in this instance. It would be gauche to reject such a fine gesture of hospitality.

    “You prefer port, of course,” Johann continued. “Here in the north, port is considered something of a dessert wine, or an after-dinner drink at any rate. I have taken the liberty of bringing along a bottle of my finest. The Mermaid staff will be serving it later this evening.”

    Aldous raised a brow. Johann seemed to know a great deal about him, whereas Aldous knew nothing about his host. He wondered how the man had obtained his information. The thought was sobering, and he studied his host more closely.

    They were situated in a private dining room on the first floor of the Mermaid. The revelry in the common room was a muted commotion through the oak paneled walls around them, and the streets of Peltarch were a vague blur through thick crystal windows. The table at which they sat was small and serviceable, set with the best furnishings that the Mermaid could provide.

    “I am . . . impressed by your knowledge of me,” ventured Aldous. “I am only just arrived in the city.”

    Johann steepled his hands over his place setting and gave Aldous an earnest look.

    “You must forgive me,” he said. “I did not mean to invade your privacy. It was imperative that I know something about your person. That I would be dealing with a person of . . . quality.” He gave the last word a special emphasis. “Once I confirmed your background, I made no further inquiry, save what you might tell me yourself.”

    “I’m flattered by your interest,” replied Aldous. “You are obviously a man of some quality yourself. But I am uncertain as to what I might have done to draw attention. As I said, I’ve been in the city only a short time.”

    “We will come to that in good time,” Johann smiled warmly. “Though, I suppose I should provide you with some explanation.” He took a sip of wine from his own glass and continued.

    “Peltarch is a small society,” he said. “Do not be deceived by the size and grandeur of the city itself. It is very much an island in a great sea of wilderness and barbarism. We have much traffic with the world, but that traffic must travel a great distance to reach us. Within the city itself, we are but a small town, filled with rumor and rivalry. They key players are always the same, and there is relatively little change. I assume you studied the history of the city before coming here?”

    Aldous nodded thoughtfully. “There were a few books on geography in my father’s study. And I was a frequent visitor to the library in Suzail. I did a certain amount of research on the history of the region, but to be honest, there is a paucity of scholarship on the city itself. That is one of the reasons I am here, to learn more of the city’s history, and perhaps to flesh out its story.”

    Johann gave him a quizzical look. “That is a noble aspiration,” he said. “It is both rare and pleasing to meet a traveling scholar. Do you practice any of the magical arts?”

    Aldous took another drink of his wine, and shook his head. “I never have. My tutor in the magic arts was extremely dull. Unfortunately, I think he turned me away from the study of magecraft. It is all memorization and repetition, and I want to learn the ‘why’ of things, not just the ‘how’.”

    Johann nodded, thoughtfully. “I think you would have great potential,” he said. “But you should know that although the history of Peltarch is largely unwritten, it has in recent centuries been a gathering place for practitioners of magic. As I mentioned earlier, Peltarch is an island in a sea of wilderness, a small outpost of civilization. Anybody in the region who wants to learn about magic tends to gravitate here. As a result, we have an unusually large population of mages and priests. You might have noticed the bardic college? It is one of the pre-eminent centers of learning in the world.”

    Aldous suppressed a smile and took another sip of wine. In every part of the world, people thought their institutions were the best in the world. He kept his features carefully composed, and tried to think of another question.

    “So, you are a practitioner yourself?” he asked.

    Just then the door swung open and Misty and two others entered, pushing a serving cart. She looked striking in the lamplight, in a plain but elegant serving dress, tied with a white apron trimmed with lace. The dress was cut low, revealing an ample and buoyant chest that virtually glowed in the lamplight. Her hair was tied back in a simple bun that exposed the smooth slope of her neck.

    Misty and the other attendants brought the cart over to the table and began unloading its contents. There were numerous small plates of spiced meats and vegetables, and a few items that Aldous didn’t recognize. Misty whisked away his knife and fork, replacing them with the dreaded chopsticks. Finally, she erected a small brazier and grill at the center of the table, curtsied once in silence, and withdrew.

    Once he pried his eyes away from Misty, Aldous turned his gaze to the table with a certain sense of doubt and dread. He took another swallow of wine, and picked up the chopsticks, one in each hand. Johann covered his mouth with his fingertips, half concealing a smile.

    “Ah, nobody has shown you the technique of using chopsticks,” he observed. “If you will permit, I would be happy to provide you with instruction. I’m certain you will prove a quick learner.”

    He held up his chopsticks and proceeded to show Aldous the technique, inviting him to practice on a few of the chopped vegetables. After a few minutes of coaching, some false starts and shared laughter, Aldous finally got the hang of it. The technique was quite easy, once it was explained.

    In due time, Johann used his chopsticks to place a few small pieces of raw, marinated meat onto the grill. They sizzled loudly and filled the air with a savory aroma. Aldous followed in his example.

    “Now that our food is served,” offered Johann, “I think we can begin to talk about why I have approached you. You must forgive me if I was reticent earlier. Here in Peltarch we never discuss business without first having entertained our guests. I am sure you would have liked a more detailed explanation, but my liege insists on etiquette. Also, the slight delay has given my men the opportunity to insure that our room would be safe from eavesdropping.” He raised his glass. “To good food and new opportunities.”

    Aldous raised his glass in return. “I must say, I’m growing more curious by the second. I will second your toast, to be sure.” He tried one of the pieces of meat from the grill. “Mmm, delicious,” he commented. “Exceptional.”

    “The man you killed last night was a fugitive,” said Johann. “He was former ranking member of the Peltarch legion who had been convicted of insubordination and jailed for an indeterminate sentence, probably less than a year. However, he escaped from his cell some months ago, and was thought to have fled the city. Obviously, that was not the case. At any rate, he was a seasoned veteran, and formerly a member of the legion’s most elite scouting unit. The fact that you killed him in single combat is one of the aspects of your situation that brought you to our attention. You are obviously very capable.”

    Aldous used his chopsticks to turn a few more pieces of meat on the small grill. Eating directly from the grill was an ingenious custom, one that he would have to take back to Suzail, if he ever returned.

    “I was somewhat fortunate,” he said. “I had my rapier close at hand, and he had only this, uh, short saber. He gestured obliquely at his left hip.”

    “That is true,” conceded Johann. “But you nevertheless had the skill to capitalize on the situation. There are a great many men who in your position could have done nothing more than to perish in their bedclothes. Incidentally, that is called a wakizashi. It’s an extremely rare weapon, only suitable for those with a certain type of training. The man you killed had the correct training.

    “The man you attempted to rescue, on the other hand, has yet to be identified,” Johann continued, “That’s nothing unusual, of course. In a city of this size, there are more than a few unclaimed corpses every year. However, it does leave us in a somewhat frustrating position.”

    Aldous glanced up from his food. “And what is that?”

    “We don’t know who broke into Mistress Kaelman’s estate.”

    “I don’t follow.”

    “We believe that the man who was unceremoniously hung outside your window was one of several persons responsible for a burglary that occurred on that same night. We have no proof, but that is our theory. If we knew this one-eyed fellow, then we might know who his friends were. And if we knew who his friends were, we could begin to question them for information on the whereabouts of certain items of exceedingly high value.”

    “Ah,” said Aldous. “So, you work for Mistress Kaelman?”

    Johann waved his chopsticks dismissively, and then plucked another piece of meat from the grill, dipping it into a dark red sauce. He chewed vigorously as he talked.

    “Not at all. My liege prefers to remain anonymous in this matter. We should just say that he is a friend of Mistress Kaelman, holds her in the highest regard, and has been attempting to purchase the relevant items for quite some time. In fact, as of last night, he had just raised his bid to one million gold pieces.”

    Aldous sat back in his chair and stared incredulously.

    “A million gold pieces,” he repeated.

    Johann smiled and raised his eyebrows theatrically. “A dizzying sum, I will grant you. Some would say absurd. Particularly in light of the fact that the items in question are essentially useless.”

    “I find that hard to believe,” said Aldous.

    “Oh, they are magical, to be sure. It’s just that nobody knows what they do or how they work. We have a variety of theories, but nobody quite knows for sure. My liege’s interest in the items is more of a personal nature. He is a collector of certain types of antiques, and these would have a certain sentimental value.”

    “I see.”

    “Do you want to know what they are?”

    “Of course.”

    “Figurines.”

    Aldous felt a sudden lump form in his stomach. He instantly thought of the cat figurine nestled in an alcove on his desk. “Figurines?” he repeated, wondering what Johann would think if he learned that Aldous had a figurine hidden in his room, an item he had failed to mention to the authorities during the previous night’s investigation.

    “Figurines,” repeated Johann.

    “I don’t understand,” said Aldous. He was suddenly very nervous. “What kind of figurines would they be? What do they do?”

    “We don’t have a complete list of the items taken. However, there was a set of graven figurines carved in the likeness of Uthgart barbarians. Those are the ones that interest my liege.”

    “I see,” said Aldous, relaxing a bit. “So where do I fit in?”

    “We would like you to help us find the missing figurines. The Uthgart carvings, as it were. As for the rest, we have no real interest.”

    Aldous picked up his glass of wine and took a drink. He looked down at his plate a moment and considered his response. Johann waited patiently, sampling from the various plates and obviously enjoying his meal with great relish. “You really should try the pickled, spiced cabbage,” he remarked.

    “I would be pleased to help in any way that I can,” Aldous said at last. “Your liege is obviously a very prominent member of this city. But why are you coming to me? You obviously have great resources at your disposal. Would not someone local be better suited? Somebody who knows the city and its people?”

    “Of course, you’re right,” said Johann, “The fact is, somebody local will be working on the search. Several people, actually. However, it was I who suggested to my liege that you might be in a unique position to help us.”

    “How so?”

    “Because you are the only known person who had contact with the victim while he was alive. Because you are the only person who has any connection at all to the people who have the figurines.”

    “Ah, surely you don’t think . . .”

    Johann waved his chopsticks again in a dismissive gesture. “You are a completely innocent party. That much is obvious. And I will admit your connections are tenuous. However, the known facts are these. First, you saw the victim while he was alive. Second, you saw the murder while he was alive, at the moment before his death. His name was Raffe, by the way Raffe Thielman. Third, you killed Raffe before he could complete whatever business he was about. Whoever was with Raffe at the time probably knows who you are by now. And they are probably wondering what to do about you.”

    Aldous took another drink of wine.

    “How do you know Raffe wasn’t alone?”

    “Because the rope they used to hang your one-eyed man was gone by the time the city guard arrived at your room. Somebody fled that rooftop and took their rope with them. ”

    Aldous swallowed.

    “Should I be worried?” he asked.

    Johann grinned. “Of course,” he said. “One should always be worried. But in your case the relatively modest risk comes with an opportunity. Find the figurines for us, and you will have the gratitude of my liege. Your comfort here in Peltarch will be assured, and that volume of history you’ve been pondering might well become a reality.”

    Aldous smirked faintly and looked down at his plate.

    “Seems my options are constrained,” he remarked.

    “At least you have options, my friend. There are a great many people in this world who have none.” said Johann gently. The door opened and Misty came in, carrying a dark bottle in her hands. “Ah, here comes the port.”

    Later that evening, Aldous returned to his room upstairs in the Mermaid. He felt tipsy from the wine and the port, but as the evening with Johann progressed he had moderated his drinking, and did not allow himself to become drunk. It was a shame, really. The port had been truly exceptional. However, the notion that he might be the next victim of a band of thieves and murderers had proven to be remarkably sobering revelation.

    Upon arriving in his room, Aldous bolted the shutters and the door, and then sat down at his desk and made copious notes of his conversation with Johann. It had bothered Aldous that the man had been unwilling to reveal the identity of his employer. However, Johann’s credibility was substantially buttressed when he offered Aldous an advance of one thousand gold pieces to cover costs of the investigation. He had even promised an ongoing stipend of two hundred gold pieces per month. Johann said he assumed the gold would be exhausted, so there would be no need to itemize costs.

    In addition to memorializing the details of his conversation with Johann, Aldous also attempted to record everything he remembered from the previous night: the exact sequence of events, from the pounding noises outside to the arrival of the city watch. He sat at his desk writing for several hours, the quill scratching against the parchment, until his eyelids grew heavy, and he caught himself nodding in his chair. At that point, he decided to put himself to bed. He would continue his narrative the following morning.

    He awoke in the night with a sense of panic, a feeling of oppression, a weight pressing down on his chest. He thrashed and flailed in his blankets, floundering into full consciousness. With a sudden burst of effort, he pushed himself into a sitting posture.

    Something sprang from his chest into the darkness of his room, pushing him back against his pillow. It landed on the floor with a thud.

    Aldous cast the covers aside and rolled from the bed. He found the wakizashi by feel, sliding it from its scabbard, crouching low. The room was dark, with only the faint glow of coals in the fireplace. He remained still for awhile, shivering in the chill night air, listening for any sound of movement, the wakizashi in front of him like a talisman.

    After a few moments of silence, he eased over to the oil lamp by his writing desk. The lamp burned faintly on the lowest setting. He adjusted the wick, and a faint yellow glow spread into the room, revealing a bright pair of eyes shining at the other end of the suite, reflecting the lamplight back at him. He started at the realization that he was being watched.

    The eyes glowed like two brilliant pearls in the lamplight. They were small eyes, positioned close together, about three feet from the floor. He muttered a brief prayer to Tyr, imagining that some imp or mephit from the bowels of hell had invaded his room and attempted to prey upon him in his sleep.

    He lifted the lamp and moved toward the far side of the suite, keeping the wakizashi before him. As he advanced, the circle of lamplight moved with him, and he drew close and closer to the intruder. At last, the faint glow of the lamp revealed the intruder within his room. A gods damned cat, sitting on the window sill. It fixed him with an unblinking gaze, regarding him with a kind of earnest apathy. He laughed aloud in relief and lowered both lamp and blade.

    “Really?” he asked the cat. “How did you get in here?”

    All of that anxiety over a thrice-damned cat, though granted the thing was huge, probably the largest housecat he had ever seen. He turned away from the animal, placing the lamp and the bare wakizashi on his desk. He tended briefly to the fire, building it up again to provide warmth through the remainder of the night. As the fire grew, its light filled the room, flickering and pulsing in shades of yellow and orange. At last, he turned back to the rather large cat on his window sill, now plainly visible from the center of the suite.

    “Well, I suppose you’d like free room and board.” he observed dryly.

    The cat continued to stare at him with deliberate indifference, as if acknowledging his existence only for the purpose of illustrating how little it mattered.

    “Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to find another room,” continued Aldous. “I can’t have you marking up the place, shedding your hair all over, and defecating in the corners.”

    The cat twitched its tail and lowered itself to the windowsill, stretching out with extravagant languor. It turned and stared out the window into the night.

    Aldous went over and opened the door to the hallway.

    “Perhaps you would prefer the hallway?” he pointed.

    The cat turned briefly at the sound of the door opening but made no move to leave the window sill. It seemed disinterested in the prospect of escape.

    Aldous went to his beside where the scabbard for the wakizashi still leaned against the wall. He hefted the empty scabbard in his hand and made a mock thrust. He then moved back toward window. He tapped insistently on the floor with the tip of the scabbard. The cat turned its head and looked at the source of the noise, and then looked up at him.

    “Go! Get!” said Aldous, brandishing the scabbard menacingly. He moved forward and pointed the scabbard, thinking to use it as a goad to roust the creature from its perch.

    The cat sat upright, laid its ears back, and hissed, dodging when the scabbard tip loomed too close. It swatted once at the offending object and then jumped down from the sill, maneuvering away from the source of its annoyance.

    “That’s right,” said Aldous, taken somewhat aback by the ferocity of the cat’s reaction. The damn thing really was huge. “Move toward the door, you feral vermin.” He continued to poke and prod at the cat, which proved stubbornly uninterested in the doorway. Instead, it hissed and growled and dodged right and left, leading him around the room.

    At last, Aldous dropped the scabbard and made a lunge for his quarry. The cat twisted aside, slashed at his arm, and bounded away. In a twinkling it vanished under the bed, leaving Aldous sprawled in the middle of the room.

    Aldous cursed and sat up, holding his arm. Four parallel welts rose where the claws had raked the tender flesh on the under-side of his forearm. Fortunately, they did not seem to have broken the skin.

    Aldous fingered the welts gingerly and winced. Then he sighed, “Alright, you little villain, you win. I’ll deal with you in the morning.”

    He closed the door, turned down the lamp, and put himself back to bed. Unlikely that the creature would trouble him again, at any rate. He had given it a good fright, and it would remain under the bed for the rest of the evening. He only hoped it wouldn’t make a mess under there.

    Later in the night, he half-woke briefly, feeling a warm weight against his feet. He was vaguely aware of a gentle purring from the foot of the bed. He cursed, rolled over, and sank back into slumber.


  • Chapter 2: A City Old and New

    Aldous stared at the bronze figurine on the floor by his desk. For a moment he had thought it was the shape of a serpent, rearing to strike, but his eyes had played tricks on him. It was only a cat, sitting perfectly still, ears perked forward, tail wrapped demurely around its side.

    He walked over to his desk, still in his small-clothes, and stooped to pick up the figurine, but then froze, his fingers just inches away, suddenly cautious. He squatted down and peered at the figurine more closely. He could just perceive a shimmering magical aura, like faint waves of heat, surrounding the sculpted bronze.

    The aura was subtle, almost impossible to discern, but he was sure of what he saw. The mere fact that he, a man totally untrained in the magical arts, was able to perceive the aura’s subtle distortion was enough to suggest that the enchantments woven around this figurine were extremely powerful. It would be unwise to lay hands on such an object without knowing something of its nature.

    Aldous stood and crossed the room to his where his cloak hung by the door. From a hidden pocket within the folds of the fabric he retrieved his monocle, a small steel circle fitted with a delicate quartz lens. It had a fine silver chain attached to the outside of the ring, at the opposite end of which was a collar-pin, a safeguard against the possibility of accidentally dropping the fragile lens. Aldous had purchased the monocle at a curiosity shop in Suzail, where the owner of the shop had claimed that the lens would allow him to see and identify with perfect clarity the magical properties of virtually any enchanted item. Sadly, the monocle was less effective than the man had claimed. It was more like looking through a filmy veil than through a crystal ball. Perhaps it would have been more effective to someone trained in the magical arts, but for Aldous, who had no other means of identifying an enchantment, the device was still extremely useful.

    The monocle worked by magnifying and clarifying the magical aura that inevitably radiated from an item that had been worked with magic. In this respect, it was somewhat like a prism, refracting magical energies into an array of visible colors. It allowed Aldous to estimate the strength of an enchantment, and to acquire a general impression of the effects that it might have. Most importantly, it allowed him to identify items that might be cursed or harmful, enchanted with death magic or poison or some other malicious effect.

    Aldous pinned the monocle to his collar and then crouched low over the cat figurine. He studied the small sculpture closely, closed one eye, and fitted the monocle into place between his brow and his cheekbone.

    At once, the searing, kaleidoscopic light of the cat figurine filled his vision, and he lurched to his feet, stumbled backwards, and fell, striking his head against the floorboards. He had viewed the figurine through the monocle only for an instant, but the afterimage was burned into his mind, a complex riot of color, moving and shifting, an intricate, twisting tapestry impossible for the conscious mind to comprehend.

    Mesmerized, he could only watch has his mind played and replayed the pattern over and over again. Gradually, the shifting colors blended into a uniform, brilliant white, obliterating all rational and conscious thought. As his mind slid into unconsciousness, he heard the faint echo of a woman’s voice, sultry and alluring, whispering his name . . . “Aldous”. And then there was only darkness.

    He was shaken awake sometime later by a concerned Misty who had come to remove his chamber pot and tidy up the room.

    “Lord Aldous?” her voice was soft but insistent. “Mi’lord? Please wake up.”

    As he regained consciousness, she helped him to his feet and fussed over him, at once relieved and concerned.

    “I thought mi’lord had passed away,” she said, half out of breath. “I had the strangest feeling that I should come to the room at once, and I found mi’lord lying on the floor.”

    She brought him a damp rag and a flagon of strong ale and guided him to his bed. He lay back against the headboard and drank deeply. He felt at once groggy and ravenously hungry. He asked Misty the time of day, and she informed him it was mid-afternoon. At his request, she hurried out to bring him some lunch.

    Aldous rested his head against the smooth, cool planks of the headboard, wondering how he could have fainted. He had been looking at something on the floor by his writing desk, and had gone to retrieve his monocle, and then . . . nothing. He glanced at his desk and he remembered the cat figurine. He frowned. He could have sworn it had been there on the floor.

    He pushed himself upright, and scanned the room, feeling a little woozy, possibly from the ale. There on his writing desk sat the figurine, just above where he had inspected it on the floor. The small statute was about a hand high, the emerald green eyes glittering with a subtle light of their own. He felt for his monocle, which was still pinned to his collar, and nearly raised it to his eye. For some reason, however, he hesitated. Cautiously, he pushed himself upright and moved the edge of his bed, keeping his eye on the bronze cat. Slowly, he raised the monocle, preparing to fix it above his check.

    Misty came bustling through the door, pushing a cart full of dishes that carried the savory scent of a well-seasoned lunch.

    “Mi’lord, I have brought lunch as you requested,” she said. “I had to make do from the cold pantry, though the tea is hot. The valet will be up shortly to tend the fire, mi’lord.”

    “Thank you, Misty,” responded Aldous. “I don’t know what I would have done without you these past two days. You must be exhausted.”

    Misty smiled. “’Tis nothing, mi’lord. I sleep when I can. Truth is, I don’t need much. ‘Tis nothing compared to what your lordship has endured this past evening.”

    Aldous nodded absently, and Misty turned to leave. As she passed through the door, Aldous called out to her.

    “Ah, Misty, one other thing!”

    “Aye, mi’lord?”

    “Did you move my cat figurine?”

    “I’m sorry, mi’lord?”

    “My cat figurine.” He pointed. “Ah . . . you put it on my desk, did you not?” Misty gave him a confused look.

    “Nay, mi’lord, ‘twas there when I came in. Upon my honor, I have not touched it.”

    “For some reason, I thought it was . . . ah, never mind, I was mistaken. Thank you, Misty, that will be all.”

    “Mi’lord must be careful,” admonished Misty. “He has suffered a nasty bump to the head.”

    Misty departed, and Aldous dragged the cart over by the bed, then tucked into his lunch, feeling famished. Misty had brought up some kind of smoked fish with orange flesh and a dense, creamy sauce. There was also a white fish with soft, steamed wheat berries, rolled in a skin of something green that tasted like brine. The smoked orange fish was delicious, though the wheat-berry roll was made palatable only by dipping into a thick cream sauce. To make matters worse, Misty had not brought up proper utensils, only a thin pair of sticks, popular here in the North, with which he was supposed to somehow grasp his food and manipulate it into his mouth. Forks and knives were also generally available, but the locals seemed to prefer using these “chopsticks” as they called them. Aldous struggled with the chopsticks, using one in each hand, famished but thwarted by his own lack of still. Nevertheless, he slowly managed to negotiate his lunch into his stomach.

    As he dined, awkwardly, he considered the cat figurine on his desk, which was turned toward him, emerald eyes seeming to stare back in his direction. After some time, he laid down the chopsticks and poured himself a hot cup of tea. Cautiously, he lifted the monocle from where it hung against his chest and held it in the air. He slowly brought the lens in front of his eye, holding it a few inches away from his eye, as far as the chain would permit, and looked through the lens toward the cat figurine.

    The effect was muted at distance, but still he could detect a riot of colors swirling in the translucent substance of the quartz lens. He wondered if something had gone wrong with his monocle. Perhaps on the journey from Suzail it had been jostled or stressed in some manner that had harmed the lens. He inspected the quartz for hairline cracks but found no sign of damage.

    Aldous fitted the lens above his cheek and reached absently over to his night-stand, where his bolt-caster lay beside the bed. Viewed through the lens of the monocle, the bolt-caster glowed a deep orange with a dark red core, exactly as it appeared on the day he first received it. There was nothing to indicate that the monocle was damaged or non-functional. Whatever the reason, it would seem the cat figurine gave off an aura so powerful, and so complex, that viewing the figurine through his monocle had caused Aldous to lose consciousness. Or perhaps, as Misty suggested, he had simply fallen over in surprise, and the impact of his head against the floorboards had knocked him out. Either way, at least he knew that the figurine was not cursed.

    There was a polite knock on the door. “Come in,” called Aldous.

    The valet backed awkwardly into the room, manipulating the door-latch with his right hand, while holding a tall pile of firewood in the crook of his left arm. He peered at Aldous over the top of the pile.

    “I hope I am not interrupting, sir,” he said. “Misty sent me to build a fire.”

    “Thank you, Nigel, but that won’t be necessary,” Aldous announced. “I am going out.”

    “Ah,” said Nigel, balancing his load precariously. “Perhaps I should take this wood back downstairs then.”

    “No no, Nigel,” Aldous chuckled. “Not after all that work to bring it up here. Why not leave it here? I will certainly need a fire later this evening.”

    “Are you certain, sir? I suppose I could stack it by the hearth.”

    “Absolutely, Nigel. Please stack it by the hearth. I’ll have you up later to build the fire this evening.”

    “Very well, sir. Will there be anything else?”

    “Not this afternoon, Nigel. Thank you.”

    Nigel made his exit, and Aldous pushed himself out of bed, and padded, barefoot, over to his writing desk. The floorboards felt cold against his feet, but he hardly noticed them. With exquisite care, he lifted the cat figurine from the surface of his desk and then tucked it carefully into one of the alcoves above the writing surface. He then arranged his inkwell and a few other items in front of the figurine. He wasn’t sure what to do about the item. It would have to wait for another day. At the moment, he felt an powerful urge to get free of the confines of the room. He had been penned up for too long.

    Aldous left the dancing Mermaid by the northern door, avoiding the Peltarch commons, the main plaza where foreigners, explorers, and mercenaries gathered to trade tales and hawk their wares. He had too much on his mind to become embroiled in idle chatter, or to listen to the empty posturing of some ambitious knave looking to swell his reputation. Instead, he wandered along the border between the Commerce District and the Docks District, heading northeast toward the more affluent section of town.

    The contrast between the two districts was remarkable. He had only recently arrived in Peltarch, just two weeks past, and had come to learn that the Docks District was the oldest region of the city. Although the city’s origins were unrecorded, it was evident that Peltarch had first come into existence along shoreline of the Icelace Lake. Only in later centuries had the city swelled inland to the south and east.

    Thus, it was well recognized that the Docks District was the oldest district in Peltarch, preceding the other areas of the city by centuries if not millennia. Its age was evident it its architecture, which was cruder and more improvisational than the city’s other districts. As Aldous walked northeast under partly-cloudy skies, he could not help but notice the differences. The boulevard along which he strolled was broad and straight and evenly paved with wide flagstones, and the buildings to his right, in the Commerce District, were modest in size and evenly spaced. For the most part, they had stone foundations, and stone walls on the first floor. Their upper floors were formed of half-timber framing and non-load-bearing plaster walls, build firmly atop the stone floor below. The overall impression was that of a solid, spacious, and efficient neighborhood, clean and bright and well-ordered.

    In the Docks District, however, the buildings were tall and cramped looking and fashioned exclusively from stone. They huddled close together, their eaves almost touching, and the walkways between them were narrow and cobbled with smaller stones, uneven beneath the heel. Half of the streets were unnamed, and they followed no particular scheme of organization, resulting in an elaborate and confusing maze. He had been warned that the Docks District was a rough neighborhood, to be avoided at all times, and shunned after dark.

    Part of him wanted, against all common sense, to go exploring in those narrow, curious alleys, to see the remnants of the old Peltarch from days gone by, now refurbished and inhabited by the city’s most salty residents. The events of the previous evening, however, had him feeling cautious, if not shaken. He prudently made his way northeast instead, toward the Civic Center, where Peltarch’s architecture was at its most impressive.

    Eventually, the half-timber and plaster of the taverns and the merchant houses gave way to Peltarch’s most elaborate masonry and architecture. Great, sprawling stone buildings with elaborate stonework bespoke the wealth and power of the city-state. The grandest structure by far was the temple of Tyr, with its three great towers, the central and tallest tower representing Tyr himself, with the other two towers on either side representing Tyr’s related deities, Ilmater and Torm.

    He wondered whether the towers were accessible to the general public, and turned and wandered in the direction of the temple. Two weeks in the city, and he still had not seen the waters of the lake itself. Although he would not venture into the Docks today, perhaps he could gain a view of the lake from on high.

    As he walked, he could not help reflecting the events of the previous night, turning them over and over in his mind, and considering what they might signify in the context of his own life. Confronting death had reminded him of his own mortality, and in some strange way, his own loneliness. He had been alone in his room when the intruder had come in, sliding down that rope and into his open window. There had been none of his father’s guards to come to this aid, no mother or sisters to care and fuss over him in the aftermath. Had he been injured or even lamed, there would have been only the staff of the Mermaid to care for him, that is, until he could somehow make his way back home. Had he been killed, there would have been nobody even to identify his body or report home to his family.

    He was a stranger here, an outsider the Peltarch society, and he felt oddly vulnerable in a way he had never experienced before. He patted the bolt-caster under his cloak, sheathed at his right hip, and the stout wakizashi (an masterwork weapon, claimed from his assailant the previous night), sheathed on his left, both weapons concealed under his cloak. Their weight was comforting, though they were scant protection of the many perils life in a strange land could present.

    It was not that the people of Peltarch were unwelcoming. On the contrary, Peltarch was surprisingly cosmopolitan for a frontier city on the border of the wild, and its people were polite and gracious to an extreme. The staff at the Mermaid treated him with such warmth that he practically felt like family. And yet, there was always that lingering reserve, that polite distance, and his inner recognition that the gentle smiles and the kind gestures were a pleasing social artifice, rather than real signifiers of friendship. He could have died in his room, and they would have sighed with all due concern and regret, and then a new guest would be sleeping in his bed within the week.

    Of course, one alternative was to find companionship among the foreigners and the mercenaries who populated the Mermaid, and who regularly gathered in the Peltarch Commons, just outside the Mermaid’s front door. They were a transient lot, but fiercely loyal to their friends, even when those friendships were short-term. However, something held him back from socializing among the city’s transients. They were an odd group, eccentric and ambitious and unpredictable. He found that he simply did not belong there, as he might have in his younger days. It was a problem wherever he went, really. People of intellect and scholarship were something of a rarity in the world. Most devoted themselves either to warfare or commerce, with little thought to learning more, to truly understanding their place in the world.

    He approached the temple from the southwest and walked around to its main entrance. Great oak double doors, banded with cast iron, were open wide. A monk stood by the door, clad in simple brown robes, his head shorn clean.

    Aldous mounted the temple steps. “Good afternoon, father, is the temple open today?”

    The monk smiled and gestured to the great doors. “All are welcome in the house of our lord Tyr. Are you here to pray, good sir?”

    Aldous hesitated. “It has been some time since I prayed, father. I will admit, I am not a devout follower of any god. I wondered if the towers might be open?”

    The monk tilted his head, considering. “I know that some of the faithful do visit the towers from time to time. Let me ask with the rector and see if you would be permitted. One moment please.”

    The monk vanished into the dim interior of the temple for a moment, and a younger monk took his place by the door. They exchanged awkward nods, while Aldous waited.

    The original monk reappeared moments later. “Fortune smiles upon you, sir. The towers are open, though the rector mentioned it would be customary to for one who aspires to enjoy the view from the main tower to make a small donation to the upkeep of the temple.”

    Aldous smirked faintly. “Very well, father, would a gold piece be sufficient?” He produced a coin from a pocket in his cloak.

    The monks eyes widened slightly, and he held up his hands. “Not to me, sir, not to me! Please, place it in the coffer. The slot in the wall over here.”

    Aldous dropped the gold piece into the wooden slot, where it clinked against the other coins in the coffer.

    “Ah, also, you are to have an escort to the top of the tower. Some of our guests in the past have, ah, misbehaved, in the high chamber.” He smiled faintly.

    Aldous laughed. “I don’t even want to know.”

    The monk gestured at the interior of the temple and stepped aside to let Aldous pass through.

    Entering the temple was like stepping into an underground cavern. The entrance hall, which passed through the thick outer walls, felt like a tunnel, and it emerged into a twilight world surrounded by immense walls of gray stone. The Peltarch Temple of Tyr was an old structure, built in centuries gone, without the natural lighting and the ornament of more modern construction. Great stone columns, two or three yards in diameter, supported the huge, vaulted ceiling above, their surface textured like tree-bark, giving the impression of an ancient, petrified forest from eons past. What light there was emanated from oil lamps distributed throughout the columns, providing scattered pools of illumination.

    At once Aldous felt a sense of tranquility wash over him. The cool immensity of the space, the faint scent of earth, the soaring columns . . . all gave the impression of an immense and ancient presence that presided here. It was nothing like the temple in Suzail, with its gilded masonry and peaked arches, its elaborate mosaics and frescoes. He had never felt much of the presence of the divine in the temple at Suzail. It was better a representation of the presence of clerical power. But here he felt a sudden and deep conviction that he was standing on hallowed ground. He could almost feel the hand of the maimed god pressing down upon his shoulder, in part to comfort, in part to humble. A great sadness filled him, and he fought the urge to sink to his knees and weep with longing.

    After a moment, he became aware of the monk, standing off to one side, hands clasped in front, eyes averted to the flagstones. He glanced up when Aldous turned his way.

    “I am Brother Cormac,” he said, placing one hand on his chest. “Have you perhaps changed your inclinations? Would you prefer to pray at the alter?” He gestured ahead, beyond the dim forest of the stone columns. A alter shone in the distance, illuminated by hanging clusters of lamps.

    Aldous took a deep breath. “Perhaps . . . another time. Which way to the tower?” he asked.

    Brother Cormac lead him through the stone forest to a side door and then up a flight of stairs to a second level. They made their way onto a balcony that looked out through the forest of columns and then back to the front and center of the temple to a second door. Here the monk paused.

    “Through this door is the stairway to the top of the main tower. I must caution you the climb is long and arduous. There are many who never complete the ascent to the high chamber. There is a middle chamber also that provides a view to the north and south.”

    “You are not coming?” Aldous had not relished the notion of an escort. He had been in a pensive mood, and was not especially interested in company. However, he had refrained from pressing the issue, because he recognized that most temples were unlikely to allow a stranger to wander unattended.

    But Brother Cormac only shook his head. “I think it will be alright. I sense little malice in you, and you have a need for solitude. I will wait here.”

    “Thank you,” said Aldous.

    The monk produced a heavy key from a pocket in his robes, rattled it in a lock, and swung the door open.

    “I only ask that you return by sundown. Else I shall be forced to make the ascent myself,” he grinned.

    Aldous passed through the open door and mounted the stairs. Brother Cormac had not spoken false; the climb was long and strenuous. Soon he was breathing hard and removed his cloak, carrying it folded under his arm. He kept his eyes averted as he passed the narrow windows, and he moved quickly through the middle chamber. He would not spoil the view by looking out too soon.

    As he neared the high chamber, he heard the sound of footsteps. He paused on the stairs. Almost immediately, the sound paused above, as well. He cocked his head, listening carefully. After a moment’s hesitation, the footsteps started again, approaching him from above: light, sharp strikes against the stones. They did not seem to him the footfalls of a monk or priest, in their soft leather shoes, but rather the steps of a woman in hard, delicate heels.

    Moments later she appeared on the staircase, a young woman, perhaps in her late teens, with fair skin and red hair. Her grey eyes widened as they met his, and she quickly averted her gaze.

    “Greetings,” he offered.

    She brushed quickly past him, hurrying down the spiral staircase. He just had time to see that her hair was tied in a bun, the conservative fashion of the Peltarch gentry, held in place by an expensive jade hair-comb. In a moment she vanished around the bend of the tower. He could hear her footfalls receding away below.

    His mouth twisted wryly. “A pleasure to meet you,” he offered to the empty stairs. He turned and resumed his ascent. “Brother Cormac will have quite a surprise,” he muttered.

    He worked the remainder of the way upward and finally reached the high chamber, his white shirt dampening with perspiration.

    The view from the tower was every bit as gratifying as he had imagined. The city of Peltarch sprawled below him, an intricate mass of gray stone, with green trees lining its widest boulevards. Smoke rose from chimneys around this city, settling low like a misty veil over the rooftops, well below the level of the tower. A hawk soared below him, gliding on warm currents of city air.

    Out beyond the city, the vast blue expanse of the Icelace Lake spread like an ocean to the north and west, as far as the eye could see. The surface of the water shimmered in the slanting rays of the lowering sun, and fishing vessels floated in scattered patterns across the water, their white sails gleaming. Farther west, the Giantspire mountains rose, tall and purple and crowned with white snow, mantled in pale clouds that spread across the sky in wisps and tails.

    Aldous moved to the right, around the tower, looking off to the east, where wide open plains and dun colored hills stretched away for miles. Farther in the in the distance, he could see the peaks of the Cold Stone mountains, the high pinnacle of Hark’s Finger. He continued around the tower, coming now to the south and east, and saw the grey smudge of fires from Jiyyd and the larger smudge of Norwick to the south, with the dark green shadow of the Rawlinswood beyond. A glittering serpent of a river wound south through the hills, filling two or three lakes in the distance.

    Having completed his circuit, he came back to the northwest and stared out across the lake, into the cold and beautiful north. This was why he had come. To be someplace new, somewhere open and free. To escape his family, and go as far away as his imagination could conceive.

    He took a crumpled bank note, with its gaudy wax seal, from his pocket. The family money. Fifty thousand gold pieces. He held it out the window, letting it flutter in the wind off the lake. Such an easy thing to let it go, to let it float on the south wind. How far would it travel, and where would it land? Perhaps to Jiyyd, where it would make some poor farmer into a wealthy merchant.

    Impoverishing Aldous in the process. He chuckled, folded the note, and tucked it away in his pocket. Family politics would not reach him here. And a whole new world was open to him. He took one last look circuit around the high chamber, and then turned back inward and began his descent.

    When he reached the base of the tower, Brother Cormac was gone, replaced instead by the young monk who had stood guard at the temple doorway before. They exchanged brief nods, and the younger man locked the tower door and ushered Aldous toward the entrance of the temple. The hour was growing late, and the great doors were closed. Aldous was lead to a small side entrance, which was also locked behind him as he departed. Of the red-haired maiden he saw no sign.

    The streets were quiet as he made his way back to the Dancing Mermaid. Few had ventured out into the damp afternoon, and the sun was nearing the horizon. The laternae were out, the lamplighters, walking the streets, moving from one lamp-post to the next. The oil street-lamps of Peltarch glowed warmly in their wake. Aldous hurried through the lighted boulevards of the Civic Center and the Commerce District, making his way quickly back to the Dancing Mermaid.

    As usual, the common room of the Mermaid was warm and raucous, a welcome reprieve from the cold and the damp outside. A fiddler was sawing in the corner, and the aroma from the kitchen hinted of roast pheasant and potatoes.

    As he pushed his way toward the bar, he was intercepted by a man of average build and height with brush-cut brown hair. The man was dressed in serviceable worker’s attire and was otherwise unremarkable but for a faint pattern of acne scars on his cheeks. The nondescript man held out his hand, and offered Aldous a friendly smile.

    “Sir Aldous Findley? Of Suzail? I am Johann. It is a pleasure to meet you in person. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

    Aldous took the proffered hand, and shook it.

    “I’m afraid, sir, that you have me at a disadvantage.”

    Johann offered him a tight smile. “So I do. I apologize for approaching you in such a forward manner.”

    Aldous studied the studied the man in front of him. Despite his rather common appearance, there was a keen intelligence that glittered in his eyes.

    “I have a business opportunity for you,” Johann continued. “I think you’ll want to hear it.”


  • Please note: for those who have already read the first chapter, the last paragraph has been changed. The bronze figurine is now a cat, not a serpent. 🙂


  • Chapter 1: An Open Window

    Night settled over the city of Peltarch, night and cold and rain. The wind came out of the North, over the vast cold lake, and swirled through the streets, driving the rain sideways through archways and beneath awnings, scattering fat droplets into fine mist that penetrated every crack and corner. The people of Peltarch had long since fled indoors, seeking the solace of their stone walls and tile roofs, their warm fires and strong drink.

    These protections served them well, for their stone walls were solid against the wind, their tile roofs were sealed against the rain, and their hearth-fires kept the cold and the darkness at bay and the warmth and the light indoors. The city of Peltarch was well adapted for inclement weather. It had stood against the elements for many years, longer than any living memory, so very long that the city’s origins were lost in time and myth. The night’s storm, a hard, sustained, relentless downpour, unaccompanied by thunder or lightning, was typical for early autumn weather in the city, and the citizens of Peltarch weathered it with a quiet resignation for which they were well and widely known.

    In the Dancing Mermaid Inn, the guests enjoyed solid walls and a solid roof and hot fires, the comfort of a warm, clean, and well-lighted place. They drank heartily of strong liquor and ale, and they forsook their private rooms, gathering together in the taproom to sing songs and tell tales and carouse late into the night. They were not the quiet, stoic natives of Peltarch, but a noisy, diverse assemblage of foreigners, travelers, and traders, people with colorful backgrounds and interests brought together by chance and bad weather. They were boisterous and cheerful, in direct counterpoint to the conditions outside, and they gathered for comfort against the night and the rain.

    Aldous could hear the crowd two floors below as he huddled at the writing desk in his spacious albeit sparsely furnished suite on the third floor of the inn. The rain lashed at his windows, and the wind pressed against panes and rattled the shutters, threatening any moment to come howling into the room. The air in the room was cold, poorly heated by the embers of a dying fire in the hearth, and the lighting was low, emanating from only three weak sources: a modest oil lamp by the bed, an even smaller such lamp on the desk, and the faint glow of the fire. The room around him felt dark and cavernous, its corners deep in shadow where the feeble lamplight failed.

    Aldous blew into his hands and rubbed them vigorously together to restore the flow of blood. He had wrapped himself in the stout wool blanket from his bed, and it warmed him well, but it left his hands and feet and face still cold. He worked his fingers a moment to ensure they retained the necessary flexibility for even penmanship, dipped a new quill into his inkwell, and began writing on the loose parchment before him in a smooth, neat script. Just to one side of his work was a completed page, the ink still fresh and waiting to dry. On the floor by his feet was thick pile of similar such pages, the entirety of his journal covering the past year, still unfinished and unbound.

    He wrote for perhaps an hour until his back began to tighten and his thumb grew sore from the continuous manipulation of the quill. He took a rest period, poured himself a glass of sweet, smoky port, and lay down on the bed, cradling his head and neck on a feather pillow. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift. He was newly arrived in Peltarch, still learning his way around the city, and he was uncertain of how to proceed in meeting his goals.

    The port had a complex, mellow body and satisfying flavor, and it warmed him nicely against the cold air in the room. A sense of well-being spread through his chest and clouded his mind and relaxed his muscles. He set the glass on his nightstand.

    Outside the wind continued to howl and claw at the window shutters. He heard a loud bang against the side of the building, perhaps a loose shutter in a neighboring window. He hoped it would stick shut; he would be unable to abide a swinging shutter throughout the night.

    After a few minutes, he returned to his writing for awhile, scratching away at the parchment. There was much to record concerning his journey to Peltarch. He had departed his home kingdom of Cormyr by ship, booking passage on a merchant vessel from the teeming port city of Suzail, sailing an easterly course across the Sea of Fallen Stars. After several weeks, the vessel turned northward to the Great Dale, where Aldous took his leave from captain and crew and began his journey overland. He had purchased a suitable mount and a pair of pack-mules and joined company with a merchant caravan.

    They had followed an east road through the Great Dale and along the southern edge of the Rawlinswood, that dark curtain of evergreens always visible to their North. By night they heard the howling of wolves in the distance, and the cries of strange creatures, their voices oddly human. Finally, the woods had thinned, much to everyone’s relief, and their road had intersected a northerly track that took them to Jiyyd and eventually to Peltarch.

    It had not been the shortest route to his goal, but it had been the safest and the easiest. Though much had transpired worth recording, the conditions of travel had offered him few opportunities to write. One cannot lay prose on the deck of a heaving ship, nor from the bouncing back of a horse, nor even from the modest light of a campfire, when no desk and no chair are available to provide a flat, stable surface for an even hand. Parchment was a rare and expensive resource, and though his funds were more than adequate to meet the needs of any man, Aldous abhorred the thought of a wasted page.

    Again there was a loud bang against the side of a building, and he nearly blotted his page, the noise setting his teeth on edge. The mellow feeling he had absorbed from his nightly glass of port was transmuted to irritation and even rage, a reaction far exceeding the natural response of a sober mind. He lay down his quill and stood up from his desk, striding toward the window.

    Aldous was still a young man, only a few months under thirty, and a lifetime of martial training had kept him fit and vigorous. His shoulder-length, chestnut brown hair was tied with a leather strap, and his white shirt, with its wide sleeves, was loose at the neck despite the chill.
    The heels of his calf-high boots tapped with authority as he crossed the dimly lit room.

    He reached the window, twisted the latch, and opened the casement. The window was tall, almost the height of a man, individual glass panes crossed with brass reinforcement in a diamond pattern. A chill draft billowed into the room, passing in and around the exterior shutters. He could hear the heavy drops pattering against the oak planks, driven by the gusting wind.

    Determined to discover the source the noise, he threw wide the shutters and leaned over the windowsill, peering into the night. The frigid rain hit him immediately, sending a chill through his body, soaking his hair and shoulders and back through his white shirt. He shivered uncomfortably in the cold night air, but he was determined to find the source of the disturbance. He looked to his left, and sure enough a shutter on the adjacent window, one room over, was swinging loose in the wind. It was only a matter of time before another gust caught the shutter and slammed it again. Likely, the infernal noise would continue pounding through the night.

    Aldous drew back into his room, closing the shutters and securing the casement. He continued to shiver in the cold and hurried to change into dry clothing. Stripping away the wet shirt, he tossed it into a corner and dried his hair with a course towel. He then used the same towel to mop up the water on the window still and the floor beneath. He hung the wet shirt and towel on the a clothes-line he had strung across one corner of the suite.

    Having cleaned up the worst of the mess, he went to his door and gave the bell-pull a sharp tug, twice, summoning the chambermaid assigned to his room. He donned a dry shirt, nearly identical to the one he previously wore, and paced impatiently while he waited. He did not have to wait long; a soft rapping on the door signaled the maid’s arrival.

    The chambermaid, named Misty, curtsied demurely as he opened the door. She was a young maiden, blonde and comely, but not especially bright.

    “Good eve’, mi’lord,” she offered. “Lady Cailin said you rang, mi’lord?”

    Aldous forced his irritation into abeyance. It would serve no purpose to vent his frustration on this young woman.

    “Yes I did, Misty, thank you for coming. I have a favor to ask of you,” he said. He did not bother to correct her regarding the use of “mi’lord”. He had endured that conversation once already, to no apparent effect. It would seem that any guest on the third floor of the Dancing Mermaid was, for the duration of his stay, an honorary lord.

    “Certainly, mi’lord,” she replied.

    “The room adjacent this one, in that direction,” he pointed, “Can you tell me who is currently staying in that room?”

    “No one, mi’lord. You asked for a quiet room so Lady Cailin put you away from the other guests. It’s near on winter, and we have many vacant rooms now.”

    “I see. Well, it would seem the last guest left one of the shutters open, and it has been flapping in the breeze. Would you be so kind as to obtain the key and secure the shutter? It’s making a terrible racket.”

    At that convenient moment, the shutter slammed again. Aldous ground his teeth and forced a smile.

    “Ah, see? I heard it just now. Did you hear that?”

    Misty smiled and nodded. “Aye, mi’lord. I’ll speak with Lady Cailin, she’ll send up the valet right away.”

    “The gods bless you, girl.”

    “Is there anything else, mi’lord?”

    “Aye, have the valet bring up some firewood for the hearth. I would enjoy the warmth of a good fire. I’ve been wrapped up like a hermit all night.”

    Misty curtsied again and made her exit. Aldous resumed his pacing again, then stopped and returned to his writing desk.

    He resumed writing for awhile, detailing the major events of his voyage eastward by sea. He had learned much about navigation and the nautical arts, and he wanted to record the knowledge, if only for his own future reference. The shutter next door slammed two or three more times, and he wondered what could possibly have delayed the valet. He was fairly confident that Misty had said “right away.”

    He was about to rise from his desk and ring her again when from just outside his own window her heard a heavy crash and the sound of cracking wood, as if shutters had nearly given way.

    He lurched to his feet, staring at the window. Could it be that he had forgotten to fasten his own shutter? Or, was there some defect endemic among the shutters in the Mermaid that made them difficult to secure?

    He walked over to the window and studied the latch. The window was secure. He twisted the latch and opened the casement. The shutters themselves appeared secure as well. He gave each panel a gentle push and found them sealed.

    He was about to close the window again when something on the other side banged forcefully, three times in rapid succession. With each blow, the shutters trembled and shivered, as if they might crack at any second. Next came a scrabbling sound, as if some maddened creature were trying to borrow its way through.

    Aldous leaned to one side, felt for his poniard, found it tucked into its sheath in his boot, and then straightened and released the latch on the shutters. He tried to throw them open, as he had earlier in the evening, but the shutters did not move. Something was blocking them from the other side. He pushed again, this time with greater pressure, but to no avail. Whatever was blocking the shutters was substantial in size. He could not imagine what might obstruct a window three stories up.

    Finally, Aldous leaned and pushed against the right shutter, careful not to overbalance himself. He did not want to fall over the sill if whatever was blocking the other side happened to move away. Gradually, the panel moved, slowly at first, but suddenly giving way and swinging open.

    For a second he just stared, unable to comprehend what he saw.

    It was a man, hanging by the neck, twisting in the wind and the rain, feet kicking and scrabbling against the window sill. The man’s face was purple as he slowly strangled to death.

    Aldous staggered back from the window and stared, frozen with surprise. He could hardly believe the sight before him. The hanging man continued to twist and kick at the windowsill, eerily quiet in the driving rain. He had long, lank, russet hair, cut in the Uthgart style, and a leather patch over one eye. He was clearly a tribesman from the immediate south, an unusual visitor within city walls.

    After moment of indecision, the initial shock and surprise dissipated, and Aldous moved back to the window, wondering how he might free the one-eyed man. Naturally, it struck him as unusual that an Uthgart tribesman should be hanging from the roof of the Dancing Mermaid in the middle of the night, but there was no time for elaborate speculation. One thing was certain, this was not a public hanging; it was a murder, plain and simple. Aldous could not simply leave the man hanging outside his window.

    He knew that would have to act immediately if he were to preserve the one-eyed man’s life. He needed some way to remove the noose from around the man’s neck, to relieve the pressure on the windpipe. He briefly considered cutting the rope, but that would send the man plunging to the flagstones below. It was possible the one-eyed man might survive the fall, but there was an equal or greater likelihood that it would kill him.

    Aldous grabbed the man’s leg and tried pulling him into the room, but the gesture was futile. The noose was secured somewhere above, probably at the top of the building, and the rope was too short for Aldous to drag the man inside.

    He needed to think, to find some way of securing the one-eyed man in place so that he could sever the rope that was strangling him. He also needed to get the window completely open, to swing the man into the room. He pushed against the second shutter panel. It resisted the pressure, but with some persistence he pushed it open, jostling the tribesman causing him to swing.

    Aldous looked around the room, searching for a solution. He spied his clothesline, tied up in the corner. It was a stout cord, not sufficient to support a person’s full weight, much less that of an Uthgart tribesman, but if Aldous could draw the man into the open window, pull his center of mass across the line of the windowsill, then he could possibly cut the man down without allowing him to plunge to the flagstones below.

    He then hurried to the other side of his room and took down the clothesline, forming a quick loop at one end. He brought the line and loop over to the window and slipped it under the man’s feet, which had ceased their drumming against the sill. The man was eerily silent as Aldous worked, his one good eye rolled back into his head.

    “I’m going to try and get you down,” said Aldous to the hanging man. “Just hang on.” The phrase made him pause. He shook his head and continued his efforts.

    He backed across the room, unraveling the clothesline as he moved, making his way over to the heavy vanity that stood against the wall. He looped the remaining length of cord under the vanity and around one of its thick legs, and then pulled on the line, drawing it tight. He would have preferred a higher anchor point, but he wanted the full weight of the vanity as leverage. Aldous pulled the line as tight has he could, lashed it twice more around the leg of the vanity, and tied two half-hitches to secure the binding.

    He glanced back over at the one-eyed man. The man now hung suspended between the noose and the clothesline, his body at an angle in the air. Aldous could only hope that most of man’s weight was now distributed over the windowsill and inside the room. He hurried back over to the window, climbed up on the sill and began slicing at the rope.

    The poniard had a keen edge, and the rope soon gave way. The man landed jarringly on the windowsill and teetered on the edge, threatening to slide over the outside. Aldous nearly slipped and went over himself, but managed to hold on to the side of the window. He hopped down from the sill, tossed his poniard aside, and grabbed the man by the belt, hauling him into the room.

    Wasting no time, he furiously worked the noose free and over the man’s head. He pressed his ear to the man’s chest and listened for a heartbeat. After a moment, he gave up and slumped to the floor, his back against the wall beside the window. It had all been in vain; the man was dead.

    The rain continued blowing into the open window, driven by the gusting wind, water accumulating under the sill. Aldous barely noticed. A suspicion formed in his mind, and he carefully reached behind the nape of the man’s neck, feeling along the spine.

    “Of course,” he muttered, slumping back again. The one-eyed man’s neck was broken. The vertebrae had undoubtedly snapped when the man had dropped from the roof above, the rope and noose stopping him short. The apparent thrashing and kicking against the window had been the death spasms of a fresh corpse.

    Aldous pushed himself to his feet and walked aimlessly toward the center of the room, pondering his situation. He briefly considered dumping the body back out the window, then thought better of the idea. He would report the incident properly and deal with the consequences. The presence of a rope hanging outside the window, the noose beside the body, the rope burns on the neck, and the other physical evidence would fairly well corroborate his story. He was fairly certain that Misty and the staff of the Dancing Mermaid would at least vouch for him as a legitimate, paying guest. Furthermore, Misty would confirm that he was alone in his room, and had requested the valet, just short while before the incident.

    Standing in the center of the room, facing away from the window, he could not have noticed that the severed end of rope outside slid downward, descending several feet until it dangled well below the sill of the open window.

    Aldous walked over to the bell-pull and pulled it twice, and then twice more for emphasis. Where was that damned valet, anyway?

    He turned back toward the window just in time to see a shadowy figure, dressed all in black, come sliding down the rope, land both feet on the window sill, and duck into the room. The man carried a wakizashi in a scabbard slung over his shoulder. He pulled it free as he entered the room.

    This time Aldous did not hesitate. A live person coming into the window, weapon in hand, was a recognizable sign of danger and a cue for immediate action. He turned and lunged across the room, grabbing his rapier from where it stood, propped against the wall by the door, pulling it free from the scabbard. He then moved away from the wall, dropped into a fencer’s stance and slid forward, positioning himself in the center of the room.

    The intruder, somewhat more cautious in the dim light of the unfamiliar environs, acted more slowly. A flicker of uncertainty appeared in his eyes at the sight of the rapier. He reached one hand to his belt and produced a sturdy parrying dagger, twirled it once, nervously, and moved toward Aldous.

    “I have just rung for the guards,” Aldous stated. “They will be here any moment.”

    The man said nothing and continued to advance toward Aldous in the center of the room, his concentration on the rapier.

    Aldous tried again. “Saber and dagger are not the best combination. Not against an opponent armed with a rapier,” he said, trying to hide the quaver in his voice. “And your blade is shorter than a traditional saber. That’s even worse.”

    Again the man made no reply. He paused, just out of reach, then edged sideways, maneuvering for an angle. Aldous adjusted his footing, keeping the intruder straight in front of him, his shoulders arm, blade, and opponent a single, continuous line. Suddenly he lunged, a long thrust, pushing off his back leg and reaching with his whole body. He angled the slender blade upward, aiming for the man’s face, then pulled back and made second, short thrust at the vitals.

    The man slipped his head and upper body sideways at the feint. He managed an awkward parry of the strike at his vitals, sweeping the rapier aside with the wakizashi and stumbling backwards. Aldous withdrew back to the center of the suite, maintaining his position where he would have maximum space to maneuver.

    Fortunately, his suite in the Dancing Mermaid was spacious. In a smaller, more confined room, the short wakizashi would have enjoyed the advantage. However, in the open space of the suite, the rapier was more effective, provided that Aldous could remain toward the center of the room.

    He would have to be extremely careful not to become trapped against the wall or against some piece of furniture. A skilled combatant would try to manipulate him into a corner, then slip inside the long reach of rapier. If his assailant could accomplish that, and some were adept at such things, then Aldous would be finished. He greatly lamented the absence of his poniard, which remained where he had discarded it, on the floor by the window.

    The two men continued to circle, the intruder constantly attempting to edge away from the tip of the rapier, to slide subtly away from the direct line of attack. The man knew his business, always moving to the right, toward the back of Aldous’s forward shoulder.

    Predictably, and perhaps because it was the only viable strategy available, the man rushed forward, angling to the outside, and attempting to sweep the rapier aside with the blade of the wakizashi, the dagger held high for a strike at the neck or upper back.

    Just as predictably, and perhaps because it was the only logical countermeasure, Aldous slid backward toward the wall, maintaining the distance between himself and his adversary and pivoting outward, righting the angles and making a short, sharp jab. The point of the rapier took the intruder in the shoulder, bringing him up short, his left arm falling to his side as the razor edge severed muscle and tendon.

    Aldous stepped back again, cautiously maintaining the a safe distance. The man was wounded, perhaps mortally so, but still dangerous. He took measure of the distance between them, then leaned forward, making another short, sharp thrust with the rapier. This time the man was slow to react, no doubt distracted by the pain of his injury. The point of the rapier took him in the throat. He gurgled and fell to his knees, then to the floor, face down.

    The confrontation was over in matter of seconds. In the end, it had come down simply to reach and timing. The tactics employed by both combatants had been simple, textbook maneuvers; Aldous had simply executed better on the fundamentals. He had enjoyed an advantage of reach, and he had reacted quickly and accurately to the intruder’s charge. A half-second slower, a few inches more, and it would have been him on the floor, lying in a pool of his own blood.

    All of these thoughts ran through his mind with clinical detachment as he stared at the dying man in the aftermath of the fight. Moments later, however, he began to feel queasy and shaken. It was one thing to spar against his instructors and his brothers and his father’s knights. It was quite another to take a man’s life.

    Aldous laid his rapier against the writing desk and hurried over to the window. He pulled the shutters closed and secured the casement. He did not need any more visitors this evening, at least, not through that particular means of access.

    He then set about tidying up the room. He gathered the pages of his journal and secured them in his leather manuscript bag and put away his ink and quill. He also cleaned and oiled his rapier and propped it beside the door in its original position. In a few moments, he heard a knock on the door. It was the valet, bringing a load of firewood.

    The next morning dawned bright and clear, without a trace of rain or cloud. Aldous slept late into the morning, however, the blankets pulled over his head. It had been a long night.

    He had explained to the valet that an intruder attacked him in his room, and the valet had gone to fetch the city guard. Aldous spent the next several hours answering questions with the city watch. They were especially inquisitive about the hanged man, but they eventually accepted with his account. In the end, they had left him in peace, taking the bodies to be interred at the local morgue. The last person to leave the room was Misty, who had labored at the unenviable task of scrubbing floorboards to eradicate the rather large bloodstain in the center of the room.

    When Aldous eventually did rise from the bed, the air in the room was cool again, the fire having subsided during the night. He rubbed his hands together briskly, threw fresh logs on the fire, pulled on his breeches, and laced up his shirt. He was just about to go down to breakfast when he noticed something on the floor by his writing desk.

    It was small, but not insubstantial, about a hand tall. It struck him as impossible, unbelievable that of all of the people coming and going from this room, of all the guards and their investigations, all the serving staff tending the fire and tidying up the suite, Misty scrubbing at the floorboards for spots of blood, and even himself, moving around the room and narrating the events of the evening, not one person had noticed it lying on the floor right out in the open, the bronze figurine of a cat, with glittering green emeralds for its eyes.