Azure Bonds

8 The Sigils

Akabar was one of the first to emerge from under the cloth, his red and white silk robes only slightly stained with grass. He immediately scanned the area for Alias’s figure, but his view of the grounds was blocked by the growing throng of refugees. He waited by the edge of the collapsed structure, assisting others to their feet and hoping the swordswoman would appear.

When Giogi emerged from beneath the tent, he kept crawling until he bumped into the knees of a dowager Wyvernspur.

“Giogioni, you are a fool,” the lady declared. “This civil unrest is a direct consequence of your open disrespect for our sovereign. I’ve warned you time and again that you were courting disaster.”

“Yes, Aunt Dorath.”

“Get off your knees, you idiot.”

“Yes, Aunt Dorath.”

The bride and groom and their attendants rolled out from the tent, giggling hysterically. Lady Leona emerged near Dragonbait, looking less than amused. Upon seeing whose scaly hand had helped her rise, the woman jerked her arm back while blasting the Turmishman with a withering glare. She looked about impatiently for Sir Dimswart.

When the sage finally appeared, empty mug in hand, Leona drew him aside. In quiet but threatening tones she declared, “I will not have Gaylyn’s wedding day ruined. I am taking our guests into the garden to continue with the celebration. You must deal with this … situation.”

Spying Olive Ruskettle, who was smoothing out her bulging pockets as best she could, Leona made her way to the bard and escorted her to the garden.

Dimswart turned to Akabar. “Your adventuress has caused a great deal of trouble.” His voice was even, but his upraised eyebrows made his point.

“If you could have spared fifteen minutes from testing ale this morning,” Akabar said in equally polite tones, “and not kept her waiting, this would not have happened.”

“You forget she is my hireling,” Dimswart said. “I am not hers.”

“In the south we say the gods bless all duties faithfully performed. Alias has accomplished her task, while you have yet to complete your end of the bargain.”

Dimswart grimaced but accepted the chastisement with good grace. Like many sages, he liked to consider himself a man of the people. It wasn’t in him to behave haughtily. “That’s still no reason to start a brawl at my daughter’s wedding,” he replied with a sniff.

“It was not her, I believe, but the sigils.”

“Really?” Dimswart’s scholarly curiosity was peaked.

Akabar described how Alias’s glove had burned just prior to the attack.

“Fascinating,” the sage muttered. “Where did she go?”

A handful of servants rolled back the tent, revealing a few more guests, but no Alias. The refreshment tables stood on the bare lawn like the skeletal remains of some huge beast. The ale keg was immediately carried off to the garden, followed by the punch bowl and tables to hold them. The food was a little crushed, but already reserves were being carried from the kitchen.

Akabar spotted Dragonbait circling the beaten grass where the tent had stood, emitting interrogative whines.

“He sounds confused,” Dimswart commented.

Akabar went to the lizard. “We’ll find her, don’t worry.”

Dragonbait gave him a distressed look and issued a sort of chirp.

“You look in her room,” he ordered the lizard. “I’ll search the stable.”

Their search of the house and grounds came up empty. Akabar found Dragonbait on the lawn, staring off at the horizon.

“We’ll have to try the roads,” the mage said. “I need to study my spells. You pack and ready the horses.”

An hour later, Akabar, dressed for traveling, cornered Dimswart, demanding Alias’s information.

With a shrug the sage ushered him into his study and reviewed what he had discovered about the sigils on the swordswoman’s arm.

“Where will you search?” Dimswart asked Akabar when they’d finished.

“I’m not certain,” the mage answered. “There’s a good chance she’s gone back to Suzail, since that’s where we first met. But if she’s gone in another direction …” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged his shoulders.

“Why are you bothering, Akash? She’s nothing to do with you. You just met the woman.”

“She needs help. Isn’t that reason enough?”

“A lot of people in the Realms need help. That doesn’t usually get them the attention of wealthy Turmish merchants. House Akash probably wouldn’t think too highly of you galloping off after some northern warrioress.”

That was true enough, Akabar knew. House Akash, his first wife’s firm and its partner, Kasim, his second wife’s business, would probably never understand. He shrugged again. “The dragon destroyed my inventory. I have no other duties in this region.”

“Any other merchant would cut his losses and head home while he still could,” Dimswart pointed out. “But not you. You’ve got it bad, haven’t you, my friend?”

Akabar stiffened angrily.

“Adventure-lust,” Dimswart sighed. “Not content to remain a greengrocer, are you?”

No, I’m not, Akabar realized. How is it this northerner understands me better than I understood myself?

“You could have picked an easier quest to begin with,” Dimswart continued. “This woman, these sigils, are very dangerous. They represent very evil powers.”

“You have a saying up north, do you not, concerning the number of times opportunity knocks. Besides, I like her.”

“No reason why you shouldn’t. She’s talented, headstrong, arrogant. The two of you have so much in common.”

Akabar grinned. “All the things upon which my friendship with you is based. Amarast, Master Dimswart.”

“Amarast, Akash.”

Dragonbait was waiting in the stables with the three horses they had bought after freeing Olive Ruskettle. He left Olive’s mount, a pony she had named High Roll, behind for the halfling. Akabar had named the first horse, a white stallion, Windove, in honor of its speed. The pack horse, a black gelding, they jokingly called Lightning because it was the only mount docile enough to allow Dragonbait’s touch. Alias had chosen a purebred chestnut for herself. “That one’s a real lady killer,” she had said when they bought it.

“Lady Killer,” Akabar whispered as he patted Alias’s horse before mounting Windove. He shuddered, wondering if the chestnut’s name hadn’t been a bad omen.

He and Dragonbait walked the horses out of the stable and away from Dimswart Manor. The mage led them toward the main road to Suzail. Dragonbait, still dressed in motley, snuffled and snorted in the road’s dust. Akabar had just mounted when he caught the sound of short legs trotting toward them. A shrill voice blew over the hill.

“Akabar, you charlatan, wait up! You’re likely to get hurt traveling out here alone!”

“If we double time it,” the mage said to Dragonbait without looking back, “we can probably lose her in the dust.”

Upon hearing the halfling’s voice, however, Dragonbait’s face broke out in a grin and he halted, keeping a firm grip on Lightning’s reins. Since the pack horse held most of Akabar’s belongings, the merchant-mage had no choice but to wait, too, as Olive Ruskettle came charging over the hill, bouncing up and down on her pony.

“You can’t leave yet,” Akabar said. “The celebration is supposed to last until midnight.”

“Look,” Olive said, “I’ve done my three sets. If I don’t put my foot down, that Leona woman will have me singing till I lose my voice. They don’t pay me enough to lose my voice.”

“They won’t pay you at all if you don’t give them satisfaction.”

“Show’s what you know, clod. I’m an artiste. I get paid in advance. Now, which way do you think our lady’s heading?”

Akabar scowled. He wondered if it were really true that someone as supposedly wise as Dimswart had paid Ruskettle in advance, yet it seemed impossible that the woman would leave without what was owed her—and not just to help Alias. Akabar remembered the way she’d smoothed her pockets after crawling from under the tent. Even if she hasn’t been paid, he realized, she’s already picked up her share of the wedding loot.

Akabar’s fists clenched in frustration, but there was nothing he could do. “We are going to look for her in Suzail. It’s only a half day from here, and she knows the city.”

“Ah, Suzail, gem of Cormyr, home of his most serene and wise marshmallowness, Azoun IV. Think she’s going after the king after practicing on that Wyvernspur buffoon?”

Akabar scowled. “Your disrespect for your own lawful king is appalling.”

Olive laughed. “Down south your leaders behead people for that sort of talk, don’t they? We halflings have a saying: If you take your leaders too seriously, they’re going to start taking themselves too seriously. Azoun’s all right, for a human. But he is a marshmallow. He let his pet wizard keep him at court today, didn’t he?”

“Perhaps the mage Vangerdahast had some idea of the danger there,” Akabar said.

“Which leaves my original question. Do you think our madwoman’s going to try something foolish in Suzail?”

“I fail to see what interest you have in the matter.”

“I already told you, I owe her. I pay my debts.”

“With whose money, I wonder?”

The halfling gave the mage a sly smile, unruffled by his distrust. From what Olive had seen, Alias did not rely on him for advice, and it was Alias who interested her. The halfling had no doubt the attractive warrior and her magical arm would lead to a fortune. And even if the swordswoman didn’t, she would make a good subject for a song.

As they traveled south, Akabar remained buried deep in his own thoughts, trying to make up contingency plans should they discover Alias was not in Suzail, or worse, that she was, as Olive had suggested, attempting to assassinate King Azoun. Dragonbait loped along beside the pony High Roll, with the bells from his jester’s costume jangling. Olive chattered away to the lizard about all the celebrations she’d played at. Akabar wished she had lost her voice singing.

At dusk, three hours later, Dragonbait suddenly stopped moving. He tilted his head and placed his hand over his chest. Then, he moved on down the road with more energy.

“Think he’s picked up her scent?” the bard asked.

Akabar studied Dragonbait. “He senses something.”

They arrived in Suzail shortly after dark. Without hesitation Dragonbait led them right to The Hidden Lady and into the tavern room. Akabar wondered if the lizard could sense Alias’s presence, or if, like a dog, he simply expected her to be there. Whatever the case, there she was.

She sat in a booth at the back. The hem of her blue gown was dirty and tattered. Her legs were drawn up to her chest in a tight ball, and her head lay on her knees. She was crooning a love song, explaining the tears of Selûne—the mysterious glittering shards that followed the moon’s path. In all her travels, the bard had heard neither the haunting lyrics nor the lovely melody, marred somewhat by the swordswoman’s sniffling and drunken timing.

A toppled mug oozed thick mead over the oak table in front of Alias. She took no notice of the group as they approached—until Akabar’s height blocked out the light from the hanging lamp that illuminated her table. She stirred herself and, with some effort, raised her head to look up at the trio. Her eyes were rimmed with red.

“Go way,” she croaked.

“Are you all right?” Akabar asked.

“It’s a shame you had to leave,” Ruskettle chirped up. “I thought I might not survive the crush of people when the tent fell, but it was all for the best. Imagine trying to sing to three hundred people in there. The party got much better after we moved. Everyone said so.”

Dragonbait looked at Alias with his head cocked, making a soft mewling noise. The bells on his jester’s hat jingled when he moved his head.

Again Alias told them, “Go away,” but her voice was much softer.

The barkeep came to the booth. “Did you want company, lady?” he asked protectively.

When Alias did not reply, the barkeep asked the others what they were having.

Dragonbait pointed to the overturned mug of mead. Akabar ordered white wine.

“I’ll have a Red Rum Swirl,” Ruskettle said.

“Never met one,” the barkeep answered.

“How ’bout a Dragon’s Bite?” the bard asked.

“What’s that when it’s at home?” the barkeep asked.

“All right. A Yeti’s Breath. You must know that one.”

The barkeep shook his head.

The halfling sighed. “Rivengut then.”

“Sorry, all out. Don’t get much call for it so’s I don’t order much of it.”

“I’ll have a Black Boar then.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Before the man could walk away, the southern mage took his arm gently and whispered, “How many has she had?”

The barkeep held up two fingers.

“Two? Just two?” Akabar mouthed.

The bartender shrugged his shoulders, unable to explain Alias’s intoxication.

Akabar slid into the booth next to Olive. Dragonbait perched on the stool at the end of the table. “Would you like another drink?” the mage asked Alias.

“They can’t make good liquor in this god-forsaken hellhole,” said the woman warrior, not raising her head.

“I’ll say,” agreed the halfling, “Imagine not knowing how to make a Yeti’s Breath. Now there’s a drink with … um.” Olive grew silent under Akabar’s glare.

Dragonbait reached over and placed his hand on Alias’s shoulder. She tried to shrug it off at first, but when the lizard gave a little worried chirp she let the hand remain.

The barkeep brought their drinks and another mead for Alias.

“Perhaps a tray of food would be in order,” Akabar suggested.

“Great idea,” Olive agreed. “I’m starving. Would you like to hear the ode to the couple?” she asked Alias. “Since you didn’t get to hear all of it before. They made me repeat it three times afterward. Everyone was so impressed by it.”

“Not now,” Akabar answered quietly, elbowing the bard.

Ruskettle frowned and guzzled her drink. She set her glass back down on the table and took a deep breath. “Hey! That wasn’t a Black Boar. Barkeep!”

“It happened again, just like the last time,” Alias said softly, her voice cracking on the final word. “I should have known it was coming. I remember my arm hurt. I didn’t want to lunge at that poor fool or grab that knife, but I wasn’t in control. It was like a nightmare. Then the tent fell. I ducked out before anyone else and took off.

“I couldn’t stop myself from running. Whatever was controlling me would have made me run until I dropped, but I caught a ride into Suzail on a farmer’s wagon. When I remembered the information Dimswart had for me, I tried to jump off and go back, but I couldn’t move. It wasn’t until twilight that I was free to do as I choose. I came here. I didn’t know where else to go.” She put her head down again on her knees, and her lean form shook with sobbing.

Dragonbait pulled the hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear. He stroked her head gently. Ruskettle waved her empty glass, trying to attract the barkeep’s attention, but finally settled for stealing Alias’s untouched mug of mead.

Akabar stared at the table until the warrior had calmed down. Then he asked, “So, was it the sigils that made you drink yourself into a stupor?”

Alias’s head snapped up, and she glared at the mage. “Listen, Turmite, you don’t know what it’s like to not remember anything. To not know if you’re going to forget even more things. To not know who you’re going to attack next. First a priest, then a Corrnyrian noble—”

Olive, whose mind had been occupied with memorizing snatches of the song Alias had been singing when they arrived, looked up suddenly, asking, “Did you say a priest?”

“Didn’t Akabar tell you?” Alias retorted icily. “I tried to kill the priest who attempted to remove this curse. But it wasn’t a curse, it’s a thing alive in me.”

“The thing, not you, tried to kill the priest,” Akabar corrected.

“What difference does it make? I can’t get rid of it. It’s not going to let me go back to Dimswart to get the information he found for me. Gods! I’m lucky it didn’t make me kill Dimswart.”

“Maybe this thing was keeping you from the scene of the crime, so to speak,” Akabar suggested. “Unless it can make you deaf, I hardly see how it can prevent you from learning Dimswart’s information.”

“What?”

“I brought Dimswart’s information.”

Ruskettle’s ears perked up, and the bells on Dragonbait’s cap jingled again as he tilted his head with interest.

“Well?” Alias prompted.

“First, I want you to promise me something.”

“I don’t have to promise you anything. This is my information. I earned it.”

“True. But who knows what might happen if you try to return to the sage’s manor to ask for it.”

Alias snarled at the mage. “You desert snake—”

“All I want,” Akabar interjected, “is for you to let me accompany you on your quest to remove this thing.”

“Are you crazy?” Alias hissed. “Don’t I have enough trouble without dragging my frien—complete strangers in on it.”

“Who better to drag in it than frien—complete strangers?” Akabar smiled, then he lifted his head proudly. “Besides, I still owe you a debt of honor for helping me to recover my spell book.”

Yes, Alias realized, even if he wasn’t so anxious to prove he isn’t a greengrocer, he’d help me because he’s the type who takes debts of honor seriously. “I’m not exactly socially acceptable these days,” Alias pointed out weakly.

“As a rule, men of my nationality are not invited to many parties in the north,” Akabar replied with a shrug.

While Akabar was insinuating himself into Alias’s quest, Olive was frantically trying to make up her mind. People who tried to kill priests weren’t, as a rule, to be trusted, she argued with herself. But it would make such a fascinating addition to the song. Better make it a lay. Or maybe even a book. The Magic Arm Chronicles, as told by Olive Ruskettle. All thoughts of danger faded before the imaginary promise of gold and fame. Besides, Olive told herself, I have to find out the rest of that song about the tears of Selûne.

“Hang on,” the halfling interrupted. “If anyone owes this swordswoman a debt of gratitude, it’s me. She saved my life. If you take this one along,” Olive said to Alias, jerking her head toward Akabar, “you’re going to need someone to keep him out of trouble. A fast thinker.”

The corner of Alias’s mouth twitched in amusement. She had no illusions about Olive. Pure greed motivated her. Still, the halfling’s debt was even greater than Akabar’s. It was likely she’d prove more hindrance than help, but at least she was an experienced traveler.

“My journey may prove perilous,” Alias warned, hoping to discourage the small woman.

Olive shrugged. “As the halflings in Luiren say, From perils come pearls and power.’ I’ve seen my share of danger.”

“And more than your share of pearls, I’ll warrant,” Akabar muttered under his breath.

Alias looked at Dragonbait. “I don’t suppose you’ll be leaving my side either.”

The lizard tilted his head with a jingle.

Something inside Alias’s chest grabbed her heart. She had an uncomfortable suspicion the lizard wouldn’t know what to do if he wasn’t serving her.

Alias sighed. “All right. You can help, but remember—I tried to talk you out of it.” She turned to Akabar. “Now what did Dimswart tell you?”

The mage pulled a small package from a pocket. He unknotted the yellow cord that bound it and flipped away its leather wrapping. Within lay five copper plates.

“Flaming dagger,” said the mage, laying the first plate on the table. A flaming dagger sigil was etched into the soft metal surface, and beneath it in neat, delicate letters of Thorass, was a paragraph of explanation. “Interlocking rings, mouth in a palm, three concentric circles, and a squiggle that looks like an insect leg.” Akabar laid down a corresponding copper with each description. “Which would you like me to cover first?” he asked Alias.

Alias pointed to the plate with the flaming dagger. “The assassins who attacked me carried a card with this design.”

Nodding, Akabar stacked the five plates together with the dagger on top. “The symbol is derived from a Talis deck. In Turmish, we use the suit of birds, but here in the north it has been converted to the suit of daggers. In either case, the suit represents money and theft of the same. The symbol was adopted by a small group of thieves and assassins in Westgate that calls itself the Redeemer’s Guild, but the group is more commonly known as the Fire Knives—from its calling card.

“The Fire Knives are not native to Westgate, but came originally from Cormyr where they ran a very profitable operation. Until, that is, they incurred the wrath of His Royal Majesty, Azoun IV. He broke their charter, executed their leaders, and sent the rest packing across the Lake of Dragons. They set up shop anew in Westgate, with the permission of the local crime lords, the Night Masks. Naturally, they have no love for Cormyr, its king, or its people.”

“Do any of them carry their symbol as a brand or tattoo?” Alias asked.

Akabar shook his head. “It has never been reported that they do. Of course, your attack on someone who sounded just like King Azoun was the sort of thing they desire. Somehow, they might have ensorceled you to do so.”

“Then why did they attack me the other night?”

“Perhaps they thought you discovered their plan and would warn His Majesty,” the halfling guessed.

“No,” Alias said. “I had no idea I was going to do something like I did. Besides, they went to a lot of trouble to capture, not kill me.”

“Perhaps they were planning on delivering you to the king’s court,” Akabar mused. “You know, Azoun might have come to the wedding. His mage, Vangerdahast, advised him against it. At least, that was the rumor I heard.”

“It’s just coincidence that I ended up at Dimswart’s,” Alias replied.

Akabar shrugged. “Perhaps. But if Azoun had attended—”

“I’d have tried to kill him instead of that fool Wyvernspur.”

“Not a chance,” Olive said. “Vangerdahast goes everywhere with His Marshmallowness. He would have fried you with a lightning bolt before you got within an arm’s length.”

“I don’t think this conjecture will get us very far,” Akabar said, confused. “Shall I continue with the other sigils?”

Alias nodded, and Akabar held up the card bearing the sign of three rings, each interlocked with the other two. “The trinity of rings is pretty common as well. It was used by several trading houses about the Inner Sea until the Year of Dust, over two centuries ago, when it was taken up as a banner by a pirate gang in Earthspur. After a few years new pirate leaders toppled the old and adopted a new banner.

“Since then the circles have been used as a signature mark for a notable Cormyrian portrait artist, as a stamp for a Procampurian silversmith, and the sign of an alehouse in Yhaunn in Sembia. The alehouse, by the way, was fireballed fifty years ago by a wizard because their symbol happened to be his sigil. He claimed the exclusive right to use it. He was a pompous northerner known as Zrie Prakis.”

“I knew some fell wizard had to be involved,” muttered Alias.

Akabar held up a finger to continue. “Prakis protected his mark religiously, seeking out any others who used it and destroying those who would not give it up. It’s a mark of his success that the symbol is now considered unlucky among many taverns, silversmiths, and artists. However, Zrie Prakis was supposed to have died in a magical battle some forty years ago, somewhere near Westgate.”

“Someone must have made a mistake,” Olive pointed out. “After all, when two mages are fighting, no one in their right mind gets close enough to tell who’s winning. This was the symbol on the crystal elemental that attacked us in the stone circle, isn’t it?”

Alias nodded, remembering how the sigil had blazed from the monster’s chest.

“Anyway,” Akabar concluded, “Master Dimswart got a cleric to do a divination for him. The exact question was: Does Zrie Prakis, whose symbol was the triple rings, still live? The answer was: No.”

“Well, I’m not a work of art or a silver dinner service,” Alias said. “That leaves me branded by a defunct pirate gang or an alehouse. Neither very likely candidates.”

Akabar, though tempted, did not disagree with her about the alehouse. He held up the next copper plate engraved with the insect leg-shaped squiggle. “The sorceress who destroyed Zrie Prakis was named Cassana of Westgate. This happens to be her sigil. To the best of Dimswart’s knowledge, Cassana still makes her abode in Westgate. She’s reputed to be fairly powerful, but she’s extremely reclusive. No one’s seen her for years. She’s not dead, but she must be getting on in years.”

“Maybe this Prakis fellow had an apprentice,” Olive suggested. “The apprentice is greedy for power, see, and he teams up with his master’s enemy, this Cassana, and tells her how to defeat him. Then, when Cassana kills Prakis, the apprentice takes his master’s sigil.”

Akabar’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Your expertise on the workings of betrayal is quite interesting.”

Olive smiled sweetly. “Over the years I’ve made a study of all the evil you humans perpetrate on one another.”

Alias’s head began to throb. Anxious to get this discussion over with, she pulled out the next copper plate, but the writing blurred before her eyes. She held the plate up to Akabar. “What about this mouth in the hand?” she asked.

“Dimswart found this most curious,” answered the mage, running his fingers along the engraved fangs in the mouth. “This is a holy symbol—or the unholy symbol, rather—of a cult that has been dead for a thousand years or more. They worshipped Moander the Darkbringer. He, she, or it—the texts keep changing the pronoun over time—had a huge temple complex in the days of Myth Drannor, the elven kingdom, and was a continual menace to the forest peoples. Eventually, the elves burned the complex to the ground, slaying all its priests and banishing the god-thing from the Realms.

“The town of Yulash was built on the site of the complex, but Yulash has itself long since been turned to rubble. Hillsfar and Zhentil Keep are continually battling over its strategic location. Dimswart gave me the name of another sage who may know more, but he warned me that getting an appointment with this person may prove to be a problem.”

Alias held up the last copper plate. The blue upon blue bull’s-eye was represented on sheet metal by three concentric rings, its deepening shades of color not represented at all, but described in the upper right hand corner. Nothing was written below the sigil. Alias looked up at Akabar, her eyebrows raised.

The mage shifted nervously. “Dimswart has seen naught like this in his travels or his books. He thinks it’s something new, perhaps an up-and-coming power. Note that the two magic-user’s sigils are grouped together, but this sigil follows the marking of a dead and banished god.”

“So Dimswart thinks it may be another cult,” said Alias. She picked up her now empty mug and stared into it. The halfling studied the ceiling beams.

“Actually, that was my own observation,” Akabar replied. “Balancing the sigils seemed logical to me, but …”

“But we may not be dealing with balanced or logical people,” Alias concluded for him.

Akabar nodded. “The evidence that the Fire Knives are involved is pretty incontrovertible. The attack of the summoned earth elemental would seem to indicate that some mage is definitely at work here as well. The pattern circling the symbols is common throughout nations of the Inner Sea, symbolizing unions or contracts. Ivy and rose vines are generally used for weddings, dragons for royal charters …”

“Serpents for evil pacts,” Alias added in reference to the serpentine pattern that wound around the runes on her arm.

“What about the sixth party?” Olive asked.

“What sixth party?” Akabar demanded.

Alias held out her arm, wondering herself what Olive was talking about.

The bard pointed to the swordswoman’s wrist, where the serpentine pattern that linked the five sigils wound about an empty space.

“There’s nothing there, you fool,” Akabar snorted.

“Not yet, there isn’t,” Olive said. “Maybe Alias escaped before they got around to adding it, or maybe they’re waiting for a sixth member to pay up their dues. Maybe a sigil’s going to grow there.”

Alias shivered and curled her arms back around her knees.

Akabar tried giving the bard a kick on the ankle to shut her up, but the little woman’s feet swung too far off the floor for him to reach.

“As much as I’d hate to slander a patron,” Olive continued, “I think you need better advice than Dimswart’s given you.”

Alias was inclined to agree. “Where’d this other sage live, the one Dimswart recommended?” she asked Akabar.

“Shadowdale. That’s rather far off though,” the mage pointed out. “It would be simpler to investigate Westgate first.”

The barkeep came to their table and wordlessly unloaded a platter of sandwiches and fresh drinks.

“Shadowdale is on the way to Yulash,” Alias said.

“But it makes more sense to head for Westgate,” Akabar argued. “The Fire—” he looked up at the barkeep “—two of the five guilty parties work out of Westgate. Another one died there.” He smiled at the barkeep. “Thank you. That should do nicely for some time,” he said, dismissing the man. “We can reach Westgate by ship in two or three days. If we can discover nothing there, then a trek to the north would make more sense.”

Alias remained silent, feeling nauseated at the sight of food. With a last paternal glance toward the swordswoman, the barkeep left the table and returned to his other duties.

Olive picked up the five copper plates and began idly shuffling them. Her little hands moved the pieces with amazing dexterity.

Annoyed, Akabar reached over and lifted the sigil engravings from the halfling’s palm. He rewrapped and tied them and handed the bundle to Alias. “So, shall I arrange passage for the morning?”

“I’m almost positive I came to Suzail by boat,” she mused.

“By ship,” Akabar corrected.

“Couldn’t we travel to High Horn and circle around the Lake of Dragons?” Olive suggested. “The roads to Westgate are pretty good.”

Akabar remembered the little woman had claimed to dislike sea journeys.

“We’re going to Yulash,” Alias said quietly.

“What?” both the bard and the mage demanded in unison.

“Suppose I came to Suzail from Westgate,” Alias whispered, “fleeing from whoever did this to me—the Fire Knives or this Cassana person. Instinct tells me to avoid Westgate. I don’t know why—I can’t remember. Maybe I was there and tried taking care of someone else the Fire Knives don’t care for—then I could be wanted by the law, as well as by the underworld. Besides, I don’t want to take on two enemies at once. I’ve already waltzed into one dragon’s lair this month. I don’t intend to do it again for at least another year. In Yulash, as far as we know, I have only one enemy. Also, this master sage you mentioned is on the road to Yulash. We may get more information from him.”

“But the temple in Yulash is destroyed,” Akabar objected. “Yulash is in the hands of the Zhentarim, and they’re not … decent people. It is too dangerous.”

Alias frowned. “Look, Akash, whose quest is this, anyway? You want to accompany me, you can come with me to Yulash. If you’re afraid, you can go to Westgate without me, or better yet, just go home and forget about me.”

Akabar colored. Whether he was more angry that Alias would not take his sage counsel or embarrassed that his honor and courage had been called into question, Olive could not tell for sure. She chimed in, “If this sage in Shadowdale can help, we may not even have to go to Yulash.”

Alias turned to glare at the halfling. “I’m going to Yulash,” she hissed. “I leave in the morning!” With that, she rose from the table, staggered two feet, and passed out on the wooden floor.

“Better make that late morning,” Akabar sighed. He rose to settle accounts with the barkeep while Dragonbait and Ruskettle hauled the fallen warrior to her room.