Song of the Saurials

11 Betrayals

Breck pulled away from Zhara and drew his own sword, but he looked at Alias doubtfully. Then he remembered the sage’s words at the tribunal. “Elminster told us Phalse had been destroyed,” he said.

“Yes,” Alias admitted, “by my own hand. Before that, though, the little monster created her and eleven other of my look-alikes, pawns that he intended to use to destroy his old enemy, Moander.” Alias raised the tip of her sword to Zhara’s throat. “That’s why you’re so eager to have Akabar go after Moander, isn’t it? Because you’re Phalse’s creature.”

Zhara met Alias’s eyes with her own and replied calmly, “And are you still Moander’s creature that you are so eager to see the Darkbringer live? Here is your chance to destroy me. You have your weapon in hand. Why not use it and finish me off?”

“You witch!” Alias growled. She threw her sword down and leaped at Zhara.

The two women tumbled to the ground. Dragonbait moved quickly to separate them, but Breck put his hand out to stop the saurial. “One thing you never want to do,” he said with a chuckle, “is get between two women in a brawl.”

The paladin’s eyes narrowed angrily at Breck’s patronizing tone and amused grin, but upon consideration, he accepted the wisdom of the ranger’s words. He stood by watching Alias and Zhara roll about on the wet ground, thinking how ironic it was that only a few minutes before, the swordswoman had found his own battle with Breck so amusing.

Alias tried to wrap her hands around Zhara’s throat, but she drew her hands away hastily, pricked by some shards of metal. Beneath her robe, the priestess wore a studded leather collar around her neck. The swordswoman’s eyes widened with a sudden suspicion. She grabbed the front of the priestess’s robe and ripped the white fabric from the neck to the waistline. Beneath her robe, Zhara wore a chain shirt cut very low.

“You stole my armor!” Alias screeched. She raised a fist, but before she could slam it into Zhara’s face, the priestess whipped a flail out from her sleeve and clubbed the swordswoman on the side of the head.

Alias rolled off Akabar’s wife, moaning and clutching her ear and temple with both hands. Zhara stood and backed away from the swordswoman. Dragonbait bent over Alias, who was struggling to her knees.

“Have you finished your little catfight?” Breck asked.

“Catfight?” Zhara repeated, looking puzzled. “What does that mean?”

“When two women fight,” Breck explained, “it’s called a catfight.”

“Why?” Zhara asked.

“Well, because women fight differently from men—more like cats. You know, with your claws,” Breck said, grinning.

Zhara’s eyes narrowed angrily, and she twirled the end of her flail menacingly. “Come here, ranger, and I will show you how women fight,” she growled.

Dragonbait abandoned Alias’s side to step between Zhara and Breck. He grabbed the Turmishwoman’s weapon arm and shook his head furiously.

“Let me go, Dragonbait!” Zhara demanded. “This arrogant northern barbarian is in need of a lesson,” she said, tossing her head in Breck’s direction.

Dragonbait threw his hands up in the air. This was like a nightmare, he thought. The only worse thing he could think of would be a fight between himself and Alias.

“Give me back my armor, you thief,” Alias said, retrieving her sword and stumbling to her feet. A large bump and a dark bruise were forming on the side of her temple.

“I will return it to you,” Zhara snapped. “I never wanted to wear it in the first place. Only a barbarian like yourself would do so without shame.”

“You never wanted …” Alias looked from Zhara to Dragonbait. “You gave her my armor, didn’t you?” the swordswoman demanded of the paladin. “And that cloak, and those boots. They’re mine, too, aren’t they?”

Dragonbait nodded guiltily, signing that he was sorry. He moved toward Alias, reaching out to tend the wound on her head.

Alias drew back sharply from the saurial. “Don’t touch me!” she growled.

I’m sorry, Dragonbait signed again. Forgive me.

Alias turned her back on the saurial. “Never! Stay away from me. Don’t talk to me,” she said. “I’ve nothing to say to you.” The swordswoman stalked away from the saurial. At the edge of the clearing, she stopped and leaned against a tree.

Dragonbait could see Alias’s shoulder shaking, and he knew she was weeping. He felt sick to his stomach. He sat down on the grass and put his head on his knees.

Suddenly embarrassed, Breck looked for something constructive to do. Bending down to pick up his horse’s lead rope, he asked Zhara, “What did you do with Alias’s horse?”

“I let it go free,” Zhara said.

“You what?” Breck snapped.

“I let it go free so that you could not use it to hunt down my Akabar,” Zhara explained. “I tried to get this one to run away, too, but it would not.”

“Of course it wouldn’t. It’s my horse, and it’s too well trained to do anything stupid like that. Where did you leave Alias’s saddle?” Breck asked.

“It’s on her horse,” Zhara said.

Breck snorted. “Southerners,” he muttered. “Don’t you know anything about horses?” he asked.

“No,” Zhara said simply, not in the least ashamed of her ignorance. “I am a priestess of Tymora, not a stablehand.”

“Which way did it go?” Breck asked with annoyance.

“Why should I tell you?” Zhara said with a sniff.

“Because if you don’t, the horse you ‘let go free’ is going to end up with saddle sores and bug bites and infections and probably die because you didn’t bother to take off its saddle.”

Zhara looked chagrined. “It went that way,” she said pointing in the direction of Shadowdale.

“Come on, then,” Breck said, pulling Zhara’s arm. “You’re going to help me find that horse.”

Zhara pulled a light stone from her pocket and held it high so the ranger could search the ground for tracks. Fortunately the beast was tired and hungry, and they found it grazing on grass not too far off. Breck called out to it, and it came right up to him. “Silly creature,” the ranger chided it as he grabbed its halter and scratched its forehead. “How could you leave us?” He pulled the horse’s bedraggled lead rope up from the ground. “She could have caught this in something,” Breck said, waving the end of the rope in Zhara’s face. “Then she’d have starved to death or died of thirst.”

“I am sorry,” Zhara said. “I did not know. But I cannot let you kill my Akabar. He is no less innocent than this animal.”

“How do you know? You weren’t even there when Kyre was killed.”

“Akabar is my husband. I know him very well. And Dragonbait says he knows Grypht well, and Grypht is not a monster.”

“Kyre wouldn’t lie,” Breck insisted. “Kyre was my teacher. I knew her well, too.”

“Was she your lover?” Zhara asked, with the detachment of a southern scholar.

The ranger flushed. “What kind of question is that?” he said angrily. “That’s none of your business.”

“Yes, it is,” Zhara said. “You loved Kyre. That much is obvious. Lady Shaerl says Kyre was not ugly, but very beautiful. If she would not have you as a lover, perhaps you killed her out of anger or jealousy.”

“You’re crazy,” Breck growled.

“Maybe she was afraid of your temper,” Zhara suggested.

“She was not! She thought I was too young!” Breck shouted.

“Oh,” Zhara said softly. “How old are you?” she asked the ranger.

“Twenty winters. Tymora! I can’t believe I just told you that!” Breck exclaimed.

“That you’re twenty years old? Why?” Zhara asked. “Is it some kind of a secret?”

“It’s not that,” Breck said, rubbing his temples. “Just forget it.”

“Twenty is not so young,” Zhara said.

Breck sighed with exasperation. “When I was eighteen, I made a fool of myself and pestered her too much about … how I felt about her. She thought we should stop working together for a while. She went away—disappeared for over a year. When I heard she’d asked the Harpers to assign me to the same tribunal with her, I thought maybe she finally considered me old enough.”

“But she didn’t?” Zhara asked.

Breck shrugged. “I don’t know. Since she arrived in Shadowdale two days ago, I haven’t managed to get more than a few moments alone with her, and she …” Breck hesitated.

“She what?” Zhara prompted gently.

“She was different … sort of unapproachable.” Breck shook himself and looked down at the ground, feeling disloyal to the half-elf’s memory. “No,” he said, “that’s not quite true. I was afraid to approach her … afraid of what she’d say. Now it doesn’t matter anymore. I just wish she was still alive.”

Without another word, Breck began to lead Alias’s horse back to the clearing where they’d left Alias and Dragonbait. Zhara followed, lost in thought.

They found Dragonbait starting a cooking fire in the center of the clearing. Alias was grooming Breck’s horse at the edge of the clearing with her back to the saurial. She kept her face a tight mask of concentration, trying to hide her turbulent mood.

Breck led Alias’s horse over to a tree near Alias and wrapped its lead rope around a branch. His horse’s saddle and saddlebags were spread out over a fallen tree.

“I went in your saddlebags for your brushes,” Alias said.

“That’s fine,” Breck replied. “Hand me my scraper, and I’ll start on your horse,” he offered, unsaddling Alias’s mount. He laid the saddle on the fallen tree beside his own and tossed the sweaty horse blanket on top.

Alias handed a sweat scraper to the ranger.

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

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

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

“No, I didn’t,” Alias said.

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

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

“Dragonbait seems to like her.”

“Dragonbait is a fool,” Alias snarled.

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

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

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

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

Dragonbait signed something for Zhara to translate.

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

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

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

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

“What’s the point?” Alias asked.

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

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

“Then eat your dinner,” Breck said.

Alias took the bowl from Breck.

“Mind if I join you?” Breck asked.

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

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

Alias grinned ruefully.

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

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

“Do you love him?” Breck asked.

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

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

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

Breck took a mouthful of stew.

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

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

“Mostly,” Alias replied.

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

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

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

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

Breck leaned back against a tree and closed his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well? Is it magic?” Olive asked again.

Finder nodded.

“What does it do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I should be,” Olive said haughtily.

“I know. But are you?” he asked.

Olive sighed and shook her head from side to side.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take us to Xaran!” he ordered.

The orcs growled. The largest one snarled at Finder in common, “Throw down your weapons—and that light, too.”

Finder stepped close to the orc who had spoken. Ignoring the crossbow bolt pointed at his belly, he snarled back, “You will take us to Xaran as we are, or I will see that Xaran punishes you for your insolence.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s Alias,” the ranger said. “She’s walking in her sleep. What should we do?”

Dragonbait felt genuine panic. Alias hadn’t walked in her sleep since right after she was “born,” when they’d been on the ship en route from Westgate to Suzail after escaping from Cassana’s dungeon. Though fully grown, the swordswoman had been like a child then, with all the fears of a child. The horrors of the ceremonies and magic behind her creation had surfaced in her nightmares, only to be blessedly forgotten after her days-long sleep in Suzail, from which she’d awakened as an adult.

Now Alias stood beside the fire, wearing nothing but her tunic. She was very pale, her eyes were closed, and her mouth hung open. She was whimpering slightly.

Dragonbait rose and approached her. He ran a clawed finger up under her right sleeve, along her magical blue brands. The swordswoman quieted instantly and her breathing slowed.

Suddenly the air about the fireside was full of high-pitched clicking and whistling sounds. Dragonbait whirled around, emitting a joyful lemony scent, expecting to see Grypht. There was no one in the clearing but himself, Breck, Alias, and the sleeping Zhara. Dragonbait turned back to Alias, his eyes wide in astonishment.

“What is it?” Breck asked. “What’s wrong?”

Dragonbait motioned for Breck to remain silent. The ranger couldn’t hear the whistles and clicks coming from Alias’s mouth. His ears were as deaf to the sounds as any human ear not augmented by magic. Although Alias made the noises with her extraordinarily gifted voice, even she herself couldn’t possibly hear them. Dragonbait heard them, though, for they were not only the sounds a saurial would make, but they were also actual words in saurial.

Although Alias spoke in saurial, what she said seemed to be nothing but babble. “We are ready for the seed. Where is the seed? Find the seed. Bring the seed,” she repeated over and over again.

Without the scent glands that saurials would ordinarily employ to convey emotion and emphasis, her speech was as flat as the sign language Dragonbait was forced to use with her. As the paladin listened to the hypnotic rhythm of the words, he realized that, if the swordswoman could only release scents, she would be singing and not merely chanting. Then Alias began a new verse.

“Nameless is found,” Alias said in saurial. “Nameless must join us. Nameless will find the seed. Nameless will bring the seed.”

Suddenly Alias stopped her saurial chant. She held out her hand, with one forefinger pointed downward, and traced a circle parallel to the ground.

The paladin shuddered.

Alias began to shout in Realms common, “No! No! No!”

She reached out and grabbed Dragonbait’s shoulders. Her eyes opened and she blinked in the firelight. Then she started to cry softly.

Dragonbait stroked the brand on her arm again and wrapped his cloak around her. He pushed down on her shoulders until he got her to lie on his blanket beside the fire. He wrapped the blanket around her, too, and Alias closed her eyes again. The saurial stroked her hair until she ceased weeping and lay still and, Dragonbait hoped fervently, slept peacefully.

“Maybe you’d better take second watch instead of her,” Breck suggested.

Dragonbait nodded.

“Does she do this often?” the ranger asked.

Dragonbait shook his head in an emphatic negative.

“Never, huh?” Breck asked. “Like she never gets mad at you?”

Dragonbait squinted his eyes angrily at the ranger.

“I’ll bet I know why she’s sleepwalking,” Breck said. “She’s upset with you because of Zhara.”

Dragonbait looked into the fire.

“You’ve got to tell her you’re sorry for whatever she’s angry at you for,” Breck said. “We can’t be hunting for Kyre’s murderer and dealing with weird stuff like sleepwalking at the same time.”

The ranger turned and strode away to his own saddlebags, sniffing the air. Curious, he thought, it’s too late in the year for violets to be in bloom.

The ranger wasn’t familiar enough with Dragonbait to know that was the smell of the saurial’s fear.

Dragonbait watched over the campsite with his yellow reptilian eyes, but all he could see was the vision of Alias forming a circle in the air with her forefinger. The motion was not one from the thieves’ sign language she had taught him. It was a saurial symbol—the symbol for death.