The Orb of Xoriat

14 The Phiarlander Phaire

“Look here now, if it isn’t the Shadow Fox.”

The Fox shut the door quietly behind her, shutting herself in with the pungent odors that permeated the arcanium. “Good afternoon, Rezam,” she said. She crossed the room and sat in a large chair at a stained table, turning it so she faced the wizard.

The aged elf pushed his tome aside and leaned back, lacing his fingers across his belly. “It’s been a very long time since you’ve tome to visit our little nest here,” he said.

The Shadow Fox fidgeted with her fingers a moment, then looked up, all business. “I’ve been busy with one of the other nests. We ended up traveling across half of Khorvaire.”

“Mm,” said Rezam, batting his thumbs against each other.

“It was difficult, but we were successful. We acquired a very old relic. It’s called the Black Globe, but I’m guessing that’s an alias. It’s reputed to come from the Gatekeepers, which means that it could have powerful protective magic. I’m hoping that we could somehow use this to restore Cyre to where it’s supposed to be, maybe drive the curse off the land.”

Rezam lolled his head from side to side as he considered. “It could also be planar magic,” he said. “If so, we could theoretically use it to reach back to moments before the Day of Mourning and snatch the whole country forward to our time. Hm. Say, who knows? Maybe we already did, eh?”

“What?”

The elf leaned forward, craning his neck out, his eyes wide with the possibilities. “Maybe the dead gray mist and all of that is the lingering effect of us in the future having saved our country from its terrible fate. Maybe we’ve wasted all this grieving, because we’re just moving through the patterns of things that had already happened when Cyre was taken, hey? Did you ever think about that?”

The Shadow Fox slowly blinked. At last she replied. “I’ll bring you the Globe then, shall I?”

The elf spread his arms wide. “You will do as the patterns of prophecy require, for the dragons will not abide a paradox,” he intoned.

The Fox curled her lip skeptically. “You’re a little odd,” she said.

Rezam’s face fell. “You’ve said that before,” he said, tracing his finger around a stain on the table. Then a small smile touched his lips. “But you know as well as I that investigative magicians must envision the whole realm of possibilities when trying to unravel arcane secrets.”

The Shadow Fox rose. “I know. I didn’t bring you on because you were an average person. I brought you on because you’re so good it’s scary.”

Rezam grinned. “Then bring it over. I look forward to seeing it.”

As she Shadow Fox left the laboratory, she glanced one last time at Rezam. Sometimes, she thought, you’re a little too scary.

Inside the Phiarlander Phaire the atmosphere was raucous and jovial. The tavern was filled to capacity with drinkers and diners, sampling some of the best wares to be had in Flamekeep outside of House Phiarlan’s magical feasts. A thick haze of tobacco and incense lurked about the rafters, and the clink of tin plates and flatware fought a hopeless struggle for dominance with the sounds of laughter and conversation.

Zabettia Besdal stepped through the front door and immediately felt as if she were drowning in an excess of civilization. Her body already starting to sweat, she loosened her cloak, then worked her way across the floor. She had to wriggle between chairs filled by overstuffed patrons and plot her course to avoid the many servers working the crowd.

She wound her way to the service counter and caught the attention of one of the staff, an old man with one eye. A long scar, a keepsake from a Karrnathi scimitar, draped across the other half of his face. He nodded at Zabettia in recognition.

“The Shadow Fox is back,” said Zabettia, raising her voice to be heard above the brabble.

“It’s about time,” grumbled the old man. “Where’s she been?”

“You know she never talks about that. But she did say that several other Cyrans lost their lives in the service.”

The man spat on the floor. “I hope they weren’t home when it happened,” he groused. “That just wouldn’t be right.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Zabettia. She looked around the room, taking in the wide variety of people present. “She said to be on the lookout for Aundairian monks, or a Korranberg gnome traveling with a half-orc servant. She’s not sure whether or not they might have managed to follow her here.”

“That’s not much to go on,” said the man.

Zabettia nodded. “I know,” she said. Then she slapped her hand on the countertop. “Better than nothing, though,” she said with a smile. “Have to go make the rounds. Keep your eye open.”

The old man touched his brow in farewell. “By the fifth nation,” he said, then spat on the floor again.

“Well, that was a waste of time, monk,” said Praxle as they climbed off one of the caravan’s wagons.

Teron shrugged. “We took a chance. It didn’t pan out.”

“Instead we spent two and a half days getting sore kidneys bouncing on a cart in an Orien caravan.”

Teron didn’t bother to reply. He stretched out, as did his cat. Then he hopped out and placed one hand on the side of the wagon, and Flotsam walked up the length of his arm to perch on his shoulder.

“That has got to be the ugliest stray I’ve ever seen,” said Praxle, warming to his sour mood.

“He’s sort of my pet,” said Teron. “He just kind of likes me. We get along.”

“Look at him, monk. His head is way too flat and wide, his hair … well, he sure doesn’t bathe himself often, and I swear he takes two steps with his front legs for every three he takes with his rear. He’s built like a hyena.”

“He’s growing into a tom,” said Teron. He kneeled down to put the cat within reach of Praxle. “Here, feel his muscles at his shoulders.”

With a look of disgust, Praxle complied. The cat’s muscles were dense and powerful. He ran his hand down the cat’s back, and partway down the ribs, the muscles turned smaller and softer. He felt the terminus again, the sudden shift from thick to thin, “That’s…”

“Strange, isn’t it?” said Teron. “It’s like he’s maturing front to back.” He chuckled softly. “You should have seen him when he first started. First his nose grew all out of proportion to his face, then his head got big like this but he still had the body of an older kitten.”

“That sounds very ugly.”

Teron stood. “I guess that’s why we get along.”

“If you’ll pardon me for interrupting, Teron,” said Jeffers, “I have something that I’ve wished to enquire of you. I believe we are safe enough to ask you now.”

“What’s that, Jeffers?”

Jeffers glanced about and lowered his voice. “Back in Daskaran, you took a sword away from that guard, I was most curious as to how you accomplished that.”

Teron smiled, a brief but genuine expression. “Pick up that stick. I’ll show you,” he said.

Jeffers picked up a larger stick and held it like a dagger.

“Look. My hands are out to the side, right?” said Teron, placing himself squarely in front of Jeffers and raising his arms partway up. “It looks like I’m surrendering, but I’m not. My hands are ready.”

Jeffers nodded.

Teron flashed his hands together, striking Jeffers and stripping the stick from him.

Jeffers blinked, and rubbed his now-empty hand. “My apologies, but I didn’t quite follow that.”

Teron handed the stick back. “It’s an advanced technique,” he said. “Let me show you the foundation move. Watch.” He raised his hands again, and started moving them slowly towards Jeffers’ wrist. “I bring my hands in. My right hand strikes you on the inside of the wrist. My left hand strikes you on the back of your hand.” He paused, his hands just making contact with the half-orc’s larger hands. He started applying pressure. “As I move them in, what happens?”

“You bend my hand forward.”

“And how strong is your grip now?”

Jeffers tried to grip the stick firmly. “Very weak.”

“Right. Now if you do this fast enough, you actually make the other person toss the weapon from their hand. Here, try it on me.” He took the stick from Jeffers and held it.

Jeffers raised his hands to the sides of Teron’s hand, and aligned them with their targets. He took a deep breath, then slapped Teron’s wrist and hand, and the stick flew out of his grasp. “Why, that’s child’s play,” said Jeffers, pleasantly surprised with his success.

“Essentially, it is,” said Teron. “It’s basic body mechanics. The strike you saw me do is tough. You have to know how hard to strike, you have to power your hand through the enemy’s without overpowering the blow, and you have to have precise timing to grab the weapon’s handle as it flies from your opponent’s hand. There’s a few other points, too, but I think you get my point.”

“Fascinating, my good man,” said Jeffers, slowly moving his hands to strike at a number of imaginary weapons. “I do appreciate the instruction.”

“If you two are quite finished playing children’s games,” interrupted Praxle irritably, “I wish to find us some good lodgings that provide strong drink, good food, and a large, hot, soapy bath.”

“Lead on,” said Teron.

Praxle stomped off, followed by Teron with his cat, and Jeffers, who continued to practice martial arts in his mind.

With a relaxed sigh, Praxle climbed out of the brass bathtub. It had been designed for someone of larger size, so he had to climb awkwardly over the edge, but the inconvenience was a small price for being able to float in steamy hot clove-scented water until his skin was bright red all over.

He dried himself off and dressed in the new attire he’d purchased earlier that day. Bright red breeches, a gold tunic with puffy sleeves and black highlights: bright and cheery attire to buoy his mood. He was determined to have a good time tonight, to forget that some damned Cyrans stole his relic, that some damned Aundairians hid it from him for decades, and that some damned Thranes stole it from his people years before that; he was determined to enjoy his bath and his dinner and his drinking despite the fact that he’d be dining with an Aundairian monk in an establishment that served Cyran dishes located in the very heart of Thrane itself. And, as he slid the silken tunic over his bare chest, the caress of the cool fabric on his overheated skin succeeded, for a moment, in eclipsing all other considerations.

He walked into the common area of their room. Jeffers sat at the table writing a letter, attired in his usual dapper but nondescript clothing. Teron, dressed in new but plain trousers, soft boots, and a sleeveless leather vest, looked out the window, arms crossed.

“I …” pronounced Praxle loudly, “am ready!”

Jeffers nodded deferentially. Teron remained at the window.

“Well, then, monk, I rather liked that peasant shirt, though it was too large. But the women are going to fall out of their bodices after one look at you.”

“What do you mean?” asked Teron.

“What do you mean, ‘What do I mean?’ Look at you. Thin, agile, muscles like a Valenar stallion …” he stopped short as Teron turned around. “Yipe, hold on there, monk!”

“What?”

“Clean up your face. You’ve a big smear of blood where that Thrane cut you.”

Teron raised one hand to his injured cheek. “I must have reopened it when I washed.”

“Jeffers,” said Praxle, snapping his finger. “See to it. I’m starving.”

Jeffers acquired a large ceramic bowl of hot water and a clean rag. He daubed at the blood, cleaning the skin as well as the wound itself, until all that was left was a red slice across Teron’s cheek and its partner nick just above the tip of his nose.

“Would you like me to stitch those closed, Teron?” asked Jeffers.

“Don’t bother,” said Teron. “I’ve suffered worse.”

“It will be less likely to scar if I do,” persisted Jeffers.

“I won’t notice one more scar.”

“So I see,” said the half-orc, casting an eye down the various pale lines that marred Teron’s sun-darkened arms.

“All right, monk,” said Praxle cheerily. “You’re looking almost civilized. Let’s go.”

The gnome led them out of their rooms and down the hall to the large staircase. “You’ve probably never been to a popular guesthouse before, have you, monk?” Hearing no answer, he continued. “You’re in for quite a treat. The people were fascinating. It’s like watching a herd of sheep all milling about, each thinking that it’s the bull ram. Or maybe wolves. Depending on the mood of the evening, and the quality of clientele, a pack of wolves might be more appropriate.”

The trio descended the staircase. “But remember,” added Praxle, lowering his voice to avoid attracting the attention of the others in the lobby, “we’re in Thrane now, I’m guessing that you were only in Thrane as part of the Last War, right?”

Teron nodded.

“Well then, let me be the first to educate you, monk. Thrane is the bastion of the Church of the Silver Flame, the beacon that will change the world, or so they think. The church is stronger here than the entire Sovereign Host is in Aundair. Everyone in the country sees themselves as a warrior-proselyte with a divine duty to usher in a new age.”

The threesome exited the inn. The nighttime streets in this area of town were well illuminated by everbright lanterns and light spilling from various restaurants and inns. The sounds of merriment washed into the streets from a dozen establishments.

“So you’re saying that they’re a bunch of violent heathens,” said Teron.

“Well, in essence, yes. I’m also telling you to keep calm. We got lucky with those guards in Daskaran that there was no one else around, monk. You need to rein in that temper of yours or the whole town will turn on you. Understand?”

“I will be as a flower in the breeze.”

“Fine,” said Praxle. “I just hope you’re a flower that didn’t leave too many other Thranes remembering your face.”

As they continued down the street, Praxle gestured to one particular establishment. “There it is, the Phiarlander Phaire,” said Praxle. “It was recommended for its good food and bolsterous atmosphere.”

Jeffers walked over and opened the door for the others. Inside, the common room was crowded and noisy. Every table was filled. Teron turned to leave again, but Jeffers gently restrained him.

After a brief scan of the room, Jeffers pointed out a table currently occupied by two half-elves obviously deep into their cups. Praxle nodded. The half-orc led the small gnome toward the table, plowing a clear path for the small illusionist through the careless throng. Teron walked just behind.

As they closed, Praxle cast a spell, conjuring an illusion of a very attractive pair of elf women. He sent the illusion walking around the table. The two drunkards looked up, and the illusory elf maidens winked bawdily and headed for the stairs in the rear. The men stumbled out of their chairs and staggered after them.

“Well, then, here we are,” said Praxle as the threesome took their seats at the vacant table.

After several minutes, a young lass with thick auburn hair stopped by the table. She smiled and brushed a lock of sweaty hair from her face, pulling it behind her ear, “May I help you, gentlemen?” she asked, her voice brassy with the need to speak loudly.

Praxle nudged Teron beneath the table, then remembered that the monk probably had no idea what to say. “Bring whatever the kitchen has the most of,” he said, “and bring it fast. We’re famished. I’ll have a tall mead. What about you, monk?”

Teron shook his head and waved off a drink. Jeffers ordered a tankard of ale.

As the young lass departed, Praxle rounded on Teron. “What’s the matter with you, monk?” he asked incredulously.

Teron looked genuinely confused. “What?”

“That tawny young filly thinks you’re the dragons shard, and you didn’t give her two blinks! You didn’t see that?”

Teron crossed his arms and glowered.

“Her smile brightened like the sun coming from behind the clouds when she laid eyes on you. The intense eyes, unshaven face, fresh scar worn raw, she senses you’re a dangerous and exciting man, I’d wager.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Yes, she does,” countered Praxle. “Her hair was in her face when she came to the table. She saw you, and pulled it back. Only on the side facing you, I might add. And she used her tray to hide a stain on her apron.”

Teron turned his head away.

“She wants you to ask her to dance, monk,” finished the gnome. He laughed. “Hardly have your hook in the water, and already the trout are swarming!”

When the young lady returned with their drinks, Teron averted his eyes. Praxle spoke with her a moment, then gave the lass a knowing smile and tossed a sovereign on her tray for good measure.

“Hey, monk! Her name’s Kelcie!”

Teron ignored him.

By the time the serving girl returned with their food, three musicians had taken the small stage and the sounds of spirited music cut through the noise of the crowd, lightening the mood and, at the same time, making it harder to talk.

Praxle leaned over and said something to Teron. The monk shrugged in reply. Praxle repeated it. Teron shrugged. At last, Praxle cast a small spell, his swift and delicate fingers spinning the arcane sapphire energies into a specific shape. He mouthed some words, and he finished, magical motes flew to Teron and Jeffers alike. Praxle’s voice sounded in their ears, quiet yet clearly audible: “The stage must be magically enhanced.”

Praxle and Jeffers put away a prodigious amount of food between them. Teron ate lightly, tense to be surrounded by so many Thranes and uncomfortable in the unfamiliar environment.

As the last patrons finished their dinner, the pace of the evening slowed considerably. The servers supplied everyone amply with drinks, and the crowd submitted itself to the sway of the music. The musicians broke into a slow song, a melancholy instrumental piece that hushed the crowd almost entirely; only a few coughs and brief exchanges broke the melody and countermelody.

Kelcie stopped by the table again to check on the three. Teron nervously waved her off, but Praxle tugged on her sleeve and asked, “What is this song they’re playing? I’ve not heard it before.”

“It’s the Song of the Argent Stream,” she answered, and her melodious voice whispered like satin. “It’s a song of destiny, sacrifice, and redemption. The horn represents Tira Miron, and her calling. The lute represents the couatl, who pleads for her aid amid the terrible battle it fought with the demon. Do you like it?” she asked the table in general.

Jeffers nodded.

“It’s very beautiful,” said Praxle. He tilted his head to the side. “What do you think, monk?” he asked, reaching out to tap Teron on the shoulder.

Teron simply leaned forward and rested his chin on his interlaced fingers.

Kelcie’s shoulders slumped slightly as she rose.

“Another round,” ordered Praxle. He watched Kelcie leave, glanced at Teron, then quickly cast a small spell. As before, a flickering trail of cerulean motes whooshed from his hands, but this time the spell arced over the room to strike Kelcie’s ear.

She stopped in her tracks, pulled her hair back, and looked over her shoulder at the table. Praxle caught her eye and nodded wearily, an apologetic half-smile on his face. Kelcie smiled brightly and left to fetch their drinks.

The evening passed with Teron sitting tensely, Jeffers sipping herbal tea and scanning the crowd, and Praxle diving with reckless abandon into mug after mug of mead.

After several other religious pieces, the minstrels started playing a rollicking, boisterous tune that hailed from somewhere in the early years of the Kingdom of Galifar, a catchy melody that had been hijacked for any number of lyrics over the past few centuries.

“Come now, everyone!” bellowed the minstrel playing the tambor and drums. “Let’s Fight!”

The crowd cheered, adding the clashing of tankards and the thumping of tables to the rolling rhythm. Their drunken voices boomed cacophonously, filling the walls of the tavern with the heady sound.

Praxle leaned over to Teron, his head wobbly from too much drink. “What in Khyber’s corset is this?” he yelled, and the crowd charged into the second verse:

“This is a far cry from that Song of the Silver Hooplah,” Praxle said. “They—”

“I told you they were bad,” yelled Praxle over the din. “I swear this is all they ever think about!”

Praxle stood up, “Right!” he yelled. “That’s it!” He stomped off quickly for the minstrels, carrying his mead and casting a transmutation spell as he walked, Jeffers, scanning the room for potential trouble, didn’t sense him leave until it was too late to prevent him without making a scene, and with it, a bar fight.

Teron pushed his seat back and sat at the edge, ready to leap to his feet.

Praxle leapt up onto the stage and signaled the musicians to keep playing. Surprised, but sensing the attention of the crowd, they obeyed. Praxle turned to face the audience. “Are you ready for new verse?” he asked. His magically augmented voice, combined with the enchanted effects of the stage itself, carried unnaturally well. The crowd cheered. “I said, are you ready for new verse?” he boomed, nearly pitching himself off the front of the stage with his effort. The crowd cheered again, much louder.

Praxle drew himself up as far as his three-and-a-half-foot stature allowed, and broke into a hearty tenor rendition.

The crowd roared its approval as Praxle drained his mug. Then he spread his arms wide in thanks and fell face first off the stage, the smile never leaving his lips.

Teron stood, but Jeffers was already moving toward the intoxicated gnome, so he sat back down. The half-orc picked up Praxle gently and carried him out, stopping by to collect Teron on the way.

The monk stood and followed Jeffers out of the Phaire. Jeffers kicked the door open and stepped outside with his master, but just as Teron reached the door, he felt someone grab his right elbow. He jerked around, right arm moving to break the grip, left arm readying to strike.

He found himself face to face with a pretty oval face framed by a mane of rather disheveled auburn hair.

“You’re leaving?” Kelcie asked, her eyes pleading. “Don’t you want to dance with me?”

Trapped in an utterly unfamiliar situation, Teron fought his way out of it as he had been trained to do: aggressively and without reservation. “Yes,” he said with a candor that startled him. “I’d love to. But I’ve never danced.”

He opened his mouth to say something else, but then turned away and moved purposefully after his two companions.

Kelcie stared after him, speechless. Then she turned back into the Phaire, walked over to the service counter, and slammed down her tray. “Roadapples!” she spat.

The one-eyed man behind the counter nodded.