Fire in the Blood, page 8
Kidnappers and princesses and Crownsilvers, Farideh thought. And Asmodeus and devils. And Brin. And the never-ending rain. “We’re not trapped,” she said, even though she wasn’t sure she believed it. “Neither is Brin.”
Havilar gave her a sour look. “If she doesn’t change her mind, I don’t know that he’s not.”
So then let’s leave, Farideh almost said, but didn’t. Even if it were the best possible option, even if Havilar’s growing frustrations gave her a guilty glimmer of hope, saying so too quickly would just make Havilar angry at her again. And it had taken so long to get back to a place where they were friends.
“I’m with you,” Farideh said instead. “It will sort out.”
The carriage lurched, throwing Havilar across the benches and snapping Farideh’s neck back. “Gods sod it!” the driver shouted. “Reckless bastards! Someone call the Dragons in!”
“My deepest apologies!” another voice called. “Here, here—let your groom—oh! Sorry, lady knight! Might you help us separate?”
Havilar climbed back into her seat and pulled back the curtain: another carriage sat right beside theirs, the wheels locked together.
“We should have walked,” she said.
LORD CROWNSILVER’S TALLHOUSE sat on the Promenade, south and west of the Royal Court and palace. The house was freestanding, unlike many of its neighbors, with a stone wall around it and a wrought-iron gate guarded by a burly-looking fellow in a tabard marked with a black Crownsilver sigil—a dragon with a crown around its muzzle. The doorguard eyed Vescaras with more than a little puzzlement—half-elves weren’t common in Cormyr, and a Turami half-elf with his dark skin and his hair in neat, gold-threaded braids was all the odder. In fact the doorjack looked a little fearful. Vescaras eyed the doorjack right back and cleared his throat. A moment later he glared at Dahl.
Right. Equerry.
“Lord Vescaras Ammakyl, here to see his …” Dahl fumbled—how much of Brin’s title would the equerry of a foreign lord be expected to know? He couldn’t remember. “Lord Aubrin Crownsilver,” he settled on. “Do be quick.”
“Ah. Yes, of course.” The doorjack hesitated the briefest of moments before unlocking the gate and then the front door, and the two men were ushered through marble-floored hallways, up a sweeping staircase, and through several doors, to a sitting room whose window opened onto the road below.
“It’s Lord Aubrin Crownsilver, Earl of Tethgard, Oversword of Calantar’s Way, Horsemaster of the Realm, and Bearer of the Blood Royal,” Vescaras said, jerking Dahl’s attention back to the room. “I can’t believe you don’t know that.”
“Of course I know it,” Dahl said. “And you forgot ‘Unproven of Torm.’ But that doesn’t matter: Would your equerry know it? And would an equerry spit all that out? Do I say ‘Lord Crownsilver’ or ‘His Grace’ or the whole thing? Do I act in a huff because some jack doesn’t know who my lord is?”
Vescaras made a face. “No, to that one. That’s terribly brightcoin. I’m not a damned Hedare, stamping my feet and demanding to be ennobled by every passerby.”
“That was a bit more than just thinking you weren’t noble.”
Vescaras poured himself a small glass of ruby-colored wine from the sideboard. “Chances are he thought I was half-drow. Perhaps wholly drow—I wouldn’t be too surprised.”
“Are you joking?”
Vescaras sipped his drink. “Cormyr is not … let us say, ‘diverse’ in its inhabitants.”
“ ‘Not many non-humans’ is a piss-poor reason to mistake a fellow for a drow.”
“Hmm. Have you never been to Cormyr before? To Suzail?”
“Only briefly. A stop on the way to and from Waterdeep. Never had time to dawdle.”
“Funny place,” Vescaras said. “They feel themselves to be the pinnacle of civilization.”
“They’ve lasted fourteen hundred years,” Dahl pointed out. “They can afford to pat themselves on the back a bit.”
“Fair,” Vescaras said. “But the thing is, in all those years … not much has changed. And they like it that way. So things that don’t fit”—he nodded at the open window—“stand out all the worse.”
“Everyone knows that,” Dahl said.
“Then you shouldn’t be surprised when some haynose doorguard can’t tell the difference at once between a drow and someone with elven and Turami blood together. Pointed ears, dark skin—he literally doesn’t know the difference.” He took another long sip of his wine. “At least he had the good manners to wait and see what we said we were about before doing anything rash. That’s one thing much of Cormyr has going for it.”
Dahl nodded at the decanter. “Pour me a glass would you?”
“Pour it yourself, human,” Vescaras said with a smirk. “A lord doesn’t serve servants.”
Brin slipped in the door, looking as harried and frazzled as Dahl had ever seen him. “Before you start,” Brin said, “be forewarned I have absolutely no control over what the war wizards overhear. They’re none of them idiots—they know plenty more than most—and they probably have better things to do than listen in just now, but guard your tongues if it’s sensitive.” He frowned at Vescaras. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re talking about your personal order of Arrhenish,” Vescaras said. “It would be rude to send my equerry alone, wouldn’t it?”
“I can’t believe you made me your equerry,” Dahl said.
“And I loathe Arrhenish,” Brin said.
“For your guests,” Vescaras said. He held up the wineglass. “Better than this stuff. Who do you buy from?”
Brin shook his head. “I got what you asked for.” He crossed to a tall bookcase, shifted some of the titles around, and pulled down a case. “It wasn’t easy. And I’m guessing you’re not going to tell me who she was.”
“One of us,” Dahl said.
Brin raised an eyebrow. Dahl gestured to the air around them, the listening war wizards beyond. “Many thanks,” he said, taking the case. “If we’d waited, gods only know who might have gotten to it first.”
“Of course,” Brin said. He blew out a breath. “I assume you were also told to chastise me?”
“Not exactly,” Dahl said. “But he does want to know what you intend to do.”
Brin rested his head in his hands. “I’m working on it.”
“That’s not good enough,” Dahl said. “Cormyr is in the middle of the worst war they’ve seen in a century—”
“Oh, are we?” Brin shot back. “I hadn’t noticed. Why in the Hells do you think I haven’t just broken it off and been done with it? If I chuck Raedra to the cleric, there is not a noble in Cormyr who will risk speaking with me, let alone slip me information. My network collapses. Whatever good the Harpers or Cormyr could make of that information is lost. I know what I’m standing to lose here—what we stand to lose. I am working on it!”
“Raedra doesn’t know you’re with us?” Vescaras asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t told her, and I don’t intend to, if I can help it. But war wizards …” Brin gestured at the empty air.
Dahl hesitated. “Have you considered just marrying her?”
“I have considered everything at this point,” Brin said, “and that isn’t an option.”
“It is if Havilar’s the one you break it off with.”
Brin glared at Dahl. “I said, that isn’t an option.”
Dahl bit back a response. Stlarning nobles and their stlarning pride. “Well, what is an option?”
Brin shook his head. “I’ve delayed the wedding again. Bought every scrap of silk available in the Heartlands so no one can make the damned dress, and my future mother-in-law won’t have that—especially when she’s secretly heartbroken the crown prince hasn’t returned yet. Here’s an excuse to give him more time to get home, and the minister of protocol can hardly argue.”
“Which buys you time,” Vescaras said. “But not answers.”
“I met with a contact this morning, looking for ways out that won’t destroy me.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing I’m willing to do,” Brin said. “While spreading detailed word of Raedra’s infidelities might get me some leeway, we’ve always agreed she could have her lovers. I’m not that sort of fellow.”
“Well, you’re going to have to pick which sort of fellow you are,” Dahl said, “and soon. You’ve found nothing else?”
“I can throw in with the nobles that want to capitulate to Sembia—or worse, Shade,” Brin said. “Or the sort of noble that wants to put Boldtree on the throne—that henish has attempted my life enough times that I’ll back him when Myrkul returns and holds my soulless corpse’s hand up in assent.”
“Henish?” Dahl said. “Drop a few more of those and you’re not going to have to worry much how to wriggle out of this.” Brin shot him a dark look.
“Ignore him,” Vescaras said. “He’s taking poorly to his new position. What are you going to do?”
“I’m working on it,” Brin snapped. “Gods, listen: Everything’s still running. I’ve lost no one so far. If anything, more people are talking to me since …” He trailed off.
“Since?”
“Since … apparently,” Brin said delicately, “Havi and I have … set a fashion.”
Vescaras snorted.
“Fantastic,” Dahl said dryly. “So you have all the best intelligence on how many tiefling coinlasses and lads are operating in Suzail. Well done.”
“It’s not state secrets, but it’s a step. You tell someone what’s happening in your bedroom, you’re opening up in a way that means you’ll talk a lot more about other topics later on. Which, thank the gods, because otherwise I’ve lost hours of my life answering questions about tails that should be nobody else’s business.”
“At least you’re talking about it,” Vescaras said. “Silence just stokes the fires of rumor.”
“Ye gods,” Brin groaned. “How far has it spread?”
“Halfway to Proskur,” Dahl said.
“Only the wildest ones,” Vescaras assured him.
“Gods,” Brin said again. “If this doesn’t blow over soon—”
“You’ll have an excellent use for a few crates of Arrhenish,” Vescaras said smoothly. “Fifteen? Would you say?”
Dahl let his thoughts drift away from the other men’s arguments of wine and gold. Brin’s problems wouldn’t be easily unsnarled, but at least they were clear and not likely to come to a head before Dahl could think of a second solution. “High Cormyr” could be replaced as an agent with only the average headache.
“Low Cormyr” was another story.
His second agent in Cormyr, a lutist called Marjana who played in several taprooms, had sent a message six tendays ago: Signs of Shar in Suzail. Suspect plan to attack within year, though no more details. Following possible agent from the Brigand’s Bottle. Return soon with information.
But she hadn’t. Four tendays later, a letter had arrived for her “stepbrother,” regretfully informing Dahl that Marjana’s body had been found floating in the harbor. Dahl had been ready to trek north and search for the remaining Shadovar internment camps, but that letter had changed everything. They had to find out what had happened to Marjana. They had to find out how much had been compromised. Dahl tapped his fingers on the case that held Marjana’s last notes.
He could have passed this off. He could have left it to Vescaras and Brin to sort out—he could still see Tam’s expression, the High Harper ready for Dahl to demur. He’d been through so much lately, hadn’t he? No one would blame him for not leaping into the field on a case that had so many of the same earmarks as the one that had forced him from the field originally.
But even if Low Cormyr had not been his agent, Dahl would have come anyway. Cormyr was as close as he could get to the Dalelands to the north, to his mother’s farm just on the edge of the wars with Sembia and Netheril. And while he sorted through Marjana’s effects and hunted for a path to Harrowdale, Farideh was in Cormyr.
Vur ghent vethsunathear renthisj …
“I don’t think Oghma is done with you yet,” Farideh had said, when she’d told him the scrap of Draconic runes written upon his soul.
And after, my priest speaks …
He’d all but run from her after—he hadn’t wanted to hear the rest, hadn’t wanted to know. Whatever the god had left upon Dahl, it couldn’t be good, not after Oghma had snatched back the gifts of a paladin from Dahl and led him on a merry chase for answers. Dahl had made Farideh swear not to look again, not to tell him.
And two days after she had left for Cormyr, he realized how deeply he wanted to hear the rest of it. How badly he wanted to understand.
How much he feared that she’d seen enough to know exactly how badly he’d failed.
A shout in the street broke Brin and Vescaras’s argument over how many cases was cover enough. Both of them stood, reaching for weapons. Dahl went to the window.
“Couple of carriages locked together.” The drivers were shouting at one another, grooms climbing down from their perches. He frowned, peering through the warp of the glass. “One of them has your crest on it.”
The light from a sudden explosion briefly lit the gloomy street. “Son of a barghest!” Dahl cried. “Get your guards!”
4
16 Flamerule, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR)
Suzail, Cormyr
HAVILAR HAD HARDLY FINISHED HER COMPLAINT WHEN THE DOOR against the carriage swung open into the other vehicle. Something small and heavy hit Farideh in the breastbone, followed by the splash of a thin liquid that thickened over her arms and lap, sealing her to the carriage seat.
In the same moment, a hooded man with a scarf around his face reached into the carriage, nicking Havilar’s bare arm with a sharp, thin dagger. Havilar turned and slammed her elbow down onto the man’s forearm, shifting to get her legs free.
Her hand slipped off the bench. She crashed to the floor, eyes glazed and lids drooping. The smell of citrus and burnt sugar and blood hit Farideh, as the reaching arms hauled Havilar into the other carriage.
“Havi!” Farideh cried.
The man from the warehouse with the hazel eyes nodded at Farideh, just as the carriage suddenly pulled off, unencumbered after all, taking Havilar with it.
Farideh threw the weight of her body against the tanglefoot bag’s hardening ichor. It shattered on the third try, still sticking in great shards to her blouse and breeches. She lunged for the open door, tearing her sticky sleeve—the carriage was just picking up speed, heading east along the Promenade.
Farideh sprinted after the carriage, pulling her rod free of her torn sleeve. Quick as it was, the engines of Malbolge could spin much more quickly. “Laesurach,” Farideh hissed.
A rift opened in the cobblestones, throwing orange light against the gray buildings as the heart of the world exposed itself. Lava sprayed from the wound, and the horses reared and wheeled. The yoke trapped them, and in their twisting, both fell to the ground. Wood splintered, and the carriage overbalanced, tipping forward on one broken axle. People in the street screamed and ran in all directions.
All directions that led away from Farideh, at least. She glanced back and saw Constancia pick herself up off the ground, sword drawn, and Arlo watching fearfully from the driver’s box.
Twenty feet from the disabled carriage, Farideh pointed the rod at the bit of wood still trapping the thrashing horses. “Assulam!” A burst of splinters and the faint scent of brimstone—the horses whinnied and pulled apart, lunging to their feet, no thought in their minds but fleeing the carriage and the strange magic. The driver pulled a wand as he clung to the carriage, eyeing her as the horses galloped past his reach, parting the growing crowd.
The first rock hit Farideh between the shoulder blades. She whirled, expecting another attacker, another tanglefoot bag. The second struck her shoulder. She threw her arms up to ward off a steady rain of pebbles, thrown by a pack of children.
“Ya! Ya! Devil-child!” an urchin shouted at her, racing closer. “Go back to the Abyss!”
She heard Constancia curse and swords clash. Farideh pulled on her magic, skipped backward through the plane, out of the stones’ reach for a moment. Constancia fought off a pair of seeming-adventurers out of the crowd, their battle blocking Arven and Dorn’s assistance. Another volley of rocks clattered on the cobblestones at her feet. The kidnappers were better prepared this time.
“Godsdamn it!” she heard the man in the carriage shout. “Quit dawdling and get us out of here!”
The driver with the wand eyed Farideh uneasily, but started casting.
She cast a string of blasts at the driver and the carriage as she ran across the gap. Stones struck her—hip, shoulder, cheek, chest. The last slammed into the side of her head, right against the curve of her horn, and she stumbled, vision swirling.
Footfalls, the shouts of children. “You throw one more stone,” Dahl Peredur shouted from her left, “and … I’ll feed you to my drow, you little miscreants! Get!”
Farideh straightened, surprised at the rescue. The man with the wand was attempting once more to finish his spell. But the hazel-eyed man had a wand of his own, pointed straight at her and Dahl.
Farideh grabbed hold of Dahl and pulled him through a tear in the plane, as close to the carriage as she could. A splash of green magic hit the cobblestones behind them, scattering a rain of rock shards.
The hazel-eyed man yelped in surprise. The driver chanted more quickly. The powers of Asmodeus filled Farideh’s veins, stealing her attention. She could hold fast to them, or she could stop the kidnappers. She stopped breathing, focused all she had on the wizard’s wand.
“Assulam!” she managed. The spell missed the wand, but hit the man’s leather vest. It burst into a rain of scraps, startling him. The wand slipped from his hand.
