“As chattel?” Karkober said coldly. He looked at her in surprise. However, she did not avert her gaze or soften her retort. “I’m sorry, Mr. Blade, but I didn’t like your … friend … Gamor Turkal. He never once looked at me with anything approaching humanity. If I wasn’t a vessel for his fantasies, I was little more than a piece of furniture bringing him his ale.” Only then did she lower her head sadly. “Is that so terrible?”
“No,” Pryce assured her, looking calmly ahead. “That’s not nearly as terrible as the other thing we’ve been doing since I first introduced the subject.”
She looked at him with surprise and just a touch of misgiving. “What’s that?”
“Speaking of him in the past tense,” he revealed with a cheerless smile. “Excuse me, would you?” Pryce hastened his stride to move down the passageway until he approached Azzo Schreders.
Unlike his serving wench, Schreders seemed honestly glad to see him. “Blade! Let me say how honored I am to be chosen to even touch, let alone carry, such valuable magical items. Ill be telling my grandchildren and great-grandchildren about this! Eh, eh?”
“And hopefully even your not-so-great grandchildren, unless they’ve been sent to bed early,” Pryce quipped feebly. Before the barkeep could summon up a forced laugh, Covington continued. “How could I have thought of anyone but the man who makes Lallor run? Everyone knows that if you need refreshment or information, Azzoparde Schreders is at your service.”
The man’s wordless acknowledgement was lacking a bit of his previous bonhomie. Pryce continued, unabashed. “How did you secure such a superlative establishment in the first place? Prices must have been prohibitive, especially a building with such an extensive liquor grotto. What’s your secret, Azzo?”
The man looked stunned by the questions and more than a bit concerned. “Come, come, Azzo,” Pryce said with genuine amusement. “You can tell me. After all, I’m the great Darlington Blade.”
“Sir,” the tavern master started slowly, losing all familiarity and licking his lips, “I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details of my education, training, and experience as a manager of eating and drinking establishments.”
“Of course not,” Pryce agreed. “But I would like to know, in all seriousness, how a man of your education, training, and … what was the third thing again?”
“Experience.”
“Yes, thank you. Experience … What was I saying?”
“In all seriousness … a man of my experience …”
“Ah, yes! Tell me, Azzo, how could you not know about these caverns?”
Azzo blinked, swallowed, and replied, “I did.”
“Yes?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Blade, certainly!” Azzo practically burbled in his rush to confess. “I knew about them all along. This area is attached to my grotto by a small opening high on the rear wall. I knew they were here, but as you can see, I would have had to do extensive renovating to make them suitable for my liquor cellar. Besides, I had no idea where they led to and had no desire for all manner of creatures having access to my liquid refreshments. So I placed a large wine cask over the opening to seal it off.” His smile was tentative. “I even filled the cask with our least distinctive vintage.”
“Really?” Pryce replied with appreciation. “Not much chance of that particular cask being drunk dry, then, eh? Eh?”
Schreders chuckled nervously at Pryce’s imitation of his verbal habit “You’d be surprised,” he said with forced friendliness. “Why, it was the favorite brew of many, shall we say, less discerning palates?”
Pryce chuckled back. “Like Gamor Turkal’s?”
Schreders stopped chuckling. He even went a little pale. “Why, yes … come to think of it … it’s the only thing Gamor ever drank.”
Pryce nodded. “How endlessly interesting,” he commented, quoting the nervous serving wench. “Thank you, Azzo. You’ve told me what I needed to know. Excuse me, won’t you?” He quickly bounded over to where Asche Hartov was heading up the retinue. “Ah, Asche, leading the way, I see.” The mine owner didn’t reply. Pryce tried again. “Spellbooks,” he said, glancing at the volumes the man carried.
“You have a solid grasp of the obvious,” Hartov said coldly.
“Still angry at me about the false name?”
“Angry? No, not angry. Offended.”
“Come now, Asche! You know very well that the nature of our business discussions would have changed had you known I was Darlington Blade!”
“Not at all!”
“Now who’s fooling whom?” Pryce exclaimed. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t have dropped—or hiked, depending upon your mood—the price if you had known you were negotiating with the great Darlington Blade? That you wouldn’t have at least checked your sources and contacts to see what possible edge you could discover? If you even think of telling me that, then you’re not the businessman I respect or know.”
While he talked, Pryce could see that Hartov was trying to smother a growing smirk, but he managed to contain his acknowledgment of the truth long enough to say, “Respect?”
“Certainly!” Pryce said expansively, putting out his arms. “Everyone from the top of Mount Alue to the tip of Githim knows the name of Asche Hartov, purveyor of high-quality ore.” He put his arm around the mine owner’s shoulder and spoke directly and quietly into his ear. “In fact, when I saw you in Schreders’s tavern the other night, and again the night before that, I couldn’t help thinking, Now, what is Asche Hartov doing in Lallor? He doesn’t have a vacation home here. And who, in such an exclusive retreat, would be interested in buying ore even Teddington Fullmer wouldn’t touch?”
Hartov looked at Pryce’s smiling face in surprise, then with a trace of concern.
“Worried that I really am Darlington Blade?” Pryce wondered aloud. “Think I might be able to see right through that thin forehead of yours?” He removed his arm from Asche’s shoulder and stepped away. The retinue suddenly stopped, all eyes on the mine owner. The inquisitrixes and militiamen watched intently as Pryce pointed at Hartov.
“Speak now, Asche,” Covington demanded, “and speak the truth.”
“I—I thought Geerling Ambersong might be interested,” the mine owner sputtered, his eyes moving back and forth between Pryce and the inquisitrixes. “I heard he had plans for a skyship. And I knew he would appear for certain at this year’s Fall Festival to announce his choice for his successor as primary mage.” He stared at Pryce for a moment, then looked straight ahead. “I—I thought I might confer with him there.”
“Fascinating,” Pryce judged. “And where did you acquire this fountain of information?”
“What?”
“How did you know all this, Asche?”
“I—I told you, Cost … I mean, Darling … I mean, Blade! You know how it is. I heard a rumor.…”
Pryce smiled but kept him on the hook. “From whom?”
“What?”
“Stop stalling for time and answer my questions. Whom did you hear the rumor from?”
“From whom? I—I don’t—”
“You do!” Pryce bellowed. “Who?”
“Gamor!” Hartov yelled, then stumbled. Pryce caught his arm and steadied him. When he was erect again, he couldn’t meet Pryce’s eyes. “Gamor Turkal,” he said miserably.
“Ah, Gamor Turkal,” Covington repeated with a tight smile, turning to the others. “Gamor once: a coincidence. Gamor twice: a pattern. Gamor three times: a connection. Gamor four times: a conspiracy!” He turned to the tavern owner, the serving wench, and the mine owner. “Follow me, you three … now.”
Pryce marched up to where Berridge Lymwich and Matthaunin Witterstaet stood on either side of the cavern opening just behind Schreders’s restaurant. The opening in the wall had been widened to make room for the small army of security people who secured the location.
Pryce stood beside the gatekeeper as the three suspects emerged, blinking, into the tiny courtyard outside the restaurant’s back door. E
ach gave Covington a different look as he or she passed. Sheyrhen: recrimination and concern. Schreders: confusion and apology. Hartov: nervousness and distress. But before any of them could speak, several militiamen and Inquisitrixes resolutely chaperoned them into the establishment.
That left Covington alone in the courtyard with Matthaunin and Berridge. “Anything?” Pryce asked Witterstaet out the corner of his mouth.
Matthaunin shook his head. “Not an ion of magical ability among the three of them.”
“Enough guilt and fear to fill a wine cask, however,” Lymwich groused. “Any one of them could have killed Fullmer.”
“Let thee without guilt take the first sip,” Pryce commented, then turned back to Witterstaet. “Do you have any idea what that means?”
“Not a bit, Mister Blade.”
“I was afraid of that.” He looked to Lymwich, who was shaking her head in disbelief. “Are we ready for our voyage?” he asked her.
Much to his surprise, she gave him a snappy salute, then motioned toward the back door. “Yes, sir. Right this way, sir.”
He marveled that there was a sense of humor, or at least irony, beneath her iron foundation. The thought was pushed aside, however, by a growing sense of excitement. He looked at Matthaunin, who smiled and nodded sagely. “Oh, this will be a real treat, Mr. Blade,” the gatekeeper said. “It has been quite some time since these old eyes of mine have witnessed a voyage of the magnitude you have requested.”
“And been granted, apparently,” Pryce said. “Let’s go see the vessel that we’ll be using, shall we?” He walked quickly through the kitchen and into the bar, the gatekeeper trailing behind.
Normally when one entered Schreders At Your Service by the rear door, the glory that was Lallor would fill his eyes as he passed the bar and walked into the main room. There, Lallor Bay would be stretched out before him, beyond the crystal-clear windows that covered the front wall of the restaurant.
Pryce retrieved the book he had left behind the bar and then stepped into the central salon. But this time, he could see almost nothing of Lallor. Although the sun was almost a quarter of the way across the sky, the tables of Schreders were dark and empty. A shadow filled the room, and the bright autumn sunshine was blocked from view. Instead, through the windows, Pryce saw the rich brown beauty of the finest stevlyman wood.
Lymwich and Witterstaet went one way around the tables, and Pryce went the other. They met at the front door and went outside at the same time. The gatekeeper walked to the bow of the huge structure floating outside the restaurant, while Covington moved toward the passenger gangplank at the stern.
Between them, they took in the magnificence of the Great Mystran Skyship Verity.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Too High a Pryce
The skyship was virtually the national symbol of Halruaa. With the exception of fiery Haerlu wine, it was what most people thought of whenever Halruaa was mentioned. Its three towering masts were set in a broad-beamed skyfaring vessel equally at home in the air, on the water, or on land.
Pryce moved through the crowd that was gathering to admire the polished plates along the hull that mimicked the appearance of a dragon turtle. He looked toward Lymwich with an expression that said “nice touch.” He looked back toward the hull when he saw she wasn’t paying the slightest attention to him. Instead, she was checking an inventory list with the leader of the crew, who knelt in the open door of the hold.
Pryce put his ear close to the thick, shining wood of the hull to listen for the hum of the central silver shaft of levitation and the two golden cylinders of control, one at each end of the ship. The power source had to be recharged once a year by council members. By the powerful sound of the huge ship as it hovered five feet off the ground and fifteen feet in front of Schreders’s door, it must have been recharged very recently. The ship was luxurious, yet it still had old-fashioned rustic charm. Pryce felt such a sense of welcome that he could hardly wait to get on board. He continued to make his way through the milling crowd of admiring onlookers, Lallor dignitaries, skyship crew members, and security officers.
None gave Darlington Blade the Lallor hello. Instead, they smiled, nodded, and cast approving glances his way. Pryce felt certain that by the time the ship was ready to leave, everyone in Lallor would treat him the same way. Never had Pryce felt such acceptance. These people were not judging his performance. They were really listening. Now, all he had to do was give them something to listen to.
“Who are you?”
Pryce hopped back to avoid bumping into Dearlyn Ambersong. Her eyes were haunted and red-rimmed, with dark circles beneath them. Her skin was pallid. He stopped, leaned toward her, stared, then leaned back again. “You should be on board,” he told her quietly.
“Who are you?” she whispered urgently again.
He whispered back. “I’m Darlington Blade.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
Despite all the people around them, the two felt alone. She blinked and her eyes started to get wet. Then her lips grew thin, tight, and bloodless. As he watched, she somehow regained her composure. “You told me you weren’t,” she said, a deadly chill in her voice.
“You were going to kill me.”
“But if you really were Darlington Blade, I couldn’t have killed you!”
Even though her voice had begun to rise, Pryce did not alter his manner, volume, or tone. “Yes, but if I weren’t Darlington Blade, I most certainly would have hurt you.”
She blinked, her mouth opening and closing on that conundrum. “But … you said … my father …”
Very carefully, he placed his hand on her arm, hoping he could keep her from falling apart. “Miss Ambersong. Dearlyn. Listen to me. I care for … ” He swallowed, unable to finish the sentence after everything he had knowingly, and unknowingly, done to her. “I care what you think of me,” he was finally able to say. “Get on board the ship. No matter what you may feel, and no matter what you have suffered, this I can promise you: It will all be over soon. Do as I ask. Please.”
She stared at him for a few seconds more, then spun on her heel and hurried up the gangplank. Pryce took a deep breath, fighting off a feeling of shame. He straightened his shoulders and reminded himself that he had a difficult and extremely dangerous job to do. He touched the clasp and moved toward the companionway.
Several people he recognized as elders of the council gave him the highest sign of Lallor approval, “the Halruan Salute”—a nod of the head while pointing at the brain with the forefinger. Pryce was pleased to return the sign, hoping he would be living up to it very soon. He allowed himself a nod, minus the brain-pointing, to various other interested parties, including some junior patrol leaders, the head militiamen, and even a few elves and half-elves whose interest in illusion was so great that they were allowed to study in the city.
Finally Pryce made his way through the excited crowd to a walkway that led up to the deck. At the top of the gantry, a young human crew member was checking the passenger list. “Where is the captain?” Pryce inquired.
The crewman pointed toward the upper deck, where an officious older woman in a handsome sky-blue uniform, complete with golden epaulets and silver buttons, stood beside a pair of carved cylinders. Pryce walked quickly past several other crew members who were bustling around the deck and hopped up the ladder-like steps to where she stood. He put out his hand as he approached her.
“Permission to sail with you, Captain. I am Darlington Blade.”
Without hesitation, the woman took his forearm in her hand and he gripped hers in return. When people rode in a skyship together, they depended on and trusted each other implicitly. “Captain Renwick Scottpeter, Mr. Blade. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“It’s a pleasure for me to be finally met.” He looked at the blue sky and the gray clouds off in the distance. “Is everything in readiness for our voyage of sanctuary?”
“The inquisitrixes and priestesse
s of Mount Talath have prepared a beacon queue for us to follow,” Captain Scottpeter reported. “Once we reach a certain altitude, we will be irrevocably drawn to the Central Temple of Mystra, where Greila Sontoin awaits us.”
Pryce spun his head toward her. “Greila Sontoin herself?” he asked incredulously.
“To receive the life’s work of Geerling Ambersong, personally delivered by Darlington Blade? She said, and I quote, that she ‘wouldn’t miss it for all the electrum in Zoundar.’ ”
Pryce smiled back with excitement and just a slight case of nausea. Sontoin was said to possess unearthly wisdom. “I am anxious to see how our meeting goes,” he said honestly.
“As I am to see what you have planned for our expedition,” said the captain, now surveying the horizon. “I’m told you have a most unique … entertainment … prepared.”
Pryce grimaced. That would be the way Lymwich would term it. “I wouldn’t precisely call it an entertainment, nor would I say I’m exactly prepared. I do hope, however, that you and your crew have also been advised to be prepared … for anything.”
The captain nodded. “Please do not concern yourself on that score, Mr. Blade. You can rest assured that we will sail this ship with infinite pride and determination no matter what occurs.”
“Thank you, Captain. Now, is there some place where I can make ready for my presentation?”
She led him to her quarters, which were nestled below the upper deck, looking out the stern. After showing him inside, the captain took her leave. The ceiling was low, but otherwise the room was plush and comfortable. A crimson-covered bed was recessed into the wall toward the bow. A table and chairs were placed below windows that looked out the starboard side. An imposing wooden desk rested below the stern windows.
To his relief and growing pleasure, the wardrobe he had asked for was laid out on the bed. Before he concerned himself with it, however, Pryce took a moment to survey Lallor, and Lallor Bay, from above. It was indeed a beautiful city … truly the hidden jewel of Halruaa. Its proudly executed design made it a place to fight for, to die for … and apparently to kill for.
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