“Who taught you the knock?” Mercuria asked.
“The Delver Eralynn,” Torrin replied.
The tiefling laid his book on the counter. “The magical rope worked to her satisfaction, I trust?”
“It did,” Torrin answered.
“What would you like?”
“A nephew of mine has the stoneplague. He needs something that will halt the spread of the disease.”
Mercuria smiled, revealing hooklike teeth. “Which will it be?” he asked. “A jar of Keoghtom’s ointment? A potion of life restoration? A regenerative ring?”
Torrin knew that none of those would cure the stoneplague. Yet he played along. “How much for a simple healing potion?”
“How much have you got?” asked the talismonger.
Torrin opened his pouch and tipped out the gold bar Kier had given him. It landed with a dull thud on Mercuria’s counter. Torrin had smoothed off the end Wylfrid had cut; the saw marks were no longer visible.
The tiefling didn’t even glance at the gold bar. “Not enough,” he said.
“Yes it is,” replied Torrin. “A simple healing potion’s just fifty Anvils. That bar is easily worth that.”
“The price has gone up.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. The price has gone down. Healing potions don’t work. I’ve just offered you the equivalent of fifty Anvils for something that’s worthless against the stoneplague, and you won’t touch my gold.”
“I don’t need your gold.”
“No, you don’t, and I’ll tell you why,” Torrin continued. “I’ve spoken to the other Delvers. They tell me you’ve been handing these gold bars out to customers, whenever you need to make up the difference on an expensive trade. You’ve been claiming to have no coin, no gems in your coffers, just gold bars. You want to get rid of them. Why is that?”
Mercuria just stared at him, his red eyes like two glowing coals.
“I think we both know the answer,” Torrin continued. “The stoneplague. The gold bars are causing it. They’re cursed.”
Mercuria’s eyebrows rose. His surprise almost looked genuine. “Really?”
“Don’t even pretend you didn’t know,” Torrin said.
Mercuria rose from his stool as swiftly as an uncoiling serpent. He whipped out a black iron wand, tipped with what looked like a fang, and pointed it at Torrin’s chest. In that same moment, Torrin wrenched the magical mace from his belt and raised it.
They stared at each other across the counter.
“You aren’t going to use that wand,” Torrin said. “There’s something else staying your hand, other than my raised weapon. You need to know something—whether or not I’m the only one who knows you’ve been distributing those gold bars.”
“I won’t insult your intelligence further by asking that question,” Mercuria answered. “Obviously, someone else knows you’re here, and quite obviously they’ll tell the Steel Shields I’ve murdered you if you don’t come back. What’s more, you’re not going to use that mace, since you need me alive in order to learn anything. But you were wrong, when you accused me of knowingly spreading the stoneplague. I knew there had to be something wrong with those gold bars, but not that. Otherwise, I’d never have touched them, no matter how much profit was involved.”
“If that’s true, you’ll have no problem telling me who gave you that gold,” Torrin said, still brandishing his mace. “Tell me who traded you those bars, and I’ll keep my mouth shut about your role in this.”
“Swear it,” said Mercuria. “Swear by Moradin’s beard you’ll keep your word.”
Torrin hesitated. Swear a false oath? Would the Dwarffather understand?
The tiefling snorted. “I thought so,” he said. “You’re lying. Even so, I’ll tell you.”
“So who was it, then?” Torrin asked. “One of the drow? Was this a plot to weaken our city, so that they could attack it?”
Mercuria shook his head. “The gold came from a human, actually. He seemed desperate to divest himself of it. He practically gave the gold to me, at a fraction of its worth by weight. He goes by the name of Vadyr. Assuming he’s still alive, you’ll find him in Helmstar. That’s where he said he was from.”
Interesting. Helmstar was where Kendril had come from, too.
“What makes you think this Vadyr fellow might be dead?” Torrin asked.
Mercuria shrugged. “You’re not the first to come sniffing around after his gold,” he said. “A duergar came into the shop a few days ago, also wanting to know where I’d gotten the gold bars from.”
Torrin’s eyebrows rose. A duergar in Hammergate? Torrin knew the history of that race well; he’d read about it extensively. The duergar had once been dwarves and were still distantly related, but they were a race of evil disposition and foul habits. They’d arisen in Faerûn between four and eight millennia before, in the wake of the disastrous Mindstalker Wars. When the city of Barakuir fell, the surviving dwarves of Clan Duergar were taken prisoner, and enslaved. Centuries of illithid experiments had warped their descendants’ bodies, minds, and souls. The twisted caricatures turned their faces away from the Morndinsamman to worship a cruel and corrupt god. By doing so, they condemned their very souls. Moradin would accept a drow at his forge long before he’d accept a duergar.
The duergar were sworn enemies of the true dwarves. Any duergar who dared show his face in Eartheart—or Hammergate, for that matter—would be slain on sight. Torrin wondered how one had managed to find his way to Mercuria’s shop.
“Did you tell the duergar about Vadyr?” Torrin asked.
“No,” Mercuria replied, nodding at Torrin’s mace. “He wasn’t nearly as … persuasive as you are. I told him I’d long since given out the last of the gold I’d taken in trade, and sent him on his way empty-handed.”
Torrin thought about what he’d just been told. Whomever the duergar was, Torrin wouldn’t let himself be distracted by him. He returned to the matter at hand. “How will I recognize this Vadyr?” he asked.
“He’s missing one of his front teeth. His name may change, but that won’t.”
Torrin blinked in surprise. Human and missing a tooth—that sounded like the rogue who’d knocked him out! He smiled grimly. Mercuria’s words were said to be as thick as flies in a latrine, and typically sprang from the same source. But that time, Torrin felt, the tiefling was telling the truth.
“I see you believe me,” Mercuria said. “But we still seem to be at a stalemate. You have no plans to let me go without a fight, do you?”
“People have died because of you, tiefling,” Torrin replied. “You deserve to be punished.”
“Would you be saying that if I was a dwarf, instead of a tiefling?” Mercuria asked. He shook his head. “Don’t you realize you can’t judge a scroll by the ribbon that ties it?”
“I judge you by the company you keep.”
Mercuria waved his free hand dismissively, still keeping the wand level. “People might say the same of the Delvers, for associating with me,” he replied. “But these philosophical debates are tiresome. So let’s cut to the quick, and see if I can’t change your mind about me with actions, rather than words.
“I saw the anguished look in your eyes when you told me about that ‘nephew’ of yours. Someone you care about has the stoneplague. I have something that can help. Not a cure, but an ointment that can stop time. Exceedingly rare and expensive. It’s yours if you’ll lower that mace.”
Torrin felt his eyes widening. He’d heard rumors of such a thing; some of the Delver texts had mentioned there was a magical unguent that was occasionally used to preserve very rare, very precious artifacts and scrolls from rot and decay. But would it work on a living being?
“How do you use it?” he asked.
Mercuria smiled. “Just rub it on the body,” he replied, “taking care not to get any on yourself, in the process. That person becomes frozen in time until the unguent’s magic is dispelled. It’s not a cure, but it will keep your ‘nephew’ a
live until a cure is found.”
Torrin knew his duty. He’d come here intending to learn if the tiefling was guilty, and if he was, to speak the previously agreed upon word that would summon the Peacehammers to arrest him. But when he thought of Kier, the balance tipped the other way. If the ointment worked as Mercuria had said, surely it was worth risking whatever trickery the tiefling had up his sleeve.
Slowly, Torrin lowered his mace until its head touched the floor.
Keeping his wand pointed at Torrin, Mercuria reached below the counter and brought out an iron hoop. It was a thin belt of black metal, the same size and shape as a barrel hoop. As Mercuria laid it down, the countertop inside the circle blurred, as if seen through a thick, uneven pane of glass.
Mercuria leaned over the hoop, one eye still on Torrin, and whispered. He cocked an ear to the hoop, as if listening, then straightened. “This may take a moment,” he said.
Torrin waited, his stomach in a knot. Was he doing the right thing? There was no turning back The wand was still pointed at his chest, and Torrin would never be able to bring his mace to bear in time.
Torrin smelled sulfur. A tendril of yellow smoke wisped up from the center of the hoop. Suddenly, a greenish, three-fingered hand thrust upward, seemingly out of the counter top. The hand was covered in small spines that wept blood. And it held what looked like a hollow bone, slightly longer than Torrin’s forearm. Its ends had been sealed with red wax and a layer of black lead foil.
Mercuria plucked the bone from the hand. Immediately, the hand opened in a demanding gesture. The tiefling turned to Torrin. “Now it’s up to you,” he said. “Choose your payment.”
“You never said anything about payment!” Torrin protested.
“There’s always a price to be paid,” Mercuria said. “You have two options, either of which will be acceptable to my suppliers. Your weapon …”
Torrin shook his head firmly.
“Or … that,” Mercuria said. pointing at the sending stone around Torrin’s neck. He raised a finger to his lips. “And if it is the latter, I won’t hear a single word of protest, will I? And you’ll maintain that silence for the duration of our negotiations, or the deal is off.” He stared meaningfully at Torrin. “Nod, if that’s clear.”
Suddenly, Torrin didn’t feel as clever as he had when the exchange had begun. Mercuria had been playing with him, all along. By forcing Torrin to hand over the sending stone, the tiefling would ensure he’d get a good enough head start to elude the Peacehammers. Torrin might come up with a clever story to explain how he’d lost the sending stone, but sooner or later, he was certain, it would be discovered to be a lie. The consequences might be severe. But if the ointment really worked as Mercuria said it did …
Without speaking, Torrin lifted the thong from around his neck and handed Mercuria the sending stone. The tiefling took it with a smirk, and let it fall toward the hoop. The hand caught it and disappeared back into the countertop.
Mercuria handed the bone to Torrin.
Torrin took it. The bone felt warm, as though it had just come from an oven. “This had better be the real thing,” he said.
Mercuria glared down his nose at Torrin. “Don’t insult me. And don’t even think of threatening me again.” He raised his hoop. “I have powerful friends.”
“Friends like that are only friends until the day you cross them,” Torrin retorted.
With a chuckle, Mercuria raised the hoop above his head and let it fall over himself. Torrin whipped up his mace, hoping to knock it aside, but it was too late. Mercuria was gone, already teleported away to some foul realm. The hoop landed on the floor with a clatter and vanished; the only trace of it was a round scorch mark on the floorboards.
A wisp of yellow smoke rose from that spot, then vanished.
Torrin dropped a moonflower into the offering font that was already overflowing with white flowers, gems, and silver coins. He murmured a prayer to Berronar Truesilver, the goddess of home and hearth. Following the abrupt closure of Sharindlar’s sacred pools—the reason for which had yet to be revealed to the general populace—it had fallen to the clerics of Berronar to tend to those afflicted by the stoneplague. Her main temple had been turned into a hospice for the dying. Berronar was less commonly associated with comforting the sick, but home in the goddess’s embrace was preferable for those waiting the journey to their next life.
Torrin made his way through the cavern, past the hundreds of mattresses of living moss on which the afflicted lay. The smell was almost overwhelming—a mix of vomit, urine, and stale sweat. Harried-looking Revered Sisters and Revered Brothers bustled back and forth, directing the tallfolk servants who’d been hired to tend the sick. Despite the Lord Scepter having thrown open the treasury for the duration of the crisis, there weren’t enough helpers. The tallfolk not only didn’t have to fear the stoneplague, they didn’t have to face it if they didn’t want to.
Despite Torrin’s discovery that the cursed gold was the cause of the stoneplague, the most renowned of Eartheart’s wizards, alchemists, loremasters, and sages—working in secret, under order from the Deep Lords—had yet to find a way to purge its curse. They had used magic to destroy a large pile of the gold that had so far been recovered, but even though that gold was gone, the curse lingered. Not a single person among the afflicted had responded to a curative spell. Clerics from dozens of faiths had tried to cure the afflicted, but failed.
The Morndinsamman seemed indeed to have turned away from their chosen people. All their clerics could do was comfort the dying.
Likewise, the information Torrin had wrested from Mercuria had proved to be a dead end. The Steel Shields had immediately scoured the streets of Hammergate for Vadyr, but had no success in running the rogue to ground. A squad had departed for Helmstar, to see if he might be found there, but proved futile, too. They had, however, managed to confirm that a human by that name had until recently resided there—a suddenly extremely wealthy human, to no one’s surprise. “Spending gold like copper,” as tavern talk had it.
Eartheart’s wizards had used their magic to scour all the Deeps for Vadyr, but the rogue had so far proved impossible to find. No doubt he was screened by expensive magical wards against scrying, paid for with all that gold.
Despite those disappointments, Torrin still had one nugget firmly in hand—the ointment the tiefling had given him. Sadly, the time had at last come to try it, to see if it would do what Mercuria had claimed, or whether it was just fool’s gold.
He picked his way across the cavern, to the spot where Kier lay. The living carpet had been worn down to bare stone in many places by the constant coming and going; the tiny white flowers in the moss were wilted from lack of watering. Luminescent lichen still sparkled prettily on the ceiling, but the temple’s gemstone-encrusted altars had long since been packed away—not for fear they’d be stolen, but simply to prevent them from being knocked over.
A statue of the Mother Goddess dominated the center of the room. Seated on her throne, with her mace across her lap, Berronar stared with a placid expression at the groaning, weeping, and all-too-silent victims who filled the cavern.
Kier lay propped up with pillows and covered by a blanket. He held his toy dragon in one hand, but wasn’t playing with it. He just stared at the far wall, his mouth slightly open.
“Kier?” Torrin called. “It’s me, Uncle Torrin.”
Kier turned his head slightly. Torrin repressed a gasp at how much the boy had deteriorated. His hands and arms were a solid gray, already calcifying and no longer capable of movement. His eyelids were red and swollen. A mass of brittle gray flakes covered his cheeks and forehead. The salve the healers had spread on his cracked lips had done little good; it glistened moistly but failed to soak into the skin.
“Unh … Ahh …” the boy said. His hand flopped listlessly against the blankets.
Torrin felt sick to his stomach. He caught the attention of one of the Revered Sisters—an older woman with silver hair and dark ci
rcles under her eyes. “This is my nephew,” Torrin told her. “I’m taking him home to his own bed. His family will care for him from this point on.”
The cleric nodded absently. By Berronar Truesilver’s grace, it was impossible to speak a lie in the cavern. Nor was it possible to steal. She had no cause to think the boy would come to further harm. Or maybe she was too exhausted to care.
Torrin slid his arms under Kier and lifted. The boy felt twice as heavy as he should; Torrin grunted under the strain. He picked his way through the cavern, steadfastly ignoring the pleas of the others.
“Muh … muh-hah …” Kier croaked.
“Your mother is—” Torrin halted himself just in time, before Berronar’s magic could force the truth out of him. His eyes and nose prickled. He bit his lip, refusing to let the tears come. Ambril had died yesterday, vomiting blood that looked like tar and smelled like mud. Kier would have to be told that his mother had died, but his father should be the one to tell him that sad news.
Torrin carried Kier toward the Thunsonn clanhold. They passed the empty steam caverns. No one wanted to chance sitting on a bench next to someone who might have the stoneplague, breathing the same steamy air, despite all assurances that it was impossible to catch the stoneplague that way. He made his way by side cavern to the clanhold, hoping to pass fewer people. And he wore his dagger at his hip, just in case a confrontation turned ugly.
He needn’t have bothered. The few people he did pass refused to make eye contact. They shied against the far wall or turned and walked swiftly the other way.
At last Torrin reached Kier’s room. He went inside, closed the door with his foot, and laid Kier on his bed. Torrin’s back creaked as he straightened. It had been a long walk. “I’m going to take off those stale clothes, Kier,” he told the boy. He stripped Kier, took one look at the hollow looking stomach and staring ribs, and pulled a blanket over the boy.
The Gilded Rune Page 15
