by Kate Novak
“Which way did Ruskettle go?” Mist asked.
Giogioni gulped. Only a cad would betray that cute little bard. He was determined not to be a cad.
A little steam escaped from Mist’s nostrils, but enough Wyvernspur blood—and Rivengut—pumped through Giogioni’s veins to give him the courage to keep silent.
“Very well,” the dragon sighed. “If that’s the way it has to be.” She slipped a claw through the back of the man’s shirt and lifted him from the ground.
“Oh, gods!” he gasped, sure he was about to follow Daisyeye into heaven. Instead of swallowing him, though, the dragon lifted him up, beat her massive wings, and took off from the ground.
Mist spiralled up over the Cormyrian countryside. When she reached a cruising altitude of one thousand feet she barked, “Look down, Giogi.”
“No, please! I’m not very good with heights.”
“You’ll be an expert on them in a moment, for all of eight seconds—at which time you’ll hit the ground rather hard—unless you tell me which way Ruskettle went.”
“Suzail!” Giogioni gasped. “She headed toward Suzail! On a small pony named High Roll.”
“Such a nice boy. I knew we could come to an understanding. Now, I need a message taken to King Azoun.”
“Oh. I’d be happy to, but there’s just a teensy problem. You see, at the moment, I’m not very welcome in court. I wouldn’t be the best person to represent your interests.”
“That’s too bad, Giogi,” Mist said. “If you can’t help me out, I don’t have any more use for you, and if I don’t have any more use for you, I may as well just drop you here.”
“No! No. I’ll do it. Anything. Just don’t drop me, please!”
Mist smiled, and dove toward the earth.
* * * * *
Azoun IV focused his telescope at a point west of the city walls, on the Fields of the Dead. “What cheek,” he muttered. The dragon, Mist, had taken up a post on Suzail’s burial ground, outside the gates of the city, but near enough to be seen by any of the populace who cared to swarm on top of the walls. And swarm they did, too intrigued by the preening wild beast to fear for their lives. No work would get done in the city until the monster left.
“If only we still had the Seventh Division in the city,” His Majesty sighed.
Vangerdahast spoke from the doorway, where he awaited reports from his own network of spies. “I assure you, Your Highness, that Tilverton’s need of them was greater than our own. Besides, Lord Giogioni said that she would fly off only if attacked, and then her offer will be rescinded.”
“It would have to be a sudden, single deathblow. I don’t suppose any foolhardy adventurers have come forward, offering their services?” Azoun turned from the window to address his court wizard.
Vangerdahast shook his head. “The wyrm has chosen her ground too well. There is no cover for a sneak attack, and she will leave before sunset, so we cannot use the darkness to any advantage. Mist is too wise to fly over the city and set off the magical wards protecting it.”
“Well, I don’t like this. Dealing with a creature like that goes against my grain.”
“Her offer is quite generous, Your Highness, if she keeps her word and departs the area forever. In addition to making the merchant caravan routes safe again, there are livestock and Your Highness’s own hunting grounds to consider, both of which Mist has seriously depleted of late.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you, Vangy. Naturally I’d expect the merchants to jump at the chance of ridding us of the dragon at the price of a human sacrifice. I, however, must consider the safety of all my people, even some poor, little adventuress.”
“This Alias claimed to be from Westgate, Your Highness,” Vangerdahast said, already putting her in the past tense.
“Even worse. How would it look to the outside world, foreign traders and travelers, if I simply turned over one of their own just to rid my realm of a dragon?”
“If it please Your Highness, there is something more you should know about this poor, little adventuress. Something to indicate a more sinister nature.”
Azoun tapped his foot impatiently. “Well?”
“Perhaps you should hear it from a firsthand witness,” Vangerdahast suggested, nodding toward the young man who stood in a corner, working hard at steadying his nerves with large snifters of brandy.
“Giogioni!” Azoun snapped. “What do you know about this Alias of Westgate?”
“Me?” Giogioni squeaked, turning toward Azoun.
“You,” the wizard insisted. “It would be best if His Highness heard it in your own words.”
“I suppose so,” Giogioni whispered, though he didn’t suppose so at all.
“Spit it out, boy,” Azoun ordered.
“She was at the wedding, Freffie’s, uh, Lord Frefford’s. She attacked me. Tried to kill me. Would have succeeded, too, if the crowd hadn’t gotten in her way.”
“What was this lady killer doing at the wedding of Lord Frefford and Sage Dimswart’s daughter?” Azoun asked.
“Dimswart said he was doing some research for her because she was under some curse,” Giogioni blurted.
“Dimswart would have to come up with an excuse,” Vangerdahast said.
Azoun wrinkled his brow in confusion. “Why would this woman try to kill you?”
“She thought I was you,” Giogioni answered with a gulp.
“What nonsense. You don’t look anything like me.”
“No, Your Highness,” Giogioni agreed.
“He does, however, do a remarkable impression of Your Highness’s voice,” Vangerdahast explained.
“He does? You do?”
Giogioni nodded weakly.
“Well, let’s hear it,” Azoun said.
Giogioni’s jaw dropped, and his face went pale.
“Come on, boy,” Azoun prompted him.
“If you please, Your Highness,” the Wyvernspur nobleman gulped, “I would rather n—”
“That’s an order!”
Giogioni gulped. “M-m-my Cormytes,” he began. “My people, as your king, as King Azoun, and as King Azoun IV, I must say that the need to raise your taxes is a result of the depravations of-of-of th-this d-dragon.”
“I don’t sound like that,” Azoun said, scowling.
“With respect, Your Highness,” Vangerdahast intervened, “you do.”
“I don’t stutter like that,” Azoun objected.
“No, Your Highness. Lord Giogioni’s stutter is a consequence of the shock he’s had. Ordinarily, his impression of you would be much better. Apparently, he was giving a performance at the wedding when he was attacked.”
“But he still doesn’t look like me.”
“No, but perhaps this Alias woman thought you were in disguise. You have been known to travel incognito. Any good assassin would know that. If she did indeed come from Westgate, there can be little question exactly who sent her.”
“No,” Azoun agreed, remembering the numerous threats made by the Fire Knives when he banished them from his kingdom. Their new headquarters was in Westgate.
There was a knock on the tower room door, and Vangerdahast left to answer it.
Azoun looked at Giogioni, who swayed slightly. Wyvernspur blood must be getting thin for one little dragon to upset him so, the king thought. “Better sit down, boy,” he said kindly. “Not there, that’s my chair,” Azoun corrected him before the young man sank onto His Majesty’s own royal, purple cushion.
Vangerdahast returned to the conference table. In his wake was a portly, balding man in a tavernkeeper’s apron.
“Who’s this?” Azoun asked.
The man bowed his head. “Phocius Green, Your Highness. Owner of the inn and tavern The Hidden Lady.”
Azoun shot a questioning glance over the barkeep’s head to Vangerdahast.
“The woman Alias stayed several evenings in The Hidden Lady,” the wizard explained.
“Oh. You came to tell us about her?” Azoun a
sked the barkeep.
“Begging Your Majesty’s pardon, but I was summoned.”
“Oh?” Azoun looked surprised.
Vangerdahast explained further. “Since I have been unable to track this Alias woman by magical means, a suspicious circumstance in and of itself, I summoned Goodman Green here. I knew the woman had stayed at his inn, because one of Your Majesty’s citizens reported her last week to the town guard. Apparently, he thought she was a Rashemen witch.”
“Mitcher Trollslayer,” the barkeep muttered.
“What made the man think that?” Azoun asked.
“She was branded with a bizarre tattoo,” the wizard explained. “A member of the Council of Mages went to the inn to register her, but the woman was unconscious, so the councilman let her be.”
“Please, Your Highness,” the barkeep interrupted. “She was no witch, just a sell-sword. She came in with so much iron on her she wouldn’t’ve been able to cast a light even if she were magic.”
“Where is she now?” His Majesty asked.
The barkeep shrugged. “She left nearly a ride ago, Your Highness.”
“When exactly?” Vangerdahast asked.
The barkeep thought for a moment. “The fifteenth, Your Lordship.”
“Eight days. Do you know which way she was heading?” the wizard asked.
The barkeep stiffened. He turned to address his answer to the king. “Please, Your Highness, you aren’t going to tell the dragon where she is, are you? She hasn’t done any harm. She’s just an adventuress with some bad luck.”
“What makes you think she has something to do with the dragon?” Azoun asked.
“Well, she fought it, now didn’t she?” the barkeep said. “Freed Olive Ruskettle, the famous bard. The bard herself told me.”
“That’s right,” Giogioni piped up from his chair. “She told us all about it at the wedding party. Ruskettle told us, that is. Wonderful bard.”
Having confirmed the barkeep’s story, Giogi went back to slurping His Majesty’s brandy and humming snatches of Ruskettle’s wedding song.
“Did you know about that, Vangy?” Azoun asked.
The royal wizard colored slightly. “No, Your Highness.”
Azoun turned to the barkeep. “For the time being we need to know where this Alias is. She may be nothing more than a sell-sword, but she could be something much more dangerous. We must know all about her. Now, which way was she heading?”
The barkeep sighed. “She and the bard and the Turmish mage said something about going to Westgate, then they said something about going to Yulash.”
“Yulash?” Azoun exclaimed. “How bizarre.”
“The two towns are in opposite directions,” the wizard pointed out. “Which way did they decide to go?”
The barkeep thought for a moment again. He remembered the Turmish mage listing all the reasons for going to Westgate. The barkeep was a loyal subject to his king, but he didn’t quite trust the wizard Vangerdahast. To him, Alias would always be the hidden lady and hence, like the name of his inn, good luck. She had looked so miserable the last night she’d stayed at his hostel. The barkeep was not keen on turning her over to the undoubtedly less than tender ministrations of the royal wizard.
“The lady wanted to go to Yulash,” he told Vangerdahast.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Goodman Green,” the wizard replied. “You may leave now.”
The barkeep bowed his head to the king and left the tower room. Vangerdahast’s eyes followed him thoughtfully.
“I don’t know many assassins who rescue bards in distress,” Azoun said to his wizard.
“But many make deals with dragons, Your Highness, and as is the way with their kind, they often cheat on their agreements. The dragon might only be interested in collecting an unpaid debt.”
“But why would the bard lie about her rescue?”
“This Olive Ruskettle is a halfling. She may not be a bard.”
Giogioni rose from his chair. “Now, hold on just a moment,” he said. “She’s a fine bard. What gives you the right to slander people just because they’re short?”
Vangerdahast fixed the noble with a cold stare.
“Well, I thought she was good,” Giogioni muttered, sitting back down.
King Azoun struggled with his conscience and his reason. On one hand, if this woman were an assassin, he wasn’t troubled by letting the dragon take care of her. On the other hand, if she were some innocent victim of a curse, he wasn’t going to sleep well that night. Still, it was a long road to Yulash. The dragon might not find her, he reasoned, and Alias had defeated it once already. Ridding Cormyr of a dragon was no small accomplishment for a king.
He nodded his assent to Vangerdahast’s plan.
“Lord Giogioni,” the wizard said. “Upon receiving the dragon’s promise to leave and never return to Cormyr, you will inform the creature that Alias of Westgate left Suzail eight days ago. To the best of your knowledge, the adventuress was headed toward Yulash.”
Giogioni rose to his feet with a sigh, bowed his head, and left on his mission.
“Perhaps now that he’s served as Your Majesty’s messenger, he might consider rendering you some other service.”
“Such as?”
“Investigating Westgate,” the wizard suggested.
Azoun’s brow furrowed in anger. “You mean that barkeep was lying! Why didn’t you tell me?”
Vangerdahast shook his head. “No, Goodman Green was telling the truth, though perhaps not all of it. The woman and her companions were seen leaving by the Eastgate, which leads to the road north.”
“So, why send Giogi to Westgate?”
“The barkeep may have been mistaken. Alias could make it to Yulash and back to Westgate without the dragon finding her. Someone who knows her appearance and holds your interests to heart should be sent there, just in case.”
Azoun nodded. He turned back to the window and peered over the western wall again. “You remember, Vangy, when I was your pupil and you used to give me those tests in ethics?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“I always hated them. Still do.”
“Only now, Your Highness,” Vangerdahast replied softly, “they are no longer tests.”
Shadow Gap
Whenever Alias saw Shadow Gap she thought of some weary titan dragging his axe behind him as he stepped over the hills. At least that was how she imagined the creation of the steep-sided, steep-sloped gorge that split the mountains in two.
No more than an hour of noon sunlight ever reached the floor of the pass. At all other times, it remained in the shadow of the mountains, hence its name.
The gap was barren, save for a scattering of short, scrubby bushes. The road through it wound upward in an interminable series of hairpin curves and ascending switchbacks, resembling a dry wash. Alias had passed through the gap as a caravan guard many times and remembered how, in the spring, water followed the same course down the hill as the merchant wagons.
Heavily laden wagons draped with thick rugs and waterproof slickers would rumble up the gorge at a snail’s pace. The lord merchants urged the drivers on, while mercenary sell-swords watched the cliffs for ambush. Occasionally, a procession of pilgrims on foot interruputed the flow, oblivious to the bustling world around them. More rarely a wizard’s wagon, with lumber sprouting fresh, spring leaves, clattered through the vale on ancient wheels, pulled by oxen, gorgons, or more fantastic beasts.
Today, all that was absent, banished as if by magic. The vale was emptier than a tax collector’s Yule party. The only sound the travelers heard was the clopping of the horse hooves beneath them. Alias wondered what could have halted the trade so completely. A war, perhaps, or rumor of one. But she’d heard nothing of that sort in Cormyr, and the Cormyrians were not, as a rule, insular.
Akabar, having never passed through the gap before, rode at the head of the party as if nothing was amiss. Behind him, Olive found the stillness jarring. Dragonbait hissed once, never
a good sign, and Alias caught a whiff of something that smelled like ham. She furrowed her brow in puzzlement and sniffed again. Nothing. Must have imagined it, she thought, but she made sure that her longsword was loose in its scabbard and her knives were handy.
Something croaked her name, harsh and low, and she came up with a dagger in hand. The others seemed not to hear the voice.
Did the wind carry it to her ears alone? Or did sorcery? she wondered, remembering the attack at the abandoned druid’s circle, where the wind had drowned out her cries for help.
The swordswoman reigned in her horse behind the others and listened. The sound came again, a harsh, dying croak that called her name, this time from one of the scrub bushes on Alias’s left.
Spotting Alias behind them, Olive harrumphed.
Akabar called back, “Alias? Are—”
Suddenly, the bush near Alias rustled and exploded in a flurry of feathers.
Old reflexes took over, and Alias felt like some mechanical toy. She aimed, snapped her wrist back, and flicked her knife forward, loosing the dagger.
The spinning weapon struck the bird, a huge raven, at the base of its left wing and stuck there. A smaller creature would have been skewered, but the raven took to the air with the blade embedded in its flesh—the dagger’s gold-wrapped hilt jutting out and flashing in the sun.
Hissing, Dragonbait drew his sword.
“Lee-as, Lee-as, Lee-as,” the bird shrieked as it rose straight up, spun, and flapped in an ungainly manner toward the nearest cliff wall, taking Alias’s weapon with it.
The woman warrior shook her head angrily. The unnatural silence had unsettled her, and her little flash of paranoia had cost her a good throwing dagger.
“I thought it was something more dangerous than a blasted bird,” Alias said, rejoining the group. “I thought it was calling my name.” Then she laughed, one of the first deep-hearted laughs she’d permitted herself in gods knew how long.
“It was only a robberwing,” the mage said, surprised by her reaction. “They’re quite common on the southern shores of the Inner Sea. I thought they were well-known in the north, too. They take shiny objects on occasion, but otherwise they’re harmless.”
“In Waterdeep,” chimed in the halfling, “a corrupt lord trained a flock of robberwings to steal for him.”
