by Kate Novak
“Akabar,” she hissed, wondering if there were any other Fire Knives left behind to guard the prisoners. She searched the bars for a door or a lock, but they ran from ceiling to floor without a break.
“Akabar!” she said louder.
In the cell next door the mound of furs and cloaks stirred. Olive started and watched the pile closely. A man’s head poked out. His hair and beard were shaggy and black, with splotches of gray and white. His eyes were blue and rheumy. His face was lined with cracks of old age and cold. Cocking his head he chirped, “Hullo.”
Olive cast a glance back at Akabar, but the mage had not moved. “Uh, greetings. You must be the crafter. Are we alone here?” she whispered.
“No,” the crafter said, shaking loose the furs and cloaks. He rose slowly to his feet, and his legs wobbled as if he’d been bedridden for a long time. He wore a tattered tabard that must have once been purple and green, but was now faded to gray and yellow. “There’s a new prisoner next door,” he replied, pointing toward Akabar’s cell.
“I mean, are there any guards?”
“Let me check. GUARDS!”
Olive toppled backward in shock. Scrambling to her feet, she sought desperately for a bolt hole. She could run farther down the corridor or back up it. The crafter’s cry echoed back to her from both directions, but the sound of human feet did not follow it.
“Sorry. No guards. I think they’re away. That way.” The graying crafter pointed farther down the passage.
Prakis warned you the fellow was mad, Olive-girl, she berated herself. Obviously, he wasn’t joking.
“Where are the locks?” she demanded.
The crafter’s eyes became sharp points. “There are no locks here.”
“How did they put you in there?”
“Through the bars.”
Olive cursed. She didn’t have time to play riddles with crazy people. “Must you be so cryptic?”
“As long as I’m here, yes. Otherwise, I’d shed light on the subject for you.”
Olive considered continuing down the passage to search for Cassana’s hoard and then leave when she’d found enough treasure to keep her in flight for a year. But the hoard might be similarly barred, and who knew how many Fire Knives were stationed to guard the end of the tunnel?
The light from her torch, dropped when the madman had bellowed, fizzled out and died. Only the magic light of the demon statues illuminated the corridor now. Light. Shed some light on the subject, she thought. What was the subject? The bars. Of course!
It took the halfling several tries to climb up the smooth walls. Reaching behind the head of one of the demon figures, she found a glass sphere, cold as ice, but with a magical light that shone with more brilliance than any candle or torch. Olive withdrew it gently and jumped down.
She held the light in front of Akabar’s cell. “Nothing’s happening,” she growled, putting the sphere down to retrieve her sword.
“Why should anything happen?” the madman shrugged. “You’re just standing there.”
“So I am,” Olive nodded. She stepped forward—and passed right through the bars.
“Hey, that’s great. Thanks,” she called back to the crafter. She set the sword on the floor and checked on the mage’s condition. He was still breathing, but she would never be able to lift him off the hook. She might have tried climbing up the mage’s body and picking the locks on his manacles, but the wrist bindings had been welded, not snapped on.
“Need some help?” a voice beside her asked. Olive whirled around and would have skewered the speaker if he had not so agilely sidestepped her attack.
The halfling gasped. The crafter stood next to her in Akabar’s cell. She had set the glowing sphere down in such a position that it had shed light on the bars of his prison as well. He held the globe now in one hand.
“Keep back,” Olive ordered, brandishing her sword.
The crafter’s lips curled up in a wry smile. His eyes were now clear and piercing. He stood straighter and looked stronger. “If I keep back, how are we going to get your friend down?” His voice was now firm and reasonable.
Olive wrinkled her brow in puzzlement. “You’re not mad.”
The crafter harumphed. “So I have always maintained.”
“I mean … well, you’re different than you were a moment ago.”
“The cell I was in works a spell of enfeeblement on its occupants.”
“Oh.” Suddenly remembering that the crafter was still one of Alias’s would-be masters, Olive took another step backward and held out her sword. “Why should you want to help?”
“Look, are you going to stand there all day demonstrating your incompetence with a short sword, or climb up on my shoulders and unhook this unfortunate southerner?”
The halfling frowned at the insult, but the crafter had a point. She sighed and set her sword down behind her, then approached him cautiously.
The crafter stooped, set the sphere of light on the ground, and made a foothold for her with his hands. Olive put her hand on his shoulder and stepped up. He was a big man, as tall as Akabar, and even broader at the chest. She climbed nimbly to his shoulders, and he stood up smoothly.
“When I lift him, you detach the chain,” he said.
Once Akabar had been released, Olive scrambled down the crafter’s back. Cradling the mage in his arms, he carried him from the cell and set him on the ground outside. Olive followed with her sword and the sphere of light.
The man frowned at the mage’s wounds. “Can you heal?” he asked Olive.
“What do I look like? A paladin?”
“Upstairs there’s a bureau in the dining room. It’s trapped, but there’s a small button along the base that deactivates it. Unless Cassana has changed, there will be a number of potions there. Fetch them and some clothing for this one and come right back. Oh—and leave the sword.”
Olive obeyed without question, suddenly relieved to not be making all the decisions. She was back within fifteen minutes, laden with the potions, Akabar’s spellbooks—which had also been in the cabinet—one of Zrie Prakis’s robes, two kitchen knives, and a sack of food.
The crafter was seated by Akabar’s side, using the sword to scrape away his ratty beard. His face was deeply careworn, like a general who’d been at war too long or a king’s wisest but least heeded adviser.
He rummaged through the tablecloth that served as a sack, pulled out two potions, and mixed them together to form a gummy poultice, which he smeared over the cuts on Akabar’s chest and face. Akabar moaned, but the wounds began to close. The crafter slipped the rest of the potions into his tabard pockets.
“His wounds will take about an hour to heal,” the crafter said. He turned a stern eye on Olive. “Now, who is he, and who are you, and how did you come to be in this foul place?”
“He’s Akabar Bel Akash, a mage. I’m Olive Ruskettle the Bard. I’m trying to rescue Alias the Swordswoman from Cassana, who is trying to enslave her—”
“I know all about Cassana’s business with Alias,” the crafter interrupted. “Who are you really?”
“I told you. This is Akabar Bel—”
“I mean you, halfling. You cannot be a bard.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, you cannot be a bard. You might use it as a cover for your other activities, but you cannot be one. There are no halfling bards.”
“Well, you are very much mistaken,” Olive huffed. “I am a halfling, and I am a bard. I sing, play the yarting and the tantan, compose music and poetry, and weave tales.”
“That makes you a troubadour or a minstrel. Your skill may be such that you can impress and entertain people, but to be a bard you must be trained. Without training, the power of the calling will never be yours. And I know, better than any three of my colleagues and better than any sage, that no halfling has ever been trained.”
“And how would you know?”
“Because I am a bard. The Nameless Bard.”
“The Namel
ess Bard? Just what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means they took away my name. In much the same way that barbarian kings wipe out the wives and children of their enemies, they banned my songs and erased my name from history—and from my own mind.”
“You mean Cassana?”
The Nameless Bard laughed. “Hardly. It would take a power far greater than hers to overcome even a single melody of mine.”
A flash of inspiration struck Olive. “You wrote the songs Alias sings. You’re her Harper friend.”
The Nameless Bard turned a piercing look on the halfling. Olive grew uncomfortable beneath his gaze and turned away. “Didn’t mean to pry,” she mumbled.
“I remember a bard, a true bard, named Ruskettle. Olav Ruskettle. Had a bad gambling habit. Would have staked his own mother on the roll of a die. I suppose by the time you ran into him, he had nothing left but his name.”
Olive glared at the Nameless Bard. “He was situated very comfortably as a tavernkeeper in Procampur. He couldn’t gamble away the tavern—his wife held the title.”
“So he offered you his name.”
Olive shrugged. “He couldn’t play anymore—lost his right hand. His voice was beginning to fade.”
“So you accepted. Loaded dice?”
“No!”
“Very well. You won the name fair and square. But all the rights, privileges, and immunities thereunto appertaining, you never earned.”
“Just because humans don’t recognize a halfling’s talents doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
“Did you even try applying to a barding college?”
The halfling was silent for a moment. “No,” she admitted.
“Why not? No, don’t answer me. I’m really not interested in your excuses. Answer to yourself. Now, tell me, would-be bard, how did you come to be a companion to the swordswoman, Alias?”
Olive bridled some at the title, but she needed the Nameless Bard’s help to free Alias. She began with Mist’s abduction of her from the caravan in Cormyr, then explained how Dimswart had come to hire Alias. She described their battle with the crystal elemental, the disastrous brawl at the wedding, all that Dimswart had discovered about the sigils, and the destruction of the kalmari. She began slowly and nervously, like a schoolchild asked to recite, but she was not naturally a taciturn person, and her tale flowed smooth and clear by the time she described the events in Shadowdale.
To her own astonishment, she told the truth about her dealings with Phalse. She knew the story would not make much sense if she left out crucial elements. She related all Akabar had told her about the events in Yulash, how Dragonbait had subdued Mist, the battle with Moander, and finally how all of them came to be captured by Alias’s enemies, the others by force, she by stupidity.
Olive had never had such a polite and riveted audience in her life. He interrupted her tale only once, when she was describing how Cassana had made Alias batter Akabar.
“You say she wept?” the true bard asked.
“Of course she wept,” Olive said. “Akabar is her friend, and the witch was using her to pulp his flesh. I could see the streaks her tears left on her cheeks and the dark spots where they landed on the floor. Cassana thought it was pretty funny and made a stupid joke about it. She said, ‘Look Zrie, she’s crying. I’ll bet I know who taught her that trick.’ Then she used her wand to knock Alias out.”
The true bard’s lower lip quivered for a moment. He clamped it shut. “Finish. Quickly. Your friend is coming around.”
Olive told how Cassana had put her to sleep, and the deal Zrie had offered her. “He unbolted the door for me. There were only two guards upstairs. I killed them and came down here looking for Akabar.”
Akabar awoke slowly. Though weak, he was still strong enough to grab Ruskettle by the throat and throttle her. The Nameless Bard pulled the mage’s hands away with his own sure grip.
“You’ve signed her death warrant, you greedy, little bitch!” Akabar shouted.
“I think there has been a misunderstanding,” the Nameless Bard said calmly. “Your friend was using a ruse to win your enemy’s trust.”
Akabar’s eyes squinted with disbelief, but he could not fight the strength of the true bard’s hands.
Olive felt a rush of gratitude toward the bard. She had told him the whole truth, that her reasons for accepting Phalse’s offer had been as much for greed as for a desire to play at espionage, but he had given her the benefit of the doubt.
“Look, Akash. I came down here to get your help to rescue Alias.” That much was half true. “If you’d rather go back to your cell and wait for Cassana …”
Akabar spat on the halfling’s gown.
“He’s very emotional,” she explained to the crafter.
“Look at me, Akabar Bel Akash,” the Nameless Bard said. The power of his voice drew Akabar’s eyes unwillingly from Olive.
“Do you want to rescue Alias?”
Akabar took a deep breath, almost a sob. “Yes.”
“So does this creature. So do I. Contain your anger. It is a waste of your energies. You should know that.”
Akabar took another deep, slow breath. He relaxed his muscles. The true bard released his wrists.
“Who are you?” Akabar asked.
“The Nameless Bard.”
“Nameless? No one is nameless.”
“They took his name away,” Olive explained.
“Who?” Akabar asked.
The Nameless Bard sighed. “Eat” he said, motioning toward the food that Olive had taken from Cassana’s larder. “You’ll need your strength very soon. I will tell you my story while you dine.”
Akabar noticed his books in Olive’s bundle and motioned for them. Olive slid them to his side. She remembered how he had asked for them after being freed from Moander and took this as a sign that he was prepared to carry on—and put the past behind him—at least for now.
“You have no doubt heard of the Harpers,” the Nameless Bard began. “They were established in the north long before you were born. Their members are primarily bards and rangers, though not limited to such. All are good and true men and women devoted to preserving the balance of life, opposing all that threatens the peace of the Realms, protecting the weak and innocent. You might recognize them by their small silver pin of a harp and a moon.
“One of their number was a bard, a master of his craft, with a voice and a memory like polished ice. A creator of songs that could move people to action, or calm them to slumber. None heard his music but that they were impressed. The bard himself was often astonished by his own skill and wished for all his works to be preserved for eternity.
“Yet songs are so easily changed, their lyrics tampered with, their melodies maligned. The bard’s own colleagues had done this to his works, substituting a phrase to suit a particular audience, quickening the tempo to end an evening’s entertainment sooner. Or simply forgetting a line. And though such things are only natural, the bard was obsessed with preserving his works as he’d intended them to be sung.”
“Prickly sort, wasn’t he?” Olive asked with a tiny grin.
The corner of the true bard’s mouth turned up in a half-smile. “We all have our faults.
“Rejecting human singers as the preservers of his art, he turned to mechanical means. Paper and stone would not suffice—the written word could not convey the meaning as well as spoken words, and written notes describe only the melody, not the spirit of the music. And paper and stone can be destroyed. Even magical attempts to reproduce his music dissatisfied him. They could not demonstrate the full interaction of the bard with his audience.
“Finally, he determined a mixture of these methods that would fulfill his requirements. A human shell, unwilling, even unable, to stray from the original rendition, a repository for his tales and music that could render them unto generations.”
“Alias,” Akabar said.
“Alias?” Olive chirped.
“Alias,” the true bard said. “The
price to make such a creature, however, was very great, involving dealing with powerful mages and extra-planar powers. The price was also horrible. It would cost the life of a noble innocent, both pure and true, by brutal means.
“The master bard, with his apprentices, men and women of lesser power but great talent, tried to create this shell on their own. The attempt failed, costing one assistant his life and another her voice, so that she was silent for the rest of her shortened, painful days.
“Many men and women of the Realms might have shrugged off such a tragedy. But the Harpers considered themselves better men and women and were horrified by what the bard had done. They summoned him to judgement.
They stripped him of his name, stole it from his memory. His name being a given thing, this was easy to do. But knowledge discovered is like an efreet let out of a bottle: it cannot be forced back in. The struggle to discover it makes it part of the discoverer’s soul. They could not destroy the knowledge in him. They feared he would try again, or pass the knowledge to another. So they could not let him go free, yet they would not slay him, for he was one of their own, and they did not want his blood on their hands.
“They decided he would have to be imprisoned, but no ordinary prison would do. They could not risk his ever passing on the method he had developed. So they shackled and exiled him beyond the bounds of the Realms, in the lands where reason fails and the gods roll like storm fronts across the sky. All his songs, his words, and his ideas were expunged in a sweeping attempt to cover up what he had achieved. Those who knew his songs were told to sing them no more, and such was the respect and fear of the Harpers in those days that many complied.
“So that which the master bard feared most came to pass: the songs he sought to preserve were dead things, unremembered in the Realms. The Harpers had been thorough, indeed. The newer members know nothing of the story. Only the old remember the tale.”
