Tantras

by Scott Ciencin

  “What’s your business here?” the woman asked gruffly, folding her arms across her chest.

  “I needed a guide to take me around the city,” Midnight explained as she got to her feet. “I thought perhaps—”

  “You thought you’d get some cheap labor,” the woman snapped. “The government has an office for hirelings on Hillier Way. You’d best go there.”

  Midnight frowned at the woman. “I thought I could find some resident of the city who knew its lore and its customs better than some bored government worker.” She paused and pointed toward the roomful of indigents. “And I was trying to help.”

  “Do you want to start a riot in here?” the woman hissed softly. “If you offer gold here, they’ll kill each other for it. Be off with you.”

  “Wait! I’ll do it,” the young man said as Midnight turned to leave. “I work for the city government when I’m not here. They take a lot of what I earn, though. You think we can have an agreement just between the two of us?”

  “That would be fine” Midnight answered, looking at the excited boy through narrowed eyes. “Just as long as part of the arrangement is that you don’t chew my ear with a lot of questions along the way.”

  “Well,” the boy said in mock outrage, his eyes wide. He’d lived for no more than sixteen winters, but he was tall and strong, with thick, black hair that curled at his shoulders. “Privacy, eh? I have no problem with that, as long as the price is agreeable.”

  Midnight smiled, and the boy turned to the middle-aged woman at his side. “Can you spare me, mother?” he asked, practically panting with enthusiasm.

  “Spare you? Would that I never had you,” she snapped. “Begone and good riddance. If any of the city’s men come by looking for you, I’ll tell them you’re busy visiting with your crazed aunt from the family’s bad side.”

  A few minutes later, Midnight and the boy were on the street. “By the way,” the boy said brightly, “my name is Quillian. You didn’t tell me yours.”

  “That’s true,” Midnight answered flatly.

  Quillian whistled. “Well, if you’re not going to tell me your name, will it be all right if I call you ‘milady’?”

  Midnight sighed. “Under the circumstances, yes. Just remember our agreement. I’ll ask all the questions.”

  One side of the boy’s mouth curled up in a wicked smile. “I bet you’re a thief, come to rob our city blind.”

  Midnight stopped and stared at the black-haired boy. She was obviously angry.

  “I’m just joking,” Quillian said quickly, holding his hand up to stop the mage from admonishing him. “Still,” he added after they had started walking again, “if you were a thief, I wouldn’t mind helping you. This city’s robbed me blind all my life.”

  Midnight shook her head. “You’re a bit young to be that jaded.”

  “Age has nothing to do with it,” Quillian noted bitterly. “You saw the conditions in the poorhouse. If my father hadn’t died a war hero and left a decent pension for us, my mother and I would be residents in that nasty hole, not just volunteers.”

  The mage imagined Quillian dressed in a pauper’s rags, the spark in his eyes drowned by hunger and want. The mage frowned and pushed the thoughts from her mind. “I’m not a thief, but I’ll pay you well. Just do your job and there’ll be no problems between us.”

  Quillian smiled and brushed a stray piece of hair from his eyes. “Where do you want to start?” he asked.

  “How about the city’s temples,” Midnight answered as nonchalantly as possible. “Any place of worship that you know about.”

  “That’s easy enough,” Quillian said. “Let’s start with the Temple of Torm. That’s just—”

  “I believe I can find that one without a guide,” the mage told the boy as she gestured toward the beautiful spires to the north.

  A look of embarrassment crossed Quillian’s face. “Reasonable point,” the dark-haired lad said sheepishly. “Let’s head toward the market, then. It’s nearby and there used to be a small house of worship there.”

  The two walked in silence for a little while. As Midnight and Quillian got closer to the market, the crowds grew in size. Soon the mage could smell food cooking and hear the droves of people haggling about prices and the merchants yelling to attract customers.

  “Up ahead, on the right, there’s a butcher shop,” Quillian noted as they entered a crowded square. “The building used to be a temple to Waukeen, the Goddess of Trade. Are you familiar with Liberty’s Maiden?”

  Midnight shrugged. “Vaguely. I remember something about a golden-haired woman with lions at her feet.”

  “That’s how they say she appears when she walks among us. I haven’t seen her in town,” the boy said sarcastically, “so I couldn’t tell you if that’s true or not. Tantras was blessed with Lord Torm instead.”

  The mage found the boy’s sarcasm surprising, especially compared to the enthusiasm about Torm’s presence she’d heard from the watchmen at the dock. “Aren’t you a follower of Torm?” Midnight asked.

  “Not usually. But I can be when it’s necessary,” Quillian said.

  I’d best change the subject, Midnight decided, noting the anger in Quillian’s voice when he mentioned the God of Duty’s name. “What can you tell me about Waukeen’s temple?” the mage asked.

  “There were statues of Waukeen and her lions in front of the place. The Tormites purchased one of the lions to decorate their new temple. I don’t know what happened to the other statues or the rest of the fixtures.”

  The pair crossed the busy square. Midnight stopped in front of the butcher shop, waiting for the crowd to thin out a bit before she entered the busy establishment. She turned to Quillian and put her hand on his shoulder. “I hope that the money I’m paying you will make you less fickle about your service to me than you are about your devotion to the gods.”

  Before the boy could answer, a voice called out behind the mage. “Fickle? That’s not a word you hear very often in Tantras these days. Not since the God of Duty moved in!”

  The mage turned and saw an old man with a shock of white hair and a scraggly white beard. He was carrying a small harp, and he brushed his hand across its strings, bringing a flow of beautiful notes that pierced the sounds of the crowd.

  “Fickle,” the old man repeated. “The word reminds me of a limerick I picked up in Waterdeep. Would you care to hear it? It’s of great significance, I assure you.”

  Midnight stared at the minstrel, examining his features closely. She was sure that he looked like someone she’d met before.

  The minstrel stared back at her for a moment, then asked, “Are you feeling well? Do you need a physician? Or would the young lady prefer an epic ballad or a sweet tale of romance to sooth her frazzled nerves?” The minstrel’s voice was lilting and sweet.

  The mage shook her head. “My apologies,” she said softly as she shook her head. “For a moment you reminded me of someone.”

  The minstrel ran a hand through his hair, then smiled. “Oh? Fancy that,” the old man cackled. He leaned close to Midnight and whispered, “A little secret for you. All old beggars look the same to you younger types.”

  Suddenly the old man’s eyes widened in surprise. “To your left, pretty one!” he cried and pointed to her waist with a bony finger.

  Looking away from the minstrel for just an instant, Midnight saw a hand reaching with practiced skill for her money purse. Her left hand reached the purse at the same moment as the hand of the pickpocket, while her right hand balled into a fist. The mage punched the would-be thief in the face.

  The yellow-bearded criminal’s arms pinwheeled madly as he stumbled into a pair of elderly women and lost his balance. Midnight moved toward the cowering cutpurse, and Quillian leaped on the man.

  The minstrel, on the other hand, simply stood by quietly and watched.

  “This is not your day, rogue!” Quillian cried as he planted his knee in the thief’s back and pushed him onto his stomach. Grabbing both of
the pickpocket’s hands, the black-haired boy pinned them firmly in place behind the man’s back. He moved close to the thief’s ear and hissed, “Be still unless you want to end up a cripple!”

  The fight went out of the thief as a group of locals gathered around Quillian, the yellow-bearded man, and Midnight. The merchants and peasants hurled insults and a few rotten vegetables at the cutpurse. Then a burly man with a red face and short, gray-shot black hair—the butcher who owned the renovated temple—made his way through the crowd, carrying a blood-drenched axe.

  “Well, if it isn’t Quillian Dencery,” the butcher shouted, genuinely surprised. “What have you brought me today, boy?”

  “See for yourself,” Quillian said as he fished into the sash at the thief’s waist and pulled out three money purses.

  The butcher raised his axe in his right hand. “Could this be the thief that has been harassing my customers for the last two weeks?” The butcher grabbed a handful of the man’s hair with his left, then pulled sharply. The thief gasped and gritted his teeth as he was forced to look into the butcher’s sunburned face. “Do you know how much business you’ve cost me? My loyal customers are frightened to shop here, and they’ve been giving their business to that cutthroat, Loyan Trey, in the south end of town.”

  “Fine!” the thief sputtered. “Let me go and I’ll work his shop. Then your customers will return!”

  The butcher shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He looked to Quillian. “Boy, spread his right hand flat so we can chop it off. That’ll teach him a lesson.”

  “Please!” the thief begged. “You mustn’t! I’ll give the money back. I won’t ever come here again!”

  “Hah!” the butcher shouted as the thief’s hand was forced to the ground, fingers clenched tight. “Your type would say anything to save your own skin. Thieves are all alike.” The butcher hefted the axe and the crowd gasped, almost as one. “Now keep still so I can get this over with and get back to business. I promise it’ll be quick and clean. I can’t promise that you won’t feel anything, though.”

  “Wait!” Midnight cried, lunging toward the butcher.

  From the crowd, the minstrel watched with growing interest. The butcher’s hand had risen into the air, the bright sunlight glinting off his axe. The blade hung above the thief’s wrist, as if it were suspended by a fragile thread.

  “You were the one he wanted to steal from,” the butcher growled, relaxing slightly. “Don’t you want justice?”

  The mage stood beside the butcher and whispered, “Look around you. If you’re so worried about your business, then stop and think about what you’re about to do. Do you really want all these fine gentlemen and ladies to remember your shop as the place they saw you maim a thief?” The mage saw the anger go out of the butcher’s face, only to be replaced by concern. “Everytime they think of you, that’s what they’ll remember. Would they think you a good man, then? An honest man?”

  The butcher’s shoulders dropped as he surveyed the faces in the crowd. Some were expectant and excited. Most were horrified. Practically unnoticed by all, the minstrel was grinning a wicked grin as he watched the mage. But the butcher realized that the mage was right: he’d lose everything if he harmed the thief. “But he’ll just do it again,” the butcher growled as he lowered the axe.

  “Of course he will,” Midnight told the red-faced man. “That’s how he makes his living. But that doesn’t mean he’ll ever be stupid enough to come near your establishment again. If he has any brains, he’ll even put the word out that your shop is strictly off limits to all his brethren.” The raven-haired mage turned to the thief. “What do you say to that?”

  “I will! I’ll do everything the lady said!” the yellow-bearded man sputtered.

  “Then be off with you,” the butcher growled and signaled Quillian to release the thief. “And tell everyone you know in the Thieves’ Guild that Beardmere’s is off limits!”

  The minstrel appeared before Midnight. “Fine lady, I will write a song in honor of your wisdom and courage.” And before Midnight could respond, the minstrel turned and vanished into the crowd.

  Business quickly returned to normal in the marketplace, and the butcher walked to Midnight’s side. “It seems I owe you for your assistance” he told the mage. “How about a month’s supply of Beardmere’s finest meats?”

  The mage smiled. “Thank you, but I’d accept something far less costly,” Midnight replied politely. “I’m a scholar. I wish to know how this former temple to Waukeen became your butcher shop.”

  “Simple enough,” Beardmere said. “The government sold me the building.”

  Surprise registered on the magic-user’s face. That wasn’t the answer she’d expected at all. Still, Midnight recovered from her surprise quickly and continued her questioning of the butcher. “Were there any artifacts or books left behind by the worshipers of Liberty’s Maiden?”

  “Ah,” Beardmere said, convinced that he had finally pegged the inquisitive mage. “Are you a collector, as well?”

  Midnight smiled when she saw Quillian hovering nearby, obviously listening to the conversation. “I am,” the mage said, a little louder than needed. The black-haired boy blushed and turned away.

  The butcher nodded and led Midnight and Quillian into the back of the former temple, through a few rooms that had been converted for storage and office space. They reached the top of a stairway, then Beardmere grabbed a torch and ushered the mage and her young guide into the basement.

  A musty smell assaulted Midnight’s senses as she stepped off the landing and found herself in a small, dirty room filled with abandoned items from the former temple. There were empty shipping crates scattered across the rough dirt floor, and waterlogged ledgers tossed here and there around the damp cellar.

  “I sold quite a bit of what was left behind, you understand,” Beardmere said, wiping a cobweb from his face. “But many of the items were of no value to anyone in the city. Of course, it would have been sacrilegious to destroy them, so I’ve kept them stored down here. Someone from the city tried to cart them off, but I wouldn’t let him. Just wouldn’t seem right, somehow.”

  Midnight pushed aside a crate and gasped as she found herself staring into the eyes of a beautiful, white-skinned woman. It took her a moment to realize this was the statue of Waukeen, the Goddess of Trade. One of the two golden lions that had once adorned her temple lay at her feet.

  Withdrawing the sphere of detection from her travel bag, the mage held the magical item close to the statues. She had no reason to believe that Bane would hide the Tablet of Fate in its original form. In fact, the tablets were probably carefully disguised.

  But when the sphere touched the statue, nothing happened. The mage methodically searched the entire basement, her heart thundering in anticipation. Each time she touched an item from the temple, though, the results were the same. The magical sphere of detection remained dark and intact.

  Beardmere and Quillian watched Midnight as she moved around the basement. “See anything you like?” the butcher asked at last, his attention riveted on the amber sphere in the mage’s hand.

  Midnight’s disappointment was evident in her voice as she put the sphere away. “I’m sorry, no.”

  Beardmere nodded. “What exactly are you looking for?”

  The mage forced a smile. “I can’t really say. But I’ll know it when I find it.”

  Midnight thanked Beardmere for his patience as she left the shop. Then the raven-haired mage and her guide took to the streets once more.

  “What was that thing?” Quillian Dencery asked, trying to appear casual. “That yellowish orb you were waving around. Is it magic?”

  “No questions,” Midnight said firmly. She stopped walking and grabbed the black-haired boy’s arm. “How many times do I have to tell you that it’s better that you don’t know anything? Where’s our next stop?”

  “It’s almost time for eveningfeast. I thought we might stop off at the Dark Harvest Festhall to grab a bite�
��”

  Midnight squeezed the young man’s arm a little tighter. “Quillian, for what I’m paying you, I expect to be taken very seriously. I do not intend to wander aimlessly, visiting pubs instead of—”

  The young man twisted free of Midnight’s grasp. “For a scholar, you don’t have much patience, do you?”

  Midnight said nothing.

  “I happen to know that worshipers of Bhaal, Lord of Murder, meet in the gaming rooms of the Dark Harvest almost nightly,” Quillian snapped, rubbing his arm. “If you’re looking for something specific—and I think you are—you should go there.”

  “Perhaps I misjudged you,” Midnight noted warily, trying to keep the excitement from her voice. Bhaal was an ally of Myrkul, and Bane had stolen the Tablets with Myrkul’s assistance. “The Dark Harvest it is.”

  The pair traveled south for three blocks, then headed east to the festhall. Midnight looked up toward the blinding face of the sun; its position hadn’t changed since she first arrived in Tantras. Daylight had continued, as the watchmen at the harbor had warned her, twenty-four hours a day.

  Turning her attentions to the festhall, the mage was not surprised to discover that the squat, one-story building had been painted black with blood-red trim. Agents of the Black Lord and worshipers of Bhaal, the God of Assassins, would find the Dark Harvest a welcome sight in this colorful merchant city.

  But as Quillian grabbed the door to the tavern, Midnight realized how foolish she was being by entering a place frequented by the God of Strife’s allies. “I’ve changed my mind,” the raven-haired mage told her guide. “We’ll find somewhere else to dine. We can always come back here for information later, if we’re not successful anywhere else.”

  The young man shrugged and looked away. “Whatever you say, milady. We could head south and pass through the ruins of the Temple of Sune on our way to another place to eat.”

  At the mention of the Goddess of Beauty, Midnight thought of Adon. For the first time since she’d left the Lazy Moon, the mage was thankful that she had gone to search the temples without her friends.