The Dagger of Trust

by Chris Willrich

  "They're Eagle Knights, sir. Armor is optional. Honor is not."

  "No doubt. We'll bring you to the docks, brave lady. When you can, I suggest you make your way north. That's where the rock formation lies, that the druids scried. We'll meet you there in the morning and investigate it together."

  "Thank you."

  Sebastian barked his orders, then gravely added, "Once again, I'm not certain you should thank me, Merrigail. Sanity no longer holds sway on this voyage."

  "I'm where I'm needed, Sebastian. That's all I ever asked for." She hesitated, then stepped close and gripped his shoulder. "I might prefer an honest fight with slavers, with a...good companion by my side. But destiny gave me this. I'm content."

  Sebastian studied her face a long moment, then put his hand upon hers. "Forgive me for saying so, but I fear we'll not meet again. Not like this. This privateer and spy has found it an honor, woman of Andoran."

  She nodded. "You worry too much, man of Taldor. But this knight is grateful to have known you."

  "How I wish I might hear you say that again."

  "You've lost faith, Sebastian."

  "I've seen too much to have ever had it."

  Gideon cleared his throat. "Sebastian. If they're going, I will as well."

  "And I," said Corvine.

  Sebastian closed his eyes. "I could command you not to, but I sense that would be useless. Let me make one futile attempt. Gideon, you've seen this community go mad once before. Think what it cost you then."

  "You know that's exactly why I must go now."

  "I regret saying this, but I believe you were right: that your people, the Andorens, who have cast off tradition for freedom, are more susceptible to the fog."

  Merrigail smiled sadly and stepped away from Sebastian.

  "And more than that," Sebastian said to Gideon, his eyes following the Eagle Knight. "You've felt that the fog's linked to you. That a voice calls to you from within it."

  "How do you know all this?" Gideon asked.

  "As I've said before, it's my business to know. In any case, we've never seen the fog so concentrated as here. What may happen to you in there, away from help?"

  "I'll be with him," Corvine said. She took Gideon's hand.

  He squeezed back. "I have to do this, Sebastian."

  "Well. Perhaps this is how it must be. We make our choices, set out on our road, never realizing the bridge is collapsing behind us. Choice becomes destiny...I suppose you're going as well, Viridia?"

  Viridia shook her head. "Poor Sebastian. Someone must heed his warnings! More seriously, Gideon, my leg hasn't quite recovered. If it were merely fire and fog and frothers, I might be tempted. But with this limp, I'll stay with the ship."

  "We'll see you soon," Gideon said, hoping it was true.

  As Riposte pulled alongside a pier, the riggers Crallak and Tyndron, with the bosun Zethril, scrambled overboard carrying lines. They tied off while Weaponmaster Kendrigan had the crossbows trained on the waterfront. Gideon noted again that the two elves, Tyndron and Zethril, avoided communicating as much as possible. Nothing menaced the crew, though the shrieks from within the fog continued without pause. Sebastian lowered the ramp and directed the sailors Asta and Dymphna to guard the approach to the ship.

  Merrigail led the little party of knights and bards toward the town. The abandoned pier was slippery from the snowfall. "I spotted a chapel to Shelyn a short distance south of here," Gideon said. "It looked undamaged. Perhaps they're able to resist the fog."

  "If so," Merrigail said, "that's not where we're needed."

  A pox on all knights, Gideon thought, and anyone else who won't look before leaping. "This is a town of thousands," he said. "We could be overwhelmed by a mob. Best to gather information first."

  Gideon could sense Merrigail's struggle to be diplomatic. "That's a reasonable conclusion for a spy. As I told Sebastian, however, I have a duty. You may investigate the chapel if you wish. I suggest you look for us on the north side. We'll help whom we can, then withdraw to the rock formation."

  Gideon looked at Corvine, who said, "I'll stick with you, Gideon. Good luck, Merrigail."

  Merrigail nodded and led her knights upslope, into the streets and the fog. Gideon and Corvine turned south.

  "You look troubled," Corvine said.

  "Sebastian often seems to know more than I've shared," Gideon said. "And more than that, he didn't try very hard to keep us aboard. I think he's afraid for us, but there's something else. I wonder if in some way he actually wants us to encounter the fog..."

  "You're starting to see hidden agendas everywhere."

  "Well, it is my job. Will be my job..."

  The path crossed a stream via a stone bridge. Between bards and bridge lay a vaporous veil, laced with a dim green glow.

  "It's only a little bit of evil fog..." Gideon said, as they plunged in.

  His skin felt clammy, and he heard a voice in his mind. It was the same presence whose touch he'd felt on the Rhapsodic College's roof, and it sang in the voice of doomed Desdimira from Wanderloss, the opera from which the ghost ship had taken its shape. The tune was somehow familiar, but he couldn't place it.

  Frost and fate are gathered here

  At the turning of the year

  Bones of creatures scattered there

  Never more to rend and tear

  Lovers' ashes fed the trees

  Hear them sighing on the breeze

  Darling, come and learn their fate

  Let us share both love and hate

  Ever will you warm the lost

  Gathered here by fate and frost.

  "No thanks," Gideon muttered.

  "What was that?" Corvine asked.

  "Talking to myself," Gideon said. "I'll explain later."

  "No," she said. "I mean, what was that noise?"

  From a fog-shrouded street, dozens of dark shapes rushed toward them.

  The bards sprinted across the stone bridge, and the figures dashed after, yowling.

  "There's another bridge," Gideon said. "Maybe we can make a stand..."

  "Too many..."

  They hurtled over the second bridge, their footfalls pounding against its wood, and reached a little peninsula that might have been lovely in the spring, but which was now filled with sinister, red-lit shadows. Gideon saw a thorny rose garden to his right, a gazebo to his left. Nothing leapt out at them, however. Sheltered by leafless trees, a simple stone structure rose ahead. The two great doors of carven wood displayed capering satyrs and laughing nymphs. The doors were slightly parted, and a woman's face peeked out. She possessed a complex bundle of dark hair, a lean and pale visage, and a robe of swirling colors.

  She also carried a crossbow.

  "State your business!"

  "We're seeking shelter—"

  "We arrived on a ship—"

  "Well, for Shelyn's sake, get your butts in here. There are madmen about."

  Gideon and Corvine rushed inside; they helped the priestess shut and brace the doors.

  Soon there came a pounding and creaking as many bodies slammed against the barrier.

  Eventually the screeches outside ebbed and the banging ceased.

  Gideon and Corvine looked around. They found themselves in a sanctuary lit by a single hooded lantern. Gideon discerned a wounded halfling lying upon a pew. And he could hardly miss the human-sized stone statue of the love goddess herself, her silver eyes kind, her outstretched arm sheltering a white stone songbird plumed with multihued tail-feathers. Behind the statue cowered a mother and three children.

  "I've driven off two attacks," the priestess said, setting down the crossbow, "and while Shelyn is generous, she doesn't grant me endless spells. Likewise, not every visitor's a frother. So I have to risk opening the doors and asking questions." She squinted at Gideon and Corvine. "Now, you two are new to me. And I think I would remember you. You have the troublemaker look."

  "Well, thanks," said Gideon. "Yes, we've just arrived, as my companion said." />
  "You're Taldan," Corvine said to the priestess, recognizing the accent.

  "Well, so are you. The name's Albercroft. I emigrated years ago, became a citizen even. The priesthood sometimes encourages us to travel. Love knows no boundaries and all that. But I also love Andoran. Fitting in, though, that's something else. I don't think they've ever really accepted me."

  "That's all in your head," said the halfling on the pew.

  "You've been good to Bellis," said the mother huddled with her children. "Sometimes your manner seems strange, but that's no matter."

  Albercroft grunted. "Perhaps I imagine more trouble than's truly there. But today...today I've heard the most horrible things. Did you know we Taldans drink the blood of children? That half of us are possessed by demons? That we conspire with the druids and burn Andorens inside great effigies of wicker?"

  Gideon said, "The fog takes what festers in people's minds and magnifies it. Please forgive the people of Bellis, Mistress Albercroft." As I struggle to forgive them myself.

  "You here to fight this thing?"

  "We came with a group of Eagle Knights," Corvine said.

  "Hope you've got a hundred," Albercroft said.

  "Well..." Gideon said. "Three."

  "When did this begin?" Corvine said.

  "Around sunset. The fog rose like a giant octopus from the river. Hundreds of tendrils, like fingers or tentacles. Some of the tentacles had snarling faces on the ends. Not everyone could see it, but whether they saw it or not, it got into people's heads. Folk went mad."

  "There were more and more of them," said the mother. "My friends and neighbors. One of them—you know him, priestess, Tovoy the cooper—today he was waving the Andoren flag around, and if people wouldn't kiss the ground beneath, he'd club them with it. 'I love my country,' I said, 'but I won't worship the flag like it was an idol.' He said I was a traitor and that he'd kill my kids. And Widow Nelyn, my best friend! She said if my husband was a real Andoren he wouldn't be off in Almas on business. Almas! Talking about the capital like it was a foreign land! They were going mad." The woman looked to her children, and up at the statue of Shelyn. "I know if I'd just lied and pretended to go along, they wouldn't have burned our home. I don't know why I had to be stubborn. I don't know why they turned and I didn't..."

  "Some are tougher-willed than others," said the priestess. "Just as some are quicker, or brighter, or stronger. It's just not as obvious a gift. You have it, and I'm glad of that."

  "So it's a gift?" the mother demanded, her voice starting to break. "To be hated? To be called a traitor, and a freak, and worse? To have my children threatened? Better to be one of the herd!" She shook her head. "I don't understand. I've never seen people act like this."

  The halfling chuckled. "Never? I grew up in Cheliax. It's not an accident I came here, to Andoran, and as far away from the Chelish border as possible. We're not loved there, we small folk. They call us 'slips,' and being enslaved is hardly the worst fate for those of us trapped in that devil-loving place. I know in my gut what hate is. It's power. If you get your people to hate, you can get them to do anything, accept anything. There's just one catch: once you've unleashed the beast, you have to feed it meat."

  "You've never spoken of this," said the priestess.

  "I wanted to leave it all behind. That's why I stowed away in a crate one day. For once, being short had its perks! But it looks like it's all come round to follow me. Mark my words, good investigators, if that's what you really are. This fog is the work of Cheliax. Only they understand hate so well."

  "Have you seen anything?" Gideon asked. "Anything that would link this business to Cheliax?"

  "No," the halfling admitted. The priestess and the mother shook their heads.

  "I—" began the oldest child, a girl of perhaps thirteen.

  "Hush," said her mother.

  "Mother, please, I saw—"

  "You're always imagining things."

  Gideon cleared his throat. "Even imagined things might be relevant," he said, "given the magical nature of these events."

  "Very well," said the mother.

  Having gotten permission, the girl became silent.

  Gently, Corvine said, "What can you tell us?" She smiled a little. "You see things others miss, don't you? I can tell."

  Corvine had, through mannerisms Gideon couldn't quite articulate, assumed the mantle of the wise young-grownup woman, the friend who knows things your mother doesn't want you to know—the confidante, the woman you'll become someday, sooner than you think.

  The girl was charmed. So was Gideon.

  "It's the new barbershop," the girl said. "The one with the man from Absalom. Mister Waxbill."

  "Mister Waxbill is just a nice old man," the mother said. "After what you just heard about hate, you accuse someone because he's from a distant land?"

  "I'm not saying it because of who he is," insisted the girl. "I'm saying it because of what I saw. I don't even know if Mister Waxbill's part of it."

  "Please go on," said Corvine.

  "A few times I've seen these men go down the storm cellar at Waxbill's. Foreigners. They'd carry lots of things down there, and not come up with much."

  "What sort of things?"

  "Barrels. But funny barrels. Made of metal, they were. The deliveries were at night, but Jel Splitrock and I, we snuck up to watch 'em once."

  "That boy's a bad influence," the mother said.

  "The Splitrocks didn't burn down our home, now, did they?" the daughter demanded. "And we heard one of 'em say something, something that didn't make sense at the time. 'Time to test it on a real target.' That was two days ago."

  "I think," Corvine said gently, "this might be worth following up on."

  "I agree," Gideon said.

  "Can you think of anything else?" Corvine said.

  The girl shook her head.

  "How about anything more about Jel Splitrock?" the mother asked.

  The girl shook her head, perhaps more emphatically.

  "I can't go with you to Waxbill's," the priestess of Shelyn said. "But I know the way. Best place for a Taldan-style hairdo in a hundred miles. I hope Mister Waxbill's not involved, but it's perhaps a place to start." She thought for a moment. "And I have in my possession two potions, that might fortify you in time of need."

  Soon, Gideon and Corvine stood at a back entrance to the chapel, nodding at Albercroft's directions. Each of them carried a stoppered glass vial of some viscous green fluid that glinted with purple flecks. Gideon vowed he wouldn't drink the stuff except on death's door.

  Albercroft nudged open the back entrance as if death's door was already where they were. It creaked. "Good luck."

  They sped through the trees, waded a stream, and soon were back within the fog. They crept between buildings, avoiding close passage to the fires, ducking for cover when angry groups passed by, picking their way toward the barber's shop.

  "Stop whistling," Corvine said as they entered the town's main street.

  "I'm not whistling, you're whistling."

  "No I'm not, you're—"

  From across the street someone tweeted loudly. A shadowy shape commenced a rendition of the Andoren national anthem.

  "He's not half bad," Gideon remarked. "You know, it's a difficult—"

  "Shut up and run, Gideon!"

  The shadowy shape, still whistling, was joined by perhaps twenty others.

  The bards ran for cover. Finding little, they ducked into an alley.

  "Rooftops," Gideon whispered. "Mobs never think of rooftops."

  "Are you sure?"

  "No." But he began climbing a townhouse, and offered her a hand up.

  It seemed mobs were indeed unacquainted with the third dimension. Shapes rushed around the house, screaming incoherent threats.

  "I'm trying to decide," Gideon murmured, "if it's physically possible to do everything the frothers want of us."

  "Can you just be quiet, Gideon? Not everyone responds to danger with endless chatter
, you know."

  "Silence won't keep our spirits up."

  "Try me."

  "I'd rather talk than look all cool and superior. At least talking's honest."

  "You think I act superior?"

  "Since when does a Taldan woman not?"

  "I'll stop acting superior around Andoren men when they bother to wash and shave."

  He felt his chin. It was a touch scraggly. "You try shaving aboard a ship!"

  "I hope that barber's not a Chelish agent, because you could use his services. Also, a bath."

  "Wonderful! Our lives are in danger and all you care about is appearances!"

  "I care about my nose. I'm surprised you haven't attracted all the frothers in a mile."

  "I'm surprised you're not frothing yourself!"

  "Are we shouting?"

  Gideon stopped with his mouth half-open. Corvine stared at him, then looked all around.

  Their immediate vicinity was entirely silent.

  Then, from somewhere near:

  "Torches! Torches! Burn them! Burn them!"

  "The fog—" Gideon said.

  "It got to us, didn't it?"

  "We need to run." Gideon looked around, caught a distant glimpse of a white pole with a ribbon of red paint swirling in a helix around it. "The barber's—it looks intact. Maybe if he's involved..."

  "Then it's safe from the frothers? Worth a try. But how do we get there?"

  "I'm trained to blend in, but I don't think it will work this time." He looked up. "Over the rooftops? Will you trust me? If I promise to bathe?"

  "Gladly."

  He led her into a run, and together they leapt onto a nearby townhouse, slipping for a moment in the snow but regaining their footing.

  "Five more jumps," he whispered in her ear.

  "Not exactly a romantic thing to tell me. I don't know—"

  "You can do this. Your body is a key, Corvine. Apply your muscles at the right moment, in the right combination, and you can unlock a city. Come on!"

  "I love you. And I hate you."

  "Whichever, do it on the next roof."

  Many times Gideon had grumbled to Viridia or Ozrif about training sessions in the Scar Chamber. Now he realized the faculty had gone far too easy on them. They'd given the students too much light, too wide a platform, too narrow a gap, too stable a target. When I run the Shadow School, there will be artificial snow. And trees with low branches. And weird little weathervanes. And loose shingles. And birds too stupid to fly off until your face is in their way. And pointy little toy dragons that some kid threw up here somehow and completely forgot about just so an agent of Taldor could trip on one and die. I might or might not include frothing hordes of madmen—no, bring on the madmen. Because if nothing else, future Lion Blades should suffer along with me.