Pathfinder Tales - Shy Knives

by Sam Sykes

  Remember when I said I wasn’t good in a fight?

  All the fear that I had been keeping down since I got here started to creep back in. The axe in his hand suddenly seemed huge and menacing. His hide looked so thick as to be armor. And his smile grew so broad and sharp it could be its own weapon as he advanced toward me, slowly, taking his sweet time.

  Like he knew I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop him.

  My heart beat faster. My hand trembled around Whisper’s hilt. I stumbled as I backed away a step. The little part in my skull that was screaming for me to calm down was drowned by the big part in my skull that was just plain screaming.

  Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

  Sem always told me it would end like this.

  Stupid asshole.

  Kjoda drew closer. I couldn’t see anything else but that big, savage smile growing wider with every gods-damned step. Not his axe, not his war paint, not the bright white light that suddenly engulfed him.

  Hell, I damn near missed it when he burst into flames.

  It happened so fast I didn’t notice until he was already screaming. White-hot fire seemed to spontaneously erupt from him, engulfing him in a bright, wailing inferno. It wasn’t the ugly red flame eating the camp behind us. This fire seemed … cleaner: white, pure, and so gods-damned bright I had to shield my eyes.

  I felt a hand grab my wrist. I whirled around, Whisper held up. It was only because I saw myself, reflected in the lenses of Dalaris’s spectacles, that I stopped.

  “It’s okay,” she said, surprisingly calm considering the centaur burning to death behind us. “Breathe deep. Stay quiet.”

  She said something else. Something in a language I couldn’t understand. It wasn’t until I looked down and saw my fingers disappearing that I realized she was casting a spell.

  Invisibility.

  I didn’t know she could do that.

  I glanced over my shoulder as Kjoda fell to the ground in a smoldering heap.

  I didn’t know she could that, either.

  And here I thought I’d be the only one with news. Turned out, I was going to have a lot to ask her as she wove another invisibility spell around herself, took me by the hand, and led me at a run away from the forest.

  9

  Drinking Solution

  No lie, I once saw a dwarf down six healing potions at once.

  It was a few days after I had left Katapesh, in the tavern of some border village. I was lifting a few coins to pay a caravan master to take me to Osirion when the doors burst open. Your typical motley assortment of adventurers came charging in: elegant elf, wizened wizard, obligatory halfling, that sort of thing. And on their shoulders was this dwarf, so covered in wounds I thought they’d painted him red as a joke.

  They were coming back from a Forbidden Crypt of Evil Bad Crap or something like that, torn up and looking for a cleric. This village was too small for that sort of thing, so they shelled out money for everyone to give them every potion they had. Then they pried the dwarf’s lips open, jammed a funnel in his mouth and crammed every last drop into his gob.

  I thought I remembered him surviving, but I couldn’t be sure. The party’s thief started talking to me and we had drinks and then I had to leg it out of there before he realized I had swiped his purse.

  Point being: people in this line of work have always had a fondness for healing potions.

  Personally, I thought they tasted like licking the underside of a boot. When it came to restoratives, my tastes had always ranged toward the traditional.

  “So, what’ll it be?” I asked as I emerged from the kitchen, holding up a hefty bottle in either hand. “Are you more a wine girl or a whiskey girl?”

  From her place on the sofa, Dalaris looked up at me. She looked as though she had aged six years in as many minutes, judging from the weariness on her face. Yet even that weariness wasn’t enough to block out her incredulous offense.

  “You just discovered a noble was in a plot to kill my husband,” she said. “You were captured by centaurs and nearly killed by them. You have revealed a plot that goes deeper than anything I ever suspected, and all you can think about is drinks?”

  “Well,” I replied, “given all that’s happened, I think I deserve one. Forgive me for thinking you might like to join me.”

  Dalaris sighed, shook her head. “Fine. Wine. Whatever.”

  “Sure thing. One glass of…” I raised the wine bottle, squinted at the label, and gasped. “Rahadoumi Red?”

  Without a second thought, I tossed the bottle over my shoulder. It shattered against the wall and dribbled down the paneling. Dalaris’s face turned the same shade of red.

  “What was that for?” she demanded.

  “It was from Rahadoum. I did you a favor.”

  “That bottle was vintage.”

  “A vintage bottle for Rahadoum,” I repeated. “Drinking is a religious experience, woman. Never trust a godless man to know what good wine tastes like.”

  She muttered some further complaints—mostly about the mess I had left behind—but I ignored them. It’s not like I could have made the place look much shabbier.

  Sidara Manor was, as far as Yanmass’s homes went, criminally modest. That is, it was merely as big as two houses, instead of the usual four or six. It had a well-stocked pantry if a rather shamefully skimpy wine cellar a few bedrooms, some lovely artistic décor and a living room that was merely spacious instead of cavernous. A staircase at the end of the living room rose to the second level, where bedchambers with simple quilts and shabby pillows lay.

  It was nice. Almost cozy, compared to the echoing chambers of Herevard’s manor. But it was all a little diminished by the layer of dust everywhere.

  House Sidara’s declining fortunes were no more evident than in the wear of Dalaris’s living room. The portraits of ancestors were dusty and hung crooked on the wall. The rug was threadbare in places and torn in others. The brass sculptures were tarnished with age. All of this surrounded an aged, scuffed table flanked by a pair of sofas, Dalaris occupying one. As soon I sat down in the other, a fine cloud of dust rose up.

  “Been a while since you had guests?” I asked, coughing.

  “Been a while since I could afford servants,” she replied, waving away the dust as it wafted over the table toward her. “Harges stays on mostly out of loyalty.”

  “He liked your mother, eh?”

  “Sort of. He likes his horses more, and we can still find room in the budget to feed and stable them.” She coughed. “He was a bit cross at how hard he had to run them to get back here, by the way.”

  “I’m sorry,” I replied. “Next time I have to escape a pack of bloodthirsty centaurs, I’ll try to do it in a manner that allows for more leisure.”

  Dalaris frowned at that. “So it’s true, then. A noble is arming the centaurs.”

  “That’s what the note said.”

  “And you’re sure it’s from a noble?”

  “Darling, I think I know a rich man’s penmanship when I see it.”

  “How do you know it’s a man? It could be a woman! It could be a frame job or a—”

  “A what?”

  “A frame job,” she said, making a vague gesture. “You know, where you frame someone?”

  “Oh. You mean a left-handed backpat.”

  “A what?”

  “Look, why are you trying to explain this away?” I wrenched the cork out of the remaining bottle. “You’re the one that suspected a foul hand.”

  “I suspected a … a plot.” Dalaris rubbed at her temples. “An assassination contract, an opportunistic merchant, a … a … something.” She shook her head. “But now you’re telling me it’s a noble. And you suspect it was Gerowan’s brother?”

  “What’s so hard to believe about that?” I tilted the bottle back, all but kissed it. The whiskey kicked like a mule and tasted like one, to boot. Pretty great stuff, all told. “Stuff like that happens all the time.”

  “I know, it’s just…
” She shook her head again. “I knew Alarin before I knew Gerowan. He was always so bright and exuberant, where Gerowan was shy and bookish. I ate dinner with him, went hunting with him, talked literature with him. He smiled at me. He held my hand and laughed and told me I had better give him some nephews and nieces he could spoil.” She shivered, clawed unconsciously at her hand, trying to scrape away some filth that wasn’t there. “Could he really lie to me? Right to my face like that?”

  “If he was any good at it, he could.”

  She winced at my words. I sighed.

  “Look, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Alarin was shipping weapons to the centaurs. Gerowan caught wise. Alarin decided he had to kill him to cover his tracks.”

  “But why would he give weapons to the centaurs in the first place?”

  “Quick coin, maybe. Halamox’s money is good as anyone’s.”

  “But … but…”

  Dalaris’s lips fumbled, searching for a refutation, struggling to find those perfect words that would prove it couldn’t be what I said it was. But when she opened her mouth, all that came out was a soft, choked whimper.

  She leaned back in the sofa, hugged herself. The facade of a noble seemed to melt off her with each heavy breath until all that remained was a girl. A scared little girl who wanted the world to just stop for a few moments and let her catch her breath.

  I felt something cold in my chest, a pain I felt whenever I saw this.

  Do this job long enough, there’s stuff you get used to. Knives in the back, dead bodies in alleys, money slick with blood; see enough of it, it stops meaning so much.

  But gods help me, I never did get used to the sight of that little girl.

  She’s in all of us, you know. Someone small, timid and trembling. We build up around her with our walls and our weapons and our scars and our proud talk until we can’t see her anymore. But when we realize how big the world is and how very alone we are in it, all of that goes away. Walls come down, weapons rust, scars fade, proud talk falters.

  And all that’s left is that little girl.

  Like the one that looked at me in the mirror the day I left Katapesh.

  Like the one sitting on the sofa across from me.

  “You feel betrayed,” I said.

  “I feel dirty,” she replied. “I feel like … like I’ve just been sitting in filth and never noticed. Like someone was feeding me lies and I was all too happy to eat them.” She looked up at me from behind those big spectacles of hers. “Do … do you know what that feels like?”

  I looked down at the bottle, swirled it in my hand.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “How did—”

  “Fortunately,” I interrupted, “there’s a very special magical spell that makes it all go away.”

  “What’s that?”

  I leaned over the table, offered her the bottle. She looked at me first like I was rude to do it, then at the bottle like it would be rude not to. She reached out, snatched it timidly, then looked at me.

  “Didn’t you bring glasses?”

  “The magic doesn’t work that way.”

  She eyed me suspiciously for a moment before looking back at the bottle. Then, like she was slaying a gods-damned dragon, she tossed it back and downed three big gulps with the kind of bravado that people who’ve never drank anything stiffer than lemon juice do.

  Bless her heart, I thought, she is going to vomit so much.

  She pulled the bottle free with a hacking cough. Tears fell down her cheeks. She shook her head, wiped her mouth with her sleeve.

  “No,” she all but roared. “No, I can’t just accept it.”

  “Accept what?” I asked, taking back the bottle.

  “Even if you’re right, we can’t just confront Alarin. We need proof. Hard evidence. Something that will link him to the centaurs and to Gerowan’s murder.” She drew in a long breath, face scrunching up. “And we’ll find it in his manor.”

  I nodded. “Makes sense to me. Anyone with money keeps records of where it all goes, even if they keep it out of sight.” I took another slug of the whiskey. “Tell me where his manor is, I’ll break in and—”

  “No.” She turned a glare on me. “Absolutely not.”

  “Pardon?”

  I couldn’t quite tell if she was serious or if the whiskey had just hit her harder than I thought, but the look she gave me as she leaned over the table suggested she was either going to hit me or kiss me.

  Or maybe both.

  Still, I hoped she’d ask first.

  “I sent you into danger once already,” she said. “And you nearly died because of it.”

  I blinked. “Well, yeah. That’s what you’re paying me to do.”

  “I’m paying you to solve a murder, not get killed.”

  “It’s sweet of you to care, but really, I do this sort of thing a lot. It’s no big worry.”

  “I can’t do that.” She leaned back. “I can’t be that calm about death, about people getting hurt. I’m surrounded by people who would eagerly kill a man if it meant a few more coins. I … I can’t be like them.”

  “I should hope not, because this attitude certainly isn’t helping.” I cast a smirk over the bottle. “Besides, if I get in trouble, surely you can just speak a spell or whatever you did back at the camp.”

  “Don’t joke about that.”

  “I’m not, honestly. In fact, I’ve been wondering how you did it.” I took a sip and set the bottle down. “Did you have a scroll or a rod or some magical piece of crap?”

  “No!” She sounded almost offended, looked almost embarrassed. “If you must know…” She glanced around the living room as though she expected someone else to be there. “That was me.”

  “You? Your magic?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I am. If you can do magic, seems like all this sneaking around is infinitely more complicated than just showing up, shooting a fireball out of your ass, and calling it a day.”

  “That’s not how it works! And even if it did, I don’t know how to do that. I only know … certain spells.”

  “Certain spells that took care of Kjoda just fine.”

  “That was less a spell and more a … a talent. A trick Heaven gave me, my grandmother said.” She glanced at her fingertips. Faint pinpricks of light hummed in response. “I’ve never fully understood it, myself. I never had to learn it. I’ve always been able to just … do it.” She wiggled her fingers and the light disappeared. “The spells I learned are illusions, mostly. Spells that redirect divinations, alter images or turn me invisible.”

  “Like what you did at the camp.” I hummed. “Spells to hide.” I leaned back, draped my arms across the back of the sofa. “So, what are you hiding, darling?”

  I knew the look she gave me: that quivering, lower-lip-biting, afraid-to-talk-but-more-afraid-to-keep-it-in look that everyone with a very big secret they’ve held for a very long time has. And I didn’t have to wait long before she showed me.

  She reached up, gingerly removed the spectacles from her closed eyes. And when she opened them again, it all made sense.

  Why she wore those spectacles all the time. Why it felt so strange when she looked at me. Why she was sitting here, giving exactly half a damn more about my life than anyone else in the room did.

  “Wow.”

  Gold. Polished, bright as the sun, pools of gold stared at me. And yet, gold seemed such a filthy thing—something people killed for and bled for. The color in Dalaris’s eyes was something that burned altogether too brightly for feelings like that. The color in Dalaris’s eyes was something warm that I wanted to wrap myself up in and fall asleep forever.

  Either that or the whiskey kicked harder than I thought.

  “We’re not sure when it happened,” Dalaris said softly, looking away. “My mother says somewhere around the time Yanmass was first established. But we know it was on my mother’s side. We think a grandmother, at least four generations ago. One night, she was walking by a r
iver, when…”

  Dalaris collapsed with a sigh, held her arms out wide. I could tell by the wild flail of her arms that the whiskey was starting to hit her like the rear end of an ogre.

  “The sky just opened up. A great white light lit up the night and down came a winged man. He introduced himself, told her she was beautiful, that he was fascinated with her, and…”

  I leaned forward. “And what?”

  Dalaris looked back flatly. “And Grandmother was apparently so taken with him that she hiked her skirts up then and there and it happened in the mud of the riverbank.”

  “Oh.” I blinked. “I guess that would…” I looked down, coughed, absently ran my finger around the rim of the whiskey bottle. “It’s just, tales like that usually have a little more romance and a little less…”

  “Well, family legend was unclear. We weren’t entirely certain that she wasn’t batty until her daughter came about. Born like me.” She gestured to her eyes. “But even more glorious. Hair like spun gold, skin like silver. She was beautiful. Then we went back to normal children until I came along.”

  “Impressive.” I folded my arms, glanced her over. “So what’s the technical term for you, anyway? Heaven-touched? Angelblood? Wingspawn?”

  “The technical term for me is Lady Dalaris Sidara,” she replied, annoyed. “When my powers manifested, I sought training for illusion spells specifically so I could avoid discussions like this.” She reached out and seized the bottle. “People took advantage of my ancestor when her … heritage was made manifest. They thought she was easily manipulated.”

  I probably would have, too. People of especially strong moral fiber are easy to persuade, specifically because they believe they can’t be persuaded. And I’ve never heard of a story that began with angelic copulation and didn’t end with strong moral fiber.

  And if the decaying fortunes of the Sidara household were any indication, everyone else had heard the same story, too.

  “What about you, then?” Dalaris took a slug of whiskey, made an exaggerated gasp of satisfaction. “Surely your history is at least as interesting.”