There is an island named “Kutnaar” on the map, where there’s no island at all now. I’m not sure what good that will do, but it is something.
I do hope you will find time to visit us. Charlyn would be delighted to talk with you. We’ve read a garbled version of your recent adventure and would love to hear details without all the gaudy sensationalism.
Ivrian looked up from the letter for a moment, smirking. Garbled? Well, he supposed he had poured a little purple into his prose. And judging from Tradan’s dry, formal style, the fellow was likely to have thought Ivrian’s flourishes gaudy. But you had to give the people what they wanted.
He returned his attention to Tradan’s words.
You may be interested to know that I looked into the coordinates you said you’d found on the lizardfolk book cones and discovered some ruins right where you said they’d be, no more than a few hours south of my own home. Most are long since looted, but I’m taking my time exploring the rest. I can read just a little of the lizardfolk glyphs, and there’s a big bloke they’ve got statues of, everywhere, named Reklanit, or something to that effect. If the natives were more industrious, we’d be much further along, but they refuse to work during the heat of the day, or within an hour of twilight, and by the gods, the jungle grows fast. If we delay at all, it seems like any of the chopping we’ve done to clear away a site has been for naught because the plants just grow right back!
If you have time to visit, there are some beautiful pieces of artwork you might find of interest. The ancient frillbacks certainly loved their bright colors, didn’t they?
Ivrian groaned a little. The writer was so breezily, unconsciously racist. The letter was signed by Tradan ven Goleman with an elaborate flourish and even the family crest stamped from a sigil ring. He was old Sargavan nobility, all right, although he honestly seemed a little warmer than some.
Ivrian looked away from the paper and glanced to where Jekka seemed to ritualistically be circling his fingers over the image of the island.
What must it be like, he wondered, to be one of the last of your people? Not for the first time he wondered if Kalina and Jekka had considered mating, or if Kalina had to observe a mourning period for her dead husband, Heltan. But even if they were to mate, there’d be the problem of who any of their offspring would breed with.
How strange to think that only a few months ago Jekka had frightened him. Now, he pitied him and Kalina both.
“Do you mind if I look at that part of the map?” Ivrian said gently.
“Which part?” Jekka cocked his head.
“The part you keep blocking with your hands.”
“Of course.” Jekka withdrew green fingers.
Ivrian peered more closely at the island, north and west of the jagged little islet he guessed for Smuggler’s Shiv. Beside Kutnaar was an even smaller figure, slightly smudged by Jekka’s rubbing. He leaned in for a closer look. Finally he decided he recognized what the image was supposed to represent. “This looks like a crying dragon.”
Kalina pressed beside him and leaned forward over the table. He’d been in close proximity to the lizardfolk many times. Even in stultifying heat, after days of hard travel, neither had a particularly strong scent. The most noticeable fragrance upon Kalina was the floral-scented soap used on her robe. “I don’t see it,” she said.
He tapped the paper. “Right here. A dragon covering its face with its talons and it’s bent over.”
Jekka looked without blinking. “My people don’t do that when we cry.”
“It’s sort of a stagey way to show grief,” Ivrian explained, then added, “And sometimes you’re wracked with so much sorrow you want to hide your face, so it’s not always just about the stage.”
“The stage,” Jekka repeated. He seemed unfamiliar with the word. Kalina cocked her head at him.
“I’m going to have to take you both to see a play.” He wondered what the locals would think of that! “There’s one going on next week scripted by my friend Neider, based on a great Ailson Kindler book.”
Jekka’s hiss seemed drawn out and dismissive. “Is that the place you write for, where people go and mime scenes from history?”
“Not just history, cousin,” Kalina said. “Adventure, and tales to instruct the young.”
“I have no interest,” Jekka said.
“Ailson Kindler writes the most amazing adventure stories,” Ivrian said. But before he could continue, a deep, affable voice interrupted him.
“Well, well, well. You must be the Lord Ivrian and the lizardfolk scholars I’ve heard so much about.”
Ivrian turned to find a stout, handsome man of late middle years walking down the aisle. His well-tailored blue robes were all but silent as he moved over the deep carpet. His skin was brown, and smooth rather than weathered, his dark brown beard going to gray.
“Are you a pirate?” Kalina asked.
The stranger laughed. “No.”
Kalina looked to Ivrian for clarification, and he realized she must be thinking still about his comments regarding beard styles. More importantly, the stranger was advancing toward the map. That wouldn’t do. Ivrian pushed the anchoring book aside, as if by accident. The map rolled in upon itself.
“Sir, I’m afraid this is a private matter—”
“It’s all right, Ivrian.”
Mirian returned with a small stack of particularly wide books that she set on the table before making a little bow.
The stranger returned this with a smile and then, as Mirian presented her hand, brushed it gently with his broad lips.
“This,” Mirian said, “is Venture-Captain Finze Bellaugh, who runs the Pathfinder Lodge in Eleder. Captain, may I present Lord Ivrian Galanor, my brother, Jekka Eran Sulotai sar Karshnaar, and our cousin Kalina Shevek Oletai sar Karshnaar. She’s the one to whom your assistant loaned out some book cones last month.”
“But of course.” The venture-captain bowed once to them all, and Ivrian, flushing a little, quickly returned a formal bow of his own. Jekka imitated the gesture with fluid grace while Kalina watched.
Mirian’s entire manner had suddenly grown more relaxed than Ivrian had seen in weeks. “I didn’t think you’d be free!” she said.
“I’m not.” Bellaugh winked. “But how could I miss the chance to see you? Or to meet these new friends of yours?” He considered Jekka. “So this is the warrior priest,” he said, then looked to Kalina. “And the deadly hunter. Mirian writes that you have an exhaustive record of lizardfolk legends and histories. I’d love to have one of our scribes sit down with you and record them.”
“My sister flatters me,” Jekka said. “It was my brother who was chronicler of our people. With his death, much of our past vanished. But why do you humans want to hear any of it?”
The venture-captain patted the paunch beneath his robe. “The goal of Pathfinders everywhere is to preserve knowledge so that it might be remembered and studied by future generations.”
There was a prideful, rehearsed quality to his words, but then Ivrian supposed Bellaugh had said something similar many times.
“I should like us to be remembered,” Jekka said. “But I would hate to think our legends would be used to profit humans, who made boots from the hatchlings of my people.”
Bellaugh’s large, tufted eyebrows rose at that. “I assure you,” he said gravely, “Pathfinders preserve knowledge for the future. For any scholars. Regardless of race or species.”
“Are there lizardfolk Pathfinders?” Kalina asked.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Bellaugh admitted. “But if you’re asking because you’d like to be one—”
“She is merely curious,” Jekka said.
“I am always curious,” Kalina affirmed. “Can lizardfolk become Pathfinders? What would they do if they were? Can they find lost things and look at them?”
Bellaugh looked to Mirian, then back to the lizard woman, whose small frill had risen along her neck and head. This usually indicated aggression or caution, but Iv
rian had learned it also could indicate exceptional interest.
“That’s almost exactly what we do,” Bellaugh said with great dignity. “And we find a way to bring those things back so others can see and learn from them.”
“Oh, yes. Mirian has shown me her drawings. I cannot do that.”
“You don’t have to be an artist,” Bellaugh said. He opened his mouth as if to expound further on the duties of Pathfinders, but Mirian interrupted him.
“Perhaps we can talk about that another time.”
“Oh, of course.” Bellaugh patted his belly once more, then turned to Ivrian. “I read your account with great interest, Lord Galanor, although Mirian wrote me that the actual adventure took place on the Kaava peninsula, not in the Laughing Jungle, and that there were many incidents glossed over or left from it. Would you be interested in writing an accurate account for our official annals? I could arrange a small fee. For Jekka or Kalina too, of course.”
“I’d be honored.” Ivrian nodded politely. Bellaugh moved in powerful circles, no matter his known association with adventurers and rogues. And what an honor it would be to have writing preserved by the Pathfinders! It would give him a kind of literary immortality he’d dreamed about … although he’d rather have it for the stories he invented.
Bellaugh cleared his throat. “Now, if it’s not too much trouble, perhaps you might show me that chart of yours.”
Ivrian glanced to Mirian for confirmation, saw her slight nod. “Of course.”
Ivrian unrolled the paper once more, setting the book on its far side so that the map lay flat.
“That’s the island,” Mirian said, pointing.
“A dragon’s tear,” Bellaugh said softly, his voice tinged with honest surprise. He looked up surreptitiously, taking in the rest of the people in the room.
“A what?” Ivrian asked. Bellaugh didn’t answer. Ivrian glanced at Mirian and saw her dark eyes were riveted on the venture-captain.
“Allow me to invite you to my private study room,” Bellaugh said. “Gather up your things.”
He stepped away and Ivrian worked quickly to give the map a tight roll so it would slide into the case. Bellaugh was already moving with some haste, and Ivrian almost forgot the letter, which he now handed to Jekka.
Jekka and Kalina followed the venture-captain; Ivrian fell in step behind Mirian. “What’s this all about?”
She shook her head quickly so that he wasn’t sure whether she didn’t know, or just didn’t want to talk about it in public.
They reached the lobby and climbed stone stairs to a higher level with polished parquet floors to pass beyond a bored pikeman in scale armor. Beyond him was a wide hall and two oak doors that opened onto a small chamber with a wide harbor window. A bouquet of sweet pipe smoke lingered in the air, perhaps soaked up by two heavy couches facing each other across an old oak table weighted down by a weathered stone head.
Bellaugh stepped around the table and stood before one of the two inner doorways. “Go ahead and close the door, Mirian.”
This she did while the venture-captain waved Ivrian forward. “Let’s see the map again. Kalina, weigh down the edges with those books. That’s good.”
“What’s a dragon’s tear?” Ivrian asked.
Bellaugh smiled thinly. “I can’t be sure that it is one. But…” He waited for Kalina to step back from the map. He pointed to the smudged image near the island of Kutnaar. “Look at the pose. Look at the dragon’s profile, to the left. Clearly this chart is a copy. Have you seen the original?”
“No,” Mirian answered, then corrected herself. “Well, maybe. But I don’t recall—”
“You must look at the original. If whoever drew this copied it exactly, it may just be a fanciful image. And of course, it’s smudged a bit.”
Jekka hissed, faintly. “I didn’t know it was important.”
The lack of response was maddening to Ivrian. “What,” he asked again, “is a dragon’s tear?”
Bellaugh crossed his arms and tapped his elbow with his other hand. “A dragon’s tear is a magical artifact of tremendous power. Wizards in ancient times could level mountains with them. Or sink islands.”
Ivrian winced inwardly. Might that be the explanation of Kutnaar’s absence from modern maps?
“Let’s hope that’s not what happened here,” Mirian said. “Why would there be a dragon’s tear drawn on the map?”
Bellaugh shrugged his large shoulders. “I can’t say.”
He looked as though he was about to say something though, for his mouth was opening when Kalina interrupted with a question of her own. “What does one of these tears look like?”
Bellaugh drew himself up as if he were in a lecture hall. “A true one is teardrop-shaped, and looks like it’s made of fine clay or marble.” Bellaugh lifted one hand, fingers pointing upward, then met it with his other, thumb pointing down. “It’s about the size to be cupped in a hand. And each is said to be a reservoir of great arcane energy—not necessarily destructive energy. Powerful sorcerers sometimes used them to achieve amazing feats. Like opening gates to other planes of existence. They’re priceless, as you might imagine.”
“You’ve seen one?” Ivrian asked.
“I’ve not had the honor. I’ve held a duplicate. There were always some whispers that they were lizardfolk creations or some sort of artifacts made by an ancient race of dragons, although most people wanted to say they’d been crafted by the Azlanti. Maybe it really was the lizardfolk.” Bellaugh turned to Jekka. “Are there any legends of such things among your people?”
Jekka watched Bellaugh for a long time. “My brother is dead,” he said finally. “He might have known. But this is a crying dragon shown on the image. Not lizardfolk.”
“That is a—well, somewhat poor icon—of the symbol shown among ancient documents for one of the tears. It might mean that there was a tear upon this place.”
“Have you read anything about the island of Kutnaar? We were going to search through the map files and historical records for any mention of it.”
Bellaugh looked at all of them then and moved toward one of the other doorways. “Give me a moment. Please. Take a seat. All of you.”
While his friends lowered themselves onto the furniture, Ivrian leaned to get a better look at the man’s destination and saw a room cluttered and crowded with books and knickknacks. Under one pile was a desk. He strongly doubted anyone could locate anything quickly in such a place, but Bellaugh returned a moment later. He blew dust off the old red-leather tome and placed it gently on the table beside the map as he settled into the couch. Ivrian sat down beside Mirian, across from the older man.
Bellaugh opened the old book with great care, supporting the spine with his right hand. “Jekka, Kalina, you might be interested in this. It’s a history of the pre-human days in the region, at least what we Pathfinders know of it. It’s highly fragmentary, of course. It would be wonderful to get your thoughts on the text. I’m sure you might know more than you’re even aware of.”
“I can’t read your human language,” Kalina said.
As Bellaugh turned pages, he stopped after a few dozen and rested his finger just above the old browned paper, where deep black lines were etched in a precise, slanting hand.
Kalina leaned inappropriately close to the venture-captain. “Do those symbols speak of Kutnaar?”
Bellaugh was untroubled by the invasion of his personal space. “They do indeed.” The venture-captain cleared his throat, put his finger to a line and peered with his chin up though his eyes were rolled down. “I’ll translate on the go, as they say. ‘For many years, the human tides swept in against the lizardfolk, battling over and again, and the savages…’” Here he looked up. “I’m afraid that means natives of the region. Our forefathers were not always so enlightened. Ahem. ‘… and the savages fought and killed them and drove them on. Some claim the lizardfolk were actually far advanced, with great magical abilities, and I myself have looked upon ruins in the jungles sa
id to be from the lizard days. There are strange glyphs everywhere, and many of them show lizardfolk in positions of power, so I am inclined to believe the locals, even though they are prone to exaggeration if they think it will please me. What tales these glyphs could tell if only I could read them!’”
“Who wrote this?” Mirian asked.
“Tyrvale of Taldor, originally. This is copied over from him. Now here’s the important bit I was looking for. ‘The most interesting of all these legends is that of the dread lizard king, Reklaniss.’”
Ivrian saw Mirian start violently, and give Jekka a significant look. The lizardfolk cocked his head to one side, as he often did when curious.
Ivrian recalled the letter. “That’s similar to the name of the lizard king in that city Lord ven Goleman found.”
“Tradan ven Goleman?” Bellaugh arched an eyebrow.
“Yes,” Mirian answered. “I gave him some coordinates to look into south of Port Freedom, and there’s a small ruin there. Apparently one dedicated to someone he named Reklanit. It was mentioned on the same book cone as the island of Kutnaar, which is supposed to be this Reklaniss’s colony. Do you suppose they’re the same king?”
“It may be.” Bellaugh looked back at the text and read aloud. “‘It is said that he fought back against the tide of humans for many years, and that he perfected a life-sustaining elixir. Many were his sorceries, and he killed or enslaved countless ancient tribes. Yet still the humans were too strong for him. He sent his people to safety through a gate in the sea to an island named Kutnaar, then closed off his people from the rest of the world so they could be safe from humans.’”
Bellaugh broke off, though he continued to read silently to himself. “I think that’s it,” he said after a moment. “Now he’s writing about the human natives again.” The venture-captain cleared his throat and looked up. “Is anyone else thirsty? I can call for wine, or brandy.”
“I always welcome the gift of wine,” Jekka answered.
“I know not what this means,” Kalina said. “How can you have a gate in the sea?” She didn’t flick her tongue nearly as often as Jekka, but she did so now.
Pathfinder Tales--Through the Gate in the Sea Page 6
