Pathfinder Tales--Through the Gate in the Sea

by Paizo Publishing LLC.

  “I am excited, yes.”

  She hesitated a moment, then said: “I have prayed for you and your cousin, Jekka.”

  “That is kind of you.” He didn’t add that the gods no longer heeded the prayers of his people, for it didn’t seem polite.

  He was, on the whole, not given to contemplation of the future, for it had rarely presented him with anything particularly pleasant. Yet with the information in the study and the gems they could install upon their ship, he was nearly home. All he needed was the compass.

  “Do you worry about how these lizardfolk will greet you when you turn up?” Jeneta asked. “Or us?”

  He hissed slowly as they turned down a narrow stone corridor. That was a question he hadn’t considered, and it merited thought. But he spotted a faint silvery light farther down the hall.

  “Lord Tradan—what is that light?”

  “Ah—nothing to worry about,” Tradan answered. He’d stopped at a door on the left and handed off his lantern to Mirian to fumble with more keys. He steadied himself against the stone, and Jeneta hurried forward to check him.

  “How are you planning to introduce us to your people, Jekka?” Mirian asked softly. “If they’re still there, they aren’t likely to welcome humans.”

  “I will make clear that you are my friends and family,” Jekka answered, though suddenly his mind was turning over these unexamined risks. Suppose his folk were less accepting than he? If they were as skeptical of all humans as he had been only a few months ago, any that he brought with him would be in danger.

  “To be frank,” Tradan said as he rattled the keys, “I wonder if they’re still there. I mean, wouldn’t they have to come out sometime? If they’re still there, surely we would have seen some evidence of them.”

  He got the key in the lock and bared his teeth in an odd smile toward Jekka. “No harm meant, of course, and I hope the best for you, but you must be prepared. It might be that they’ve died out.”

  “Tradan,” Mirian said with a growl.

  “You don’t think he should be prepared?” Tradan asked her, then finished twisting the key in the lock and opened wide the door.

  Tradan was right. He should be more prepared. Jekka resolved to give greater thought to what might lie ahead.

  They stepped through into a musty stone chamber filled with wooden shelves, each heavy with carvings and book cones and statues and old pots. Tradan’s light spilled haphazardly over any number of interesting items as he searched.

  “Ah. Yes. The Kalabuta material is mostly centered here.”

  Jeneta held up her lantern and Jekka saw crabbed handwriting on slips of paper propped beside even the tiniest fragment.

  “Is this all your doing?” Mirian asked.

  “Ah … no. I’m afraid the ‘exploration’ bug has been in the family for several generations now. Although it bit me harder than the others.” Tradan cleared his throat. “Really, though, we’ve all just been dabblers compared to the Raas family.”

  “These,” Jeneta said, indicating a dark wooden statue with a leering face that lay upon its side. “Are these the Hidden Ones?”

  “Yes, yes. Avert your eyes!” Tradan chuckled. “The Kalabuta are very superstitious about that. Only sacred folk are supposed to see them.”

  “And you just have them rotting in your basement?” Mirian sounded surprised.

  “Surely you don’t believe any of that nonsense.”

  “There’s a difference between belief and respect, don’t you think?” Mirian asked.

  Jeneta nodded.

  “I don’t know where you have room to complain terribly much. Your family loots and sells what it finds—”

  “From the ocean floor,” Mirian said, “and never sacred relics.”

  “Well, these are being preserved.”

  “In your basement?” Mirian asked. “For whom? If you want to preserve them, turn them over to the Pathfinders.”

  “Perhaps I will.” Tradan moved to his left and the lantern light shone finally on an array of book cones and fragments from lizardfolk wall murals. Jekka bent close and saw that the writing praised the victories of a lizardfolk queen whose name he’d never heard. He briefly examined the side of a book cone and could make little sense of it—the subject appeared to be the preparation of fish for some sort of ceremony.

  “Ah!” Tradan reached out with one slim hand and plucked a delicate steel object from the shelf.

  It was no longer than Jekka’s palm, and shaped roughly like a short, flattened arrow with a blunt point. Lines drawn into the tarnished surface suggested feathering.

  A fraying string was tied through the crescent hole at its center. “Watch this,” Tradan said, even as Jekka was trying to reach for it to inspect its small, precise lettering.

  Tradan lifted the object by the thread, steadying the arrow so that it swayed only gradually, and within a few moments it had swung to the left. Tradan chuckled a little to himself. “Watch what happens when I try to point it to the north.”

  Jekka knew what would happen and was a little frustrated. Tradan had already stated the object was a compass, so it was hardly necessary to demonstrate its power. Jekka wanted to see what was written on its side.

  “Hah!” Tradan said as the arrow swayed and settled again to the left, as if his watchers had doubted him. “It is a compass. A damned peculiar one, if you’ll pardon me, but—”

  “May I see it?” Jekka asked.

  “Oh. Quite. Of course.”

  Tradan reluctantly passed it over and Jekka held it up to the lantern obligingly lifted by Jeneta.

  “It’s not actually a compass,” Mirian said. “More like a gate location device.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Tradan agreed.

  Jekka focused on the lettering.

  “What does it say?” Jeneta asked softly.

  It took a little effort to translate the poetic sentiment of the old tongue into something approximating human language.

  “‘True and spear-straight lies the path to the city, so long as you bear eyes and sail with knowledge of the Kutnaar ridge … reefs,’” he corrected.

  “So you have everything you need,” Mirian said, smiling.

  He studied her, sensing something amiss. A wariness? A sadness?

  “Well, well!” Tradan looked as excited as though he’d personally invented the object himself. “So we’ll be reuniting him with his lost people! Your writer friend should have a fine time with that. Although I hope he leaves me out of the whole thing.”

  Jekka, still a little stunned, turned the compass over in his hand and read the writing there. “I wish my brother were still here. I can hardly wait to show it to Kalina.”

  Mirian turned and looked toward the doorway.

  “What is it?” Tradan asked.

  “Someone’s out there.”

  Jekka tested the air for scents as the others turned toward the door.

  “Pet,” Tradan called. “Is that you?”

  Jekka heard a male cough, then a curse.

  “Douse the lights,” Mirian said suddenly. “Someone else is down here.”

  “But that can’t be,” Tradan protested.

  “It is,” Mirian insisted. “Douse the lights and get down! Jeneta, make sure he stays safe.”

  Jeneta nodded and drew her sword. “I’ll protect him with my life.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Mirian said, and blew out the lantern.

  17

  GUESTS OF THE HOUSE

  IVRIAN

  Ah, the vicissitudes of fortune! I had constantly been separated from my friends when they experienced the most harrowing of their adventures. I returned with a retiring but experienced healer from Port Freedom, never knowing that my friends were already in danger once more.

  I wished I’d been at their side, the blood pounding in my veins as I stood shoulder to shoulder fending off the forces of darkness. What I had never wished was to confront those forces alone, powerless to save ei
ther myself or my allies.

  —From The City in the Mist

  As the carriage turned down the lane, the local healer, a bony colonial, shifted tensely. Ivrian had promised the fellow double what he would normally have asked for a nighttime call after Venthan blathered about pirates and boggards. Tradan’s assistant didn’t have much sense.

  Right now Venthan was chattering on as if nothing at all were wrong. “I think what amazed me the most was that the adventure was just like something you would have written in a pamphlet! Will you be writing this one up?”

  “Most likely.” Ivrian answered. Venthan didn’t seem to pick up on social cues like terse answers that hinted a conversation should conclude.

  “What will you say about me?”

  Ivrian was reminded suddenly of Kalina, who’d asked him the same thing. During the early portion of their expedition into the Kaava Lands, she’d been his only friend. Rajana’s sister had condemned her to the arena, where she took the wound that killed her. It still seemed impossible to him that she had returned, brought back by the power of the gods, and remained alive and well in the safety of the Pathfinder lodge.

  “I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?”

  Ivrian shook his head. “I was thinking about a friend of mine.” He offered a smile. “I’ll say that you were bookish but determined. Handsome,” he added. He’d probably also say that he talked too much and was too self-involved, and that he might know how to hold a sword but not really how to handle one. Except he couldn’t be that cruel in print.

  “Handsome, eh?” Venthan smiled, and Ivrian felt it like a stab wound. People just didn’t have any business doing that to him with a smile.

  “I haven’t decided what else I’ll say,” Ivrian added. What the hell. “Or whether I’ll give you a love interest.”

  “A love interest?” Venthan’s smile broadened. “Aren’t I a minor character?”

  “I’m not sure how ‘minor’ you’ll turn out to be,” Ivrian said. “Some things bear closer investigation. It comes down to timing.”

  “So the timing has to be right.”

  “Always.” Ivrian liked the bright-eyed way Venthan looked at the world, but he didn’t know if there was much more beyond that, or if there needed to be. It’d been a long time since he shared someone’s bed.

  On the other hand, Venthan’s self-focus was liable to be an irritant really quickly. That shouldn’t matter for a quick roll, but … Ivrian found himself strangely cautious. They really were a little more complicated than they used to seem.

  The cart came to a stop and he heard the seat in front creak as the driver hopped down, and the crunch of his footsteps on the gravel as he opened the carriage door. Ivrian climbed down first to survey the surroundings. The healer followed, adjusting his round-brimmed cap. Venthan was babbling about how nice it would be to take a long, warm soak, but Ivrian was done flirting for the moment.

  He started up the stairs, wondering why no one was posted on the porch stoop. Perhaps Mirian had pulled all the guards inside.

  He knocked on the door.

  It was yanked open even as there was a yelp of alarm from behind. Ivrian turned his head. Two burly forms had moved out from behind the large pots beside the stairs, and even in the darkness he made out the blades in their hands.

  And before Ivrian was an ugly, bent-nosed man with a cutlass.

  “Ho!” someone called behind him. “It’s the writer!”

  Ivrian wished he was as daring and skilled as a character in his stories, but with a naked cutlass at his throat, he just raised his empty hands.

  “Smart lad,” the pirate told him.

  “Where’s Mirian?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me,” he said. “Who’re these?”

  “A healer, and Lord ven Goleman’s assistant.”

  “Who’s the healer for?”

  Didn’t they know? Ivrian thought quickly. Might Tradan and some of the others have escaped? “Just to tend to our wounds.”

  The pirate scowled at him.

  “Get him out of the doorway,” said a smoother voice, and Ivrian found himself facing a tall, olive-skinned man with sad eyes and a black mustache and chin beard. A frayed sense of grandeur clung to him, despite his threadbare appearance, like cobwebs in some fading mansion.

  The man’s eyes softened further as they met Ivrian’s, which was more than a little curious. His voice, though, was hard as he turned to his subordinates. “Put the others under guard with the servants.” Venthan, the carriage driver, and the healer were led away by four pirates, and Ivrian tried to wish Tradan’s assistant courage. The look Venthan flashed back was one of bewilderment.

  They closed the door behind them, and Ivrian was alone with the pirate he now guessed must be Captain Ensara. He wondered why the man’s expression seemed genuinely friendly.

  “So you’re the one who wrote that little book,” he said. “I rather liked it.”

  Normally Ivrian would have appreciated the compliment, but he was still looking for a chance to prove his bravery. “I didn’t realize pirates could read.”

  Ensara’s expression fell to such an extent Ivrian actually felt a little bad for the quip.

  “No point in making us enemies, lad.” He indicated Tradan’s library with a sweep of his hand, deftly withdrawing Ivrian’s sword as they stepped into the room.

  The first thing he noticed pulled him up short. Rajana stood behind the library table. One of her hands was bare, the other in an opera glove, but both were surrounded by a nimbus of energy. In front of her lay a display of lizardfolk book cones, their gems glittering.

  He tried not to stare at the limp form of Charlyn ven Goleman, lying at the foot of a smug, well-dressed man in black, intently binding her in an absurd number of ropes.

  “You may leave us, Captain Ensara,” Rajana instructed.

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  Ensara gave him a last look that might have been one of pity, then closed the door behind him.

  “So.” The glow about Rajana’s hands faded, and she lowered them. Now the primary source of light was the forest of candles set upright among the book cones. The light rendered her coldly beautiful, as though she were formed all of ivory. “It’s the pamphleteer. Someone who might actually be able to give me answers. I’m afraid Mirian’s sister passed out from my pain spell. She’s not cut from quite the same cloth, is she?”

  “She wouldn’t know anything anyway.”

  “Ah, but you do.” She lifted the twin to the wand Ivrian had passed off to Mirian. “I read what you said about my sister,” Rajana went on. “And you give her more credit than she deserved. You have a certain facility with adjectives, but your prose is too—what is the word I used, Narsian?”

  The big man in black looked up from Charlyn, and Ivrian paused in his own worries to wonder at the fellow’s intent. He was still tying Mirian’s sister with elaborate care, as though she were some sort of escape artist. He couldn’t count the number of loops already wound about her calves.

  “‘Garish,’ Countess.” He paused for a moment, then seemed to realize he would not be called upon again and returned to his work, like some sort of human spider.

  “What’s he doing with Lady ven Goleman?”

  “Narsian plans an experiment with the Raas woman, and I like to indulge him now and then.”

  “An experiment? She’s innocent of—”

  Rajana’s voice was like a whip. “You will address me as m’lady. And I’ve not authorized you to ask questions.”

  Ivrian considered insulting her, but there really didn’t seem to be a point. Not yet. He wanted to know what she was doing here.

  “I am not circumspect, Lord Galanor. I see little need for prevarication. Through my scrying I know that you are close to finding a dragon’s tear. I know that these objects here are a map and some kind of opening device.” She tapped two large black gems that Ivrian had never seen before. No, he decided, they were a dark blue.

  “I
gather,” the countess went on, “that Charlyn ven Goleman has little to no knowledge of them.”

  “She’s doesn’t know anything about it,” Ivrian said. “She’s had no part in any of this. I don’t really understand—”

  “I don’t care if you understand. And you will address me appropriately.”

  That was rather absurd, really, given that they were both nobility, though he’d heard the Chelaxians sniffed at the idea of Sargavans remaining their equals.

  Narsian spoke up behind him. “Do you wish me to deal with him, m’lady?”

  “How kind. No, Narsian. I’ll let you know if I need your help.”

  Rajana tapped the wand against her hand. “There’s probably only one thing I can offer you that would cause you to give me the information I want. If I promise you life, you can trust that I will give it to you. Without trickery. Instead of burning you up with the house, I will cast a sleeping spell upon you and leave you in the carriage house.”

  “If you’ve been scrying us, what could you possibly want to know? M’lady.” He hated himself for adding the last. Not because he was afraid … no, he admitted, he was definitely afraid. He stood a better chance of getting out of this alive if he didn’t antagonize her. But he was also curious.

  “It’s not as though I can watch you all day long, every day. No one’s that interesting, and no one has that much magical energy to burn. So I’ve missed a few things. Like where Mirian Raas is.” Her eyes narrowed.

  Ivrian didn’t say anything.

  “You aren’t going to tell me, either?”

  He wasn’t sure what to say. If he admitted to not knowing, would she believe him? Without the use of a spell to verify, that is?

  There was a rap on the door.

  “Yes?”

  It was Captain Ensara again, who advanced with one hand on the door latch and bowed in brief acknowledgment. “There’s some sort of vault in the basement, m’lady. I’ve sent in some of the men.”

  “Not Sarken?”

  “No, m’lady.”

  “Good. I do want her alive.”

  “Of course.” Ensara bowed and closed the door.

  Rajana considered Ivrian. “I don’t think you were dissembling. I think you didn’t actually know.”