by Kate Novak
Like his sister, Julia, Steele had the Wyvernspur face with a mole to the right of his mouth. Many people would have called him tall, dark, and handsome, but his grin reminded Giogi of the red dragon Mist—an impression heightened by the way the firelight caught Steele’s blue eyes and made them glint red. As he had in Mist’s presence, Giogi winced when Steele spoke.
“So the exiled family jester has returned. Everyone in Suzail was talking about your remarkable impersonation at the wedding last season. And, of course, about the “duel” that followed. I trust you have fresh entertainment lined up for us this year. Maybe you can debut at Gaylyn’s baby’s blessing ceremony.”
Giogi winced again. It didn’t look as though the family was going to forget the wedding incident any time soon. Wondering if Gaylyn could ever forgive him, Giogi shot her a guilty glance. The bride had the most right to be angry.
Gaylyn laughed, though. “I thought I would just die when that tent collapsed on all of us,” she said. “Remember what fun we had crawling out from under it? It was such a relief to have an excuse to leave that stuffy old canvas and just revel in the garden.”
Steele squinted with annoyance at Gaylyn, and Aunt Dorath raised an eyebrow at the woman’s frivolous attitude, but Lord Frefford smiled at his wife’s high spirits.
A stranger might have guessed Frefford and Steele were brothers and not just second cousins, because Frefford, too, sported most of the Wyvernspur features. Frefford’s face was always softened by a friendly smile, though, and his eyes were more hazel than blue. He whispered something in his wife’s ear, and she giggled.
Giogi smiled at the couple with gratitude.
Aunt Dorath sniffed. “Now that we’re all here, it’s time to get down to business,” she announced imperiously. “Drone, leave that infernal cat and join your family.”
It was hard to believe, watching Uncle Drone shuffle across the room, that Aunt Dorath’s wizard cousin was eight years her junior. If time had avoided Dorath, it made up its loss by visiting Drone twice over. His black hair and beard, besides being shaggy and unkempt, was splotched with gray and white, much more so than Aunt Dorath’s hair. His blue eyes were rheumy, and his Wyvernspur features were lost in the cracks and wrinkles that lined his face. Magic had taken its toll on him.
Years of puttering in his lab, brewing magic potions, had also left Drone a little careless of his appearance. Forgetting he did not wear a lab apron, he wiped his hand on his chest, leaving a venison blood stain across his yellow silk robe. He offered his hand to Giogi, saying, “Welcome back, boy. Heard you’ve been jousting with red dragons.”
Giogi held out his own hand nervously, afraid he was about to be censured again. A cloud of Tymora’s blackest luck seemed to hang over him this evening. It hadn’t been his fault that he’d been kidnapped by the red dragon Mist. Giogi then saw that his uncle’s eyes twinkled with amusement. The young man relaxed and jokingly replied, “Uh, actually, it’s a little difficult jousting with them, don’t you know, because they tend to eat your horse first.”
Dorath, Steele, and Julia glared frostily at Giogi for treating the incident so lightly, but Drone wheezed out a cackle and plopped down beside Dorath.
Giogi used his handkerchief to wipe the blood from the hand Uncle Drone had shaken.
“Did you really joust with a dragon?” Gaylyn asked, her eyes shining with excitement.
“Well, actually I—”
“Of course he didn’t,” Aunt Dorath snapped. “Giogi could no more joust with a dragon than he could match his own stockings. Enough of this nonsense. Drone, it’s time you explained to all of us what happened to the spur.”
Uncle Drone sighed a deep sigh, like a bellows letting out all its air. When he spoke, it was in a measured, professorial voice, his tone as dry as the ancient paper scrolls he kept in his lab. “Last night,” he began, “an hour before dawn, someone got into the family crypt, where the wyvern’s spur has been stored for years. Awakened by a magical alarm, I immediately attempted to scry into the crypt, but a powerful darkness obscured my vision. I teleported to the graveyard and found both the mausoleum door and the crypt door within locked. There was no sign that anyone had broken in or out. All the magical wards I had placed to keep spell-casters from by-passing the locks were intact. However, both the spur and its thief were gone.”
“Why was the spur kept in the family crypt?” Gaylyn asked. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to guard it in the castle?”
“The guardian lives in the crypt,” Frefford explained softly to his wife.
“What’s ‘the guardian’?” she asked.
“The spirit of a powerful monster, which will slay any being in the crypt that is not a Wyvernspur by blood or marriage,” Aunt Dorath said.
“So it had to be a Wyvernspur who stole the spur,” Gaylyn reasoned.
“One of us,” agreed Uncle Drone, pausing for a moment to let the thought sink in. Then he added, “But probably a long-lost relative. We’ve never been able to discover any before, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.”
“Why steal the spur? What good is it to anyone?” Giogi asked.
“It’s said to have powers beyond that of ensuring the continuance of the family line,” replied the wizard.
“I never heard about that,” Giogi protested. “What sort of powers?”
Uncle Drone shrugged. “It isn’t in any of the family history books.”
“What makes you think it was a long-lost relative?” Julia asked. “Why not one of us?”
“Well, firstly,” Drone explained, “I was able to ascertain through magical means that none of the keys entrusted to the keeping of Frefford, Steele, and Giogioni—” Uncle Drone waved an arm at each of the men in turn— “were used to open the crypt.”
“What about your own key?” Aunt Dorath interrupted. “Are you certain you haven’t mislaid it somewhere?” Her emphasis suggested the unspoken word “again.”
In reply, Uncle Drone held up a large silver key hanging from a chain about his neck. “As everyone here but Gaylyn already knows,” the wizard continued, “besides the mausoleum entrance, the only other entrance to the crypt is from the catacombs below, and the only other way into the catacombs is from a secret magical door outside the graveyard.”
“But you told us that that secret door only opens every fifty years,” Steele snapped peevishly, “on the first of Tarsakh. That’s still more than a ride away.”
“Twelve days. That’s a ride and two days to spare,” Gaylyn corrected.
Steele scowled at the woman’s exactness.
“Well, I seem to have miscalculated,” Drone said. “Apparently the door opens after three hundred sixty-five days multiplied by fifty. In other words every eighteen thousand two hundred fiftieth day. The family records weren’t so precise and rounded the interval off to a half-century.”
“What’s the difference?” Steele growled.
“Shieldmeet,” Gaylyn cried excitedly, like a woman playing charades.
“Exactly,” Uncle Drone said. “Shieldmeet, every four years, adds an extra day. After fifty years, the extra days add up, so the door opened earlier than I had expected.”
“By twelve days,” Gaylyn added.
Gaylyn, Giogi guessed, was one of those women who were good with figures.
“Fortunately,” Drone continued, “I had the notion to check out that door within minutes of the theft. Sure enough, it stood open. I sealed it with a wall of stone and left magical guards to tell me if anyone tries to break out by that door or the door from the crypt to the mausoleum. No one has. The would-be thief is still stuck in the catacombs. So, you see, none of us can be the thief, since none of us are missing.”
Giogi wondered idly, if he hadn’t managed to return to Immersea before that evening, whether his family would be sitting around suspecting him of the crime.
“Since only a member of our family can enter the crypt, it’s up to us to deal with this thieving rogue Wyvernspur,” Aunt Dorath
said. “No one else need know about this notorious incident. All we need to do is search the catacombs,” she announced. “First thing in the morning.”
“And will you be leading us, Aunt Dorath?” Steele asked with a smirk.
“Don’t be absurd. This is a job for healthy young men like yourself and Frefford.”
“And Giogioni,” Uncle Drone said. “Can’t leave him out.”
“That’s all right, Uncle Drone,” Giogi insisted. “I can guard the crypt door or something, in case the thief gets past Steele and Freffie.”
“Nonsense,” Steele said. “We need you, Giogi. Besides, don’t you want to renew your acquaintance with the guardian?”
“Actually, no,” Giogi retorted sharply, glaring at his cousin. If looks could kill, the rest of the family would have to have summoned a cleric for Steele.
Aunt Dorath gave Giogi a cold look. “Giogioni, I won’t have you shirking your family responsibilities. You can help by carrying the water flasks or something.”
“Yes, you can be our provisions officer,” Steele said. “But leave the land urchins behind—and don’t forget your key. It’ll remind the guardian that you are a Wyvernspur after all.”
Giogi began breathing a little too deeply, and the room seemed to tilt. Steele’s taunts were wasted on him—he was too busy fighting off a rising panic. Frefford moved to his side and clamped a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be fine, Giogi. We’ll all be down there together.”
“You can’t possibly still be affected by that scare you had as a boy,” Aunt Dorath insisted.
Giogi did not answer. His mouth moved, but no words escaped.
“Well, that’s settled, then,” Aunt Dorath said. “I suggest you all get a good night’s sleep so you can get an early start. That includes you, Giogioni. Don’t spend the rest of the evening carousing in town. You must be at the crypt at dawn. This is not a duty any of you dare take lightly. Until that spur is back in the crypt where it belongs, none of us are safe. You may scoff all you want, but I know for a fact that the spur’s curse is no silly superstition. Its absence will bring evil upon us.”
Giogi shuddered, anticipating meeting the guardian again. Gaylyn lay her hand nervously on her belly. Frefford returned to his wife’s side to comfort her. Julia watched Steele, who fidgeted with impatience. Uncle Drone studied the stain on his robe.
Everyone remained speechless for several moments until Drone said, “I’ll see you to the door, Giogi,” and held an arm out for help in rising.
Still in shock, Giogi stood automatically and helped Drone to his feet. He held the parlor door open as the old man shuffled through, and he followed his uncle out.
After the door had closed behind them, the old man patted Giogi’s arm and said softly, “Dory’s right, you know. It’s time you were over that fright you had as a child.”
“Aunt Dorath wasn’t locked down there,” Giogi objected as they descended a staircase to the main entrance hall.
“Well, actually she was once, but that’s neither here nor there. Listen, my boy, I have something very important to tell you, something I couldn’t tell you in front of the others.”
Suddenly reminded of Sudacar’s revelation, Giogi shook off his anxiety over the coming expedition. “And I have a question for you that I couldn’t ask in front of the others. Why didn’t you ever tell me my father was an adventurer?”
“Found that out, did you? Who let it slip?”
“It makes no difference,” Giogi retorted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Your Aunt Dorath made me swear not to.”
“How could you agree to something like that?” Giogi demanded. “I thought you liked my father.”
“I loved your father,” Drone whispered angrily. “I had my reasons. Now hush up and listen.”
When they’d reached the bottom of the staircase, the new footman popped out of an alcove and asked, “Shall I fetch Master Giogioni’s things, sir?”
“Yes, yes,” Uncle Drone snapped, annoyed at the interruption. He watched the footman’s back until the servant disappeared from sight. Drone swiveled his neck in all four cardinal points, making sure he and Giogi were alone in the hall before he spoke again. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. The spur and the thief aren’t in the catacombs.”
“What! Then why did you tell us all—?”
“Shh! Keep your voice down. I had good reasons, but Dory would never understand. You must go down into the catacombs anyway to keep up the charade, and tell me everything that happens there.”
From the hallway upstairs they could hear Aunt Dorath bellow, “Drone!”
“Look, I’ll explain it to you tomorrow night when you return. In the meantime—”
The footman returned with Giogi’s cloak. Drone took the cloak and waved the servant away. As the old wizard wrapped Giogi up in the garment, he whispered, “In the meantime, watch your step. Your life could possibly, just possibly, be in danger.” He opened the front door, and cold air rushed into the hallway.
“Because of the spur, you mean?” Giogi asked.
“Not because of the spur—well, maybe because of it, but not the way you might think—”
“Drone!” Aunt Dorath called out a second time.
Uncle Drone pushed Giogi out the door, saying, “I’ll explain tomorrow. Remember—watch your step.” The wizard closed the door on Giogi before he could protest further.
My life could possibly, just possibly, be in danger, Giogi thought. He shuddered, not just from the cold. A wizard such as Drone said “just possibly” only in cases where anyone else in the Realms would say, “most definitely.”
A hearty spring wind, fresh off the Wyvernwater, danced around the side of the castle and tore through Giogi’s cloak. He shuddered again and wished that he’d stayed in Westgate, where all he’d had to worry about were dragons, earthquakes, and power struggles. They really were insignificant compared to these family crises.
Olive and Jade
The halfling hid in the shadows—even though there was no one presently on the streets for her to hide from. Hiding in shadows was an art, and the halfling’s mother had always warned her, “Never neglect your art, Olive-girl,” so Olive hid in the shadows. Besides, sooner or later someone would come along the street.
That’s what makes the natives of Cormyr a great people, Olive thought fondly. While citizens of other nations would cower indoors on a cold spring night like this, Cormytes will brave anything to visit the taverns of their choice. At this hour, there were usually just enough pedestrians to offer her a selection, but not so many that she need worry about any witnesses to her light-fingered larceny.
While she watched the street, Olive twiddled a platinum coin across the tips of her slender, dexterous fingers. A gust of wind from off the lake swirled around the corner and into the alley, blowing a strand of her long, russet hair into her green eyes. Olive pocketed the coin and pushed the strand up into her wool cap. She was bundled against the cold in a pair of breeches, a knee-length tunic, a bulky quilted vest, and the hat.
Besides keeping her warm, all the extra clothing hid her slim waist and curvaceous figure, so that she looked almost as plump as a typical town-living halfling. She was shorter than most adult halflings, though—well under three feet. She might have been mistaken for a human toddler, except for her fur-covered bare feet with their tough, leathery soles.
She would never even consider stuffing her feet into a pair of shoes and disguising her race, though. For one thing, there was always someone who made it his or her business to discover what a human child was doing wandering the streets alone, especially in Cormyr; or worse, there were people, even in Cormyr, who were ready to accost such children. For another thing, Olive found shoes just too uncomfortable, not to mention exceedingly awkward for running in, and she never knew when she might need to run. Most important of all, Olive felt that conducting business by passing as a human child was demeaning. Only a very untalented or very desperate halfling would
resort to such a measure.
Down the street, a tavern door opened and sounds of laughter spilled out into the lane. Olive tensed for action. A fat youth in an apron came puffing along, carrying a jug of ale. A servant, Olive guessed, sent to fetch ale for a guest. Probably charged the ale to his master’s tab, so he won’t have any money on him. She stood motionless.
A minute later, two older men in heavy, dusty jackets shuffled by, arguing over whether or not it was too soon to plant peas. Farmers, Olive conjectured, no doubt carrying nothing but copper coins—and only enough copper at that to buy three rounds of ale. She remained motionless.
A skinny fop, attired in bright-colored raiment and wearing the most unusually large boots, strode down the center of the street. Dressed as he was, he might have been an adventurer or a merchant, but from the way he hadn’t bothered to conceal the bulging coin purse in his cloak pocket, Olive judged him to be a noble. He looked sober and pretty alert, which made him just the sort of challenge Olive had been waiting for. She took her hands out of her pockets, intent on following him. As he passed the alley, though, a feeling of recognition tickled at the back of Olive’s brain, and she held back.
“Are you watching a parade, Olive, or are you just screwing up your courage to make a grab?” someone behind her whispered.
Olive’s heart pounded in her chest, but no visible sign betrayed how startled she was. She did not turn to look at her taunter; she did not need to. She could picture the person in her mind: a human woman, nearly six feet tall, slender, with a mop of short hair the rust-red color of bugbear fur, bright green eyes twinkling with merriment, and a face identical to one of Olive’s previous companions—Alias of Westgate.
Olive kept her attention on the fop and whispered, “Jade, where in the Nine Hells have you been for the past ride? I’ve missed you, girl.”
“It hasn’t been ten days, only six,” Jade whispered back. “I’ve been visiting family,” she explained. Olive could hear the playful smile in her voice.
Olive furrowed her brow in puzzlement. For six months Jade had been her protegee, her partner, and her friend, and Olive knew things about Jade that not even Jade knew. Furthermore, as far as the halfling knew, Jade had no family. Jade herself had told the halfling she was an orphan. “What family?” Olive whispered, her eyes following the fop’s progress down the street.
