The Spine of the World

by Philip Athans

  “I offer you the choice one last time,” Robillard said, his mock politeness returning.

  “Fine choice,” Pinnickers grumbled. He gave a helpless little wave, indicating that Robillard and the others should cross to his deck.

  They found Creeps Sharky and Tee-a-nicknick in short order, with Robillard easily identifying them. They also found an interesting item on a beam near the tattooed man-creature: a hollow tube.

  “Blowgun,” Waillan Micanty explained, presenting it to Robillard.

  “Indeed,” said the wizard, examining the exotic weapon and quickly confirming its use from the design. “What might someone shoot from it?”

  “Something small with an end shaped to fill the tube,” Micanty explained. He took the weapon back, pursed his lips, and blew through the tube. “It wouldn’t work well if too much wind escaped around the dart.”

  “Small, you say. Like a cat’s claw?” Robillard asked, eyeing the captured pair. “With a pliable, feathered end?”

  Following Robillard’s gaze at the miserable prisoners, Waillan Micanty nodded grimly.

  Wulfgar was lost somewhere far beyond pain, hanging limply from his shackled wrists, both bloody and torn. The muscles on the back of his neck and shoulders had long ago knotted, and even if he had been released and dropped to the floor, only gravity would have changed his posture.

  The pain had pushed too far and too hard and had released Wulfgar from his present prison. Unfortunately for the big man, that escape had only taken him to another prison, a darker place by far, with torments beyond anything these mortal men could inflict upon him. Tempting, naked, and wickedly beautiful succubae flew around him. The great pincer-armed glabrezu came at him repeatedly, snapping, snapping, nipping pieces of his body away. All the while he heard the demonic laughter of Errtu the conqueror. Errtu the great balor who hated Drizzt Do’Urden above all other mortals and played out that anger continually upon Wulfgar.

  “Wulfgar?” The call came from far away, not a throaty, demonic voice like Errtu’s, but gentle and soft.

  Wulfgar knew the trap, the false hopes, the feigned friendship. Errtu had played this one on him countless times, finding him in his moments of despair, lifting him from the emotional valleys, then dropping him even deeper into the pit of black hopelessness.

  “I have spoken with Morik,” the voice went on, but Wulfgar was no longer listening.

  “He claims innocence,” Captain Deudermont stubbornly continued, despite Robillard’s huffing doubts at his side. “Yet the dog Sharky has implicated you both.”

  Trying to ignore the words, Wulfgar let out a low growl, certain that it was Errtu come again to torment him.

  “Wulfgar?” Deudermont asked.

  “It is useless,” Robillard said flatly.

  “Give me something, my friend,” Deudermont went on, leaning heavily on a cane for support, for his strength had far from returned. “Some word that you are innocent so that I might tell Magistrate Jharkheld to release you.”

  No response came back other than the continued growl.

  “Just tell me the truth,” Deudermont prodded. “I don’t believe that you were involved, but I must hear it from you if I am to demand a proper trial.”

  “He can’t answer you, Captain,” Robillard said, “because there is no truth to tell that will exonerate him.”

  “You heard Morik,” Deudermont replied, for the two had just come from Morik’s cell, where the little thief had vehemently proclaimed his and Wulfgar’s innocence. He explained that Creeps Sharky had offered quite a treasure for Deudermont’s head, but that he and Wulfgar had flatly refused.

  “I heard a desperate man weave a desperate tale,” Robillard replied.

  “We could find a priest to interrogate him,” Deudermont said. “Many of them have spells to detect such lies.”

  “Not allowed by Luskan law,” Robillard replied. “Too many priests bring their own agendas to the interrogation. The magistrate handles his questioning in his own rather successful manner.”

  “He tortures them until they admit guilt, whether or not the admission is true,” Deudermont supplied.

  Robillard shrugged. “He gets results.”

  “He fills his carnival.”

  “How many of those in the carnival do you believe to be innocent, Captain?” Robillard asked bluntly. “Even those innocent of the particular crime for which they are being punished have no doubt committed many other atrocities.”

  “That is a rather cynical view of justice, my friend,” Deudermont said.

  “That is reality,” Robillard answered.

  Deudermont sighed and looked back to Wulfgar, hanging and growling, not proclaiming his innocence, not proclaiming anything at all. Deudermont called to the man again, even moved over and tapped him on the side. “You must give me a reason to believe Morik,” he said.

  Wulfgar felt the gentle touch of a succubus luring him into emotional hell. With a roar, he swung his hips and kicked out, just grazing the surprised captain, but clipping him hard enough to send him staggering backward to the floor.

  Robillard sent a ball of sticky goo from his wand, aiming low to pin Wulfgar’s legs against the wall. The big man thrashed wildly, but with his wrists firmly chained and his legs stuck fast to the wall, the movement did little but reinvigorate the agony in his shoulders.

  Robillard was before him, hissing and sneering, whispering some chant. The wizard reached up, grabbed Wulfgar’s groin, and sent a shock of electricity surging into the big man that brought a howl of pain.

  “No!” said Deudermont, struggling to his feet. “No more.”

  Robillard gave a sharp twist and spun away, his face contorted with outrage. “Do you need more proof, Captain?” he demanded.

  Deudermont wanted to offer a retort but found none. “Let us leave this place,” he said.

  “Better that we had never come,” Robillard muttered.

  Wulfgar was alone again, hanging easier until Robillard’s wand material dissipated, for the goo supported his weight. Soon enough, though, he was hanging by just the shackles again, his muscles bunching in renewed pain. He fell away, deeper and darker than ever before.

  He wanted a bottle to crawl into, needed the burning liquid to release his mind from the torments.

  erchant Banci to speak with you,” Steward Temigast announced as he stepped into the garden. Lord Feringal and Meralda had been standing quiet, enjoying the smells and the pretty sights, the flowers and the glowing orange sunset over the dark waters.

  “Bring him out,” the young man replied, happy to show off his newest trophy.

  “Better that you come to him,” Temigast said. “Banci is a nervous one, and he’s in a rush. He’ll not be much company to dear Meralda. I suspect he will ruin the mood of the garden.”

  “Well, we cannot allow that,” Lord Feringal conceded. With a smile to Meralda and a pat of her hand, he started toward Temigast.

  Feringal walked past the steward, and Temigast offered Meralda a wink to let her know he had just saved her from a long tenure of tedium. The young woman was far from insulted at being excluded. Also, the ease with which Feringal had agreed to go along surprised her.

  Now she was free to enjoy the fabulous gardens alone, free to touch the flowers and take in their silky texture, to bask in their aromas without the constant pressure of having an adoring man following her every movement with his eyes and hands. She savored the moment and vowed that after she was lady of the castle she would spend many such moments out in this garden alone.

  But she was not alone. She spun around to find Priscilla watching her.

  “It is my garden, after all,” the woman said coldly, moving to water a row of bright blue bachelor buttons.

  “So Steward Temigast telled me,” Meralda replied.

  Priscilla didn’t respond, didn’t even look up from her watering.

  “It surprised me to learn of it,” Meralda went on, her eyes narrowing. “It’s so beautiful, after all.”r />
  That brought Priscilla’s eyes up in a flash. The woman was very aware of insults. Scowling mightily, she strode toward Meralda. For a moment the younger woman thought Priscilla might try to strike her, or douse her, perhaps, with the bucket of water.

  “My, aren’t you the pretty one?” Priscilla remarked. “And only a pretty one like you could make so beautiful a garden, of course.”

  “Pretty inside,” Meralda replied, not backing down an inch. She recognized that her posture had, indeed, caught the imposing Priscilla off guard. “And yes, I’m knowing enough about flowers to understand that the way you talk to them and the way you’re touching them is what makes them grow. Begging your pardon, Lady Priscilla, but you’re not for showing me any side of yourself that’s favoring to flowers.”

  “Begging my pardon?” Priscilla echoed. She stood straight, her eyes wide, stunned by the peasant woman’s bluntness. She stammered over a couple of replies before Meralda cut her off.

  “By my own eyes, it’s the most beautiful garden in all of Auckney,” she said, breaking eye contact with Priscilla to take in the view of the flowers, emphasizing her words with a wondrous look of approval. “I thought you hateful and all.”

  She turned back to face the woman directly, but Meralda was not scowling. Priscilla’s frown, too, had somewhat abated. “Now I’m knowing better, for anyone who could make a garden so delightful is hiding delights of her own.” She ended with a disarming grin that even Priscilla could not easily dismiss.

  “I have been working on this garden for years,” the older woman explained. “Planting and tending, finding flowers to come to color every tenday of every summer.”

  “And the work’s showing,” Meralda sincerely congratulated her. “I’ll wager there’s not a garden to match it in Luskan or even Waterdeep.”

  Meralda couldn’t suppress a bit of a smile to see Priscilla blushing. She’d found the woman’s weak spot.

  “It is a pretty garden,” the woman said, “but Waterdeep has gardens the size of Castle Auck.”

  “Bigger then, but sure to be no more beautiful,” the unrelenting Meralda remarked.

  Priscilla stammered again, so obviously off guard from the unexpected flattery from this peasant girl. “Thank you,” she managed to blurt out, and her chubby face lit up with as wide a smile as Meralda could ever have imagined. “Would you like to see something special?”

  Meralda was at first wary, for she certainly had a hard time trusting Priscilla, but she decided to take a chance. Priscilla grabbed her by the hand and tugged her back into the castle, through a couple of small rooms, down a hidden stairway, and to a small open-air courtyard that seemed more like a hole in the castle design, an empty space barely wide enough for the two of them to stand side by side. Meralda laughed aloud at the sight, for while the walls were naught but cracked and weathered gray stone, there, in the middle of the courtyard, stood a row of poppies, most the usual deep red, but several a delicate pink variety that Meralda didn’t recognize.

  “I work with the plants in here,” Priscilla explained, guiding Meralda to the pots. She knelt before the red poppies first, stroking the stem with one hand while pushing down the petals to reveal the dark core of the flower with the other. “See how rough the stem is?” she asked. Meralda nodded as she reached out to touch the solid plant.

  Priscilla abruptly stood and guided Meralda to the other pots containing lighter colored poppies. Again she revealed the core of the flower, this time showing it to be white, not dark. When Meralda touched the stem of this plant she found it to be much more delicate.

  “For years I have been using lighter and lighter plants,” Priscilla explained. “Until I achieved this, a poppy so very different from its original stock.”

  “Priscilla poppies!” Meralda exclaimed. She was delighted to see surly Priscilla Auck actually break into a laugh.

  “But you’ve earned the name,” Meralda went on. “You should be taking them to the merchants when they come in on their trek between Hundelstone and Luskan. Wouldn’t the ladies of Luskan pay a high price for so delicate a poppy?”

  “The merchants who come to Auckney are interested only in trading for practical things,” Priscilla replied. “Tools and weapons, food and drink, always drink, and perhaps a bit of Ten-Towns scrimshaw. Lord Feri has quite a collection of that.”

  “I’d love to see it.”

  Priscilla gave her a rather strange look then. “You will, I suppose,” she said somewhat dryly, as if only remembering then that this was no ordinary peasant servant but the woman who would soon be the lady of Auckney.

  “But you should be selling your flowers,” Meralda continued encouragingly. “Take them to Luskan, perhaps, to the open air markets I’ve heard are so very wonderful.”

  The smile returned to Priscilla’s face, at least a bit. “Yes, well, we shall see,” she replied, a haughty undercurrent returning to her tone. “Of course, only village peasants hawk their wares.”

  Meralda wasn’t too put off. She had made more progress with Priscilla in this one day than she ever expected to make in a lifetime.

  “Ah, there you are.” Steward Temigast stood in the doorway to the castle. As usual, his timing couldn’t have been better. “Pray forgive us, dear Meralda, but Lord Feringal will be caught in a meeting all the night, I fear, for Banci can be a demon in bartering, and he has actually brought a few pieces that have caught Lord Feringal’s eye. He bade me to inquire if you would like to visit tomorrow during the day.”

  Meralda looked to Priscilla, hoping for some clue, but the woman was tending her flowers again as if Meralda and Temigast weren’t even there.

  “Tell him that surely I will,” Meralda replied.

  “I pray that you are not too angry with us,” said Temigast. Meralda laughed at the absurd notion. “Very well, then. Perhaps you should be right away, for the coach is waiting and I fear a storm will come up tonight,” Temigast said as he moved aside.

  “Your Priscilla poppies are as beautiful a flower as I’ve ever seen,” Meralda said to the woman who would soon be kin. Priscilla caught her by the pleat of her dress, and when she turned back, startled, she grew even more surprised, for Priscilla held a small pink poppy out to her.

  The two shared a smile, and Meralda swept past Temigast into the castle proper. The steward hesitated in following, though, turning his attention to Lady Priscilla. “A friend?” he asked.

  “Hardly,” came the cold reply. “Perhaps if she has her own flower, she will leave mine in peace.”

  Temigast chuckled, drawing an icy stare from Priscilla. “A friend, a lady friend, might not be so bad a thing as you seem to believe,” the steward remarked. He turned and hastened to catch up to Meralda, leaving Priscilla kneeling in her private garden with some very curious and unexpected thoughts.

  Many budding ideas rode with Meralda on the way back to her house from Castle Auck. She had handled Priscilla well, she thought, and even dared to hope that she and the woman might become real friends one day.

  Even as that notion crossed her mind, it brought a burst of laughter from the young woman’s lips. In truth, she couldn’t imagine ever having a close friendship with Priscilla, who would always, always, consider herself Meralda’s superior.

  But Meralda knew better now, and not because of that day’s interaction with the woman but rather, because of the previous night’s interaction with Jaka Sculi. How much better Meralda understood the world now, or at least her corner of it. She had used the previous night as a turning point. It had taken that one moment of control, by Meralda and for Meralda, to accept the wider and less appealing responsibility that had been thrown her way. Yes, she would play Lord Feringal now, bringing him on her heel to the wedding chapel of Castle Auck. She, and more importantly, her family, would get from him what they required. While such gains would come at a cost to Meralda, it was a cost that this new woman, no more a girl, would pay willingly and with some measure of control.

  She was glad she h
adn’t seen much of Lord Feringal tonight, though. No doubt he would have tried to force himself on her, and Meralda doubted she could have maintained the self—control necessary to not laugh at him.

  Smiling, satisfied, the young woman stared out the coach’s window as the twisting road rolled by. She saw him, and suddenly her smile disappeared. Jaka Sculi stood atop a rocky bluff, a lone figure staring down at the place where the driver normally let Meralda out.

  Meralda leaned out the coach window opposite Jaka so she would not be seen by him. “Good driver, please take me all the way to my door this night.”

  “Oh, but I hoped you’d ask me that this particular ride, Miss Meralda,” Liam Woodgate replied. “Seems one of my horses is having a bit of a problem with a shoe. Might your father have a straight bar and a hammer?”

  “Of course he does,” Meralda replied. “Take me to my house, and I’m sure that me da’ll help you fix that shoe.”

  “Good enough, then!” the driver replied. He gave the reins a bit of a snap that sent the horses trotting along more swiftly.

  Meralda fell back in her seat and stared out the window at the silhouette of a slender man she knew to be Jaka from his forlorn posture. In her mind she could see his expression clearly. She almost reconsidered her course and told the driver to let her out. Maybe she should go to Jaka again and make love under the stars one more time, be free for yet another night. Perhaps she should run away with him and live her life for her sake and no one else’s.

  No, she couldn’t do that to her mother, or her father, or Tori. Meralda was a daughter her parents could depend upon to do the right thing. The right thing, Meralda knew, was to put her affections for Jaka Sculi far behind her.

  The coach pulled up before the Ganderlay house. Liam Woodgate, a nimble fellow, hopped down and pulled open Meralda’s door before she could reach for the latch.

  “You’re not needing to do that,” the young woman stated as the gnome helped her out of the carriage.

  “But you’re to be the lady of Auckney,” the cheery old fellow replied with a smile and a wink. “Can’t be having you treated like a peasant, now can we?”