Fire and Dust

by James Gardner

  Footsteps sounded behind me. I turned to see Kiripao pounce onto the street, followed more warily by Yasmin and the others emerging into this plane of reality. The portal they used was simply the doorway of a house – a house whose windows had been broken and whose walls had been vandalized with the word Traitor! written in red paint. The woodsmoke smell came from inside, and suddenly the odor didn't seem so dreamily nostalgic.

  Hezekiah sniffed, then turned toward the house. «Fire?» he asked, looking around at the rest of us to see if we smelled it too. The boy took a step toward the closest broken window, and said, «Maybe we should check if everything's all right.»

  Miriam placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. «Whatever happened, it's over now. Anyway, this is Plague-Mort; don't borrow other people's problems.»

  «But if someone is in trouble…»

  «No,» she told him. «This is Rich Man's Row, Kid, the closest thing this town has to a Nob Hill.» That in itself said volumes about Plague-Mort, I thought. The houses, even the ones untouched by vandals, exhaled an air of decrepitude. Roofs sagged; cement footings were riddled with dark gummy cracks. «The people who live here,» Miriam went on, «can pay for protection against normal cross-traders and bub-heads… which means if a house like this gets smashed open, the Arch-Lector was behind the job.»

  «What's an Arch-Lector?» Hezekiah asked.

  «A fancy title for the head thug,» Miriam replied. «In a slumtown like Plague-Mort, you can't just call yourself king. Rulers need chi-chi titles: 'Viscount' or 'Rajah' or 'Holder of the Sacred Sphere'. All comes to the same thing, though – the guy who tells his soldiers to break down your door if you've got something he wants. Whoever lived in this house had a pretty wife, or a fast horse, or maybe just one piece of gold too many. Tonight, the Arch-Lector decided to claim it for himself… and unless you want to fight the local army, you'll mind your own business.»

  «But the army isn't here anymore!» Hezekiah protested. «They've taken what they want, right? And if someone here is hurt and needs our help…»

  He didn't bother finishing his sentence, as if it was obvious we should dash to the rescue. I thought, Father would have dashed in too; and he'd save the life of a beautiful woman who'd be boundlessly grateful… the berk.

  «Miriam,» I said softly, «how long before the looters come?»

  «At least a day,» she answered. «Even the greediest knight of the post keeps clear of the Arch-Lector.»

  I nodded. «Then for a day, this house could be a safe bolt-hole.»

  «Sure,» she admitted, «provided the Arch-Lector doesn't come back in the morning to finish cleaning the place out.»

  «We can post a watch,» Wheezle suggested. «If the soldiers return, they will make no effort at secrecy. They have had their fun with the first attack, ripping whoever lived here out of their beds.» The gnome looked at the broken windows, the smashed-in doors. «If the soldiers left any corpses in there, perhaps we could offer the proper obsequies…»

  «In Plague-Mort,» Miriam muttered, «the only last rites are cleaning out a deader's pockets.» But she didn't stop the Clueless boy from heading inside.

  * * *

  Hezekiah went through the door. If he'd had an open wound, he would have ended up back in the Abyss – the door was a portal, and blood was the key. However, the lucky sod had survived the last few days without so much as a paper cut, so he entered the house without incident. The rest of us went through a smashed-in window, stepping down on splinters of broken glass that crunched under the soles of our boots. Rats skittered away from the noise; in Plague-Mort, even the vermin watched their backs.

  Hezekiah sped toward the back of the house while Kiripao bounded up the stairs to the top floor. Sighing, the rest of us split up to keep the two of them out of mischief… and I noticed that Yasmin waited for me to head after Hezekiah before she chose to follow Kiripao.

  Anything to avoid me.

  The house was dark, and we dared not light a lantern that might be seen from the street. Miriam and I stumbled through the front room waiting for our eyes to adjust to the dimness. All of the furniture had been demolished, as well as a collection of china that had once been displayed on plate-rails around the ceiling. The carpet smelled of urine; I supposed that had to be blamed on the soldiers, determined to bespoil every inch of the house… but I could not picture men doing such a thing.

  Miriam noticed me sniffing at the odor. «Hounds,» she said in a low voice. «The Arch-Lector's troops call themselves the Hounds. Sometimes they go out of their way to act like dogs.»

  «Charming,» I murmured. «If I head into town I'll carry a bucket of water, in case one goes for my leg.»

  * * *

  The back half of the house contained the kitchen and servants' quarters… although in Plague-Mort, those «servants» might actually be slaves. There was no way to determine their status looking at their rooms now – after the Hounds had smashed, slashed and thrown around slops, who could tell if these were the cozy quarters of valued retainers or the squalid pens of chattel? Whatever the servants might have been, they were gone now. In the darkness of the house, I couldn't tell if those smears on the kitchen wall were blood or perhaps just gravy; but there were no bodies here, living or dead.

  «The smoke is coming from the basement,» Hezekiah whispered in a low voice. He had just opened a door at the rear of the kitchen, showing steps that descended into blackness. Dank air seeped up from below.

  «Can you see down there?» I asked. As a half-elf, Hezekiah had better-than-human eyes when it came to poking around in the dark.

  «There's a tiny bit of light,» he said, taking a few steps down. «Yes, over in the corner: the remains of a fire.»

  I ventured warily down the stairs after him. In the blackness, I could just make out the dull glow of embers, maybe twenty paces away. The smell of smoke was strong down here, and suddenly that struck me as odd. The Hounds hadn't lit fires elsewhere in the house – they probably had orders from the Arch– Lector not to burn a valuable property (and half the neighborhood with it). Why had they chosen to torch a small corner of the cellar, and left the blaze untended? Were they afraid of something that had been here?

  «Be careful,» I whispered to Hezekiah ahead of me. «Something isn't right.»

  «There's nothing down here,» he replied, approaching the glowing coals. «I'd be able to see the body heat of any warm-blooded creature.»

  «That still leaves cold-blooded…»

  At that instant, a gigantic snake rose amidst the remains of the fire. Hundreds of silvery spines lined its back, each spine edged like a razor. The serpent lifted itself a full six feet into the air, hissing with rage… and in the dim light, I could have sworn its head was that of a human woman.

  Hezekiah gave an incoherent yell, and suddenly disappeared: the Clueless little berk had teleported away, and this time he'd forgotten to take me. «Nice snakey,» I murmured in what I hoped was a soothing voice. «I'm not with those other guys. What did they do, set you on fire? They're scum, but I'm not like that.»

  All through this speech, I was slowly moving my hand to the pommel of my sword; but I froze when the snake spoke in a gentle female voice. «Please help me, good sir,» she said. And then her upraised body toppled forward, slumping flat across the burning coals.

  * * *

  A moment later, Hezekiah reappeared behind me. «Sorry,» he whispered. «I jumped by reflex.» The boy glanced down at the snake lying across the embers and said, «Looks like you didn't need my help.»

  «I need it now,» I told him. «We have to get her away from that fire.»

  «Are you nuts?» Hezekiah asked. "Sorry… barmy?

  «Just give me a hand, would you?»

  Despite his misgivings, the boy followed me toward the snake. She seemed unconscious now… which might have been a blessing, given the burning coals under her torso. I stepped into the simmering ring, ignoring the smell of singed leather as my boots began to smoulder. Putting my hands un
der the snake was out of the question, because of the bed of embers; but I could squeeze the sides of her body enough to lift her off the ground, and then get an arm underneath for support.

  She was about nine feet long and heavy – two hundred pounds of solid muscle – but between us, Hezekiah and I wrestled her away from the fire and up the darkened stairs. Scaly skin flaked off liberally in our hands. I hoped this was normal reptilian shedding, but feared it was actually burned tissue ripping away from her body.

  Grunting and panting up the last few steps, Hezekiah gulped, «Uncle Toby… says snake-meat… tastes like chicken. Is that why we're… Britlin, look at its head!»

  Enough starlight filtered through the dirty kitchen windows to show what had astonished the boy. The snake did have a human head: the face of a girl about twelve years old, soft and vulnerable, with delicate green skin and long hair of burnished gold. True, she had two sharp fangs protruding from her mouth; but they didn't negate the sweet gentleness of the rest of her features.

  «What is she?» Hezekiah breathed.

  «A naga,» I said, «one of the snake-people. I've met a few adults in Sigil, but never one this young. She's just past her first molt; while they're children, their heads don't look human at all.»

  «What's she doing here?»

  «I don't know. Perhaps she was a pet… or a slave. They're as smart as most humans, and have magic abilities. If you got hold of an infant and raised her as a member of the family, she could become a powerful asset.» I laid a hand on her cheek; the flesh was cold, but I could feel her breath on my fingers. «At least she's still alive.»

  «But what do we do with her?» The question came from Miriam who stood in the kitchen doorway. I didn't know where she'd been for the past few minutes; possibly rummaging through other rooms in search of removable goods.

  «We treat her kindly,» I replied. «Some naga breeds are innately malicious, but most are quite civilized.»

  «She's still a snake,» Miriam grumbled, as if anything else was irrelevant.

  «Who's a snake?» Yasmin asked, coming in with Wheezle in her arms.

  «Her.» I pointed. Even in the dim light, I could see Yasmin's eyes grow bigger.

  «She is a snake,» Yasmin admitted.

  «And she's waking up,» Hezekiah said.

  The naga's eyelids fluttered and a soft moan escaped her lips. Miriam tensed and Hezekiah backed away; but I stayed put, hoping she was too ladylike (and too weak) to use those wicked fangs.

  «Who are you?» she whispered.

  «Friends,» I told her. «My name is Britlin.»

  «My egg name is Zeerith,» she replied. «I must choose a tooth name soon, but… I apologize. I'm so tired.»

  «What happened here, Zeerith?» Yasmin asked gently.

  «Men came,» the naga answered. «I don't know why. I had been downstairs for a day, enduring my… transformation. The family was very kind, giving me privacy – since they found me outside town, they have always been kind.» She blinked, and a tear beaded in the corner of one eye. «Can you tell me what happened to them?»

  «Nothing good,» Miriam muttered.

  «I fear she is right, honored snakeling,» Wheezle said. «We have searched the house and found it empty. One can always hope —»

  «Not in Plague-Mort,» Miriam cut him off.

  Zeerith closed her eyes. The lingering tear spilled down her cheek. «This is not a happy town,» she murmured. Opening her eyes again, she said, «The soldiers thought I was an ordinary snake. They were cowardly men, too fearful to approach and see what I was.»

  «Count yourself lucky,» I told her. «If they realized the truth, you wouldn't be here now.»

  «Perhaps not,» Zeerith nodded. «As it was, they simply lit burning sticks, then threw them at me until I played dead.»

  «Played dead!» Miriam snorted. «I thought nagas could cast magic.»

  «I do not know what I can do,» Zeerith answered. «I am virtually new-born. As the men pelted me with fire, I was still in the final stages of molt. I… pardon me, I feel so weak…»

  Yasmin handed her a water flask. It only contained brackish water from the umbral village, but Zeerith drank it gratefully. When the naga was finished, I eased her head down to the floor and told her to rest. Hezekiah stayed by her while I stood up to talk with Yasmin and Miriam.

  «So?» I said in a soft voice.

  «There's no one in the house,» Yasmin replied. «I say we stay here while Miriam finds this friend of hers… November, was that the name?»

  «And if the Hounds come back?» Miriam asked.

  «We head out the back door and take Zeerith with us,» Yasmin replied. «The Hounds will kill her if they find her; and she can't go far on her own.»

  «Won't that look subtle,» Miriam grimaced. «The bunch of us wandering the streets, carrying a boa constrictor.»

  I smiled and patted Miriam's shoulder. «You still haven't got the hang of this friendship thing, have you?»

  * * *

  Zeerith pleaded for more water. Hezekiah found a rain barrel in the house's back garden and fetched in a few quarts with a soup cauldron. As he was beginning to apply cold compresses to the naga's burned skin, Hezekiah looked up and asked, «Where's Kiripao?»

  «Right behind me,» Yasmin answered. Then she turned and let out an angry breath. «Sod it, he's gone.»

  «He could just be lurking in shadows,» I said. «Yasmin, search the house. Hezekiah, you stay with Zeerith. I'll have a peek outside.»

  «Me, I'm going to find November,» Miriam announced. «That piking Kiripao will stir up trouble, I can feel it in my bones. Before that happens, I want an escape route back to Sigil.»

  «If we have to leave this house,» I told her, «we'll head for the closest inn.»

  She nodded and hurried out the front. I looked through a window into the back garden but didn't see any sign of Kiripao. That left the street. When I stepped onto the cobblestones, Miriam was jogging away to the right so I went left, hoping that one of us might catch sight of our missing ally.

  Assuming, of course, that Kiripao still was our ally. Since the very beginning he hadn't been easy to trust; now, with the umbral contagion infecting his mind, he might well turn stag on us. Would he stoop so far as to sic the Hounds on us? Or would he simply go berserk in the dark streets of Plague-Mort?

  I reached a T-intersection, but saw nothing in either direction. Arbitrarily, I turned left again. Halfway up the street, I heard the far-off sounds of a tavern – a rumble of conversation, bar wenches shouting orders to the tapman, and the ragged muddle of inept musicians: drum, fiddle, and flute. It occurred to me Kiripao might be drawn to the flute's music, even though it was nothing like the piping we'd heard from the umbrals. Crossing my fingers that the tavern wasn't some killhole catering to vacationers from the Abyss, I pushed through the pub's front door.

  The place smelled of every staleness known to humanity: stale sweat, stale beer, stale dreams. Not that the place was quiet – it was full of people in constant motion, shouting at each other and playing cute with members of the appropriate sex. What was missing was the sense that anyone took delight in the frenzy. When a patron pinched a passing barmaid, I saw no lust or teasing lechery; it was simply something to do with his hands, some meaningless gesture he'd learned a long time ago and was still repeating because he knew no other tricks. The whole thing looked like a bar scene in the thousandth performance of a long-running play… people going through rehearsed motions, their minds disengaged and distant.

  As in most pinch-crust taverns, the proprietor saw no need to invest in over-many candles. The back recesses were too dark to inspect from the door, so I wove my way through the clutter of tables and found some leaning space at the bar. I put a coin down on the counter and the tapman replaced it with a mug of something foamy; but after one sip, I set the mug down with the intention of never touching it again. Perhaps somewhere in the multiverse, a tavern owner has found a way to water ale that I haven't tasted before… but th
is wasn't it.

  I let my gaze roam around the room, searching for Kiripao. He'd be lurking in the shadows, if he was here at all, but that didn't make my job easier – the whole taproom was one big shadow, and the constant movement of people running to the bar or privy made it hard to check every face. I had covered most of the left half of the room when someone squeezed in on my right, calling to the tapman, «A mug of your best for me and my friend!»

  Idly, I turned my eyes to glance at the newcomers… then looked away again, my blood running cold. Leaning next to me at the bar were a certain githyanki and githzerai: Qi and Chi, Miriam had called them.

  Don't go blubbery, I told myself. They never saw you at the City Courts, the Glass Spider, anywhere. They don't know you… and after traipsing through the Lower Planes so long, you're just a dirty and unshaven cob like everyone else in the room. They won't give you a second glance, as long as you don't go addle-coved.

  I picked up my watery ale and had another sip after all; no local pub-patron would leave without emptying his glass. I'd calmly finish my drink, then walk out the door. If Kiripao was hiding in a corner, he could sodding well look after himself.

  Another sip, as unhurried as I could make my hand move. Please let it be a coincidence Qi and Chi were here. Miriam had said people from the Glass Spider came to Plague-Mort for rest and recreation; and this tavern was right on Rich Man's Row, which meant it had to be one of the best in town. I'd been here five minutes and hadn't seen a fight yet – in a place like Plague-Mort, that meant the ultimate in chic. Come to think of it, Miriam had recognized Rich Man's Row the second she walked through the portal, so she must have spent time here. Maybe the portal from the Glass Spider came out in this neighborhood too. Qi and Chi were merely here for a drink.