Brimstone Angels

CHAPTER THREE

The House of Knowledge, Neverwinter 10 Kythorn, the Year of the Dark Circle (1478 DR)

Patches of blue light scintillated along the right side of the sleeping man. The four acolytes arrayed around his cot could not seem to take their eyes off them, nor would they come closer than a few steps from the spellplague-touched man. Rohini pursed her lips.

“Come on,” she coaxed, holding out the cotton bandages. “He doesn’t bite.”

“But …” one of the acolytes, a fair-haired human girl ventured. “Isn’t he contagious?”

“If you are going to care for the victims of the Chasm,” Rohini said, “you are going to have to firm up.” She set the bandages on the table beside her and took up shears to cut the previous dressing loose. “You can’t take on the guardsmen who fall in the river or take a tumble down a pile of rubble and leave all the interesting patients to your colleagues. Now, make certain you don’t bind the dressing too tightly. He needs his blood still.”

The acolytes eyed each other uneasily, still wary of the spellscar. Even in the sunlight streaming down from the many broken windows, the blue light was unmistakable. Rohini risked a glance through the archway and across the corridor. The door was still shut.

“Couldn’t we just cast a healing on him?” a dark-skinned young man asked. “Isn’t that why we’re here? Because we have Oghma’s blessing?”

“You are here,” Rohini said, a little more sternly, “to serve Oghma by assisting Brother Vartan’s studies of the Chasm. And to serve Neverwinter by taking care of her guardsmen.” She wound the clean bandage around the man’s arm. “Neither of which you do by wasting your god-given magic on a flesh wound.”

“But the spellplague-”

Rohini cut him off with a sharp look that held more than the promise of punishment, though she knew from experience that was all the human boy would see. “I trust, Josse, that you don’t believe you can heal the spellscarred when not even the god of knowledge has managed it?” The boy dropped his eyes.

Rohini’s eyes flicked back to the door. Still shut, but there was most definitely a stirring behind it, quiet and easy to dismiss … but more than she’d heard all morning.

“You are all very blessed,” she said, her voice light and sweet again. They all lifted their heads. They wanted to please her. “But you must learn these simpler skills and save your prayers for when they are needed. You will see wounds far more traumatic than this. Far more deadly. Infection. Disease. Poisons. If you have already worn yourself out casting healing magic on a scrape, then where shall you be?”

Definitely a stirring. Vartan’s guest was preparing to leave. She tied the dressing neatly closed, imagining for the barest moment what would happen to the wound if she had bound it good and tight-the sickening of the blood, the putrifying wound-and then locked that part of her mind away again. That wasn’t who Rohini was any longer.

“There,” she said. “Now the four of you take care of the rest. The bandages are here, and be certain your hands are clean.”

No sooner had she set them to their task but the door opened and two men came out. Brother Vartan-the head of the researchers and of the makeshift hospital the ancient temple to the god of knowledge housed-waved the shorter human through the door ahead of him. Rohini moved closer to the archway, making certain she did not seem obtrusive.

“I beg you to only consider-” Vartan began.

“We have considered,” the other man said. He met the half-elf priest’s impassioned expression with an equally dispassionate one, not bothering to wipe away the sweat that streamed down his temples and beaded his brow. His suit was damp with it. “We have no interest in what you offer. Anyone can study the Chasm. It brings my patrons no gain.”

“You were happy with Brother Anthus’s work,” Vartan said.

Very bad, Rohini thought. That was not a path to test. If Vartan pushed the representative of the Sovereignty too far, everything would be in jeopardy. She stepped into the corridor.

“Brother Vartan?” she said. The priest turned to her, as did the other man. Well dressed and haughty, Rohini thought, but he carried with him an odor not unlike a dockside at dusk-cold and wet and dank and vaguely fishy. A necessary evil, she thought, remembering her orders.

“Ah,” Vartan said, “Rohini. This is my second-in-command-as it were-Rohini. She was Brother Anthus’s assistant before his untimely death. Rohini this is-”

“That is not necessary,” the man said. His pale eyes bored into Rohini for a moment. She fought the urge to stare him down and made a polite curtsey.

“Well, nevertheless, I wish you good health,” she said, as if she did not notice the man’s consideration. “I must steal Vartan away from you, I’m afraid. I do hope your talks went well?” She toyed with a frizzy curl of her hair.

The man did not answer. Not for the first time, Rohini cursed that she did not quite know what she was dealing with in Vartan’s nameless, would-be patron. He might look like any other mortal, but looks could be deceiving. Tempting as it was to test his boundaries, she had been warned not to.

“Another time perhaps,” she said.

The man looked at Vartan. “Perhaps.”

“Yes,” Vartan said, giving Rohini a hard stare. “Another day. Farewell, sir.”

The sweating man turned and walked away down the corridor without responding.

“Things were improving,” Vartan said. “Why did you chase him off that way?”

“Because you were losing him,” Rohini answered. “What did you say? What did you promise him?”

“That isn’t your concern.”

“Your concerns are my concerns. What did you promise him?”

Vartan’s dark eyes flicked over her face, as if he were trying to remember why he felt the need to tell her. “Access to my findings,” he said. “Access to Anthus’s findings-the ones we know about.”

Rohini shut her eyes. Whatever secrets Anthus had recorded, the Sovereignty not only knew about them now-they knew he had recorded them.

“He ought to see the merit in my goals,” Vartan said, frowning in the direction the Sovereignty’s agent had taken. “In our goals,” he amended. “Who wouldn’t see the virtue in curing the effects of spellplague? In resurrecting the dead gods?”

“Oh, Vartan,” she said. She looked up at him, making sure her eyes were brown and soft. He always paid attention when they were brown and soft. She reached out and laid a hand on his forearm, where he’d rolled his sleeve up from the heat. The muscles beneath her hand twitched, but Vartan didn’t break his gaze.

“It’s important,” she said, “that you convince our friend there that you are worth his time. You are not going to do so unless you give him something that he wants.”

“Something that he wants?” Vartan said.

“Yes. And he isn’t going to tell you outright what that is, so you are going to have to tease it out of him.”

“Tease it out of him.”

“I’m well aware it’s not your strong suit,” Rohini continued. “But you want to do it. You want to find a way into the Sovereignty’s good graces. And soon. We both know that.”

“We do,” Vartan agreed.

Rohini stood and stepped in close. She pressed her mouth to the half-elf’s cheek, and with that kiss, wrapped his every thought with a trust for her so complete he would not realize she’d planted every word in his head.

He blinked, glanced around at the hallway, and blinked a few times more. “What … what were we …”

“Those sound like very clever plans,” Rohini said. “I only wish Brother Anthus were still with us, that he could assure us of their brilliance.”

Brother Anthus, Vartan’s predecessor, had been well ensconced in the Sovereignty’s good graces when Rohini first came to Neverwinter. Anthus never pressed Sovereignty’s proxy past his limits. Unfortunately, he’d made the mistake of pushing Rohini past her limits, which wasn’t a mistake anyone made twice.

She smiled sweetly at Brother Vartan. “I have to return to the acolytes.”

“Oh, of course,” he said. “But … we must have evenfeast later to discuss things. I shall be in the chapel in contemplation. Would you meet me there?”

Rohini smiled because she could not shudder. It might have been old and without a dedicated cleric, but the chapel was still hallowed ground. It would still be colder than a sword in a snowdrift in the heart of the Fifth Layer. It would still force her away.

“Certainly,” she said. “Until then.”

She watched Vartan walk away. She would simply have to find some task to engross herself in-caught up laboring over some poor spellscarred fool, perhaps. Or listening to an acolyte’s private heartbreak. She would pin her curls up, soft and loose, and find someplace where the sun’s low light would paint her in heartbreaking colors. That was the sort of follower Vartan wanted in her, romantic and feminine, traipsing after him with doting eyes and all the right, breathy questions. He would never think to ask why she hadn’t come to the chapel.

Rohini was so distracted by her planning that she walked into the wardroom without noticing the acolytes, and the succubus had only a moment to register that the young man who’d spoken earlier was disregarding her instructions and casting a healing spell.

Before she could stop him, his prayer was answered and traces of divine magic burst out in a scattered wind that bit into the succubus’s flesh like tiny icy needles.

The succubus flinched. Broken planes, but she hated acolytes.

The day had dragged on for so long, and the waybread Havilar had eaten a few hours before was nothing but a memory and an unpleasant taste in her mouth, but as the caravansary edged into sight, Havilar perked right up. A bed would be nice, dinner would be excellent, but most of all, Havilar was craving company. They were close enough now to hear the shouts of a wagon master and the whinny of horses. The sharp laughter of a woman rose above it and for a moment, Havilar imagined herself that woman-wild and carefree and striking to any eye-

“Havi!” Mehen barked. She looked over her shoulder to see Mehen watching her pointedly, and Farideh shaking out a wrinkled, hooded cloak. Havilar stopped cold.

“Tell me you’re joking,” she said.

“Put on your cloak,” Mehen said.

“It’s hotter than a campfire!”

“Put. On. Your. Cloak. You can take it off when we know what we’re dealing with.”

Farideh was wrestling her hood over her horns. Havilar gave her a pointed look. Mehen worried too much.

Farideh returned the look with a stern, wordless glare of her own, as if telling Havilar to put her damned cloak on.

Havilar scowled. Farideh worried too much too. At least between those two, Havilar figured, she didn’t need to worry much at all. But she knew if she didn’t follow suit, they’d never get to the caravansary-the two worrywarts would insist they sleep in the woods for “safety’s sake.” Away from anyone interesting.

“I think,” Havilar said as they crossed the mostly empty courtyard, “we should spend some of the bounty on new cloaks. Pretty cloaks. Ones that don’t look like tents. Or itch.”

“Havi, put your hood up,” Farideh said, “please?”

“No one’s here,” Havilar said. “They make them with ribbons and things, you know?”

Her sister’s frown twitched into a smile. “Which would go so well with your glaive.”

“It would if I put a ribbon on Eater of Her Enemies’ Livers.”

Farideh laughed, and Mehen scowled back at them as they reached the inn. “Havi, put your hood up.”

The taproom of the inn wasn’t terribly crowded, but it was early yet, hardly sundown. Havilar surveyed the occupants-a handful of men, each sitting alone and wrapped around their ales; a raucous group playing cards and not paying attention to anyone else; a couple old wagon masters leaning against the bar. More than a few were staring at the trio. None of them looked remotely worth talking to.

“M’henish,” Havilar muttered. Farideh squeezed her arm, and despite herself, Havilar’s tail flicked nervously.

Mehen surveyed the room as well, looking for the bounty, no doubt. Havilar didn’t bother to look-she was sure Farideh was right. They had passed the dark-haired woman.

Mehen steered them to an empty table in the corner of the room and then went to the bar to pay for supper and lodging. Perhaps half those staring found something else to look at, until Havilar pulled her hood back a little-and a dozen pairs of eyes honed in on her.

“Havi-”

Havilar waved her off. “It’s too hot for that nonsense.”

In the shadow of her hood, Farideh flushed, but she said nothing. Good, Havilar thought. Maybe she was calming herself a little bit. Maybe she was worrying less about what a lot of boring old men thought. Havilar was sure Farideh would crave some company, too, if only she stopped worrying so much. Being driven out of Arush Vayem was the best thing that had ever happened to them-or it would be if she and Farideh would start taking advantage of it.

Mehen came back with two full bowls of greasy dumplings and a thin stew of greens and gravy. “Havi, put your hood up.”

“She’s right,” Farideh said. “It’s ungodly hot.” She looked down at the steaming bowls. “Especially if that’s supper.”

Mehen glowered down his snout at both of them. “The innkeeper says no food in the rooms. You have to eat down here, and that means you keep your cloaks on.”

“No one cares,” Havilar said, even though they were still getting a few curious looks.

“Stay here,” Mehen said. “Finish your suppers and go up to the room. Second room left of the stairwell. Then you may take off the cloaks.”

“Where are you going?” Farideh asked.

“To ask after our missing bounty,” he said as he walked away.

“Karshoj,” Farideh spat once Mehen was out of hearing. Havilar giggled-Farideh almost never swore-and got a dark look for it. “He’s being impossible lately,” Farideh said.

Havilar shrugged. “He’s being Mehen.” The doors opened and more people came in-more than a few caught sight of Havilar and stared. “I thought you two liked worrying together.”

Farideh picked up her spoon. “There’s a difference between being careful and not listening to reason.”

The dumplings were oily and heavily seasoned with onions, but they were hot and worlds better than old bread and dried meat. Havilar ate with one eye on the door and the people trickling in. These were a broader mix of sorts-younger, not-so-armed, looking around the taproom as if it were a novelty and not a fact of life.

Havilar elbowed Farideh. “Look. It’s that fellow you saved.”

The dark-haired boy lingered near the door, letting families and wagoneers go ahead. He looked tired, Havilar thought. Maybe that was why he didn’t look around or notice her and Farideh.

Farideh looked up and made a noncommittal noise. Havilar frowned at her, wondering not for the first time if there were something fundamentally wrong with her twin.

“What was his name again?” Havilar asked.

“Brin.”

Havilar nudged Farideh again with her elbow. “Go see if he wants to say thank you by eating with us.”

Farideh turned completely scarlet. “No.”

“Come on!”

“No!” She scraped the last of the gravy from her bowl. “Anyway, he seemed pretty happy to have us on our way.”

Now the boy was talking to the innkeeper who was shaking his head. The boy was getting flustered and arguing, but over the low din of the taproom, Havilar couldn’t hear about what. Maybe he didn’t want the dumplings.

“Let’s go,” Farideh said, standing. Much as she’d protested Mehen’s orders, she was still wearing the awful cloak.

Havilar stood. Finally, they were going to have some fun. “Where?”

Farideh pointed up the stairs. “Second door on the left, right?”

“Oh Fari, really?”

Farideh gave her another dark look, and headed upstairs. Havilar sighed heavily, picked up Eater of Her Enemies’ Livers, and followed. She looked sadly over at Brin as she passed-

And saw him pulling a half-empty bottle of liquor over the counter and shoving it inside his jerkin. He glanced around and spotted her watching. Havilar smiled, but he turned away and sped out through the door.

“M’henish,” she muttered and headed upstairs.

The room wasn’t very big, but the bed was wide enough for the two of them, and there was space for Mehen on the floor and a table and chairs besides. A pitcher of water and a basin for washing rested on a stand and a small fireplace lay cold behind an iron screen. Farideh had pushed open the windows and sat in one of the chairs to catch the breeze. Havilar pulled off her cloak and tossed it across Farideh’s, already lying on the bed.

“I wish,” Farideh said after a moment of quiet, “you’d be a little less obvious. Don’t you think at all about what might happen? About what people might be thinking?”

Havilar sat in the other chair. “Why should I?”

“Do you know how long it takes for someone to make up their mind about you?” Farideh asked. “About anyone? Seconds. You don’t even have to open your mouth and they’ve already made their minds up. If you’re lucky you can change their minds, but … you’re a tiefling. It’s harder than it is for most.”

“Me?” Havilar said. “I’m delightful. Everyone knows that. Or everyone should.”

Farideh sighed. “I’m only saying be more careful-”

“You be more careful, you’re the responsible one.”

“Hardly,” Farideh said. “Mehen doesn’t trust me to do anything.”

“Because,” Havilar said, “you’re too careful. Anyway, who cares about Mehen? Careful doesn’t work with boys.”

“How would you know?”

“I’ve talked to boys.”

“When?”

“Before,” Havilar said. “At home.”

“There were four fellows within a dozen years of us,” Farideh said. “Which one did you prove your theory on?”

“Well you did with Iannis,” Havilar retorted. “Pretty clear careful doesn’t work with him.”

Farideh’s cheeks reddened and she looked away at the mention of the dairyman’s stupid son. Havilar rolled her eyes-her sister had been infatuated with one boy so far as she knew, and Farideh was still sulking over it. All the more reason to get her out of this boring room.

“Come on,” Havilar cajoled. “We’ll just slip out for a bit.”

“No. You don’t know who’s out there.”

“Aren’t you bored of having no one but Mehen to talk to?”

Farideh frowned and rubbed her arm. “I have you.”

“Of course you have me. That’s always going to be true. But when was the last time we spent any time with anybody who wasn’t a hundred years old? And don’t say Lorcan,” she added. “Lorcan doesn’t count.”

“Of course he doesn’t count,” Farideh said. “Lorcan could be a hundred years old for all I know.” She rubbed her arm again.

Havilar frowned. “That’s not what I mean.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re talking about boys. Not Lorcan,” she added.

“He doesn’t count because he only talks to you,” Havilar said. “You think he’d have two words to say to me, since I brought him here and everything, but no.”

“Havi, you don’t want to talk to Lorcan,” Farideh said. Her hand gripped her upper arm tightly now, and Havilar glared at it. “Trust me.”

“Of course you say that,” Havilar said. “What do you tell him about me?”

“I don’t,” Farideh said. “We don’t talk about you. Havi, it’s not personal. It’s Lorcan. You don’t want him to notice you-I promise.”

“You want him to notice you.”

Farideh’s cheeks flushed again. “No, I don’t!”

“Then why are you always going off to talk to him? What are you doing? Calling him down when you get sick of us? You don’t even know him.”

Judging by Farideh’s startled expression, she’d thought it was a secret-which only made Havilar more annoyed. “It’s not like that,” Farideh said tightly. Then, “Has Mehen noticed?”

“After today? Probably. Even he’s not that dense.”

Farideh was quiet. “Havi, please,” she finally said. “It’s not because I’m sick of you. He’s just … He agreed not to turn up when people were around. So I have to be somewhere else to talk to him. It’s not about you,” she added. “Only about … spells. And things.”

Things which she didn’t bother to include Havilar in. Havilar turned and studied the open window, churning with unpleasant feelings she didn’t want to think about. Fine. If Farideh wanted to stay hidden up in the room, staring at the empty fireplace instead of going on a little adventure with her sister, Havilar wasn’t about to sit around with her. If she got bored, she could talk to stupid Lorcan.

“I’m getting Brin,” she announced. “Or whatever his name was.”

“No,” Farideh said. “Mehen told us to stay here.

“And he told you to stop talking to Lorcan,” Havilar said. “Who cares what Mehen says? I’m going out the window anyway. He won’t see.”

“Havi, please. I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Farideh said. “Please. Stay. Don’t leave.”

“I’ll only be a moment,” Havilar said. She wasn’t going to be the careful one, the boring one. She threw one leg over the sill. “And if I’m not, you can tell me you were right. Until morning.”

“Havi, it’s not-” she started, but Havilar was out of earshot, sliding down the edge of the roof and off into the night.

Brin found a spot behind an empty wagon where some crates had been stacked, and made himself a little nook between two. He shook the bottle until the whiskey swirled around in a whirlpool that collapsed with a brief, frothy splash. What in the world was he going to do with half a bottle of whiskey? What had he thought the tavernmaster would do without half a bottle of whiskey?

He’d been so angry when the tavernmaster refused to rent him a space on the floor for anything less than three pieces of gold. And after giving a full room to the man in front of him for the same price. The tavernmaster hadn’t even the manners to be embarrassed at being caught in such a swindle-he only shrugged and turned away from Brin, as if he were no one important.

Which I’m not, Brin reminded himself glumly. In a fit of pique he’d snatched up the closest thing he could reach: the half-empty bottle of whiskey.

He put the bottle to his lips and wet his mouth. Sharp as broken glass on the tip of his tongue and bitter with the taste of a bad barrel. Not very good, but not likely to kill him. Human-style whiskey, but a strong, unwatered sort Brin could imagine being favored by the sort of people who lived along this rugged road, tolerable to the dwarves and orcs that passed through, and not bad for cleaning wounds. Or maybe spoons.

He was never going to finish half a bottle.

Not even by trying to slow his thoughts down enough to figure out what to do about Constancia. The tieflings and the dragonborn were here-the dragonborn was still asking around about Brin’s cousin in the courtyard. He shouldn’t have expected to dissuade them-this was their livelihood after all, and he was nobody. Even if he used every trick he knew, he might-might-be able to convince the twins not to go after Constancia. They might in turn be able to talk Mehen out of it. There was a chance slimmer than a silk strand that Constancia could be protected.

And then she would still be free to chase Brin to Returned Abeir and back again. He took another careful sip of the whiskey.

What was he trying to protect her from anyway? Being locked in a room and questioned for hours? That was likely to happen anyway, and it wasn’t much worse than he’d had things before. Her superiors weren’t monstrous. They knew he was troublesome. They couldn’t ultimately blame her, he decided, taking another sip of whiskey. They wouldn’t do anything worse than Constancia would if she caught Brin.

What he needed, Brin thought, was a sort of buffer. Like a layer of armor between him and Constancia. When she found him-as he had to admit she inevitably would-if there were someone to slow her down … something to trip her up …

Someone like a bounty hunter, who would give Brin a head start by conveying her to the nearest Temple of Torm.

Brin looked down at the stolen whiskey bottle. “Loyal Fury, forgive me,” he muttered, even though he knew his contrition probably didn’t much sway the god of duty. Especially when he wasn’t giving the whiskey back.

The tiefling girl with the glaive and the golden eyes-Havilar, he thought-had seen him in the bar. She’d seen him stealing the whiskey and smiled at him, like it was funny. Like she knew something about him now. He wondered if she’d tell the tavernkeeper. He wondered if the tavernkeeper would listen.

He wondered if the smile was a good thing. If it meant she might be the one to help him with Constancia. After all, he thought, a quarry you had to handle gently was better than no quarry at all.

But then he thought of Mehen, who was clearly in charge. No-it would have to be Mehen he convinced. Somehow. He swirled the whiskey around in the bottle again, lost for answers. He couldn’t imagine how to even begin guessing what a dragonborn was thinking.

Someone moved in the shadows outside Brin’s hiding place. He shifted just enough to see Tam, the Selunite priest, stepping very deliberately out of the torchlight that washed the courtyard and behind a wagon. He searched around the wagons and the crates in a cursory, distracted sort of way-thankfully missing Brin-then dropped down to kneel upon the cobbles.

Tam withdrew a trio of vials from his pack and flicked the corks out of each. He muttered a chain of words under his breath and poured the powders in tidy, practiced lines. Brin leaned a little farther out-it was a ritual, no doubt. Those were salts of copper. That, some powdered metal … the last was dark and rusty, and made Brin think of dried blood. Tam’s eyes glazed slightly and before he spoke, Brin was sure: Tam was performing a sending.

“Fisher: the caravan too slow,” Tam said to someone who might be on the other side of Toril for all Brin knew. “Hiring swords for the remainder of the journey-two days, if I can avoid more orcs. Advise Cymril. Expecting reimbursement.”

Silence hung in the shadowy corner for only a moment before another voice spoke.

“Shepherd: Message received. Will see about reimbursement. But Harpers not so rich as Viridi. Don’t bother Cymril. Report in at the first sign of lycanthropes or-”

The voice cut off, and Tam cursed. He stood and kicked the pattern of powders into the dust, muttering to himself. “Twenty-five stlarning words, Fisher. It’s always been twenty-five stlarning words.”

Harpers. Brin wet his lips on the whiskey again, despite wanting a full gulp of the stuff. He wasn’t just a priest. He was a spy.

A virtuous spy-relatively. Harpers served no government, and it was widely believed one had in fact assassinated the king of Tethyr ages ago. It was also widely believed the organization had collapsed not long after. Brin thought about what the disembodied voice had said-“Harpers not so rich as Viridi.” So Tam hadn’t always spied for the Harpers, then. New enough to be unsure about protocols, old-hand enough to demand what he wanted. Interesting.

Tam looked out across the courtyard, scanning the wagons and crowds as if looking for someone, but not venturing from their shared hiding spot. Brin frowned-how long was the priest going to be? Brin needed to find the dragonborn and-

Brin cursed. There was Mehen, storming past the gap between the two wagons, fearsome-looking as ever. Brin couldn’t very well spring past Tam and not expect trouble.

But then Torm or Selune or Lady Luck, Tymora herself, smiled down, and Tam’s hand shot out and grabbed the dragonborn’s thick upper arm.

“Hold, friend.”

Mehen turned and bared his yellow teeth. “What do you want?”

Tam smiled, at perfect ease. “Well met to you as well.” He held out a hand. “The name is Tam.”

Mehen ignored the hand. “Mehen.”

Tam frowned, looking surprised at that, and Brin wished he knew why. Mehen stared the priest down.

“You’re the one who saved the caravan earlier. You and the tieflings.”

“We did what we could.”

“You turned the tide,” Tam said. “I, for one, am grateful for that. Are you heading to Neverwinter?”

Mehen shrugged. “North. We’re tracking someone.”

“Through Neverwinter at least?” When Mehen gave another shrug, he added, “I’ll not lie to you, I’m looking for a few extra swords.”

“We’re not traveling with your caravan, priest.”

Tam smiled. “It’s not my caravan, and I don’t belong to it any longer. I need to get to the city more quickly than they can travel. I don’t dare go on my own. I was hoping I might hire your services.”

Mehen folded his arms across his chest. “You hire me, you hire my girls.”

“The tieflings?”

“The same. So I put that to you, priest: are you certain you wish to travel with a pair of ‘devil-children’ and a godless dragonborn?”

“Depends on what you’re charging,” Tam said. “If you think you’ll shock me with tieflings and unbelievers, I’ve seen things that are much stranger and much worse. I’ll give you two gold pieces for an escort to Neverwinter.”

Mehen scratched his empty piercings. He’d be a fool not to take it, Brin thought. Two gold for an escort to a place he was traveling near anyway, why not? Two gold for taking on another weapon, really.

Brin thought of the way the priest had waded into the fray, that chain slashing through the air with grim accuracy. It would make more sense for Mehen to pay Tam.

“On one condition,” Mehen warned. “You leave my girls alone. You so much as frighten them and-”

“None of that,” Tam said gently. “I’m no young idiot full of spleen and holy fire. You and I are more of a kind than I am to that sort. My days of fervent conversion are long past, and my soul is old enough to have more stains on it than your charges’. At least, consider it.”

Mehen was silent a long moment. “I’ll consider it.”

“In the morning then,” Tam said. They shook hands once more, and Mehen made his way back across the courtyard to question another group of travelers that had just rolled in.

Perfect, Brin thought. So perfect he thanked every god he could think of and swore he’d leave offerings in as many temples as he could find. He struggled to his feet, shoved the whiskey bottle in his haversack and stepped out, just as Tam was hoisting his own bag to his shoulder.

“Well met. Harper Tam,” he added with a little pleasure.

Tam started and stared at Brin. “Well,” he said, after a moment. “The piper who’s no piper. You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?”

“Quiet enough,” Brin said. “Do you think Mehen will like the fact you’re not only a priest, but a spy?”

“To be honest?” Tam said. “I don’t think he’ll know what a Harper is.”

“That’s all the worse though. He’s definitely the sort to assume if he doesn’t know it, it’s probably something bad, don’t you think?”

“Probably,” Tam said mildly. “I’d rather he didn’t think about it at all. You’re rather good at reading people, aren’t you? Did they teach you that in Cormyr?”

Brin tried to affect the same cool mildness, but inside he was cursing. What had given him away? “Of course,” he said. “It’s practically a requirement for citizenship.”

“Let’s cut to the quick of it-what were you calling yourself? Brin?” Tam folded his arms. “You want something. Tell me and we’ll see what needs to be done. Less entertaining, I’m sure, than the way they do things in Suzail … but you’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”

Brin’s bravado collapsed. For the first time, it occurred to Brin that the priest was dangerous. That he did not know where the rules of a silverstar and a Harper lay when it came to lads with sharp tongues threatening their cover.

“I … I need to travel with the dragonborn too,” he said. “I want you to tell him I’m traveling with you. That I need to come along.”

Tam frowned, his dark eyes searching Brin’s face as if what he wasn’t saying would be written there. Brin nearly told him too … but without knowing what the priest would or would not do, it was too dangerous. In some people’s eyes, Brin would be nothing but a boy in the midst of some mischief. In others’, he would be a traitor.

A slow, crooked smile crept across Tam’s mouth. “Oh. I see. Out with it then, which one of them is it?”

Brin’s heart started to gallop. Tam couldn’t have heard his thoughts. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Tam chuckled. “It’s all right. I won’t say anything. But let me give you a little advice: make up your mind before we leave. You don’t want to leave two girls wondering, especially when you’re traveling together. More especially if they’re sisters.”

“Oh!” Brin made himself look away, as if he were embarrassed, and pursed his lips hard, so he wouldn’t grin. The priest thought this was about Brin mooning over those tiefling girls. Blessed, blessed gods-this was perfect. Anything odd could be blamed on that. He was almost ashamed he hadn’t thought of it himself.

“You won’t tell them, will you?” he said.

“No,” Tam replied. “So long as you don’t discuss what you’ve heard. They’re only a part of my plans so far as I need extra blades to make it through Neverwinter Wood.”

“Then I will see you tomorrow morning,” Brin said.

He walked back out into the courtyard, winding his way around wagons and bedrolls and pickets of horses. Everything was going to be all right. Mehen would keep Constancia from catching Brin. Tam would get where he was going and never look too closely at Brin. Now he just had to find somewhere to sleep and not get trampled.

He took the whiskey bottle out for another tentative, celebratory sip, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He swallowed wrong. The alcohol burned his throat and lungs, and he coughed hard enough to make his eyes water.

“Oh good gods,” a female voice said. “Are you still all jumpy? Because I’m not going to invite you anywhere if you’re going to throw up again.”

Brin blinked away the tears and spun on his assailant. It was the leggy tiefling girl with the glaive. Havilar. Only the glaive was somewhere else. She stood there, just out of the torchlight, with her hands behind her back and the tip of her tail slashing back and forth. Brin didn’t know what that meant. Whether it was Tam’s insinuations or the fact that-this time-he wasn’t trying not to throw up, Brin had to admit she was a little pretty.

“Well met,” she said with a nice smile. She pointed at the whiskey bottle with her chin. “Do you want some help finishing that?”