The Captive Flame

ONE

11-16 CHES, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

Griffons hated the confinement of a sea voyage. You could make it a little more tolerable for them by flying them on a regular basis, but even that was no panacea. They were creatures of the mountains and the plains, and they felt ill at ease soaring over vast expanses of salt water.

Now that the cogs had finally docked, the winged mounts were frantic to get off, and their masters were having a difficult time controlling them. Their screeching spooked the horses, with the result that they too were difficult to manage. One chestnut gelding had already stumbled off a gangplank to splash down in the brown water below. It was a miracle the idiot beast hadn’t injured itself.

In short, the process of debarkation was a tedious, aggravating chaos, and Aoth Fezim regarded the muddy, rutted road that ran away from the docks with equal disfavor. “Before the sea retreated,” he said, “Luthcheq sat on the Bay of Chessenta. We wouldn’t have needed to march from the river to the city.”

Well-brushed shoulder-length auburn hair, jeweled ornaments, and the golden threadwork in his sky blue jerkin gleaming in the morning sunlight, Gaedynn Ulraes grinned. “Oh, I’m certain of it, Grandfather. As you’ve explained so often, everything was better before the Spellplague. It was always summer, the streams ran with wine, and every woman was beautiful and eager to please.”

Aoth’s lips quirked upward. “Do I really talk like that?”

“Only when your mouth is moving.”

“I suppose it’s a hazard of longevity.” Or conceivably of actual immortality. The blue fire had touched him less than a century before, and it was too soon to tell if he’d stopped aging entirely or was just doing so very slowly. “Or maybe of being in a foul mood.”

“Difficult as it may be to believe at present, I suspect we’ll get all the men, beasts, and baggage off the boats eventually. Probably without taking too many casualties.”

“It’s not that,” Aoth said. “It’s Chessenta.”

“Well, you’re the one who decided to come,” Gaedynn said.

“Did I have a choice? If so, I wish you’d pointed it out at the time.” Aoth tried to drag his thoughts away from gloom and bitterness. “You, Khouryn, and Jhesrhi can handle things here. I should call on our new employer.”

“As you wish,” Gaedynn said.

Aoth turned toward Jet. The black, scarlet-eyed griffon, big even by the standards of his kind, stood watching the awkward confusion of the debarkation with an air of amused superiority. Altered by magic while still in the womb, Jet was Aoth’s familiar as well as his steed, and possessed an intelligence equal to, though subtly different from, a man’s. For that reason, his master could trust him to wander loose and unsupervised, even in proximity to horses.

Although, in a sense, Jet was never unsupervised. The psychic link they shared precluded it, just as it now enabled him to sense that Aoth wanted him. As he padded toward the pile of baggage with his saddle perched on top, he said, “It’s about time.”

Aoth draped the saddle over the griffon’s back, then stooped to buckle the cinch. “I said we’d fly by midday, and we are.” He swung himself onto the animal’s back and stuck his spear in its boot. Jet lashed his wings and leaped skyward.

From the air, it was possible to view the entire Brotherhood of the Griffon all at once, and thus to see how much smaller the company was than it had been a year before. Once again Aoth tried to hold somber thoughts at bay and share Jet’s exhilaration at getting airborne instead.

It wasn’t too difficult. He wasn’t glum by nature, or at least he didn’t think so, and he’d loved flying ever since he was a youth. Winter was dying but not dead, and a cold wind blew, but the magic bound in one of his tattoos warmed the chill away.

The grasslands beneath him were more brown than green, though that would change with the coming of spring. When he and Jet climbed high enough, he could just make out the mountains to the east. A wisp of smoke crowned the volcano called Mount Thulbane.

They reached their destination sooner than he might have wished. Jet swooped lower over the rooftops of Luthcheq. Someone noticed and gave a shrill squawk of surprise.

Aoth guided the griffon toward the towering cliff and the carved structure partway up, half jutting from the rock to overlook the city and half buried inside it. It was the citadel of the War Hero Shala Karanok, ruler of Chessenta, and-like many of the prominent folk in the city-the Brotherhood’s new patron lived more or less in its shadow.

Specifically, he lived in a mansion with a red tiled roof. Yellow banners emblazoned with crimson double-headed eagles flew from all the turrets, and the stones paving the paths outside were of the same colors. Aoth set Jet down in front of the house, dismounted, scratched amid the feathers on the familiar’s neck, and then climbed a short, broad flight of stone steps and knocked on the front door.

After a few moments, a servant in livery opened it. His eyes widened when he saw who was waiting on the other side.

Nature had made Aoth homely to begin with. He was short and barrel-chested, with features that were strong but coarse. Outside his native Thay, few folk viewed his shaved head and abundance of tattooing as flattering or aristocratic. In particular, strangers often considered his facial tattoos outlandish and grotesque, and of course the luminous blue eyes at the center of the pattern were overtly freakish.

So he was accustomed to his appearance attracting startled second glances and curious stares, and people’s reactions rarely troubled him. But now it occurred to him that if the doorkeeper understood what he truly was, his response would likely be more unfavorable still, and that irked him.

“I’m Captain Fezim,” he rapped. “Nicos Corynian is expecting me. Is he here?”

The servant swallowed. “Yes, sir. Please come in, and I’ll tell him you’ve arrived.” When Aoth entered, the other man hesitated again. He’d just noticed Jet.

“It’s all right,” said Aoth. “He won’t eat anyone who doesn’t bother him. Well, not unless it’s somebody who looks particularly meaty. You might want to keep all the fat servants indoors.”

The doorkeeper eyed him. “Sir is making a joke,” he said uncertainly.

Aoth sighed. “Yes. A joke. Now take me to your master.”

Predictably, it wasn’t quite that easy. The rich and powerful always made a man wait awhile, like it was necessary to demonstrate their importance. But eventually the servant ushered Aoth through an antechamber, where two halfling clerks hunched over the documents they were writing, and into a larger study where their master sat behind a much larger and tidier desk.

Nicos Corynian was a trim, middle-aged man with graying brown hair. His general air of patrician sophistication contrasted oddly with a broken nose and cauliflower ear. Aoth inferred that in his case, the Chessentan enthusiasm for athletics manifested as a love of pugilism, or at least it had when he was younger.

Aoth bowed slightly. “My lord.”

The counselor rose and extended his hand. At the same time, a huge green shape with a wedge-shaped head and shining yellow eyes peered over his shoulder. Startled, Aoth froze.

The apparition vanished. Nicos peered at Aoth. “Captain?” he asked.

Aoth had no idea what the vision meant. But it didn’t seem to be a warning of any sort of immediate threat, so he pulled himself together and took Nicos’s hand. The nobleman had a firm grip.

“Welcome,” Nicos said. “I was hoping you’d turn up before this.”

“Winter voyaging is always unpredictable. We hit foul weather while still north of Aglarond.”

“Well, the important thing is that you’re here now.”

“I am. My men will arrive within a day or two. I trust you’ve arranged for our quarters.”

“Certainly.” Nicos gestured to a chair. “Please, sit. Shall I ring for some refreshment?”

Aoth sat. “Thank you, my lord, but I’m all right. We can get right to business, if that’s acceptable to you. Where do you mean to use the Brotherhood-against Threskel or High Imaskar?”

Nicos cocked his head. “You’re well informed for a man just off the boat.”

“The ships put into port periodically on the voyage south, and whenever they did, I asked for news of Chessenta. So I know you’re contending with two problems at once. Brigands and beasts are raiding out of your breakaway province, and Imaskari pirates are harrying your shipping and eastern coast.”

Nicos hesitated. “Ultimately, I can see using your sellswords against both threats. But first I need your help with another problem.”

Aoth frowned. He hated getting caught by surprise, and that seemed to be happening now. “Tell me.”

“For the past two months, someone has been murdering people in Luthcheq. About all we know is that he possesses supernatural abilities and always leaves a handprint in green pigment at the scene of his atrocities.”

“Chessentan law requires wizards to submit to having their palms tattooed with green sigils.”

“Yes, it does. And the victims had only one thing in common-they were particularly… vehement in expressing antipathy for sorcerers and the like. At my urging, the war hero has tried to suppress that particular fact, but even so, people suspect mages are responsible for the murders. They’re harassing them in the streets.”

“More than usual, you mean.”

Nicos made a sour face. “I’m aware that the Chessentan prejudice against wizards is unjust. I also know that you, a war-mage, have more reason than most to view it with disfavor. That’s part of the reason I hired you.”

Aoth snorted. “You thought the local mages’ plight would appeal to my sympathies? My lord, I’m a professional. I’d persecute them myself if the price was right.”

Nicos looked slightly taken aback. “Well, the fact is, we need someone to keep order and protect them. Even the war hero, who in large measure shares the common bias against them, agrees. And we can’t depend on the city guards to do it, because they hate wizards too. So I offered to hire the Brotherhood of the Griffon at my own expense.”

“To take up the slack for the watch? My lord, we’re soldiers!”

“I understand that.”

“Actually, this would be worse than simply filling in for the watch in normal times. Our job would be to stand between the mob and the people they hate. It wouldn’t be long before they hated us too.”

“You have my word that this isn’t the only reason I brought you to Chessenta, although frankly-in light of your arcane abilities and dubious reputation-it is the only task Shala Karanok is willing to entrust to you. But if you prove yourself, that will change. Once the city calms down, she’ll give me permission to send you to the border or the coast. Where you’ll find your work more congenial and, no doubt, with ample opportunities for plunder.”

“Just as soon as I live down my ‘dubious reputation,’ ” Aoth said bitterly.

Not long before, it had been as bright as that of any sellsword commander in the East. But then the previous year, he’d broken a contract for the first time ever and fought his former employers, the Simbarchs of Aglarond. Then he’d spearheaded the forces of the Wizards’ Reach in a costly and seemingly failed invasion of Thay, losing many of his own men in the process. And then-

“You have to admit,” Nicos said, his tone mild, “what happened in Impiltur doesn’t inspire confidence.”

“What happened in Impiltur,” Aoth said, gritting his teeth, “was not my fault or the fault of anyone under my command. There was a band of demon worshipers marauding in the north. More a rabble of madmen than a proper army or even a proper gang of brigands, but there were a lot of them, they had actual demons fighting among them, and they were doing a great deal of harm. The Brotherhood marched out to hunt them, and so did Baron Kremphras with his household troops. He and I agreed that whoever found the enemy first would notify the other, and then we’d trap the bastards together.

“Well, my scouts found them first, and learned they meant to massacre a nearby farming village at the dark of the moon. I sent a messenger to let Kremphras know there was just enough time to intercept them, and that if he brought his force to a certain position, we could catch the advancing cultists between us. He sent back word that he would.”

“So what happened?” Nicos asked.

Aoth laughed without mirth. “You’ve probably guessed. The demon worshipers came, and the count didn’t. We Brothers of the Griffon had to fight them by ourselves, and it cost us dearly. Still, I think we would have won anyway, except that creatures came out of nowhere to attack our flank.”

“What sort of creatures?”

“In the dark and the confusion, it was hard to tell. Some, I think, were drakes, and others kobolds. There may even have been a true dragon spitting some sort of caustic slime. Whatever they were, I had the feeling the cultists were as surprised to see them as we were. But they were happy to accept their aid, and once they did, we couldn’t hold. We had to retreat or we all would have died.”

“It sounds like you were lucky you were even able to retreat.”

“I still don’t understand why the enemy allowed it. But once we opened up the path to the village, the reptiles and such simply melted back into the night, and the cultists rushed on in to butcher the farmers.” Aoth recalled the screams and the inhuman laughter, the leaping flames and the smell of burning flesh, and a pang of nausea twisted his guts.

“And how did it fall out,” Nicos asked, “that you bore the blame?”

“Kremphras claimed he marched to the wrong spot because my message wasn’t clear. That makes sense, doesn’t it? After all, I’ve only been a soldier for a hundred years. Scarcely time enough to learn how to give simple instructions. But he’s a peer of the realm, and I’m just a renegade Thayan who came to Impiltur with an already tarnished name. So the Grand Council believed him. They blamed the massacre on my incompetence and terminated my contract.”

“Their foolishness was my good fortune.”

Aoth grunted. “I still lie awake nights wondering why it happened. Kremphras wasn’t an imbecile to misunderstand a simple dispatch, and I didn’t take him for a coward who’d shirk battle. Was he a demon worshiper himself, out to sabotage the campaign? And what was the other force that attacked us?” Suddenly he felt tired. “At this point, I don’t suppose I’ll ever know.”

“Probably not. So you’d be wise to focus on your new opportunity.”

“With respect, my lord, if your emissary had been clear as to precisely what that opportunity was, I might well have passed.”

Nicos’s mouth tightened. “No, you wouldn’t. You needed a new source of coin, you needed to get out of a realm where you’d become unwelcome, and who else was offering to hire sellswords in the dead of winter? Look, I’ve indulged you. I’ve listened to your grumbling. Now tell me whether you mean to pledge to me or not. If not, I suppose the cogs are still docked where you left them. Just don’t expect me to pay your passage this time around.”

Aoth took a deep breath. “I won’t consent to having my palm tattooed. Nor will Jhesrhi, my wizard.” His sole remaining wizard. Two of her assistants had survived the desperate foray into Thay only to perish in Impiltur.

“I can understand that,” the nobleman replied. “In fact, I anticipated it. The war hero is willing to agree to a temporary dye.”

“Well, I’m not. I can’t exert authority wearing the mark of a pariah. You’re a leader yourself. You know it’s so.”

Nicos grimaced. “All right. I’ll persuade her somehow.”

“In that case, my lord, the Brotherhood of the Griffon is at your service.”

Jhesrhi Coldcreek wrapped herself in her charcoal-colored cloak, pulled up the cowl, reached for the door handle… and froze.

She silently cursed herself for her timidity. This isn’t even where it happened, she thought. But this was where it had begun.

She jerked the handle and yanked the door open. Gaedynn and Khouryn Skulldark were just coming up the night-darkened street.

The lanky, foppish redhead carried his longbow, and the burly, black-bearded dwarf had his urgrosh-a battle-axe with a spike projecting from the butt-slung over his back. But neither wore armor or the scarlet tabards proclaiming them auxiliary members of the watch. That was because the three of them had decided to take a closer look at Luthcheq, and they were apt to see more if the inhabitants didn’t realize who they were.

Khouryn smiled at her. “No staff?” he asked.

“No point proclaiming she’s a wizard,” Gaedynn said, “not when we’re just supposed to be three friends out for a ramble. Actually, I was thinking of putting you on stilts. Some Chessentans don’t care for dwarves either. They suspect you of practicing earth magic, whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

Khouryn spat. “I can’t believe this wretched job is the only one the captain could find. We beat Szass Tam himself! Well, sort of. We saved the East!”

“But alas,” Gaedynn said, “most people haven’t heard the story and wouldn’t believe it if they did. Anyway, this might not be so bad. Think of all the satisfaction you’ll derive from breaking the knees of the dwarf-haters.” He waved a hand to the narrow, unpaved street. “Shall we?”

They started walking. Gaedynn put himself on Jhesrhi’s left, and Khouryn stationed himself on her right. Both knew her quirks and kept far enough away to ensure they wouldn’t accidentally brush up against her.

The night was cold, and the houses looming to either side were dark and quiet, closed up tight. They reminded Jhesrhi of cities besieged by plague.

“Generally,” Khouryn said, “when a town has a wizards’ quarter, it’s full of interesting things to see. Of course, the wizards usually don’t live in mortal fear of provoking the neighbors. Are you sure you don’t mind being billeted here? We could find you someplace cheerier.”

“It’s fine,” Jhesrhi rapped. “One of us should sleep here in case something happens late at night.”

“Buttercup,” said Gaedynn, sounding less flippant than usual, “bide a moment and look at me.”

Reluctantly, she turned and met his gaze.

“Are you all right?” the archer asked. “You seem strange.”

Everyone already thought her strange. She didn’t want to give them additional reason, or to have her friends regard her with pity. Gaedynn’s solicitude would make her especially uncomfortable.

“I’m fine,” she said.

He studied her for another moment, then said, “I rejoice to hear it. Plainly there’s nothing to learn hereabouts, and I’ve always heard that for all their appalling bigotry, Chessentans know how to enjoy themselves. Let’s find a tavern and drink the chill out of our bones.”

The prospect held little appeal for a woman who detested crowds. But the best way to gauge the mood of the town was to mingle with its inhabitants, and so she offered no objection.

The wizards’ quarter was home not only to full-fledged mages but also to any citizen with the bad judgment to reveal even a smattering of arcane ability. Yet it wasn’t especially large. Jhesrhi and her comrades only had to stroll a little farther to reach a district graced with cobbled streets and the occasional lamppost. Voices clamored from the tavern on the corner, almost drowning out the music of a mandolin, songhorn, and hand drum. The establishment had a sprawling, ramshackle appearance, as if diverse hands had haphazardly slapped on additions over a period of decades. The sign hanging above the entrance displayed a red dragon wearing a jeweled crown.

“Perfect!” Gaedynn said. Jhesrhi gathered her resolve to endure the place as best she could.

If anything, the tavern proved to be even more crowded and raucous than it had sounded from outside. Gamblers crowed and groaned over clattering dice. A dog in a ring caught rats and broke their backs with a toss of its head. Whores with bare limbs and midriffs flirted, trying to lure men upstairs.

But it wasn’t all bad. No one seemed to take any special notice of Khouryn, and the newcomers found a vacant table in the corner, where Jhesrhi could sit without people jostling her and rubbing past her.

Gaedynn waved to a barmaid and made attracting her attention look easy. Maybe it was, if a man was handsome in Gaedynn’s smug, preening sort of way and dressed like he had more coin than sense.

“Once I get a beer,” Khouryn said, “I’ll join the lads throwing knives.”

Gaedynn turned to Jhesrhi. “I wouldn’t mind sticking here and sipping wine with you.”

Apparently she hadn’t really convinced him she was all right. “Don’t be stupid. I can eavesdrop from here. But if you try, you won’t hear anything.”

“All right,” he said. “Just don’t get caught reciting charms.” And before long, he and Khouryn were on the other end of the common room.

Almost immediately, a fat man with a plumed cap tried to take one of the vacant seats, but she dissuaded him with a level stare. Her basilisk stare, Gaedynn called it. Maybe the pudgy man found her amber eyes unsettling. Some people did.

Next she whispered a spell, and the wind-or the memory and potential of wind, caged for the moment in the indoor space-answered. Wherever she directed her gaze, she heard the sounds from that quarter clearly, while the rest of the ambient noise faded to a nearly inaudible hum.

A carpenter with big, grimy hands, whose wooden box of tools rested at the foot on his chair, said, “You get a snakeskin. One molted off natural-like. You keep it with you. Then no filthy wizard can hurt you.”

“Why would that work?” asked a youthful companion, quite possibly his apprentice.

“I don’t know, but that’s what I heard.”

Jhesrhi looked elsewhere.

A squinting mouse of a man whined, “I promise to pay you triple next time.”

A half-naked woman with a magenta streak in her brunette hair shook her head. “Sorry, darling.”

“It’s just that the ship is late-the cloth hasn’t come yet, and until it does, there isn’t any work.”

“Maybe the pirates got it, and it’s never going to come.”

“You know I’m good for the coin! I visit you every tenday!” But the woman was already turning away.

Jhesrhi did the same.

“It’s wonderful,” said a smirking man. “The wife doesn’t know they raised my pay.”

Jhesrhi looked elsewhere.

“This ham is good, but have you ever had it with cherry sauce?” Elsewhere.

“Nobody dared to cross Chessenta when the Red Dragon was king. They say he’ll come again. I don’t know if it’s true, but wouldn’t it be grand!”

Elsewhere.

“I did too swim the Adder. When I was younger. And I can still outswim you any way you care to race. Any stroke, any distance…”

Elsewhere.

“… boy asks, do the gods have gods that they worship? Where does he get…”

Elsewhere.

“… came back different, all cold and dead and thirsty for blood. I have kin on the border. I wish they’d move to Luthcheq, but how would they live if they did? Farming’s all they…”

Elsewhere. Specifically, to a pair of dragonborn occupying a little round table like her own, pewter goblets and an uncorked jug before them. They were sitting just inside one of the extensions that ran away from the central space like the legs of a flattened spider, which was probably why Jhesrhi hadn’t noticed them right away.

Curious, she leaned forward. She’d encountered dragonborn a time or two, but not often. A century after their sudden arrival in Faerun, they were still a rarity outside Tymanther, Chessenta, and High Imaskar.

The six bone or ivory studs pierced into the left profile of each indicated they belonged to the same clan, although she had no idea what clan that was. Their broadswords denoted esquire status or higher. Dragonborn of lesser rank would perforce have carried either blunt arms or weapons with a shorter cutting edge.

The larger of the pair had rust-colored scales and wore a steel medallion in the shape of a gauntlet around his neck. It was the most common emblem of Torm. She’d heard that dragonborn didn’t worship the gods, but apparently this one was an exception. “We should get back out into the streets,” he said.

His ocher-scaled companion, a runt by dragonborn standards, no taller or heavier than the average man, sighed. “I’ll be stuck and roasted if I see why.”

“Because the Loyal Fury prompted me to take a hand in this affair, and because I’m still the only one who’s seen the murderer and lived.”

Now even more interested, wishing she had a better idea how to read their expressions, Jhesrhi studied the dragonborn’s faces. She assumed they were talking about the Green Hand killer, and no one had informed her that anyone had actually seen him.

“Maybe so,” said the smaller Tymantheran, “but has this god of yours spoken to you since?”

“No.”

“And when you say you saw the murderer, was it anything more than just a sense of motion in the dark?”

“Not really.”

“So when it comes to hunting him, you don’t actually have any special advantage over anybody else?”

“No.”

“On top of which, you understand it isn’t our job to catch the wretch. We came to Luthcheq to serve the ambassador. Despite that, I’ve spent night after cold, weary night prowling the city with you. We’ve had plenty of time to spear a fish if it was going to happen, and now there’s no disgrace in giving up.”

“I can’t. A paladin has to answer the call to duty no matter what form it takes, and no matter the difficulties. But if you don’t want to accompany me anymore, I understand.”

The smaller dragonborn showed his fangs in what might have been a reptilian grin. “Right. When reason fails, break out the guilt. Well, it’s not going to work this time. I…” His voice faded out as he craned, peering past his companion.

Jhesrhi followed his gaze. Several genasi were coming through the door, each marked by the elemental force with which he shared a kinship. The one in front was a windsoul with silvery skin crisscrossed by glowing blue lines and jagged gray crystals in place of hair. The one behind him was an earthsoul. His head was bald, and a mesh of gleaming golden lines etched his deep brown flesh.

They caught sight of the dragonborn, froze for a moment, then headed for their table.

“Akanulans,” said the smaller dragonborn. “If not for bad luck, we’d have none at all.”

“Are you sure they’re looking for trouble?” asked the paladin.

“For a fellow who pretends to have mystical insights, you’re not much good at perceiving a danger right in front of your nose.” The ocher-scaled warrior scooted his chair back from the table, no doubt so he could get out of it quickly. His companion looked around at the advancing genasi, then did the same.

The procession fetched up in front of the dragonborn. “Having a drink?” growled the windsoul in the lead.

“As you see,” said the paladin.

“No doubt toasting your realm’s most recent victory,” said the windsoul, a little louder. Recognizing the belligerence in his tone and stance, nearby folk started edging away.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“When you sneak into another realm, butcher defenseless villagers, and then run back across the border before anyone who knows how to fight can catch you, why, that’s what Tymantherans consider a glorious triumph, isn’t it?”

The ocher-skinned dragonborn started to rise. His friend gripped his forearm and held him in his chair.

“If you’ve had news that someone slaughtered some of your countrymen,” said the paladin, “you have my condolences. Also my word that my countrymen aren’t to blame.”

“Of course,” sneered the windsoul. “How could you be, when our peoples bear such love for each other?”

“We don’t love you,” said the paladin, “but when have we ever fought you except in an honorable fashion? You have less scrupulous foes. Look to them if you want to punish the guilty.”

“Rot your lying tongue!” snarled a firesoul, his skin red-bronze and its web of lines a lambent orange. Tiny flames danced along the ones on his face and scalp. “One child saw your raiders and lived to tell the tale!”

“I say you’re the liar,” said the smaller dragonborn. He tried again to rise, but his friend still held him in place. Unfortunately, no one was holding the Akanulans, and they reached for the hilts of their daggers and swords.

“Don’t!” snapped the paladin, and the genasi faltered. Jhesrhi perceived that the russet-scaled dragonborn had infused his voice with a preternatural eloquence. “Whoever’s right, we’re in Chessenta, a valued ally to both our realms. Would you jeopardize her friendship by committing mayhem in the very heart of her capital? Let’s at least defer this quarrel to another place and time.”

For a moment, Jhesrhi thought his powers of persuasion had prevailed. Then the firesoul shouted, whipped his sword from his scabbard, and cut. The paladin jerked backward, and the blade just missed his reptilian face.

He and his friend sprang to their feet, scrambled back, and snatched for their swords. The other genasi, seven of them altogether, drew their blades as well.

It didn’t matter that Jhesrhi and her comrades were out of uniform. They were peace officers, and it was their duty to stop the brawl. She wished she’d brought her staff-wished, too, that the tavern weren’t so crowded. There were more than a dozen people between the combatants and her-the majority seemed eager to watch exotic outlanders slash one another to pieces-and if she wasn’t careful, her spells would strike them instead of their intended targets.

She finessed the problem by jumping up and stamping her foot. The ground under the floor bucked. Some people fell, and others staggered off balance. Jugs and bottles lurched from the shelves behind the bar to smash on the floor.

“I’m an officer of the city guard!” she cried. “Put up your weapons now!”

“Where’s her insignia?” someone asked.

“Forget that,” replied somebody else, “why isn’t the bitch’s hand marked!”

Recovering their balance, some of the Akanulans peered at her. Then a watersoul, his skin sea green with turquoise lines running through it, barked a laugh. “You think you can make elemental magic work against genasi?”

She drew breath to repeat her command, but she never got the chance. A windsoul flew up into the air and toward her. Unfortunately, there was just enough space between the ceiling and the crowd’s heads to accommodate his passage. A firesoul whipped his hand up and down in a gesture that suggested leaping flame. Twisting back and forth like a serpent, a streak of yellow fire raced across the floor. Recognizing that they hadn’t achieved a safe distance from the violence after all, the people between Jhesrhi and her attackers screamed and tried to scramble out of the way.

Straining to exert enough power without her staff, in the enclosed space, Jhesrhi whispered words of power to the wind. It forsook the flying genasi, and, deprived of its support, he crashed to the floor. It blew out the fire serpent like a candle. And in the moment afterward, before her opponents could gather themselves to assail her again, she peered to see what was happening elsewhere.

His medallion and the blade of his sword both shining like the moon, the dragonborn paladin was trading cuts with the windsoul who’d first accosted him. His fellow Tymantheran was fighting an earthsoul and a purple-skinned stormsoul at the same time.

Khouryn had somehow managed to engage the three remaining Akanulans-a firesoul, an earthsoul, and a watersoul-simultaneously, and without drawing his urgrosh from its sling. Evidently hoping to subdue the genasi without causing them irreparable harm, he was wielding a chair as a combination club and shield.

The dwarf was as able a hand-to-hand combatant as Jhesrhi had ever seen. But the genasi were competent too, and had the advantages of numbers and real weapons. The firesoul slashed with his dagger, and it flared like a torch in midstroke. Khouryn shifted the rapidly splintering chair to block the attack. That left him open to the earthsoul on his flank, who instantly raised his broadsword for a head cut.

An arrow appeared, transfixing the earthsoul’s forearm. Jhesrhi turned her head. As an archer, Gaedynn had faced the same problem she had-how to attack at range in the crowded room without hitting a noncombatant. He’d solved it by climbing up on a tabletop amid the remains of somebody’s sausage-and-beans supper.

The earthsoul snapped the arrow off short so it wouldn’t get in his way. He also stamped his foot as Jhesrhi had. Another shock jolted the tavern, and one of the legs of Gaedynn’s table broke. It pitched over, spilling him to the floor amid a rain of dirty, clattering pewter plates and cups. The earthsoul rushed him.

Jhesrhi wanted to help Gaedynn. But then the windsoul she’d knocked out of the air picked himself up off the floor. He and his partner the firesoul charged her together, and she had to look after herself.

She spoke to the wind. It picked up the table in front of her and threw it. The missile smashed into the windsoul and knocked him flat on his back. But it missed the firesoul.

Backsword exploding into blue and golden flame, he closed the distance, cut, and curse it, she was caught in the corner! Somehow she dodged anyway, one searing, dazzling stroke and then another, meanwhile rattling off an incantation.

She thrust out her hand with three fingers curled. Green mist steamed from the firesoul’s pores. He staggered and fumbled his grip on his sword, nearly dropping it.

The magical weakness would only last a couple of heartbeats, but she intended to make good use of the time. She grabbed a chair, heaved it high, and smashed it over the firesoul’s head. He collapsed.

Panting, she looked for her other opponent. He was still down. While beyond him, Gaedynn had his Akanulan down on the floor and was hammering punches into his face.

Khouryn had felled both his remaining opponents and moved to help the smaller Tymantheran. The dwarf had engaged the dragonborn’s earthsoul opponent, leaving the stormsoul for him to battle. As the latter genasi feinted and stabbed with a knife in either hand, sparks danced and crackled across his skin.

The paladin and his windsoul adversary circled, blades clanging. The air howled, lifted the genasi off his feet, and whirled him widdershins. The paladin spun barely in time to parry the thrust that would otherwise have plunged into his back.

In other words, one instant, everyone was in furious motion. And the next, or so it seemed, before Jhesrhi could even decide where to intervene, everything was over.

Gaedynn paused, considered his adversary, and then, evidently satisfied, left off punching him.

Khouryn stabbed the tip of a chair leg into his earthsoul’s groin, then bashed him in the face when his knees buckled.

The ocher-scaled Tymantheran stooped low, dropped his opponent with a drawing slice to the knee, then pulled back his sword for a thrust to the guts.

The paladin slipped a cut, shifted in close to his windsoul foe, and pounded the pommel of his sword against the genasi’s temple. Then, not slowing down an iota, he lunged and caught his friend’s arm, preventing him from delivering the deathblow he intended.

Gaedynn stood up, retrieved his longbow, and then set about brushing off and straightening his garments. “We really do represent the watch,” he announced to the crowd at large, “even if we hate wearing those ghastly tabards. In my judgment, the genasi started this quarrel, so we’re placing them under arrest.”

Khouryn moved to join him. So did Jhesrhi. The silent scrutiny of the crowd weighed on her as she crossed the room.

“What are we supposed to do with people we arrest?” Gaedynn murmured.

“I assume the town has a lockup someplace,” Khouryn answered.

“The town is full of all sorts of fear and hatred,” Jhesrhi said. “This brawl didn’t have anything to do with the Green Hand killer or the prejudice against mages.”

Gaedynn gave her a grin. “Well, not until you got involved.”

“It isn’t fair,” said Daardendrien Balasar. “The genasi started it.”

“We’re in Luthcheq to practice diplomacy,” Ophinshtalajiir Perra answered. The ambassador was an unusually tall and gaunt dragonborn, with the two jade rings of her clan glinting in the loose hide on the right side of her neck. Age had bent her back a little and speckled her brown scales with white. “Fairness and reason have relatively little to do with it. The war hero is upset. Accordingly, you and Medrash will apologize.”

A servant thumped the butt of his staff on the floor. The arched double doors, ornately carved from the living sandstone of the citadel, swung open to reveal the audience chamber beyond. Walking with a slow and stately gait, Balasar, Perra, and Medrash headed inside.

Balasar could wield a sword better than most. Better, even, than most of his fellow Daardendriens, initiates of a clan renowned for its prowess. Still, he occasionally found his people’s focus on the martial virtues tedious. For better or worse, the war hero’s hall reflected similar preoccupations. The gorgeous tapestries depicted the clash of armies, and most of the statuary portrayed mortal combat, although here and there a sculpture of a runner or discus thrower suggested that even in Chessenta it might be possible to contend without shoving a blade through the other fellow’s guts.

Shala Karanok looked at home amid the depictions of slaughter. She was a scowling, solidly built woman in her middle years, with a ridged scar on her square jaw and dark hair chopped short. The bits of polished steel adorning her masculine garments apparently symbolized armor.

An assortment of her counselors and officers stood before her throne, and-to Balasar’s disgust-so did Zan-akar Zeraez and some of the lesser members of his delegation. The Akanulan ambassador had remarkably long and slender silver spikes projecting from his scalp, and skin the color of the duskiest grapes. The pattern of argent lines etched into his face was so intricate that he looked like he was wearing a wire mask. Sparks tended to crawl on him even when he was in repose, and judging by his glower, that wasn’t the case now. Balasar felt an impulse to make a funny face at him, just to see if he could elicit a glowing, popping shower of them, but it probably wasn’t a good idea.

When they reached the customary distance, the dragonborn stopped and bowed. “Welcome, my lady,” said Shala, her tone no warmer than her expression.

“Majesty,” Perra said. “I’ve brought the guards involved in the confrontation.”

The war hero turned her cold stare on them. “And what do you have to say for yourselves?”

“Majesty,” said Medrash, “I regret the disturbance. If a similar situation arises again, we’ll do everything in our power to avoid violence.”

Trained to lead, paladins studied etiquette and rhetoric, and Medrash’s tutors would have approved of his performance. It was deferential yet dignified. It gave Shala what she wanted while somehow subtly asserting the dragonborn’s fundamental lack of culpability.

Balasar didn’t try to match it. He just inclined his head and said, “I’m sorry too.”

“As well you should be,” said the woman on the throne. “It’s unacceptable for any outlander to foment disorder. But the Akanulans you fought were simply traders from a caravan. You two are gentlemen attached to your kingdom’s embassy. I expect you to conduct yourself according to the highest standards.”

“Yes, Majesty,” Medrash said. “We demand no less of ourselves.”

Well, give or take, within reason, Balasar thought.

Perra waited, making sure that she and the war hero wouldn’t speak at the same time. When the human offered nothing further, the ambassador said, “If Your Majesty is satisfied, these two have duties awaiting-”

“I’m not satisfied!” snarled Zan-akar. His anger, the ire of a stormsoul, darkened the air around him and made the room smell like a downpour was on the way. The sparks jumping and crawling on his skin looked especially bright inside that smear of gloom. “With respect, Majesty, I thought you called these ruffians here to conduct an inquiry.”

“Surely,” said Perra, “the facts are already clear.”

Zan-akar sneered. “Oh, there’s a story we’ve all heard. But does it account for the facts? Does it explain how the Akanulans-even with the advantage of numbers and even though allegedly the aggressors-ended up with broken bones, while these two escaped unscathed?”

“I can explain that,” said Balasar. “Your traders fought like hatchlings from spoiled eggs.”

Perra elbowed him in the ribs.

“Isn’t it likely,” Zan-akar persisted, “that in fact, as the genasi assert, these two dragonborn attacked them by surprise?”

“No, my lord,” said Medrash, “it isn’t. Balasar and I emerged from the fight unharmed because officers of the city guard came to our aid. And any fair-minded person would accept that as the truth because the watchmen say so too.”

“But their involvement,” said a plummy bass voice, “raises other questions.”

Balasar turned. The speaker was Luthen, one of Shala’s counselors, a big man running to fat in his middle years. His round head with its receding hair and neatly trimmed goatee looked small atop his massive shoulders.

Apparently he meant to take Zan-akar’s side, which puzzled Balasar a little. He hadn’t heard that Luthen was any great friend to Akanul, although he supposed he could have missed that particular nugget of information. His mind tended to drift when his associates discussed the labyrinthine alliances and rivalries of Shala’s court.

Lean, broken-nosed Nicos Corynian gave his fellow advisor a level stare. “What other questions, my lord?”

“For starters, why weren’t they wearing their tabards?”

A man Balasar hadn’t seen before stepped up beside Nicos. He was muscular and thick in the torso like Luthen, but short rather than tall. His head was as hairless as a dragonborn’s, and a mask of tattooed marks surrounded his weirdly luminous blue eyes.

“Because they were off duty,” he said. “But they still recognized their responsibility to restore order. Would you want them to stand idly by while blood spilled?”

Balasar inferred that the tattooed stranger must be Aoth Fezim, commander of the sellswords who’d just entered Nicos’s service.

“I would wish the sorceress,” Luthen replied, “to obey the laws of Chessenta and carry the mark of her essential nature at all times. And frankly, war-mage, were it up to me, I’d require the same of you.”

A goodly number of the assembled retainers murmured in agreement.

“We’re not going to stay in Chessenta forever,” said Aoth, “and Her Majesty has given us a dispensation.”

“What she’s granted,” said Luthen, “she can rescind. And she might want to consider doing precisely that. She might want to reconsider whether having you in Luthcheq is a good idea at all.”

“We discussed this,” Nicos said. “Until the unrest subsides, we need additional watchmen on the street.”

“Why?” Luthen said. “To protect wizards?” He waved a contemptuous hand. “To skulk around in disguise and spy on your behalf?”

Nicos directed his gaze at Shala. “Majesty, that insinuation is preposterous.”

“How so?” Luthen said. “The fact of the matter is, you’ve brought a private army into the capital-a force commanded by a Thayan mage and with other Thayans, wizards, and dwarves among the ranks.”

“Actually,” said Aoth, “I’m a Thayan renegade, with the torture chamber and the block awaiting me should I ever return. The other ‘Thayans’ in the Brotherhood are the descendents of men who came with me into exile a century ago. And at the moment, I only have one true wizard and one dwarf. Too bad-I could use more.”

Luthen kept his glare aimed at Nicos. “You claim to have placed this band of reavers and sorcerers at the service of Her Majesty. But the reality is that since you pay them, and rogues of their stripe care only for gold, they answer to you alone.”

“Well, I answer to Her Majesty,” said Nicos, “so even if your assessment were true, all’s well.”

“Far be it from me to impugn your loyalty, my lord. But history abounds in nobles who insinuated an excessive number of their personal troops into their sovereign’s capital, then turned them to some treasonous purpose. It’s simply poor policy to permit such maneuverings.”

Nicos looked to the throne. “Majesty, I know it takes more than empty prattle to make you doubt a vassal who has always served you loyally. Or to make you doubt your own decisions.”

Shala grunted. “I’ll consent to keep Captain Fezim’s sellswords patrolling the city until they prove unworthy of the trust.”

“Then if it pleases Your Majesty,” Zan-akar said, “may we return to the true business of this meeting? It’s vital that we discuss the crimes Tymanther has committed against both our realms.”

Perra snorted. “Get a grip, my lord. A scuffle in a tavern, however deplorable, scarcely warrants such a description.”

“That particular outrage,” said Zan-akar, light seething along the silvery lines in his skin, “was the least of it. Dragonborn are slipping into Akanul, slaughtering the inhabitants of remote settlements, and retreating back across the border.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Perra said.

“We have witnesses,” said Zan-akar. “Your marauders didn’t quite manage to murder everyone. And as Your Majesty knows, Akanul and Tymanther lack a common border. The only way for dragonborn raiders to reach us is to cross Chessentan territory. In light of the vows of friendship between our two realms, I assume you haven’t given them permission to do so.”

“No,” said the war hero, “of course not.”

“Then they’re trespassing on your lands just as they are on ours.”

“If these raiders actually existed,” said Perra, “then that would be a logical conclusion. But they don’t.”

“I repeat,” said Zan-akar, “we have witnesses.”

“Where?” replied Perra. “Not anyplace that Her Majesty or anyone else impartial can question them, apparently. Let’s be rational. If companies of dragonborn warriors were crossing Chessenta, then some of her own people would have noticed. Akanul wouldn’t need to tattle on us.”

“Western Chessenta is sparsely populated,” Zan-akar said, “and the hills and gullies offer excellent cover. Tymanther could sneak a whole army through.”

“Be that as it may, my lord,” said Perra, “since you didn’t bring any witnesses along with you today, in the end, this matter simply comes down to Akanul’s word against ours.”

“Perhaps I’ll send for the witnesses,” the stormsoul said, with such malevolent assurance in his tone that for just a moment, Balasar wondered if rogue dragonborn might actually have committed the alleged atrocities. “Meanwhile, I’m more than willing to discuss which kingdom’s word a sensible person ought to trust.”

Perra snorted. “Surely you aren’t going to suggest that the genasi’s reputation for honesty and steadfastness compares favorably to that of the dragonborn.”

“What I’m saying,” Zan-akar replied, “is that since the day we arrived in Faerun, Akanul has been purely and unequivocally a friend to Chessenta. Tymanther claims to be her ally, but you also profess the same to High Imaskar. The same degenerate horde of wizards and slave-takers currently sacking villages along the Chessentan coast and sinking her ships up and down the length of the Alamber Sea.”

For once, Perra seemed at a loss, at least momentarily, and Balasar didn’t blame her. Zan-akar, damn him, had landed a shrewd stroke. The war hero had made no secret of the fact that she resented Tymanther’s continued friendship with High Imaskar.

Maybe the dragonborn should pick a side. Or maybe Balasar simply thought so because at heart he was more a fighter than a diplomat. A person could certainly make a case that when a realm only had two allies, it would be a mistake to relinquish either.

“When you put it that way,” drawled Aoth, “the choice seems clear. But actually, Majesty, Lord Zan-akar is claiming a difference where none exists.”

“What do you mean?” Shala asked.

“I spent the first part of last year working for the Simbarchs,” the sellsword said, “and Aglarond and Akanul are friends. So there were genasi hanging around Veltalar. I didn’t make any special effort to pry into their affairs, but I didn’t need to in order to hear that not long ago, the queen of Akanul forged an alliance with High Imaskar. It’s no secret-except, evidently, when Lord Zan-akar and his associates are talking to you.”

Zan-akar smiled contemptuously, although the space in which he stood darkened a little more. “At a moment like this, it’s good to know that Her Majesty is far too shrewd to heed the forked tongue of a mage.”

Shala glared at him. “Is the sellsword lying? Answer honestly! You know I can find out the truth for myself.”

Zan-akar hesitated, then said, “Majesty, you know as well as I that the ministers of a realm receive envoys from here, there, and everywhere. I believe that Akanul has talked to High Imaskar, and possibly even worked out an arrangement or two regarding trade. But nothing that compromises our friendship with Chessenta!”

“Go,” Shala rapped. “Diplomats, counselors, the lot of you. We’ll take up your spite and accusations another day, when I’m in firmer control of my temper.”

It seemed to Balasar that thanks to Aoth, Tymanther had at least held its own in the battle of words, so that made two debts Clan Daardendrien owed the sellswords. As they all filed out, he caught the Thayan’s eye and gave him a respectful nod. Aoth responded with a smile that, though cordial enough, came with a certain sardonic crook.

Khouryn combed through Vigilant’s bronze and white plumage, checking for broken feathers and parasites with the two-tined iron fork designed for the purpose. Smelling of both bird and musky hunting cat, the griffon lay flat on the stable floor so the dwarf could reach all of her. In fact, she looked like she’d melted there. The grooming had produced a state of blissful relaxation.

“It sounds like everything went all right,” Khouryn said.

“Maybe,” Aoth replied. He’d already finished with Jet’s aquiline parts and started brushing his fur, first against the grain and then with it. The black steed’s eyes were scarlet slits. “But I hate talking to zulkirs-or lords or whatever-and getting mired in their lies and intrigues.”

Khouryn worked his way along Vigilant’s limply outstretched wing. “Such is the lot of a sellsword leader. But I don’t blame you. I’m not even sure I understand, from your account, what the palaver was fundamentally about.”

“Nor do I. The brawl? Our presence in Luthcheq? Some rivalry between our employer and Lord Luthen? The hatred between Akanul and Tymanther? Or between Chessenta and High Imaskar? Take your pick. It was all tangled up together.”

Khouryn spotted a nit lurking at the base of a feather. He set down the fork, took up his tongs, pulled the larva out, and crushed it. “Why do all these people despise one another anyway?”

“Aside from recent transgressions, you mean? As I understand it, everything goes back a long way. The dragonborn and genasi fought when they lived wherever it is they used to live. When the Spellplague scooped them up and dumped them in Faerun, they brought their quarrel along with them.”

“Now, the Chessentans,” Aoth continued, “started out as slaves of the old Imaskari Empire. Who were notable wizards, which accounts for the Chessentan hatred of magic. I’ve heard the new realm of High Imaskar isn’t really the same animal as the old one. It doesn’t keep slaves, for example. But the name is more or less the same, the people look the same, they have the same gift for sorcery, and that’s close enough to stir up the Chessentans. They’ve been poking at the new Imaskari since the latter first announced their presence to the world. You could actually argue that the current ‘piracy’ is justified retaliation, although I wouldn’t say so to the locals.”

“In other words,” said Khouryn, “it’s all stupid.”

“Well, of course you’d think so. Who ever heard of a dwarf holding a grudge?”

Khouryn strained unsuccessfully to stifle a chuckle. “Fair enough. It’s simply that there’s something to be said for fighting in a righteous cause.”

Aoth swished his brush down the length of Jet’s tail. “We did that in Thay and again in Impiltur, and look at the shape we’re in.”

“I recognize it’s a luxury, not a necessity. Still, it would be nice if those eyes of yours had given you some insight into why Nicos and Luthen are at odds, or whether Zan-akar was telling the truth about anything.”

The Spellplague had done more than extend Aoth’s years. It had sharpened his sight to a preternatural degree. He could see in the dark and perceive the invisible. No illusion could deceive him. On rare occasions, he even saw hints of a man’s true character or intentions, or portents of the future.

Aoth hesitated, scowled, and then said, “To be honest about it, when I first met Nicos, I glimpsed the form of a green dragon.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“I have no idea. We can be reasonably sure there’s no big green dragon living in Luthcheq, so it must have been symbolic, which is another way of saying it could have meant any damn thing. Maybe just that my three lieutenants were going to get involved with a couple of dragonborn.”

Khouryn tilted his head. “You talk like you didn’t even bother to think about it. Since when do you discount the value of information, no matter how cryptic? How many times have I heard you say, ‘Collect all the facts you can; any one of them could mean the difference between victory and defeat’?”

“In the field, yes. At a royal court, it’s different. Knowing people’s secrets is dangerous, and so is meddling in their business. In retrospect, I feel stupid for telling the war hero that Akanul has ties to High Imaskar. I spoke without thinking.”

“You may have earned a measure of her trust. Or gratitude.”

Aoth grunted. “I suspect it takes more than that, and I certainly made an enemy of Zan-akar. All the more reason to keep our heads down, play constable with as little fuss as possible, and then head out to fight Threskel or the Imaskari as soon as Shala will allow it.”