The Grieving Tree

CHAPTER 4

They left the courtyard the same way they had entered. At the end of the narrow passage, Natrac muttered a few words in Orc to the merchants whose stalls hid the entrance to the bolthole, and the crates that blocked the curtain were shifted. Singe pushed past the curtain gratefully-after the stifling heat of the enclosed courtyard, Zarash’ak’s open streets felt cool as a spring morning. The ring that he wore, an inheritance from his grandfather, protected him from fire, but it did nothing to shield him from simple heat. At that moment, there was nothing he wanted more than a dunking in cool water. A swim, a bath, even a pump that he could stick his head under …

A horse trough, he thought, I’d take a horse trough.

They didn’t have time for even that dubious luxury. The crowds on the streets were thinning with the end of the day. They’d hidden in the courtyard for as long as they’d dared but there was still a good chance that Vennet, his crew, or especially Dah’mir’s herons might still be abroad, and the thinning crowds left them that much less cover. As soon as they had all emerged-sticky and sweating-from the bolthole, they set off down the street at a brisk pace. They moved in two groups, trying their best to blend in, all of them alert.

Natrac took the lead, Singe and Geth at his side. They hadn’t gone far before Geth growled under his breath. “You’re taking us back to the bridge.”

The half-orc nodded but didn’t slow down. Singe looked up at the sky. There were no herons visible above the street, but the arc of sky overhead was relatively narrow, constrained by the buildings on either side. Once they were on the bridge-and in the plaza beyond-they would be exposed.

“Natrac,” Singe said, “the idea was to get under cover. The bridge and plaza-”

“We’re not crossing the bridge,” said Natrac.

“Running alongside the canal doesn’t seem much better,” Geth pointed out.

“We’re not doing that either.” Natrac’s voice was on edge. “We’re going down into the webs.”

Singe shot a glance at him. Natrac’s face was set as tight as his voice, as though he was preparing himself for something unpleasant. Before he could ask him more, though, Natrac held up his right arm, gesturing for them to stop. The bridge on which Geth, Ashi, and Orshok had escaped from Vennet was just ahead, the casual flow of people around it giving no hint of the panicked, tangled mob that had flooded across earlier. Singe scanned the bridge, the plaza, and the sky for signs of observers or an ambush.

The silhouette of a heron moved across a sky red with twilight. “Is that one of Dah’mir’s?” Singe asked.

Geth squinted, then shook his head. “I can’t tell.”

“We only need to get across the street.” Natrac pointed ahead. “There are stairs leading down to the canal just to the left of the bridge. That’s where we’re going.”

Singe twisted around and looked for Dandra and the others. They were less than a dozen paces away, pressed back against a wall. Singe caught Dandra’s eye and gestured to the stairs Natrac had indicated. She nodded. He turned back to Natrac. “Let’s go.”

Darting across the street and down the stairs for no other reason than the distant presence of a bird actually felt vaguely ridiculous. A half dozen similar-but much more deadly-situations that he had experienced over his years as a mercenary flitted through Singe’s mind. Running for cover on a battlefield in Cyre as arrows fell. Infiltrating an enemy camp. Leaping aside as a hostile wizard hurled bolts of lightning at him. Retreating through the shadows of Narath as the soldiers of Aundair, countrymen he had left behind when he joined the Blademarks of House Deneith, flooded the streets …

Dodging around strolling shoppers might have felt ridiculous, but his heart was still racing as he paused on the stairs to be sure that Ashi, Orshok, and Dandra made it into hiding as well. Dandra came last, shepherding the others before her even though, he knew, she could easily have outpaced them both. He fell in beside her as they hurried down the long flight of steps toward the canal below. “You saw the heron?”

She nodded. “Do you think it saw us?”

“I hope not.” Singe gave her a closer look. There was a particular set to Dandra’s chin and the line of her jaw that Singe had come to recognize as an expression of her unstoppable determination. It was an expression that she wore only when she was up against formidable resistance-most particularly internal resistance. His eyes flicked to the yellow-green crystal hanging around her neck, then away. “Is Tetkashtai bothering you?” he asked.

“Does it show?”

“If you know what to look for.”

Dandra grimaced, but nodded again. “She’s terrified at even being in the same city as Dah’mir,” she said. “All she wants to do is get away from him.”

“I can’t say I entirely blame her. Even if Geth’s right and he’s weak, I don’t like knowing he’s this close.” He twitched his shoulders. “It puts me on edge.”

“You might be on edge,” Dandra said tightly, “but I know you’ll step back. Every time Tetkashtai gets this way, she comes closer to falling over.”

Her eyes flickered as some inner dialogue passed between her and the presence. Singe raised an eyebrow as her face tightened a little more. Tetkashtai could hear what Dandra heard. “What does she say?” the wizard asked.

“You don’t want to know.”

Singe bit back the curiosity that her answer roused in him. The very first time that Dandra had touched his mind in the mental link that kalashtar called the kesh, she had shown him Tetkashtai as she saw her: a formless aura of yellow-green light, at the same time both part of her and something separate. That was as close as he could come to experiencing the union that Dandra had with the presence-and he knew that it was as close as he should come, too. Dandra was the only one who could stand up to Tetkashtai. Geth had tried drawing on the presence’s power once and almost ended up a prisoner in his own body. Singe knew better than to try.

Even though it cut him to see Dandra struggling alone with such a shadow across her fiery, determined personality.

At the bottom of the stairs, the wooden island of a landing spread out. Only one edge of it faced onto the canal-the rest of it extended back beneath the platform of the street above. Skiffs skirted the landing, making deliveries and ferrying passengers along the canal, but when a boatman called out to Natrac, offering his services, the half-orc just dismissed him with a wave and a scowl. Instead, he led them away from the stairs and further into the gloom below the city. The massive pillars and stilts that supported Zarash’ak rose above them like naked trees. The last hints of the fresh smell of the herb market were cut off, replaced by the stink of the silty water that moved sluggishly past their feet.

On the opposite side of the landing from the stairs, one end of a tangle of planks and rope had been secured to spikes driven into the wood. The other rose up at a sharp angle toward the shadows overhead, creating a trembling construction that was half ramp and half rope bridge. Singe lifted his head, following the lines of rope.

Hidden in the darkness of the underside of Zarash’ak, long spans of suspended walkways bounced, shifted, and swayed in a complex network like the weavings of some enormous spider.

“The webs?” Singe asked.

Natrac nodded.

“Grandmother Wolf!” said Geth, his eyes wide and shining in the dim light. “They’re incredible. Who built them?”

“Goblins,” Natrac said. “Clever little vermin. There aren’t that many of them in the city and they like their own space. The webs are still mostly their territory but there are other groups in Zarash’ak who use them, too. I don’t think even Vennet would try looking for us down here.” He stepped cautiously onto the angled bridge. The ropes creaked at his weight but held. “Be careful,” he said over his shoulder and began to climb.

One by one, they followed after him. To his surprise, Singe found that the bridge was actually very well constructed. It bounced and swayed as they moved along it, but only within a narrow range of motion. Under the lighter weight of goblins, the bridge might not have even shifted at all. It had been built with more than goblins in mind, though-there were two ropes on either side of the foot bed, one low for small travelers, the other higher for human hands and arms. The overhead walkways, once they reached them, were similarly well-built, though cramped. Two humans would have been forced to squeeze together if they wanted to pass on the walkway and the rough, age-darkened wooden patchwork that was the underside of Zarash’ak hung just a few feet above Singe’s head. Only the dim vista of slow water and massive pillars broke the oppression, a spectacular sight in its own way.

For a moment, Singe was reminded of the fantastic bridges and skyways that leaped between the towers of Sharn-except that the bridges of Sharn smelled a lot better than the shadowed webs. Singe wrinkled his nose as a ripe stink welled up from below and enveloped them. “Twelve moons,” he said, taking shallow breaths through his mouth. “Does the smell just keep getting worse?”

“There are dead spots in the flow around the stilts,” said Natrac. “Anything that gets caught in one just floats until it rots.”

“How far do we have to go?”

“Around to the other side of the city.” The half-orc made a face, thrusting his tusks out. “The problem is that paths through the webs don’t run under everything and they don’t always take the most direct route.”

“Then keep moving,” Ashi said. “The sooner we reach our destination, the better.”

As long as he could keep track of which of the patches of twilight that penetrated the darkness below Zarash’ak marked the canal where they had entered the webs, Singe felt like he knew where they were. As soon as he lost that point of reference, though-and all it took was glancing away at the wrong moment-he felt instantly disoriented. The paths of the webs were strange. The ropes and cables that supported the walkways and bridges weren’t perpendicular like the walls of buildings. They ran at odd angles. They crossed and knotted and merged. The walkways rose and dipped, flowing around the strange upside-down architecture of Zarash’ak’s underside: the hanging cellars of buildings. the enormous beams that lay beneath the streets, the huge bulges like barrels the size of ships’ hulls that Natrac said were cisterns.

“Constructed by House Cannith when the city was still growing,” he explained. “They collect Zarash’ak’s drinking water. Those of us who can afford it have our own, but those who can’t have to fetch water from the public cisterns.”

Their group wasn’t alone on the webs. As they moved beneath other parts of the city, goblins appeared out of the gloom, darting past them on the narrow walkways without a moment’s hesitation or a second glance. On broader ledges constructed around the massive stilts or on platforms hung from beams above, more goblins-and other folk-gathered. On one crowded multi-level collection of platforms, apparently the webs’ version of a tavern, Singe spotted humans and half-orcs, along with a knot of hobgoblins. The goblins’ larger kinfolk were taller and bulkier than a human man, with small yellow eyes, orange-brown hair, tufted ears, and flattened faces. Singe was just as happy that they didn’t see more of them.

“There weren’t many goblins in the streets above,” he said. “Do they all live down here?”

“Dagga.” Natrac’s eyes searched the gloom and he pointed. “Do you see that?”

As night fell across the city above, the shadows of the webs deepened. Singe could barely see through the gathering darkness, but he could make out irregular shapes clinging like giant spider nests to several pillars. “What are they?”

“Goblin homes. Rope and board, woven together.”

“What do the goblins do when the river rises?”

“Most of them climb to safety and the water washes through the webs. Once it recedes, the goblins come back, dry things out, and repair anything that needs repairing.” Natrac slapped at a thick rope, making it quiver in a way that brought a stiff grimace out of Ashi. “The webs have survived the worst that Zarash’ak can throw at them. Not even fire has much effect on them-it just smolders and smells bad.”

Geth was peering over the edge of the walkway on which they stood, a more substantial construction than most. He cocked his head suddenly. “Natrac, what’s that?”

Singe followed his gaze. Down below, the water seemed to have given way to foul, dark mud and yet another strange shape, this one large and blocky. He actually stared at it for several moments before he realized that it was a crumbling stone building, half-sunk in the mud and leaning at a crazy angle.

Natrac smiled. “When the Five Nations and the dragonmarked houses first started paying attention to the Shadow Marches,” he said, “they tried erecting the same kinds of buildings they knew at home on some of the islands in the river. Supposedly they were so full of brilliant plans for dealing with floodwaters that they didn’t bother talking to the local clans and tribes.” He nodded toward the leaning ruins. “Their buildings started sinking before the river had even flooded. Even after the locals suggested building on stilts, some people kept trying. Zarash’ak is built over clever ideas.” He turned away. “We’re close to where we need to be. Let’s find a way back up to the streets.”

“Guides?” called a high, slippery voice. “You need guides?”

Singe spun sharply, his hand going to his rapier. The lone goblin who stood on the walkway before them twitched large ears-one missing a good half of its length, bitten off to judge by the ragged scar that was left-and blinked reddish eyes. “Easy!” he said. “Big folk get nervous too easy in the webs.” He smiled, showing crooked, needle-like teeth. “You need guides to get you back topside?”

“You move quietly for a guide,” said Singe. He examined the goblin. The little creature carried a long knife on either side of his belt. “You’re well-armed for one, too.”

The goblin shrugged. “Not always a guide.”

Singe raised an eyebrow. “Well whatever you are, I don’t think we need one right now.”

“Wait.” Natrac touched Singe’s arm and whispered, “We could use directions. It will get us out of here quicker.”

“You trust him?” asked Geth from Singe’s other side.

“I wouldn’t follow him across the street, but there are six of us and we’re expecting an ambush. We’ll be fine.” Natrac raised his voice. “Five copper crowns if you direct us to the nearest exit-no tricks. We can find our own way.”

“Ban.” The goblin shrugged again and pointed along a walkway that intersected the one they stood on. “Turn left, then right. Look for the straight ladder.”

“Thank you.” Natrac’s hand reached into a pouch and he stepped forward to give the goblin his reward.

Singe looked down the way that the goblin had pointed. He couldn’t see much in the gloom, but the walkway looked open and clear, with no possible hiding places. Maybe the goblin had given them honest directions.

Maybe not. Singe dipped his fingers into his money pouch and brought out a copper coin. He clenched the coin tight and murmured a word of magic into his fist-then stepped forward and flung the coin as far as he could along the walkway.

Released from the concealment of his fingers, the coin flashed with magical light. It was no brighter than a torch, but in the dimness of the webs, it was dazzling. Singe shaded his eyes and followed the coin’s arc as the others gasped in surprise.

Screeches of dismay erupted from the shadows and startled goblins dropped like spiders out of their hiding places among the great beams overhead, tumbling down to the walkway and scurrying away from the unexpected magic.

Natrac bellowed like an angry bull. His hand opened, scattering copper crowns across the walkway, and clamped around the goblin’s scrawny neck, wrenching him off his feet. The goblin kicked and struggled, but Natrac simply held him away. He raised the knife on his right wrist. “Now,” he said, “which way do we really go?”

His eyes bulging, the goblin pointed in another direction. Natrac growled and started to set him down.

“Maybe not yet,” said Singe. Down the other walkway, goblins were edging back into the light of the glowing coin, their fear fading fast as they realized that the magic was nothing that would hurt them. A few were turning bright eyes back to the group of bigfolk that had intruded on their territory. Natrac glanced at the goblin in his grip.

“If you think they care enough to see you stay safe, you’d better tell them to stay back.” He lowered the goblin to the ground and eased his grasp on his throat. The goblin drew a rasping breath and shouted something frightened in its harsh language. The other goblins paused and pulled back.

“Good,” said Natrac. “Now let’s find that exit.” Keeping a firm grip on the goblin’s shoulder, he steered the little creature along the walkway. Singe and Geth took the rear of the group, keeping their eyes on the goblins behind them.

The way back to the upper streets of Zarash’ak, a flight of steep stairs that rose up to the edge of a narrow courtyard, was actually remarkably close but not particularly easy to spot. The goblin gang, Singe thought, probably did good business ambushing those looking for it. Natrac dragged the goblin along with them up the stairs, then released him once they were all in the courtyard above. The goblin disappeared back into the webs with a series of barking curses that Singe could only imagine were promises of vengeance if they were ever caught in the webs again.

Natrac ignored him and looked around. “This way,” he said.

They had emerged from the webs in a part of the city unlike the others Singe had seen. The buildings were older and the orc influence on them-and the people-more obvious. The street rang with loud music, rough laughter, and the guttural Orc language. The odors of food and drink drifted on the evening breeze: gaeth’ad, ale, and the spicy grilled meats of the Shadow Marches. At an open window above their heads, an old woman with the heavy build and pronounced jaw of a half-orc sat, slowly chewing something and staring at them as they passed. Many of the people on the night-dark street gave them at least a curious glance. Singe had the feeling that travellers seldom came to this part of Zarash’ak.

Natrac stopped them before a large, ramshackle house, most of its many windows wide open to the evening. A good deal of shouting and banging was coming from inside, as if a horde of children had been turned loose within. Singe glanced at Natrac curiously. “What is this place? An orphanage?”

“Not exactly.” The half-orc strode forward. The door of the house was decorated with an iron door knocker in the shape of an egg. Natrac lifted the hammer and rapped it against the striking plate vigorously.

The sounds of a scuffle broke out on the other side of the door, broken up by an angry voice and a wail of protest. A moment later, the door opened. The half-orc boy who stood on the other side was as tall and heavy as a human adult, but his face still had the greasy complexion of an adolescent. Behind him, two young girls-orc tusks thrusting up from their lower jaws, identical except that one of them had a hand pressed over her ear-stood and stared at the visitors.

“Kuk?” asked the boy.

“Bava osh?” Natrac asked in return. The boy looked him over, then nodded.

“Dag.” He turned away from the door and bellowed out, “Nena!”

From somewhere inside the house, a woman’s voice shouted back in harried frustration. Singe couldn’t quite catch what she was saying, but he could imagine the meaning well enough-I’m busy! Who is it? The two half-orc girls exchanged silent, sly looks as the boy and the unseen woman shouted back and forth. Finally footsteps came rapping toward the door in a brisk march and the woman’s exasperated words grew clearer. “Diad, choshk sum bra-”

The woman who stepped around a corner and into sight of the door was human. Generously built and well-endowed, she had thick, dark hair held back from her face with a colorful scarf and wore a fine, matching dress. She was older, middle-aged, perhaps of an age with Natrac. She held an infant, but she took one look at Natrac and thrust the baby on the older boy, then leaped forward to wrap her arms around him. “Natrac! When I got your message yesterday … Lords of the Host, I thought you were dead!”

“Bava! Careful!” Natrac twisted to hold the knife on his right arm away from her. She glanced down and let out an outraged gasp.

“I’d heard you’d been kidnapped-”

“Dagga,” said Natrac grimly, but he squeezed the woman tight with his left arm, burying his face in her hair. Singe caught a faint murmur as he whispered something to her. Behind them, the young girls and the older boy looked on in surprise. After a moment, Natrac and the woman separated.

Quick as a spear thrust, the woman caught him across the face with a resounding slap. “Shekot! You’re late for dinner! The food’s almost ruined!”

Natrac rocked back a step with the force of the angry blow, then twisted around to the woman’s side and put his arm across her shoulders to avoid another. A spot of blood showed at the corner of his lip, but he smiled at Singe and the others.

“This is Bava Bibahronaz,” he said proudly. “An old friend. Bava, these are some new friends.”

He introduced them all and if Bava was surprised at having an Aundairian, a savage of the Shadow Marches, a kalashtar, a shifter, and an orc all turn up unexpectedly on her doorstep, she didn’t show it. “Welcome,” she told them, then looked to Natrac and added fiercely, “I don’t know whether to slap you again or hug you. What’s going on?”

Natrac sighed. “That’s a night’s story. Bava, we need your help-”

Bava reached up and pressed a thick-fingered hand across Natrac’s lips. “Natrac, every time I see you, you need my help!” She turned her head sharply and called to the half-orc boy, “Diad, take care of Noori. Mine, Ose, clear your brothers and sisters out of the dining room. Our guests are here-finally.”

“Bava, it’s not our fault!”

Diad slouched away, the baby cradled with surprising gentleness in his arm. The little girls darted off. Singe could hear them shouting as they ran-throughout the house, the voices of children died away for a moment, then resumed in an excited buzz. Bava paid them no attention, but just shook her head at Natrac’s protests. She stepped away from him and hooked her arms around Geth’s and Orshok’s arms, pulling them through the door. “You look like men who enjoy a good meal,” she said. “I’m surprised you’d let Natrac dawdle when dinner’s waiting.” She glanced back over her shoulder to call to the Singe and the others. “Come on! Come inside!”

Natrac stared after Bava with a look of mingled frustration and fascination on his face. Singe and Dandra glanced at each other, then Dandra asked delicately, “Natrac, how is it you know Bava?”

The half-orc bared his tusks at her and stomped off into the house. Singe, Dandra, and Ashi followed him through the door-Singe pulled it closed behind them. Inside, the house was cool and dim. The walls and floor were worn with age and the abuse inflicted by many active children. From a flight of stairs that rose up to the house’s second floor, a series of young faces peered down. Their features varied widely, but all of them were young half-orcs. Ashi stared back at them and growled fiercely. The children darted back.

Dandra stared around at the house as they followed the sounds of Natrac’s footsteps and Bava’s laughter. “This isn’t quite what I expected from a historian. Even a would-be historian.”

“Me neither,” Singe agreed. He frowned. “I feel like I should know Bava’s name. I’ve heard it somewhere before.”

“It’s a clan name of the Shadow Marches,” said Ashi. “Bibahronaz-the Howling Rabbit clan. I think they’re from the southwest.”

“That’s not where I would have heard it. The Bonetree is the only Marcher clan I know.” Singe searched his memory for the reason Bava’s name seemed familiar. “I feel like I’ve known it for a long time.”

The hall ended in a dining room with a huge battered table and mismatched chairs. Mine, Ose, and two other half-orc girls waited in a corner, staring at their guests. Natrac, seeming a little less surly now, had taken a chair and Bava was seating Geth and Orshok on either side of what was presumably her place at the head of the table. Singe’s gaze, however, was drawn to a large painting that hung on a long wall of the dining room. In strong colors and bold strokes, it depicted a feast: humans, orcs, and half-orcs in both savage and civilized clothing, all sharing a table set amid the abundant wild plant life of the Shadow Marches. The style, especially the depictions of the plants of the Marches, was distinct and instantly recognizable. He dropped into the nearest chair, still staring at the painting.

“You’re Bava Bahron,” he said in awe.

“Bibahronaz,” Bava corrected him. “No one ever got it right.”

“I had a lecturer at Wynarn University who called you the greatest artist ever to come out of the Shadow Marches.” Bava waved the comment away, but Singe pressed her. “I’ve seen some of your paintings. They’re beautiful. Wynarn has your Golden Asp and the Royal Collection of Aundair has your Union of Tharashk. I remember staring at Wild Grapes in Ruins for hours.”

“One of my first works,” said Bava with a nod. “Not my best, but I liked it.” She cocked her head. “I’m curious: where did you see it? It’s been in the private collection of an Aundairian family named Bayard for twenty years.”

A nasty smile flashed across Geth’s face. Singe held back a grimace and kept his voice level. “Casual friends,” he said. “I saw it as a boy.”

“You see?” said Natrac. “I told you that you underestimated Zarash’ak. With people like Bava, the City of Stilts can stand as high as Fairhaven or-”

Bava smacked him in the back of the head as she walked behind the table. “Hush!” she said with a smile. She gathered Mine, Ose, and the other two girls, sweeping them before her through a door at the other end of the room.

Dandra leaned across the table to Natrac. “How many children are there in this house?” she asked, a trace of amazement in her voice.

“Usually around a dozen.”

“Are they all hers?” the shifter asked bluntly.

“No,” said Bava with a chuckle, stepping back through the door. There was a platter of meat in each hand and she held the door open with a foot so that the little girls could follow her through, each of them carrying a bowl or a few plates. Through the open door, Singe caught a glimpse of a large kitchen-and the same faces he had seen peering down from the stairs before. Bava let the door swing shut after the girls and turned to the table herself. “Not all of them, anyway. Mothers don’t always want half-orc children, even in Zarash’ak. I give them a place where they are wanted.”

“There’s an orc legend of the Ghaash’nena, a spirit that protects lost children,” said Natrac. “Bava is the Ghaash’nena of Zarash’ak.”

The elbow of the guardian spirit dipped as she passed and clipped him sharply on the ear. As Natrac cursed and rubbed his abused head, she smiled down at him. “Maybe instead of repeating silly stories, you could make yourself useful,” she said. “You know where the wine is. Bring some out.”

Natrac held up his knife-hand. “One hand,” he reminded her.

“I’ll help,” said Ose eagerly.

“Me, too!” Mine added.

Natrac hung his head in mock resignation and pushed away from the table, following the two chattering girls back into the kitchen. Geth laughed and grinned at Bava. “How long have you known Natrac?” he asked.

“Almost too long to remember,” the large woman said. “It will have been twenty years soon.”

“Impossible,” Singe said. “You couldn’t have been born then.”

Bava wagged a finger at him. “Don’t flirt with me, Aundairian,” she said. “You’re too skinny.” But a smile spread across her face and as she turned back to setting plates out on the table, she added, “We met in Sharn. I’d been there for five years, but I found out later that Natrac had only been in the city for two.”

“You left your clan’s territory for a city?” asked Ashi.

The large woman looked up at her. “If you’re from the deep marshes, sheid, it must sound like a terrible thing, but I’d visited Zarash’ak many times. I knew that if I wanted to do more than paint huts and draw tattoos, I had to leave the Marches. So I went to Sharn. It was a hard decision. I think Natrac had an easier time of it when he left Graywall. Not that he had much choice in the matter-”

“Graywall in Droaam?” Singe said. “Natrac isn’t from Zarash’ak?”

“You didn’t know?” Bava’s face turned red. “Host. I should have thought …” She clenched her teeth. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t tell Natrac.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone.” She set down the last plate and reached for a bowl of leafy green vegetables.

Geth, however, sat forward. “Can you answer one thing, though?” he asked. “What did Natrac do before he came to Zarash’ak? Was he a gladiator?”

Bava hesitated then shook her head. “Not as such. Now no more!” She turned away just as Natrac, Mine, and Ose returned with wine. Singe glanced at Geth curiously, but the shifter’s eyes were on Natrac. The half-orc’s were on Bava. Singe exchanged a look with Dandra, who only shrugged in confusion.

Bava got everyone seated with wine and food in front of them, then chased out the little girls, shut the door that led into the hall, and seated herself. “Now,” she said with the same strong confidence she had before Singe had asked her about Natrac’s past, “tell me what’s going on.”

She listened with a careful intensity to their story, interrupting only to ask a few probing questions that brought out anything they tried to skim over. As the tale unfolded, their food grew cold and their wine remained untouched. Diad wandered into the room and took a seat at the table-Bava gestured him out immediately, her face hard and rapt with attention. When they had finished, she reached for her wine and drained the glass, then passed the bottle around the table and made sure everyone had some.

“You don’t mind that we came here, do you?” Natrac asked, his voice urgent. “If I’d known that Dah’mir and Vennet were in Zarash’ak, I would never have contacted you in the first place. Kol Korran’s wager, I wouldn’t even have stopped in the city.”

Bava let go of Orshok’s hand-at some point during their story, she had slipped her hand into the young orc’s grasp-and reached out to pat Natrac’s. “Don’t think of that, Natrac. You know I’m always here.” She shook her head. “And I thought the Ghaash’nena was only supposed to watch over children.”

“Can you help us?” asked Dandra. “Do you know anything about the Hall of the Revered or the Spires of the Forge?”

“In spite of what Natrac might think,” the large woman said, “I’m not a historian. But I think I do know why he brought you to me.” She stood. “Come upstairs.”

When she opened the door to the hall, Diad jumped up from where he had been crouched on the floor. Bava gave him a cross look. “How much did you hear?”

The young man’s flushed face and tongue-tied expression said everything. Bava frowned. “Don’t tell anyone anything,” she said. She nodded back into the dining room. “Clear the table and don’t let me catch you eavesdropping again!”

The half-orc boy rolled his eyes but Bava gave him an impatient grunt and he trudged past them into the dining room.

Natrac leaned toward Bava as they stepped out into the hall and Singe heard him murmur, “Is he too much trouble?”

“He’s running with groups he shouldn’t, but what boy doesn’t?”

“If there’s anything I can do-” Natrac started to say, but Bava shook her head.

“You’re there when he needs it,” she said. “That’s enough.”

Bava led them back to the stairs Singe had noticed before. The house had grown quiet as they ate and talked. Most of the children the wizard had seen and heard earlier were already asleep. As they climbed the stairs up to the house’s second floor and then to its third, he could hear the soft snoring of children mixed with the whispers of those few who were still awake. From the third floor, they climbed yet another flight of stairs, this one even narrower. Bava pushed open a door at the top and they stepped into a broad open space that smelled of oil paint. A slow breeze whispering through tall windows with carved screens stirred the air; the same windows allowed the light of the risen moons to fall in silvery patterns across the floor. Stretched canvases were pale, flat blocks in the moonlight. Sketches on paper, tacked onto one wall, rustled like sleepy birds. A half-completed painting stood fixed to an easel, the colors drained from its surface by the moonlight to leave only swirls of light and dark. Bava opened the shade on an ever-bright lantern and colors leaped back into the work. “My studio,” she said, ushering them into the chamber.

A large cabinet with long, flat drawers stood against one wall. Bava went to it and slid open a drawer. Singe peered over her shoulder-and raised his eyebrows in amazement. The drawer held maps, laid out flat. The one on top showed a section of northern Aundair; another, as Bava flipped through them, Cyre before its destruction in the Mourning.

“I collect them,” said Bava, without waiting for the question. “Maps were what first introduced me to art.”

“What good’s a map of Cyre?” asked Geth. “Cyre’s gone.”

“Maps are memories. They show you the way things were on a larger scale than any painting.” Bava found what she was looking for and slid a large piece of stiff, heavy leather from the drawer, turning gracefully to lay it out on a table. “You might as well ask what good an old map of Droaam is.”

Dandra gasped and stepped forward as Bava moved back out of the way. “You have a map of Droaam two hundred years ago?” They all gathered around the table, looking down at a big stained parchment that had been mounted to the stiff leather for support.

“Closer to three hundred actually,” Bava said, “and technically it was still western Breland then, but I think it will be good for what you need.”

Singe gazed down at the old map with awed respect. The parchment looked like it might be brittle, but the inks upon it were still bright and clear. The map was a work of art, the text written in an elegant script, the features of the landscape drawn with a careful hand. Illuminations marked major landmarks and decorated the map’s margins. The whimsical figure of a fleeing traveler marked the route through the Graywall Mountains toward Sharn. A hideous cockatrice stood guard over the fabled ruins of Cazhaak Draal, the Stonelands; a banner held by a statue with an expression of horror on its petrified face warned would-be travelers to turn back. Dozens of other banners highlighted other areas of danger or interest.

“Twelve bloody moons!” he said. “This is perfect!” He whirled and wrapped his arms around Bava, planting a kiss on her cheek.

“Easy!” she cautioned him. “You haven’t found what you need yet.”

“But we will.” He bent over the map, studying it. “Batul said that a season’s journey east of the Bonetree territory would put someone in the western half of Droaam.” He held his arm above the map, bisecting it, and began scanning all of the banners, illuminations, and labels to the left. Dandra and Natrac clustered close as well. The others just stayed out of their way. Geth tried to look over the map from the side until Singe snarled for him to get out of their light. The shifter gave up and wandered away to peer through the windows at the moonlit roof tops of Zarash’ak.

It didn’t take long for Natrac to curse. “I don’t see anything.”

“Don’t say that,” said Dandra tightly without looking up.

Singe held his tongue, but there was already an unpleasant doubt gnawing at him. He went back and examined labels a second time, peering at the map until his eyes stung and his head ached. There was nowhere marked as the Spires of the Forge. Or the Hall of the Revered. He put an arm around Dandra’s shoulders. “Dandra …”

The kalashtar sighed. “I know.” She turned away from the map. “Nothing. Il-Yannah, I don’t believe it!”

Bava stood up from where she was sitting with Orshok and held out her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said. Dandra accepted her embrace of consolation.

Singe raked fingers through his hair. “Maybe the Spires of the Forge aren’t in Droaam,” he said. He looked to Ashi. “Could the story be wrong? Could the hunters Dah’mir sent to the Halls of the Revered have been gone longer than a season? Could they have gone in another direction?”

The hunter shook her head. “The Bonetree preserved its stories carefully.”

“Maybe the Spires of the Forge,” Geth said suddenly, “aren’t what we think they are.”

They all looked at the shifter. Geth still stood at the windows, looking out over the city. He gestured with a thick, hairy hand. “Come here. Look outside. What do you see?”

Singe went to stand beside him and look out through the carved screens over the window. “I don’t see anything.”

“Here.” Bava pulled on the screens over a pair of windows and they swung open, revealing doors and a small balcony surrounded by a wooden railing. Singe stepped outside into the moonlight. Bava’s house wasn’t much taller than many of the buildings around it and the view wasn’t particularly spectacular. The most Singe could see was a forest of chimneys thrusting up from the roofs around.

He looked back to Geth. “What? I still don’t see anything.”

The shifter wore a grin that exposed all of his sharp teeth. “Think about the Bonetree camp. They lived in huts. They didn’t have chimneys. How do you describe chimneys to someone who has never seen one?”

“I know what a chimney is!” protested Ashi.

“But maybe your ancestors didn’t!” Singe ran back to the map and whooped. “Here!” He held his finger above a banner far in the south of the territory on the map and read the notation on it, “Taruuzh Kraat. Ancient ruins supposed to be the remains of chimneys of a Dhakaani stronghold below.”

“I know the word kraat,” said Geth. “It’s Goblin for a smithy.” He moved to Singe’s side and peered at the map. “Grandmother Wolf! ‘The Hall of the Revered lies below the Spires of the Forge.’ Do you think it could be this Dhakaani stronghold?”

“How can it be below ground, though?” asked Orshok. “According to the story, Dah’mir also told the hunters to look in the shade of the Grieving Tree. A tree can’t grow underground.”

“A tree can’t grieve either. It could be a metaphor, the same way the Spires of the Forge could actually be chimneys.” Singe looked to Bava-and to Dandra, still held in the large woman’s arms, her face wide with hope. “Bava,” he said, “do you have a contemporary map of Droaam? I want to see what’s in this spot now.”

Bava turned Dandra loose, glanced at the ancient map, then hurried to the map cabinet. Dandra stood before Singe and Geth. “You think this might be it?”

“I can’t be certain,” the wizard said carefully. “We might have to make the trip there to be sure, but I have a good feeling about this.”

“You might want to change that feeling,” said Bava. She laid another map, newer and emblazoned with the crest of House Tharashk, on the table and pointed to the location the ancient map labeled as Taruuzh Kraat. The new map marked the site as Tzaryan Keep.

Singe frowned. “What’s wrong? Taruuzh-Tzaryan. It could be a development of the same name.”

Bava shook her head. “No. Tzaryan Keep is the stronghold of one of Droaam’s warlords, Tzaryan Rrac.”

“That’s bad?” asked Dandra.

“It’s not good,” said Bava. “He’s an ogre mage-as big and powerful as an ogre but with magical powers, too. And Tzaryan Rrac’s smart. They say he’s an alchemist and a scholar and that he’s trying to civilize himself. He’s adopted a personal insignia like a human lord.” She tapped her finger on a four-pointed blue star drawn on the map beside name of the Keep. “He’s even hired an old general who served one of the Five Nations during the Last War to train the ogres who serve him as troops.”

“I’ve heard that, too,” agreed Natrac.

Singe looked from the half-orc to Bava and back.

“Not to be rude,” he said, “but how do you know all this?”

Natrac cleared his throat. “A few months ago, Tzaryan caught some dragonshard prospectors from House Tharashk poaching in his territory and sent them back to Zarash’ak-minus their hands. But Tharashk wants to stay on the good side of the powers of Droaam, so instead of protesting, they sent an envoy to Tzaryan with gifts and goods. It was a big spectacle, the talk of Zarash’ak.”

“Did the envoy come back?”

“Yes,” said Bava. “Apparently, Tzaryan likes receiving visitors-at least when they come openly and with big gifts. According to the envoy, he holds court like a lord and debates like a sage. After the envoy returned, Tharashk had nothing but praise for Tzaryan.”

“But did they send anyone else to visit him?” asked Geth pointedly. Bava shook her head. The shifter grunted.

“Light of il-Yannah.” Dandra leaned against the table, staring down at the two maps. “We think we know where we need to go-but we can’t get there.”

“No,” said Singe. “I think we can.”

Dandra, Geth, and the others all looked at him. He gave them back a smile. “We go the same way House Tharashk did. We pay Tzaryan Rrac a visit.”