The Ruby Guardian

CHAPTER 5

"Blast that lucky son of a bullywug!" Grozier growled, standing behind Bartimus and staring into the image displayed in the large mirror. The two men, along with Junce Roundface and Falagh Mestel, were gathered in the wizard's chambers, observing the results of the sea ambush Falagh had arranged through some of his contacts.

"You should have told me how much magic they had at their disposal," Falagh muttered, standing behind Bartimus and to his left. "They are more stoutly equipped with it than the typical company. If I had known, I could have warned my associates."

"Did you see how fast he ran?" Junce said, laughing. "He shot across the water like a bolt out of a crossbow!" The assassin had strolled away from the mirror and was in the process of removing a stack of loose papers from a corner of a bench. "Isn't there any place to sit in here?" he complained as he just slid the last of the parchment sheaves unceremoniously onto the floor.

Bartimus peered around at the fellow, more than a little anxious about his things being disturbed. "Please don't do that!" he said crossly, half rising from his own chair to go and rescue the materials. They were either the last few pages of a treatise on the mating habits of the cockatrice, or else they were diagrams for crafting a new type of siege engine. The wizard couldn't remember which stack he had set there.

"Never mind that," Grozier snapped, slamming his hand down on Bartimus's shoulder. "Where did Matrell run off to?"

Sighing, Bartimus sank back down and focused his attention back on the mirror. The image in the frame rotated to the right, in the direction they had last seen Vambran as he ran. He was already a mere speck on the seascape by that point, and Bartimus had to shift the frame of reference rapidly in order to bring the mercenary into full view again.

Vambran was just stumbling onto the sandy shore of the coastline when Bartimus's magical scrying re-centered on him.

"Where is that?" Grozier muttered. Bartimus wasn't sure whether his employer meant that to be answered or not, but he peered at the stretch of coastline closely to see if he could determine the location more precisely. All that he could make out was a long strip of sandy beach backed by an endless stretch of trees.

"That's the Nunwood, near Hlath," Falagh said, pointing at the trees. "That's where my associates were instructed to attack. It's not a terribly welcoming stretch of coast, something of a no-man's-land between Reth and Hlath. All the endless skirmishing that goes on between all the mercenary companies earning their coin, you know. There's little there but a few villages and lone cottages, most of them long abandoned. Oh, and lots of beasts feeding on the dead. We picked that spot because it was unlikely that anyone else would see the attack." The man shifted to look over Bartimus's head more directly at Grozier. "No witnesses that way."

"Ah," Grozier said as he began to count the number of figures in the image on the shore. "Well, there are certainly plenty of folks there now who saw the whole thing," he said sardonically. "So I guess we have some witnesses after all."

"Now, look," Falagh said, squaring himself and folding his arms across his chest. "You asked me to set up an ambush, to sink a ship. Based on what you and that pregnant priest told me, nine ships and a summoned kraken should have been more than enough. But since you never revealed that Matrell and his men would be so well prepared for such an eventuality, it wasn't, and that's just coin wasted. I do not like wasting coin."

"They're mercenaries! What did you expect?" Grozier answered, shifting around to stare back at his guest. "I would have thought someone as clever as yourself, with all of your experience controlling trade on the high seas, might have considered such a possibility. But I suppose that was too much to hope for."

Bartimus wanted very desperately right then to scoot his chair back from between the verbally sparring men and get out of their way, but he saw no easy method of extracting himself without drawing even more attention down upon his own head. Grozier was just as likely to demand that he summon a spell and send it at Falagh as to allow the wizard to excuse himself.

Why can't they go argue somewhere else? he wondered. He glanced over at where Junce still sat, his booted feet stretched out in front of him, one heel balanced atop the other toe, and nervously eyed the sheets scattered about the man's legs.

I'd like to finish that treatise before it gets ruined.

"Gentlemen, please," Junce said, rising to his feet once more. "The deed is done, and there's nothing for it but to move forward." He stepped over so he was between the two men, right behind Bartimus's chair, and clapped each of them on the shoulder. "The important thing is that neither Vambran Matrell nor Kovrim Lazelle is in a position to interfere with your business operations for a while. With them both out of the way, you can move forward with your schemes unhindered. And Lavant shall not be pestered with any more ridiculous meddling within the temple."

The assassin's words seemed to placate the two men, for they both turned back toward the mirror and stopped glaring at one another.

"I suppose we could arrange for further trouble for them," Grozier offered as he continued to watch the scene before him. "If they are on the edge of the Nunwood, they aren't too far from part of our own army. Why don't we send a greeting party to intercept them? Since the region is as forsaken as you say, their deaths inland would seem just as circumstantial as if at sea."

"Now you're thinking!" Junce said jovially. "That's a splendid idea."

As the three men began to discuss the logistics of maneuvering a contingent of mercenaries toward the stranded remnants of the Sapphire Crescent troops, Bartimus took the opportunity to scramble out of his chair and rush over to the scattered pages. He began to gather them up, shuffling them into a neat stack.

Oh, he thought as he tightened the stack, it's neither the treatise nor the diagrams. These are those notes on that new spell! I had almost forgotten about that. Now, where did I put the rest of that stack?

The wizard began to rummage through several other loose piles on a table near the bench, hoping to find the remaining notes for the new conjuring magic he had been contemplating. When he found the collection of parchment, he placed the stray pages with it. He was just beginning to reread the opening notes when Grozier interrupted him.

"Bartimus! Get over here and show me where they went!"

The wizard started, and nearly dropped the pages he was holding then took a couple of steps toward the mirror again before he realized that the glass had gone dark and was merely reflecting the dim room.

"I'm terribly sorry, but it would appear that the magic has exhausted itself and is no longer functioning. The properties of any such scrying spell are limited not only by their subject, but also by a time factor, which cannot exceed-"

"Bartimus!" Grozier muttered through clenched teeth, making the mage actually drop his papers that time. "I don't care about the theories. Can you show Vambran Matrell to me again or not?"

Bartimus cringed, trying desperately to decide whether to gather up the mess of notes or to look Grozier in the eye. He chose the middle ground, staring at the floor between them. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Though I could begin preparing for another such casting for sometime this evening, if you'd like. But alas, I did not consider the possibility that you would want more than one viewing, and I did not prepare my magic twice."

"Very well," Grozier replied, his tone exasperated. "As soon as you can."

"Of course," Bartimus answered, stooping down to gather up his dropped notes once more.

The three other men, no longer in need of the wizard's talents, began to walk toward the door leading out of his chambers.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Grozier began as they reached the door, "I found out that Xaphira is on the prowl, looking for you again. She comes to the city every night from that country estate where they're all hiding out, trying to glean information."

"Is that so?" Junce said as they exited. "I'll bet that's frustrating her," he added with a laugh.

Bartimus the wizard did not hear the assassin's reply, however, for he was already engrossed in his notes on a new conjuring spell.

"You two look like you spent the morning stuffed in a box with a bunch of angry cats," Hetta Matrell said as Xaphira and Emriana walked into the dining room together. Their riding clothes were soiled and torn, and Xaphira had dried blood caked on her in several places.

"That's not far from the truth," Xaphira said as she took up a clean platter and began to assemble a meal of boiled eggs in cheese sauce, hard bread, and peach compote. "We ran into three dire-jaguars this morning," she explained.

There were several startled gasps around the table. "Oh, by Waukeen! What happened?" Ladara asked, her hand covering her mouth in alarm.

"Em and I took care of them," Xaphira replied. "She's quite handy with a blade, Ladara."

Ladara made a disapproving sound, but Emriana seemed to beam as she followed her aunt's lead and began to fill her own dish. One of the servants of House Matrell brought a fresh pitcher of chilled milk and set it on the table, along with a couple of thick, clay-fired mugs. The two women slouched down into chairs and began to eat.

"Between the dire-cats and last night," Xaphira said between bites, "I feel like I was stuffed into a box that was kicked down the garden steps. Now I remember why I don't run with the old crowds anymore. I can't keep up with them."

"Well, I hope your prowling around was worth it," Hetta said, sipping at a porcelain cup of steaming Amnian tea. The elder dame of the house didn't sound the least bit reproachful, merely concerned.

"It was," Xaphira said, smearing some butter and peach compote onto a thick slice of bread. "Quill might know someone who can tell me more about Junce. I'm supposed to meet with him again tonight to find out for certain."

Marga sighed, wishing she were in another part of the house. She didn't want to hear of Xaphira's plans for tracking down the assassin who worked for Grozier. She blamed her brother and his cronies for Evester's death almost as much as she blamed Evester himself. It was bad enough that they had been trying to start a war-especially for the sole purpose of profiting from it-but the tangle of deceit, murder, and greed that Grozier, Evester, and Denrick Pharaboldi had woven in trying to get their business alliance established went beyond making her sick. It horrified her that her own children would have to live with their father's treacherous legacy.

"Well, you be careful," Ladara Matrell said, sitting next to Hetta. "That Junce Roundface is a dangerous character. The way he almost-" the woman couldn't finish, and she swallowed hard as she reached out and squeezed Hetta's hand. "Even the thought of him roaming around out there frightens me," Ladara said, wide-eyed, in a near whisper.

"Calm yourself," Hetta said, giving her daughter-in-law a level look. "Xaphira has hired some very reliable House guards to replace the fools who let Dregaul and Evester lead them astray. We'll be perfectly safe once we return to the city tomorrow evening."

"Did you say Roundface?" Nimra Skolotti said from where she was sitting at the far end of the table, gazing across the room without really looking at anything. She could not see, but there was nothing wrong with her hearing, it seemed. Her daughter Mirolyn sat beside her, looking as surprised as everyone else that the aged woman had spoken.

Xaphira held a bite of food halfway to her mouth. "Yes," she said, a worried look on her face. "Do you know of him?"

"I'm not sure," Nimra replied, bringing her hand up to rub at her brow, which was furrowed in thought. "It seems familiar somehow, but I can't recall."

Beside her, Mirolyn looked at the rest of the group gathered at the table and shrugged. Despite her lost sight, Nimra still seemed sharp in conversations, and if the elderly woman could shed some light on the mysterious assassin who had been plaguing the family, it would be a great boon. Marga knew she wasn't the only one who realized that. Everyone at the table was watching the woman with intent expressions, too. When Nimra shrugged and said nothing further, everyone resumed eating.

Marga continued to watch Nimra for a moment longer. She felt sorry for the old woman, for she could imagine all too keenly the pain of losing a child. Thinking of trying to cope with the deaths of Obiron and Quindy made a lump form in the woman's throat. She tried to banish such notions, but it was difficult.

"I do hope Vambran is well," Ladara commented, breaking the silence. "It's all so terribly unfortunate that they were ordered away while this unpleasant business of war is still unresolved. And so soon after-" the woman paused, suddenly aware of what she was about to say. She sniffed once, her lip trembling, her eyes rimming red with the beginnings of tears. "I'm sorry," Ladara said, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin while another silent pall settled over the table. "I still miss them so much, whatever their faults."

"It's all right to speak of it," Hetta said, trying to smile disarmingly at her whole family. "We can't pretend they're still here. We must accept it and move on."

There was a moment or two longer of uncomfortable silence.

Finally, Hetta turned back to Emriana and asked, "Have you spoken to Vambran since he left? Any mention of how he and Kovrim are doing?"

Emriana shook her head, fingering the opal pendant that hung around her neck. "I thought about it, but I know he's busy, and I haven't wanted to disturb him. I might contact him this afternoon."

Hetta sniffed. "Well, if I know Kovrim, he's likely as not leaning over the railing of that ship right now." Then, in a more serious tone, the elder matriarch added, "Waukeen, keep them safe. Cimbar is no place to spend the summer, and this summer is liable to be particularly unsettling, if Grozier gets his war."

Marga started at the mention of her brother, but she didn't say anything. She hoped no one noticed her reaction, and she very carefully scanned the room to see. No one was even looking at her.

"And you know that's exactly why Lavant sent them there," Emriana said sullenly. "To get them out of the temple so he could do whatever he does."

That uncomfortable silence threatened to return, but Hetta clicked her tongue. "Enough of this morbid talk. Whatever Grozier is cooking up, it isn't happening right here, away from Arrabar. Or even in Arrabar, for that matter. Sammardach is in two nights. I intend to make certain House Matrell celebrates suitably when we return."

At mention of the impending holy day, almost everyone's face brightened.

"Oh, are we going to attend the ball at the Generon this year?" Emriana asked excitedly, sitting forward in her chair. "I want to see the fountain of dancing coins again!"

"Well, certainly we are," Hetta replied. "And we must discuss what you'll be wearing, child."

As the conversation turned to thoughts of festivals and clothing, Marga excused herself and stood up from the table. She noted that only Xaphira was not eagerly joining in the conversation, and she could guess why. The mercenary's last visit to the palace about twelve years before had not been a pleasant one.

The discussion of subterfuge and impending war, the threats to family, all of those were making Marga struggle to breathe. She felt stifled, as though the warm, humid air were crushing her. She had to get out of there.

Slipping away, she practically ran to her chambers and shut the door behind her. Stumbling across the room, she stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked a portion of the garden where her children normally played. She could see the two figures in the morning sun, huddled together around something obscured from her view. She choked on a sob, watching them.

"Hello, Marga," came a voice from the shadows, back inside the room.

Marga didn't turn around, though her back stiffened at the sound of her brother's words. "What are you doing here?" she asked tiredly. "Someone will spot you."

"Not unless you tell them I'm here," Grozier replied coldly, the warning in his tone more than a hint. "I came to see how my favorite sister was faring," he added more cheerfully.

"Stop it," the woman said, still not facing Grozier. "What do you want?" she demanded.

"Fine," her brother answered. "What news?"

Marga sighed, hating herself for what he was making her do. "We're returning to the city tomorrow night."

Grozier grunted. "That's not news. Tell me something I can use."

"There's nothing more to tell," she answered harshly. "Emriana and Xaphira ran into some beasts in the woods this morning while out riding. Everyone is worried about Vambran and Kovrim. What more do you want?" She felt tears welling in her eyes, tears of anger and shame.

"Stop being difficult," Grozier snapped. "I don't have to remind you-"

"You don't," Marga agreed, cutting him off before he could say the words. "I know what's at stake. I'm helping you, not causing you any trouble. So don't hurt them. Please." The woman still stared down at the two creatures playing in the garden below, her heart aching in terror and sorrow.

"Then just keep feeding me the information, and we'll be the happier for it," Grozier replied. "I do all this for them, too, you realize."

"You do this for yourself and no one else!" Marga cried, turning at last to face her brother. Grozier stood beside the doorway leading back into her chambers. Behind him, Bartimus also stood, with that perpetual foolish grin on his face. Marga had hated the wizard since she had been a child. More than once she had caught him prying into her belongings or simply staring at her. She had no doubt that he had often used magical means to watch her undressing or in her bath-his glances were always too knowing.

"I won't dare refuse you," she said to her brother, ignoring the spectacled wizard behind him, "if it means keeping my children safe, but don't pretend you have their best interests at heart! I can't stomach the lies on top of the threats!"

Grozier didn't say anything. He grinned at Marga, a look that had infuriated her all of her life. Finally, he nodded. "Very well," he said. "Straight and to the point. Now, what else do you have to tell me?"

Marga bit her lip, wishing there were a way to avoid giving the man every bit of news. But there was too much risk that he would find out some other way, and if he realized she had been holding out on him-she didn't want to even consider it.

"Come on, I can see you know something. Tell me." Grozier took his sister by the shoulders and squared her to him, making her look him in the eyes.

Marga's stare was baleful. She hated him for what he was making her do.

"Xaphira seems to know someone who can help her find Junce Roundface," she admitted. "She's returning to the city again tonight to meet with her old friend."

"Oh, really?" Grozier said, letting go of Marga's shoulders and rubbing his chin with one hand. "That's not good." Then he got a wicked look in his eyes. "Or maybe it is," he added, smiling. "She might not be returning this evening, Marga, dear." The man turned to go, and Bartimus stood straighter, reaching for something inside his robes with which to create one of his infernal magical doorways.

"Waukeen, Grozier," Marga said, her voice breaking with humiliation and frustration. "Is there nothing you won't do to get your way?"

Grozier turned and looked back at the woman as Bartimus channeled his arcane energy into a shimmering blue portal in the middle of Marga's room. The wizard stepped through, but Grozier glared at his sister for a moment. "I'll see you in a few days. Be certain you have something interesting to tell me." Then he, too, passed through the doorway. It silently vanished a moment later.

Marga turned back to the railing of the balcony. Anger and helplessness welled up inside her, and she pounded her fist against the stone in fury. Then the tears began to flow. She stared down into the garden, watching the two half-sized creatures playing.

As if sensing her observing them, one of the two looked up at her and smiled.

Marga saw Obiron's face, but then, and for only a moment, it flickered and changed, becoming a featureless gray face on a bulbous head with a spindly body. The thing waved to her, still smiling, but she could sense the mockery behind the gesture. Then it was Obiron again, a laughing child running with his sister through the blossoms and orchards.

Marga wanted to retch.

Captain Beltrim Havalla, leader of the Silver Raven Mercenary Company, was reclining his chair back, leaning it and himself against the bole of a large tree, trying to take advantage of the limited shade, when he sensed that someone had arrived. He shifted his weight and looked over his shoulder to spot the visitor. In the midst of the open area where the command tents had been set up, Junce Roundface stood surveying the mercenary camp, his back to Beltrim. The mercenary captain sighed at the assassin's sudden appearance and rose to his feet.

Another good nap wasted, he thought.

"What are you doing here?" Captain Havalla called out as he approached his patron. "We're not due to relocate for three more days, yet." Then his eyes narrowed. "My boys had better not have forgotten to let me know you were coming."

Junce began to shake his head, gesturing for the captain to relax. "I didn't send word ahead of time. This is an impromptu visit."

Beltrim sucked his tongue between his teeth and nodded, relieved that his staff had not failed to deliver any urgent messages to him. "All right, then, what are you doing here?" he asked again as the two began to stroll toward the main tent.

Junce grinned. "Happy to see me?" he asked, obviously amused at the captain's abrupt query.

"I've got no quarrel with you being here," the captain replied, "so long as you keep putting coin in my coffers. I just worry that you're here to make things messy for me and my company. As in, maybe you want to command, too."

Junce's grin grew larger. "I'm not here to step on your authority, Captain Havalla," he said. "I just have a special assignment I want you to take care of. A unique mission, a side trip, if you will."

Beltrim let his own scowl deepen as they reached the opening to the command tent and stepped inside. He wasn't about to tell the man that side trips weren't part of the deal, as Junce-or rather, whomever Junce was representing-paid well enough to make even five side trips worthwhile. But sometimes, side trips had a way of turning into campaigns all their own, and as often as not, they created tactical problems with the original plan later. As the two men sat down at a table where numerous maps were spread out, Beltrim grunted, signaling that Junce should continue.

"There's a small group of mercenaries, a rival group, if you will, who just landed on the beach not far from here. Actually, they walked onto the beach after their ship went down out in the Reach, but that's neither here nor there," the assassin added, chuckling at his own humor. "I need you to go remove them from the field of battle."

"Mercenaries?" Beltrim asked, letting his scowl fade away a bit. "What's their name? Whom do they serve?" He was beginning to like the request more and more after all. His men had been itching to get into some sort of engagement for most of a tenday, and instead they had been forced to make camp, sitting in reserve to guard a larger force's flank.

"These are elements of the Order of the Sapphire Crescent," Junce explained, and he began looking at the topmost map on the table, which showed the region around Reth. "They're here," he said, pointing to a spit of land only a couple of miles from where the Silver Ravens were positioned. "There are perhaps two dozen of them, maybe a few more."

"What are they doing there?" Beltrim asked, already beginning to formulate strategy. "How well armed?"

"I told you," Junce answered. "They literally walked up onto the shore after their ship sank. They have sufficient magic that I would advise you not to take them lightly."

Beltrim eyed him appraisingly, trying to measure the man and his words. Thus far in their business relationship, Junce Roundface had neither exaggerated anything nor led Captain Havalla astray with misinformation. He was inclined to take the assassin at his word, but then again, there was always a first time for everything.

"All right, I'll get my men moving. But what, exactly, do you want done with them?"

At the question, Junce began to rub his chin thoughtfully. Finally, he said, "Capture as many as you can, and kill anyone who won't surrender. The prisoners, you will relocate to Reth, where I will deal with them myself. But don't let any of them slip through."

"Why are they so important to you?"

"I have my reasons. Suffice it to say that there are members of the group that I have a history with, and I can't afford to have them roaming around the area while we're having our little war."

Beltrim shrugged and nodded. "Good enough for me," he said, rising. "We'll be ready to move out within the hour."

"Good. I knew I could get results with you. That's why I made the pay so generous."

At that comment, Beltrim smiled. "We'll take care of it," the mercenary captain said.

"Good. Now I must beg my leave of you. Many other details to attend to."

As Beltrim nodded his understanding, the man across the table from him stood, gave a quick overly dramatic salute, muttered something unintelligible, and vanished. Beltrim snorted at the brazen display of magic then turned to find one of his aides and get his men rousted.

There was fighting to be done.