The Wyvern's Spur

5 Mistaken Identities

After failing to recognize Olive in her transmuted condition, Nameless continued his inspection of the stable. He searched methodically in grim silence, slamming each stall door a little harder than the last. Olive could sense the anger and frustration building in him. Pulling a needle-thin dagger from his belt, he jabbed it into any bag of grain or stack of hay large enough to hide a halfling.

Finally, when Olive began trembling at the thought that he might study her bestial form more carefully and realize he had her at his mercy, she heard the sound of someone unbolting the stable’s front door. Nameless cursed and began muttering another spell.

The stable door opened, and a young woman carrying a lantern strode in. Olive recognized her as Lizzy Thorpe, the stable’s owner. Whether Lizzy was aroused by the noise or was just checking on the animals wasn’t clear, but when she spotted the cloaked figure in her stable without permission, she gave a shout. The cloaked figure vanished. Lizzy ran out, still shouting for help.

Olive noticed a peculiar churning of straw where Nameless had stood, and it moved down the center aisle to the stable’s front door. Olive also sensed the floorboards shift slightly and heard them creak from the weight of a human.

He’s gone invisible, she realized, but at least he’s leaving.

Lizzy returned less than a minute later with two of the night watch. “He was standing right there when I came in,” she told them, pointing to where the cloaked figure had turned invisible. Lizzy and the watchmen began to search the barn as methodically as Nameless had, though without his intense desperation.

Still hiding behind the sacks of grain, Olive heard Lizzy cry out, “Look what he’s done to my wall. Left a bloody huge hole in it, big enough to ride a paladin’s mount through!”

The two guards made their way back to Snake Eyes’s stall.

“Wood’s just vanished, edges left smooth as butter cut with a hot knife,” the older night watchman noted. “Looks like mage work to me. If it is magic, it’ll fade, and you’ll get your wall back, probably in an hour or two.”

“You’re lucky this pony had the good sense to stay put,” the other watchman said. “Any horses missing, Lizzy?”

Before Lizzy noticed the addition of one small donkey to her stable, Olive snatched up Giogioni Wyvernspur’s purse in her teeth and slipped quietly out the open stable door.

The halfling waited what seemed an eternity for Giogi to come out of the Immer Inn. Olive wondered if she were succeeding at hiding in shadows in her new four-legged configuration or if the people passing by simply weren’t keen on donkey-snaring this late at night. Whichever was the case, no one approached her.

For a while she savored the irony that the noble’s cursed purse had saved her life, but as the hour grew later and the night colder, she became annoyed. Now that she was no longer in immediate danger, her situation appalled her. By the time the young Wyvernspur finally emerged from the Immer Inn and wobbled down the street, she slunk after him, feeling considerable animosity.

She realized, however, that the streets were too open for a confrontation and that she would have to follow him home. Unfortunately, Giogi seemed to have no interest in going back. He wandered along the lakefront. Then the sound of music from the Five Fine Fish attracted his attention. He hurried over to the inn and disappeared inside.

Olive imagined with longing the fish and chips and ale the Fish served, but apparently the same things did not interest Giogi. He came out only a few minutes later and wandered over to the market green and began talking to one of the stone bandits.

That’s just great, Olive thought sarcastically. My fate is in the hands of a man who talks to statues. She hung back in the shadows, and she was glad she had, for just as the fop began serenading the statue—with another one of her compositions—Samtavan Sudacar came out from the Fish and called out to him.

The local lord had never shown Olive anything but the utmost courtesy when she entertained in the Fish. There was something about Sudacar’s thoughtful gaze, though, that convinced Olive he suspected her of something. It wouldn’t do to be seen holding Giogi’s purse in her teeth, even if she were an ass.

Sudacar talked Giogi into re-entering the Fish, and Olive was forced to wait for a second eternity before they came out again. They were the last patrons to leave the inn, and Lem locked the door behind them when they left. The moon had begun its descent as they crossed the market square to the statue of Azoun III. They lingered, chatting, beside the stone carving. Olive considered creeping closer to eavesdrop on their conversation, but she was still wary of Sudacar. Finally, the local lord left Giogi and strolled south.

Giogi watched Sudacar walk away, then headed west. Olive, her spirit by now burning with a righteous wrath, trotted after the long-legged Cormyte, her hooves clattering on the cobblestones. She no longer bothered to avoid his detection. She was determined to give the Immersea fop a healthy piece of her mind. “Only an irresponsible, thoughtless fool,” she planned to say, “would leave a cursed purse lying in the gutter where it would be found by some poor, defenseless halfling,” namely herself. First, though, she had to get him to change her back into the lovely, talented halfling she’d been born and bred to be.

Giogi stopped in front of a large, well-kept townhouse surrounded by a high iron fence. The noble hummed to himself as he fumbled with the gate latch and pushed his way into the front yard. Before the gate could close, Olive nudged her way through, right behind the oblivious Giogioni. The gate swung shut behind her, its latch engaging with a sharp clang.

Olive found herself in a small, formal garden. Straw mulch covered the square, raised beds and dormant vine stalks clung to wooden trellises along the path to the front door. The sight of the dead garden in the moonlight gave Olive the shivers.

It’s time, she decided, to announce myself.

Olive opened her mouth so Giogi’s sack of coins fell with a clink, and she gave a loud, annoyed bray.

Giogi whirled around with a shriek of terror. Upon spotting the beast that had been stalking him, though, he gave a cry of delight.

“What an adorable burro,” he said with a smile. He put his hand out to pet her, but Olive backed out of reach. With a forefoot, she kicked Giogi’s purse forward.

“What’s this?” Giogi bent over. “My purse!” he cried, picking it up and brushing the dirt off it. “It wasn’t stolen at all. It must have fallen out of my pocket before I even got to the street.” Giogi pocketed the sack of coins, once more leaving the strings dangling in full view.

No! Olive thought with alarm. I just brought it to you, you idiot. You have to change me back to a halfling. She tried to snatch at the purse strings with her teeth, but Giogi gave her a swat on the muzzle, and she missed.

“Silly creature. Mustn’t chew on them,” he said tucking the strings all the way into his cloak pocket. “They’re not good for you, you know. Now, what are you doing roaming loose in my garden? Hmm?”

Olive glared at the nobleman in frustration.

“Thomas must have had a reason for procuring you,” Giogi said. “Not the sentimental type, ol’ Thomas. Very responsible. Always spends my money wisely.”

Olive tried to protest that Thomas had not bought her, but, of course, she could only bray angrily. This she did, at a volume that would put a banshee to shame.

“Shh. You’ll wake the neighbors. Thomas wouldn’t have left you untied. He’s responsible, you know. You must have chewed through the rope, eh? Maybe we’d better tuck you in the carriage house.” With those words, he unclipped the buckle fastening his belt and slid his belt from his waist with a whiplike snap.

Olive’s eyes widened, and she backed away from the nobleman. She brayed now with fear. Her tail and hindquarters banged against the iron gate, which rattled but remained securely fastened, blocking her escape. She dodged to the right, but before she could maneuver around him, Giogi had fashioned his belt into a noose and slipped it neatly over her head.

Olive jumped away, hoping to jerk the noose free of Giogi’s grip, but the noble’s grasp was too firm. The sudden choking sensation broke her spirit immediately.

This had been the worst night of her life. Watching her best friend murdered had been awful. Recognizing the murderer had been a shock. Fleeing for her life had been terrifying. Being mistaken for a beast was completely humiliating. More miserable than she’d ever been in her life, Olive walked docilely alongside Giogi as he led her to the carriage house.

“Daisyeye,” Giogi called out softly as he opened the smaller of the carriage house’s two doors and led Olive inside. “I’ve brought you some company, Daisyeye.”

Giogi lit an oil lamp beside the door. In the light, the carriage house looked warm and cheery. From her burro’s-eye-view, Olive could see a buggy painted vibrant yellow and green and two horse stalls, one occupied by a chestnut mare.

The other stall was empty, and Giogi led Olive into it. He fussed about her—the perfect host trying to make his guest comfortable. Olive realized he meant well, but she could have wished he weren’t trying so much in his drunken state. He laid only half the amount of bedding straw she needed, but left her with twice as much hay as a horse could eat in a day and sloshed more water on the floor than in her water trough. Ignoring the hay, Olive dipped her muzzle in the water and gulped thirstily, thinking how much she really needed something stronger to drink. When she finally came up for air, her gaze wandered idly around the walls of her stall.

Hanging on the outer wall was a portrait of a man with birdlike features, silky black hair, arid piercing blue eyes. His powerful hands rested on a seven-stringed yarting. A silver brooch glistened on his tabard. The eyes in the portrait seemed to stare right at Olive, boring into her soul, so that she imagined the man was watching her, undeceived by her magical disguise. Instinctively Olive backed away, braying with alarm.

Giogi looked up at the wall where the burro’s gaze was fixed. He seemed startled by the portrait, too, for a moment, at least. Then he laughed, reached up, and took the painting down.

“Nothing to worry about,” he murmured soothingly. “Look, silly,” he said, holding the frame up to her muzzle so she could sniff at the painting. “It’s only the picture of some old, dead ancestor. Completely harmless.”

Wrong, Olive thought. He’s not dead, and he’s not just some old ancestor, and he’s not harmless. He’s the Nameless Bard, and he’s a mad murderer.

“His name should be on the back somewhere,” Giogi muttered, searching the canvas. “How odd. The name’s been blotted out.”

Naturally, Olive thought. The Harpers went to a great deal of trouble wiping his name from the Realms.

“Doesn’t matter,” Giogi said. “He could be any Wyvernspur. Wyvernspurs all look alike. Except me, of course. I take after my mother, you see.”

Giogi hung the picture back up and offered Olive a handful of oats, sweetened with molasses, from a wooden bucket. “See what I have? Num-nums,” he said.

The halfling-turned-burro declined to even sniff at the grain.

“Not hungry, eh? Well, we’ll leave them for you as a midnight snack, in case you get peckish.”

Giogi dumped the oats back into the bucket and left it against the wall. “Nighty night,” he said, scratching Olive between her ears before she had a chance to dodge away. He slipped his belt off her and left the stall, closing and latching its door behind him. Before he left the stable, he blew out the lamp.

Left alone in the dark, Olive tried to make plans. I have to think of a way to get out of here, she thought. I have to get someone to turn me back the way I belong. I have to avenge Jade’s death. All she could think about, though, was Jade.

Olive had benefited from her association with Jade, as with no other person. Of course, there had been the practical benefits. Like Alias, Jade could not be detected magically, and this protection extended to her companions. Jade had also been an appreciative audience for all Olive’s songs—unlike Alias, whose habit of performing better songs had constantly pricked Olive’s jealousy. Most importantly, though, Jade had simply been the best friend Olive had ever had.

Jade had been a perfect companion. She had enjoyed all the things Olive did: practicing her craft, celebrating with food and drink, gossiping, traveling—but only in fair weather—and meeting new people. Olive had once wondered if, instead of getting a spirit and soul from a paladin, as Alias had, Jade’s spirit and soul had been cleft from the halfling’s own. That would have explained why Olive felt so drawn to the human. Whether it was true or not, Olive knew for a fact that the last six days without Jade had been the loneliest she could recall in her lifetime.

Not only had she missed the woman, but secretly she’d been worried sick about Jade. Olive had been able to think of only one reason why Jade would disappear, but she could hardly go up to Lord Sudacar and ask, “Have you arrested my friend Jade for picking someone’s pocket?” It certainly wouldn’t have helped Jade any. Olive had searched through Immersea as subtly as she could. She didn’t want Jade to think she kept tabs on her, but the halfling had felt responsible for the human.

She’d felt that way ever since she’d spotted Jade in the streets of Arabel—picking the pocket of a purple dragoon. Jade’s technique had been superb, but, of course, purple dragoons were never paid in anything but royal script, which civilians were not allowed to have. If someone doesn’t warn her about that, Olive had thought, she’ll end up a bonded servant, and those talented fingers will be wasted scrubbing floors.

Right then Olive had realized she was the perfect candidate to look after the girl, train her, and offer her guidance, just as Alias had a saurial paladin to keep her safe. Who better, Olive had thought, than I? Not only do I know more about her than she probably knows about herself, but we share the same craft.

Nonetheless, Olive had been surprised at how easily Jade had accepted her offer to become her apprentice, how quickly Jade had come to depend on her, and how completely the human had trusted her. Because of all this, Olive had come to think of Jade as a daughter. An overgrown daughter, but a beloved daughter.

When Jade had said she’d been visiting family, Olive had felt an unreasonable flare of jealousy. Now she wondered angrily, Who was this phony family member who’d kept her Jade away for six days, tempting her with magic sacks and the gods knew what else? A fat lot of good he’d been to her when she’d been murdered on the street.

A fat lot of good you’d been to her, Olive derided herself. You failed her. You knew there was something evil about the mark she went after. Why didn’t you stop her? If you’d insisted harder, she would have stayed. Why did you let her go? You’ll never see her again, now. Never, ever.

Unable to weep in her burro body, Olive found herself banging her head against the stall door in a mindless fury. Daisyeye nickered nervously, upset by the noise Olive made.

With some effort, Olive controlled herself. She took a deep breath and another drink of water.

Its not all my fault, she thought with a flash of anger. Nameless killed her, though why he should murder one of Alias’s copies is a mystery. Face it, Olive-girl, she told herself, he’s never been completely sane. He could have a reason, albeit a twisted one.

The first thing that had occurred to her, because of what Nameless had said to Jade on the street, was that he’d judged Jade to be unfit because she was a thief, and that he’d taken it upon himself to destroy her because he’d been partly responsible for creating her.

“You’ve escaped,” he’d said to Jade. Had he kept her prisoner for the past six days? Was that what Jade had meant when she said she’d been “visiting family”? In a way, Nameless was kin to Jade. He thought of himself as Alias’s father, and Alias was Jade’s older sister, sort of. Who else could she have meant?

Of course! Olive thought with a start. She could have meant one of Nameless’s relatives! If the portrait on the wall of Giogi’s carriage house was Nameless, as Olive was sure it was, and if, as Giogi claimed, the man in the portrait was some ancestor, then Nameless was a Wyvernspur, and Jade would be kin to all the Wyvernspurs, at least in as much as she was kin to Nameless.

Even better than that, though, was the inevitable conclusion that if, as Giogi also claimed, the portrait could have been of any Wyvernspur, since they all looked alike, then Jade’s murderer might not have been Nameless at all, but some other Wyvernspur.

With the realization that Nameless wasn’t her only suspect, a feeling of relief swept over Olive. She hadn’t wanted to believe he would murder anyone. From the day she’d freed him from the sorceress Cassana’s dungeon, Olive had respected his talents as a bard, and he had gained her sympathy with his tale of being stripped of his name and exiled to another plane. Of course, Olive had not approved of the callous way Nameless had risked people’s lives in order to satisfy his egotistical desire to create an immortal vessel to sing his music. On the other hand, his treatment at the hands of the Harpers had been nothing short of tyrannical. Exiling him had been cruel enough, but repressing his songs was unforgivable. The halfling could not help but admire the way Nameless had defied the Harpers a second time. His scheme had been mad, but it had ended in the creation of Alias and Jade. On the whole, Olive had really liked Nameless.

She was pretty sure he’d liked her, too. After all, he’d spent hours teaching her new songs on his yarting, possibly the same yarting he held in his portrait. He’d also given her his Harper’s pin, the same silver brooch he wore in the portrait. The piece of jewelry fashioned in the shape of a harp and crescent moon was pinned somewhere in Olive’s vest pocket—wherever that was beneath her burro hide. Some might have interpreted his presenting the pin to a halfling thief as an act of defiance against the Harpers, but Olive chose to think of it as a reward for helping Alias gain her freedom.

Now that she thought about it, Olive recalled that there had been something about Jade’s murderer that was different from Nameless. The murderer’s hair was as dark and silky as the hair in Nameless’s portrait. The portrait was done two centuries ago, though. The last time Olive had seen Nameless, his hair had been splotched with gray and was somewhat lusterless. So it couldn’t have been Nameless who killed Jade, unless he’d found some potion of youth.

Olive shook her head, unwilling to believe Nameless capable of such treachery as long as there were other possibilities in the Wyvernspur family. Giogi might know who those other possibilities were, she realized. Remaining with him would be my best opportunity to discover the identity of Jade’s murderer.

And when I find out which Wyvernscum murdered my Jade, Olive thought, I can avenge her death.

Having settled her mind about Nameless and realizing that her transformation and captivity might have some tactical advantage, Olive’s thoughts turned to more mundane matters. Her stomach was rumbling. She’d missed dinner, and her appetite had not diminished upon her transformation. She sniffed experimentally at the bucket of oats.

Giogi tossed uneasily in his sleep. He was dreaming that he was soaring over a meadow on a spring morning. He knew that he was asleep. He hadn’t the ability to soar over anything except dream things. Besides which, he’d had this particular nightmare before. That’s why he tossed uneasily. While most people would find the beginning of this dream enchanting, or even exhilarating, Giogi was too well acquainted with the ending to appreciate the soaring part.

His chestnut mare, Daisyeye, galloped into sight beneath him. Giogi swooped down on the horse more silently than an owl on a rabbit. He sunk his talons into the mare’s haunches and his fangs into her neck and snatched his prey from the ground. Daisyeye neighed in terror and pain as Giogi beat his wings harder and faster and climbed back into the air. The horse writhed in his grasp for a few moments, then went limp.

Giogi landed back in the meadow. Blood flowing from Daisyeye’s neck and haunches steamed in the cool air. Her bones snapped as Giogi began swallowing her whole.

Giogi awoke with a gasp, trembling with fear. “Why me?” he moaned.

That was the question he’d been asking himself since he’d come of age and he’d started having the dream. At first, the prey in his dream had been wild creatures: stags and boars and mountain goats, and while the dream had disturbed Giogi greatly, at least he was accustomed to hunting such creatures for real—with a bow, of course. Ever since the dragon who’d waylaid him last spring had eaten the first Daisyeye—not Daisyeye II, who was safe in the carriage house—the prey in Giogi’s nightmares had become Daisyeye. Like all Cormyrian nobles, he loved his horses, and the idea of slaughtering and devouring them appalled him.

Just to reassure himself, Giogi padded barefoot over to his bedroom window to look out at the carriage house, where Daisyeye was stabled. Giogi could make out the silhouette of the carriage house and see that nothing had burned it down or broken in looking for an equine snack. The moon had set, but the sky was not completely dark. The sun would be up soon.

“Oh, my gosh. I have to be at the crypt,” Giogi remembered aloud.

Thomas was awakened by a thumping noise followed by the clatter and clash of metal on metal, like the sounds made by gladiators battling in an arena. Thomas listened more intently, trying to determine if the noise wasn’t coming from outside the house, created perhaps by a band of drunken adventurers with no respect for the conventions of town living—such as sleeping at night. A second thump and more bashing noises reached his ears. Now he was able to tell for certain that the disturbance came from within the house. The noise originated from his own kitchen.

It was early dawn, the sky just beginning to lighten to iron gray. Presuming the noises had been made by some very careless burglar, the servant picked up the poker from beside his fireplace and carefully eased open his bedroom door. A bright light shone across the hall. A very brazen, as well as careless, burglar, Thomas thought as he tiptoed to the kitchen door and peeked around the doorjamb.

His kitchen was in complete disarray. Serving trays and mixing bowls lay scattered about the table and floor. All the cabinets stood open—most of them emptied of their contents. One stack of plates sat balanced so precariously on the edge of the linen chest that it appeared as if a passing breeze could send them plummeting to the stone floor. In the midst of the chaos stood the intruder—a lean young man who scowled at the tabletop with a long, sharp knife in his hand. Thomas gasped in surprise.

Giogioni looked up from the kitchen table at Thomas, who stood in the doorway with a raised poker clenched in his fist and his mouth hanging open. “Ah, good morning, Thomas,” the young noble greeted him and smiled. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Just getting together some tea. Why are you waving that poker about?”

“I—I—I thought you were a burglar, sir,” Thomas explained, carefully leaning the iron rod against the wall.

“Now why would you think that, Thomas? You know I have scads of money. Why should I become a burglar?”

“No, sir, I meant that I heard a sound, sir, and that I thought at this hour down in the kitchen, it must have been made by a burglar. Couldn’t you sleep, sir?”

Giogi snorted. “With all I had to drink last night?” he replied. “I went out like a snuffed candle.”

“Bad dreams again?” Thomas guessed.

Eager to forget the dream, Giogi denied it with a shake of his head. “I am awake at this ungodly hour,” he explained, “because Aunt Dorath has condemned me to crypt-crawling with Steele and Freffie. They’ve put me in charge of provisions, so I’ve boiled water for tea and now I’m hacking at this cheese for sandwiches. I made a bit of a mess looking for that earthenware tea jug. Sorry. I seem to be having trouble with this knife. Since you are up anyway, would you oblige, please?” The young Wyvernspur waved the knife at the servant, handle first.

Thomas picked his way across the kitchen to the table—carefully pushing the stack of dishes back from the edge of the linen chest on his way. Large crumbs and chunks of cheddar littered the table, but none could be even charitably described as a slice. Thomas took the remnants of the wheel of cheese and carved through it neatly six times. “Will that be sufficient, sir?”

“Excellent,” Giogioni said, stacking the cheese slices between chunks of bread. He lay each sandwich on a piece of oiled paper. “And would you slice them into those cute little triangles like you always do for tea?”

Automatically Thomas quartered the sandwiches, wrapped them in the oily paper, and stuffed them into the waterproof sack Giogi held out. Finding his master not only awake at this hour, but fully dressed, shaved, and alert was enough to confuse Thomas; discovering Giogi also making an attempt at self-sufficiency in the kitchen had left the servant dazed.

“I swiped those leftover tea cakes and some apples. Is that all right?” the nobleman asked.

“Yes, of course, sir.” Thomas replied.

“Oh. I told Bottles you’d stop by the Immer Inn first thing this morning and pay my tab from last night.”

“Very good, sir,” Thomas replied.

Giogi packed the waterproof sack, the earthenware jug, some teacups, teaspoons and a jar of tea leaves into a picnic basket. He strapped on his fencing foil, pulled on his cloak, and unlatched the back door. “By the way,” he said, pausing in the doorway, “I thought I’d take the burro with me to carry my supplies. That won’t be any problem, will it?”

“Of course not, sir,” Thomas said automatically as he nested a set of mixing bowls and stacked them back into a cupboard.

It wasn’t until Giogioni’s servant had finished tidying the kitchen and had his morning cup of tea that he was sufficiently awake to wonder to which burro his master was referring.