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  27 Mirtul, the Year of Rogue Dragons

  Dorn kept wanting to blink, as if his eyesight was cloudy. It wasn’t. It was just different. Colors were muted, altered, or entirely faded to shades of gray. Yet, thanks to the enchantment Kara had cast on him, he could see clearly despite the darkness.

  Employing his harpoon like a walking staff, Raryn stalked along at the head of the procession. His white goatee and long hair, like Kara’s moon-blond tresses, seemed almost to blaze in the gloom.

  It had taken Raryn a long, weary time to backtrack the dead monk to the hidden tunnel entrance. The poor wretch had stumbled a long way before succumbing to his burns. But after resting, and using some of their precious healing potions to ease the hurts the chromatic dragons had given them, the seekers had headed down the passage.

  Which, after a final twist, opened out into a sizable cavern. Stalactites stabbed from the arched ceiling, and other spikes and lumps of limestone jutted above the uneven floor. The cool air stank of guano, evidence of a colony of bats somewhere close at hand. Indeed, Dorn thought he heard one or two of them fluttering about.

  “Curse it!” Raryn snarled.

  Dorn wasn’t accustomed to seeing his usually placid partner betray such agitation. The half-golem had been serving as rearguard, but concerned, he sidled around Kara and Chatulio—whose long, serpentine body nearly plugged the tunnel—to draw even with the dwarf.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Dorn.

  Raryn pointed with a stubby finger, indicating three openings in the chamber walls ahead. “That, that, and that.”

  “What about them?” asked Dorn.

  “Which is the right way?” Raryn said. “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to make such choices, though really, I knew better. We’re miles from the monastery. The monks couldn’t have dug a single straight tunnel all this distance. What they could do was find a way into a honeycomb of caves beneath the mountains. Unfortunately, such places are always mazes.”

  “Perhaps,” said Chatulio, “the monks made signposts to find their way through.”

  “No,” said Dorn, “not if they want their secret road to remain a secret. Plenty of intelligent and unfriendly creatures spend much of their lives in caves. But Raryn, I still don’t see the problem. Why can’t you just puzzle out which is the right way?”

  “Because I’m not that kind of dwarf,” Raryn said. “I’m the only example of the arctic variety any of you has ever seen, so maybe you forget, I didn’t grow up underground.”

  “You’re still the best tracker and pathfinder I’ve ever seen,” said Dorn.

  “Like any scout, I’m good in country I understand, which for me is someplace under the open sky. Below ground, I’m a tenderfoot again.”

  Chatulio laughed. “And here I thought I was the joker.”

  Kara said, “I don’t believe it, either.”

  “Nor I,” said Dorn, “and who knows you better than me? You can do this.”

  Half hidden by his bushy mustache, Raryn’s mouth quirked upward in a somber smile. “All right. I owed you a warning, but I’ll try.”

  “Everyone’s here,” Rilitar said.

  Taegan nodded and turned to the wizards standing or sitting about their workroom in various attitudes of curiosity and impatience. He spread his wings a bit as if stretching, then folded them with an audible snap. It was a trick he’d learned as a fencing teacher, to draw an audience’s attention and make them fall quiet.

  “Worthy mages …” he began.

  “I want to say right at the outset,” interrupted Phourkyn, head cocked slightly to bring the glare of his single eye directly to bear on Taegan, his slicked-back hair giving off the sweet scent of pomade, “how inappropriate it was for you, Maestro, to command any of us to attend you. You lack the authority, and so, for that matter, does your fellow elf.”

  Some of his colleagues growled their agreement. Perched on one of the rafters, Jivex made a spitting sound, expressing his disgust at their show of pique.

  “Yet you indulged me,” Taegan said. “I thank you for that, and hope to repay your kindness by saving your lives. A demon tried to kill Rilitar last night. I’m certain it was the same tanar’ri that slew Lissa Uvarrk, and am just as sure we haven’t seen the last of it. It will keep on trying to destroy one or another of you, at moments when it—or the warlock controlling it—hopes to find you alone and vulnerable.”

  The wizards all started clamoring at once. Taegan raised his hands for silence until the babble faded, then gave the assembly an abridged account of the battle with the chasme, omitting any mention of the chase that had ended in front of Scattercloak’s house.

  Afterward, Firefingers, looking not merely elderly but troubled, perhaps even frail for the first time since Taegan had met him, said, “Plainly, this is cause for concern, but I’m loath to believe that any member of our fellowship could be a traitor. Surely we can find a likelier explanation.”

  “Such as another mage?” said Sinylla, looking fresh and pert as usual in her silvery vestments and crescent-moon pendant. “One unknown to any of us, lurking here in town.”

  “It’s not impossible,” Taegan said, “but I’m currently gazing at a chamber stuffed full of powerful wizards. It makes little sense to assume, without a wisp of evidence to support such a supposition, the covert presence of yet another unless we can establish the innocence of each of you.”

  “We know of the shadow Sammaster left in his writings,” said Phourkyn, “to possess any who tries to read the text by magical means. Perhaps he bound a chasme in the folio to provide a second trap, and our investigations released the thing without us even realizing.”

  “I doubt it,” Rilitar said. “Neither Lissa nor I had tried to unravel Sammaster’s cipher in a good long while. We were concentrating on the lore Kara and her allies have recovered from the ancient shrines. Why, then, would a tanar’ri charged with protecting the secrets of the lich’s notes attack us in preference to someone who was still working on them?”

  Pink-jowled and sweaty-faced in his white and silver robes, Darvin Kordeion said, “I warned you all that no good would come of persisting in these inquiries, but nobody listens to me.”

  “Because you’re a coward and a fool,” Phourkyn said.

  “For once,” said Scattercloak, shrouded in his mantle, head bowed so no one could see under his cowl, “you and I agree. But in this instance, Master Kordeion was correct to worry.”

  “Murder is the Watchlord’s business,” called one of the lesser mages. “We should inform him right away.”

  “No,” Taegan said. “For the sake of keeping the peace, he’d forbid you to continue your studies as he nearly did before. No one can tell him anything. If someone does, I’ll take it as proof that the informer himself is Sammaster’s agent, and deal with him accordingly.”

  Phourkyn sneered. “Don’t flatter yourself that a mere bladesinger could ‘deal’ with me, Maestro, or with a number of these others. But that aside, I agree with you. What’s the point of whining to Gelduth Blackturret? Does anyone believe him capable of contending with a threat powerful enough to menace us? We have to protect ourselves.”

  “Or abandon our inquiries,” Darvin said.

  “We’ve already discussed that,” Firefingers said, “and determined it would be irresponsible.”

  “Worse than that,” Phourkyn said, “giving up would constitute a craven surrender to our foe.”

  “I weary,” said Scattercloak, “of the manner in which you constantly presume to pass judgment on the rest of us. It’s not your place to define the course of wisdom or honor for your fellows.”

  “Maybe not,” said the one-eyed mage. “It’s certainly a waste of time trying to recommend honor or courage to you.”

  “Blood and dung!” Taegan exclaimed. “Dorn and his comrades warned me that you lot love to squabble, but it’s accomplishing nothing. I suggest we turn our attention to safeguarding this enterprise. Rilitar and I have some ideas in that regard.”
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  Phourkyn snorted. “I’ve already explained, Maestro, you’re not in command here.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Taegan said. “But Master Shadow-water and I have had a little time to ponder this matter. You haven’t. For that reason if no other, it makes sense for you to listen to our recommendations.”

  “Yes,” said Firefingers, “I concur.”

  Phourkyn spread his hands in a curt gesture conveying that, though it would likely prove a waste of time, he was willing to humor the senior wizard.

  “Each of you” Taegan said, “needs to make himself as safe as he can. To the extent possible, keep defensive enchantments in place, and carry your arcane weapons wherever you go. Bodyguards, be they conjured spirits or hired bravos, may also prove useful.”

  “Surely,” said Scattercloak in his emotionless, artificial-sounding voice, “this is obvious.”

  “What’s obvious,” one of the lesser mages murmured to another, “is that if you really want to be safe, you’ll clear out of Thentia.”

  “Right,” said the second warlock, “and then a dragon flight catches you on the road.”

  “Perhaps,” said Taegan, “what I say next will seem less obvious. Most of you pursue your studies not just here, but in your own homes, your own sanctuaries—”

  “Because we all have private spells and resources,” Phourkyn said, “which we’re reluctant to reveal. So of course we labor in secret. We’re wizards! You can’t expect us to do all our work together in one room, like apprentices under a master’s supervision.”

  “I’m not suggesting that,” Taegan said. “But henceforth, no pages from Sammaster’s folio, or other materials relevant to your investigations, can leave this room. Moreover, we need to make an inventory of what we have, and employ a clerk to keep track of it. With luck, it will insure that the traitor doesn’t steal or destroy vital information.”

  “I’ll provide the clerk,” Firefingers said.

  “I also advise,” Taegan continued, “that each of you submit to an interrogation conducted by one of the Moon-maiden’s priestesses. I trust Sinylla Zoranyian and her sisters in the goddess’s service can arrange it discretely, without the Watchlord finding out. Perhaps, employing spells to sift truth from falsehood, the Silver Lady’s servants can identify the traitor.”

  “Not a chance,” Phourkyn sneered. “Any accomplished mage can flummox such piddling enchantments.”

  “I think,” said little Jannatha Goldenshield, a trace of anger in her voice, “that you underestimate Selûne’s power.” Taegan had learned that Jannatha and her sister Baerimel Dunnath, the third mage in service to the House of the Moon, were Sinylla’s cousins.

  “It’s worth trying,” Taegan said. “I know wizards are jealous of their secrets, but surely you can trust Selûne’s handmaidens to restrict their questions to the matter at hand.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Scattercloak, “I refuse to submit to such an interrogation.”

  “Well, you would, wouldn’t you?” Phourkyn said. “It’s remarkable, isn’t it, how daintily we’ve danced around this matter, without anyone coming out and saying what’s in all our minds. If someone in our circle is a scoundrel, then surely the likeliest subject is our resident ghost, the enigma whose face we’ve never seen. I think it’s time to remedy that.”

  “Don’t try,” said Scattercloak.

  “No,” said Taegan, “don’t. It’s unnecessary, just as it’s unnecessary for you, Master Scattercloak, to submit to questioning. I didn’t want to reveal this, but it looks as if it may be the only way to prevent a violent altercation. I already know for a fact that, like Rilitar, Scattercloak, Baerimel Dunnath, and Esvelle Chernin are innocent.”

  “How do you know?” Phourkyn demanded.

  “I can’t explain just yet,” Taegan said. “It would prevent me from using the same method to investigate the rest of you. So I ask you to trust me. I promise that if you do, I can eventually unmask the culprit.”

  The one-eyed enchanter shook his head. “Why should we trust you?”

  “Because he kept Samdralyrion from incinerating you with his fiery breath,” Rilitar said.

  “I think Maestro Nightwind has given us sound advice,” Firefingers said. “I’m inclined to take it.”

  And though many of the other mages demanded to have their grumbling, quibbling say, that seemed to be the consensus in the end.

  Afterward, Taegan and Rilitar took a stroll through Thentia’s teeming streets to unwind from the stresses of the conclave. The bright spring sun was warm, and though, after years spent in exquisite Lyrabar, Taegan could find nothing to admire in Thentia’s bluntly utilitarian architecture, he, as always, enjoyed the bustle, chatter, and even the occasional stinks of a human city. Jivex flitted about, snapping insects from the air and eliciting cries of wonder from passersby.

  Taegan was likewise an object of curiosity. He noticed a pretty lass staring at him in fascination, spread his wings to give her a better look, then offered a smile and a gallant bow. She blushed, turned away, then glanced back as he’d known she would.

  Rilitar chuckled and said, “I’m amazed you have any thought to spare for flirtation.”

  “I don’t have to think,” Taegan said. “By now, it’s a reflex. I trained myself to act the consummate rake to attract wealthy young men to my academy.”

  “Didn’t the mask ever chafe?”

  “No, because it wasn’t a mask. I became what I wanted to be.”

  “If so, I’m happy for you, but still surprised it’s that particular achievement that seems to give you such satisfaction. It seems a trifling accomplishment compared to mastering bladesong. If you think about it, Faerûn is full to overflowing with well-dressed louts who know how to guzzle brandy, chase whores, and shake a dice cup. People who can wield a sword with one hand while weaving spells with the other are extraordinarily rare.”

  Taegan realized he’d never thought about it that way, but felt disinclined to say so.

  “Fencing,” the avariel said, “bladesong, manners, wit, a knowledge of fashion, wine, and cuisine, are all brightly polished and equally splendid facets of the perfection that is my humble self.”

  “If you say so.” Rilitar glanced around, checking for eavesdroppers, then continued in a more confidential tone, “The meeting seemed to go well.”

  “I’m glad you think so. I’m frankly bemused at the reception we encountered. Even a mage like Phourkyn, who ultimately seemed to agree with us, couldn’t bring himself to admit it until he did his share of scoffing and sneering.”

  “For the most part, the human wizards are independent to the point of eccentricity or even perversity. They bristle when anyone tries to give them direction, no matter how benign the intent. The important thing is that they finally did fall in line with our suggestions, thanks in large part to Firefingers’s support. We should give thanks to the Lifegiver that he at least is sensible.”

  “Did you observe anything,” Taegan asked, pausing on a corner while an ox cart creaked past, “to point the finger of suspicion at anyone in particular?”

  “No.”

  “Alas, neither did I.”

  They strolled onward.

  “I have to say,” Rilitar said, “you caught me by surprise when you announced that Scattercloak, Baerimel, and Esvelle are innocent.”

  Taegan smiled and said, “I surprised myself, but it seemed the right ploy.”

  “But how did you clear them?”

  “I already explained why I think Scattercloak is in the clear. For their part, Baerimel and Esvelle are two of the less powerful mages. It seems unlikely that they can conjure demons that are somehow impervious to the wards of their more accomplished colleagues.”

  “That’s it? You acknowledged that you could be wrong about Scattercloak, and it’s also possible that Baerimel and Esvelle are more formidable than they’ve ever let on.”

  “That’s true, and if I’ve just declared Sammaster’s agent innocent, no doubt he or she
is pleased. But consider the situation if, as I think likely, it’s someone else. In that case, the traitor knows I was right about Scattercloak and the ladies, and accordingly, he has to wonder if I truly do possess some infallible means of unmasking him. My hope is that the threat of it will provoke him into attacking me, and thus revealing himself.”

  Rilitar shook his head. “You seem quite cheerful for a fellow inviting his own murder.”

  “Because our adversary doesn’t have it all his own way anymore. He has to worry about our own feints and genuine attacks. We’re fencing now, and that’s a game I understand.”

  Raryn dropped to one knee and peered at a patch of pale fungus on the cavern floor. Something had crushed the edge of the soft, lumpy stuff. The dead monk’s foot? He thought so, but the way the fungus was already growing back, blurring the shape of the track, he couldn’t be sure.

  He was fairly certain the path he’d chosen wasn’t actually heading toward the Monastery of the Yellow Rose. It had veered too far to the east, which didn’t mean it wouldn’t ultimately swing back around again, but how was he to know?

  He felt anxiety gnawing at him, and frowned it away. Just do your best, he told himself. That’s all anyone can do, in any circumstance.

  “I believe we’re still on the right track,” he said, straightening up.

  “Let’s leave another marker,” Chatulio said. He murmured a rhyming cantrip, then scratched the wall with a talon—the claw cut the stone as if it were tallow—and drew an arrow.

  They hiked onward, Raryn in the lead, Kara next, the copper third, and Dorn bringing up the rear.

  At times, the way opened out into great vaults adorned with fantastic confections of stone, some of the stalactites and stalagmites delicate as lace or frothing sea foam, some ponderous as ancient trees. At other moments, the walls pressed in close, and hanging or rearing masses of rock choked the tunnel like rows of fangs. To negotiate one especially tight squeeze, Chatulio cast a spell that shrank him to half his former size.

  Finally the explorers stepped out into another enormous, lofty-ceilinged cave. A crevasse ten paces wide split the chamber floor, but a rope bridge spanned the chasm.