The Captive Flame botg-1 Page 8

  “No matter why he hired me, I’m a liability in this place.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s Aoth who’s the liability to you and me.”

  “What?”

  “He was a great war leader once, but his time has passed. Look at the state the Brotherhood is in, torn to shreds and reduced to doing this dreary job.”

  “You know the mission we undertook in Thay was absolutely necessary, and that no one else in the East could have done it as well.”

  “What about Impiltur?”

  “Impiltur was just bad luck.”

  Gaedynn grinned. “And when a sellsword leader’s luck sours, nothing else matters. His lieutenants have no choice but to desert him before he leads them to their deaths. Or before their collaboration in his debacles so tarnishes their own reputations that, like him, they ultimately become unemployable.”

  “You’ve threatened to leave before. You never do.”

  “Which is not to say I never will. Last night’s fight upset me as it did you, albeit for a more sensible reason. We were in far more danger than was necessary, because Aoth refused to let us fight to best effect.”

  “You know the reason why.”

  “Yes. But I consider it insufficient. And why shouldn’t I leave if I see fit? I don’t owe Aoth anything.”

  “Well, I…” She took a breath. “Once again, you’re trying to maneuver me into saying what you want me to say.”

  “To the contrary. I’m agreeing with you. Telling you that if you desert, I’m inclined to go with you.”

  It felt like something twisted in her chest. “We both know that wouldn’t work.”

  “But if you go alone, won’t you be alone? It’s always appeared to me that the Brotherhood is your only home, and as you demonstrated last night, you don’t have much of a knack for making new friends.”

  She lashed a hand like she was batting away a gnat. “All right! I’ll stay! Just stop prattling at me!”

  “Whatever you say. I respect your judgment, of course.”

  Her fingers tightened on her staff. “Gaedynn…”

  To her surprise, his face became more open, his smile less superior and teasing. “Lady, for what it’s worth, I truly do think the company will climb out of this cesspit it’s in eventually, just as I know Aoth needs you to make that happen.” His smile crooked into a smirk. “Instead of leaving, you should hold his nose in the hive for a bigger share of the spoils.”

  *****

  Pacing through the tall doorway at Nicos’s side, Aoth didn’t see any dragonborn, genasi, or other nonhumans standing amid the bronze and marble martial sculptures. Still, Shala Karanok’s hall was more crowded than on his previous visit, and none of the occupants looked happy to see him.

  When Aoth and Nicos reached the proper spot, they halted and bowed. “My lord,” the war hero said. “Captain.” Her voice was ice.

  “Majesty,” replied Aoth and Nicos in unison.

  “Seventy-eight of my people are dead,” said the woman on the throne.

  “Don’t take that for the final tally,” said Aoth. “A couple more corpses will turn up someplace, and a few more of the wounded will die of their hurts.”

  Shala scowled, and Nicos shot him a warning glance. But he intended to be businesslike and unapologetic. He had a hunch it would be a bad idea to accept any blame or show any hint of weakness.

  “Are you proud of your score?” demanded a familiar masculine voice. Aoth looked around and saw Daelric in his jeweled yellow robes. The stout high priest of Amaunator stood at the forefront of what appeared to be a group of the city’s ranking clerics, clad for the most part in regalia as costly as his own.

  “I’m proud,” said Aoth, “that my men did their job efficiently and with a considerable degree of self-control. I assure you, our ‘score’ could have been much higher.”

  “The fact remains,” the sunlord replied, “you slaughtered dozens of good men who only wanted to purge the city of evil.”

  Nicos snorted. “That’s a pretty epitaph for a pack of mad dogs.”

  Aoth returned his gaze to Shala. “Majesty, you and Lord Nicos both told me my job is to maintain order with a special eye to protecting the residents of the wizards’ precinct. I did it. What’s the problem?”

  Shala’s eyes narrowed. Aoth braced himself for an outburst. But in the end, the war hero chose to overlook his bluntness-his insolence, some would say-and simply answer his question.

  “In my mind, your task was to prevent a riot from starting in the first place. Perhaps that was unrealistic. But in the aftermath, I find I’m the ruler who set vicious sellswords under the command of an evil war-mage and a witch on her own subjects. And why? To protect other devil-worshiping wizards. To shield the Green Hand murderer himself.”

  “Majesty,” Nicos said, “I’m sure most people understand that your agents did only what was necessary. Had they done less, all Luthcheq might have burned.”

  “Some people understand that,” Shala said, “but as we speak, there are hundreds of Tchazzar cultists marching in the streets. Now, don’t mistake me. I revere the Red Dragon as much as anyone. But it’s bad to have the common people praying for the return of a long-lost savior because they think their current lords are hopelessly incompetent and corrupt. It’s bad for every one of us assembled in this hall.”

  Luthen stepped forth from between a pair of his fellow courtiers. “Indeed it is, Majesty. Fortunately, I believe we can fix the problem.”

  “How?” Shala asked.

  “For starters, get rid of the sellswords. We’ve already discussed some of the reasons why allowing any noble to maintain such a force in the capital is a poor idea. Now we see that the Thayans’ swaggering, bullying presence enflames the populace like that of an army of occupation.”

  Aoth took a deep breath. “My lord, any fair-minded person would agree that some bad luck and unavoidable friction notwithstanding, my troops have acquitted themselves admirably in Luthcheq. But we’d be happy to go to the border or the coast and help Chessenta fight its enemies.”

  Luthen gave his head a little shake. “I’m not talking about reassigning you, Captain. I’m talking about discharging you and throwing you out of the realm. That’s the least it will take to satisfy those whose kin your griffons tore apart. And Chessenta doesn’t need mages and ruffians to stand tall against its foes.”

  “Indeed,” the sunlord said.

  Aoth could joyfully have tossed a thunderbolt or a barrage of ice at both of them. If the Brotherhood had to move on under these circumstances, it would drain their coffers and further blemish their reputation. And without another offer of employment, where could they even go? Nowhere the local authorities wouldn’t view them as a threat-glorified marauders hoping to live by banditry and extortion.

  “Majesty-,” he began.

  Shala ignored him. “What else do you recommend?” she said to Luthen.

  “Arrest, try, and execute the residents of the wizards’ quarter,” the noble said. “If not all, at least some.”

  “For what?” Nicos asked.

  “Who cares?” Luthen answered. “They’re mages, so we know that each and every one of them has done evil deeds. And it will give the common people what they want. You never know, we might even get lucky and burn the Green Hand killer.”

  Nicos looked to Shala. “Majesty, you directed me to bring Captain Fezim to the capital because ‘even wizards deserve justice.’ ”

  “And it was a sentiment worthy of a war hero,” Luthen said. “But the situation has worsened since then, and Your Majesty must weigh the interests of a few”-he waved a meaty hand as though trying to pluck the proper term from the air-“deviants against the welfare of the realm as a whole.”

  “All right,” Nicos rapped, “let’s do that. Let’s keep our eyes on what’s happening throughout Chessenta, and not just here in the city. The Great Bone Wyrm and the Imaskari are pressing us hard, and contrary to Lord Luthen’s assertion, we need wizards to help s
tem the tide. The same wizards he wants to condemn and kill!”

  Luthen made a spitting sound. “So you’d strengthen our armies by bringing the depraved and degenerate into the ranks.”

  “Yes,” Nicos said, “if you insist on putting it that way. Our armies have always used sorcery when necessary. With proper supervision, of course. Just look at our history!”

  “Magic gives an army a big edge,” said Aoth. “Too big to ignore if you can get it. You Chessentans pride yourself on being a race of soldiers, but if you don’t even understand that, you don’t know anything about war.”

  “We have magic,” the sunlord said. “The untainted blessings of the gods.”

  “And that’s something,” said Aoth. “I fought alongside the Burning Braziers and saw what they can do. But show me the priest versatile enough to conjure darkness one moment, a cloud of poisonous smoke the next, and rust the enemy’s armor an instant after that.”

  Luthen turned back to Shala. “Majesty, surely you recognize this talk for the self-serving rubbish it is. For after all, you won your own extraordinary victories without stooping to wizardry.”

  Nicos, the sunlord, and a druidess of the Great Mother clad in a green gown and a holly wreath all tried to talk at once. Shala raised her hand, and everyone fell silent. The war hero then sat for a while, glowering at nothing-or everything-and fingering the scar on her chin.

  “Lord Nicos,” she said at length.

  “Yes, Majesty?”

  “I don’t want you to think that my decision means you’ve lost my ear or my trust. It’s just that-”

  It was obvious what was coming. “Majesty!” said Aoth.

  Shala scowled. “Captain, I’d already noticed that you lack the aptitude for courtly speech. But I’m still, let us say, impressed that you would interrupt a monarch pronouncing judgment from her throne.”

  Aoth inclined his head. “Majesty, I’m sorry. But I have one more thing to say before you make up your mind.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You want Luthcheq peaceful. You brought the Brotherhood here to make it that way, and you’re thinking of sending us away for the same reason. But in the short term, there’s only one thing that will truly calm the people down. Someone has to catch the Green Hand killer, and if you let me stay, I’ll do it for you.”

  “I’ve been laboring under a misapprehension,” Luthen drawled. “I imagined you were trying to do that all along.”

  “Of course,” said Aoth. “But I had to gather intelligence before I could make a plan that goes farther than the obvious tactics.”

  “What plan?” the nobleman asked.

  “If I told, you all might decide that you don’t need me.”

  “Captain,” Shala said, “when you suggest such a thing, you implicitly impugn my honor.”

  “Then I’m sorry again,” said Aoth. “But I am just a sellsword. I don’t claim to understand honor like barons and royalty do. And I’ve heard a few things said today that make me wonder if you and your advisors truly would deem it all that ignoble an act to cheat a despicable war-mage. Now, I’m asking you for a tenday. If I trap the murderer, then give me your trust. Send the Brotherhood to war. If I fail, then send us down the trail.”

  “A tenday,” Shala said, “and if you fail, you’ll also pay wergild for the folk who died last night. To keep the people from feeling that I allowed you to commit outrages and then escape unpunished.”

  Aoth swallowed. “Agreed.”

  After they left the hall, Nicos whispered, “What is this brilliant scheme?”

  Aoth chuckled with only a grim approximation of mirth. “I’ll let you know when I think of it.”

  *****

  Aoth had packed every citizen of Luthcheq possessed of genuine arcane power into the shabby candlelit common room, and Gaedynn surveyed the collection with interest. Their demeanor was noticeably different from that of most of the wizards and warlocks he’d known, a self-assured if not arrogant lot on the whole. These men and women had a morose, guarded air.

  Gaedynn supposed it was understandable, given the life they led, and wondered why they hadn’t all fled Chessenta long ago. He supposed it was because it was the only home they knew, and because the fires of hatred didn’t always burn so hot. In better times, people paid these folk for the services only a mage could provide, and mostly left them alone if they conducted themselves with circumspection.

  Aoth waited for everyone to help himself to beer or wine, then claim a chair, flop down on the floor, or find a spot to stand or lean. Then he said, “Thank you for coming.”

  Clad in a dark leather jerkin and breeches with a dagger in each boot, greasy black hair hanging over his eyes, a sharp-featured adolescent slouched in the corner. If not for the tattooed symbols on his hands, Gaedynn might have mistaken him for an apprentice thief. The youth made a derisive crowing sound. “As if your ruffians gave us a choice!”

  Aoth cocked his head. “Did they truly have to force you? In your place, I would have been eager to join in.”

  Thin as a straw with lank gray hair, a wrinkled old woman quavered, “It’s against the law for so many of us to meet indoors, Captain.” She cackled. “It forms a coven, don’t you know? So by gathering us, you officers of the watch have given yourselves all the justification you need to whisk us away to Shala Karanok’s dungeons.”

  “Well,” said Aoth, “that’s not why you’re here, and if it makes you feel any safer, the war hero has given me a special dispensation to hold this meeting.”

  That, Gaedynn knew, was an exaggeration. Shala Karanok had simply given Aoth permission to put some sort of plan into effect. He hadn’t told her the details, and probably that was all to the good.

  “So we can help catch the Green Hand murderer,” said the knavish-looking youth.

  “Yes,” said Aoth, “and thus persuade the town that it doesn’t need to rise up and slaughter you.”

  “But haven’t you heard?” the adolescent replied. “One of us is the Green Hand. And the fiend will surely sabotage any attempt to unmask him.”

  Perched on a narrow windowsill with hardly an inch of clearance on either side, his stumpy legs dangling, Khouryn wiped foam from his moustache. “We doubt that the killer’s truly a mage and fool enough to proclaim it to the world. It’s more likely he’s not, but wants to divert suspicion in your direction. To help cover his tracks-or because he hates you and wants to make trouble for you.”

  “But he could be a wizard who hates Luthcheq for the way it treats us,” said the adolescent. “He could feel a need to declare that hatred. A compulsion so intense that he has to leave the prints, even though they somewhat increase the risk to himself.”

  Gaedynn grinned. “Conceivably. But if he’s here among us, he’ll have to subvert the ritual without any of us or his fellow mages noticing. I’m no wizard, but I suspect that would be difficult. So, with a little luck, we catch him either way.”

  The youth sneered. “You’re right, archer. You’re no wizard. If you were, maybe you would have studied the Five Blank Scrolls of Mythrellan, and then you’d understand-”

  “Hush,” the old woman said.

  To Gaedynn’s surprise, the adolescent immediately fell silent.

  “Oraxes is a good boy at heart,” the sorceress continued, now addressing the officers of the Brotherhood, “but he’s contrary and loves to argue. I think your idea is a good one, and obviously we have ample reason to help. So why don’t you tell us exactly what you intend?”

  “I practice a specialized form of magic,” said Aoth. “So I’ll defer to my lieutenant Jhesrhi Coldcreek.”

  Jhesrhi was standing against the wall next to Khouryn. Her frown was even more forbidding than usual, a sign that she was uncomfortable. Perhaps because she never liked being the center of attention, or perhaps simply because there were too many people stuffed into the room.

  “I’m no expert diviner either,” she said, “but I propose we pool our strength to create Saldashune’s
Mirror.”

  Oraxes snorted. “We’d need a vessel.”

  “We have one.” Jhesrhi waved to the pair of dragonborn filling up a bench. “It isn’t generally known, but Daardendrien Medrash there is the one living person ever to catch a glimpse of the Green Hand.”

  And, Gaedynn understood, the russet-scaled dragonborn had been hunting him ever since, out of some lofty paladin sense of obligation. That was why he’d been wandering the wizards’ quarter on the night of the riot. But if he still suspected the killer was a mage, no one could have told it from the courteous way he rose and bowed to the specimens who were peering at him curiously.

  “Unfortunately,” Jhesrhi continued, “he only saw the killer in the dark, at a distance, and for an instant. But that’s the sort of problem Saldashune invented her ritual to solve. I’ve made the necessary preparations in the conjuration chamber in the cellar.”

  The stairs creaking and bowing beneath their weight, they all trooped down to the space in question. By the standards of anyone who’d grown up in Aglarond with its rich tradition of sorcery, it was a miserable excuse for a mage’s sanctum-just a squared-off hole that smelled of dirt like anybody’s cellar.

  But Jhesrhi had made the place seem considerably more magical. Floating orbs the size of fists shed a golden glow, while a complex geometric figure made of lines and arcs of blue phosphorescence covered most of the floor. Luminous green handprints spotted the design.

  With no role to play in the conjuration, Gaedynn and Khouryn sat down on a couple of the bottommost steps. Balasar, the smaller dragonborn with the red eyes and yellow-brown scales, clasped Medrash’s shoulder, then came to stand with his fellow spectators.

  “Where do you want me?” Medrash asked.

  “Here.” Jhesrhi escorted him to a circle at the center of the figure.

  “Now what?”

  “Just stand and remember the moment when you saw the murderer. If your thoughts wander, that’s all right. Simply bring them back to where we want them.”

  Jhesrhi then took a position two paces to his right, and-after some discussion and a little squabbling-Aoth and the Chessentan mages chose stations for themselves. Jhesrhi looked around like a conductor making sure all her musicians had their instruments ready. Then she spun her staff through a flourish and started chanting.