“I have nothing against mystics,” Dominique added in a stern and serious tone, “or against kender. It is just that your powers to deal with the undead are understandably limited.”
“He’s just mad because I touched his stupid sword,” growled Nightshade. He gave the paladin a baleful look. “It’s all Atta’s fault. She wasn’t keeping an eye on me. She was watching them. I don’t think she likes either of them, especially the wizardess.”
Rhys had noticed that Atta was steering clear of Mistress Jenna. The dog did not growl, as she would have with one of the Beloved, but she pressed close against Rhys’s side and kept a suspicious eye on the wizardess.
Mistress Jenna hadn’t been meant to overhear, but she proved she had by saying with a shrug, “He’s right. She doesn’t like me. Dogs take against me, I’m afraid.”
“I am sorry, Mistress—” Rhys began.
“Oh, don’t apologize!” Jenna smiled. “Most dogs find it difficult to be around wizards. I think it has to do with the spell components we carry: bat guano, newts’ eyeballs, dried lizard tails. Dogs don’t like the smell. Cats, on the other hand, don’t seem to mind. One reason mages tend to use felines as familiars, I suppose.”
Gerard cleared his throat. “This is all very interesting, but the two of you have traveled a long distance and there are things we need to discuss—”
“Quite right, Sheriff,” said Mistress Jenna briskly. “Let us return to business. We can discuss dogs later. I have a room in the inn. We can talk in far more comfort and privacy there. Brother Mason, if you would lend me your arm to support my feeble steps, I would be grateful.”
Mistress Jenna slid her bejeweled hand into the crook of Rhys’s elbow. Her steps were no more faltering than Atta’s. She was obviously a woman accustomed to being obeyed, however, and Rhys did as she requested.
Mistress Jenna drew Rhys near her and then glanced over her shoulder to see Atta trotting alongside Nightshade.
“Gerard has been touting the praises of this marvelous dog of yours, Brother. She is trained to herd both sheep and kender, or so I understand.”
“Primarily sheep, Mistress,” said Rhys with a smile.
“Was she trained to this skill from a puppy?”
“She was born to it, you could say,” Rhys replied. “Both her parents were experienced herd dogs.”
“The reason I am asking about the dog is not just from idle curiosity. I own a mageware shop in Palanthas and I have such a problem with kender! You can’t imagine! I employ a guard, but the expense is considerable and the clever little beasts always seem to outwit him anyway. I was thinking a dog might be far more reliable, and certainly a dog would eat less than this brute I’ve hired. Would such a thing be possible?”
Jenna seemed serious about her need and truly interested in what Rhys had to say. He guessed this was a woman who could charm the birds out the vallenwoods if she had a mind to do so and not just through the use of her magic. She was also extremely dangerous. As Head of the Conclave of Wizards, Jenna presided over godly magic in Ansalon—magic that had been gone for years with the absence of the gods and had only recently returned. She was a powerful force in this world and he could see that power in her eyes—a flicker of fire smoldering deep beneath a smooth and placid surface, a fire that spoke of deadly battles fought and victories obtained but only at great cost.
Rhys said politely he had no doubt a dog could be trained to handle the job, though—unlike with Gerard—he did not offer to do the training himself. After this subject had been exhausted, while they were ascending the stairs leading to the inn’s upper floors, Jenna made her apology.
“I truly did not mean to insult you when I spoke about you and the kender lacking the power to deal with these Beloved, Brother. I fear I offended you.”
“Perhaps just a little,” he replied.
“I could see that.” Jenna patted his arm. “I have a regrettable lack of tact, as I’ve often been told. Or maybe, like your dog, you don’t like the stench of magic.”
She cocked an eye at him.
Rhys didn’t know what to say. He was confused by the way she seemed to bore into the core of his soul to see what was inside him.
“At any rate,” she continued, before he could dredge up some excuse, “I hope you will forgive me. Here is my room. Watch it, Brother!” Jenna said sharply, raising a warding hand. “Don’t touch the door handle. You might want to stand back.”
Rhys stepped back, narrowly avoiding bumping into Gerard and the paladin, who were coming up the stairs behind him, both so deeply engrossed in their discussion of the notorious outlaw Baron Samuval, who had taken over half of Abanasinia, that neither was paying particular attention to where they were going. Nightshade clumped up after, grumbling about missing his dinner.
They all waited as Jenna spoke some words in the eerie language of magic that Rhys, shut up in his monastery for most of his life, had never before heard. He was reminded of spider’s legs, wispy cobwebs and silvery bells. Nightshade stood humming a little tune and looking around in bored fashion. The door glowed briefly a faint blue color then swung open.
“I suppose she thinks that’s supposed to impress us,” Nightshade said in an aside to Atta. “I could do that—if I wanted to.”
The dog, by her look, appeared to share the kender’s feelings.
“I always use magic to lock my door,” Jenna explained as she ushered them into the room that was the finest the inn had to offer. “Not because I have all that much of value to protect. It’s just I’m hopeless about misplacing keys. I am perfectly serious about wanting one of your dogs,” she added as Rhys walked past her. “I wasn’t just making myself agreeable.”
Jenna won Nightshade over by passing around a tray of sweetmeats and offering them their choice of ale or a pale, chilled wine. Once they were settled, with Nightshade penned up in a corner by Atta, everyone turned to Rhys.
“Gerard has told us some of the story, Brother,” said the paladin. “But we would like to hear it in your own words.”
Rhys told his tale reluctantly. He guessed that neither was going to believe him. He didn’t blame them. In their place, he would find his story difficult to swallow. Rhys decided he would not waste time in arguing with them or trying to convince them what he said was the truth. If they scoffed, he’d be on his way. He had to find Lieu. He’d wasted time enough as it was.
Neither Jenna nor Dominique spoke as long as Rhys was talking. Neither interrupted him. Both regarded him with grave attentiveness.
At the point when Rhys briefly described the murder of the monks, Dominique murmured a few words, and Rhys realized the paladin was saying a prayer for the souls of Majere’s faithful. Dominique frowned when he heard Rhys tell how he had forsaken Majere and shifted his allegiance to Zeboim, but the paladin said no word of reproach.
Rhys deliberately invited Nightshade to offer his own version of events. Rhys had come to value the kender’s courage and resolve, and he wanted to make it clear they were friends and partners. Nightshade’s tale was lengthy and rambling. He leapfrogged from one thought to another, so that he was occasionally incoherent. Both Jenna and Dominique listened in patience, though sometimes Mistress Jenna was forced to put her hand to her twitching lips to keep from laughing.
When Rhys and Nightshade had no more to tell, the wizardess and the paladin remained silent for a moment. Both looked extremely grave. Gerard said nothing either. He waited for them to speak.
Nightshade fidgeted in his chair, trying to catch Rhys’s eye. He jerked his head meaningfully toward the door and mouthed the words, “Let’s get out of here!”
Rhys shook his head, and Nightshade heaved a loud sigh and kicked at the rungs of his chair with his heels.