Nuitari removed the seal from the door and gestured to Mina.
“I will spare your life this time,” he said. “I will not be so generous the next, so let there be no next time.”
He ushered her through the door, which was the last trap. It would not be tripped by the thief, but by the artifact the thief was trying to carry out of the Hall. Mina had said she did not have anything in her possession and Nuitari believed her. He was not surprised to see her pass through the door without harm. He sealed the door swiftly, making a mental note to strengthen the spells he’d cast upon it. He’d had no idea that Chemosh—even at a distance—would prove so adept at breaking through magical barriers.
A whisk of his hand and Mina was gone, transported through water, crystal globe, and Tower walls to the sea beyond, where Zeboim was waiting for her.
Not exactly trusting his sister, Nuitari kept an eye on her, wanting to make certain his sister would keep her word and cease her attacks on the Tower. The moment she had Mina, Zeboim clasped the young woman in a fond embrace and the two disappeared.
Nuitari returned to the globe to question the dragon, only to find Midori gone.
Such absences were not unusual. The dragon occasionally went on hunting trips. He had the feeling, though, that this time she’d left without any plans to come back. She’d been exceedingly angry with him.
Nuitari stood inside the sea globe, staring at the Solio Febalas. He thought back over everything that had anything to do with Mina.
She was, he decided, nothing but trouble.
“Good riddance,” he muttered. He went off, with a grim sigh, to see if he could find and placate the dragon.
Book 3
Mina’s Kiss
1
The tavern, if one could dignify it by that term, existed inside an overturned boat that had been blown ashore during a storm. The tavern’s name was the Dinghy, though local wit called it the Dingy.
The Dingy lived up to its name. It had no tables, no chairs, no windows. Its patrons either stood grouped around the bar that had been cobbled together out of rotting wooden beams, or they squatted on overturned vegetable crates. Cracks in the hull provided what light managed to struggle in, along with a modicum of fresh air that fought a losing battle against the stench of dwarf spirits, urine, and vomit. Those who frequented the Dingy came here mainly because they’d been thrown out of every other place.
Rhys and Nightshade sat on crates as near one of the cracks as possible, and even then Nightshade found that the smell almost ruined his appetite. Atta’s nose twitched constantly, and she sneezed and snuffled.
In addition to no tables, no windows, there was no laughter, no merriment. The bartender dispensed a dubious liquor he claimed was dwarf spirits, but that probably wasn’t, pouring it into dented tin mugs that had been salvaged from the wreckage. The patrons drank alone for the most part, sunken in misery, staring in stupefaction at the rats that skittered across the floor and who were the only ones enjoying themselves, at least until they spotted Atta. Having been forbidden to chase them, Atta watched the vermin with narrowed eyes and, when one came too near, growled at it.
One of the patrons drinking that day was Lieu.
Rhys and Nightshade had lost track of Lieu for a short time, then, quite by accident, they picked up his trail, heading south from Solace, not east. They traced him to the city of New Port located on New Bay in the southern portion of New Sea. Rhys wondered why his brother was traveling south, when the other Beloved were being drawn to the east. He had his answer when he reached New Port. Lieu had booked passage on a ship sailing to Flotsam, due to leave in a few days’ time.
Finding Lieu had not been difficult. Rhys had simply gone from disreputable bar to disreputable bar, giving Lleu’s description to the barkeeps. In New Port, they located him on the third try.
The barkeepers always remembered Lieu, for he stood out from the other customers, who were generally a slovenly lot, slaves to the dwarf spirits that ruled their lives. Those “caught by the dwarf,” as the saying went, were generally gaunt and pale—for the liquor became bread and meat to them; their eyes were dull, their cheeks hollow. Lieu, by contrast, was hale and hearty, handsome and charming. He had long since abandoned the robes of a cleric of Kiri-Jolith and was now wearing the shirt and doublet, leather boots and woolen stockings of a young man of genteel birth.
Somehow or other he’d come by money, for his clothes were well-to-do and he had managed to pay the steep price for his voyage. Perhaps one of his victims had been wealthy. Either that, or he’d taken to thieving, which wouldn’t be surprising. After all, Lieu had nothing to fear from the law, who would be in for a severe shock if they tried to hang him.
When Rhys entered the Dingy, Lieu looked at him, then looked away. There was no recognition in the dead eyes. Lieu had no memory of Rhys or of anything. Lieu knew his name, and that was all he knew. Chemosh told him who he was, presumably. What he had been was forever lost.
The other patrons in the tavern were absorbed in drinking and wanted nothing to do with a stranger, so Lieu kept up a cheerful conversation with himself. He bragged about his carousing and the women who threw themselves at him. He laughed at his own jokes and sang bawdy songs, and Rhys’s heart ached. Lieu drank until he ran out of coins to pay for his spirits, then he tried to drink on credit. The barkeep was having none of that, however, yet Lieu continued to sit there, his mug in his hand.
This went on throughout the afternoon. Lieu would forget from one moment to the next he had nothing to drink and would lift the mug to his lips. Finding it empty, he would bang the mug on the crate and demand more in a loud voice. The barkeep, knowing he couldn’t pay, simply ignored him. Lieu would continue to bang the mug on the crate until he forgot why he was doing this, and then he would set it down. After a few moments, he’d pick it up and shout for more drink.
Rhys sat watching the thing that had once been his brother and making an occasional show of drinking the liquor he’d been forced to purchase in order to placate the barkeep. Nightshade had been bored, at first, then he fell to trying to hit the rats with dried beans he’d found in some old sacking stuffed inside the crate on which he was seated. The kender had come by (Rhys did not like to ask how) a slingshot, and though he was clumsy in its use at first, he had since acquired a certain amount of skill. He could hit a rat with a bean at twenty paces and send it somersaulting head over tail across the dirt floor. He was growing tired of the sport, however. The intelligent rats now kept to their holes and, besides, he’d run out of beans.
“Rhys,” said Nightshade, wrapping up the slingshot and shoving it in his belt. “It’s time for supper.”
“I thought you’d lost your appetite,” said Rhys, smiling.
164
“My nose lost it. My stomach didn’t,” Nightshade returned. “Atta thinks it’s suppertime, too, don’t you, girl?” He patted the dog on the head.
Atta looked up and wagged her tail, hoping they were going to leave.
“We can’t go yet,” Rhys began, then, seeing Nightshade’s face fall and Atta’s ears droop, he added, “but you could both go for a walk. I have this leftover from lunch.”
He and Nightshade had helped a farmer put a wheel back on a wagon that morning on their way into town and, although Rhys had refused to accept payment, the man had shared his food with them. Rhys handed over a packet of dried meat to the kender.
“I’ll take it outside to eat it,” Nightshade said. “That way my nose can feel hungry along with my stomach.”
He stood up and stretched out the kinks. Atta shook herself all over, starting with her nose and ending with her tail, and looked eagerly at the door.
“What about you?” Nightshade asked, seeing that Rhys remained seated. “Aren’t you hungry?”