Alias shook her head. “I’d rather sneak in, reappropriate your bard, and sneak out. I prefer to leave dragonslaying to those in good standing with their gods.”
“It’s agreed, then,” said the sage. “I’ll take time out from the wedding preparations. There are a million-and-one things to do yet, but Leona, my wife, can handle them better than I. Besides, I’ll feel more useful helping you find out what those sigils mean. In the meantime, you’ll bring me my bard. Let’s see that arm.”
Dimswart drew Alias over to his desk. He opened up a fat volume to an empty page, and with a pen and astonishing skill, quickly copied the insignias on Alias’s sword arm. “None of these are familiar to you?” he asked.
“I’ve seen one of them on a card carried by assassins who, I believe, intended only to capture me.”
“Really? How very interesting. Very interesting.”
“Now, where do I find your dragon?”
“The merchant I mentioned before will take you there. He has some interest in helping free this bard as well.” The sage called out, “Come on in, Akash,” and a figure breezed in—clad in a familiar crimson robe striped with white.
Akabar Bel Akash bowed formally. “We meet again, lady. As I told you, Sir Dimswart, she would leap at the opportunity to aid us.” The Turmishman beamed with pleasure.
Alias scowled, first at him, then at the sage. Akabar ignored her glare. Dimswart, having revealed the source of his information, arched his eyebrows like a stage magician demonstrating the trickery behind his feats.
Dragonbait, realizing no one was interested in smoking, blew out the burning brand he’d been playing with and threw it into the fireplace.
4
Akabar and the Back Door
Alias shivered in the damp darkness of the cavern and silently wished the vengeance of Tyr and Tempus down on the heads of Akabar and Dimswart and even Winefiddle for getting her into this predicament. And while they were at it, thrice-damn that mysterious lizard and damn thrice more the demon-spawn who branded her!
The mystical sigils glowed like stained glass on a murky day, illuminating Alias so that she stood out like a beacon in the pitch dark of the cold, dripping cave. When she exhaled, the streams of her breath danced like small azure elementals before her eyes.
At the beginning of her vigil, Alias had kept the treacherous arm with its glowing brands beneath her cloak. She was waiting for the merchant-mage, Akabar, to return from scouting out the passages leading to the dragon’s lair. After spending a half-hour huddled in the dark, though, it occurred to her that most dwellers of this cold, wet, limbo would be able to see the heat from her body and smell her above-world scent while she remained blind. Dumb, dumb, dumb, she chided herself and cast aside the cloak. At least now she could see anything that attacked her.
Where is that damned mage? she wondered for the half a hundredth time. Tymora! He could have scouted from here to Sembia by now. How far can this cavern go?
She knew her impatience had little to do with how long the mage was taking. Mostly it had to do with not liking to have to rely on anyone—especially not some greengrocer.
Alias chuckled every time she remembered how, before they’d left Dimswart Manor, Akabar Bel Akash had informed her in that stiff, formal, southern way that House Akash did not sell vegetables. Tymora! He was so naive. He didn’t even know he was a greengrocer.
“Riding a wagon along protected trading routes in a guarded merchant caravan doesn’t make you an adventurer,” she had informed him. “Until you’ve hiked more than twenty miles a day, slept in a ditch, and eaten something that tried to kill you first, you’re not an adventurer. Anyone who isn’t an adventurer is a greengrocer.”
But the merchant-mage had insisted that he come along and render what assistance was in his power, and Dimswart had insisted she take him with her. What reasons the Turmishman could possibly have for helping to rescue the kidnapped bard, Alias could not imagine. She had deliberately not asked, and Akabar had not volunteered his reasons. He had them, and that was enough.
There was something about Akabar Bel Akash that annoyed her—something that wasn’t really his fault, but which she blamed him for nonetheless.
As the three of them, Akabar, Alias, and Dragonbait, began their three-day journey into the mountains—walking because Alias still felt uncomfortable advertising her presence with horses—Akabar had insisted on telling her all about himself—about the fertile land of Turmish, about customs in the south, and about his wives. He had two, and they were shopping for a third co-wife, which was why he was in this savage land in the first place—to earn money for the new partner. He told of his voyage across the pirate-infested Sea of Fallen Stars, the outrageous import taxes he’d had to pay on landing at Saerloon in Sembia, and his profitable detour from Hilp up to Arabel and around the Great Wood of Cormyr. He ended with the disastrous caravan attack by the dragon on the road from Waymoot.
Alias had ground her teeth impatiently. There had been nothing for her to say. She could not remember what she’d been doing or how she got to Cormyr. She had not even been able to answer questions about Dragonbait. The whole trip out she had remained as silent as a stone, angry that anyone had the ability to remember when she could not.
The thing that Akabar described the most was the thing that distressed Alias the most—his sea voyage. He had begun by discussing Earthspur, the center of the pirate activity dreaded by sailors, its lawless organization of cutthroats, and the well-known bombards that protected it. Then, he had given her a humorous description of the fear-ridden Sembian ship captain continually scanning the horizon for the pirates who, he assured Akabar, were lying in wait for a prize such as his ship. The mage then described all the interesting creatures that made their home in the Inner Sea, followed by an essay on ship life. Yet, despite all this talk, the period around Alias’s own sea trip remained as fog-ridden as the port of Ilipur.
Finally, it had occurred to the mage that the swordswoman might have adventures of her own which, though unshared, would make his tales sound dull. Embarrassed and crushed by the weight of her silence, he had slid into an equally solemn mood. It had never occurred to him the frustration he had put her through.
As Alias stood alone in the water-carved cavern, she realized she could not pin down exactly where the borders of her memory loss were. Pieces of her past seemed to have dropped out. Her mind was like a swamp connecting dry land and open water. There was no exact point where murky waters swallowed her memories; islands of certain recollection spotted every time period.
Even worse—without the days, rides, or months of connecting space, the past seemed to belong to someone else, another Alias who stopped, gained the mystic runes, then moved on as another person entirely, bearing the same name. Since she’d awakened in The Hidden Lady, she’d used the battle-skills of the old Alias, skills as finely honed as they were automatic. Although there was some comfort in the fact that she hadn’t forgotten her craft, there was something disturbing about the way she felt when she assumed a fighting stance.
Instincts took over. She didn’t have time to think and plan. Only react. Like a guardian golem. She remembered Dimswart saying the sigils were alive the way a golem was. Are the brands making me fight, like they made me try to kill Winefiddle? Should I be giving them credit for my ability? She shook off this notion instantly and angrily I was a good swordswoman before I got these things, she thought, and I’ll be a good one long after I’ve gotten rid of them.
Then the most disturbing idea of all occurred to her. Perhaps I died and was resurrected by someone who decided to take his price out of my hide. Literally. Don’t those newly raised from Death’s Dominions feel uneasy and disquieted?