“Well?” Alias prompted.
“First, I want you to promise me something.”
“I don’t have to promise you anything. This is my information. I earned it.”
“True. But who knows what might happen if you try to return to the sage’s manor to ask for it.”
Alias snarled at the mage. “You desert snake—”
“All I want,” Akabar interjected, “is for you to let me accompany you on your quest to remove this thing.”
“Are you crazy?” Alias hissed. “Don’t I have enough trouble without dragging my frien—complete strangers in on it.”
“Who better to drag in it than frien—complete strangers?” Akabar smiled, then he lifted his head proudly. “Besides, I still owe you a debt of honor for helping me to recover my spell book.”
Yes, Alias realized, even if he wasn’t so anxious to prove he isn’t a greengrocer, he’d help me because he’s the type who takes debts of honor seriously. “I’m not exactly socially acceptable these days,” Alias pointed out weakly.
“As a rule, men of my nationality are not invited to many parties in the north,” Akabar replied with a shrug.
While Akabar was insinuating himself into Alias’s quest, Olive was frantically trying to make up her mind. People who tried to kill priests weren’t, as a rule, to be trusted, she argued with herself. But it would make such a fascinating addition to the song. Better make it a lay. Or maybe even a book. The Magic Arm Chronicles, as told by Olive Ruskettle. All thoughts of danger faded before the imaginary promise of gold and fame. Besides, Olive told herself, I have to find out the rest of that song about the tears of Selûne.
“Hang on,” the halfling interrupted. “If anyone owes this swordswoman a debt of gratitude, it’s me. She saved my life. If you take this one along,” Olive said to Alias, jerking her head toward Akabar, “you’re going to need someone to keep him out of trouble. A fast thinker.”
The corner of Alias’s mouth twitched in amusement. She had no illusions about Olive. Pure greed motivated her. Still, the halfling’s debt was even greater than Akabar’s. It was likely she’d prove more hindrance than help, but at least she was an experienced traveler.
“My journey may prove perilous,” Alias warned, hoping to discourage the small woman.
Olive shrugged. “As the halflings in Luiren say, From perils come pearls and power.’ I’ve seen my share of danger.”
“And more than your share of pearls, I’ll warrant,” Akabar muttered under his breath.
Alias looked at Dragonbait. “I don’t suppose you’ll be leaving my side either.”
The lizard tilted his head with a jingle.
Something inside Alias’s chest grabbed her heart. She had an uncomfortable suspicion the lizard wouldn’t know what to do if he wasn’t serving her.
Alias sighed. “All right. You can help, but remember—I tried to talk you out of it.” She turned to Akabar. “Now what did Dimswart tell you?”
The mage pulled a small package from a pocket. He unknotted the yellow cord that bound it and flipped away its leather wrapping. Within lay five copper plates.
“Flaming dagger,” said the mage, laying the first plate on the table. A flaming dagger sigil was etched into the soft metal surface, and beneath it in neat, delicate letters of Thorass, was a paragraph of explanation. “Interlocking rings, mouth in a palm, three concentric circles, and a squiggle that looks like an insect leg.” Akabar laid down a corresponding copper with each description. “Which would you like me to cover first?” he asked Alias.
Alias pointed to the plate with the flaming dagger. “The assassins who attacked me carried a card with this design.”
Nodding, Akabar stacked the five plates together with the dagger on top. “The symbol is derived from a Talis deck. In Turmish, we use the suit of birds, but here in the north it has been converted to the suit of daggers. In either case, the suit represents money and theft of the same. The symbol was adopted by a small group of thieves and assassins in Westgate that calls itself the Redeemer’s Guild, but the group is more commonly known as the Fire Knives—from its calling card.
“The Fire Knives are not native to Westgate, but came originally from Cormyr where they ran a very profitable operation. Until, that is, they incurred the wrath of His Royal Majesty, Azoun IV. He broke their charter, executed their leaders, and sent the rest packing across the Lake of Dragons. They set up shop anew in Westgate, with the permission of the local crime lords, the Night Masks. Naturally, they have no love for Cormyr, its king, or its people.”
“Do any of them carry their symbol as a brand or tattoo?” Alias asked.
Akabar shook his head. “It has never been reported that they do. Of course, your attack on someone who sounded just like King Azoun was the sort of thing they desire. Somehow, they might have ensorceled you to do so.”
“Then why did they attack me the other night?”
“Perhaps they thought you discovered their plan and would warn His Majesty,” the halfling guessed.
“No,” Alias said. “I had no idea I was going to do something like I did. Besides, they went to a lot of trouble to capture, not kill me.”
“Perhaps they were planning on delivering you to the king’s court,” Akabar mused. “You know, Azoun might have come to the wedding. His mage, Vangerdahast, advised him against it. At least, that was the rumor I heard.”
“It’s just coincidence that I ended up at Dimswart’s,” Alias replied.
Akabar shrugged. “Perhaps. But if Azoun had attended—”
“I’d have tried to kill him instead of that fool Wyvernspur.”
“Not a chance,” Olive said. “Vangerdahast goes everywhere with His Marshmallowness. He would have fried you with a lightning bolt before you got within an arm’s length.”
“I don’t think this conjecture will get us very far,” Akabar said, confused. “Shall I continue with the other sigils?”
Alias nodded, and Akabar held up the card bearing the sign of three rings, each interlocked with the other two. “The trinity of rings is pretty common as well. It was used by several trading houses about the Inner Sea until the Year of Dust, over two centuries ago, when it was taken up as a banner by a pirate gang in Earthspur. After a few years new pirate leaders toppled the old and adopted a new banner.
“Since then the circles have been used as a signature mark for a notable Cormyrian portrait artist, as a stamp for a Procampurian silversmith, and the sign of an alehouse in Yhaunn in Sembia. The alehouse, by the way, was fireballed fifty years ago by a wizard because their symbol happened to be his sigil. He claimed the exclusive right to use it. He was a pompous northerner known as Zrie Prakis.”
“I knew some fell wizard had to be involved,” muttered Alias.
Akabar held up a finger to continue. “Prakis protected his mark religiously, seeking out any others who used it and destroying those who would not give it up. It’s a mark of his success that the symbol is now considered unlucky among many taverns, silversmiths, and artists. However, Zrie Prakis was supposed to have died in a magical battle some forty years ago, somewhere near Westgate.”
“Someone must have made a mistake,” Olive pointed out. “After all, when two mages are fighting, no one in their right mind gets close enough to tell who’s winning. This was the symbol on the crystal elemental that attacked us in the stone circle, isn’t it?”
Alias nodded, remembering how the sigil had blazed from the monster’s chest.
“Anyway,” Akabar concluded, “Master Dimswart got a cleric to do a divination for him. The exact question was: Does Zrie Prakis, whose symbol was the triple rings, still live? The answer was: No.”
“Well, I’m not a work of art or a silver dinner service,” Alias said. “That leaves me branded by a defunct pirate gang or an alehouse. Neither very likely candidates.”