The youth’s blond hair hung loose about his shoulders and glistened in the firelight. He had what the members of the Swanmays would agree was a well-formed figure, yet his blue eyes reflected the firelight back in pinpoints of red. As attractive as Alias found him, he made her quite nervous. She felt as if she were waiting for someone in the dream, but this man was not that person.
“I took the liberty of ordering a wine special. I know you’ll like it.” He smiled as he poured copper-colored liquid into both glasses.
“How do you know what’s going to happen?” Alias asked.
“We all have our little curses,” he whispered, running a finger down her right arm along the brands. They tingled, an entirely new sensation. “My curse is that I’m required to read the script before the play begins.” He held up his glass and waited for her to do the same. “In a few minutes the plot will pick up. Plenty of time to finish your drink.”
Alias lifted the delicate crystal by the stem and allowed her host to clink his own against it. “To drama,” he said.
Alias sniffed the beverage warily, afraid to discover yet another Cormyrian mixture unsuited to her tastes. Instead, a pleasant, tangy scent wafted to her nostrils. She took a sip and then, without thinking, drained the glass. The sharp, sweet taste of mountain berries clung to her lips, and the alcohol coursed through her body like a shock. Her face warmed immediately, as if she stood in bright sunshine, and the aching muscles of her back relaxed. It wasn’t just the only good thing she’d tasted in a long time. She had a strong suspicion it would be the best thing she would ever taste.
“Which of these incidents is responsible for the fire?” Alias asked the young man as he refilled their glasses.
“Neither,” the man said. He nodded toward the burly man and his buxom companion. The servant girl had convinced the man at knife point to return to his seat and stop fussing. She tossed the woman a dingy towel and left them.
“Labor troubles are quite common this far north,” the youth told her. “Every potscrubber dreams of becoming a petty lord, inspired by the few who, with luck and recklessness, have done so. The situation here in Shadow Gap is, of course, exacerbated by the minute population, making not just good help, but any help at all hard to find.”
“And the loud barbarian and cleric?” Alias asked, turning to discover the reaction of the other patrons when the fighter pulled out his weapon, but both were engaged in draining large mugs of ale.
“They’re old friends from way back. They’ve had this argument at least a hundred times before in this very place, and in as many other inns.”
“So, what did cause the fire? Does it have anything to do with why the pass is deserted?”
“Patience, my dear, patience,” her drinking companion chided. He raised her glass to her mouth and tilted the ambrosial liquid so that it flowed past her lips. Alias grasped the stem and swallowed until the entire draught was consumed. A greater heat washed over her, and she slipped off her cape.
“You know what your problem is?” the man asked.
“No, what?” She reached for the wine bottle and poured herself a third glass.
“You aren’t used to acquiring information slowly, listening to people explain things in their own way, experiencing life as it comes. You expect someone to just pour everything you want to know into you, as though it were a bottle of wine.” He raised the wine bottle and filled his glass again. “Ah!” he said with glee, his eyes fixed on the doorway. “Finally, a principal actor.”
Alias turned. The man was not the one she was waiting for either. A small man, he was dressed like a merchant, with a purple robe gathered at his waist and a fat, overstuffed hat with a long, swan feather plume on his head.
The small man climbed upon a low, stone platform opposite the fire pit, waved a parchment scroll over his head, and shouted “Silence!”
Half the conversations died out, but a few scattered patrons continued chattering. The quieted persons turned their attention to the merchant. Assured of at least a partial audience, the man unrolled his scroll and began to read.
“Hear, all and sundry, the words of the Iron Throne.” The last words caught the attention of those who had ignored him. Silence blanketed the room.
The herald paused for effect. Alias frowned. The eyes of the young man beside her twinkled merrily. “The Iron Throne,” her companion explained in a hushed whisper without taking his eyes from the speaker, “is a young trading organization, just beginning to compete with the better established merchant houses. Their favorite strategies include force, treachery, and magic.”
The herald read on. “The Iron Throne is much concerned with the growing violence in the north, violence fed by the arms merchants who line their own pockets at the expense of others.”
“The Iron Throne should know, their pockets bulge, too!” a heckler called out, followed by a spattering of applause.
The herald’s eyes narrowed. “Hence, the Iron Throne pronounces an anathema upon the warmongering merchants and will close Shadow Gap for thirty days.”
Boos and catcalls followed.
“It would take four divisions of mercenaries, at least, to hold this pass,” Alias commented.
“You think so?” the young man replied with a laugh. “Wait and see, shall we?”
“All those within Shadow Gap will be allowed to leave, but they may carry no weapons of war. Thus will the Iron Throne demonstrate its ability to keep peace in the region,” the herald concluded.
“Bull spittle!” shouted the barbarian in the corner booth, rising drunkenly to his feet. “The Iron Throne is shipping weapons by the cartloads to goblins and maggots from Zhentil Keep! They just want to keep the Dales light in armaments for their Zhentarim masters! It will take more than a proclamation-spouting toady to keep us from aiding the free people of the north.”
The herald glared malevolently at the barbarian.
Sensing some unseen power, the cleric tried to pull his friend back to his side, but the barbarian strode over to the herald. The warrior towered above the smaller man, even though the herald stood on the raised platform. He yanked the parchment scroll out of the herald’s hand and shredded it, tossing the pieces in the herald’s face. “Send that message back to the Iron Throne.”
“You needn’t worry about safe delivery of your master’s weapons to his contact in Daggerdale,” the herald hissed. “The contact is already dead, a victim of his own penchant for violence.”
The barbarian drew in a shocked breath. “You killed Brenjer, you murdering swine! I’ll show you violence!” He drew his two-handed sword, swung the massive blade over his head, and struck the herald in the forehead.
The steel sliced through its target down to the waist with the same ease and sound it would make ripping through taut canvas.
Alias gasped, for the body of the herald did not gush blood or fall to the floor, as would a carcass of meat. Instead, two ragged shards of purple cloth drifted to the floor and a black mist rose from them, forming into the shape of an inverted tear drop above the barbarian.
Two unblinking, yellow eyes glowed within the cloud of dark vapor. Beneath the eyes a huge gap parted, revealing rows upon rows of needle-sharp teeth. From this maw came the sound of a thousand snakes hissing in a stone room.
“A kalmari,” the youth whispered to Alias. “They’re native to the lands of Thay, used by the Red Wizards and their allies. Some speculate they are relatives to intellect devourers. Remarkable, isn’t it?”