Maldred cupped his hand near the tower image, and a figure appeared hovering above his palm. It was a woman, in black robes, features too small to tell much else about her.
“The Sage of the Plains,” he announced.
The image nodded to him, then disappeared. The map shimmered. They stared at it silently for several moments.
Dhamon finally spoke. “So this sage who you think can cure ills, and who you think might have lived through all these centuries, do you think she can…” he searched for the words. “Cure me?” A moment later he drew his lips into a thin line, his eyes still fixed on the wavering image of the tower. “No. Such a person couldn’t exist. Not then. Not now. And it’s wrong to give me such hope.”
Maldred, too, had his gaze still fixed on the parchment. “She existed then. Grim Kedar’s tales are true. She exists now. I know it. Dhamon, it’s why I selected my father’s map of the Plains of Dust. Though in truth I didn’t know it capable of magic. I remembered Grim’s tales. I remembered the sage. I remembered the tales of the pirate port and their horde of booty.”
“The pirate treasure,” Dhamon coaxed. “You want it. I want it.”
Maldred nodded, the gesture lost on Dhamon. “We need it. Grim said the Sage of the Plains could work wonders but that her every feat was costly—the wealth of a prince she could demand for her magic. There ought to be plenty in that pirate hold to satisfy her.”
“If she’s still alive,” Dhamon whispered. “If she ever existed.” He dropped his hand to his thigh, feeling the dragon scale beneath the fabric of his trousers.
“Worth our trying,” Maldred said. “She ought to cure you for such ancient wealth. Perhaps magical wealth.”
“Aye, worth it,” Dhamon replied. “And if the sage is nothing but an old ogre’s tale, we’ll still have some pirate loot.”
“Loot.” The word was in the human tongue, though it came from an ogre who’d moved up silently and who was now leaning over the map. “Want loot. Want map.” He grinned, showing a row of broken, yellowed teeth. A second ogre joined him.
“Map,” the other fellow stated. “Want it.” He jabbered in Ogrish, as Maldred rose and rolled up the map, directing him in Ogrish to keep back.
Dhamon drew his sword, which bought Maldred time to replace the map in the tube and stuff it in a deep pocket.
“The map’s ours,” Dhamon stated.
Maldred punctuated the statement by slamming his fist into the nearest ogre’s face. The two humans fled the tavern.
“So much for your roast pig dinner,” Maldred said as they rushed down the narrow dirt street. Dhamon shrugged. “I wasn’t that hungry. Besides, I didn’t care much for that town. There’s got to be one on the way out of this damnable country that has a few humans in it. Preferably the female variety.”
Chapter Four
Hidden Treasures
“What say you and I start a fire, honey? One that’ll make this hot summer day seem like it’s the dead o’ winter.” Dhamon Grimwulf didn’t reply. He stared at the woman, dark eyes catching her watery blue ones and holding them. Faint lines like birds’ feet edged away from her eyes, the lashes thick with kohl, the lids colored a deep shade of purple and reminding him a little of Rikali, a halfelf he used to keep company with and who was more skillful and garish in painting her much younger face. Finally he looked away, and the woman blinked and shook her head as if to rouse herself from a bad dream.
“An odd one, you are. You know, you could be a little friendlier, sweetheart. C’mon, give Elsbeth a big smile so she can see your teeth. I like a man what has all his teeth.” The woman leaned over to gently kiss the tip of Dhamon Grimwulf’s nose, coloring it red from the paste she had applied to her lips. She pouted when his stoic expression didn’t waver.
“You haven’t cracked even the teeniest grin, honey. How ’bout just a little one?” she cooed. “You’ll make me think I’ve lost my charm. Everyone who spends time with Elsbeth smiles.”
Dhamon remained impassive.
She made a soft huffing sound then, angling her breath up with her lower lip and causing the collection of curls that hung over her forehead to flutter and resettle. “Well, I suppose I could be cheery for the both of us. Wait! I know what this calls for. A touch more Passion of Palanthas. That’ll get your blood stirring.” She sauntered to a tray perched on a narrow wardrobe, ample hips swinging. Plucking up a crystal-blue vial, she generously dabbed some of the perfumed oil on her neck and behind her ears, let a little trickle run down the V of her dress, then turned to study Dhamon Grimwulf.
Dhamon sat on the edge of a sagging bed that smelled of mildew and stale ale. The entire room smelled of old wood and sweat and of various fragrances of inexpensive perfume, including now the potent, musky Passion of Palanthas. All the odors were warring for his attention, and the spiced rum he’d been drinking made his head swim. There was a basin of water on a small table a few feet away, and for a moment he considered dipping his face to clear his senses and cool himself—it was so hot today. But that would entail rising up from the bed, and the rum had numbed his legs and turned the rest of his body into lead.
Above the basin a large yellowed mirror hung on the wall. In its crooked glass he could see himself. His cheekbones were high and hollow, giving his face a slightly gaunt appearance. Shadows clung beneath his dark eyes, and a thin, crescent-shaped scar ran from just below his right eye and disappeared into an ill-trimmed beard as night-black as the tangled mass of hair that fell to his broad shoulders. Despite his disheveled state, he looked young and formidable. Through the gap in his black leather tunic his chest looked lean and muscular and tanned from the sun.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Smile for pretty Elsbeth.” Dhamon sighed, and in an effort to shut her up offered her a lopsided, put-on grin. She twittered, wriggled out of her clothes, and gave him a wink. She spun like a dancer so he could admire her long, blonde hair gleaming in the light of the setting sun that spilled through the second-story window. Finished with her display, she made an exaggerated show of stalking toward him, catlike, placing her hands on his shoulders and pushing him on his back, reaching for his legs and swinging them around so he was laying stretched out on the bed. She tugged off his boots, wrinkled her nose, and waved her hand to chase away an odor that he knew couldn’t have been nearly as offensive as the other smells in this too-close room.
“You ought to go buy a bath, and then find you some new boots,” she said, waggling a finger at him. “These boots have more holes in them than a slice of Karthay cheese.” She playfully ran her long fingernails across the bottoms of his feet and scowled when he didn’t react. “Sweetheart, you’re gonna have to relax or you’re not gonna enjoy yourself.” She slid down next to him and toyed with the lacings on his tunic.
“Elsbeth, I think you’ve lost your touch.” This from an overly thin, long-legged girl who was lying on the other side of Dhamon, her inky hair cut so short it looked like a cap on her head. She was dark-skinned, an Ergothian by her accent, and her small fingers traced invisible patterns on Dhamon’s cheek. “I think maybe you’re a mite too old for him, Els. I think he prefers younger women, ones with not so much flesh hanging on them.”
Elsbeth made a spitting sound and with a sigh feigning hurt feelings tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Satin, there’s just more o’ me to love. And you know I just turned twenty.”
The long-legged girl laughed, the sound musical, like crystal wind chimes. “Twenty? Els, who are you kidding? Maybe twenty in dog-years. You said goodbye to thirty quite a few months ago.”
The two women playfully pawed at each other over Dhamon’s chest, laughing and taking turns grabbing at his tunic. Finally, they managed to tug the garment off and drop it on the floor.