The figure on the bed rolled over again, crying out in her sleep, “Wha…? Sweetest, did you say something?”
“It’s nothing. Go back to sleep,” the Thorn Knight muttered. The figure murmured something sleepily and rolled back to face the wall.
“A woman, Tanar?” the Voice of the Night softly inquired.
“It is not forbidden,” he said, turning his head to the side and blinking at the moonlight shining in through his window.
“No, but revealing the secret of our communications most certainly is,” the Voice said in a dangerously calm voice. The steadiness of her tone spoke of her underlying anger.
The Thorn Knight swallowed. A sudden lump of fear had risen in his throat. “She is sufficiently… subdued,” he said tersely.
“And how did you manage that?” the Voice roared.
Before he could answer, the woman sat up in the bed, clutching the sheets to her breast in terror. Her eyes rolled in her head as she stared round the room, confused, bewildered. “What? H-how…” she stammered. Her gaze fell on Tanar.
“Who are you?” she cried, crawling to the head of the bed and pulling the sheets close to hide her nakedness. “How did I get here?” Her eyes darted in panicked confusion around the room, noting the open window, the closed door, the half-naked man, the small box on the desk.
The Voice laughed mirthlessly from the magical device. Tanar stepped in front of the woman, trying to hide the box from her gaze, but she had already seen it.
“What is that? Who is that?” she gurgled in terror as the sound of the bodiless voice.
Suddenly, the laughter ceased, as though cut off with a knife. “Silence her, Tanar. Silence her now.”
Without hesitation, he leaped across the bed, grabbed the woman by the arm, and dragged her to the floor. She lashed out with her free hand, clawing the Thorn Knight across the face, while at the same time sinking her teeth into the root of his thumb.
Tanar snarled in pain and cuffed her with the back on his fist, stilling her protests for a moment. She fell limp at his feet, moaning.
“She mustn’t be allowed to tell what she has seen,” the Voice urged.
With a sigh, Tanar lifted her from the floor by her dark disheveled hair. She clutched weakly at the fingers knotted in her hair as he dragged her naked heels across the wooden floor. He set her in the windowsill with a thump. Still dazed by his blow and blinking stupidly, she tried to steady herself against the window frame. Tanar stooped, lifted her feet, and dumped her like a wheelbarrow out the window. She struck the filthy cobbles sixty feet below before she could think to open her mouth to scream.
Tanar turned back to the magical communication device. His sheets lay stretched from the bed to the window, a long white accusing finger pointing the way to his crime. He balled them up and tossed them on the bed before returning to his seat at the desk.
“It is done,” Tanar sighed, as he slid into the chair. “The woman will not speak.”
“Well done, Tanar,” the Voice purred. “I hope her death does not interfere with your duties.”
Tanar stiffened. “The proper authorities will be consulted. There is nothing to worry about. I know how to do my job.”
“I sometimes wonder. You were warned not to abuse the power of this artifact, yet here I find you using it to subdue your… evening’s entertainment.”
“A simple spell,” he answered. “I could have cast it without the magic of the device.”
“Remember that when you are at the bottom of the sea.”
Tanar started, genuinely surprised.
“You are ordered,” the Voice of the Night continued, “to accompany a ship of gnomes on their journey to find the sub-Ansalonian passage, and to report back everything that they find. Should they attempt to return to a Solamnic port, or find themselves in danger of capture by Solamnics or any other power, you will destroy the crew and scuttle the ship. Do you accept this assignment, even though it may mean your own death?”
“I’ll do it,” Tanar answered darkly.
“Of course, you know that Lord Targonne has ordered you on this journey, even though he has no confidence that these gnomes will succeed on their mission, and that he fully expects you may die with the gnomes in their ship. He would be rid of you, but without directly offending the Order of the Thorn. You, Sir Tanar, are a Thorn in his side. He fears you as he fears me.”
“Then why do you concur with his orders?” Tanar ventured to ask.
“Because I have confidence,” the Voice continued. “Confidence the gnomes will succeed in their curious task. Portents and auguries indicate a high probability of success. These gnomes are not yet aware that they are also working for me, to further my power, but you shall teach them this-and other lessons on my behalf. Besides, I do not wish to openly oppose Lord Targonne.”
“How shall I proceed, then?” Tanar asked petulantly. He despised politics and didn’t really care who he was working for or why, as long as he was paid according to agreement.
“You shall sail this submersible of theirs with them to the bottom of the Blood Sea and there discover the crack that leads to the Abyss. If you can find the way for me, Tanar, we shall enter the Abyss together.”
Tanar’s face darkened. “The Abyss?” he growled suspiciously. “What do you seek there? Takhisis is no longer there. She doesn’t answer our prayers. She fled with the other gods from Allfather Chaos.”
“It’s the Abyss, Tanar. Why do I need to explain every little detail to you? Think! If a magical artifact such as the communication device can grant a little power, how much more power is there in even one stone of the Abyss? The Abyss served once as the home of a goddess, Tanar. Its power must be infinite. And so shall be ours, if you succeed. Will you do it?”
“I said I would,” he answered shortly. “Don’t I always do what I say?”
“Eventually,” she answered. “In your own time. But you must not dally this time. You must be of the most serious mind. You must not fail. Barring any unforeseen accidents, the gnomes should be in Flotsam before winter arrives. Be ready for them.”
“I will,” he said, glancing around and rehearsing his story of the poor woman’s suicide, as the Voice of the Night faded.
Chapter
11
Even in Snork’s glass of farseeing, the boat was tiny, cutting its way through the green northern sea with two great sails of red and white stripes pushing it through the waves. A black flag, unadorned, rippled from the top of its single mast. They saw the white waves curling away from its sharp prow like parings before the planer blade.
Snork passed the glass to Commodore Brigg. He sucked his teeth as he put his eye to it. “There’s no doubt,” he muttered. “She’s already seen us.”
They had just rounded the northern tip of Nordmaar. Off the starboard bow lay a land sparsely populated-poor, terrorized by the ceaseless raids of buccaneers, and unfriendly to strangers. To port stretched the endless leagues of the Northern Courrain Ocean, which no ship had ever navigated and returned to tell the tale.
Commodore Brigg passed the glass to Razmous, who sighed as he put the wonderful device to his eye. “I’ve never met a real live minotaur before,” he said. “Much less a pirate.”
“It is to be hoped that continues,” the commodore said sternly.
But Razmous went on. “It must be very interesting to have big cow horns sticking out of your head. Awfully convenient, I should imagine, for hanging things like umbrellas on them, when it is raining and you don’t have enough hands.” He lowered the glass and gazed out over the ocean at the tiny dot barely visible on the horizon.
“Hey! Give me that!” Sir Grumdish snapped, indicating the glass of farseeing that was sliding into the kender’s pouch.
“This? I thought you were through with it,” Razmous protested.
“I haven’t even looked through it yet!” Sir Grumdish barked as he yanked the glass from the kender’s grasp.