"Well?" Narm prompted him, a few minutes of stooping and rein-wrestling later.
In a low voice Arauntar told them both, 'Ter short answer: Triel's ruled by a madman, Elvar the Grainlord. He's so afraid outlanders'll try to steal food from him-he who's no slouch at thieving himself-that he won't let any of us stay a night inside his walls."
Narm looked at the decaying but still formidable stockade, and muttered, "Is he one of those gigantic waddling gluttons?"
Arauntar grinned. "Ah, I see you've tasted the world a trifle already, young Lord o' Spells. No, he's just mad, that's all. He tasted a hard winter a score o' years back and has feared running out of food ever since. So inside you'll see dirt streets, little rickety shops an' taverns.. – and looming over 'em all, granary after granary, packed to the rafters. Folk in Triel go about with long jab-forks, to slay rats on sight, an' everyone has to keep traps an' patrol 'em proper, so no dead rat rots. They get pickled, see, in case there's need to eat them."
Shandril gagged, and Arauntar grinned happily. "Oh, an' he's mad another way, too: about the gods."
Narm, still slightly green from a vivid vision of curled-up rat claws sticking up by the dozens out of an open cask of pickling-wine, asked reluctantly, "Mad about the gods how?"
"Every four mornings or so-or swifter by now, I've not been in to see, yet-Elvar awakens after new dream-visions, and announces he now serves a new god. Not that he creates 'em, see-just not the god he went to sleep praying to. He's been around 'em all dozens of times by now, an' keeps his guards, poor dogs, busy rooting out regalia and holy symbols they hid away from the last time around for this or that Divine One."
"Anything else?" Shandril asked, a little faintly.
"Enough, be it not? That's why nary a caravan goes anywhere but around Triel or camps outside, here or over yon."
"What's that other road?" Narm asked, pointing.
"The Dusk Road, from Elturel. It joins the Trade Way at Triel midmoot, inside. That roof atop the knoll hard by is Duskview House-an inn outside the walls, for the likes o' you and me-or rather, for the likes of travelers who dare to stay there."
Shandril raised an eyebrow. "Particularly dangerous?"
"For the lady who hurls spellfire, every place we'll see is 'particularly dangerous,' but no, 'tis just too pricey for Master Voldovan's tastes. 'Tis a highcoin house, newly built an' all, sitting all serene on its height looking down the Dusk Road. It caters to the safety of the lone traveler, and charges accordingly."
"So why do I see Voldovan on his way there?" Shandril asked quietly.
"He has to look for replacement guards somewhere," Arauntar said heavily, "or we'll none of us live to see Waterdeep."
"Can we go inside by daylight?" Narm asked, squinting at the sky to judge how much day was left.
"I might lead an armed band inside to buy us food, later- a barrel of rats or two, whatever they'll sell," Arauntar growled amiably, "but you won't be along with me, nor any of these fat wagon-merchants."
Shandril raised the other eyebrow. "Thieves in the streets? Brawlers rule the taverns?"
"Exactly," the Harper snapped. "Taking down travelers is their sport an' their chief source o' coin, an' there's no law nor justice to appeal to."
He swung himself nimbly over Narm and down off the perch in one energetic lunge, landing boots-first on the ground with a solid thud, and squinted back up at them through the dust of his own landing.
"So stay here," he said sternly, "both of you. Triel's like Scornubel but a twentieth its size, thrice its desperation, an' no tense standoffs to forge peace. Here, 'tis every man for himself, an' daggers see heavy use."
Shandril smiled thinly. "So how exactly, Arauntar, is it different from anywhere else in Faerun?"
Pleasing The Bringer of Doom
The true purposes of kings are to set fashions, take blame for famine and harsh laws and oppressions practiced by nobles, to give commoners someone to shout at and throw dung upon, bards and romantics someone to be proud of or wax tragic about, and to feed the rats-personally, with their own bones. I just wish some of them would get around to doing it sooner.
Hanjack Thallowblade, "The Farfaring Minstrel"
Why I'll Never Be A Respected Bard
Year of the Leaning Post
"Behold," Voldovan muttered to Beldimarr. "The only man in Triel we can trust."
The guard nodded, his weatherbeaten face expressionless, and murmured as softly as any sly courtier, "Pity we can't hire him and leave these others."
They were looking across the palatial lounge of Dusk-view House at a tall, gaunt man who looked every bit as Realms-worn as Beldimarr. Voldovan had no idea what his real name was, but he'd been a fixture in Triel for thirty winters at least: the local herald, Stormshield. He was here to witness any bonds of hiring Voldovan might arrange with the motley crew of swordsmen gathered in the lounge.
The caravan master didn't need to look at Beldimarr to know the burly guard shared his assessment of this bunch; gutter-scrapings and broken men. "Loyalty" was a worthless fiction to most of them, whatever words came out of their mouths and no matter what papers they signed. But then, the way things were going, most of them would probably be dead in a day or two.
Along with the rest of us, Orthil Voldovan thought grimly, as he took the high-backed chair the stone-faced Duskview stewards provided. Beldimarr took up a stance behind Voldovan's right shoulder, arms folded across his chest-and fingers on the hilts of two of the many throwing-daggers sheathed down his baldrics.
Voldovan tried not to sigh. Some of these men were down-on-their-luck hireswords, but most would be thieves and outlaws on the run from trouble elsewhere. If he was lucky, a few might be caravan guards who'd taken wounds or fallen sick, tarried in Triel, and now needed coin to travel on. He'd no doubt word of "the spellfire-wench" had raced ahead of him, though; word always did whenever cargo or folk of special interest made runs through the Sword Coast backlands.
Similar whispers had come to Scornubel a season ago, when Duskview House had been built. Word was that Thayans had raised this inn-and someone with more coins than wits had certainly done so, to build such luxury out here in the Blackrocks, on the doorstep of Mad Elvar. That meant, try as he might, Orthil Voldovan would be hiring snakes into his midst.
Lucky me, Voldovan thought sourly, ignoring the decanter the stewards had placed in front of him in favor of his own belt-flask. He surveyed the uneasily shifting men across the room, chose not to see Stormshield's expectant "Shall we begin?" glance for a moment or two, and thought again about Duskview. The whitedaub ceiling, he noted, was worked into an intricate design of styilized dragons flying in curves and snarling at each other… a design in bold relief that was studded with many cavities. Spyholes, of course.
This place was a trading center-and to a Thayan, a trading center is also a spying center. There'd been whispers up and down the Trade Way for some seasons now that a Red Wizard was trying to take over the Zhentarim, to win trade riches and a private army, to boot. Duskview would be some other Red Wizard's private road to riches… so anyone offering himself as a caravan guard might well be a warrior in the service of an unseen Thayan.
Scornubel's muttering mouths were good. They even had a name or two to attach to tales of "Red Wizards skulking hereabouts." Thavaun was one such; Hulrivior another. It might be interesting to get his new hires slightly drunk around a campfire, drop those two names, and see who stiffened and what was said. 'Twas always nice to know who your loyal employees really worked for.