If it was, somebody had been giving it boots, wings, or even a ride on a dragon. However, if this fellow had heard it and was from where Tarothin hoped he was, the tale had traveled far enough.
“Oh, Rubina and her friends?”
“That’s the name I’ve heard for the woman. What about the others?”
“If you’ve heard the tale, you know who they are. Damned Istarians. Triple-damned knights.”
Tarothin spent the next five minutes expressing what he’d like to do to Rubina, certain Istarians, and any Solamnic Knight who fell into his power. Occasionally he raised his voice enough to draw dubious looks from nearby tables.
Some of the details were Tarothin’s imagination. Some of them came from one of the most unpleasant experiences of his life, the trial of a renegade mage who’d used healing spells to torture his victim. Most of that, Tarothin sincerely wished, was his imagination.
His visitor kept a straight face until Tarothin was done, then ordered more wine. The wizard hoped the man would get to the point, if any, before he had to drink enough wine to really fuddle his wits.
The True Gods were with Tarothin. Halfway through the next cup, the man leaned over and said, “Look, you. I don’t know what would come of you going back to Istar. But we have a band of good Karthayans who are tired of this fight against Istar. The gods have plainly shown their favor to the city, and we’re not folk to right against the gods.
“So we’re chartering a ship, a big one, to carry plenty of stout Karthayans ready to take up arms for Istar. We’ll need wizards aplenty, but the tales say you’re worth three of the common kind. Can we trust you?”
The wine had fuddled the man more than it had Tarothin, and it took him quite a while to get this out. By then, however, he was past noticing that Tarothin had stopped drinking.
That was no bad thing for Tarothin. He didn’t dare use even the smallest self-healing spell to sober himself up, or further befuddle the other man. The other might say he was a Karthayan loyal to Istar’s rule, but if he was a Karthayan, then Tarothin was a kender!
“Is there a place I can come, to go aboard?” Tarothin asked.
“Eg-Egalobos’s place. It’s on-on Shieldmakers’ Wharf.”
“Egalobos’s place on Shieldmaker’s Wharf.” Tarothin made a great show of looking in his purse, ready to pay for the next round.
“Friends-friendssh left you-w’out g-gold?” the man got out.
Tarothin nodded, but the man was nodding, too; then he fell forward onto the table, knocking over the wine cup. Tarothin felt he deserved to lie there with his beard in the wine, but instead called a serving boy.
He was careful to stagger as he left the room. The man probably hadn’t come alone. No conspirators worth spying on would send as their only agent a man who passed out after three cups of such villainous wine! It would embarrass Tarothin to even pretend to be associated with them.
But sots and witlings had brought down thrones before. When war and peace were in the balance, one Red Robe’s embarrassment weighed very lightly.
* * * * *
The letter Pirvan wrote from Karthay had eased Sir Marod’s mind.
The letter just received from Istar did the opposite.
Sir Marod looked at the letter as if wishing hard enough would change the words on the parchment into something innocent, such as a love poem or a laundry list.
Wishing had no effect. Putting the letter in the candle would have some effect, but not a good one. Regardless, much of the letter was already carved on Sir Marod’s mind.
The kingpriest was sending certain powerful and ruthless servants of Zeboim the Sea Queen aboard the fleet about to depart from Istar. They went by his command, with his blessing, aided by the resources of the great temples, and specifically freed from most of the normal bounds to their use of magic.
That was the worst part. Black, red, and white wizards and the priests of Good, Neutral, and Evil gods kept the balance on Krynn as it was kept among the stars by honoring certain rules. Not as complex or binding as the Measure of the Knights, but serving well enough.
Sending priests of Zeboim to sea with orders to do whatever they needed to gain victory could be pulling the keystone out of the delicate arch of the balance on Krynn. Then chaos would be unleashed and all beings alike buried under the ruins.
Sir Marod decided that he was developing a taste for dramatic figures of speech that could as well be left to poets and pageant-makers. The priests of Zeboim would not go unopposed, by either magical or human powers.
But their presence would increase the peril into which Pirvan and his friends were sailing or marching before they could learn of it and be on their guard. And this was quite apart from their having magical aid only from Rubina, since Tarothin had left the company in a jealous rage.
Sir Marod had ordered men and women to their deaths before-not too many to count, but enough to sometimes deny him easy sleep at night. But he had always done his best to be sure that those who went forth knew what they faced, before they departed.
This time, it gnawed at him that he had sent knights forth with broken lances and blunted swords, against foes who might rise from the ground or fall from the sky without warning.
Chapter 10
“Hulloooo!” came from the rear of the column. “Sir Pirvan! Is this the last hill?”
Pirvan cupped his hands and shouted back, “Yes. The next one’s a mountain!”
Good-natured curses and weary laughter echoed from the rocks as the column approached the peak of the trail. Pirvan forced strength into his legs, knowing that he was taking it from some other part of his body that would probably need it before he had a chance to rest.
He was in the lead when they reached the crest, and nearly went limp with relief when he saw that the downward slope was easy, and the trail broad, without sharp drops. When one loses two men in a single day from their straying too close to a drop edged with mud or slippery rocks, a war leader comes to value slopes so gentle that a baby could roll down them without being hurt.
He also comes to value able junior leaders. Haimya was one he would have valued even without love, likewise Birak Epron, and, more than somewhat to his surprise, Rubina. The Black Robe now wore male attire, though no soldier ever campaigned in such a hat, and this definitely altered her charms so that they were less distracting to the men.
It also did not hurt that when they stopped for the night, she would go along the column, laying on hands and staff for blisters, pulled muscles, thorn stabs, and the like. Like any Black Robe, her healing powers were modest, but so far the overland column had taken no serious injuries. Everyone was either dead or marching on.
Pirvan found the flattest and driest rock by the side of the trail and sat down. Then he drew from a pouch on his belt a tightly folded, leather-backed map of this land.
This area had never been part of Solamnia, so the knights had not been mapping it as they had some lands, ever since maps were first invented. Instead, they had trusted the Swordsheath Scroll and the Great Meld to induce Istar to provide maps out of courtesy.
In this, as in much else, the knights received less than their due. The most Pirvan could tell from this map was that their march had taken them almost out of the hills, and beyond lay more level country. This level country stretched from here to the seacoast, and somewhere on that coast was Waydol’s stronghold.
So they were now entering lands where the Minotaur’s band might be roving. The inhabitants might be friendly or hostile, largely depending on what they thought of Waydol. Their thoughts on Istar’s rule might also make a difference, and Pirvan took a crumb of comfort in most of the men with him being Karthayan.