Blais House did not advertise as an inn, but when they walked in the front door, as Mintassan had told them to do, they were greeted politely, albeit with some surprise at their appearance, by the night manager. The inn was as elegant as any Alias had ever seen. In the foyer, the inlaid tile floor gleamed in the light of a great crystal chandelier. Alias suspected that Blais House did not ordinarily cater to adventurers, but at the mention of Mintassan’s name the night manager became instantly cordial.
The price of a room was surprisingly reasonable, causing the swordswoman to wonder what it might have cost had they not used Mintassan’s name. Alias slid four gold coins across the front desk.
The night manager, a slight man dressed in a red-and-white silk tabard and black hose, bid them to follow him as he picked up a gold-plated candelabra. He led them up a white marble staircase and down a corridor made soundproof by its plush red carpeting. At the end of the corridor he produced a key, unlocked the door on the right, and led them in. Setting the candelabra down on a table, he assured them that should they want anything at all, they had only to pull the bell cord gently. The bath, he informed them as he stepped out of the room, was at the end of the hall. Then he pulled the door shut and left them alone.
The room was spacious; the expanse of white plaster walls broken only by idealized watercolors of the city. The ceiling timbers were whitewashed and decorated with painted garlands of flowers. The fireplace was lined with local ceramic tile. The beds had thick, comfortable mattresses with heavy down filling and soft sheets tightly woven of Mulhorand cotton. The great windows were made of green-stained splinter-glass set in the patterns of trees and opened out over the entrance of the inn. The armoire was Sembian, the pair of comfortable reading chairs Waterdhavian, and beneath the beds were Cormyrian-forged copper chamber pots with porcelain lining. A small bookshelf held several well-thumbed popular reads, including Aurora’s Catalogue and a complete set of Volo’s Guides.
All the luxury was lost on Alias, who sat down on the edge of her bed, shucked off her boots by stepping on the heels, let her sword belt slide to the floor, fell back on the bed, and was softly snoring, still wearing her chain mail, in under three minutes.
Dragonbait locked the door and windows, ascertained that there were no secret passages in the walls or assassins in the armoire, and tucked the case with the crystal ball under the bed. He flipped a corner of the coverlet over Alias’s shoulder and blew out the candelabra. Lying in the dark on his bed, he prayed that if they could not be delivered soon from this city, at least they be delivered safely.
The saurial always slept lightly, so it was he who awakened at the sound of someone knocking. It was a soft, hesitant rapping, not on the door, but on the door frame—as if the knocker did not really want to be responsible for waking up a skilled swordswoman and her sharp-clawed companion.
Alias muttered a curse and turned over, pulling a pillow over her head in an attempt to rescue a few more minutes of sleep. The sun was shining outside, but Dragonbait was still cautious. When he rose, he picked up his sword before shuffling to the door. He then concentrated his shen sight on what lay beyond the door. Feeling rather foolish, he set his sword aside, slid back the bolt, and opened the door halfway.
“Murk?” he said. Alias had tried to get him to pronounce some basic Realms words, but “what,” had been impossible, and the saurial’s “yes,” came out a sibilant hiss that sounded like a dissolving vampire caught in an open field at dawn. In the end, he answered everything with meaningless sounds like “murk,” relying on inflection to convey his meaning.
A half-elf girl not yet twelve winters old stood outside the door. She wore a miniature version of the uniform the night manager had sported, a red-and-white tabard with black hose. The paladin wondered if she’d been orphaned or abandoned, as he knew children who worked as servants often were. Her shen-signature was the purest he had seen in Westgate, and he hoped it stayed that way.
The girl’s eyes were at the same level as the saurial’s, but while his were encrusted with sleep, hers were wide-eyed with astonishment. Dragonbait repeated, “Murk?” and cocked his head in a manner that humans often found amusing.
The girl remained speechless, but had the wits to hold out a small serving tray bearing two letters. Her hands shook as the saurial reached for the letters. Dragonbait was tempted to smile and pat her on the head to calm her, but realized that might have the opposite effect.
Dragonbait picked up the letters and turned away to fetch a gratuity, but when he turned back with a few coins, the child was gone, the hallway empty. Dragonbait shrugged and shut the door.
Alias had risen after all and was peeling off her chain mail. “I cannot believe you let me sleep in my armor,” she said testily.
Dragonbait shrugged again. “You went out like a candle. I doubt I could have awakened you if I tried.”
Alias snorted, “The best bed I’ve seen along the Inner Sea Coast, and you let me sleep in a steel nighty. Ouch!” She stretched out the kinks in her back. “I wonder what a hot bath runs in a place like this.”
Dragonbait held up the two letters.
“What’s that?” Alias asked.
“I think you can afford a hot bath,” said the saurial, throwing the heavier of the two letters on the bed. It landed with a satisfying thump and jingle. Alias snatched up the letter and ripped it open. A few magical sparks danced from the paper, and belatedly Alias saw that it bore Mintassan’s sigil set into the blue sealing wax.
Four gold coins slid out from the letter’s folds onto the bed. Alias leaned against a bedpost and read the letter aloud.
“ ‘Lovely Alias and stout-hearted Dragonbait,’ ” she began, then looked up at the saurial. “How come I never get to be stout-hearted?”
“How come I never get to be lovely?” Dragonbait parried.
“Hmpph,” she said, and continued reading. “ ‘In the press of our business dealings last night, I neglected to thank you for aiding Jamal. She is an old and dear friend.’ I’ll just bet,” Alias muttered this last. “ ‘I would be heartbroken to see her charred to coal. Thank you. We are greatly indebted to you. I have arranged with the hostler of Blais House to turn all your charges over to my account. Please, accept this hospitality as a token of my gratitude.
“ ‘I hope that your stay in Westgate lasts long enough to afford me the opportunity to speak with both of you at length in order to broaden my knowledge of saurials. Thank you once again for your courageous rescue. Yours sincerely, Mintassan the Sage. P.S. Ask for the pan-fried prawns for dinner—they are a taste treat.’ ”
“Sounds like you have a fan,” the saurial said.
“Me? It’s your brain he wants to pick. Probably trying to prove your people are related to tree frogs or something. He only wants me as a free translator.”
“Alias, he’s a spellcaster. He can use magic to speak with me. If he claimed to need you to translate, he would only be using it as an excuse to hear you speak.”
Alias furrowed her brow, but could think of no solid argument. “Hand me that other letter,” she demanded.
Dragonbait held out the second missive by the edges, as if it were a dead thing he did not want to touch. Alias plucked it from the saurial’s grasp. The paper stock was far heavier than Mintassan’s stationery, and the watermarks gave it the look of a very thin slice of granite. The purple sealing wax was marked with the coat of arms of the Croamarkh of Westgate, the elected leader of the city’s council of noble and wealthy merchants.
Alias sniffed at it. “Smells like money,” she joked.
Dragonbait harrumphed. “Smells like corruption.”