“In this city, it’s usually the same thing.” Alias slid her throwing dagger between the wax seal and the paper and unfolded the single sheet. “It says, ‘From the Office of the Croamarkh, Lord Luer Dhostar, to the adventurers herein identified as Alias and her lizardman companion. Greetings in the name of the Croamarkh of Westgate.’ ”
Alias took a deep breath and read on. “ ‘Your recent activities against the criminal organization known as the Night Masks have come to our attention. We wish to discuss with you the possibility of continued employment in that capacity on our behalf. If you are interested in such, a manservant will escort you to our present location for discussions. Such dealings will undoubtedly be extremely profitable for you, and we strongly recommend you avail yourself of this opportunity. My servant is instructed to await a reply. Yours sincerely, Luer Dhostar, Croamarkh of Westgate.’ ”
Alias let the missive drape delicately from one hand. “What do you think?”
“Last night you wanted to take the first boat back. You said you didn’t want to be a cheap hero,” Dragonbait pointed out.
“Ah, but the croamarkh isn’t offering us the job of cheap hero. He’s giving us the chance to be ‘extremely profitable’ heroes.”
“We don’t need money.”
“But I like to think my services are worth money,” Alias pointed out. “Lots of money. You’re just hurt that he called you a lizardman,” she teased.
Dragonbait sniffed with disdain. “He sounds like the sort of merchant who thinks everything can be solved by throwing money at it. The Night Masks are not a simple problem.”
“Could take us more than a few weeks,” Alias agreed cockily.
Dragonbait laughed and shook his head.
“Look,” Alias cajoled, “Grypht isn’t expecting us back immediately, and I know you miss CopperBloom, but it couldn’t hurt to hear what the man has to say.”
“Maybe not,” the paladin replied dourly.
“I’ll need a bath if I’m going to be presented to the croamarkh,” the swordswoman declared, hopping off the bed.
Dragonbait pulled a guest bathrobe from the armoire and tossed it to her. There was a tiny rap on the door frame. Alias draped the robe over her arm and pulled open the door. A tray of fruit, muffins, and tea sat on the floor.
“Complimentary breakfast,” Alias noted, looking down the hallway. “Where’s the server?”
“She’s shy,” the paladin explained, picking up the tray, “but very sweet.”
“Is she now?” Alias asked. It was rare that the saurial made that sort of compliment. “Well, you’ll have to introduce us when I’ve finished my bath.”
“What about this servant waiting downstairs?” asked Dragonbait.
“Dhostar said he’ll wait for our reply. Let him wait.”
Alias slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her. Dragonbait could hear her launching into a bawdy folk song involving dryads and paladins, as she went in search of the bath.
Dragonbait picked up the croamarkh’s letter and sniffed. He couldn’t use his shen sight on a soulless object, and while he’d joked about the smell of corruption, the only scents he could detect were paper, ink, and wax. Still, the letter made him uneasy.
“Westgate,” Alias explained to Dragonbait, while she stuffed down a breakfast roll and slipped into a clean tunic, “is ruled by a council consisting of representatives of all the major trading families, along with a cluster of minor houses. No one else gets a vote in council, not craftsmen, not shopkeepers, not tavern owners, no one, not even persons like Mintassan. Most of the council’s power is invested in the croamarkh. Luer Dhostar was elected by the council to three terms as croamarkh, before he was forced to yield to Lansdal Ssemm for a term. No one had really been happy with Lansdal, and during his term interfamily feuding and Night Mask violence was worse than ever. Last spring Luer Dhostar convinced the other families that only he could organize the chaos left by Lansdal, and he was returned to his former office.
“Besides his duty to the city of Westgate, Luer Dhostar oversees a mercantile empire consisting of twelve ships, twenty-four stockyards and warehouses, nine caravans, fifty representatives in other cities across the Heartlands, seventy-five businesses and craftsmen under his direct control and twice that controlled in all but name, a castle, a host of servants, ten purebred Zakharan horses, three carriages, and one son.”
“Something tells me you were briefed by Elminster before we left Shadowdale,” the saurial said when Alias had finished her monologue.
“Yeah. You think the old sneak had some premonition I would need to be up on current affairs?” she asked as she pulled on her chain mail and buckled on her sword.
The paladin did not answer as he buckled on his own. He didn’t like to think of all the things Elminster must know.
As Alias and Dragonbait strolled down the hall, they spied the half-elven servant girl leaning over the railing, staring down at the lobby. Alias leaned against the railing beside her. The girl backed away in surprise, but her escape was blocked by the saurial. Alias turned back to look at her and smiled. “Are you the child,” she asked, “who delivered the letters and breakfast?”
The girl gulped. “Mercy,” she said, nodding, then added, “My name is Mercy.”
“Well, Mercy, it’s customary to wait for a tip,” Alias said, pressing, not a copper or silver, but a gold coin into her hand. “Part of this is your tip, but part is also payment for services to be rendered. I want you to keep a lookout on our room. If anyone goes into it who shouldn’t, I want you to tell me afterward. Will you?”
Mercy gulped again and nodded, her eyes wide with fright. Alias could tell that the girl was glancing nervously at Dragonbait.
“You look the way I must have the first time I saw Dragonbait,” Alias said. “I was so frightened, I threw a dagger at him. Fortunately, I missed.”
“What did he do?” Mercy asked.
“Well, he dropped the puppy he’d just rescued, and ran off.”
“Do you like puppies?” the girl asked Dragonbait in astonishment.
The saurial nodded solemnly.
“I knew you two would have a lot in common,” Alias quipped. She looked back down the railing. “So, is that the servant from House Dhostar?” she asked, jerking her thumb in the direction of the foyer, where a man stood with his back to them.
“His name’s Kimbel,” Mercy whispered, obviously anxious that the man not overhear her.
“Kimbel what?” Alias asked.
“Just Kimbel,” Mercy replied. “He doesn’t like puppies.” With that pronouncement the servant girl slipped around Dragonbait and made off down the corridor, disappearing up a back staircase.
Dragonbait hissed, and Alias turned her attention to her companion. The paladin stood stock-still, with only the very tip of his tail twitching. He was glaring at Kimbel as if he might bore a hole through the servant with his eyes. Alias recognized the signs. His shen sight had detected something he did not like.
She studied the servant’s back. Kimbel was a slender, almost spidery man. His hairline receded several inches, and what remained of the graying blond hair was pulled back into a severe bun at the nape of the neck, held in place by two long silver hairpins, which Alias guessed could be used as weapons in a pinch. His shirt, trousers, and vest were simply but expensively tailored, all in black. The vest was decorated with silver studs in a geometric pattern. On another man the outfit might have appeared dashing, but it hung too loosely on Kimbel’s spare frame.
“I take it that not liking puppies is not Kimbel’s only failing,” she said in Saurial, grateful to have words that could not be overheard.
Dragonbait rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. Alias could detect the just-baked bread scent of his anger and a whiff of the violetlike scent that he used to communicate danger.