“What color evil are we talking here?” she asked.
“Purple,” the paladin whispered, though he could not be overheard.
Alias felt a knot in her gut. Purple evil was the most disturbing to her. Purple evil took pleasure in the pain of others. Purple evil liked to be the inflicter of that pain.
Just then, Kimbel turned around and looked up at them. He wore pince-nez, with darkened lenses that hid his eyes, giving him an inhuman look.
Dragonbait, Alias realized, would be very uncomfortable with this man as an escort. She wasn’t thrilled with the idea either. “We should accompany him anyway,” she said, “so you can check out the croamarkh with your shen sight.”
Dragonbait nodded curtly, steeling himself to the task.
Kimbel stood motionlessly, watching the pair descend the stairs and approach him. Alias spotted the trading badge of the Dhostar household pinned to the lapel of his vest, but it wasn’t until they stood directly before him that the servant showed them any recognition. Then he bowed very low at the waist, his back as stiff as iron. Alias sensed no respect in the servant’s action. The display was intended to prop up the facade of Kimbel’s gentility.
When he stood erect again, Alias worked at suppressing a shudder. His clean-shaven but weak chin, and the flat eyes behind the darkened glasses, gave him a snakelike appearance.
“Alias, I presume,” he said, his lip curling upward in an approximation of a smile. “I am Kimbel, servant to House Dhostar. I have been instructed to await your reply.”
“We’ll speak to your master. Where can he be found?” Alias asked.
“He is at the Watch Docks, overseeing the customs arrangements. I have a carriage waiting outside to take you to him.” He spun about and strode from the inn. Alias and Dragonbait followed at a deliberately leisurely pace.
The carriage, pulled by four black horses, was a huge, black monstrosity that, though capable of holding eight comfortably, was unable to negotiate Westgate’s smaller streets. The house trading badge, a wagon wheel topped by three stars, was painted on the doors. According to the briefing Elminster had given Alias, the design granted by the Westgate city council to family Dhostar required the wheel color be tawny, but the ones marking the carriage had been gilded. Apparently Luer Dhostar liked to show off his political power.
Dragonbait found the carriage ridiculous and would have preferred to walk or even run, but he wasn’t about to leave Alias alone with Kimbel. Before he would climb in, though, he studied the driver for a full minute, assuring himself that at least that servant harbored no evil intentions. He sat beside Alias, facing the front of the carriage.
Kimbel folded himself into a corner facing them. Dragonbait, using ordinary vision, stared at him, trying to gather more information, but the servant sat rigid, making no attempt at conversation, betraying nothing of himself. Alias kept her eyes on the view outside the carriage.
The city in daylight bustled with activity. In order to keep the main thoroughfares clear for carriages, the law required expensive and limited permits to load or unload wagons on those streets. To circumvent the fees, brute force had become the means of transport on the wider avenues, which were consequently crammed with milling legions of porters lugging boxes, urns, wicker baskets, crates, and passengers in riding chairs in an ever-milling dance. Added to the crush were shopkeepers trying to hustle customers into their establishments and vendors pushing carts or toting backpacks and hawking the wares they offered.
The carriage passed Mintassan’s, but there was no sign of the sage. At one cross-street Alias caught a glimpse of people gathered around a dancing minotaur. Down another she thought she saw a street theater group performing atop a hay wagon, but the carriage moved too quickly for her to notice if Jamal was among the actors.
They came out to the Market Triangle, and Alias had a momentarily unobstructed view of the bay and the harbor, as the northern sections of the city sloped gently down to the sea.
The harbor was a tapestry of sails attached to ships from all over the Sea of Fallen Stars, cogs from Aglarond and Thesk, red cedar galleys from Thay, caravels from the Living City and the Vilhon Reach, strangely carved crafts from Mulhorand and Chondath, and carracks from nearby Cormyr and Sembia. Westgate was a major port on the Inner Sea. It stood at the entrance to both the Neck, the channel leading to the Lake of Dragons, and the northernmost caravan route to the west. It was also one of the few cities that did not belong to a larger kingdom, so there were no national politics influencing the city’s trade with the outside world. Trade was the city’s reason for being.
The carriage followed the road down the peninsula that sheltered the western half of the harbor from the bay and pulled to a stop at the end of the Watch Dock. The driver hopped down, unfolded the stairs, and opened the door.
Kimbel hopped over the stairs, displaying a liveliness Alias suspected was meant to impress his master, then offered his hand to his charges. Alias accepted the servant’s help without thinking about what she knew of him, but Dragonbait hissed him back and hopped over the stairs unassisted.
A great canopy had been erected before the Watch Dock warehouse, and a pole planted before it displayed the banners of those officials currently engaged in business there: the harbor watch’s, the customs inspector’s and, at the top, the croamarkh’s.
Alias and Dragonbait followed Kimbel into the shade beneath the canopy. Rows of tables were set up beneath to process the paperwork required of anyone coming into or out of the city via the harbor. In one line stood ships’ officers with bills of lading, in another, servants of various merchant houses with petitions to release seized goods, and in a third, private passengers with their baggage. Alias and Dragonbait had come through this last line the evening before. This morning there was a noticeable improvement in the efficiency of customs personnel.
Alias could pick out with ease the inspiration of the efficiency—a large, solidly muscled man with a stonily impassive face, who hovered behind the customs officials seated at the tables. Each time the man moved to stand behind some worker, the worker wriggled nervously and concentrated with fervor on the work before him. The reaction was so pronounced that even were the man not wearing the chain of office about his neck, Alias would have guessed he was Croamarkh Luer Dhostar. His mantle of snow-white hair was swept back and held in place with a gold headband. The long, sleeveless robe he wore over his silk shirt and velvet trousers was made of the most elaborate brocade Alias had ever seen. Every finger sported a ring set with a stone worth a princess’s ransom.
As Kimbel and the adventurers approached him, the croamarkh was leaning over the table beside one worker who perused a document handed to him by a servant wearing the trading badge of the Urdo family. The croamarkh leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the table beside the worker as he read the document over the worker’s shoulder. One might have thought the servant would have appreciated the extra attention his paperwork was getting, but instead he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other and bit his lower lip repeatedly.
Kimbel brought their presence to the croamarkh’s attention with a simple, “Milord,” but the older man motioned him to silence.
Alias noted Kimbel’s jaw tighten, and was pleased to learn the servant did on occasion betray his feelings.
The Croamarkh pulled a document out from beneath the worker’s elbow and chastised him. “If you would keep abreast of the documents sent from the council, you would realize that this shipment was cleared last week.” He pointed out the relevant lines to the worker. Flushed with red, the worker whispered a terrified, “Yes, sir,” and stamped the servant’s release papers.