"They were each able to defeat me in combat, albeit not without some minor help. That's why I died in their service. Champion's skills are unsurpassed among his own people. This Alias, though, is the luckiest sell-sword I've ever witnessed in battle. Lady Luck, the goddess Tymora, must keep an eye on her." "How can they be scried?" the Faceless asked.
"As far as I know, they cannot. Apparently there's some enchantment cast on Alias that hides her from friends and enemies alike. Even King Azoun's wizard Vangerda-hast couldn't locate her." "Do they have any Harper connections?"
"It's possible. Neither Alias nor the saurial wore the Harpers' little pin, but the saurial said Elminster the Sage had given Alias a magical stone, and a bard told me Alias had taught her certain songs, which I recognized as belonging to Finder Wyvernspur." "Who?"
"Finder Wyvernspur. He was a Harper, one of the founders of the Harper revival in the north three centuries back. Fell into disgrace, I believe."
"So would you say this woman and her companion would be formidable foes?"
"Foes. You don't want them as foes, milord. They are not going to be frightened or defeated by mere thieves. They fight dragons and ancient gods and live."
The Faceless drummed his fingers on the ledge around the pool of water. "If they are as dangerous as you say,then perhaps they would make useful allies," he suggested. The air all about the cavern rang with laughter.
The Faceless scowled. "I fail to see the humor," he barked.
"I forgot, your language does not carry the subtleties of my own. I'll explain slowly enough for your mammalian brain to comprehend. As I said, the saurial warrior's true name translates roughly as 'Champion of Justice.' In other words, he serves the god Tyr. I called him a noble warrior because he has dedicated himself to Tyr's noble cause." "Like a paladin?" the Faceless asked in surprise.
"Not like one, is one. Or would be if he were human. Saurials with such dedications have gifts similar to human paladins," Mist explained. "Including the Sight?" the Faceless queried.
"The near equivalent," said the dragon, "More akin to my own race's ability to detect the unseen. He discerns the roiling mass of an individual's thoughts, feelings, and desires that make up the soul and the spirit, and is able to divine with a certain accuracy the individual's intentions. It is called shen sight. I don't imagine he would have remained with Alias all these years unless the shen sight of her was pleasing to him. He called her his soul's sister.
"So you see, I do not think they will become allied with you. Here I give you advice unbidden, milord," the dragon's dead spirit offered. "Do not pursue them, as I did, down the path to your own destruction. They are like gale winds or floodwaters. You must stay out of their path and wait them out."
"That may not be possible. They rescued Jamal the Thespian tonight, indicating they must be involved with her somehow. Knowing Jamal, she will use them to encourage the people to interfere with my plans. I must use them to further my plans, and I know just how to bring them to serve me."
"The Night Masks who serve you are all motivated by their greed, their cruelty, their sloth, and their arrogance. These two have none of these traits," the dragon's skull argued. "What can you possibly offer them?" "The chance to serve the cause of justice." The dragon skull remained silent. Mist had long ago learned not to argue with the Faceless's mad-sounding schemes. The Faceless slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. "A powerful force this Alias may be, but I know now how to bring her to rein. And when the time comes, I will destroy her."
Five
Mintassan offered Alias and Dragonbait quarters in his own home, but I Alias, uncomfortable with accepting I the flirtatious mage's hospitality, declined and remained firm against the sage's insistence. Finally they reached a compromise. Mintassan surrendered their company when Alias agreed to stay at an inn two blocks away, which the sage recommended.
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 Mintas-san'e 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 Drag-onbait 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 sAera-signature was the purest he had seen in Westgate, and he hoped it stayed that way.