Brannan’s eyes sparkled with amusement.
“Well, just between you and me, the original settlers were thieves, murderers, and pirates who fled from Stormreach when it was founded because it was too ‘lawful,’ if that gives you any idea of their nature. They built their homes here after sinking the well. But, as you can see, the only thing that survives from that time is the well-the people and the town are lost to history.”
“What happened to them?” She expected some story of horror rising up from nearby Tarath Marad to envelop the unsuspecting citizens of Trent’s Well. Brannan’s tale was quite a bit less bardic.
“They all died. One of those foolish Flamers would probably tell you it was divine justice, but the causes were far more human-greed and stupidity. Two of the residents got into a fight over a handful of silver and one of them wound up dead in the well. The winner thought it would be better not to tell anyone about it and instead left town. When he returned with the regular supply wagon a month later, thinking the whole thing would have blown over and he’d be welcomed back with open arms, he found the entire populace dead in their homes, victims of some virulent illness.”
Sabira just stared at him.
“They drank from the well?” she asked incredulously.
Brannan shrugged.
“They didn’t know it was tainted until it was too late.”
Sabira could only shake her head. An entire town dead over such a small amount of coin. What a waste. Even if they had all been cutthroats, bootleggers, and worse.
“What about the survivor?”
The Wayfinder chuckled as he powered down the wagon.
“Well, the stories differ, but the most common one is that, overcome with remorse, he went looking for a burial place for the townspeople and providentially found a nearby cavern large enough to house a new settlement, complete with a water supply that couldn’t be poisoned-an underground river. He promptly founded a new Trent’s Well, in memory of those poor souls and their unfortunate mishap.”
Ah. The tale was obviously the most common because it painted the survivor in the best possible light following his little “mishap.”
“And now?” She sort of hoped Brannan would tell her the intrepid survivor was at the bottom of the old well too.
If possible, Brannan’s smile grew wider.
“Him? He’s the mayor.”
The large tent Brannan had stopped next to turned out to be a tavern of sorts, with something that looked like a convulsing wolf painted on either side of the entrance. While the Wayfinder was busy overseeing the unloading of the caravan, Sabira and the others went inside.
The interior was hot, dusty, and dim and filled with tables and chairs made from whatever was available-broken bits of crates and wagons, boulders with roughhewn flat surfaces, even the bones of what Sabira surmised were camels, though she didn’t want to look close enough to make sure. A long bar constructed of wooden boxes stood along the far wall, with a warforged who could have been Raff’s twin serving as barkeep.
Sabira wasn’t entirely surprised to see that the place was full of soldiers, miners, and scholarly types, even at this hour-the place was probably only habitable from sunset to mid-morning, after all. And as more and more powerful artifacts came out of Tarath Marad, more people would come here to seek their fortunes. In another month’s time, there might well be two such taverns in the sand.
A bored-looking shifter woman swayed to a kobold’s pipe on a shoddily-constructed stage opposite the bar-the tavern’s namesake, no doubt. The patrons appeared to pay her little mind, but whenever she missed a step, rocks flew from several points inside the tent, causing her to bob and weave in a much more lively imitation of actual dancing.
Sabira found the one open table and waved to what she hoped was a server as the others took what passed for seats on either side of her. When the harried gnome reached them, she didn’t ask them what they wanted, just dumped three mugs in front of them, then stuck out her hand expectantly.
“What’s this?” Greddark asked, sniffing at the rim with a grimace of distaste. Sabira was willing to bet it wasn’t sweet mint tea.
“Tainted Well-house brew. All we got left till the next shipment comes in from Stormreach. Four coppers each. Got some oil for the ’forged if he wants, but that’s a full sovereign.”
Jester politely declined as the others dug out the required amount of coin. After the gnome had left, they looked at each other, no one wanting to be the first to try the foul-smelling concoction.
“It’s not a very auspicious name,” Jester remarked unhelpfully. Sabira decided this probably wasn’t the time to share with them the story of how that name had come about.
“Well, then it matches everything else about this trip,” she said wryly. “Bottoms up.”
The others followed half a breath after her, upending their mugs and swallowing. Sabira had braced herself for a taste to match the smell, but the ale was smooth, going down like velvet with a pleasant earthy flavor and a warm finish.
“Mushrooms,” Greddark said decisively. “And cactus sap, if I’m not mistaken. Probably the flowers too. Could use some ironspice to liven it up, but it’s not bad. Not bad at all.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his fist and signaled for another.
“Might want to slow down there, mate,” a man at the neighboring table said-a Vadalis, judging from the quick glimpse Sabira got of the dragonmark on his neck before his long blond hair fell forward to cover it. Probably a handler for the magebred camels; if Brannan used them, it stood to reason other expeditions did too. “Stuff’s more potent than it looks.”
Greddark snorted.
“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll order a double.”
Sabira gave the dwarf a dark look and turned on her seat so she was facing the man.
“You’ll have to forgive my friend. He got a little too much sun on the way here, and heat makes him cranky.” She shrugged apologetically. “It’s a dwarf thing.”
The man’s eyes flicked over her once, taking in the quality of her armor and the Siberys shard adorning the urgrosh on her back.
“Deneith?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
She nodded, holding out her hand.
“Sabira.”
“Laven d’Vadalis,” he replied, shaking her hand. “Didn’t expect to see any more of you lot here after the last group didn’t make it back.”
“Oh?”
“Pretty blonde took ’em down-Blademarks, I think. None of them ever came back up again.” His eyes-hazel, like Elix’s, Sabira noticed with a sudden pang she forced quickly away-narrowed. “Well, except their guide. One of the Unders.”
“Unders?”
“Drow who live under the mountains and the desert, came up when the caverns were opened. Umbragen’s the name I think they use, but most everyone else just calls them Unders.”
“Yeah, because they get under your skin, and stay there,” one of Laven’s companions interjected. “Like a cactus needle, or a scorpion sting.” The woman’s comment was greeted with grunts of assent from the others at their table.
The corner of Laven’s mouth quirked upward.
“Glynn’s just mad he turned her down,” he quipped, which earned him a half-hearted punch from the woman and chuckles from his friends. Then he turned serious again. “You here to finish what the blonde started?”
Sabira gave him her most ingenuous smile, then lied through her teeth.
“I’m here to get rich. Aren’t you?”
Laven laughed and raised his mug.
“I’ll drink to that.”
As the Vadalis man gulped down his own Tainted Well, Sabira took stock of him and his companions. Laven wore boiled leather armor and carried a worn but well-kept sword. Glynn was similarly dressed, with a brace of daggers across her chest. The two others at the table were also human, one in battered chain and the other in heavy robes Sabira suspected had been fashioned out of a wagon covering.