“Sure he has,” Duvan said with a snicker.
“But,” Slanya continued, “he has run out of a crucial component. And he needs more, much more, before the Festival of Blue Fire begins.”
“So?”
“He has given me the task of heading into the Plague-wrought Land and bringing some back.”
Duvan let out a harsh laugh. “Well, you’re not nearly as smart as you look.”
Slanya ignored the insult. “It’s important.”
“More important than not being killed by spellplague?”
Slanya narrowed her gaze. “Do you know how many pilgrims die of spellplague sickness every day? Nine in ten just burn up instantly, and as for the rest … Well, have you seen the tents full of the dying? The funeral fires?”
Duvan asked, “Why should I care?”
“If you’ve ever been with someone sick from spellplague exposure, you’d have more sympathy.”
He started to retort but stopped and glared at her. What had she said, she wondered, to break his shell?
After a moment he said, “These people come here by choice. They do not deserve my sympathy or yours.”
“What if we could help everyone who’s exposed? Prevent suffering far and wide?”
“A fantasy,” he said. “I’ve seen what the changelands can do. I’ve seen it. You and your elixirs can do nothing to stop it. It’s too late.”
Slanya wasn’t sure what he was talking about. “Too late for what?”
A pained expression flashed across his face, and he turned away. “Nothing,” he said. “Don’t talk anymore about it. In fact, don’t talk to me anymore.”
“Believe me,” she continued, “if there was anyone else who could help us, I’d have never come. But Tyrangal told me that you were the only one who can safely guide me into the changelands.”
“Tyrangal sent you?” Duvan’s tone drained of animosity.
“She’s serving as a broker for your services,” Slanya admitted.
“You should’ve just said so.” He relaxed into the bed. “We could’ve saved all this bickering.”
Slanya cautiously stood upright, still wary. Duvan’s body language and temperament had changed completely with the mention of Tyrangal.
Duvan held his free hand out to her, empty. “You seem to know who I am. May I ask your name?”
Slanya stared at the man’s hand. It was clearly a conciliatory gesture, but she could hardly trust him now. “My name is Slanya,” she said.
“Well, Slanya, could you untie me? I can get free on my own, but you seem like you’re in a hurry.”
Duvan sized up his companion as he dressed and walked out of the room. The human cleric could hold her own; he had to give her that. She’d had some good combat training, and he found himself respecting her. Still, he wasn’t sure he believed her story. He wouldn’t trust her until he had Tyrangal’s word.
He led Slanya out into the thoroughfare. “Let’s go this way,” he said. “Short cut.”
Slanya’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Of course it is.” But despite her wry tone, she followed.
Duvan angled away from the Changing House building so as to lower the chances of running into any members of the Order of Blue Fire who might be looking for him. Still, there was no place in Ormpetarr truly hidden from Order eyes.
As he and Slanya made their way through the crowd, Duvan avoided eye contact with anyone. They passed the inn-operated by a member of the Order-and then skirted around the counting house-owned and run by Tyrangal and the Copper Guard. There was no law in Ormpetarr, and normally Duvan liked it that way, but the Order had started mounting patrols to persuade the darker elements to vacate the town.
Problem was that it was the Order who decided what elements were good and which were unacceptable. As soon as they decided that Tyrangal and her Copper Guard were in the dark faction, then the delicate balance would erupt into open conflict.
Many townsfolk had joined the Order and paid their tithe just to avoid being hassled. Duvan didn’t have contempt for those who did. It was the cost of business in Ormpetarr. Still, he hated bullies.
No sign of Beaugrat. Duvan surreptitiously patted his chest to reassure himself that his daggers were ready for action if need be.
Gliding beside him, Slanya remained quiet. She held herself with a ready confidence, wary and alert. Which was good-if Slanya were telling the truth, Tyrangal would have his skin for supper if he let something happen to her.
Slanya seemed content to walk in a wary silence as they passed out of the city and up the hill. They passed the ruined gates which marked the entrance into the ‘burn zone,’ as Tyrangal called it, a wide swath of destruction that surrounded the mansion.
Duvan suspected that Tyrangal purposefully kept this burn zone area around her mansion devoid of other new structures, making it more imposing and difficult for people to come visit her. No one just happened along here.
Duvan knew that Tyrangal had guards and sentries posted among the remnants of ancient masonry and sculpture that had once been part of a broad garden. Duvan knew where the hidden posts were, most of them, and he knew many of the Copper Guard too, but not all of them.
He led Slanya along the old flagstone path across the burn zone, until finally the two of them came to Tyrangal’s ornate door.
“Come in,” rang Tyrangal’s mellifluous voice, and Duvan complied, noting that Slanya could no more resist the voice than he could.
Once inside the ornate and cluttered house, Duvan’s eyes still adjusting to the dim light, Tyrangal stood before them, radiant in her red finery. “Were you able to recover the tome?”
Duvan nodded, then slung his pack from his shoulders and pulled out the book. “I had quite the time getting this before the esteemed baron’s last bastion fell into the Under-chasm forever.”
Tyrangal accepted the tome gingerly in her small hands. She muttered something under her breath, casting a spell as she examined the thick hide cover.
Slanya stood perfectly erect next to Duvan. No sign of her earlier rush to get moving on her journey was in evidence now. Duvan understood that; you didn’t hurry or interrupt Tyrangal. He’d learned that over the years.
Despite her luxurious appearance, Tyrangal was one of the most accomplished thieves he’d ever met. She’d rescued him three years earlier from the Wildhome elves-from Rhiazzshar and her ilk. Tyrangal had taken him under her wing, had continued his training in thievery, in combat, in climbing and falling and countless other things.
And in return, he acquired things for her. The sorts of things she sent him after were esoteric and bizarre: a vial of powder negotiated from a nomadic merchant in Murghom; an amulet containing a metallic liquid at its heart, recovered from a treasure casket in prison dungeons underneath Alaghon in Turmish; a cache of wine barrels floated from a sunken galleon in the Sea of Fallen Stars.
Duvan never asked questions about why she wanted these things. He didn’t really care, and Tyrangal would never tell him anyhow. She paid him enough that he didn’t need to ask questions. Besides, he thrilled to the challenge.
He had done the occasional job for other collectors in the past, but like a child to fire, he always returned to Tyrangal. He owed her so much, and he loved the work she gave him. Can’t stay away from the intensity, he thought. It was the only thing that made him feel alive.
Tyrangal looked up from her examination of the tome. “You have done well,” she said.
Duvan smiled. He was embarrassed to admit it, but he wanted to please Tyrangal. He had wondered on occasion what it would be like to kiss her, but he had never dared to try.
“I will need the ring back as well; it won’t work where you’re headed next.”
“Of course,” Duvan said, and handed the teleportation ring to her. Enchanted jewelry and other magical items often misfired or just didn’t work in the Plaguewrought Land. The ring would be just as likely to explode or turn into a swarm of moths as it was to work properly.