Olive stopped dead again as the feeling of recognition stopped tickling at the back of her brain and hit her with the force of a runaway cart. Could it really be him, she wondered. Out of all the pigeons in the world, I pick Giogioni Wyvernspur, infamous imitator of royalty?
Olive had sung at the wedding reception of one of Giogioni’s relatives. During her performance, the young Wyvernspur noble gave an impromptu imitation of the king of Cormyr, and Alias of Westgate had tried to murder him. It wasn’t that Alias had felt any loyalty to the crown, nor had she been offended that the youth had interrupted Olive’s singing. With her body controlled by sinister forces desiring Azoun’s death, Alias had been unable to stop herself, even though she could see that Giogi was not the king of Cormyr.
He’s a little scrawnier and shaggier than he was last spring, but it’s Giogioni all right, Olive decided. Not that surprising really. This is Immersea, after all, the Wyvernspurs’ home. Poor boy, Olive thought with a sympathetic smile as she resumed stalking her prey. First Alias tried to commit regicide on his decidedly unregal person, and now, here I am, about to steal his purse.
Some people are just born unlucky, the halfling thought with a grin. Giogi halted at the door of the Immer Inn. Olive passed within inches of the young noble, and with a deft snatch she tugged the sack of coins from his cloak pocket. She gave the bag a flamboyant spin by its string as she hurried off. Centrifugal force kept the coins secure and unclinking.
Unaware of his loss, the nobleman pushed open the door to his favorite tavern and burst inside, crying, “What ho!” There were hearty cries of greetings from within, to which Giogioni responded with the voice of King Azoun IV, “My Cormytes. My people …”
Three buildings beyond the Immer Inn, Olive ducked into an alley, circled around the block, and sneaked behind Jade.
Jade turned and smiled, though, before Olive could surprise her. For a human, she had good hearing and excellent night vision. “You hesitated before the snatch, Olive,” Jade noted. “Were you having trouble sneaking up on him, or were you having pangs of conscience?” she taunted.
Olive shook her head. “Did you see those boots he was wearing?”
“Those earth-shakers?” Jade asked with a nod.
“I was trying to figure a way to get them off his feet without him noticing. I thought they might just fit your hulking hooves.”
“And if they didn’t fit my feet” Jade teased back, “I’d give them to you. You could buy an acre of land, roof over them, and live in them.”
The two women, halfling and human, leaned against the wall and chuckled softly. Olive spun the stolen purse by its string one last time and tossed it in the air. She caught it casually in one hand. The coins within gave a hearty clink.
“Now, really. Why did you stop like that?” Jade asked earnestly, her green eyes flashing with curiosity.
“I recognized the mark. Giogioni Wyvernspur. Remember the swordswoman I traveled with last year, Alias of Westgate?”
“The one you said looked like me?” Jade asked, stifling a mock yawn. Jade generally found Olive’s professional exploits amusing, but she had no interest in people who worked outside her field. Also, Olive’s preoccupation with her supposed resemblance to this Alias person disturbed Jade. She sometimes feared Olive liked her for who she looked like, though Jade was careful not to show it.
“That’s the one,” Olive said with a nod. “Only she doesn’t just look like you, girl,” she reminded Jade, “she looks just like you. She could be your sister.”
Jade shrugged.
The halfling sighed inwardly at her partner’s attitude. Olive had hoped all her stories about Alias would somehow magically spark Jade into remembering who she was and where she came from. Each story had failed, though, until there was only one tale left untold, one that Olive could not bring herself to tell her new friend.
It was the tale of how Olive and Alias had discovered twelve duplicates of Alias in the Citadel of White Exile, duplicates not dead but not alive either. When Alias had slain the evil master of the citadel, the duplicates had vanished. Olive had supposed that the images had returned to their elemental origins—until she’d met Jade More, that is.
Jade had to be one of the duplicates, Olive realized. Not only did Jade resemble Alias, but the irrefutable proof was carved into her flesh. On her right arm swirled the remains of the magical brand—a blue river of waves and serpents set there by her creator. Just as with Alias’s brand, the creator’s sigil was missing from the design—the azure bond of servitude had been broken when Alias had killed the monster. Finally, set at the base of the design on the underside of Jade’s wrist was a blue rose, just like the one with which the gods had favored Alias in honor of her love for the music of the Nameless Bard, the man who had designed her.
If it hadn’t been for the telltale brands, though, Olive might not have been so sure of Jade’s origin. Her personality was very different from Alias’s. Granted, Jade exuded the same confidence and competence as the sell-sword, but that was the mark of any experienced adventurer. Jade was relaxed, though, where Alias was driven, humorous where Alias was solemn, and larcenous where Alias was upstanding. Moreover, Jade seemed not to care about her inability to recall much of her own history. Rather, she seemed content practicing her art and getting on with her life without wondering, as Alias had, about her missing memories or true origins.
It was that trait of unreflective self-satisfaction that endeared Jade to the halfling and made it impossible for Olive to tell the human woman that she was a copy of Alias. Olive feared that Jade might lose her joy of life if she learned she’d been created by an evil denizen. She also feared that Jade might hate her for telling the truth.
Jade broke through Olive’s reverie. “What’s this Alias got to do with JoJo Whatever?” she asked.
“Giogioni Wyvernspur. We’ve been here all winter, Jade. You must have heard something about the Wyvernspurs. They founded this town. They’re big favorites at court. They’re supposed to have some sort of ancient artifact, some spur for riding wyverns, that gives them power beyond mortal men. At least that’s the story they tell in the taverns. Anyway, what I was getting at was that Alias once tried to assassinate Giogioni.”
“Olive, you really should be more careful who you travel with. These violent types’ll get you into trouble.”
Olive nodded. “It’s true. She did.”
“Lucky you’ve got me to look out for you, now,” Jade said in mock earnestness, waving a slender finger.
“And who’s going to look out for you?” Olive teased.
“I don’t need looking out for. I never get into trouble.”
“You will if one of Sudacar’s men sees you with Giogioni Wyvernspur’s purse hanging from your belt,” Olive warned, an impish smile barely contained on her face.
“I don’t have—” Jade swung her hand down to her hip. Knotted around her belt were the strings of a yellow velvet bag embroidered with a green “W” and bulging with coins.
Olive grinned. “Don’t you think you’d better tuck that out of sight? I’ll collect my cut later.”
Giving a low whistle of appreciation for the halfling’s dexterity and sneakiness, Jade teased the knot out of the purse strings. From her belt she drew a second, smaller pouch. She opened the smaller one and dropped Giogi’s larger, unopened purse into it. The money-laden purse disappeared into the pouch without making a bulge.