And another voice spoke to her, whispering, at once infinitely repellent and infinitely seductive, saying:
Zaranda.
Join us.
Why fight it?
You know you shall come to us…
Soon.
10
"If you would know the source of your troubles," the amplified voice shouted, piping-shrill yet bearing authority, "look to the wealthy. It is because they are rich that you are poor!"
Outside the yellow brick smithy, a crowd roared approval. Artalos the armorer rubbed an oily hand on the front of his leathern apron, which was dotted with tiny char spots from the sparks that flew from his forge. They can go on like that for hours," he said with something resembling admiration. "There may be aught in what they say; I lack the wisdom to know. I do know that when they speak of the rich, they include artisans and craft-folk like me. And if I'm rich, why do I sweat the daylight hours away, and still fall short when it comes time to pay my bills? Not to mention the taxes the city council exacts, and the dues the syndics demand."
Zaranda went to stand in the doorway. It opened on a yard in which there stood an anvil, a quenching tub, and piles of rusting ironmongery ranging from old plowshares to broken swords. A gate stood open in the high wall, into the top of which were set old sword tips, points upward like the leaves of a hedge, which surrounded the smithy yard. Through it she could see a small figure standing on a nail keg in the bed of a wagon parked where two streets crossed, addressing a large, rough-dressed crowd.
"Does every madman in Zazesspur possess a speaking tube?" she asked.
"And an audience," Artalos agreed grimly. "So it is coming to pass."
"Who's our diminutive orator?"
The armorer came forward, scratching his grizzle-bristled chin with his right hand, which at the moment was a black iron hook that he used to grasp the handles of melting pots. He had quite an assortment of cleverly wrought implements he could substitute for his hand, which had gone missing to a Tuigan sword during the nomad invasion years before. Likewise, the smallest two fingers of his left hand were gone, though he had not bothered to replace those.
"That would be Toby, or to put it formally, Tobiworth Hedgeblossom, of the noted Hedgeblossom brothers."
"Noted?"
"Noted indeed. Toby and his brother Putomas- called Poot by the vulgar, which of course includes most of his followers-are among the foremost of our local rabble-rousers. They lead the Social Justice League, which is among the foremost of our local rabbles."
"Rather in the fashion of Earl Ravenak?"
Artalos turned and spat with great accuracy into the open mouth of his forge, eliciting a hiss of steam. "Not quite. They don't preach outright murder-yet, though I fear their wild talk will lead them to that, inevitably, as rivers seek the sea. That carrion-breathed raver Ravenak not only preaches it-his minions practice it with a will."
He shrugged and went back inside. "Ill times have overtaken Zaz of late. Our own guild masters, the syndics, treat us more as chattel than craft-brothers-and I think we armorers and swordsmiths get off lightly since so many of us are veteran fighters and not to be imposed upon."
But will you act to defend your rights, any more than the weavers or soapmakers? Zaranda wondered. She forbore to ask since Artalos was an old comrade, and she wanted further information from him.
Feeling the need for more information as to how the land lay in Zazesspur, she had gone abroad to talk with some of her long-standing contacts. She did so alone. Shield of Innocence and Stillhawk remained in one another's care back at the Winsome Repose, since they would be uncomfortable and conspicuous among the Zaz throngs. Stillhawk yet hated the orog as a crow hates an owl, but he would neither harm Shield nor suffer harm to come to him unless the supposed paladin acted treacherously; such was Stillhawk's devotion to Zaranda.
Farlorn was off on business of his own. Since they were back in civilization and his sporadic attempts to resume matters with Zaranda had been rebuffed, said business probably entailed seducing human women, a passion with him almost as great as his love for music and strife. Zaranda was just as happy for lack of his company. He had been a friend for a long time, and a fine companion on the road, but sometimes his dual nature bore down heavily on him, making him difficult to be around.
Toby Hedgeblossom's impassioned rhetoric followed Zaranda and Artalos into the shadowed forge.
"Likely one or the other of the Hedgeblossoms will get himself elected, and then they'll lose interest in redistributing wealth, save into their own pockets," the armorer said, working a bellows with a treadle. The glare from the open forge changed from orange to yellow. "Meanwhile, have you heard the latest tidings? It's said that the city council is considering making it illegal to bear weapons larger than daggers within the city walls-unless, of course, you happen to belong to the civic guard, or are some councilman's personal bravo."
"Will the folk of Zazesspur stand for that?" Zaranda asked.
The armorer shrugged again. "Ill times beset us. If it wasn't for the cogs and caravels plying in and out of the harbor we'd be as poor as the country wretches. People are saying something must be done." He shook his head. "Why they think that means doing just anything will help, though, is more than my poor head can puzzle out."
"What of the darklings? Many speak of them as the greatest menace, yet you've not mentioned them."
"The darklings are a fell lot, no question, and I fear they are harbingers of worse times to come. Yet they prey mainly on the weak and unarmed. They fall readily enough to swords wielded with will and skill, so I am told."
"So much is true," Zaranda said.
He looked at her a moment under lowered brows and laughed. "So! I should've known the redoubtable Captain Star could not pass a night in Zazesspur without crossing swords with our local plague. You ever drew trouble to you like a lodestone!"
"Thank you so much for reminding me."
With his hook, he reached into the forge and drew forth a crucible of molten steel, glowing white. This he poured into a dagger mold.
"I don't doubt this civic guard could clean the devils out with one concerted push," he said as he poured, "if there were anything to them but swagger. Still-" he set the empty crucible aside "-the darklings pose little enough threat to us, so long as we're allowed to keep our swords."
Having learned as much as she felt she could, Zaranda bade her old comrade farewell. When she started out the gate, a symbol painted in the mouth of the alley caught her attention: a stylized eye with a brow slanting to meet it from above and two lines descending from it below.
"Artalos," she called. "A moment more of your time, if you will."
The armorer emerged, blinking, into the sunlight. "Always for you, Captain. What be your wish?"
"That sign there-you know it?"
He snorted. "Who does not know the dragon's-eye symbol of Nyadnar the Sorceress? Powerful she must be indeed to dare the wrath of those creatures by using such a sign. Yet you'd think so powerful a wizard would have better things to do than creep about the city scrawling on walls."
"Perhaps she doesn't do it herself."
"Who'd dare without her permission? I'd as lief scrawl Elminster's mark in a public urinal. Nyadnar's not his match, so it's said and so I believe; but there's something fell about her. I wonder if she's not a thing of evil, after all."
"She thinks herself above such concerns," Zaranda murmured. "So she's in residence currently?"
"In her house on Love Street," the armorer said with a nod, "or so it would seem. That mark was not there yesterday when the sun went down."