“Thank you for your cooperation, Goodman Green,” the wizard replied. “You may leave now.”
The barkeep bowed his head to the king and left the tower room. Vangerdahast’s eyes followed him thoughtfully.
“I don’t know many assassins who rescue bards in distress,” Azoun said to his wizard.
“But many make deals with dragons, Your Highness, and as is the way with their kind, they often cheat on their agreements. The dragon might only be interested in collecting an unpaid debt.”
“But why would the bard lie about her rescue?”
“This Olive Ruskettle is a halfling. She may not be a bard.”
Giogioni rose from his chair. “Now, hold on just a moment,” he said. “She’s a fine bard. What gives you the right to slander people just because they’re short?”
Vangerdahast fixed the noble with a cold stare.
“Well, I thought she was good,” Giogioni muttered, sitting back down.
King Azoun struggled with his conscience and his reason. On one hand, if this woman were an assassin, he wasn’t troubled by letting the dragon take care of her. On the other hand, if she were some innocent victim of a curse, he wasn’t going to sleep well that night. Still, it was a long road to Yulash. The dragon might not find her, he reasoned, and Alias had defeated it once already. Ridding Cormyr of a dragon was no small accomplishment for a king.
He nodded his assent to Vangerdahast’s plan.
“Lord Giogioni,” the wizard said. “Upon receiving the dragon’s promise to leave and never return to Cormyr, you will inform the creature that Alias of Westgate left Suzail eight days ago. To the best of your knowledge, the adventuress was headed toward Yulash.”
Giogioni rose to his feet with a sigh, bowed his head, and left on his mission.
“Perhaps now that he’s served as Your Majesty’s messenger, he might consider rendering you some other service.”
“Such as?”
“Investigating Westgate,” the wizard suggested.
Azoun’s brow furrowed in anger. “You mean that barkeep was lying! Why didn’t you tell me?”
Vangerdahast shook his head. “No, Goodman Green was telling the truth, though perhaps not all of it. The woman and her companions were seen leaving by the Eastgate, which leads to the road north.”
“So, why send Giogi to Westgate?”
“The barkeep may have been mistaken. Alias could make it to Yulash and back to Westgate without the dragon finding her. Someone who knows her appearance and holds your interests to heart should be sent there, just in case.”
Azoun nodded. He turned back to the window and peered over the western wall again. “You remember, Vangy, when I was your pupil and you used to give me those tests in ethics?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“I always hated them. Still do.”
“Only now, Your Highness,” Vangerdahast replied softly, “they are no longer tests.”
11
Shadow Gap
Whenever Alias saw Shadow Gap she thought of some weary titan dragging his axe behind him as he stepped over the hills. At least that was how she imagined the creation of the steep-sided, steep-sloped gorge that split the mountains in two.
No more than an hour of noon sunlight ever reached the floor of the pass. At all other times, it remained in the shadow of the mountains, hence its name.
The gap was barren, save for a scattering of short, scrubby bushes. The road through it wound upward in an interminable series of hairpin curves and ascending switchbacks, resembling a dry wash. Alias had passed through the gap as a caravan guard many times and remembered how, in the spring, water followed the same course down the hill as the merchant wagons.
Heavily laden wagons draped with thick rugs and waterproof slickers would rumble up the gorge at a snail’s pace. The lord merchants urged the drivers on, while mercenary sell-swords watched the cliffs for ambush. Occasionally, a procession of pilgrims on foot interruputed the flow, oblivious to the bustling world around them. More rarely a wizard’s wagon, with lumber sprouting fresh, spring leaves, clattered through the vale on ancient wheels, pulled by oxen, gorgons, or more fantastic beasts.
Today, all that was absent, banished as if by magic. The vale was emptier than a tax collector’s Yule party. The only sound the travelers heard was the clopping of the horse hooves beneath them. Alias wondered what could have halted the trade so completely. A war, perhaps, or rumor of one. But she’d heard nothing of that sort in Cormyr, and the Cormyrians were not, as a rule, insular.
Akabar, having never passed through the gap before, rode at the head of the party as if nothing was amiss. Behind him, Olive found the stillness jarring. Dragonbait hissed once, never a good sign, and Alias caught a whiff of something that smelled like ham. She furrowed her brow in puzzlement and sniffed again. Nothing. Must have imagined it, she thought, but she made sure that her longsword was loose in its scabbard and her knives were handy.
Something croaked her name, harsh and low, and she came up with a dagger in hand. The others seemed not to hear the voice.
Did the wind carry it to her ears alone? Or did sorcery? she wondered, remembering the attack at the abandoned druid’s circle, where the wind had drowned out her cries for help.
The swordswoman reigned in her horse behind the others and listened. The sound came again, a harsh, dying croak that called her name, this time from one of the scrub bushes on Alias’s left.
Spotting Alias behind them, Olive harrumphed.
Akabar called back, “Alias? Are—”
Suddenly, the bush near Alias rustled and exploded in a flurry of feathers.
Old reflexes took over, and Alias felt like some mechanical toy. She aimed, snapped her wrist back, and flicked her knife forward, loosing the dagger.
The spinning weapon struck the bird, a huge raven, at the base of its left wing and stuck there. A smaller creature would have been skewered, but the raven took to the air with the blade embedded in its flesh—the dagger’s gold-wrapped hilt jutting out and flashing in the sun.
Hissing, Dragonbait drew his sword.
“Lee-as, Lee-as, Lee-as,” the bird shrieked as it rose straight up, spun, and flapped in an ungainly manner toward the nearest cliff wall, taking Alias’s weapon with it.
The woman warrior shook her head angrily. The unnatural silence had unsettled her, and her little flash of paranoia had cost her a good throwing dagger.
“I thought it was something more dangerous than a blasted bird,” Alias said, rejoining the group. “I thought it was calling my name.” Then she laughed, one of the first deep-hearted laughs she’d permitted herself in gods knew how long.
“It was only a robberwing,” the mage said, surprised by her reaction. “They’re quite common on the southern shores of the Inner Sea. I thought they were well-known in the north, too. They take shiny objects on occasion, but otherwise they’re harmless.”
“In Waterdeep,” chimed in the halfling, “a corrupt lord trained a flock of robberwings to steal for him.”
“Natives of Waterdeep,” replied the mage, “have all sorts of odd ways to pass the time … when they aren’t counting their money.”
“Robberwings are considered an ill omen in Thay,” Olive added.
Dragonbait hissed again. His dead, yellow eyes glared at the cliff where the raven had disappeared.
Alias’s laughter subsided. “It’s all right, Dragonbait,” she said, patting him on the back. “I know it was just a raven.’ She turned to the others. “It’s just that I was expecting … a dragon. Or a harpy. Or at least a nest of blood-sucking stirges. I feel a little foolish at having lost a weapon to … just a bird.”
“A lost weapon’s like a lost meal,” said the halfling, wheeling around on her pony. “Replaceable, but you have to know where to look. Speaking of which, are we going to sit here until dark or press on to this marvelous inn of yours?”