Alias rode on without stopping, too tired to take in the sights. She had been here before, and the only sight that interested her now was a bed in The Old Skull, Shadowdale’s inn.
Still, it was a relief to find the city standing and not a burned out shell. She hadn’t been back for seven years, ever since the Swanmays had disbanded, but she had many fond memories of the town.
As they’d crossed the river, she’d spotted two new temples. Otherwise, nothing had changed since the time when the Swanmays had rescued Alias from servitude in Westgate and smuggled her north.
Alias had been the youngest of the seven women who made up the Swanmays, and a thumb-fingered fighter. If not for the shielding of the other members of the company, she would have been skewered in her first battle. But she’d grown into a seasoned swordswoman within three seasons, while the company earned its living guarding caravans through the Elven Wood.
The group had broken up over a foolish argument concerning a worthless man, and each member had gone her separate way. Alias found that she still cared enough about them all to wonder what had become of them.
Naturally, Alias had been closest to Kith, since they’d been closest in age. Kith had been a very beautiful young girl—so lovely she’d made Alias feel awkward and plain. Kith had been like a sister to her though. They’d even pricked their thumbs and become blood-sisters. Alias used to plait Kith’s long, silky, chestnut hair and Kith had taught Alias to read and write. Kith had received her magical training in Shadowdale, from the river witch Syluné.
Maybe I’ll visit Syluné before we leave here, Alias thought. If she can tell me her former pupil’s whereabouts, I might look Kith up after I put this sigil mess behind me. It feels wonderful to remember something so fully. I can remember it as clearly as though I’m reading it from a book. I only left the Black Hawks a year ago, but their faces and names are fuzzy. Somehow, though, returning to Shadowdale has brought back all my memories of the Swanmays.
“An excellent reason to visit here, even if it weren’t on the way to Yulash,” Alias muttered.
“I beg your pardon?” Akabar asked, pulling his horse up alongside Lady Killer. Olive, on High Roll, and Dragonbait, leading Lightning, clomped far behind.
“Nothing,” Alias replied. Just for a while she wanted to keep to herself the joy of these clear memories. Akabar could not possibly understand, and Alias didn’t want the memories belittled by someone else’s indifference.
The Old Skull had not changed a bit. The stalwart building of timber and stone still rose three stories high, its upper levels lined with windows.
The smell of smoke mixed with damp clay and fresh-baked bread attracted Alias’s attention to the building next to the inn. She remembered it was the shop of Meira Lulhannon, a potter and baker. Funny, Alias thought. I don’t remember noticing the smell before. Not that it’s unpleasant, but still, you’d think it would stick in my mind.
The Old Skull’s innkeep was Jhaele Silvermane, a pleasant, motherly woman who had joined the Swanmays for more than one evening of strong tales and stronger drink. Alias remembered that when she’d last visited the inn, Jhaele’s son had grown sons, so Jhaele had to be at least in her late fifties by now. Her hair was grayer and the lines around her eyes deeper, but otherwise she looked just as Alias remembered.
If Jhaele recognized Alias she gave no sign. Alias, for her part, did not feel up to rehashing the good old days until she’d had ten hours of sleep and had cleaned herself up. So, from beneath her sopping hood, she asked if the Green Room, the Onyx, and Warm Fires were available. In The Old Skull, each room was decorated differently and given individual names, a custom that had, unfortunately, died out in more civilized and overpopulated regions like Cormyr.
Jhaele informed her that all three rooms were vacant and ready for guests. She gave Alias a curious look as she led the party to the third floor, no doubt wondering if she was a previous patron.
Olive grumbled about the inordinate number of stairs in human buildings. Even Dragonbait puffed and growled some. Alias didn’t care, though. To her mind they’d rented the best rooms in the house.
Alias claimed Warm Fires, a room with three separate hearths, all blazing merrily. Akabar choose the Onyx, with its white carvings. Ruskettle sniffed at the wilderness scenes on the tapestries that completely covered the walls of the Green Room.
“This will do in a pinch,” she declared, sprawling out on the bright yellow bedspread, and promptly falling asleep.
“Her room has no windows,” Akabar noted to Alias as he closed her door. “Keeping an eye on her comings and goings will be that much easier.”
“You don’t say? That’s just the reason the leader of my first adventuring group always reserved this room,” Alias explained. “We had two sleight-of-hand artistes.”
Akabar grinned. “If I’m not here when you wake, I’ll probably be speaking with the sage Dimswart recommended.”
“Fine.” Alias nodded sleepily.
“Pleasant dreams,” he wished her.
“Pleasdream,” Alias mumbled, closing her door.
With Dragonbait already curled before the largest hearth, snoring deeply, Alias stripped off her clothes, wrapped the bed coverings around herself, and crawled onto the goose down mattress. She was awake only long enough to note the rain had started again, a steady drizzle which lulled her to sleep within minutes.
When Alias awoke, the rain had stopped and the sun was low in the western sky. She rose leisurely, stretching and yawning and wriggling between the warm sheets, luxuriating in what nine silver pieces a night could buy.
Finally, Alias sat up and looked around. Her clothes were spread before the blazing hearths. Dragonbait’s doing, Alias realized, but where’d he taken himself to? she wondered.
The warrior yawned, stretched, and padded across the room, collecting what she would wear. From two floors below came the rythmic thumping of people dancing. The locals had already begun their evening festivities.
She pulled on her leggings, stiff from drying. Instead of an ordinary tunic, she chose from her pack a new robe, something made from wool dyed a turquoise color. Its long sleeves tied around her wrists, hiding her arms completely. Tonight she would forget her problems for a few hours if she could.
Dragonbait had already polished and dried her armor, but she was sick of wearing it. Tonight she would forget her profession, too. She wouldn’t even bring her sword, not even peacebonded. She didn’t need it for feasting, drinking, singing, or dancing. Besides, she was known in Shadowdale. No one here was an enemy.
She slid her remaining dagger in a boot sheath—only because daggers could be used in games, she told herself. She made a mental note to purchase another, to replace the lost one, but promptly forgot that, too. Akabar will remember, she thought with a grin.
Alias knocked on the mage’s door. There was no answer, so she went down to the taproom alone. Olive was already there, holding court for a roomful of locals. Dragonbait sat at her feet. The halfling held her hands to her mouth, fingers spread and curled in imitation of fangs and then opened her arms wide. Alias realized she was recounting her battle with the kalmari.
A sudden anxiety swept over the swordswoman. The foolish halfling might babble about the sigils. It hadn’t occurred to Alias to forbid the bard to mention them. Stupid, stupid, stupid! she scolded herself. Did she think she could rely on Olive’s halfling sense of propriety?
Tonight of all nights she did not want to be identified as a marked woman, a magnet for danger.
“Your friend spins quite a tale,” a mellow voice beside her commented. “How much of it is true?”