Alias turned toward the speaker. He was an attractive man, clean-shaven, well-dressed, with the lean body of a fighter. The only ornament he wore was a ring of red metal, inlaid with three silver crescents wrapped in blue flames. He had the smooth polish of the Dale’s nobility, polite, but not stuffy, yet Alias could detect a trace of a western accent. He almost, but not quite, lost the “h” when he said the word “how.” He’s from Waterdeep, Alias thought.
“Depends on what she’s saying,” Alias replied with a smile. “And how many drinks she’s had, of course.”
“Of course.” The man smiled back. “She says Shadow Gap is clear of the Iron Throne’s monster. If that’s true, the people of the Dales owe you thanks.”
“Oh?” Alias said. “Olive hasn’t explained how she alone defeated the monster with nothing but her quick wits and magical voice?”
A charming grin spread over the man’s face. “No,” he answered, “she admitted to relying as well on her prowess with a broadsword that once belonged to a barbarian god, a holy artifact of Tempus, or so we have been given to understand. Under the constant reminders of the creature at her feet, we have elicited a confession that you and the creature had some part in the affair as well.”
Alias smiled fondly at Dragonbait. Always where he’s needed most, which right now happens to be keeping an eye on the halfling.
“I get the feeling,” the man continued, “that besides making the halfling share the credit, there’s something specific the lizard-thing’s keeping the halfling from mentioning. Her chatter is the usual bard tales about adventurers, red dragons, elementals, and royal weddings, but in every episode there is some point where the creature nudges her and she changes course, so to speak.”
Alias had to force herself to remain calm. “We all have our little secrets, um … you haven’t told me your name,” she said.
“Mourngrym. Mourngrym Amcathra.”
“Alias.”
Mourngrym bowed his head. “On behalf of the people of the Dales, I thank you for ridding us of a fell beast.”
“Your thanks are graciously accepted,” Alias answered, bowing her own head modestly. Inwardly, however, she felt guilty. The kalmari was in the gap partly because of her. But she couldn’t bring herself to spoil the one little moment of glory due her by confessing the truth.
Something about Mourngrym’s official tone made Alias wonder just who he was. “Are you one of Lord Doust’s men?” she asked.
Mourngrym smiled. “I had that honor until last year, when the good cleric retired. Not that he was too old for the job, but he wanted to spend more time with his family. He lives in Arabel now.”
“Oh.” Alias hadn’t heard about that. Why hadn’t she heard about that? Something that important happening, in such an important place, it should have been talked about for months. She had to have known. It must have been lost with the memories of the last year. “Who is lord of Shadowdale now?”
“Me,” Mourngrym said, grinning.
Alias blushed deeply.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I thought you knew. If there is anything you need, I’m sure we can provide it. In thanks.”
She had the lord of Shadowdale offering her whatever she needed, and all she could think of was her lost dagger. She wasn’t going to bother him with something that small.
Someone struck up a reel on a songhorn, accompanied by the rhythmic thumping of a tantan. “How about a dance partner?” Alias asked shyly.
Mourngrym’s grin widened. He rose, offered Alias his arm, and led her to the center of the floor.
The reel was fast and lively, and Alias loved every minute of it. Mourngrym was a fine dancer, and it had been a long time since Alias had done something so frivolous. When it was over her partner led her to a chair.
“Not as easy as swinging a sword, is it? What will you have Alias, ale or wine?” Mourngrym signalled the waiter.
“Wine, please,” Alias panted. “I must have danced that reel a dozen times a night when I was younger. Of course, I wasn’t so lucky in my partners back then. There used to be a dearth of gentlemen in this inn, and Kith and I always had to dance with each other.”
“Kith?” Mourngrym asked.
“She was our mage” Alias explained. “Long ago I was with the Company of the Swanmays. We guarded caravans through the Elven Wood. We used to winter here.”
The waiter stood at Mourngrym’s elbow. “Ale for me, Turko, wine for the lady. Swanmays,” he repeated as Turko hurried off. “Yes, Elminster’s Tales mention them. Six women, all fairly hot-tempered, if I remember correctly.”
“Seven,” Alias corrected. “I was the youngest.”
“Wasn’t the youngest a mage?” asked Mourngrym.
“That was Kith,” said Alias. “She was half a year my elder. She studied under Syluné for a short while.”
“Yes, the witch mentioned her once,” smiled Mourngrym. “Not too favorably, as I recall, but spellcasters are a temperamental bunch.”
“Speaking of temperamental spellcasters, have you seen the other member of my party?”
“The Turmishman?” Mourngrym asked. “Aye, he came down late this afternoon and paid a lad a gold eagle to ask Elminster for an audience. He waited until about an hour ago, when Elminster’s reply came back. The message was—and I quote Elminster’s words—’Hie thy backside to my outer office and await there on my pleasure.’ So your spellcaster is probably pacing the tower floor right now.”
The waiter returned with their drinks.
“Good fortune,” Mourngrym toasted, raising his mug.
“Good fortune,” Alias agreed before she sipped the cold, pink liquid. She’d come to the conclusion that part of her curse involved not being able to enjoy ale. After her dream in Shadow Gap, she’d decided to try wine instead. The drink the waiter brought her was nowhere near as pleasant as the wine in her dream, but it was at least palatable and, with any luck, not so potent.
“Poor Akabar,” Alias said. “Elminster must be this local master sage he was so anxious to talk to. Akabar is so responsible, he’ll miss out on all the fun. I hope he isn’t wasting his time. Is this Elminster any good?”
Mourngrym nearly choked on his ale. “Elminster? You used to winter here and you’ve never heard of Elminster the sage?”
Alias shook her head. “That was over seven years ago. I take it Elminster is someone new.”
“Only as new as the Sunset Peaks and twice as craggy,” the lord of Shadowdale replied, giving her a strange look. “He’s been here forever. He’s the wisest man in the Realms. He’s the reason most people come to Shadowdale, though he doesn’t usually hire his services out anymore.”
Damn, damn, damn, damn! Alias thought. I’ve gone and spoiled everything again. How could I remember so much about this town, and not remember someone so important?
Alias lowered her eyes. “I’m afraid I have trouble remembering things sometimes,” she explained.
“Well, as you said, that was seven years ago. You were young, and young people don’t often take much note of old sages and their ilk,” Mourngrym answered kindly.
The songhorn began another melody accompanied by Olive on her yarting.
“I remember this song, though,” Alias declared. It was an elvish tune, but its lyrics were in the common tongue. It was about the Standing Stone, the monument erected to commemorate the pact made between the dalesmen and the elves of the wood over thirteen centuries ago.
Determined to put the awkward moment behind her, Alias began to sing, her voice clear and strong. The taproom patrons turned from the musicians to the swordswoman. Alias shifted her glance from one face to the other, catching the eyes of her audience, making them feel as if she sang for them. She spotted Dragonbait smiling at her, keeping rhythm with the end of his tail. The only eyes she did not catch were Olive’s. The bard bent over her yarting strings, apparently too intent on her fingerings to look up.