Though there had been times when she’d wished for Quinn’s advice or guidance, years had passed since she wanted to talk to him as badly as she did tonight—not as a master thief, but as the only parental figure she’d ever known. The scene at the pool had shaken her more than she thought possible.
Quinn was gone, and she was an adult now. She pulled her thoughts back to the present conversation and Ragnall’s admonition about the firewine. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “You know I could drink you under this table if I wanted to.”
“I know,” he conceded. “I’ve witnessed it.”
Kestrel rarely drank to excess. In her profession, it was too risky not to be in full possession of one’s faculties. She didn’t intend to get drunk this evening, just dull the tingling in her collarbone. Though she’d fled Valjevo Castle hours ago, the sensation hadn’t ceased. If her adrenaline didn’t stop pumping at this rate, she’d be too exhausted to leave town in the morning.
Which is exactly what she planned to do. Phlan could keep its creepy Pool of Radiance and the undead creatures it spawned. She was moving on.
The serving wench returned with the liquor bottle. She refilled the shotglass, which Kestrel immediately emptied and slid forward for more.
“Slow down, Kes—you’ll make yourself ill.” Ragnall turned to the barmaid. “Bring us two tankards of ale instead.”
Kestrel made no objection. The firewine was burning a hole in her gut anyway. “And some bread and cheese,” she added.
She looked around, taking in the atmosphere of Nat Wyler’s Bell one last time. Though she’d called it home for several months, she wouldn’t miss this dingy little corner of Phlan. The common room had a hard-packed dirt floor and rushes that hadn’t been changed in years. The tables and walls were scratched and scarred. At its best, the fare was mediocre. Her corn-husk mattress upstairs was in desperate need of restuffing. The inn’s main appeal—its only appeal—was that Nat minded his own business and encouraged the serving girls and other patrons to do the same.
No, she wouldn’t miss the Bell, or Phlan as a whole. It was a place, just another place. By next week she’d be in a new one.
The food arrived. Kestrel tried to eat, but the doughy bread stuck in her throat. She washed it down with the ale, but it sat like a lump in her stomach.
“So tell me what happened.” Ragnall lifted his own tankard but set it down without drinking, his blue eyes narrowing. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“Who?”
“The old goat in the market today.”
“No!” Kestrel snorted.
“What is it, then? I’ve never seen you quite like this.”
She stared at him a moment, debating. Would he think her crazy? On the other hand, what she’d witnessed today might make her crazy if she didn’t tell someone. She quaffed more ale and leaned forward.
“The Pool of Radiance has reappeared,” she said in a low voice.
Ragnall’s eyes widened. “You know this for a fact?”
“I saw it suck the life out of someone today—rotted his flesh right off his bones.”
He leaned back in his seat and let out a low whistle. “After we parted at the market, I heard a few rumors, but I didn’t put any stock in them.”
She frowned. “What kind of rumors?”
“Stories similar to yours. I guess several people—the number increases with each telling—have disappeared since last night, and others speak of undead creatures wandering the city. Like I said, I thought they were just bogeyman tales to keep children in line, but supposedly Elminster himself arrived tonight to investigate.”
“Elminster? How did he get here so fast? Or even hear about this?”
Ragnall shrugged. “How do wizards do anything?”
How indeed? Kestrel disliked spellcasters, considering them more treacherous than the sneakiest assassin. They were always muttering under their breaths, moving their hands in strange gestures, collecting odd substances. They gave her the creeps. Just when a body least expected it, they’d blow something up or send objects flying through the air. Or worse—set traps, like the one at the tower, that unleashed their sorcery long after the spellcaster had left the scene. She still bore a scar on her left wrist from trying to pick an ensorcelled lock three years ago.
“You going to report what you saw?” Ragnall asked.
“Yeah, right,” she said. “That’s what I need—to solicit a wizard’s notice. No thanks.”
“I hear there’s a reward.”
That got her attention. “What kind of reward?”
“One hundred gold pieces for a genuine firsthand account.” He broke a hunk of cheese off the wedge. “That’s what I heard anyway. Don’t know if it’s true.”
A hundred gold pieces. Kestrel had been debating the wisdom of trying to retrieve her treasure from its hiding spot near the pool. If she couldn’t get to it, the nobleman’s money pouch was all she had in the world, and any additional coins would make a big difference. Even if the rumors of reward proved false, perhaps she could convince Elminster that her tale was worth paying to hear.
She stood, immediately regretting the quick movement. A wave of dizziness rocked her. That firewine must have been more potent than she’d thought.
Ragnall extended a hand to steady her. “You all right?”
She nodded. The dizziness passed, but her head remained cloudy. “Fine. Where did you say Elminster was?”
“Meeting with the Council of Ten.” He snorted. “As if the blowhards who run this city could have anything useful to say. Why do you ask?”
She drained her tankard, tossed a few coins on the table, and fastened her cloak around her shoulders. “I’m off to see the wizard.”
Kestrel groaned and rolled over. She was going to kill whoever had stuffed her mouth with cotton. And glued her eyes shut. And now shone a lantern in her face.
Someone was sitting on her head.
Slowly, she forced one eye open. Then the other. Then both. Then squeezed them shut again.
She was back in her room at the Bell, lying facedown on her lumpy mattress. Sunlight poured in the window, sending darts of pain shooting through her eyes. Her head hurt so badly she feared her skull might explode.
Damn that firewine. And damn Ragnall—for being right about it.
By minuscule degrees, she pried herself off the mattress and into a sitting position. When the room stopped spinning, she glanced down. Relief flooded the tiny corners of her brain not occupied with processing pain signals. However intoxicated she’d been, she’d at least managed to pass out on top of the money pouch, preventing anyone from stealing it while she slept. Her thieves’ tools also remained undisturbed, as did the club secured to her belt. Her twin daggers, of course, remained untouched, one hidden in each boot.
No one else was in the room. Either Nat hadn’t rented out the other two beds last night, or the lodgers had risen and left. Either way, she was grateful for the solitude—she didn’t think she could bear the sound of even a whispering voice. The murmurs rising from the common room below were bad enough.
She crept over to the washstand, her body stiff from having slept in her leather armor. She splashed cold water on her cheeks and looked into the glass. Deep creases from her mattress webbed the skin on the left side of her face. She must not have budged all night.
What time had she returned to her room? She recalled drinking with Ragnall downstairs and his talk of Elminster. After that, she couldn’t remember anything specific. Had she really gone to see the old mage? Blurred images of a mysterious bearded man floated through her mind, but they could just as easily be remnants of a firewine-induced dream.