A large bed covered in thick blankets and furs took up one side of the room; a dark wood table with two chairs matched a large desk at the far side of the room. The smoothly polished wood grain followed a beautiful pattern like falling rain. Maps of Ikemmu, the Underdark, and various parts of Faerun covered the walls. Next to them hung a single painting of a green landscape-a vast forest as seen from a distance through pale mist. A path veered through the wood, and on the path were riders wearing a livery Ashok didn’t recognize.
“That’s Cormyr,” Tatigan said, following Ashok’s gaze. “I’m told the painting once belonged to Azoun IV, a former king, though I’ve never had it verified.”
“How go your studies of Ikemmu?” Ashok asked. He nodded to the stacks of parchment on the merchant’s desk, a strange mixture of account keeping and research notes written in spidery shorthand.
“Well enough. I don’t have as much time for them as I’d like, but now that you’re here, maybe I’ll make some progress,” Tatigan said. He had on loose-fitting trousers and a silk shirt overlaid with a vest of light gray fur. As was his custom, he wore spectacles with dark green lenses, even in the dimness of the lantern-lit room.
“What makes you say that?” Ashok said.
“Oh, that reminds me, I have something I think you’ll want to try, Skagi.” Ignoring Ashok’s question, the merchant went to the table, pulled out both chairs for them, and took down a decanter of wine and two glasses from a shelf above his head. He poured a taste into one of the glasses and handed it to Skagi.
“Don’t need to be so stingy,” Skagi said, eyeing the tiny amount. “I wasn’t going to drink it all.”
Tatigan chuckled. “You’ll want to take this vintage slowly, my friend. It hits you when you least expect it.”
Skagi sniffed the drink, then drained the glass in one swallow despite the merchant’s warning. Tatigan poured a slightly greater amount into the second glass and offered it to Ashok.
Ashok took the glass, but he hesitated before putting it to his mouth. “What did you mean when you said you’d make progress with me here?”
“Godsdamn, this is the stuff!”
Ashok turned to see Skagi half out of his chair, his hands pressed against the floor as if for balance. When he looked up, Ashok saw he was sweating, his eyes feverish, but he grinned at both of them.
“More?” Tatigan asked politely.
Skagi made a grab for his glass, missed, but picked it up on the second try. He waved it in the air.
“You can’t be drunk already?” Ashok said. “I’ve seen you drain four flagons that were each larger than this decanter without losing your wits.”
“Yes, but his body isn’t used to the jhuild,” Tatigan said. “Rashemi firewine.”
Ashok looked at Tatigan sharply. “This is from Rashemen?”
“Oh yes, I understand you’ll be making a journey there,” the merchant said with feigned nonchalance. “Did you know the Rashemi are the only people in Faerun who make the jhuild? One decanter is worth more than the pair of you, so a trickle is all you get. Enjoy.”
His curiosity aroused, Ashok drained his glass. Immediately he felt the wine’s warmth in his blood, as potent as if he’d drunk half a bottle. The drink left a strange aftertaste on his tongue, making it feel thick and awkward in his mouth. He took a step forward and back to test his balance, but his reflexes didn’t seem to be as impaired as Skagi’s were. Yet when he lifted his hands, for a breath, his vision blurred and a tremor went through his hands. His heartbeat quickened, and a burning sensation spread through his chest, slowly at first, but then so fast he broke into a sweat. He couldn’t control his heartbeat.
“This isn’t wine,” he snarled. He braced a hand against the wall to keep from falling. “You poisoned us.”
“Of course I did.” Tatigan took Ashok’s glass and refilled it. Instead of handing it back to him, the merchant took a drink. “That’s what jhuild is-wine so potent it attacks your body. It won’t kill you, but your system fights with it, so you have to monitor your limits. But if you can find the right balance between kill and cure-and isn’t that the essence of liquor? — the jhuild will make you stronger. The berserkers drink it among the Rashemi.”
He was right. Ashok’s body slowly adapted to the effects of the drink. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. The Rashemi obviously didn’t brew the jhuild for flavor, at least not in the way other wines were carefully bottled and aged to bring out their subtleties. This brew dominated the senses-the firewine masters me until my body masters it-then came the experience of flavors. Gods, he never knew there was such a thing as a battle with wine.
“Who are these berserkers?” Ashok said.
“The warriors of Rashemen,” Tatigan explained. “When we get there, you’ll likely meet them. They have fangs-battle groups-to protect every village in the country.”
“We?” Ashok said, surprised. “You’ll be on the caravan with us?”
“Leading the caravan, you mean.” Tatigan couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “For years I’ve attached myself to other crews to peddle my goods, but I’m tired of the small scale. I’ve started a venture with three other merchants, a coster caravan that’ll claim the Golden Way trade route as its own. We leave soon to beat the first snows in the North. Uwan tells me that, by happy coincidence, you have business in Rashemen with the wychlaran and need an escort, which I offered to provide.”
Ashok took back his glass from Tatigan. He swirled the liquid and watched it settle, taking in the color and vibrancy of the wine while he tried to take in Tatigan’s words. Firewine, berserkers, fangs-he wanted to know more about these Rashemi, but first, he needed to know how much Tatigan knew about his own mission into their country. “Did Uwan tell you what our business in Rashemen was?” he asked carefully.
“No, and I didn’t ask. As always, I serve the Watching Blade and the city of Ikemmu,” Tatigan said, offering a whimsical half bow. “Besides, it will be good to have as many skilled warriors as possible along for our first outing. Everyone benefits.”
Ashok took another drink-a sip this time-of the jhuild. He shuddered as the poisoned pleasure hit him. “Warriors that brew this drink could understand the shadar-kai,” he murmured.
Tatigan looked at him over the rim of his spectacles. “See now, that’s why I’m glad you stopped by to see me, Ashok. You always say such interesting things.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Tatigan went to his desk and sat on the edge. He lifted one of the parchment sheets. “I make the same observation here in my research.” He read the text aloud. “ ‘Faerun’s native humans are ill-equipped to confront the driven nature of the shadar-kai, their motivations, and goals. Relationships, particularly trade relations, are by no means impossible-we have daily evidence of success-but the discord in their natures creates a barrier in social and cultural interactions. Of all the human peoples in Faerun, the ones most suited to understand the shadar-kai are the Rashemi.’ ” He set the parchment back down.
“The history of Rashemen is fraught with war and strife,” Tatigan went on. He pointed at the map on the wall. “Even their geography works against them. Look: Their southern neighbors, the Thayans, launched countless invasions over hundreds of years. From the East, the Tuigan horde did the same, to say nothing of the lost empires of Narfell and Raumathar-powers that used Rashemi land as a battleground. Despite all this, their people carve home and glory out of a harsh, isolated environment. They submit utterly to the authority of the wychlaran-witches-and reward their warriors for superior skill and fighting prowess. In battle, frenzy consumes their berserker warriors, a force that rivals the ecstasy of pain and suffering embraced by the children of Netheril, the shadar-kai. The great irony is that the isolated natures of both peoples would never allow one to seek out the other for an alliance.”
“Until now,” Ashok said.