Dragonlance 08 - Dragons of the Highlord Skies (21 page)

Aran shifted restlessly in his saddle. His customary cheerfulness had left him suddenly, leaving him moody and edgy.

“What’s wrong?” Brian asked. “Your flask empty?”

“Yes, but that’s not it,” Aran returned gloomily. He shifted again on his saddle, glancing around behind him. “There’s a bad feel to the air. Don’t you notice it?”

“The wind’s changed direction, if that’s what you mean,” said Brian.

“Not that. More like a goose walking across my grave. Only in this case the goose has built a nest on it and hatched goslings. I felt the same way before the attack on Castle Crownguard. You’d better go, if you’re going,” Aran added abruptly.

Brian hesitated. He regarded his friend with concern. He’d seen Aran in all sorts of moods from wild to reckless to merry. He’d never seen him in a black mood like this.

“Go on.” Aran waved his hand as though he were shooing the aforementioned geese. “I’ll meet you in the library that was probably destroyed three hundred years ago.”

“That isn’t funny,” Brian growled over his shoulder as he walked down the hill, heading for the gates of Tarsis.

“Sometimes I’m not,” said Aran quietly.

3

The bargain.

The Library of Khrystann.

efore the Cataclysm, Tarsis had been known as Tarsis the Beautiful. When she looked into her mirror, she saw reflected there a city of culture and refinement, wealth, beauty, and charm. She spent money lavishly, and she had money to spend, for ships brought rich cargos to her ports and laid them at her feet. Lush gardens of flowering plants adorned her like jewels. Knights, lords, and ladies walked her tree-lined streets. Scholars came from hundreds of miles away to study at her library, for Tarsis was not only elegant and refined and lovely, she was learned, too. She looked out over her glittering bay and saw nothing but joy and happiness on her horizon.

Then the gods hurled the fiery mountain on Krynn, and Tarsis was forever changed. Her glittering bay vanished. The water receded. Her ships were stranded in the mud and muck of a wrecked harbor. Tarsis looked in the mirror and saw her beauty ruined, her rich clothes soiled and torn, her jewel-like gardens withered and dead.

Unlike many who suffer tragedy and adversity and have the grace and dignity and courage to rise again, Tarsis let tragedy sink her. Wallowing in self-pity, she blamed the Knights of Solamnia for her downfall and drove the knights from their homes into exile. She blamed wizards, too, and dwarves and elves and anyone who was not “one of us.” She blamed the wise men and women who had come there to study in the ancient Library of Khrystann, and she drove them out. She left the library in ruins and forbade anyone from entering it.

Tarsis turned mean and mercenary, covetous and grasping. She took no joy in beautiful things. The only beauty in her eyes was the glitter of steel coins. Her seaport was gone, but she still maintained overland trade routes and used her wiles to foster trade with her neighbors.

At last, more than three hundred years later, Tarsis could look in the mirror once again. She would never regain her former beauty, but she could at least dress herself up in her borrowed finery, rouge her cheeks and paint her lips. Sitting in the shadows where no one could see her clearly, she could pretend that she was once more Tarsis the Beautiful.

The city of Tarsis had been guarded by a twenty-foot-high stone wall, pierced by towers and gates at intervals, and by the sea. The wall ended at the harbor where the sea took over. Where the sea ended, the wall resumed. The wall remained, but the sea’s absence left an unfortunate gap in the city’s security.

A reduction in the population caused by the departure of sailors and ship builders, sail makers and merchants and all those who had depended on the sea for their living meant a drastic drop in tax revenues. Tarsis went from wealth to poverty literally overnight. There was no money to build a new stretch of twenty-foot-high wall. Five feet was about as much as could be managed. Besides, as one Tarsian lord said gloomily, they didn’t need protection anyway. Tarsis had nothing anyone wanted.

That had been years ago. Tarsis was more prosperous now. The Tarsians had heard rumors of war in the north. They knew Solamnia had been attacked (“Snooty knights! Serves them right!”), and they had heard that the elves had been driven out of Qualinesti (“What could you expect of elves? Simpering cowards, all of them!”). There was talk that Pax Tharkas had fallen (“Pax what? Never heard of it.”) Tarsis paid little heed to any of this. With prosperity had come complacency. Tarsis had been at peace forever, and her people saw no threat on their horizon, so why waste money on something as dull and prosaic as a wall when they could build fine houses and showy municipal structures? Thus the five-foot-wall remained.

The wall had two main iron-clad gates located in the north and the east. Derek was to enter by the northern gate, where traffic was deemed to be heaviest. Aran rode in through the eastern gate, and it fell to Brian to try to make his way on foot through the gate at the southern part of the city—the Harbor Wall, as it was known.

Being the weakest part of the city’s defenses, the knights assumed the Harbor Wall would be the one most closely guarded. Derek’s choice of Brian for this route was something of a back-handed compliment. He cited Brian’s calm and unruffled demeanor, his quiet courage. He also mentioned that, of the three of them, Brian looked the least like a knight.

Brian accepted the truth of Derek’s statement and was not offended. Although of noble birth, Brian had been raised to hard work, not privilege, as had the wealthy Derek. Brian’s father had not inherited his bread; he’d been forced to earn it. An educated man, he had been hired as Derek’s tutor, and he and his family were given housing at Castle Crownguard. Aran, son of a neighboring lord, was invited to come study with the other boys, and thus the three friends became acquainted.

Brian’s lineage was not as long or as noble as Derek’s and Aran’s, and Brian felt the difference between them. Aran never alluded to it or thought anything about it. If Brian had been a fishmonger’s son, Aran would have treated him the same. Derek never mentioned his background, never said an unkind or uncivil word to Brian or demeaned him in any way, yet, perhaps unconsciously, Derek drew a line between the two of them. On one side was Derek Crownguard and on the other side the son of the hired help. When Derek said that Brian didn’t have the look of a knight, Derek wasn’t being arrogant. He was just being Derek.

The day was sunny and cold, the air calm. Brian walked across the plains at an easy, measured pace, taking note of all who came and went. Each gate was guarded by two or three men, and these were all members of the Tarsian guard. He saw no signs of draconians.

Brian approached the gate cautiously, searching the shadows of the tower for anyone taking an unusual interest in people entering the city. A few loiterers were standing about, all of them bundled up against the cold. If one was a draconian, he would be difficult to spot.

The Tarsian guards stood huddled near a fire in an iron brazier and seemed reluctant to leave it. Brian continued walking toward the gate, and no one challenged him. The guards looked him over from a distance and didn’t appear much interested in him, for they continued to hold their hands over the blaze. When Brian reached the gate, he came to a halt and looked at the guards.

Two of the guards turned to a third. Apparently it was his turn to deal with those who wanted to enter. Annoyed at being torn away from his warm place by the fire, the guard pulled a fur cap down about his ears and walked over to Brian.

“Name?” the guard asked.

“Brian Conner,” said Brian.

“Where from?”

“Solamnia,” said Brian. The guard would be able to tell as much by his accent.

The guard scowled and shoved the fur cap away from his ear to hear better.

“You’re not one of them knight-fellows?” the guard demanded.

“No,” said Brian. “I am a wine merchant. I heard there was the possibility of obtaining some very fine wines in Tarsis these days. What with the fall of Qualinesti and all,” he added nonchalantly.

The guard frowned and said loudly, “No elf wine here. Nothing like that going on in Tarsis, sir.” In a low voice, the guard added, “I’ve a cousin deals in that sort of ‘hard-to-find’ merchandise. Go to Merchant’s Row and ask for Jen. She’ll fix you up handsome.”

“I will, sir, thank you,” said Brian.

The guard gave him directions to find Merchant’s Row and said, “Remember Jen,” and told him he could enter. Brian tried, but the guard continued to stand in the gate, blocking his way.

Brian wondered what was going on, then he saw the guard surreptitiously rub his thumb and two fingers together. Brian reached into his purse and brought out a steel coin. He handed it to the guard, who snapped his hand shut over the coin and then stepped to one side.

“Have a pleasant stay in our fair city, sir,” said the guard, as he touched his hat.

Glad that the scarf over his face hid his smile, Brian walked through the gate. He headed toward Merchant’s Row, just in case the guard was watching him. The streets were crowded, despite the cold, with people going to work or to market or simply out for a walk now that the snow had ceased falling.

Once there, he’d make his way to the Upper City which, according to the Aesthetic Bertrem, was the last known location of the lost library. Brian glanced back over his shoulder occasionally to see if anyone was following him, but as far as he could tell, no one seemed the least bit interested in him. He hoped his companions had entered the city with similar ease.

The three knights met up with each other in the old part of the city. Derek and Aran had each gained access to the city without difficulty, though Derek had discovered, as had Brian, that entry came with a cost. The guard at the main gate had demanded two steel in payment, terming it a “head” tax. Aran had not been “taxed” at all, so perhaps there were still honest people in Tarsis, or so he said. He was the last to arrive; he’d stopped on the way to refill his flask and he was in a much better mood.

Both Aran and Derek had seen people standing about the gates, but they might have been nothing more than the usual idlers curious to see who came and went. That led them to talk of Sturm Brightblade and his strange companions.

“I never understood why you dislike Sturm Brightblade so much, Derek,” Aran said, as they sat down on a crumbling garden wall to eat bread and meat, washed down—for Aran’s part—with brandywine. “Or why you opposed his candidacy for knighthood.”

“He did not have the proper upbringing,” said Derek.

“You could say that about me,” said Brian. “My father was your tutor.”

“You were raised in my father’s house among your peers,” said Derek, “not in some border town on the edge of nowhere among outlandish folk. Besides, Brian, your father was a man of honor.”

“Angriff Brightblade was honorable. He was just unfortunate,” said Aran, shrugging. “According to Lord Gunthar—”

Derek snorted. “Gunthar was always an apologist for the Brightblades. Would you seriously recommend for knighthood a man who never knew his father? If Angriff
was
Sturm’s father …”

“You have no right to say that, Derek!” stated Brian angrily.

Derek glanced at his friend. Brian was generally easy-going, slow to anger. He was angry now, and Derek realized that he’d gone too far. He had, after all, impugned the reputation of a noblewoman and that was very much against the Measure.

“I didn’t mean to imply that Sturm was a bastard,” Derek said gruffly. “I just find it damn odd that Sir Angriff suddenly packed off his wife and child to some place where he knew they would never have contact with anyone from Solamnia, as if he were ashamed of them.”

“Or as if he were trying to save their lives,” suggested Aran. He offered the flask around, got no takers, and so enjoyed it himself. “Angriff Brightblade had made some very bad enemies, poor man. He did what he thought he was best by sending his family away. I think it is to Sturm’s credit that he made the journey all the way back to Solamnia to find out what happened to his father—”

“He came to find his fortune,” said Derek scornfully, “and when he discovered there was nothing left, he sold the family property and went back to live in his tree house.”

“You put everything into the worst possible light,” said Brian. “Sturm sold the family property to pay off the family’s debts, and he went back to Solace because he found a harsh welcome in Solamnia.”

“Give it up, Brian,” said Aran, grinning. “Sturm Brightblade could be another Huma and single-handedly drive Queen Takhisis back into the Abyss and Derek would still think he was not worthy of his spurs. It all goes back to that feud between their grandfathers—”

“That has nothing to do with it!” said Derek, growing angry in his turn. “Why are we even discussing Sturm Brightblade?”

“Because if there is a chance that he is in Tarsis and he needs our help, we are bound to help him,” said Brian. “Whether he is a knight or not, he is a fellow Solamnic.”

“To say nothing of the fact that our enemies are eager to get their scaly hands on him,” added Aran. “The friend of my enemy is my friend … or is it my enemy? I can never remember.”