The Alabaster Staff (9 page)

“Right. Almost a cubit long, you say?” repeated Kehrsyn, measuring the length against her arm. “So where is it?”

“Do you know where the Plaza of the Northern Wizards is?”

“No.”

“It used to be called Gilgeam’s Altar. Where he used to hold executions.”

“Oh, yeah, that place.”

“Great. Go down Port Street. At the next corner, on the left, you’ll see a large building called Wing’s Reach. It’s in there.

“This ought to help,” she added, pulling a piece of parchment from inside her jerkin.

Kehrsyn unrolled it, trembling. “It’s a map,” she said.

“I knew you were a smart one, hon. You know how to read that?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. It’s … rather detailed.”

“Yeah, we found the floor plan in the city archives,” lied Ruzzara. “That map’s as accurate as an elven archer. It’s got the location of that staff thing all marked on there. That should be all you need.”

“Gilgeam’s Altar, Port Street, Wing’s Reach,” Kehrsyn echoed. “What do I do when I get it?”

“Go to the Mage Bazaar and look for a Red Wizard named Eileph. He knows what to do.”

“Won’t he keep it?” asked Kehrsyn.

“Boy, you just don’t trust anyone, do you, hon?”

“I haven’t ever gotten much reason to.”

“Well, to answer your question,” said Ruzzara, “no, he won’t keep it. We gave Eileph a nice retainer.”

Kehrsyn nodded and thought for a bit.

“So, the guild house?” she asked.

Ruzzara chuckled, reached out with her right hand, and gripped the back of Kehrsyn’s left arm, guiding her out of the alley.

“You gotta remember, hon,” she said, “that only guild members sleep in the guild house. To become a member, not only do you have to prove yourself, but we gotta know you’re quiet as a crocodile.”

“I won’t talk,” said Kehrsyn. “I promise.”

Ruzzara laughed again, shaking her head. “Hon, right now, you’re just a contractor. And we never take a contract without security.”

So saying, she shaped her fingers into a curious pattern and pressed them very hard into Kehrsyn’s arms. With a single command word, she blasted raw magical energy out of her fingertips. They flared, burning through Kehrsyn’s sleeve and searing her flesh beneath. Ruzzara pulled her hand back, before Kehrsyn’s traumatized skin might have a chance to stick to her fingers.

Kehrsyn cried out and pulled away.

“That’s our slave mark, hon,” said Ruzzara. “Our brand. You belong to us now. You mess up, any one of us can kill you in broad daylight as you do your little thing in the Jackal’s Courtyard. No one will raise an eyebrow, because you’re nothing but a slave.”

“I am not a slave!” protested Kehrsyn, pinching the very
top of her branded arm in an attempt to strangle the pain.

“Oh, you know that, hon, and we know that, but no one else knows that. Hey, you’re just a homeless street urchin, right? So just be sure to keep that little ol’ brand covered up, and no one will be the wiser.”

“I’ll tell them I’m freeborn!” snarled Kehrsyn, eyes narrowed.

Ruzzara could tell she was just barely holding on.

“It’ll be hard to tell anyone anything when you’re dead.”

Kehrsyn stopped in her tracks, trembling.

Ruzzara smiled disarmingly and said, “Hey, that’ll only happen if you double-cross us. If you do well, why, the future will open wide just for you … nice bed, fancy food, friends who look after you, gold …” Ruzzara paused to let her words sink in. “Ta-ta, hon,” she said as she walked away. “You have two days. Don’t be late. It’d be a shame to ruin a work of art like you.”

She walked away, whistling. She passed along the word about the new recruit to the one person who needed to know, then wandered back to rejoin her group. By the time she’d drawn a chair up by the fire, kicked off her boots and socks, and finished her first glass of liqueur, all thoughts of Kehrsyn’s plight were gone from her mind.

K
ehrsyn aimlessly walked the streets of Messemprar for the remaining daylight hours. Her partially eaten pear sat in her left hand unnoticed, almost forgotten, its raw surfaces slowly turning brown. Her right hand clutched her left biceps just opposite the throbbing brand. She couldn’t see the burn well and dared not touch it, but the unrelenting sensation of heat, the blisters that surrounded the area, and the bitter odor all told her she’d been injured fairly seriously. Tears of fear, rage, shame, and pain quivered at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She was an Untheri; she would persevere. Somehow she would prosper just as her nation had persevered and occasionally prospered under the tyranny of the god-king Gilgeam.

Even worse than the pain of the burn were the knot in her stomach, and the anguish, nausea, and hopelessness it brought to her. She wanted to curl up but wouldn’t. She needed to eat but couldn’t.
All the darkest times of her childhood were falling back in upon her soul, wiping away what self-respect she’d had, like a thunderhead blotting out a young spring sky. What little hope she had was offered by a den of thieves … hardly the most auspicious bearers of gifts.

Her pride urged her to find a way not to let the ugly wall-walking sorceress get the better of her (though, in fact, she already had), but without knowing the guild’s reach she could find no sure solution. She’d been placed into a position in which she had no choice. She’d always told herself before that there was hope, yet she could see none left.

She tried not to think about the fact that she could have chosen death instead. She failed, of course, and when she thought about it she tried to tell herself that it wasn’t fair that she should die for being a murderer’s scapegoat.

None of it stuck. The guilt of her capitulation had torn the scab off of her memories—the days of her youth that she hated—and the pain and self-recrimination welled up from the wound once again. She wondered whether, even without the threat of arrest, she would have done their bidding just to earn a good meal, a dry bed, a bit of security and a hope of belonging … somewhere.

The salt in her wound was that someone else would profit from her theft, from her abandonment of her principles. Profit financially, of course, but it was also clear that the sorceress enjoyed exerting power over people like Kehrsyn. She was probably gloating about how she’d directed Kehrsyn like a trained dog.

Kehrsyn tried to focus her turbulent emotions and turn them against the sorceress. If she could, it would give her motivation and drive, perhaps even help her to figure out some way to get back at that false-friendly wench with the supercilious smirk.

But, the guilty portions of her mind said, does a thieving little wretch like me deserve vengeance?

A horn blew somewhere in town, followed by another, and others. The sound snapped Kehrsyn’s mind back to the present. The city guard was sounding the curfew. Soon pairs, trios, and full whips of constables would sweep the streets, ensuring that the refugees were ejected from the city before the gates closed. During a war, only those who owned homes or paid rent were allowed to remain within Messemprar’s walls after nightfall. With the Mulhorandi army looming to the south, those who had space to let, even a spare corner of a common room, were making mintweight from those fearful enough to pay for it.

Kehrsyn counted her coins. It didn’t take long. One silver. One copper left over from the day before.

Even if she found someone with space to let, it was not nearly enough. She put them back into her bag, along with her pear.

She sighed. Without a tent, or even any friendly faces among the refugees, she didn’t relish the thought of spending the night outside. Not in this weather. Even if she could find that kid Jaldi, well, he didn’t look any better off than she was.

She’d evaded the city guard before, and she could do it again. At least the rain was abating to a light sprinkle.

Kehrsyn realized she had only the vaguest of notions where she was. She’d been wandering in Messemprar’s limitless alleyways to keep herself out of the public eye. With the curfew, her isolation worked against her. She knew from experience that the guard always swept the alleys clear each dusk. They were very methodical, starting at the point farthest from the main gate and sweeping the entire city like beaters on a royal hunt.

She moved quickly along the alley, half-guessing her way until she found a side street. There she was able to get rough bearings. She could see the masts of sailing ships peeking over the rooftops off to her left, so she was somewhere near the wharves. Turning toward the city center,
she walked casually along, blending in with the thin crowd of people moving for their homes or the city gates.

She reached a main thoroughfare, one that moved parallel to the main gate. Looking both ways, she moved away from the docks, as that direction seemed to have heavier traffic. She moved confidently along with the flow, her easy stride signaling that she belonged within the city walls. Her eyes scanned the crowd, looking for a suitable group of people to blend in with.

Most of the people in the streets were moving sullenly toward the main gate, their paths crossing the road Kehrsyn walked. Kehrsyn tucked her bag under her cloak and watched the people moving parallel to her. Ahead she noticed a large group of people, almost a dozen, moving along in a loose procession. Though it was clear that they were a group, they wore no visible insignia and walked in a cluster instead of a formation. They moved with quiet deliberation through the wide avenue, and Kehrsyn followed them, gradually narrowing her distance until she was not close enough to warrant their attention, yet close enough that she might be considered the group’s laggard. She matched their walk.

Once, one of the rearmost people turned and looked over his shoulder. As Kehrsyn saw him pull back his hood, she angled her path and concealed her face with a mock sneeze and sniffle. She continued on her divergent path for a block, then fell back in behind the group.

Up ahead, she saw a cordon of guards stretched loosely across an intersection, awaiting their comrades who were purging the alleys of vagrants. Kehrsyn drew a deep breath to calm herself, even though there was nothing particular to fear about being caught—at worst, she’d be embarrassed and thrown out of the city.

The group she was following didn’t even slow as they approached the soldiers. Kehrsyn saw the guards part for the entourage.

One, clearly an officer, touched a finger to his eyebrow and said, “Olaré, Blessed Madame.”

Kehrsyn saw the various people in the small procession nod to the guards in acknowledgment, through the woman leading the party did not appear to acknowledge the troopers at all.

The group moved through the cordon without breaking stride. Nodding like the others, Kehrsyn allowed herself to be pulled along in their wake. From the corner of her eye, she saw one of the guards counting the people in the group as they passed. She held her breath as they moved past. Though no one moved to stop the group, she heard the soldier call for the sergeant’s attention once they had passed through.

Kehrsyn’s heart quickened. She knew her presence had raised suspicions. The procession might well be a nightly affair, and the guard’s attention was drawn by an incongruous number. She was of a mind to curse her luck—how was she to know she’d joined in with the entourage of some sort of dignitary?—but as she had not yet been kicked out of the city, were she to curse her luck, the gods just might change it for her.

She could only assume that one or more of the city guards were watching the group. She certainly couldn’t draw attention to herself with a suspicious glance backward, so her only hope was to play her interloper’s role to the hilt and hope that it held up until the procession was out of sight of the whip.

Much to Kehrsyn’s consternation, the assemblage kept pacing up the exact center of the broad street. She had no opportunity to slip away into a side street and vanish into the darkness. She hoped that none of the others would turn and notice her, question her presence, draw unwanted attention …

She also began to wonder where they were going. “Blessed Madame” was a title reserved for priestesses, so
the woman heading the group was someone of importance … but from which temple? The temple of Gilgeam was as dead as its deity, populated only by a desperate, powerless few. The other deities of the Untheri pantheon, such as they were, had their temples in a different part of town, an old section filled with monolithic ziggurats built some three millennia past. She might be a priestess of Mystra or Ishtar, the deities worshiped by the Northern Wizards, but if so, Kehrsyn reckoned that she would head for the city center, where the heart of the de facto government was. What did that leave? Possibly Tempus. He was popular with the Chessentan mercenaries, common enough during time of war. She remembered that the church of Bane had been growing since the death of Gilgeam, and though she did not like Gilgeamites, she had grown up with them in power. She knew them. The Banites—they were rumored to follow the worst of all deities.

Still the group kept to the center of the street, walking straight away from the guards’ dragnet. While Kehrsyn tried to figure out from which church the people hailed, she remained alert for the sound of approaching footsteps, guards come to question the priestess about her new follower.