The Rage (10 page)

Firvimdol jabbered words of power and stuck out his hand. A crackling tendril of white light leaped from his fingertips to Gorstag’s blade. The power burned down the length of the weapon into the spy’s hand. His whole body shuddered spastically.

Only for a moment, but that was all the time it took for Firvimdol to recover his own rapier. He lunged and thrust at his adversary’s chest. Off balance, Gorstag nonetheless managed a parry but didn’t trust himself to stand and fight. After taking two hurts in a matter of seconds, he needed a moment to gather his strength. lie jumped backward, grabbed a chair, and threw it. It didn’t hit Firvimdol, but the pudgy rake had to dodge, and that kept him from chasing right after his foe.

Gorstag struggled to control his breathing, came on guard, and did his best to quell the fear shrilling through his mind. He told himself that Firvimdol was no wizard, not really. He’d simply mastered a few rudimentary spells and was surely incapable of casting many more before he ran out of power. He was no swordsman, either. That ought to mean Gorstag was still more than a match for him.

The problem was that the spy’s back ached fiercely, and something inside his torso throbbed every time he inhaled. His rapier trembled no matter how he struggled to hold it steady. Firvimdol’s magic had genuinely hurt him, impairing his ability to fight.

Maybe the fat youth knew it, too. Maybe that was why he

was so confident he hadn’t seized the opportunity to run or cry for help. Or maybe it was just that his blood was up.

Either way, Firvimdol stood his ground, hitching from side to side and back and forth, looking for an opening. Gorstag decided to give him one. When Firvimdol faked a step to the right, then immediately hopped left, Gorstag pretended the clumsy deception had fooled him. He pivoted in the direction the cultist wanted, giving Firvimdol his flank.

Firvimdol charged. Gorstag whirled, spinning his sword to sweep his foe’s weapon out of line and riposte, until another spasm, perhaps a residual effect of Firvimdol’s miniature lightning bolt, shook him uncontrollably. It made him miss the parry.

Firvimdol’s point drove into Gorstag’s chest. Grinning, oblivious to the possibility that his foe might still pose a threat, the cultist yanked his rapier free and cocked it back for another thrust. That was when Gorstag’s own desperate attack rammed into Firvimdol’s torso.

Firvimdol gaped stupidly, then collapsed. Because Gorstag was still holding the blade buried in Firvimdol’s flesh, the cultist’s weight dragged the spy to his knees.

The abrupt drop made the crypt spin and darken, and Gorstag realized he was on the verge of passing out. He fought to cling to consciousness, and finally the feeling of faintness abated. Though that had the unfortunate consequence of intensifying the pain.

Gorstag couldn’t permit it to cripple him. He had to flee. Trying not to bleed on them, he gathered the leaves from the folio. It took time. The wretched papers had flown everywhere.

He tried to pull his rapier out of Firvimdol’s corpse, but it stuck fast. He planted his foot on the body, gripped the hilt with both hands, and it slid free with a nasty little sucking sound. Alas, the process proved so taxing as to convince him he no longer had the strength to wield a sword. He couldn’t bear to abandon it, however, and despite the handicap of shaking hands, managed to slip it back into its scabbard.

Was there any way to hide what he’d done? Gorstag couldn’t keep the cult from discovering Firvimdol’s body. He was too weak to move it. But maybe he could prevent their realizing he’d stolen the folio, at least for a while. He pushed the desk drawer shut, then grabbed the purple-bound copy of the Tome of the Dragon, leaving an obvious gap on the shelf. With luck, the brothers would assume he’d come to steal the sacred text and not investigate any further.

Time to flee. But where? His employer had charged him to tell no one of his mission. The cult had agents everywhere, perhaps even among the officers of the queen, and in any case, the Harpers kept their affairs a secret. Yet Gorstag had to seek help somewhere. Otherwise, he’d never make it out of town alive.

He smiled, for the answer was obvious. Maestro Taegan would succor him, if his numb legs could carry him that fan

They bore him to the stairs leading up to the tannery, anyway. Then the chanting ended in a ragged fashion, as over the course of a couple seconds the cultists fell silent. Someone had apparently burst in and interrupted them. Probably someone who’d discovered Firvimdol’s corpse.

*****

In Lyrabar, a salle was more than a school for instruction in the science of fencing. It was a social club, where the duelists often lingered long after the practice was through, and the maestro presided over their revels as he had their training. For he had to prove himself the epitome of everything the city’s young hellions aspired to be, knowledgeable not merely about swordplay out also wine, gambling, clothes, horses, hawking, and venery. Moreover, he had to render his judgments on such matters with eloquence and wit. Otherwise, no matter how well he taught combat, his academy would go out of fashion, and his pupils would desert him.

Accordingly, Taegan Nightwind often found himself the center of attention from morning until late into the night.

Finally, however, a moment arrived when one or another distraction—the whores, a drinking contest, or the snowball battle in the garden out back—had lured every one of the winged elf’s admirers away. He seized the opportunity to slip off to his office on the top floor, where another sort of work awaited him.

Corkaury Mindle was there too, sitting in a circle of lamplight at a worktable sized for halflings. Stooped and wizened, Corkaury was small even by the standards of his own diminutive race, which never prevented him from projecting an air of firm authority over the provosts, maids, cooks, and bawds who made up the rest of the staff.

“You should have gone home hours ago,” Taegan said. “Your family will be worried.”

“I knew you wanted to review the accounts,” Corkaury replied.

“I could have puzzled them out by myself”

Corkaury made a derisive spitting sound.

Taegan chuckled and said, “I could, and you know it very well. You probably fear that if you give me an hour alone with the ledgers, I’ll realize you’re embezzling.”

“You’ve found me out.”

Taegan pulled one of his specially made chairs up to the table. When necessary, he could manage a human seat with impeccable grace, but he much preferred furniture crafted to provide room for his black-feathered pinions.

“Well,” he said, “let’s have at it, and try to get you out of here by midnight.”

As the crackling fire in the hearth burned lower and chill crept into the room, the avariel, as winged elves were called, and his assistant went over the entries line by line. Like every other aspect of city life, coin had been a mystery to Taegan when he’d first come to the human world. He’d made a point of learning all about it because that, too, was necessary if he was to make his way in the city. The alternative was to slink back to the dismal circumstances of his birth.

Eventually the discussion drifted down a familiar path.

“You realize,” Corkaury said, “Cormyrean brandy’s doubled in price since the troubles there.”

“Good. If the other maestros are too miserly to pour it, I look all the more munificent.”

“I suppose munificence is also the excuse for this yacht you’re having built.”

“Of course. I have to toss coin around to attract wealthy patrons.”

“But you yourself aren’t wealthy. The salle brings in plenty of gold, but it flows right out again, to service your debts and pay for each new extravagance .”

“Answer me this: So long as the coin keeps coming, will I stay afloat?”

The elderly halfling scowled and said, “Probably, barring disaster.”

“There you are then. You’re fretting over mist and dewdrops.”

“If you say so,” said Corkaury. “Let’s at least make sure we take in as much gold as possible. Some of the students are behind on their fees.”

“They always are. The names, if you would be so kind.” “Odoth Amblecrown.”

“He’s just absentminded,” said the maestro. “He’ll ante up if I drop him a hint, provided it’s not too subtle.”

“Nalian Fisher”

“Bugger. His family’s too prominent, and he’s too mutt of a brat. If we squeeze him, he’ll leave in a snit and take his sycophants—who do pay—with him. Let it go for now.”

“Gorstag Helder.”

“Still?” Taegan asked. “Chuck him out.”

“I’ll tell the porter not to admit him.”

Taegan arched an eyebrow. He’d cultivated that particular mannerism, like many of his gestures, to make himself over into a perfect Impilturan rake.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“What else is there?” Corkaury replied.

“On previous occasions, you had more to say.”

“True. I pleaded poverty on Goodman Helder’s behalf, whereupon you grudgingly granted him an extension. I don’t feel like covering the same ground again. If he really can’t afford to live like a swell, with fencing lessons, fancy clothes, and all the rest of it, that’s his problem. Let him take up a trade like everybody else.”

“Oh, to the Abyss with it,” said Taegan, “give him another month. Maybe Tymora will blow on his dice.”

The corners of Corkaury’s mouth quirked upward. “Why the smirk?” Taegan asked.

“I just wanted you to acknowledge that actually, we keep Helder on the rolls because you’re fond of him. As you ought to be. He idolizes you”

‘ “All the sheep idolize me. That’s what enables me to shear them. Are we done?”

“I suppose”

“Then take a sedan chair home, and don’t feel you have to scurry back at the crack of dawn. Stay in bed, and wake Olpara in the way a wench likes best”

“I’ll thank you not to refer to my wife as a wench,” said the hefting. “Anyway, at her age, she likes to wake to griddlecakes smothered in butter and cherry syrup.”

“Spare me the lurid details”

“Are you going to turn in?”

“No,” Taegan answered simply. Avariels didn’t sleep, and though they had their own sort of rest, a trance-like meditation, they only needed about four hours a night. “I have an itch to get out of this place of a while. I believe I‘11 find out what Selune and the Sea of Night are doing.”

With his wings protruding in the back, an avariel couldn’t wear ordinary cloaks, but Taegan possessed a number of specially tailored tabards that went a long way toward staving off the chill. He opened an armoire, selected a deep blue velvet outer garment trimmed with scarlet satin, and pulled it on. Thus protected, he strode to the casement with its panes of pebbled, milky glass, threw it open, and sprang out into the night. His wings spread and hammered up and down,

swiftly carrying him above the level of the gabled rooftops. After a time, they caught an updraft that hurled him higher still, until he could gaze down on the entirety of Lyrabar at once.

Glittering with enough lights to rival the starry sky above, Queen Sambryl’s capital sprawled along the shore for nearly a mile. Supposedly it was the largest city for hundreds of miles. Certainly it was the greatest Taegan had ever seen, and the sight of it stretched out beneath him could inspire a variety of emotions, depending on his mood. Often he felt wonder, joy, and gratitude that he had come to dwell here. Other times, though he would never have admitted it to another, Lyrabar made him feel ashamed and unworthy of its grandeur.

Fortunately, the humans whose city it truly was rarely behaved as if he didn’t belong. Elves of any sort were a rarity in Impiltur and the surrounding lands. Avariels were virtually unheard of, and because of their wings, slender frames, porcelain skin, fine-boned features, and large, luminous eyes, many folk in Lyrabar regarded them as marvelous and exotic. Taegan had recognized that fascination early on and turned it to his advantage. It had played a considerable part in making him one of the most popular masters-of-arms in town.

Tonight, the spectacle of the benighted port, with its host of warships and merchant vessels either moored at the piers or sitting at anchor in the harbor, lifted his spirits and made him want to play. He climbed and plummeted, swooped through the boulevards and alleys, testing his ability to level out of a dive or make a turn at the last possible instant. It was exhilarating, and if people saw, so much the better. The gossip would bring in new students.

Avariels weren’t like dwarves or goblinkin, able to see in the utter absence of light. But their vision was sharper than that of men. Midway through another ascent, Taegan noticed the lanky man weaving and stumbling his way across a plaza at the intersection of five avenues. It was obvious he was hurt and just as clear that the shadowy figures tailing him

intended to finish him off. He was probably leaving a trail of blood spatters for them to follow.

It was unfortunate, but none of Taegan’s business. He resolved to fly elsewhere and leave the distasteful scene behind. Then the human lifted his face as if praying to Selűne to save him. It was Gorstag, his long, narrow countenance pale as the moon herself.

Curse you, Taegan thought. I already did you one favor tonight, isn’t that enough?

He furled his wings and dropped like a stone. As a result, he landed hard, but not hard enough to hurt himself. Up close, Gorstag reeked of blood. He gave Taegan a dazed smile.

n was coming to find you,” the student said.

“Lucky me,” the maestro grumbled. “Get down and stay there.”

Taegan shoved Gorstag down into the dirty, much-trodden snow to make a smaller target. It was the only way. An adult human was too heavy to fly to safety.

The maestro pivoted, whipped his rapier from its scabbard, and reviewed the spells he currently carried ready for the casting in his memory. Most of Lyrabar knew him only as a duelist, for the simple use of weapons was the only art he imparted to his pupils. It was all he had to teach that non-elves seemed capable of learning. But during his youth, he’d also mastered bladesong, a technique for combining swordplay and magic to lethal effect, and he suspected he was going to need it very soon.