The Pathfinder Tales Library

Novels

Prince of Wolves by Dave Gross
Winter Witch by Elaine Cunningham
Plague of Shadows by Howard Andrew Jones
The Worldwound Gambit by Robin D. Laws
Master of Devils by Dave Gross

Journals

Plague of Light by Robin D. Laws
Prodigal Sons edited by James L. Sutter
The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline edited by James L. Sutter
Hell's Pawns by Dave Gross
Dark Tapestry by Elaine Cunnningham

Short Stories

"Guns of Alkenstar" by Ed Greenwood
"The Ghosts of Broken Blades" by Monte Cook
"The Walkers from the Crypt" by Howard Andrew Jones
"A Lession in Taxonomy" by Dave Gross
"The Illusionist" by Elaine Cunningham
"Two Pieces of Tarnished Silver" by Erik Mona
"The Lost Pathfinder" by Dave Gross
"Noble Sacrifice" by Richard Ford
"Blood Crimes" by J. C. Hay
"Certainty" by Liane Merciel
"The Swamp Warden" by Amber Scott
"The Secret of the Rose and Glove" by Kevin Andrew Murphy
"Lord of Penance" by Richard Lee Byers

"Prodigal Sons" © 2011 by Paizo Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

Paizo Publishing, LLC, the Paizo golem logo, and Pathfinder are registered trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC; Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, Pathfinder Campaign Setting, and Pathfinder Tales are trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC.

Edited by James L. Sutter.
Story by J. C. Hay, Kevin Andrew Murphy, Richard Pett, Steven E. Schend, James L. Sutter, and Jay Thompson.
Art by Sarah Otterstätter.
Cover design by Crystal Frasier.

Paizo Publishing, LLC
7120 185th Ave NE, Ste 120
Redmond, WA 98052
paizo.com

ISBN 978-1-60125-397-2
PZOTEB0017

Originally published in serialized form in Pathfinder Adventure Path #31–36.

Chapter One: Death at the Swaddled Otter

James L. Sutter

I opened my eyes on a world turned sideways. Raindrops thundered across my vision with the percussion of a blacksmith’s hammer, only to flow upward in swirling rivulets. I closed my eyes against the onslaught, hiding from the sight if not the sound, and dug my fingers into the mud, taking a careful grip lest I should slide off in this new orientation. For several moments I hung there, considering my options, and then extended my arms, carefully pushing myself upright.

It was not my brightest idea, but it did succeed in turning the world right-side up again. A good thing, too, because if it hadn’t, there was no way Phargas could have maintained his grip at that angle, sprawled in the ditch like some no-account drunkard. But I get ahead of myself.

My name is Ollix Kaddar, and I am likely better than you.

It’s nothing personal, you understand. It’s just in my blood—literally. My full name is Ollix Thareus Lucitrex Kaddar, and I am the only living son of Lord Kaddar of Kadria, finest holding in all of the River Kingdoms. Not that you’d know it to look at me now, of course, or to talk to my father—he’s a tough old goat, and hardly the forgiving sort. But let’s not dwell on the past.

Across the way, Phargas was waking up, moaning and holding his head. Spying the empty jug in his hand, he made to throw it away, then thought again and checked to see if it was empty before tossing it into the bushes in disgust.

“The gods are not kind,” I said, scraping dung-scented mud from the side of my face.

“To the contrary,” he replied. “They were entirely too kind last night.” Phargas crawled out into the road and began scooping up handfuls of water from the wagon ruts and splashing it on his face, sluicing the dirt from his shaved pate and muttering prayers that sounded like curses. His ablutions finished, he stood unsteadily and gathered up his pack and walking stick. The latter he used to poke at the bits of bread and bone at our feet, swirling them around in the muck.

“Well, young master, I’d ask which way, but I somehow doubt they’d welcome us back in town just now.”

“Psht.” I kicked sludge over the top of our leavings, burying the evidence. “In my father’s court, I wouldn’t even have had to ask—they would have given us the best from their table, and been honored by the privilege.”

“Ah,” said Phargas. “But you didn’t ask this time, either, did you?” He turned and began walking away from the squalid little hamlet still visible on the horizon. “Come on. This storm won’t last forever, and I’d rather not be here when it lets up.”

He had a point. Hoisting my own too-light pack, I followed.

Many young men dream of seeing the world. I was never one of them. And now that I’d seen it, I knew I was right all along—that the world outside the court was cold, dirty, and filled with stupidity. I would have been perfectly content to remain in Kadria, serving my people as a benevolent aristocrat, making the big decisions so that they didn’t have to strain their meager faculties. It was what I was bred for.

But my father—he was a different sort. Having built the fiefdom himself with steel and silver, he understood neither the sport nor the occasional unfortunate mishaps that go hand in hand with rightful rulership. You bed a few peasant girls, spend a few tax coffers, punish a few upstarts—the citizenry expects it. After all, if not for the aristocracy, what would they have to talk about? No, the peasantry need us, and if a few feet get trod upon, it’s nothing to get upset about. Certainly nothing worth exiling a son over.

I was saying something to that effect to Phargas, not for the first time, when he suddenly threw out the hand holding his staff, blocking my path and cutting me off mid-sentence. Silently, he pointed.

Ahead, just visible through the drizzle, the path forked, running to either side of a wide-branched tree. And from one of those branches hung a dark shape, swinging ponderously in the wind.

Cautiously, we approached. The shape, for its part, ignored us, slowly resolving into the drenched and crow-eaten corpse of a man. While hanging lawbreakers at crossroads wasn’t an uncommon practice—my father had certainly done it more than once—it was my first time witnessing it in person, and I marveled at the protruding eyes, the black of his tongue. I whistled.

“What do you think he did?” I asked.

Phargas stepped closer and inspected the body.

“Judging by this,” he offered, “I’d wager adultery.” I followed his gaze downward, then quickly looked away. Suddenly I was quite interested in finding a dry spot closer to the tree’s bole.

“Well,” Phargas said, reaching up to undo the man’s cloak. “At least we can take turns staying out of the—hey!”

I turned. He had the corpse’s ratty cloak draped over one arm, and was examining its clasp.

“What?”

“This,” he said, holding it out to me. In the palm of his hand rested a dented pin of decorative iron, worked into a crude representation of a star over a road.

“Ever seen one of these before?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“This, boy, is the Glyph of the Open Road.” Phargas looked up at the corpse and patted it in admiration. “Seems our friend here was a Pathfinder. Or at least stole one’s cloak.” He looked over at me and frowned. “What?”

I was still staring at the corpse, mouth hanging open at the depth of my sudden epiphany.

Every child had heard the stories. To be a Pathfinder brought more than just fame or power—it brought respect. A Pathfinder who published his adventures could live forever in history, go boldly in any court, with his status unquestioned by anyone.

Even Lord Kaddar.

“That’s it,” I whispered.

“What’s it?” Phargas demanded.

“This,” I said, returning to the corpse with new fervor, “is our ticket back to Kadria.” I began digging through the body’s rain-soaked clothes, ignoring the touch of clammy flesh. My hand closed over circular metal, and I whooped, withdrawing my prize and letting its light shine full in Phargas’s face.

“A wayfinder!” He put out a hand to touch the softly glowing compass. “Whoever strung him up must have been too superstitious to take it.”

“Indeed,” I said, placing its thong over my head and letting the artifact settle against my chest. “And their reluctance is my reward. Phargas, I’d like to introduce you to Ollix Kaddar—Pathfinder. You may kneel, if you wish.”

“Pathfinder!” he gaped. “You can’t mean you’re planning to impersonate one—and a dead one, at that?”

“Who’s impersonating anyone?” I asked, unruffled. “I’m just following Lord Kaddar’s orders.”

Phargas snorted. “As I recall, he told you to get out, and not come back until you’d made something of yourself—or died trying.”

“Exactly! And what could be better than a Pathfinder? As of this moment, I hereby accept my new calling, with all its duties and privileges.”

My companion still looked dubious.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” he said. “You can’t just declare yourself a Pathfinder.”

I waved away his womanly quibbling.

“Please, Phargas. Maybe in your monastery the world is black and white, but out here, we deal in shades of gray. Besides, I’m sure any ceremonies are just a formality, one they’ll happily overlook when I publish my adventures.”

Phargas said nothing, clearly jealous of my good fortune.

“Fear not, old man. Serve me well, and I’ll make sure to mention you favorably in the Chronicles. Now what say we get moving out of this storm, eh?”

Phargas still didn’t say a word, just shook his head, gave the corpse one last pat-down, and followed me onward down the path.

∗ ∗ ∗

“Phargas is such a bore—but then, beggars can’t be choosers.”

The town, when we came to it, was hardly worth the name: two lines of wooden buildings faced off across a sad little street, barely wide enough for two wheelbarrows to pass abreast. The folk who inhabited it were no better—drab, horse-faced, and lumpy-limbed, they stared at us with the glazed eyes of cattle as we made our entrance. At least the storm had ended, so the streets were dry save for the slick of filth that ran sluggishly down the center, remnants of last night’s thundermugs.

“So where first?” Phargas asked. “This place is too small for a brothel, so I can’t say I care.”

“You’re a strange priest, Phargas,” I said, “but I like how you think. Unfortunately, we have business to attend to. First we find the Pathfinder lodge.”

For the hundredth time, my companion gave me that wall-eyed look of his.

“And what makes you think there’s one here?”

“Simple,” I said, counting it off on my fingers. “One: that Pathfinder had to come from somewhere, and this is the town he was closest to. Two: the locals clearly knew about the Pathfinders, or they wouldn’t have taken his money but left his wayfinder to identify him. And three...”

“Yes?”

“Three is that two reasons are plenty.” Back straight, chin up, I led the way, doing my best to look kindly and beneficent for the peasants. With only one street to search, it didn’t take long to find our destination.

“This is it,” I said, setting down my bag.

“This?” Phargas asked, looking up at the inn. A sign out front proclaimed it the Swaddled Otter, and bore a crude drawing of a rodent wrapped in ladies’ scarves. Three stories tall, the inn towered over the buildings to either side, and beyond its rearmost outbuildings ran a burbling creek.

“Of course,” I said. “This is clearly the most impressive structure within ten miles. Pathfinders are important, Phargas—even in disguise, you don’t think they’d settle for some dank little hovel, do you?”

Phargas grunted.

“Exactly. Now come on, before they see us.” I picked up my bag and moved back the way we came.

He opened his mouth, but I cut him off.

“You can’t think we’d let them see us like this, can you?” I reached out and flicked a clod of muck from his robes, leaving a thumb-sized chink in his armor of filth.

Just outside of town we found the same stream that ran behind the inn and ate the last of our stolen bread. Shivering at the thought of the water, which couldn’t have melted earlier than yesterday, I stripped down and began scrubbing my clothes. Phargas stuck in one finger and quickly withdrew it. Still fully clothed, he muttered a prayer that dissolved as it hit my ears, ending with a straight-armed clap. The air around him sizzled, and suddenly every speck of mud flung itself straight out from his body, leaving him clean and smiling like he’d just stepped out of the nunnery.

“Desna understands the tribulations of travelers.”

“Not bad,” I said, eyeing the ice-blue water. “Got one of those for me?”

Sorry.” He grinned. “Only enough piety for one today, I’m afraid.”

Cursing, I jumped into the stream.

∗ ∗ ∗

An hour later we were standing before the inn once more, this time looking like the lords we were—or I was, anyway.

“Once we get in, let me do the talking,” I said, as if it needed to be mentioned.

“Are you sure this is wise?” Phargas asked. “You saw what they did to the last Pathfinder.”

“So I’ll be discreet,” I said. “Don’t worry about me.”

“If you’ll recall, lord, that’s my sole vocation at present.”

His faux humility grated, but I gritted my teeth.

“So either be a good nanny and fetch me some warm milk, or else get out of the way and let me handle things.” I walked up to the door and stopped.

“And don’t call me ‘lord,’” I growled. “Not here.”

I knocked.

The door swung open, and an exceedingly plain girl who was no doubt every farmhand’s dream in this town showed us in before hurrying on to draw ales for several rough soldier types seated at the scattered tables of the common room. I followed and laid a hand on her arm.

“Excuse me,” I said, “but I was hoping I could talk to the innkeeper.”

“Oy,” she said, thrusting a most unladylike thumb over her shoulder. “You’ll be wanting Milikin, then.” Shaking off my hand, she continued about her rounds.

I followed her gesture. In that corner of the room stood a long, tall bar, on top of which sat a strange display: a poorly stuffed river otter, wrapped in yellowed linens clearly meant to approximate the funeral garb of the legendary Osirian pharaohs. Aside from that curio, the bar was empty.

I looked back to the girl, who was attempting to deposit drinks without bringing her cleavage within groping range of the soldiers. She saw me staring and gestured emphatically toward the otter with her chin.

So be it. “Um... Milikin?” I asked the otter.

“Whozzat?”

I jumped at the voice. The otter hadn’t moved, just continued to stare at me with its dead onyx eyes.

“I... uh... was hoping...”

There was a scrabbling sound, and suddenly a tuft of black hair appeared above the bar, shortly growing into a wizened gnome who planted his hands on the counter and regarded me with suspicion.

“Yes?”

“Oh! Hello, sir. I thought...” My eyes flickered briefly to the otter. Milikin followed them and smiled.

“He was the king of weasels, he was.” He turned back to me. “And what might you lords be seeking at the Swaddled Otter this fine evening? What rooms I have are fuller than a milkmaid in a barracks at present.”

“Actually, sir,” I said, lowering my voice. “I’m here about... a job.”

His eyes widened in recognition, and I knew I’d chosen correctly. He glanced subtly toward the thugs at the table, and we both leaned in on the bar, so that any words might be heard by us alone.

“A job, you say.”

I reached into my shirt to produce the wayfinder, but he stopped me.

“No, no—no need for that. Best not do anything that might draw attention. What about him?” He nodded toward Phargas, who had stepped up behind me.

“He’s with me. Not one of us, but a faithful servant.”

“And a servant of faith,” interjected Phargas, making a little bow. “Father Phargas, at your disposal. May Desna light your path.”

“You may call me Ollix,” I said, unwilling to let the priest hijack the conversation. “I’ve traveled long to be here, and I’m ready to begin immediately.”

“Good, good!” Milikin chortled, rubbing his hands together. He scrambled down off the crate that let him see over the bar and scurried around it. Taking us both by the hand, he led us through a swinging door and back into the kitchens, where he shooed out the fat woman who sat fanning herself next to the fire.

“This should do nicely,” he said. “Perfect cover—no one should suspect a thing, and you’ll be able to do your real work... but of course I wouldn’t presume to tell you your business, masters. Only...” He looked at us thoughtfully for a moment, then scooped up two handfuls of flour from the counter and flung them point-blank at our chests.

“There!” he said, with obvious satisfaction. “Ilda will pretend to be in charge, but don’t worry—she knows who you really are. We all do.” He winked. “So just keep your heads down, don’t look sideways at the soldiers, and do what you do, eh?” With that, he turned on his heels and charged from the room, giggling and calling for the stable boy to begin drawing water for supper.

For a moment, we were alone. I spoke first.

“Well, that went smashingly, wouldn’t you say?”

Phargas grunted, looking for a response but clearly unable to argue the point.

∗ ∗ ∗

Ilna, it turned out, was the fat woman who did all the cooking for the inn, a great hen-like mountain of flesh and gossip. Vanya, the serving girl, was her niece, and a far prettier sight—since Milikin had taken us in, she’d cast more than one approving glance my way. Phargas and I were given the lowest-rent room behind the common area, and with many a covert nudge were set to work as the new “assistant chefs,” a cover we were careful to maintain. The work was tiring, and truthfully I wouldn’t have expected such devotion to secrecy, except that Ilna’s constantly wagging tongue quickly revealed the source of the caution: His Utmost Lordship, Baron Byrtol Addelworth.

The hereditary ruler of this and a few other local towns, Byrtol was a man of excessive tastes and equally excessive wealth, by means of which he retained the soldiers that spent their days dicing in the common room. Rather than establishing a manor house, he chose to make his residence among his vassals, moving into a town’s best inn and accepting its hospitality for several months before moving on to the next hamlet. It was this same lord, we learned, who’d had the nameless Pathfinder we’d encountered strung up for looking sideways at a peasant girl he’d had his eye on. And now he’d moved into the Swaddled Otter. A fine pickle indeed—no wonder everyone was on edge.

Not eager to see if the lord’s ire extended to all members of the Pathfinder Society, Phargas and I were happy to keep our heads down and wait for further instructions. Yet as the days mounted, the mood in the inn slowly darkened. Perhaps it was the presence of Lord Byrtol and his constant appetite, quickly draining the larder and cellars without recompense, but the staff’s smiles grew wooden around us, their faces strained. One night as I snuck out to the kitchen to fetch a midnight snack of my own, I happened to overhear voices, and paused just outside the door.

“Ten days they’ve been here!” Ilna’s voice was a whispered screech. “Ten days, and all they’ve done is make half-burned cakes not fit for a sow’s wedding! And the little one’s got an eye for Vanya, I know it.”

Us! They were talking about us!

“Well, what man in the village doesn’t?” Milikin countered. “And they’re not exactly pastry chefs. If they started right away, it would be too obvious. Give them time.”

I shifted my weight, attempting to get closer, but the floor squeaked and Milikin’s voice immediately cut off. Figuring discretion was the better part of valor (and when isn’t it?), I retired to my room and told Phargas what I’d heard. Clearly they were waiting for us to make the next move and begin doing whatever work Pathfinders did at their lodges... if only we knew what it was. Unsurprisingly, Phargas was no help at all, leaving the decision to me.

The next day, I casually let slip to Ilna that I was ready to begin my “work.” Instantly, her dark mood gave way to a smile like the sun, if the sun were a fat-jowled cook. With a wink, she left us alone in the kitchen, saying only that we should come find her if there was anything we needed. With that the door swung closed, and Phargas and I stared at each other across a table covered with flour and the half-formed mounds of our signature cakes.

“Well?” he prompted.

“Truth be told,” I said, “I was hoping for a bit more than that. But we’re clearly on the right track.” With nothing else to do, I began patting another cake into shape.

Not five minutes later, a quiet rap at the door brought Vanya, fresh-faced and smiling even wider than her mother. Whereas before she’d had only covert glances for me when Ilna’s back was turned, no such demurity was in evidence now. She bounded across the kitchen and took my hand, pressing herself pleasantly against my side.

“Is it true?” she asked. “Will you do it tonight?”

“Of course,” I lied.

“Ooh!” Her squeal of excitement cut off abruptly as she realized she was making a commotion, and she continued on in whisper.

“Thank the gods!” she said. “It’s been hard enough just keeping his dogs from getting their paws all over me, but I knew it was only a matter of time before he’d want more than cheese and wine.”

“Sorry?” I asked involuntarily.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, patting my arm. “You got here in plenty of time to save my honor.” She winked. “You know, Milikin and Mother said there was no way the Poisoners’ Guild would send someone all the way from Daggermark, not for what we can pay. But that’s why I sent my letter along—everyone in three towns is desperate to see Byrtol dead, and even assassins aren’t above a little charity, right?”

“Um, right.”

She smiled, then rose up on tiptoes to give me a peck on the cheek. Across the room, Phargas’s eyes were wide.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your baking,” she said, and flounced out of the room, pausing only to shush us silently, one finger across grinning lips. Then she was gone.

Silence reigned in the kitchen for a long moment.

“Poisoners?” Phargas asked.

“You know,” I said, “I think we might just have overstayed our welcome.”

Without further discussion, we immediately began preparing for our departure. There was clearly no way that the locals would let us leave, having just revealed their treason, and so we continued about our cake-baking charade, nodding knowingly to the staff while covertly gathering up what provisions and gear we could secret in our aprons, depositing them in one of the little-used outbuildings under the cover of trips to the privy. At last the sun started to hang low in the sky, and with the inn’s residents busy readying dinner for the soldiers, we quietly took our leave, slipping out the back door and making our way to the shed with our supplies...

...where Milikin sat firmly atop the stack of purloined goods, dwarfed by the massive crossbow in his hands. It was so large he had to seat the butt against his chest, but his aim never faltered as he motioned for us to come inside and close the door.

“So,” he said, keeping the great weapon leveled at my chest. “I shouldn’t be surprised. If you were real members of the Poisoners’ Guild, we wouldn’t have known you were here until the job was done.” He laughed darkly. “Not like you two.”

“Come now,” said Phargas, stepping forward and spreading his arms wide to show empty hands, “you wouldn’t shoot a humble and unarmed priest of Shelyn, would you?”

Milikin grunted and switched his aim to Phargas’s forehead. The priest stopped moving.

“Please,” I pleaded, “I’m sorry for the confusion, but you’re right—we’re not assassins.”

“Wrong,” Milikin said. Holding the crossbow with one surprisingly strong arm, he withdrew a carving knife from the pile of goods and flung it into the boards at my feet, where it stuck, quivering.

“You are now.”

I stared at the knife.

“Pick it up,” he said, motioning with his head. “It’s too late for poison. You take our noble lord’s meal up to him tonight, and you do what everyone’s expecting you to do. I’ll stay here with this one,” a motion toward Phargas, “to make sure nothing goes wrong. You take care of this, and I’ll give both of you a head start before I go upstairs and discover your horrible crime.”

“And if not?”

He patted the stack of goods upon which he sat.

“Then no one looks unkindly on the noble innkeeper who shoots two ruffians attempting to rob him of his livelihood. Do we have an understanding?”

I looked to Phargas, who was already nodding, eyes still fixed on the crossbow bolt.

“Good,” Milikin said. “Now go.”

Not seeing any alternative, I picked up the knife and hid it in the folds of my apron, then headed back outside.

I could have slipped off then—and believe me, the thought crossed my mind—but as much as I hated to admit it, Phargas had been useful more times than not since I began my horrid walkabout. Instead I entered the kitchen in a daze, accepted a covered tray from Ilna, and headed up past the guardsmen on the inn’s stairs.

The baron’s room took up the whole third story, the staircase ending in a narrow landing. One of the serving boys sat just outside the door, acting as a runner should their patron need anything.

“I’ve got it from here,” I said, hooking a thumb back down the stairs. “Why don’t you get yourself some grub?” The boy didn’t need to be told twice. In a flash I was alone on the landing. I knocked on the door, and a woman’s voice bid me enter.

Inside, the lord’s room was lit softly by half a dozen oil lamps and lanterns turned low, hanging on the walls or standing free on poles around the bed. Tapestries depicting rivers and fields had been placed around the room to be visible from the bed, an ornate affair covered in cushions. All in all, it was a warm and inviting scene, if one discounted the room’s resident.

Baron Byrtol Addelworth was a tremendous man, in all the wrong ways. Hugely corpulent, his flesh flowed from his body into a virtual puddle of fat amid the myriad comforters. Threads of greasy black hair framed a round, chinless face, and both sheets and bedclothes were stained with the leavings of previous meals. In one pudgy hand he clutched a half-gnawed pheasant drumstick. I glanced around briefly for the woman who had admitted me.

"Not every noble is worthy of the title."

“Well?” the baron asked, and I realized it had been his voice, high and thin as a prepubescent boy’s. “What have you got for me, then?” He tossed the drumstick into a corner, where it hit the wall with a meaty slap, and stretched forth both hands to receive the platter.

“Dinner, sir,” I said, stepping to the bedside. “The Swaddled Otter’s best.” I swept the cover from the main course and made a low, elegant bow.

The knife fell from my apron, landing between us on the sheets.

We froze. Still bent double, I looked up at the lord, watching his eyes flick from my face to the knife and back again.

I put on my most disarming smile. That seemed to make up his mind.

“Imposter!” he roared, knocking away the tray and forcing me to take several steps backward. “Assassin!”

I stuck out my hands. “Now, lord, I know what this looks like...”

“Mutinous peasant!” He snatched up the knife. “I’ll skin you myself!”

Face red with exertion and rage, he hurled his massive bulk from the bed—and straight into one of the standing lanterns, sending them both tumbling to the floor. Out of the bed, he looked even more unwieldy, stumpy arms and legs scrabbling to lift his pallid flesh like a turtle trying to right itself.

“Sniveling cur!” he wheezed. “You’ll have your limbs stretched for orchestrating this indignity!”

Then the oil caught. With a soft whump, the fuel from the broken lantern took fire and spread its flaming arms across the floor, lighting the bottoms of two tapestries and filling that corner of the room with crackling flames.

The baron took one look at the new situation and dropped the knife, redoubling his efforts to pull his ponderous bulk precious inches from the burning oil.

“Boy!” he said to me. “Get me up! All is forgiven—just get me up!”

I stared at the scene, the writhing man-larva and the fire which even now was beginning to catch bed sheets and the cords of hanging lanterns, and stepped slowly backward toward the door.

Soft flesh scrabbled on timber.

“Please!” he shouted. “Get me up! I am merciful!”

But then the door was closing, and I was walking quickly down the stairs. At the bottom I nodded to the guardsmen.

“He’s not to be disturbed,” I said, and made a crude gesture. The men laughed, and I passed on through the kitchen and out the back door, coming quickly to the shed where Milikin and Phargas sat in opposite corners, staring at each other.

“It’s done,” I said.

Miliken studied me with narrowed eyes.

“You look awfully clean,” he said. “Where’s the knife?”

In answer, the first shouts went up from the inn.

“Fire!” screamed Ilna, and then other voices joined hers. In an instant, Milikin’s entrepreneurial instincts took over, and he sprang for the door, tossing the crossbow aside.

Outside, the roof of the inn was already smoking oily black against the sunset, flame licking through the thatching in places. With a scream of pain, Milikin ran for the creek.

I looked to Phargas. Needing no further cue, we each grabbed up armfuls of supplies and sprinted off in the opposite direction.

After ten minutes of leaped brambles and ducked branches, we stopped to catch our breath. Back the way we’d come, the smoke was still visible, though the sounds had faded to just the faint and frantic pealing of a church bell.

“That was close,” Phargas said, leaning against a tree and breathing hard.

“Agreed,” I puffed, staring down at the cloak full of bread that now made up our sole possessions. Then the sound of the bell reminded me of something.

“About what you said back there,” I asked. “I thought you were a priest of Desna?”

Phargas grunted.

“A man’s faith is a personal thing,” he said, tying up the cloak. “Now shut up and keep running.”

And we did.

Chapter Two: Kicking the Habit

by Richard Pett

The pig stared at me.

“We’ll be there soon.” Phargas said, brightly.

“I hope so. The only part of a pig I’ve ever been this close to before was crackling.” I gazed with disdain at the wagon, which was full of pigs, with two notable exceptions. Well, perhaps only one notable exception.

“Honestly, you’ve done nothing but complain since we escaped.” That self-satisfied grin again. Once a priest, always a priest. You can’t argue with folks claiming direct conversation with gods.

“I’d be a lot happier if our escape had taken place in a coach, or private barge—or anything without pigs, for that matter.”

“Our fellow passengers provide excellent cover, and you’re lucky you escaped the Otter with nothing more than dirty britches and bad company. The gods smile on you and all you can do is moan.”

“As I recall, the gods’ smiles cost a pretty penny.” I smiled at our host, the silent wagon driver, who grinned back toothlessly at me.

Drizzle became hail, and by the time we entered a town my mood had moved through depression and on to despair. I grabbed Phargas.

“I want to get off. Now.”

“It’s too soon. We haven’t gone anywhere near far enough yet for—”

“I don’t care! We’re getting off.” I leaped from the wagon and its vile-smelling cargo. “Civilization!” I cried, looking around the place.

More pigs, some haggish women and scruffy men, and several decrepit buildings stared back.

“I would curb your celebration,” whispered Phargas. “These petty townships have one thing in common—gossip spreads faster than wildfire. Let’s mingle.”

A toothless retch with a peg leg and one eye brushed past me. “I’m not mingling with anyone like him,” I whispered to Phargas.

Suddenly the man gave a yell, clutched his chest, and fell to the ground. I took a polite step back and immediately took charge of the situation.

“Well, help the poor man, Phargas!” I demanded, turning to address the villagers. “Don’t worry, friends—he’s a priest. Your man will soon be back on his feet again.”

“Or not,” said Phargas. “He’s dead. See?” There were several nods of agreement. I turned and stared down at the figure, whose face was turning a nasty shade of ochre.

“He had a bad heart, did old Handsome Jabe,” said one of the peasants.

Handsome Jabe?

“Have no fear peasa—people of this township,” I proclaimed solemnly. “I shall celebrate his last moments in my journal.” I waved the wayfinder for the crowd to see. “Can any of you direct myself and my priest to lodgings suitable for such worthies? A coaching inn perchance, or maybe some fine hostelry, hospice, or roadhouse?”

“Well, there’s always Old Mucks,” a bearded man said.

“Mucks.” I said, trying not to step in the name.

“Over in the town square,” said the man. I suddenly noticed he was a she.

“Tell me,” I asked, “does it have hot baths?”

“No.”

“Fine ales?”

“No.”

“Bed warmers, be they fleshy or coppery?”

“No.”

“Quaffable wines of some vintage?”

“No.”

“Then kindly direct me to some better place of refuge.”

“There is no better place. Unless you count the nunnery.”

“Nunnery?” That sounded a bit more promising.

“Aye, the Nunnery of the Fiercely Virginal Order of Blessed Exoneration,” said the crone, nodding. “Mind you, they wouldn’t make you very welcome, what with you being a man and all. Not with their sworn oath of chastity and violence toward men. They vow to horribly punish any man who dares touch them, think impure thoughts about them, or look at them. They don’t even have candles in the convent—too phallic.”

“Old Mucks, did you say?” I pushed my way through the crowd waving my wayfinder like a sword.

∗ ∗ ∗

Old. Muck. The name fit the place perfectly. I starred down at the “stew” I had been served, trying to work out whether a pair of insect legs was part of the recipe. Before I’d made my decision, however, I spied someone who was quite clearly of superior stock approaching the bar, a man of fine attire and manicured nails, quite clearly worthy of speaking to me. I left the bowl and wandered over.

“Pathfinder Ollix Thareus Lucitrex Kaddar, at your service,” I said to him.

He stood and bowed. “Sergas, Allmania—”

His words cut short as he gave a gulp, strained to reach his back, and fell over dead. What noise there was in the tavern suddenly stopped, and we became the center of attention. Phargas was quickly at my side, onion gravy and insect legs dripping down his chin. After a few moments of examining the deceased, he looked up.

“Another heart attack, it seems. Strange, two in the space of a morning. Still, it is not for us to question the will of the gods.”

“I need some air and something edible,” I said. “And I really should keep up my journal,” I added, as loudly as I could. The locals seemed more interested in the newly deceased. Typical peasants—when faced with a choice between culture and something gruesome, blood and mayhem always wins.

We witnessed two more heart attacks that afternoon, and as evening drew in I began to be concerned about the diet of these locals. The local crab jelly was my chief suspect. As the light faded the town streets began to spring into a sort of rustic, painfully amateur peasant fair. One performer breathed fire, only to set alight to his moustache, and a juggler attempted to juggle three live pike but only succeeded in being bitten. Finally we did find an act worth my attention, a trio of fine singers who were giving a rousing rendition of an old favorite.

“...and the black pudding burst!” The harmony ended. A small crowd politely clapped.

“That’s a very fine song, my men,” I said, and reached for a coin to tip them. The trio grinned, but their smiles faded as my hands emerged from my pockets empty. I turned to Phargas. “Come, come, a coin for these fine musicians.”

“That’s not how it ends.” Phargas frowned and crossed his arms.

“Not how what ends?” I said.

“The song. It’s called ‘The Yeti and the Black Pudding’ and it doesn’t end for four more verses, so I’m not tipping them.”

“So you’re an expert on songs now?” I asked, incredulously.

“I know what I know, and the song doesn’t end that way at all,” he insisted.

“It ends the way we say it does, mate.” One of the singers was rolling up his sleeves. His fellows, clearly offended, nodded agreement and began moving forward, then suddenly two of them gulped, grabbed their throats, and fell to the ground.

“You people really must lay off the crab jelly,” I said, watching the third man look nervously at us. “That’s the fifth and sixth heart attacks I’ve seen today!”

Phargas leaped onto one corpse and grabbed something from its throat. As he held it up, it seemed to melt away into nothing.

“Darts that vanish! Poison! I knew something wasn’t right.”

“Poison?” I asked, as some sort of insect whistled past me.

“These aren’t heart attacks, you idiot!” Phargas stood up quickly, his voice breaking in a girlish squeal as he grabbed my arm and yanked me toward a side street. “They’ve been killed!”

“Killed? But why would someone kill singers?”

“By accident!” He was almost yelling now. “They weren’t trying to kill them—they’re trying to kill us!”

All at once the air was alive with whistling invisible darts. The last musician dropped. A dog nearby fell dead. Within seconds, we were running full pelt down the muddy back streets of the town, diving to avoid the missiles being aimed at us.

“Who are those people, and why are they trying to kill you?” I shouted, trying to get my breath as we ran.

“My guess would be that we upset someone back at the Swaddled Otter more than we thought.” Phargas’ faced turned bright red as he ran. “Milikin probably can’t afford it, but Daggermark assassins are terribly proud of their work, and likely don’t appreciate having their name sullied by amateurs.”

I remained dubious. “I couldn’t see any injuries on those peasants.”

“They’re using whisper darts—blowgun darts made of fey hair and broken promises. They become water after they hit. If combined with poison, they deliver death without apparent cause. We’re in big trouble.”

Then he quit talking and focused all his efforts on running, leading us deeper into the foul-smelling alleys of this miserable town. These paths were more like tunnels—dwellings opened up to our sides, blind turns leading to locked doors and uncovered sewer drains. I caught my companion staring at one of the latter.

“No.” I said. “Categorically no. I seem to spend my whole time with you lying in some sort of liquid. That liquid you can keep.”

"Piety is its own reward. As is violence, apparently."

Suddenly, he wasn’t paying attention to me; he was staring over my shoulder at two dark shapes moving deliberately toward us. I stared at the sewer and realized that, even if we dived in, the assassins would catch us. I considered pushing Phargas at them and running, but realized that even that plan was futile. We both staggered backward. I began to pray loudly, the alleyway getting narrower as we backed away from our assailants. My life flashed before me rather too quickly, the flash becoming brighter, brighter, as if I were being dragged into a glorious light.

So this was death.

I was in a garden, bathed in late evening sun. Phargas was at my side.

“Phargas—loyal Phargas! You made it, too—we’re in heaven!”

He slapped me, and not gently.

“You idiot, this isn’t Heaven. We’re in the nunnery. The gardener must have left the back gate open for some reason. Quick, this way.” I wiped my tearing eyes and saw that we’d backed through a stout door, which Phargas had bolted. I followed my subordinate, berating myself for thinking that any such oafish peasant would get in to heaven with me.

The gardens provided excellent cover. We made our way through them and toward an open doorway in the nunnery itself, a fortress of towers, crenellations, and, oddly, several ballistae.

“We’ll lie low for a while, perhaps in a cellar,” said Phargas, leading me through the open door. Beyond was a small odd-smelling chamber with hooks and lockers. Six peculiar garments hung from one wall, knitted black things that seemed to be cloak, robe, and hood all in one, with a great black veil.

We both turned as we heard voices approaching. Not just from a door in the room, but also from someone outside. Phargas looked at me, then at the strange clothes.

“No!” I said, in the loudest whisper I could muster. “No, no, categorically no.”

“What could be easier?” His grin broadened as he grabbed one of the garments and began putting it on.

“No.”

“Look, how hard can it be? Praying all day, knitting tapestries and cooking. We’ll lie low for a week or so, by which time the assassins will have got bored, and we’ll sneak out one night in the dark and escape.”

“No.”

“It’s that or death.”

Well, when he put it like that...

“Help me get my wimple on,” I said.

We’d barely clambered into the strange clothes when the door opened and a huge nun, wearing a similarly body-covering dress, entered.

“I thought I heard voices. Didn’t you hear me when I called you in minutes ago? You will be punished for this. What are your names?”

“Francis,” Phargas answered in a squeaky voice. “And this is Olive.”

“Hello,” I said, in the highest voice I could muster.

“Silence!” she said, and slapped me. A nun had slapped me.

“Come along. The other new recruits have already shed their old ways and donned the Modesty Habit. I’m Mother Grain, Mistress of Improvised Combat Using Common Kitchen Utensils. Follow me, ladies. You are leaving your old life behind now; your future belongs to Iomedae from now until your glorious deaths.”

“Iomedae!” we replied in unison.

∗ ∗ ∗

The nunnery was vast, a rambling structure of rooms and corridors and small gardens, all of which were damaged in some way. Every wall had a gouge or a hole, every door a repair, every garden a broken seat or pot. We walked for what seemed like an hour before we came to a larger chamber where several other nuns in Modesty Habits stood. By their look they were also new recruits. The Mother halted us outside the door.

“Before we enter the Chapter House, it is up to me to pass punishment for your act of sloth and disobedience.” Mother Grain’s voice became sharper, almost excited. “For to enter such a place unpunished would be an insult to the Lady of Valor. O Iomedae, let your just and awful wrath fall upon these two wretches, and let their flesh know the terrible sting of thy justice!” From somewhere in her bodice she produced a huge sap, which she struck us both with, rattling our teeth.

“Punishment is delivered, and you are cleansed—for now. Enter and be blessed.”

Like scalded schoolboys—or rather, schoolgirls—we moved to the back of the room, whimpering.

The Chapter House was the most complete armory I’d ever laid eyes on. Every inch was given over to weapons, from halberds to nunchaku, scythes to starknives. I could not even begin to count, let alone name, the vast array of weaponry displayed herein. Even the clock was designed for use in combat, its fingers clearly blades, its pendulum a morning star. It was also the only timepiece I’d ever seen whose tick sounded angry.

“This is a house of peace,” said a huge woman in a vast Modesty Habit. “For only through the death of our enemies can we truly know peace, and here we may choose the weapons with which to smite them. Iomedae! O Lady, we know that these novices have impure souls, but soon shall be cleansed in your image. We shall purge them of impure thoughts, for do not The Acts tell us that flesh is weak? Speak not the tongue of evil, they sayeth! Covet not the flesh, and let all men who covet my sisters be punished in slow, agonizing, and dreadful torment. Iomedae!” She began wandering among us with what looked like a long spiked cane. “Sister, I cleanse thee,” she yelled, swishing the cane at one novice, who screamed as she was struck. “And thee!” Another flick, another wound. Other nuns were beginning to take up her chant now, striking out with fists and feet. “I cleanse thee of lust! I cleanse thee of wickedness!” Shrieks came from points all over the hall, and even those nuns doing the striking all seemed to bear injuries of one sort or another.

“Save us from men!” the head nun called.

“Save us!” came the reply.

“Keep our swords sharp!”

“Sharp!”

“And our armor buffed and bright!”

“Buffed and bright!”

“May our enemies be butchered mercilessly!”

“Mercilessly!”

“Eleven Miracles you have given us lady, but only in combat are we worthy to serve thee!”

“Combat!”

The penance went on.

∗ ∗ ∗

After an hour of this punishment we were all battered and bruised, thoroughly saved from imaginary men and enemies.

“Now sisters, to the dorter for a deserved night’s rest. Sleep well, and be not troubled by dreams of wickedness, for you are safe at last.”

Safe? I thought.

The other nuns began bodily carrying us out of the Chapter House and up several sets of steep stairs. Eventually we were tossed onto the floor of a chamber with a dozen straw mattresses and a trough of water. I made my way to the trough, where I though I recognized a certain silhouette. I dared a whisper.

“Is that you Pharg—er Francis?”

“I think so. But it’s been a while since I was beaten up by nuns.”

“I thought you said we would spend our days knitting.”

“Yes, of course. My mistake. I didn’t realize they were warrior nuns.”

“Warrior nuns. Warrior. Nun. Those two words should not go together. I thought nuns were all praying and deathbed salvation.”

“You don’t think all nuns are the same, do you? Why, I’ve personally ministered to the beatific axe-nuns of Sarenrae, the terrible barbarian-nuns of Varisia, and the infamous assassin-nuns of Greengold, the so-called ‘Ladies with Long Memories and Fingernails to Match.’”

“Assassin nuns? You’re making it up!”

Francis-that-was-Phargas went over to a bed and stretched out on it. I decided that rest and recuperation would be a good idea, especially if tomorrow threatened to be anything like today. The bed was firm, but surprisingly roomy. Thoroughly exhausted, I stretched out and pillowed my head on my arms.

Clang!

I opened one eye. The place was pitch black. Phargas snored in the bed next to me.

“Matins!” Suddenly I was thrown across the room and heard something break. I hoped it was furniture.

“I am Mother Maud the Divine Act of Wrestling and Bare-Knuckle Boxing,” shouted a voice in the dark. “It’s time to rise.”

Below, I heard the convent’s clock strike two.

∗ ∗ ∗

Some time later we found ourselves assembled in the Chapter House. We’d been through tedious hours of Matins Laud, purging our sin and saying what horrible things we’d do to men who entered the nunnery to carry out the impure deeds of Belial. It was still dark, but I felt as though I’d already done a day’s work. A huge nun held court at the front of the hall.

“I am Merciful Sister Perfect the Iron Fist—slayer of Zarg the Cavern King. Welcome, initiates. From now on you will be called Featherweights.”

My eyes began to slide closed.

“Pay attention, Featherweight Olive!” A horseshoe struck me, drawing blood. The Merciful Sister didn’t even draw breath as she continued.

“This is Sister Jessica the Glorious Act of Head-Butting an Opponent Unexpectedly. She’ll be initiating you in the Miracle of Combat.” From somewhere within her habit, Sister Jessica produced a huge toasting fork and ran at one of the novices screaming. Shortly thereafter, the novice was carried off to the infirmary.

Our assault at the hands of Sister Jessica was followed by Prime, where we read out acts of astonishing violence delivered with righteous justice by the nuns over the past centuries to naughty people and monsters. As dawn broke we enjoyed the delights of Terce, where we were divided up and began our instruction in making, sharpening, and modifying weaponry. Then came Sext, where we sat in silence, reading acts of miraculous violence perpetrated by followers of Iomedae in her mercy. At last, just when I thought I would die of hunger, a gong sounded and the nuns began to file out for food in the frater, a bare room with a single vast table. The nuns formed an orderly queue, each taking a deep bowl. I wondered just how full I could get it. My mind began to race with thoughts of wine and bread, honey and cakes. These nuns worship combat, and combat thrives on good dinners.

An almost impossibly tall nun ladled a huge mass of greenery into my bowl. I stared at it in horror.

“This is dinner?” I asked, almost forgetting my squeaky voice. “A bowl of raw sprouts?”

“Enjoy,” said the nun, and motioned me along with a significant shake of her ladle.

As I was munching on my sprouts (no easy thing when your garment covers your whole body) I noticed a strange figure tucking into a mountain of food and wine. It was small, about the size of a gnome, and dressed in the most garish of noble outfits. I watched the figure as it munched through a vast amount of fare, and my stomach rumbled as it consumed chicken legs and sweetmeats with abandon. After dinner it gave a particularly huge burp and as it did so, it turned to reveal the face of a kobold.

“Everything to your satisfaction, Holy Carbuncle?” said one of the nuns who sat near it.

“Yessss, ssscrumptiousss.” It said, and staggered off.

I could barely contain my jealousy. “Who’s that?” I asked the initiate opposite me.

“Holy Carbuncle the Reformation. He’s a miracle.”

“What’s miraculous about him?”

“He’s the embodiment of purity and goodness.”

“Why?”

“He saved the Merciful Sister from assassins and he’s lived here ever since. The Merciful Sister says his flesh may be weak, hence his appetites, but his soul is of pure goodness, so he’s allowed to live here.”

A gong sounded.

“Oh dear,” the nun said, “Pre-vespers.” And then she shuffled off, crying.

∗ ∗ ∗

Pre-vespers began with Mother Grain, Mistress of Improvised Combat Using Common Kitchen Utensils standing in the Kitchen. “To assist our sisters who are schooled in paladinhood,” she said, “we must be ready to help the noble knights whenever we find ourselves, and where would a woman be if not in her kitchen? Alas! The raiders of Asmodeus are at the door, the brave knights lie wounded at your feet, and only you can protect them. But what chance do you have? There are no weapons in this kitchen.”

“What about knives, Holy Mother?” called one sweaty featherweight.

“Foolish girl! All the knives have been taken by the servants of Mammon. Go find an unoccupied sister and request penance for your foolishness.”

The girl sobbed and departed.

“No, we have no knives, nor scissors, skewers, tureens, heavy saucepans, or toasting forks. These objects have already been taken by the servants of darkness. A true sister, however, does not need such things.” She opened a drawer and withdrew an object. “This wooden spoon, for example, can easily put down an owlbear. Observe.”

The day wore on.

“Using such sacred techniques, we can transform this ordinary cheese-grater into a weapon of righteous justice...”

And on.

“The last thing a servant of the dark expects is what a doughty sister can do with a corkscrew...”

After we’d learnt how to kill practically every evil thing with the most mundane of objects, and even certain condiments, we were called to Vespers to do some more praying about violence. After Vespers there was yet more praying, this time on one leg over the feeding pit of the nunnery kennels. At last the day’s lessons ended, and we were called again to our meal.

As I stood in the frater, queuing for food at the end of a grueling day in which I’d been flogged, poked, beaten and otherwise scarred (possibly permanently), I could feel my temper grow brittle. I reached the head of the queue, only to watch as my plate was filled with water.

“What’s this?” I asked in a dangerous monotone.

“Only the righteous deserve dinner,” she gloated, and motioned for me to move along.

It was enough. I flung the bowl at her. She ducked with infuriating ease and, as calm as you like, produced a large bell from under the counter.

“Bring forth the sisters of Misericord!” she shouted, ringing the bell.

The word had a startling effect on the older nuns, some of whom began a keening wail. As if waiting just outside the door, a trio of enormous nuns entered, each wielding a spiked club and meat-cleaver.

“Where is the sinful one?” They yelled in unison.

Everyone in the room pointed at me.

I ran.

Running in an item of clothing designed to cover the entire human body isn’t easy, and I had to rip my veil off so I could see as I went hell-for-leather down the corridors of the nunnery, a trio of doubtlessly divine bruisers behind me. Room after room passed by. I crashed into one sister and knocked her and her bundle of halberds flying. Another, this one carrying boiling tar, was pushed over in my blind dash. I glanced over my shoulder, but while I couldn’t see my pursuers, I could hear them panting and shouting their intentions for parts of my anatomy. I wiped my brow, and my hand brushed my stubbly chin. My mind cast back to the prayers regarding sinful men. What would they do to a man masquerading as a nun? Spying a small door, I instantly made the decision to hide. I dove inside and shut it behind me as quickly and quietly as I could.

The room was full of silverware. There were silver goblets, silver coins, silver candelabrum, silver swords. And there, seated in the center and smoking an enormous pipe, sat Holy Carbuncle the Reformation. He was handing a silver salver to a trio of other kobolds, who’d emerged from a trapdoor in the floor. As quick as I appeared the three others vanished, their trap door slamming shut behind them. Carbuncle turned to me, startled. Then he took in my predicament and began to smile.

The door burst open behind me, and I was grabbed from behind by the entering Misericords.

“I, the blessed second sister of Misericord, do pass judgment upon thee. You shall be taken from this place, smeared with honey, and fed to giant ants. Iomedae!”

"Not exactly a saint."

“Sssssstop!” cried Carbuncle, gazing at the trio. “Thisss sssister hasss come to me for ssssalvation. Kneel and be forgiven, sssissster.” The kobold yanked me from the sister’s grasp and onto my knees. “I hear your confessssion. I hear your wordsss that you have been naughty in the worsssst possssible waysss and I forgive you. I ssshall take you under my wing. Be at peace.” He pulled close and whispered in my ear.

“Or elssse.”

I nodded.

“You may depart Misssericord!” Carbuncle shouted.

The trio paused for a moment, cracking their knuckles, before reluctantly leaving.

Once they left, we each laid our cards on the table. I told Carbuncle about our flight from the assassins. Carbuncle, it transpired, had been fleeing a freak show when, in mid-run, he’d bumped into a nun and knocked her to the floor at the very moment a failed initiate with permanent disabilities caused by her training had tried to bring the sister down with a heavy crossbow. The saved nun turned out to be the Merciful Sister herself, who decided the kobold was some sort of divine blessing in disguise and taken him in. Carbuncle had been covertly salting away a nest egg for his retirement ever since, with the help of his friends, a secret tunnel, and the nun’s silver.

“Typical small-time thinking, if you’ll pardon my saying so,” I said, after he’d completed his tale. “Why not take all the silver?”

“Becaussse the nunsss would catch me and disssembowel me.”

“But suppose the nuns never found out who did it?”

Carbuncle’s smile widened as I explained my plan.

∗ ∗ ∗

Phargas picked up his habit and ran at full pelt toward the waiting coach. I had one sack of stolen silver, and he another.

“I still don’t know how you did it,” he said, wheezing.

“It’s my breeding, really. The nuns may be unbelievably violent and pious, but they’re still basically peasants, with a peasant’s wit. Carbuncle was more than amenable once I’d explained my plan.”

“It’s hard to argue with a head-start and a scapegoat.”

“Exactly! Kill one of his chums and swap clothes so it looks like Carbuncle is dead, pay your accomplices, and then scarper with the loot, leaving an obvious clue behind—in this case an assassin’s calling card.”

“Thus leaving all initiates to help search the town,” he finished.

“With sacks full of weaponry,” I added, shaking the jingling bag.

Over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of Mother Grain, Mistress of Improvised Combat, moving with purpose through the streets, clutching her largest battle-ladle and screaming, “Assassins die!” at the top of her considerable lungs.

“I wouldn’t want to be in our illustrious opponents’ shoes when they’re caught by the sisterhood,” Phargas observed.

“Nor me, sister,” I replied. His grin matched my own.

“Assassins die!” we yelled, and continued toward the waiting coach.

Chapter Three: Feast of Fools

by J. C. Hay

If we’d brought Carbuncle with us, he could have cleaned our boots.” I slogged through the torrents of rain with half the swamp caked to my feet.

Phargas looked over his shoulder and muttered something both unpriestly and anatomically difficult.

As we bickered, we rounded the bend into the outskirts of a town. A smattering of stone buildings rose among the wattle and daub of humbler structures. The nearest of these, a three-story structure, blazed a merry warmth from its windows while its signpost—a buxom woman being ravished by a well-endowed devil—promised all manners of entertainment. To my surprise, Phargas stepped up onto the wooden veranda.

“We’re stopping here?”

“It’s a tavern, isn’t it?”

“Among other things, I’d wager.”

“All the more reason for us to stop. Lost souls in need of my ministry and blessings.” With that, the priest strode through the door.

I followed him—purely to protect him from the riffraff that harbor in such places, of course—and immediately found myself in the center of a swirling, raucous party. Swags of yellow, red, and black hung over windows and doors. Additional bunting decorated the enormous stairwell that filled the fair side of the hall. Gambling covered half the tables, and shouts of joy and dismay came from all corners.

A burly maid grabbed me, and I found myself crushed against her ample charms as she shouted an ale-scented “Welcome, traveler!” into my face. Before I could recover enough to respond, she spun me away into the room once more. I found Phargas sitting atop a table, pouring golden mead into an overflowing horn at his feet. He’d already gathered a half-dozen townsfolk around him, and they shouted for further displays of his divine gifts. I noticed he was wearing a jeweled brooch in the shape of a hornet. I made a note to remind him not to dress better than his master.

“This sort of welcome’s more like it, eh, Phargas? Good to see these peasants know how to treat guests.” A few of the villagers glared, but I waved them off with an egalitarian hand.

The priest shot me a look that might have cowed a lesser man. “Find your own flock, Pathfinder. Can’t you see I’m presiding over a solemn ceremony?” As punctuation, one of the peasant-women kissed him in a most unchaste manner and took the sloshing horn from his feet.

I would have taken greater affront, had I not been distracted at that very moment by a beautiful creature, her bosom heaving to escape the confines of her chemise. She trailed a hand across my cheek and turned me to follow her toward a corner of the room. Her whispered welcome clung to her full lips with an understandable reluctance to leave.

I bowed and stepped close. “Well met, my lovely. And how may I serve you?” I had several ideas, but I wanted to be polite and allow her to make suggestions.

She pursed her lips, one finger resting against her chin. “Is it true, what the priest said? You’re a Pathfinder?”

I shifted my cloak until the Glyph of the Open Road was visible. “They don’t just leave these lying on the side of the road, my dear.”

She smiled even brighter—a feat I hadn’t thought possible—and threw her arms around my neck with a delighted squeal.

“I’m so relieved! I need your help, or I will never be free of this place.”

That sounded unfortunately familiar. I pulled myself back enough to look her in the face. “And why would you want to leave, my dear? We’ve only just arrived.”

“Not the Demon and Harlot. I mean all of Jedda. You Pathfinders have a reputation for cleverness, and I need you to help me escape my husband.”

The last thing I wanted to do was get between a possessive husband and his bride. It tended to be the fast path to a stretched neck or a knife between my ribs, but she fixed me with a look so pitiful that I couldn’t help but be drawn in. I begged her to tell me more.

“He stole me from my family, from the only man I ever loved—a poor village boy with a heart like a well. I could flee, but my husband would surely find me.”

“And how do I fit in?”

“You’re a Pathfinder. Surely you could come up with some way to smuggle me out.” I could almost feel the hemp rope about my neck, but before I could decline she leaned in close. “Please? If you can help me, I’d do anything.” A single deep breath threatened to tumble her already well-displayed bosom out completely.

It was a persuasive argument. “Of course. My duty is clear.”

She sighed in relief. “I knew you’d help. With Calistria’s Ball tomorrow, we’ve no time to lose. My husband will be distracted, and with everyone in disguise you’ll be able to sneak me away easily.”

“Calistria’s Ball. Of course!” I hoped my feigned enthusiasm covered up the fact that I knew nothing of whatever backwater celebration we had stumbled into.

She giggled. “How appropriate that I be freed on the day that celebrates Calistria cuckolding the Lord in Iron. I can’t thank you enough.” Her smile darkened. “I must go, and soon. Look for me tomorrow, cloaked like a swan maiden.”

“Wait, what’s your name?”

“Anra,” she whispered, then kissed me on the cheek and ran past me. I turned to follow, but she leapt into the arms of a handsome, neatly bearded man wearing a well-used breastplate and carrying a longsword at his hip. He looked perfectly familiar with the arts of combat, and more than willing to resort to violence if need warranted.

For all the distaste of her marriage, she certainly put on a good show for his sake, and kissed him with eager passion. I decided to lose myself in the crowd rather than let him spot me.

∗ ∗ ∗

I woke in the common room to find Phargas with all his belongings laid out on the table before him, including the silver we’d liberated from the convent. My first assumption was that we had been robbed, and Phargas was taking inventory. I immediately checked my purse and found it lighter than expected.

“I took the liberty of using your funds to pay for our lodging last night.” Phargas smiled. “Though I negotiated something of a ecclesiastical discount.”

“So long as the price was fair.” Phargas started to protest, and I waved my hand. “I procured employment for us.”

He scowled. “I hope it’s something you can do on the road. I’d like to put some more distance between us and the nuns before we try selling this.”

“It won’t take long. There’s a terribly distressed damsel, desperate to be rescued from her unhappy marriage.” When his scowl deepened, I smiled. “She’ll be very appreciative.”

“And you think we can rescue her without getting ourselves killed in the process?”

“Please, these people are peasants. Besides, everyone will be wearing masks today. It’ll be easy.”

He started repacking his bags, each item placed like a sliding block puzzle until they fit together perfectly. “Masks? For what?”

“It’s some feast day of Calistria. I figured you knew that.”

“I can’t keep track of every made-up holiday in every village we come across. Not every festival is endorsed by the church.”

I nodded. “So, you’ll help me?”

He shrugged the pack onto his back. “I suppose, so long as it doesn’t take too long.”

I arranged my cloak and started toward the door. The burly serving girl who had greeted me the night before came running from the kitchen. “You can’t go out without a mask!”

Phargas stepped between us, his hands spread wide. “We are but poor wanderers, my child. We have no masks to hide our faces from Calistria.”

The girl blushed and curtsied to the priest, then went behind the bar. She pulled up a heavy wooden box and rummaged through it. “I think we have a few leftover masks from last year’s festival. They’ll be old, but nobody will notice, right?”

“Of course not.” He took a step forward and she gave an exclamation of success.

“Here we go!” She held up two masks, one a plain half-face in scarlet, the other a Baby Zora. My heart sank until I realized the priest was grabbing the cherub-cheeked plant-mask instead. I snatched the red mask and tied it around my head before he could change his mind.

He turned back to face us with the mask in place. “How do I look?”

"Anra makes a convincing argument."

The barmaid giggled, and I snickered at the sight of him in the impish familiar’s mask. I recovered as well as I could, and applauded. “You look perfect.”

He raised a hand in benediction over the maid, and muttered a blessing. Just before we reached the door, he grabbed my elbow. “So how do you plan to find this girl?”

“I would know her radiance anywhere, no matter how well disguised. Besides, she told me what mask she’d be wearing.” With that, we emerged onto the street.

For a little-known festival, it seemed half the River Kingdoms had shown up. Crowds thronged the streets, dressed in bright colors and garish masks. Many people were already drunk, despite the early hour. The laughter of a party of revelers pointing at us caused Phargas to drag me into an alley, his angry eyes out of place in the child-like mask.

“Why are they laughing?”

“Most people don’t expect to see a grown man wearing a Baby Zora mask. That’s all.”

“A what? Who in the hells is Zora?”

I looked at him, completely nonplussed. “Pickle Lily’s familiar?” No recognition dawned in his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been to a Clever Nella show.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I chuckled. “It’s a puppet show. They’re hilarious.” His mood didn’t seem to improve, so I quickly added, “Baby Zora’s a mandrake root. A sorceress’s familiar. We’ve got to get you to a show. It’ll all make sense afterward.”

“Still, I should choose something less obtrusive.” He touched the side of his mask and uttered a few quick prayers. When he was done the mask twisted itself into a stylized devil. “This should keep the rubes at bay.”

“Now we all can do as we like,” I muttered. He glared at me, and I shrugged.

“So is your damsel in distress in one of these Nella masks or something?” He strode past me, headed for the mouth of the alley.

“Hardly. She said I’d find her in the guise of a swan maiden. That should be easy enough to spot.”

“Indeed. Is she the one on the corner there? Or the one crossing the street with a man on each arm?”

I joined him at the mouth of the alley. Sure enough, two different women in swan masks battled for my attention. I studied the street a moment and spotted at least three more, all dressed extravagantly, with white-feather masks and expensive gowns.

I pointed at the one farthest from us. Flaxen hair fell from behind the mask, and her figure certainly looked right. “There she is. Come on.”

The damsel turned as I reached her, and I slipped my arm through hers. “Quickly, my dear. We’ve got to get out of here before your husband finds us.”

She screamed.

For a moment, the whole festival stopped and looked at us. I released the woman and tried to stammer an apology, but it was too late. A man wearing a mask of hammered iron strode across the suddenly open space toward us. His hand drifted to the dueling blade at his hip as he growled a challenge.

“Forgive me, forgive me. It was an honest mistake!” I held up my hands up to show that, not only had I removed them from his ladyfriend, I was also unarmed.

“It’ll be an honest mistake when I gut you like a river eel, as well.”

“It’s a feast day, good sirrah. I carry no steel. Besides, for fighters of our respective talents to cross blades requires more space.” The appeal to his ego bought me a few moments. “Do you know the Demon and Harlot?”

He glanced at the woman quickly, then answered, “I know where it is. I’ve never been inside.”

“Allow me to grab my blade, and I will meet you in the alley beside that fine establishment. There you can have the retribution you require.”

He stared at me for a moment before his face split into a cruel smile. “I’ll be waiting. Bring someone to carry your corpse.” I swallowed as he spun on his heel and strode off, his swan maiden close at his heels.

“So much for keeping a low profile,” Phargas muttered.

I shrugged. “It was an honest mistake. He just needs some time to cool off.”

“You can’t randomly accept duels from people.”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t accept anything. I told him where to meet me, and said he’d get what he deserved. In this case, that’s time to calm down.”

“Somehow, I doubt your failure to show will relax him.”

I sighed. “Oh, fine. Have it your way.” I walked up to a man in a blue doublet wearing a mask that was doubtlessly supposed to be intimidating, but fell short of the mark. “Hey, you!”

The man turned to face me. “Yeah?”

“Did you see that guy in the iron mask?”

“What guy?” He looked at me skeptically.

“Big guy, dressed in red. Iron mask. He told me to tell you to meet him at the Demon and Harlot.”

“Why’s that?”

“He said you owed him money. Half a copper, because your mother wasn’t worth full price.”

The oaf bellowed and took a swing at me, but I was quick to scramble out of his way. I held up my hands and tried to look defenseless. “Those were his words, I swear! He said he’ll meet you in front of the Demon and Harlot!” The man looked at me, rage boiling in his eyes before he rolled up his sleeves and pushed past. I turned to Phargas and grinned. “There, now he has someone to play with. Problem solved.”

“You’ll forgive me for not feeling reassured.”

“It’ll be fine. By the time they figure out what happened, you and I will be long gone. There’s nothing to worry about.” I cracked my knuckles and stretched. “Still, we’d best find the girl quickly.”

“Do you have a better idea than offending every woman in white feathers from here to the waterfront?”

I walked in the opposite direction from the Demon and Harlot, weaving in and out of the crowd. “Really, Phargas, you should appreciate her cleverness. By convincing so many other women to wear similar outfits, she’s made it easy for us to smuggle her out of the city.”

Shouts and boisterous music grew louder as we approached the river, and I quickly saw the reason. Boats of every size clogged the waterway, each one decorated with flowers and paper to transform them into great floating stages. Revelers cavorted and hurled trinkets into the screaming crowds on shore, and the noise made it difficult to hear one’s own thoughts.

Phargas tugged at my arm, then gestured to a balcony. A capital idea—from such a vantage point, finding Anra would be simple. He scampered up the stone wall of the building with impressive dexterity, then tossed a rope down to me. With a modest effort, I joined him and looked out over the party that reigned below us.

It was possibly the largest number of people I had seen in a single place. The floats extended up the river and out of sight around a bend, and depicted everything from the raising of the Starstone to the fall of Cheliax.

Swan maidens were a common theme as well, though I could see few who had both the blonde hair and exquisite figure of my quarry. The effort of this service was beginning to outweigh any sense of reward.

“There he is! Out of the way!” A familiar voice cut through the din of the crowd and Phargas and I turned to see the iron-masked duelist pointing up at us. Beside him stood the blue-clad buffoon I had sent to join him. The two had apparently become fast friends, which boded ill for my continued safety.

“Master Pathfinder, I humbly suggest we forget the girl and find an exit instead.”

“Excellent idea, Master Priest. Any suggestions?”

Below us, the two men were shoving through the crowd in our direction. Phargas glanced down, and then to the next balcony over. “Only one. Run!” Without another thought for my safety, he vaulted from our balcony to the next.

I glanced at the crowd below, then followed him. The ground seemed painfully far beneath me before I landed in a heap on the balcony floor.

By the time I had recovered my feet, Phargas had already leapt again, to a perch crowded with women who giggled and squealed at his unexpected arrival. They seemed less excited when I landed among them; a result of the reduced novelty, no doubt. The leap had put some distance between us and our pursuit, though the two men would close the gap quickly. Unfortunately, we were also out of balconies.

A shout from below questioned my parentage, and promised painful death. As I watched, the two men entered our building; any moment they would reach the balcony. Rather than wait, I jumped.

More accurately, I took a running jump for the nearest float, which passed by the balcony on the river below. I landed poorly, and rolled to a stop at the feet of a bear-like man on a great wooden throne. He laughed as his associates flung jewelry from a chest into the adoring crowds. For a moment, my mouth watered at the sight of the overflowing box; then I realized that the jewels were costume paste.

Phargas landed and stepped forward with a grandiose bow. The shouting men and squealing women in our wake must have impressed our host, as he jumped down from the chair, laughing, and swept Phargas into a tight embrace.

“Your Grace, you honor us with your presence!” his voice boomed. “Everyone! A duke of hell has joined us! Make way, make way!”

The other occupants of the float included a broad assortment of legendary characters, including a group of armored men dressed as the four Archdaemons of Abaddon. Charon fixed me with a hollow-skull stare as though he knew me, and my soul chilled until yet another swan maiden pulled him away. Meanwhile our new host was still talking.

“...must join us for dinner this evening. It shall be a feast befitting one of your priestly rank, my friend. Come! Ride with us, and at the end of the parade you can rest yourselves in my estate.”

Phargas looked at me. “Really, my companion and I should return to the goddess’s temple.”

“Nonsense! The temple-maids will be busy enough without your help. By all means bring your fool with you, but I won’t take no for an answer.”

I rose to correct the gentleman regarding Phargas’s and my relative stations, but Phargas fixed me with a gaze that made me decide dinner would be soon enough to set the record straight.

∗ ∗ ∗

“So he invited you because you’re a priest of Calistria.” I glared at the yellow-clad form of Phargas as we walked along. His Asmodeus mask had been replaced by a piece of sheer gold silk.

“Exactly. So if you ruin this meal for us, I will personally see to it that your nethers become a nesting place for every stinging insect in this stretch of swamp.”

I swallowed at the vivid imagery. “Just make certain he understands you’re traveling with me to help document my deeds as a Pathfinder.”

If he heard me, our entry into the great hall made it irrelevant. It was as though I had returned to my father’s table at last. Roast swine graced the centerboard, while an entire aviary of broiled birds was arranged in flocks around it. Cheeses and breads of every description were heaped in the available spaces, and nuts from across the River Kingdoms waited for persistent fingers to winnow them open. My stomach rumbled in appreciation.

I took a seat next to Phargas and noticed the swan maiden from the float staring at me. No doubt she was taken with me—I was likely the first noble she’d seen besides the backwater aristocracy in charge of the city. I blew her a kiss.

Phargas seemed about to say something when our host entered, the four archdaemons following him. At his arrival, the smattering of other guests around the table burst into cheers, and with a wave of his hand he called forth a troupe of attendants to serve the feast.

Between courses, I noticed the swan maiden’s eyes on me yet again. I raised my cup. “My lady, in all my travels as a Pathfinder, I have never met woman of such loveliness.” A bit thick perhaps, but no matter.

She looked to her plate—embarrassed, no doubt—but our host, seated next to her, perked up. “A Pathfinder you say? And have you come to Jedda to document Calistria’s Ball?”

I took a drink of wine and stood. “But of course! And good that we had, for we encountered a damsel in distress that only the skills of my companion and I could rescue.”

The nobleman leaned forward. “Indeed? I would hear more, friend—pray regale us with your tales while we eat.”

I would be a poor guest to refuse so earnest a request, and I launched into the tale. Midway through my description of the mystery woman’s décolletage, Phargas poked me in the leg with his knife. I slapped his hand away.

Our host’s hands were flat on the table now, and he seemed quite interested, so I continued. “For all her beauty, this poor damsel was married to an oaf of low breeding. He beat her regularly, and walled her away from the world. Still, she managed to escape last night and spoke with devotion of a young man for whom her heart had remained pure. I had to help her, my lord. I’m certain you would have done the same in my shoes.”

The nobleman’s hands had changed to fists, though his tone remained level. “Pray, did this vision of loveliness have a name, that I might aid your quest? If she is so sorely used by her husband, perhaps my status as lord of Jedda will convince him to release her.”

“An excellent point, your grace. Anra, she said her name was. Too plain for such a rare creature, but surely she would be easy for you to find.”

“Sadly, it would seem I can’t help you. For you see, I already have an Anra of my own.” At this, he pulled the mask from the swan maiden beside him and revealed the girl from the Demon and Harlot. In my mind I went through the various attributes I had assigned to the woman and the various denigrating terms I had used to describe the husband. I risked a glance at Phargas, but he had buried his face in his hands, no doubt praying for some way out of this.

“What, gone silent now? Come, Pathfinder, tell us more of this woman’s loveliness, of her husband’s monstrosity.”

"Damn Seren. Next time I'm arrested for adultery, I intend to deserve it."

My hands came up to remind him I was unarmed. “My lord must understand, I may have elaborated certain aspects of the truth in exchange for a more entertaining story.”

“How fortunate, then, that I have someone who can support you. Seren! Present yourself.” The archdaemon Charon stepped into the center of the tables, and pulled off his mask to reveal the scarred visage from the tavern.

The man fixed me with a glare, then saluted his lord. “How may I serve?”

“You are the captain of my guards, and my wife’s personal bodyguard. Pray, did anything like this happen yesterday?”

“To be clear, my lord ordered me to accept her word as your own. She ordered me to remain outside the bedroom while she entertained not just the foppish idiot, but the priest as well.”

I felt the imagined noose constricting and tugged at the collar of my doublet. Beside me, Phargas eased a roll of parchment from his boot.

“I cannot fault you for obeying my commands, Seren.” The nobleman stood and handed Anra to the waiting captain. “As for you, my dear, I won’t say I’m not disappointed. Perhaps I shall become the ogre your lover has accused me of being. Seren, take her to her quarters and see to it she remains there.”

The pair marched out of the room, with the girl stopping long enough to spit an epithet at me, rather literally. I wiped my face while our host turned back to us. Behind him, the other archdaemons were readying weapons.

“I must credit you, Pathfinder.” The noble’s voice sounded like a death knell tolling. “I knew your order was bold, but to cuckold me and then accept my hospitality? That’s gutsy. Of course, if word got out, I would be a laughingstock, so I’ve no choice but to have you both killed. The burden of rule, you know.” He gave a helpless shrug and turned to his costumed guards. “Kill them.”

Phargas shoved me into a side corridor as the guards charged. I started to protest that we’d never outrun the guards when he read something from the parchment and a stone wall covered the mouth of the hall.

I gaped. “Truly the goddess is merciful.”

“Yes, she has a soft spot for fools and cuckolds. Hurry up, that won’t stop them long.”

“I didn’t actually...”

“Neither did I, which won’t matter a whit when the guards catch us.” He ran to a window at the end of the hall and looked out. The safety of the ground lay at least twenty feet below.

“That’s a long jump, priest.”

He grabbed me by the collar and shoved me out the open window. “Good thing you’ll fall then.”

I screamed, but at a word from Phargas I drifted to the ground and landed as gently as a feather. He jumped after me and landed with ease. I pointed at another window, which had a knotted rope hanging down from it. “That would have been easier, priest.”

“Don’t question the blessings of the goddess. Just run.”

After a half-hour’s flight we made our way to the water’s edge. Unfortunately, the only boat in sight was crewed by a mud-covered man with a neat beard and breastplate, and his buxom but equally mud-covered woman. When they saw us on shore, they paddled faster to get away. I turned to the priest. “I had hoped for a little more traffic than this.”

Phargas hoisted his pack and smiled. “The goddess can be fickle. I find in such situations it’s better to rely on my feet than prayers. Shall we?”

I took a deep breath and started off along the river’s edge.

Chapter Four: The Fifth River Freedom

by Kevin Andrew Murphy

That could have gone better,” Phargas stated.

I shrugged, stepping down the road a half day from Jedda. “We have our wealth, our health, our freedom, and a good story besides. What more could a Pathfinder want?”

“Food,” Phargas grumbled, “and a foot massage.”

“You have me there, Phargas,” I laughed, “but you, old man, will never be a Pathfinder.”

He looked offended, then rolled his eyes. “Like you are...”

My companion grumbled, but it was to be expected. He was older, heavier, and less favored in all ways than I. Whereas I am Ollix Kaddar, sole heir to the throne of Kadria, finest of the River Kingdoms, and a fine figure of a man if I say so myself.

And I do. ’Tis the duty of a Pathfinder to chronicle truth, even if it seems immodest. And while I may not have been formally accepted by the Pathfinder Society, such niceties are immaterial. I have my wayfinder, I have my journal, and I have had adventures that would set tongues wagging and maidens blushing throughout the land.

“We have no cause for complaint. We rescued a beautiful woman from an unhappy marriage to a boor, and—”

“We missed the boat,” Phargas finished.

“Easily remedied.” I stepped onto a trail down to the riverbank and a copse edging alongside. “The bards say the finest way to see the Sellen is by raft, and I was raised to expect the finest in life.”

Unfortunately, while bards tell wondrous tales of carefree vagabonds traveling by raft, they say very little about building one. I was stumped, or I should say, stumpless. I had no means to fell trees and no skill with which to fashion a raft once I did. My father raised me for finer pursuits. But among these was making diplomatic requests. “Perhaps you might use your priestly magic to obtain us a raft, Phargas?”

He shook his shaven pate wearily but did go over to a willow. “Cayden Cailean provides,” he muttered, snapping a withe and stripping the leaves. It looked a little small for a raft, and forked, but it wasn’t me doing the magic.

He took it in both hands and the far end began to twitch like he had a fish on an invisible line. Muttering charms or perhaps curses, he set off, stumbling through curtains of willow.

I followed a bit more carefully until we stepped onto the bank of the Sellen.

It wasn’t a raft so much as a small dock carried away by floodwaters, two-thirds rotten and half-sunk in the mud. Waterflowers grew through the cracks. I jumped to it easily, keeping my feet dry, and walked to the sound end, surveying the river.

Phargas squelched up. “Anything else, your highness?” he asked sarcastically.

It was then I heard the whistling. Pipes and flutes and warbling trills blended together into a harmonious polyphony echoing off the banks.

“No, this should do splendidly, Phargas.” I waited at the end of the dock.

My companion was not from the River Kingdoms and so did not recognize the sound. I admit I relished his expression as the dragon’s head hove into view, great jaws agape, laughing like a linnorm ready to devour its meal.

Sunlight glinted from the monster’s scales. This one’s were a beautiful cornflower blue, and once it rounded the bank, I could see that its name was indeed the Cornflower. The prow cut the river, the calliope at the crown played, and I waved the mask I’d kept from Jedda’s festival in lieu of a hat.

I looked at my companion, still laughing. “What, you were expecting something less than one of the famed pleasure barges of the Sellen?”

Phargas grumbled a reply, but I grinned. “Cheer up, old man. As you said, Cayden Cailean provides. And he has.”

∗ ∗ ∗

Leaping to the boat was simplicity itself. I have danced the Unicorn’s Charge, and a dock is nothing more than an ill-tended dance floor. Phargas, on the other hand, was less adept, landing half in the Sellen and half out, clinging to a towrope for fear of being left behind.

Blue-liveried stevedores grabbed hold of the line. One produced a gaffing hook and snagged the hem of the priest’s robe. In this manner he was dragged onboard and unceremoniously saved.

“Old Hanspur nearly got you, yes?” the one with the hook hissed with the atrocious accent of the swamps. “Give sacrifice or old one take you yet...” He pointed to a shrine tucked underneath a flight of stairs. The others nodded, then left, pointedly averting their eyes.

Phargas looked at the shrine dubiously. “Who’s Hanspur?” As I said, he’s a priest, but not one from the River Kingdoms.

I jerked my head. “That’s Hanspur.” The icon sat in the shadows, an old man with a long beard fashioned from the inverted knee of a cypress. Upon his brow he wore a crown of cattails, shadowing bog opal eyes. Like swampers, Hanspur is everywhere in the River Kingdoms, but not spoken of in polite company—or at all, for that matter.

“What is the appropriate sacrifice?”

I avoided the opalescent gaze but still felt a chill. “Drowning someone.” One did not speak of Hanspur if one could avoid it, but more important than that, one did not lie before a god. Especially this god. My old nursemaid Laraen had told me horrible tales of those who’d lied before the eyes of Hanspur only to have his brides come up from the depths in all their moss-green glory.

Hanspur’s brides are something else the well bred do not speak of if they can avoid it. The vulgar term them hags, with skin the color of pond scum and hair like trailing lichen, at least when not disguised as beauteous maidens by means of their ensorcelments and charms. But not wishing to offend the crafty beldames, most simply call them Hanspur’s brides.

Phargas looked at me, considering. “Your father would never forgive me if you drowned,” he said at last.

“My father is not the forgiving sort,” I agreed, glancing to the idol. “Hanspur, however, has been known to excuse those who escape his realm if they host a feast in honor of his brides.” I paused. “That’s coming out of your purse, otherwise it’s not a sacrifice.”

∗ ∗ ∗

The Third River Freedom is “Walk any road, float any river.” While this mostly means that no lord can hold the Sellen, it also means each riverboat is its own floating fiefdom with its captain as king. The Cornflower’s captain, a dwarf sporting the latest fashion in braids, was displeased until he saw we’d brought money. Booking passage was less expensive than arranging a feast, but soon enough, both were settled and the captain was all smiles.

Phargas was less so, his purse now empty, and mine less half its weight. To make amends, I introduced myself as Pathfinder Ollix, but gave my companion a grander introduction, describing him as His Grace Phargas, former Abbot of the Shrine of Desna in Cheliax, forced to flee by devil worshipers. It was a story lifted from popular melodrama, but it made clear what I wanted implied: Phargas was a man of wealth traveling incognito, and I the same.

“I thought you’d never been out of Kadria before,” my companion objected. We stood on the Festival Deck, the edges strung about with Tian lanterns in blue, gold, and white, giving the appearance of a string of unusually tractable will-o’-wisps limned against the night sky—a string, of course, being the proper collective noun for a group of Hanspur’s night lights, or however else you wish to term the demon’s lanterns.

“No,” I explained, “but sometimes the pleasure barges dock there, and I know them well...”

I should probably explain, as I did for Phargas: Nothing on a Sellen pleasure barge is what it seems. What seems a linnorm or river drake is in fact a boat. What appears to be an ignis fatuous is merely a bit of rice paper and a tea light. What seems like an unusually harmonious chorus of shrieking mushrooms is in fact a keyboard attached to a clever arrangement of whistles. And what seems a lovely debutante or daughter of a merchant prince may very likely be something else: a maid exchanging clothes with her mistress, a tavern wench who pulled The Cricket, The Peacock, and The Crows—the Three Center Keys—in a Harrow lottery, an aged sorceress wearing charms to give herself the seeming of youth, or even one of Hanspur’s brides crawled up from the river, disguised as the fairest maid of all. And, of course, there are always the resident harlots for the guests’ enjoyment.

As was the custom, the ladies were allowed first access to the feast. Laid out on a snowy bier of boiled tubers and hard-cooked eggs was one of the great Sellen sturgeons known as Hanspur’s steeds, almost four ells long if it was an inch. I have seen larger, but not many. This specimen was beautifully cooked, its plates replaced with artful slices of cucumber. Its eyes were carved radishes.

The obsequious swampers came forward bearing jugs brimming with green sauce such as my old nurse used to make. Blended with cultured cream were nine sacred herbs: three good—parsley, lovage, and chervil; three neutral—borage, dill, and salad burnet; and three evil—chives, cress, and sorrel. Ground fine, they gave the appearance of pond scum. As the sauce was poured down the sides, the sturgeon looked as if it were rising from the Sellen itself.

"Oaths or not, never trust a leucrotta."

This recipe is also known to be irresistible to Hanspur’s brides since, as old Laraen used to tease me, the sauce goes just as well with children as it does with fish. But this was the test: Which of the bevy of beauties lined up for the feast would reveal herself by taking the first taste?

Of course, green sauce is hard to resist even for those who aren’t moss-colored beldames. Two slightly drunk halfling twins ornamented with starred tiaras and gauze butterfly wings in imitation of Desna, who either did not know the custom or else were amazingly petite brides, went up and began serving themselves, pronouncing it delicious.

“Do you hear that?” said the fish. “I am delicious! Eat me! Eat me or sacrifice yourself to Hanspur!”

One of Desna’s barflies squealed and dropped her fork. It clattered across the deck. The other picked it up, then jabbed underneath the tablecloth.

Two half-elven children—likely older than me—ran out, laughing, and with that, the rest of the maidens descended on the banquet. And if Hanspur’s brides were among them, who could tell?

Other dainties were brought out as well: a roast swan stuffed with a goose, stuffed with a duck, and so on with a chicken, a pheasant, a partridge, a pigeon, a woodcock, and finally a gilded hazelnut known as “the foolish lich’s phylactery”; succulent cardoons (fancifully presented as the frittered heart of a sentient plant-beast); an effigy of marchpane tinted, gilded, and silvered to be the very image of The Rabbit Prince and his broken sword; and even a brace of peacocks basted with saffron butter. They reminded me of Laraen’s nursery story, how the peacock tricked the cockatrice out of his beautiful tail, and why it is thus unlucky to wear peacock feathers, for even a single eye from the stolen plumage can send the monsters into a frenzied rage.

Phargas loaded up a trencher, even having the temerity to break off the gilded hilt of the Rabbit Prince’s sword (the maidens having already made off with the tail and both ears), but as he’d paid for this largesse, I wasn’t going to begrudge him a bit of gold-dusted almond paste.

I myself was partial to peacock, so had snagged a wing as my right as Pathfinder. But with privilege come expectations, and I found myself face-to-face with one of the maidens. She had a lovely form and features so long as you overlooked the horned hennin headdress and long skirts commonly used to disguise the horns and the tail of a hellspawn. “So,” she said with the accent of the Chelish aristocracy—another damning clue, likely one of Cheliax’s devilborn bastards sent out on a grand tour in hopes that she’d find a less discerning or more financially strapped lordling and not come back—“you are a Pathfinder, yes?”

“Indeed.” I nodded. “You may call me Ollix, milady.”

“You may call me Belshabba.” Her brief smile revealed small fangs and confirmed my suspicions of infernal parentage. “I have a question, O Pathfinder: What do you call more than one of those?” She pointed to the roast swan.

I breathed a mental sigh of relief. Venery is a common pastime among the aristocracy, and as such, I have memorized a good number of collective nouns. Or at least more than enough for flirtation purposes, since “the venereal game” is also a euphemism for an even more amusing pastime, and is in fact one of the reasons my father kicked me out.

I imagined his expression if I came back with a hellspawn bride, but knowing my father, he would simply sneer and make some tart remark about me doing things by halves.

That said, one of my few duties as heir had been to attend to the annual swan-upping, an excuse to go boating, find as many cygnets as possible, and nick their beaks with the royal sigil of Kadria. As such, I knew the answer: “That is a trick question, dear lady. On water, ’twould be a drift. In air, a wedge, but on earth, a bank. Following that, while any swanning is an eyrar, roasted ’twould be a banquet.”

“But there is more than one type of bird there.”

“Then ’tis either a flock, as ’twould be for any number of birds, or, if it is to be considered one fowl, then a flight as for chimeras.”

She nodded, tapping one red fingernail to her lips, then pointed to the crisped wing still in my hand. “And what would more than one of that bird be?”

“Two of any bird or beast is always a brace, milady.”

“But more than two?”

I wasn’t certain if she was propositioning me to disport myself with herself and another hellspawn, or if this was simply more testing me as Pathfinder. “Well,” I said slowly, “more than two peacocks are a muster.”

“What if they were cockatrices?”

I racked my brain. With all apologies to Hanspur’s green-faced brides, I knew it was a coven of hags but a covey of quail, a cete of badgers but a deceit (or pack) of leucrottas, and a pride of lions but a shame or cult of lamias. But cockatrices? “Well, were it a basilisk, ’twould be a colony...”

“If it were a basilisk, there’d be eight drumsticks and we’d stuff it with royal morels so it would shriek for the Feast of Asmodeus.” She laughed lightly. “But cockatrices, O Pathfinder?”

I have to admit I was momentarily stumped.

“It would be another trick question, as a flock of cockatrices is simply a flock,” said Phargas, sweeping forward.

Belshabba laughed. “I take it you are Ollix’s senior Pathfinder?”

“Nay, milady,” Phargas said quickly, “merely a humble cleric of Irori, Master of Masters, Bringer of Knowledge, and Keeper of all History that is, was, and is yet to be.”

“Not so humble if you could host this banquet,” she pointed out.

“Render unto Hanspur what is Hanspur’s, and when in the River Kingdoms, do as the Sellenese do.” He laughed like a man who’d spent his last copper on a lavish feast. “Besides, I have no desire to be devoured by a swamp god’s green-toothed brides.”

“Oh?” she said. “What about a humble daughter of Asmodeus?”

I was uncertain whether to be relieved at escaping a hellspawn gold-digger or slighted at being passed over for someone older, uglier, and in all ways less favored than myself. I suppose it was a bit of both. But I took some small satisfaction in knowing that, apart from a feast and a diddling, there was nothing more Belshabba was likely to get from my traveling companion.

I was also intrigued. My friend Phargas changed which god he said he worshiped more often than he changed hose—which from what I’d seen was never, as he simply prayed for them to be washed and dried without the usual step of taking them off first. I was beginning to suspect he in fact worshipped none of them, and while likely not a cultist of Hanspur—his unfamiliarity with the forbidden god of the Sellen more than enough clue there—he was likely priest of some foreign god no one spoke about in polite company either, even if you got the appropriate ambassador exceedingly drunk and then had courtesans ply their trade.

I knew because I’d heard my father ranting about this on more than one occasion.

However, just because Phargas was not a cultist of Hanspur did not mean there weren’t others, since it is said old opal-eyes grants absolution in advance for those who sacrifice early, and not everyone can afford sturgeon with green sauce. Pushing someone else into the Sellen, however, especially a drunken sybarite leaning on the rail of a pleasure barge?

I insinuated myself into countless conversations, using all my wit and charm to tease out stories of mysterious disappearances, tragic drownings, even outright sacrifice. However, from everything I was able to gather, Phargas’s half-dip in the Sellen and feast in honor of Hanspur’s brides was the closest anything came on the Cornflower to forbidden cults. Those from the River Kingdoms thought Phargas’s propitiation only common sense, while those from outside found the whole business quaint and charming.

There are many words to describe the Drowning King, but these are not the ones.

It was then I realized there was something missing. “Where are the children?”

I had seen some about earlier, taking treats and sweetmeats, threatening to topple what was left of the Rabbit Prince as they tore off his lucky left foot, in general getting underfoot and doing all the things noble and wealthy children do at court. But now they were gone. And, as old Laraen told me, just as cygnet is finer meat than swan, so is it with humans, halflings, and all the others: Hanspur’s brides find them more toothsome young. “The children?” I asked again, to the crowd at large.

“Oh,” said one the drunken Desna devotees, “they’re in the hold watching the puppet show. They wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

∗ ∗ ∗

The children’s hold was illuminated by magical torches with smokeless flame. Rows of benches were affixed in front of a blue-and-white-striped puppet theater, and transfixed in the former and by the latter were a multitude of uneaten children of every civilized race.

The proscenium arch framed a beloved scene: Nella the rogue, Baby Zora the mandragora, and Grizzlebane the wicked leucrotta, who was in the process of eating a rolling pin.

I stood transfixed myself. It was a Clever Nella show!

“You’re out of weapons, girl!” declared Grizzlebane. “Now give me the baby and I won’t eat you!” His hinged badger head was painted wood, as were his gangly stag legs, but his lion’s torso and tail were stitched from tawny rabbit fur. He was a beautiful puppet and spoke with the classic voice for Grizzlebane: a cultured courtier with just the hint of a hyena’s mad laugh.

“Swear it?” asked Nella. She looked like a human rogue forced to dress as a kitchen wench, which is exactly what she was.

“I swear it on my mother’s heart,” laughed Grizzlebane.

“Your mother’s Lamashtu,” Nella countered. “The Demon Queen has no heart!”

“Touché,” said Grizzlebane. “What if I swear it on the Sixth River Freedom?”

“That’s ‘You have what you hold,’” said Nella. “I’ve got a baby.” She swung Baby Zora by the hem of her gown, walloping the leucrotta over the head.

The mandragora shrieked, as did the children in the audience, but the latter with laughter.

“Ow!” yelled the leucrotta. “Is that baby made out of wood?”

“Maybe,” said Nella, smacking him again. “She has a very hard head.”

“Ow!” wailed Grizzlebane. “Then the First River Freedom?”

“Wrong again!” Nella smacked him with Baby Zora a third time.

“Children,” begged the leucrotta. “Have pity on a poor monster! Which freedom is it?”

The children suggested one then the other, always the wrong freedom until at last the leucrotta did the math through his concussions and came up with the Second Freedom—“Oathbreakers die”—a lesson driven home in the first act when Nella swears to repay the Great Ga’zard, a gnomish wizard, for a timely teleport, only to find that, rather than gold or other services, what he really wants is a housekeeper, since it’s hard for the Great Gizzard to find help who won’t quit. But an oath is an oath, and the Second River Freedom is the only way around the Fifth—“Slavery is an abomination”—for while you cannot be sold into slavery in the River Kingdoms, you can willingly swear yourself into indentured servitude.

Nella then battles Tor Whitemane, an angel-blooded paladin who is stupid to the border of delusional; Tor’s long-suffering steed, Jenny the Burro (who Tor insists is a white palfrey); and Lily or “Pickle Lily,” an elven sorceress who was a great beauty in her day, but whose day is centuries past, and who is angling for the horrified Ga’zard as her latest husband. Nella plays matchmaker for Lily and Tor, then maid of honor at their wedding, which mostly consists of Pastor Jackal, a hyenafolk cleric, and Nella beating each other over the head with a bishop’s crozier and the bride’s bouquet respectively. Then Nella finds her contract transferred as a nuptial gift. She’s forced to babysit Baby Zora, Pickle Lily’s spoiled mandragora familiar, which only Tor believes is a real baby. Or rather, only Tor and his arch-nemesis, Grizzlebane the leucrotta.

Which was the scene where I’d walked in. I took a seat and watched as Grizzlebane ate the shrieking Baby Zora then coughed up the baby bonnet and gown, for as is well known, a leucrotta cannot digest anything that is not flesh.

“That didn’t taste like any baby I’ve ever eaten...”

“That’s because it was a baby mandragora! A mandrake root soaked in demon blood!”

“You ate a vegetable!” I called out from the back row and the children took up the taunt: “You ate a vegetable! You ate a vegetable!”

“A poisonous vegetable!” Nella agreed. Grizzlebane, horrified and sickened, proceeded to vomit up the rolling pin, the mop, the broom, and the carpet beater. Nella caught the last, beating the sickened leucrotta offstage as I laughed and laughed.

The rest followed the familiar script: Next came Giddy the goblin clown, perpetually late to the baby-eating party. Nella beat him until he put on Zora’s gown and bonnet, then presented him to Tor, returning from his honeymoon, with the classic line: “And look how she’s grown!” Tor rewarded Nella by releasing her from her contract, pronouncing her a fellow paladin, and giving her his holy sword. Finally, the Devil appeared, trying to get Nella to sign another contract, but our heroine had had enough, repeating the first and foremost River Freedom—“Say what you will, I live free!”—while beating him over the head with Tor’s sword.

“This will never play in Cheliax!” yelled the Devil, an amusing line I’d not heard before.

But soon enough, Nella beat him to death, crying out her final line: “Huzzah! Huzzah! The Devil’s dead! Now we can all do as we like!”

A little black dog in a harlequin suit ran out the puppet theater’s front flap with a basket in his teeth to collect the children’s tips. I saw all manner of gold and trinkets thrown in, even the marchpane left foot of the Rabbit Prince, but it was another foot that paralyzed me with horror: a cloven one visible just before the blue-and-white-striped cloth fell back down. The puppeteer was a devil!

My father told me to make something of myself, and though never the best student at the blade, I had been trained. While the children might have nothing to fear from Hanspur’s brides, the heir of Kadria wasn’t about to stand by while a devil preyed on children.

At least that’s what I thought. It was like a puppet show: I found myself walking forward, stepping past children, pulling aside the curtain behind the proscenium arch. Then I cried out, my shock and horror turning to confusion, then back to horror as I revealed not the sinister horned head of a devil, or even the ghastly green visage of one of Hanspur’s brides, but the head of a large badger with a mummified hand on a golden chain around its neck. Looking past, I saw the body of a lion and the legs of a stag. The puppeteer was not a devil or a hag, but a monstrous leucrotta!

“Would you mind?” the beast said dryly, in the same slightly mad but cultured voice he had used for the puppet Grizzlebane.

I found my voice. “Stand back, children! It’s a leucrotta!”

“Look everyone!” The Clever Nella puppet floated in the air. “A wealthy prat!”

“I’m a Pathfinder!”

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” said the Devil, alive again, dancing on the tip of the leucrotta’s lion tail. “Daddy bought you a wayfinder, did he?”

It was then that I felt something hot and wet running down my leg. I looked. The little dog with the basket was lifting his against mine.

The children all laughed—human, halfling, gnomish, even the half-elven brats who’d been playing under the buffet. I felt a hot blush steal into my cheeks, but I knew noble children, having been one myself. They soon tired of my humiliation and left to find other amusements, leaving me with my shame, the dog, and the monster in the puppet show.

“So,” said the leucrotta, ducking out under the flap. “Lord Ollix of Kadria, I presume?”

It was a great beast, but moved with the stiffness of age. I felt compelled to look at it as it spoke. The last thing you want is a leucrotta to know your name, for it gives it power over you. But at this point, I knew there was no use in lying. “How did you know who I am?”

“I have an excellent ear for both accents and gossip,” the leucrotta explained. “I hear the rounded vowels of the Kadrian court, and I’ve heard its lord has kicked out his only heir...”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m at a loss. I don’t know your name.”

“Nor shall you.” The monster grinned, revealing black gums and long razor-sharp ridges of bone. “But for stage purposes ‘Professor Grizzlebane’ has sufficed.”

“Erm snuffles,” said the dog, in a voice that was more growl than speech.

“Snuffles?” I repeated. First a leucrotta, now a talking dog named Snuffles?

“Shuffle,” Professor Grizzlebane corrected. “Shuffle the Harrow-Reading Dog, my oldest friend here. ” He looked to the little dog, which sat up and panted expectantly. “Shhhh...” the leucrotta enunciated precisely. “It’s pronounced with front teeth gritted, like baring them at something who wants your kill.”

The dog’s teeth showed briefly beneath his whiskers. “Wuffle!” He then looked in the basket, wagged his tail, and yapped.

“No, you may have it,” said Professor Grizzlebane. “I don’t care for marchpane.”

Shuffle the Harrow-Reading Dog began happily gnawing the left foot of the Rabbit Prince while the leucrotta turned back to me. “You must pardon my friend’s diction. Speech does not come naturally to his breed.” He paused, then added, “And do not fret yourself. Just as I don’t care for marchpane, I’m too old and wise a leucrotta to eat mandrake babies either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Simply think,” scolded Professor Grizzlebane. “I don’t expect your father holds any love for you, but were his heir to die, would he avenge that death, if just to keep up appearances?”

The beast was trying to get inside my head, twisting its word around my feelings, for while leucrottas are known to relish the kill, what they truly savor is tormenting their victims with every imaginable cruelty. “You lie, leucrotta!”

The monster laughed. “Perhaps. Perhaps your father despises you so much he would not even use your corpse as a political chit, refusing to shed even a single crocodile tear over something he truly regards as a tragic mistake. Who am I to say?”

Half of me wanted to say my father loved me, which I knew to be untrue, and the other half wanted to say my father hated me, but not so much that he’d spite his own ambition, which was probably closer to the truth. But mostly I was torn, and I hated Professor Grizzlebane like I hated my old tutor Doctor Birkaius because he made me think.

“Or perhaps you ran away,” opined the leucrotta. “Perhaps your father tired of courte—”

“If I tell the truth, will you stop the speculation?”

“Everyone wants something, little lordling. What would you wish in exchange?”

“You tell me your tale, I’ll tell you mine.” I stated the bargain as plainly as I could. “How does a monster known to eat children end up on a Sellen pleasure barge performing ‘Clever Nella’ for their amusement?”

The leucrotta grinned. “Did you watch the show?”

“Yes, but I—”

“Well then,” said the old leucrotta, “quote for me the Second and Fifth River Freedoms.”

∗ ∗ ∗

Professor Grizzlebane’s tale was simple yet interesting: When he had grown too old to lead his pack, he had gone off to die, a lone leucrotta, content to indulge in whatever petty cruelties Lamashtu sent his way until the Mother of Monsters granted him the final cruelty and the final kindness. Instead, she sent a leucrotta’s worst nightmare: laryngitis. Thus afflicted, he was trapped, beaten, and as one last indignity, mistaken for a base crocotta and sold to the Cornflower’s menagerie, an error akin to mistaking a naked gnome for a mangy monkey.

But as is said, even a leucrotta may quote the law. Once he recovered his voice, Professor Grizzlebane did: specifically the Fifth River Freedom, that slavery is an abomination. While his owner was wise enough to invoke the Sixth—you have what you hold—Professor Grizzlebane compromised by invoking the Second: oathbreakers die. While wise enough to avoid indentured servitude, he swore to work for the Cornflower’s betterment and to not devour, kill, or even harm any of her crew or passengers.

Of course, while this remained true in the literal sense, in the figurative, he was eating us alive, partnered with Shuffle the Harrow-Reading Dog for high-stakes Towers two days later.

Shuffle riffled the cards, and I still have no idea how little black dog paws could manipulate pasteboard so dexterously. We were playing Towers of Sellen. Unfortunately, this was not Towers as Phargas knew it, so my partner had not only lost the stakes I’d lent him, but most of the money I’d wagered besides.

Phargas and I played The White Tower, Shuffle and Grizzlebane The Black. The Black Tower currently led, having captured the neutral cards that flowed down The River many times, as the marks on the score sheet mutely attested.

I discarded two cards and gestured for Shuffle to hit me. Little black nails flipped me a brace. I moaned: The Fiend and The Snakebite again. They kept coming to me hand after hand, and when playing The White Tower, evil was evil.

“Ah, The Fiend again, young Ollix.” Professor Grizzlebane chuckled. “Are you certain that is not your papa in the picture, devouring his own child?”

“I think it’s you, Professor Grizzlebane. You’re the only child-eater here.”

“Tch!” The old leucrotta made a disparaging noise. “Leucrottas do not devour their young. And the little ones here? I feel like they’re my own cubs: their cruel little eyes, their gleeful appreciation of torture, the bad advice they so freely give. Really, what’s not to love?”

I should have considered it earlier, but the leucrotta’s talent for getting under one’s skin made him an excellent Harrow player.

“And The Snakebite,” Professor Grizzlebane continued. “Perhaps the cards are trying to warn you? A false friend, perhaps?” His crafty eyes flicked to Phargas, then back. “Or mayhap an ungrateful child? That’s the classic omen.”

If I’d begotten an ungrateful bastard somewhere, I’d hardly be surprised, but as any of mine could scarcely be out of swaddling clothes, I wasn’t worried. The envenomed dagger worn by the faceless assassin, however? There could be no clearer omen for the Daggermark Poisoners Guild. “Maybe we should just play the game, Professor Grizzlebane?”

“Of course,” said the leucrotta. “Care to raise your wager or should we just call it now?”

Towers of Sellen is played with one’s wealth on the table, and you aren’t allowed to wager more than you obviously have. If we lost this hand, Phargas and I would be destitute. But I still had one bit of wealth visible. “Would you accept this?” I asked, placing my wayfinder on the table. The magic compass glittered in the lantern light.

“What say you, Shuffle?” the leucrotta asked his partner.

“Woof!” declared the Harrow-Reading Dog, wagging his tail.

“Well then,” said Professor Grizzlebane. “We accept. But since we are now open to items of magic, you know this is worth twice that.” The mummified hand the aged leucrotta wore as a necklace uncurled two digits. It was a grisly thing, the hand of an elven mage, but it let him manipulate puppets and even deal cards. Without it, he was merely a very clever magical beast. “You will understand if I do not remove the talisman until the game is complete, but I assure you, it is on the table.” He grinned again. “But now, if you cannot see my wager, you must fold and forfeit, no matter how good your hidden cards might be.”

Phargas looked at his. Of the ones he had face up, only The Wanderer, the card that portended a Pathfinder, did us any good. But Phargas glanced to me, nodded, then turned to the leucrotta. “We do not fold.”

“Oh?” asked Professor Grizzlebane. “What do you wager? Another wayfinder, mayhap?”

Phargas’s eyes narrowed. “I wager my service. A gold a day, or at standard rates for more hazardous duties. Enough to make up the difference. As this is the custom, you must allow it, so call the cards.”

“If you’ll allow, I’d like to do the same, enough to take this back.” I placed my hand on my wayfinder. I did not wish to make Clever Nella’s bargain, but I am the heir of Kadria, and I would be damned before I let myself be upstaged by an aging priest.

Professor Grizzlebane glanced to Shuffle, then nodded. “Done and done. Let us call it.”

"How does he do that?"

The White Tower goes first. I had nothing, but Phargas revealed his cards: The Hidden Truth and The Joke combined with The Wanderer already showing, giving us the Three Good Books. But more than that, they not only gained control of The Inquisitor and The Vision, which had previously been floating unclaimed in The River, but also transmuted The Snakebite from baleful to beneficent and captured The Rakshasa from Shuffle’s up cards, multiplying the points for the set—Seven of Nine Books, scored for The White Tower. Combined with the other good cards, it could be enough for us to win, assuming The Black Tower had no eleventh-hour treachery.

Shuffle turned his cards first. Two unmatched Evil cards, then The Cyclone, which magnified The Fiend before me, but not enough to outweigh the good there was before Phargas. But then Professor Grizzlebane grinned. His cards turned over one by one. The Foreign Trader appeared in The River, completing the set of the Three Neutral Books and raising our score. But then The Idiot, the last of the Three Evil Books, robbed us of all the Books so far, raised the score, and put all eighty-one points in contest.

With what was showing, The White Tower and The Black Tower were matched, the game balanced on The Rabbit Prince’s broken sword.

But the last card had not tipped. If it was good, or even the right neutral or evil, it could hand us the hand—even the mummified one around Professor Grizzlebane’s neck.

The final card flipped over: evil. And not just any evil, but The Beating. The card showed a man assaulted on all sides, ghoulish hands rising up from the ground. It completed the set of the Three Evil Hammers and claimed the Nine Books. The Black Tower had won.

The final card rose in the air, manipulated by the hand of the mage around the wily old leucrotta’s neck. “It appears you shall have a beating in your future as well as your present, O Heir, though I predict this one will be a good bit more physical.”

“What, are you a Varisian fortuneteller now, in addition to a Clever Nella puppeteer?” I did my best to sneer as I clutched my wayfinder.

“Hardly.” Professor Grizzlebane grinned, showing his black gums and razor-sharp ridges of bone. “I merely know the Cornflower’s next stop is the Toll Tower of Tymon. And Tymon’s lord is fond of his gladiator pits.” He laughed like a jackal. “And just because I’m too wise to eat a mandrake baby doesn’t mean that there isn’t an idiot somewhere who will.”

Chapter Five: Chariots of Terror

by Steven E. Schend

It should have been bigger. For a place so exalted in tales, Tymon was disappointingly commonplace, buzzing with activity, but none of any importance. Hardly a place worthy of such nobility as us—or rather, me. Then again, with a little time, perhaps my presence could raise this backwater hovel into a place worthy of gentility. I mentioned as much to Phargas.

The priest cleared his throat and hawked into the river as we crossed the gangplank to the dock. “What did you expect?”

“Stone and marble, for one. Grandeur, banners, and servants, not more dirt, dockhands, and doxies.”

The brute prodding us from behind snorted. “Well, there’ll be more servants with you here. Step lively, and head toward Caras there at dock’s end.” He nodded his head toward a slimmer man dressed in the same blue garb as all the Cornflower’s staff.

Phargas stopped in mid-stride. “How does anyone to expect us here?”

The giant-sized deckhand smiled at him, exposing three missing teeth. “Every night, boats go ahead of us. No good to have a pleasure barge without folk upriver wanting aboard. The captain sent Caras, and now we see if he found someone to buy your debts.”

The blue-garbed person we approached gestured toward us. He spoke with a pair of men cloaked in brown and black, both cleaner and better dressed than the rabble around them. “You know, Phargas,” I said, “I really should have thrashed you for dragging me into this low situation. You’re going to be the death of me.”

The priest coughed and stared at me a moment. Even after all our time together, he was clearly still unused to his betters admitting the common rabble have some effect on their lives. He then rubbed his shaved scalp, yawned, and said, “Milord, this low situation rests entirely on your ‘unbeatable noble talents at cards’ being disproved, not what I wagered. As for the rest, we have only the paths upon which the gods set us. Where we end is hardly up to us.”

I began to think men like Phargas removed some brains along with their hair when they joined the priesthood.

“That’s a horrible thing to say, Phargas. A Pathfinder always knows his path and chooses to walk it.”

“Well, walk faster then,” the fleshy mountain behind us chuckled as he shoved us both forward.

Phargas smiled. “Forgive me. Your choices are as true as your status, milord.”

Were it the proper time, I would have rewarded Phargas for admitting the rightness of my stance. As it was, we stepped off the gangplank onto the muddied cobbles of Tymon’s portside, just inside the city walls. The stevedore Caras motioned his friends toward us and said, “Here they are, milords—two able servants until such time that they have served out their incurred debts with you, as exchanged in kind with our Professor Grizzlebane.”

“You bring them to us armed and unshackled?” The brown-clad man’s hood fell back, revealing a face unshaven and unkempt.

“Second Freedom, sir.” Caras bowed, as did our juggernaut. “They bet their service and lost, and few’re fools enough to break that oaths. We leave you with the Sixth Freedom and bid you good day, unless you wish to travel the Sellen with the Cornflower.”

“We have what we hold, indeed,” said the man in black. “Thank you for delivering these men to us, gentlemen.” This genteel man obviously was of good breeding and intentions. Perhaps he was simply in need of quality conversation—a task for which I was eminently suitable.

The brown-garbed man moved behind us as his companion turned on his heel and walked briskly into the town, motioning us all to follow. While I would have preferred a carriage, his pace and our monetary troubles left me no option but to follow and hope Tymon dust washed out easily. Every time I slowed to look up at some odd shop sign or tavern flag, the brown-garbed man jabbed me in the back with a mace he’d drawn from beneath his cloak. I marked him as I did Phargas—useful to his betters but often stepping beyond his place.

“Sir,” I sent my voice ahead. “Your servant seems overly brusque. Perhaps a lesson needs be made?”

Our black-garbed host slowed not a whit as he replied over his shoulder, “A lesson is swift in coming, Lord Kaddar, trust me.” He led us all toward a farrier’s stables, where a carriage with two horses stood at the ready.

Our herald turned to face us and Phargas bowed low. While my situation demanded some courtesy to him, I saw us as being of a kind, above the priest’s station as much as he ascended above the dungsweep in the alley behind him. I merely inclined my head slightly in deference to my debts and his troubles, winking at him to signal my understanding that now was not the time for open negotiations or discussions of money.

Phargas muttered, “How might we be of service, milords? I am but a traveler and humble priest of Desna. With me is—”

“Lord Ollix Kaddar, heir of Kadria, yes.” The black-garbed man’s face withdrew deeper into his midnight hood while his smile became brighter still. “And his faithful companion Phargas.”

“Ah,” I exhaled in relief. “So glad to hear that our reputations precede us. Would you be so kind as to share your names, fellow lords, and where we might be headed?”

“I would hate to spoil the surprise, Lord Ollix, though you may call me Kerban. I’m sure we’re to be great friends who will laugh over your debts soon enough.” Kerban shifted his hood to reveal a marvelous diadem on his brow, its filigreed silverwork fascinating, and its red gem even more so. The sun must have broken through clouds, though I in truth felt no warmer, as the man’s brown eyes shifted to bronze. “We are friends, are we not?”

It shows the innate superiority of the upper classes to recognize a kindred spirit and accept the munificence that comes of such a connection. Commoners war among themselves because they lack the minds to comprehend and embrace both their stations and those of others. My musings on this fact were interrupted as Phargas suddenly shoved me bodily into our new comrade. Even Kerban’s brown-clad companion seemed surprised, dropping his mace into the dirt where I had stood even as Phargas whirled and knocked his legs out from under him.

That man would surely be my death, I knew, even before he started shouting, drawing the crowd around us. I apologized profusely to my new friend Kerban, whose ears, I now saw, had slight points to them. His diadem glimmered brightly and I felt ashamed that my companion so disturbed and belittled my gracious new companion. I helped Kerban up by clambering off of him, and he was as shocked as I to hear Phargas’s accusations.

“Violators!” Phargas yelled. I supposed the local rabble expected all disturbances to be their entertainment, as many paused to surround us and listen to Phargas continue. “I demand the Law of Grievance! These two would violate our Fifth Freedom, and I demand recompense! The black one there tried to bewitch us with magic and capture us for some nefarious purpose!”

I would have asked Phargas to explain, but the rabble overwhelmed my questions. The press of the unwashed closed in on all of us, all yelling, “To the arena!” I felt faint as the odors and bodies of the crowd pressed in, their voices screaming, “No mercy for slavers!” or “Blood must answer!”

∗ ∗ ∗

“You expect me to believe our new friend Kerban clouded my mind? Preposterous! My wits are inviolate.” Honestly, Phargas generated the most outrageous excuses for his own boorish behavior.

“Not to the mace that just missed you back there, they’re not,” Phargas replied. “Nor to that half-elf and his magic circlet. He’s not our friend, but what he is, we’ll find out.”

"Ullorth Ungin is benevolent—and woe to those who say otherwise."

A filthy mob herded us through the streets, eager to see us “settle a grievance on the sand” rather than discuss it like the gentlemen we were. The rabble’s shouts drew mounted magistrates who kept the pairs of us flanked by horsemen. The senior officer—obvious in his rank by the fact that he alone had a civilized manner and a shaved chin—rode in the center. The mob celebrated as it surged forward toward the largest edifice in sight, its curved walls towering above all other buildings.

The guards directed us and our uncloaked companions around the arcing edge of the arena. The two lesser guards, Kerban, and his servant went into one opening, its gates clanging shut behind them. The magistrate commander used his horse and the crowd to move us toward a much farther gate. He leaned down and whispered to us, “We been watching that Kerban for a time. What you two did to anger a Daggermark assassin, I don’t know, but—”

Phargas replied louder than necessary. “You mean word hasn’t spread yet of Ollix’s slaying of the heinous despot Baron Addelworth? It was marvelous to view, his valiant duel to save the virtue of an honest tavern maid from Byrtol’s lascivious clutches. ’Twas his loathsome opponent who destroyed the site of their battle by fire rather than allow it as a monument to his defeat. Ah, pride…”

Phargas spun this tale and the crowd around us ceased its caterwauling to listen. Truly, I had no idea Phargas was such an accomplished liar. Did that make him less of a priest, or more? The tales he wove were flattering, to be sure, but I doubted we’d incurred the wrath of both Daggermark’s poisoners’ guild and its assassins’ guild. Still, I admired his skill, and it occurred to me that he’d be perfect to transcribe my report for the Pathfinder Chronicles. Before I could mention the idea, however, we arrived at the next gate leading into the arena’s wall. The crowd now buzzed with my name and various tidbits of our alleged feats, with folk even taking wagers on the street for some unspecified reason.

The magistrate leaned down again and smiled. “Lucky you knew the Law of Grievance, so as to make it a public fight rather than a private assassination. May your luck continue.” He motioned us through the gate, which rattled shut behind us, leaving only a noisome tunnel ahead. Phargas and I moved silently toward the light at its end.

It was then I took my first look at the Arena of Aroden, albeit from its gravel and sand, not the nobler box seats from which I’d hoped to view it. In truth, it looked little better than the dead god himself—shattered weapons, random bones, and pools of blood littered the sands, the only clear area a level track around the arena’s edge and a stone platform in its center.

The stench of drying blood clung to me even over the choking dust as another crowd of filthy, malodorous commoners surrounded us, all jabbering away. Finally a massive, leathery man approached us, his body a tangle of old scars. “My name is Pit Master Makoa,” he said. “As aggrieved parties, you choose the platform; your opponents choose the stakes to end the grievance; the crowd chooses the weapons. What say you?”

Phargas seemed engaged in staring about the arena so I took to bargaining with the man. “Platform? Are we to perform something? I’ve nothing prepared…”

He shook his head, muttered beneath my hearing, and said, “Platform—how do you want to duel? On foot? Riding? Chariots? No boats—the pools are leaking.”

Phargas asked, “Do we—”

“Oh, yes! Chariots!”

The big man turned on his heel and yelled to the arena. “The aggrieved have chosen chariots!” The crowd, swelling as the mobs from outside flowed into the stepped seats, roared its approval. Phargas hissed at me.

“Tell me you can drive a chariot, Ollix, please?”

“No, I just always wanted to ride in one.”

“So we have to fight—”

From the other end of the arena, a cry came up. “The challenged have chosen death to settle their feud!” The crowd roared louder still.

“—to the death on a vehicle you don’t know how to operate?”

“To the death?” Perhaps the priest’s suspicions about Kerban were not so far off mark after all. “Say, Phargas, why should I drive the chariot?”

Phargas clenched his fists, and whispered, “Because I’ll be busy asking Desna to spare our miserable lives and casting spells to keep us traveling in her name!”

Magic! Of course. Let Phargas handle the brutality. “Very well. I shall drive, and you shall dispatch these betrayers. How hard can it be if servants can do it constantly?”

Makoa addressed the crowd again. “What weapons settle these matters?” A cacophony of shouts filled the air for a few moments, until an undertone began. Soon, many voices chanted together, “Desna’s Choice! Desna’s Choice!”

As this crowd participation seemed to have little bearing on me, I turned toward the chariot and horses some of the others were leading to us. Before I could step onto the chariot, three men stepped in my way. I turned to Phargas, only to find another three surrounding him. Makoa approached us all, undoing a small purse from his belt. He said, “Leave your weapons, cloaks, and shirts here as collateral. Then draw a coin from my bag.”

“I hardly think I’ll just—” Phargas’s elbow in my stomach prevented both words and breath.

“Fine, I’ll draw for both of us,” Phargas said as he undid his cloak. By the time I drew a steady breath, the priest had stripped off his tunic and left his staff and daggers atop his clothes. He reached into the old man’s bag, drawing two coins. The old man looked at me and said, “Strip, grievant, or my men will bare you more than you might like.”

Phargas said, “Ollix, they might damage your noble attire in the process.”

I submitted to the indignity, though I refused to rush and further ruin the worn fabrics.

The two large coins had marks to exchange them for random items in the armory. Soon, a runner came out and handed me a much-scored longsword and Phargas a round metal shield rather worse for wear. Looking across the arena, our opponents held a long chain and a spear.

From somewhere, a crier called out, “The race continues until the grievance is met! Take to your chariots!”

Phargas shoved me forward. “Run, Ollix!” Why he assumed my grasp of the obvious was less than his vexed me greatly, but I took his advice nonetheless.

Within a breath, we both stood in our chariot. I slid my sword into a scabbard at the vehicle’s front, then took up the reins as we each hooked a foot into the loops on the floor to help us maintain our footing. It seemed no different than driving a small wagon, so I immediately snapped the reins and got the horses moving. Standing up while driving horses felt far different than I expected, and only the chariot’s front kept me from leaping forward with our team.

Phargas muttered something then rested a hand on my shoulder. “The Song of the Spheres smiles on you, Ollix.”

Oddly heartened by this display, I replanted my feet, shifted my grip on the reins, and leaned, pulling the chariot to the left toward the cleared track. It all seemed simpler, easier to gauge, and I understood how to work the reins to increase the horses’ speed. I was thankful for my natural competence as Kerban’s man drove his chariot directly toward us, one hand on the reins and the other brandishing his spear.

“Now to trim the odds a bit,” Phargas said, and he began new prayers. I snapped the reins at the horses, increasing their speed while cutting a sharp turn that took us directly across our foes’ path. Their horses protested and cut to our right to avoid colliding. The driver stabbed at us with his spear as they pulled alongside. Then Phargas pointed at him and ended his prayer, and suddenly the spear slipped from the man’s grasp.

At the same time, Kerban shouted, “Ollix, why must we fight? Slow your horses, and we can be friends.” I noticed now that the glowing bronze in his eyes wasn’t from the sun. He was fighting to get into my mind. I responded by pulling to the right, banging our wheels against theirs and forcing their chariot close to the stone dais at the center of the track. That pushed them behind us as I pulled around the obstacle.

To my left, I saw an opportunity and instructed Phargas to hang on as I pulled the team off the track and toward the arena wall. “Use the decor to our advantage!” I called.

Phargas looked agog a moment, then spotted what I had and smiled. He slid his shield onto his back while I drew my sword with my left hand and eased the chariot parallel with the wall. Kerban shouted, but by the time they neared us again, I had my target in sight and the chariot mere finger lengths from the wall.

“Ready, Phargas? Grab it when it’s free,” I warned.

He smiled—a rare enough sight these days—and nodded, both hands at the ready.

I lashed out with my blade, using our speed and direction to help the cutting. My sword parted the bottom of a long banner set onto the wall, and Phargas grabbed the loose edge as we passed. “Got it!” he yelled, and I yanked our horses to the right across Kerban’s path. The banner tore free and billowed behind us like a sail. The crowd howled its approval even as Phargas let go of his ragged end, letting the banner fall directly over Kerban’s driver. The banner pulled their chariot into the wall, its wheel screeching in protest as Kerban fought to free the driver’s face.

Now, with our foes occupied momentarily, I steered our chariot toward a cluster of weapons and body parts abandoned in the sand. Some nearby spectators screamed for Phargas to take up a sword. “You can grab something to help end this, I suppose?” I asked Phargas.

In response, he snatched up a staff missing a spearhead, then began another prayer as I urged the horses back up to speed. From across the arena, Kerban’s chariot barreled toward us.

I maneuvered us alongside, shifting my sword into my right hand to allow me to attack. Kerban saw this and began swinging his long chain in response. “Phargas,” I said, “I hope your next spell has some bang to it.”

I held out my sword as their chariot bumped ours, hoping to hit either opponent. Instead, the chain rattled around the sword and my arm. I looked at the half-elf in surprise, only to see the chain writhe with snakes whose fangs locked onto my arm! Kerban’s laugh sounded louder than even the chanting mob around us.

Instead of helping me, Phargas leaned over the front of the chariot and ended his prayer by shouting at Kerbans’s horses. The horses’ screams of terror echoed my own as I threw down my chain-wrapped sword with all my might, hoping to shed the snakes as well. The sword’s weighted point dug into the sand as Kerban’s chariot veered wildly away from us. His laugh suddenly turned into a scream that lasted only a breath before the crowd’s cheer drowned it. I saw only the spray of blood as our weapons stayed behind, lodged in the gravel, along with Kerban’s arm.

The panicked horses obeyed no reins or commands, and soon the chariot flipped over, bucking Kerban out onto the sand. The bloody smear beneath the overturned chariot told us his driver’s fate. The crowds cheered the blood and won wagers, but everyone’s attention snapped toward a loud trumpet.

We pulled the chariot to a halt near the trumpeter, who now waved a blue banner. An ornate carving high up on the wall showed a trio of crossed swords, though the many silks and tapestries shading the box above it suggested a place of wealth and honor. A dwarf clambered up atop the wall and bellowed, “All rise to honor Tymon’s Champion, Ullorth Ungin!”

The Champion was a massive, barrel-torsoed half-orc with tusks and long olive hair—hardly a sign of good breeding, even if martial prowess had earned him the rulership here. His wealth was evident in his clothing, companions, and cultured accent.

“What grievance these men wrought outside the walls of Aroden’s arena has been settled on the sand,” he intoned. Ullorth’s eyes briefly darted to Kerban’s arm lying in the dust, his chain still wrapped around my former weapon. “As victors, you claim their goods left in collateral, of course. And yet, gossipmongers tell us of more renown here before us. Gentles and bloodieds, I give you our victors—Lord Ollix Kaddar of Kadria and his faithful companion Phargas!” The crowd’s applause was polite but ignoble in volume. This reaction seemed expected by the Champion, who turned his focus directly upon us, motioning us closer to the arena wall for a private audience.

“I commend you,” Ullorth said in quieter tones. “By removing those assassins, you have done Tymon a service. Word had it Kerban and his associate had plans to assassinate some highly placed citizens here. It would appear we owe the Pathfinder Society a debt—one which can be easily repaid by purchasing your freedom from indenture, I suspect. However, you may want to avoid Daggermark for a while.”

Before we had a chance to reply, Tymon’s Champion leaned back and shared our conversation with all nearby. “A question, Lord Ollix! Would you say that the Second Freedom is a great thing?”

“But of course. All civilized men do.”

Phargas whispered, “Careful, Ollix. We don’t—”

I waved him off, eager to show this barbarian what educated nobles knew. Ullorth continued.

“What would you do to an oathbreaker?”

“As the Freedoms demand—oathbreakers die. How is a matter left to the servants or the bloodthirsty.”

“Would you be willing to enforce that vow?”

Phargas elbowed me in the back. I shoved him back and then said, “I strive to enforce all the River Freedoms, sir, regardless of situation, circumstance, or poverty.”

The hulk’s teeth fanned in satisfaction, and he spread his arms wide. Were it not for the odors on the arena’s floor, I would have fallen prey to the Champion’s effusive musk. The man-mountain addressed the assembled.

“Tymons, I give you Lord Ollix Kaddar, the new commander of the Vermillion. This man of honor shall lead that company against Razmiran’s oathbreakers, who violate our peace and our lands! All who fight for Tymon today and survive become bloodied tomorrow!”

I had no wish to be awash in blood of any kind, but the crowd’s reaction suggested it was a good thing. Then again, their entertainment left their morality a bit suspect.

Behind me, Phargas sighed.

∗ ∗ ∗

"Some folks never know when to let go."

As we marched out of the gates of Tymon toward Razmiran, I couldn’t help but note how little the motley forces of the Vermillion resembled their dazzling name. All were indentured servants, working off their contracts, or else Tymon citizens looking to improve their lot by fighting in the arena. Alas, all but Phargas, myself, and one other had yet to win such a battle.

Khurris had previously been the group’s commander, and one might assume he resented my usurping his command, yet he understood how to address one of my rank and seemed grateful for my noble leadership.

“When it’s a choice between dying today and dying tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll take tomorrow. But make no mistake, that’s why we’re here—we’re expendable, and Ullorth loses nothing by sending us out to fight the Living God’s forces. He keeps Razmiran on its toes and keeps the Champion looking good.”

“Personally,” I responded, “I have little desire to fight a god or any who answer to him, Khurris. Any of the Vermillion who wish to do so have my permission. Otherwise, feel free to follow us until we’re out of sight of the city, and then urge the men to do as they see fit.”

Khurris and Phargas gasped in unison. “Sir,” the Tymon asked. “Surely you don’t mean to desert. Aren’t you afraid of being branded an oath-traitor?”

“Not to mention incurring the wrath of a very large and powerful enemy?” Phargas added in a whisper.

“Tish-tosh, men,” I laughed. “I gave no oath to that malodorous man-mountain, so I can’t possibly be breaking one. Surely you see that.”

The road on which we marched crested a pair of hills, then met the road leading west toward Razmiran. “Once we’re past the crossroads, you men are free to live as you will. It matters not to me, for I’m bound north for Solanas!”

Phargas’s face darkened. “Ollix, perhaps you should keep your destination quiet,” he whispered.

Khurris asked, “Why Solanas, sir?”

“Simple,” I replied. “I must report my deeds to the Pathfinder Society lodge there.”

Khurris scurried back and whispers began buzzing among the ragtag column. Alone for the moment, Phargas stated his opinions plainly.

“Do you really want to go toward a nest of assassins that want us dead?” he asked. I waved his concerns aside.

“You worry too much, Phargas. They can’t possibly be everywhere. As long as we avoid the city, we’ll be fine!”

“As we’ve been so far, of course,” the priest grumbled.

Once we reached the western road and the city was safely out of sight, I raised both my arms. “Vermillion,” I cried, “as you will!” Whooping, the column scattered in all directions. A few did head along the western road, but many jogged toward us, or north into the woods. A few even headed south, back toward the city. I smiled broadly at Phargas and said, “See how happy nobles can make common folk when they trust our judgments?”

“If only they knew how well your judgment has served you so far, milord,” Phargas grumped.

∗ ∗ ∗

Three evenings later found me, Phargas, and Khurris, along with several dozen others who had refused to give up my guidance, standing on a hill on the Tymon-Daggermark border, looking out over a sea of lights to the west.

“You must admit,” I said to Phargas, “they’re quite pretty.”

“That they are,” he said. “They’re also gaining on us.” His tone was mild, but I could sense the reproach. Who could have known that one company’s desertion would bring out half of Tymon’s army? Clearly, Champion Ullorth had no sense of proportion.

One of the men who’d been sent ahead as scouts came puffing up the hill, interrupting our reverie.

“Sir,” he said, “we have a problem.”

“That should be obvious,” Phargas said.

“No—” the man insisted, but he was interrupted by the blast of a horn. Several miles to the east, the spark of a flaming arrow shot into the air. On cue, the far side of the valley lit up as a hundred torches caught fire.

“It seems,” Phargas noted, “that Daggermark is expecting us after all.”

Chapter Six: Running for Cover

by Jay Thompson

I must admit, I’d hoped our military camp of weedy old men, emaciated bondsmen, and general riffraff would have held up better in a skirmish. Instead, they’d scattered as soon as the first Tymon spear thudded into our camp. As well, I’d hoped Tymon’s soldiers might have greeted our little expeditionary force with more courtesy. Instead, they came with shackles.

“What would you say, brave soldier of Tymon,” I asked the brutes bearing the pole from which we hung like trussed deer, “to loosening these ropes, so that we might tell you of our offer?”

From where I wobbled upside down, I could pick out the distant line of Daggermark’s army to one side of me, and smell the stench of Tymon’s gladiator forces to the other.

“A fabulous offer!” I clarified.

The soldiers carrying the pole said nothing. Then, all at once, my nose was buried in a bootprint in the black mud around us. I pried myself up and saw that one of the soldiers had cut my bonds after all. He’d even deigned to cut the bonds of Phargas.

The dirty swarm of gladiators and soldiers around us parted. Two beat drums, and stepped aside to reveal Makoa, the gladiator who had officiated over our chariot race in Tymon, now with a heavy, expensive sword at his hip.

“Tell me,” Makoa said, conversationally, “you sons of vermin, why I shouldn’t have you both flayed alive, bathed in salt and acid, and fed to razorcrows in the arena?”

I like a man who gets to the point. I opened my mouth, but before I could explain, Phargas butted in.

“Generous and clever commander of the Tymon host,” Phargas said, falling to one knee, “you have honored us by sparing our lives thus far, and we truly apologize that our—carelessness—has led to this misunderstanding with your most undignified neighbor of Daggermark. May the blood of the great bull burn in your veins.”

There went Phargas, laying it on again. Makoa, I was surprised to see, paused to frown at my companion.

“What did you say?”

“May the blood of the great bull burn in your veins. May all false friends flee the sheen of your blade, and the Lord in Iron harden your will.”

Makoa leaned close—not the freshest-smelling of sword-swingers, him.

“Slave,” he asked, “why did you not mention that you and your companion were adepts of Gorum?”

“Commander,” Phargas said, inclining his head once more, “my companion and I only wished for a moment wherein your warrior’s heart might recognize the fact.”

Gorum—of course. The god of battle and slaughter was no doubt a favorite among these lowborn warriors.

Makoa gave a bass-drum rumble I realized was a laugh. “So. The rumors of magic that traveled with you from the Sellen pleasure craft have some truth.”

Phargas nodded. “We came like any other indentured servants to Lord Ungin’s city. Yet could we have eluded your soldiers as long as we did, Commander, without the favor of he who watches over all warfare? And, without his favor, could we have the confidence to unveil this proposal?”

I wasn’t sure I liked where this was headed. A famous name and a swift double-cross might be the best way out of any tight spot, but I’d have preferred to take the lead.

I chanced a look around. The ugly Tymon force that pursued us and the slaves we’d freed had swelled in number. Several hundred soldiers surrounded our little camp of recaptured servants. Some of Makoa’s gladiators looked at us as if any spot of dirt would do for a pit to polish us off. Others sharpened tridents, spears, and broadswords; smithed their armor; or just watched the opposite horizon. Where their eyes pointed, the single black line of Daggermark’s own army waited, its signal fires sending even columns of smoke up to a murky sky.

“My terrifying and noble commander,” Phargas went on, “though we came as captives and departed in secret, my companion and I may yet signal great blessings for you—and for Champion Ungin’s kingdom.”

“Blessings?” Makoa raised an eyebrow.

“Clearly, my lord, aged and corrupt Daggermark sees hostile intentions in your massed force.”

“This we can sort out later. But you stung my lord with your betrayal.” Makoa gave a knife-wound smile. “I came to convince you to return and make amends properly.”

“But my lord,” Phargas continued, undeterred, “their army watches you as you watch theirs. If Gorum wills the bull’s blood to burn in your veins, what better moment than right now to finish what unnumbered others have sought in vain—the conquest of Daggermark!”

A wire-thin old human pushed forward to Makoa’s side. “The conquest of Daggermark?” He snorted. “You, slave, have lost your wits, or are playing us for fools!” He turned to Makoa. “Commander, surely you see the foolishness of such an attack. Daggermark’s militia has held this land for generations. The pranks of these slaves, charging the border as if the outriders of an invasion, have brought us to the brink of war. You see Daggermark’s legions massed on the horizon. And we are to make this absurd aggression a reality without the Champion’s orders?”

Makoa tapped a long fingernail on his sword hilt. “You speak prudently, Caziar.”

Caziar cringed. “You never mean that as a compliment.”

Makoa laughed again.

I glanced at Phargas. For a man who’d just sent us all to our suicides, his face was downright serene.

∗ ∗ ∗

“What was that about you being a priest of Gorum? Last I checked, you were a priest of Desna! Or was it Calistria?”

Adding insult to injury, you see, hadn’t seemed quite enough. Commander Makoa had been so persuaded by Phargas’s speech that this time, he and I really were to lead the way: to scout a path through the abandoned peat farms and fens separating Tymon’s force from Daggermark’s army. If Makoa had any doubts about Phargas’s sincerity, our deaths in battle would settle the question.

“If you can think of a better way to save our skins,” Phargas said, “I’m all ears.”

We crept our way slowly under the shadow of a recently emptied farmhouse toward Daggermark’s line. Makoa had given us until dusk to determine how many soldiers the opposition had fielded, then report back. At sunset, he’d attack, then send word to Tymon of the new territory it held and press on toward the city of Daggermark itself.

I peered from behind an abandoned peat farmer’s cart. In the distance I saw lines of footmen and bowmen, and, winding among them, the strong, sharp-edged outlines of the women—never accuse a Daggermark swordswoman of being less than a man in battle.

“For all we know,” I said, “we’ve already been spotted.”

“If we had, we’d no longer be breathing.”

“Phargas, old friend,” I said, “wasn’t it the great Pathfinder Durvin Gest himself who said that no hero ever died by a wound to his retreating boot heel?”

“If he did, it wasn’t in the Chronicles.”

“What would you know about the Chronicles?”

Instead of answering, Phargas tugged me behind the cart. “Foot soldier,” he hissed. “Don’t move.”

I ventured a look around the edge of the cart; a silhouette, some score of yards away, was making straight for us. “Too late. He’s seen us.”

I reached for my knife. In that instant, the cart burst into flame and toppled over on its side.

“What in the Kingdoms...?”

“Never be without a small incendiary.”

Just like him to keep secrets from me. “Where did you get alchemical fire?”

Instead of answering, Phargas dug frantically into his pack and came up with a dark bundle, which he slipped his chin into.

“What are you doing?”

He tossed another bundle to me. “Put it on.” He stood and shook the fabric out over himself, revealing one of the habits we’d worn back at the convent.

“Get dressed,” he whispered, “—Olive.”

I could hear the clink of the soldier’s chainmail as he ran toward us. Seeing little alternative, I forced my head through my bundle. Phargas stepped from behind the burning cart.

“Fellow soldier!”

How could he make his voice so high and so low at once? I scurried into sight as well, and the soldier froze. He squinted at us. “And who might you two ladies be?”

Phargas set his feet apart. “Mistress Francis of the Reckless Fireballs, servant of Our Lady of the Fiercely Virginal Order of Blessed Exoneration, and warrior—today—of Daggermark.”

The soldier’s face glowed red from the burning cart, and he pointed. “What happened to that thing?”

"To a gladiator, the whole world is an arena."

I looked over at the shattered boards and smoking wood, and tried my squeakiest, fiercest voice. “Does our target practice disturb you?”

“Well, I—”

“Soldier,” Phargas said. “Among our sisterhood’s holiest vows is that of the chastisement of the Hated Sex.” He reached to his side to clasp a splinter of wood that would do for a wand. “We nuns emerge to serve Our Mistress of General Slaughter alongside your gender only in times of great need, and Daggermark sent a messenger astride an immense avian mere hours ago, to plead just such a need in the face of Tymon’s unjust advance.”

The soldier looked ill at ease. Phargas pointed at me: “This is my companion, Mistress Olive of the Clumsy Castration. Perhaps you’re in need of her services?”

That did it. “Sisters,” he said hastily, unconsciously lowering his spear to guard his nethers, “allow me to lead you to my commanding officer—Lady Ommarra of the Broadsword. It was she, no doubt, who sent the call for your services.”

Lady Ommarra of the Broadsword, eh? “Not bad,” I whispered to Phargas, as the soldier turned and trotted—perhaps fled would be a better word—toward the front line ahead of us.

∗ ∗ ∗

Lady Ommarra turned out to be a tall, dark-haired, armor-plated beauty carrying a brass horn and a sword that justified her name. She was also happy to see two more troops. “Mistresses Francis and Olive, you say? Well, it wasn’t me who sent for you, but I’m glad the Order spared both a long- and a short-range fighter. Fireballs and…?”

“Castrations.”

“Superb.” Her eyes sparkled. “I never would have thought Ungin stupid enough to challenge Daggermark, but Tymon’s field commander is summoning the last of his forces, and it looks like he may have finally decided to try Daggermark’s mettle.” Surrounded by several hundred militia swordsmen and a company on horseback, I thought their mettle seemed decent enough.

“What’s more,” she continued, “rumor has it that two who’ve gravely offended our poisoners’ guild are serving as his counselors. In any case, I’m glad you sisters aren’t too proud to fight alongside men. And you,”—she patted my arm—“might just get to practice your specialty by sunrise.” A soldier hailed her, and taking her leave of me and Phargas—whom she looked over once more with that same sparkle in her eye—she jogged away over the darkening plain.

The next half-hour passed in a blur. As soon as we were alone, I politely reminded Phargas that our goal was escape, not fighting for either kingdom. No sooner had my words come out, however, than we heard the horns of Daggermark commanders gathering troops and the hum of arrows taking flight. The bulk of the force double-timed forward. Tymon had fired the first shot; we were suddenly surrounded by hoarse shouts. “They’re attacking from the southeast,” Phargas called, pocketing a silver amulet I’d never seen him produce before. “Come north, and we’ll skirt the lines.”

“What was that amulet?” I asked as we slunk along.

He glanced sideways at me. “Something any Pathfinder could tell me about.”

I was about to ask him what he meant by that little comment when a dozen Daggermark soldiers barreled up behind us. One soldier crashed into me, pulling me down in a tangle of arms and legs.

I stood up with battle fully pitched a dozen yards from me, ducked an arrow, and turned to face the little wretch who’d collided with me. All of a sudden, I realized I was looking in the eyes of the soldier who’d first found us.

I cleared my throat and tried out my high voice. “Well, if it isn’t our old friend. Back to take us up on our offer?”

Instead of stepping back, the soldier narrowed his eyes and gave a nasty chuckle.

That didn’t sound good. I held up my knife. “We’re here to practice our blessed gift on our mutual enemies.”

“Well, I happen to know—Mistress—that Our Lady has nothing to do with this fight.”

I stepped backward, toward the skirmish.

“That’s right,” he continued. “I asked my commanders. No one from Daggermark sent word for any warrior nuns.” He lifted his halberd again. “You’re a spy for Tymon, and it’s going to be my pleasure to run you through.”

“A spy for Tymon?” Where was Phargas? I tried a hearty-yet-feminine laugh. One of the horses in the battle gave a short, screeching neigh as it went down. The two sounds were remarkably similar. “Absurd!”

“Then where’s your friend?” the soldier said. I heard a familiar bellow and glanced back; in the half-dark, I saw two horsemen locked in combat with a gladiator in full armor, heavy sword chopping deep into the flesh of man and horse. Commander Makoa. He was framed on either side by two more opponents, unlikely soldiers dressed in plain black and armed with thin staves, who seemed unable to do more than fend off his vicious blows.

The soldier inched toward me; I inched away. Screams and the splintering of wood were very close behind me now. Well, this was it.

“I’m no spy, soldier,” I proclaimed, pulling back my hood. “Ollix Kaddar’s the name—scion of Kadria, Pathfinder extraordinaire, and adoptee of your army.” Introducing myself, no matter the circumstance, gave me a touch of pride. “Now kindly let me pass and rejoin your struggle.”

I felt a shock through my feet and saw, at the corner of my eye, a Daggermark rider fall dead along with his horse.

I started to turn; the soldier looked up, and his eyes widened; an arrow struck him in the chest.

A voice thundered behind me. “Again? The wretch dares to betray Tymon again?” The voice broke off in a bellow of rage and all around me was a bristle of spears. I saw suddenly I was alone—no warrior of Daggermark still stood within eyesight.

Makoa broke through the line of his troops, swinging an immense broadsword, bloodshot eyes fixed on me. The Tymon lieutenant, Caziar, pushed along behind him.

Perhaps it hadn’t been the choicest moment to remove my cowl.

“Prepare to die, traitor!” Makoa called, and I found myself without a comeback. The big man sneered as he paced around me, sword point level with my chest. His other hand reached to his belt and drew out a short crescent blade. “The tide is turning on Daggermark. Tonight we take this land, and tomorrow we march on Daggermark itself. Lord Ungin’s flag will fly on its battlements, and I will hold it in his name. But I think I’ll start the celebration early by skinning you here and now.”

A cry went up from Makoa’s troops. Through the shine of armor and the flash of swords, I saw that Ommarra had leapt into their company, blade swinging. Another noise sounded beside me—Phargas. He shrugged off his cowl and stepped between Makoa and me.

“You won’t harm him.”

Above the noise and clash of blades, I heard Ommarra say, “Olive? Francis?”

Caziar, spiked mace raised, laughed involuntarily. “By Gorum’s eyes—it’s a woman soldier and our lying priest!”

Phargas lifted his walking stick. A flame lit the tip. “You will not harm the young one.”

Makoa pointed his broadsword at Phargas. His breath came in pants, but a hint of a smile played across his features. “Well—this is a little more sporting.”

Phargas murmured a few words under his breath, then said louder in a dreamy, hypothetical tone, “And what is sport for you, Lord Makoa?”

“Sport for you is an arena of slaughter!” The words jumped out of my mouth before I could catch them. “You call yourself a warrior, but your only taste of blood comes from watching undeserving creatures die in your pit.” As if pulled by a string, my knife leapt upward in my grip. I had never felt such a thing before—like the words were flying from my lips. “The weak and foolish are brought from across the River Kingdoms, but are never enough to slake your mad thirst. You organize death, but dare not deal it. And you call yourself a warrior!” My chest felt like it was on fire. “A warrior? A wart-riddled orc raider begot you on some peddler’s mother in a reeking ditch!”

Makoa’s face darkened steadily. He lifted a hand to hold back his soldiers.

“You may have your pleasure on that Daggermark girl and the false priest,” he said to Caziar. “This one’s mine.”

“Come on then, coward!” The voice sprung unbidden from my mouth, but it was my own, as were the arms that spread wide in challenge.

A vein throbbed in Makoa’s pitted forehead. He hefted his blade, and I felt myself step into what I could muster of a defensive pose. He opened his mouth—and suddenly, a look that was almost thoughtful stole across his face.

He lifted one hand to his side, and looked around in surprise. Then his fingers stiffened, and he toppled over into the dirt like a sack of rags. Startled, Caziar twisted to look—and kept on twisting, falling beside him.

The soldiers howled. Ommarra used their moment of distraction to run two of them through, and the gladiators of Tymon—unused to the chaos of proper warfare—scattered. Ommarra lifted the horn around her throat and blew three clear notes. I started toward her, only to be pulled down into a crouch by Phargas.

“Desna’s sake, Ollix, look around! This is poisoners’ work.”

My mind leapt back to Makoa and Caziar fighting in the press of bodies. Two humans in plain black, with hoods low over their eyes, had fought near them, only for a moment; I’d taken them for some sort of priesthood.

“You mean—”

“These darts are called Midnight’s Toll.” He pointed to the gap between groin and breastplate in fallen Caziar’s armor. A tiny flash of light there, no brighter than a strand of fey’s hair, caught my eye. “Makoa and Caziar had been dead half a minute. They just hadn’t felt it yet.” He lifted a hand to display the slenderest of needles, tipped in ornamental blue.

“You mean—”

“And you’d taken off your hood! These poisoners know our faces. If they’d glimpsed you out of our disguise, you’d have gotten a dart as well.”

“You mean—”

“Listen!” The noise of battle had changed. The clash and collision had given way to bayings, trampling feet, and screams. One theme in particular caught my attention.

“Every Tymon commander?” I asked, incredulous.

“The Poisoners’ Guild doesn’t lie down on the job.” He reached for his walking stick and made to crawl forward, but suddenly I realized that I’d had enough.

“Now wait a second, Phargas,” I said, and to my surprise there was steel into my voice. “How do you know so much about poison? And what witchery did you use back there? Those weren’t my words that challenged Makoa. I think you owe me some answers.”

Phargas stared at me for a long moment, considering. Then he took a deep breath and let it out.

“Very well, boy,” he said, and crouched down beside me in the shadow of the dead horse. The ground thundered as cavalry rode past us, chasing the retreating Tymons.

“Ollix,” he began, “I’ve never been truthful with you about my mission, though on occasion I thought you might figure it out yourself. It’s been months since your father sent you away. Since then we’ve traveled together, you believing I was your bodyguard.”

“I prefer ‘sidekick,’” I responded, “but yes.”

“We found a wayfinder and a cloak pin with the Glyph of the Open Road early in our journey, and you had the nerve to start calling yourself a Pathfinder. But as a servant of the Decemvirate—”

“The what?”

Phargas rolled his eyes. “Forget it,” he said. “The thing that you need to understand, Ollix, is that you’ve indeed been working for the Pathfinder Society. But not intentionally.” He gestured. “I’m the Pathfinder, Ollix. I was sent out months ago on a mission to chart the ever-changing borders between the lesser River Kingdoms. One of my first stops was Kadria.” He pursed his lips. “Lord Kaddar approached me with an offer the first night I was in town.”

“But you called yourself a priest!” I cried. Phargas smiled, and his expression of casual, paternal disdain would have been at home in any noble court.

“Country boy, I’ve been a Pathfinder for eight years. I speak ten languages and have mastered the magic of speech and song. Believe me, I can appear as I need to appear.”

Country boy? “If my father,” I continued, “was sending me out with a top-notch sidekick, he should have told me.”

A cloud passed over Phargas’s face. “My charge from your father wasn’t to guard you, Ollix.”

“What?”

“Think about it: your old man instructed you to make a name for yourself or die trying. Given your track record, which do you think he expected to happen? And if it didn’t, well—no harm in purchasing a little insurance.”

It took me a moment to make sense of his words. He put up his hand.

“Believe me,” he said, “I’ve been tempted. At the Swaddled Otter? That mess with Jedda’s captain of the guard, or the ridiculous wagers on the river barge? All moments I smiled to imagine leaving you to your fate—and earning the second half of my reward.”

What he proposed was inconceivable. “Phargas, my father would never have sent me to die.”

“Oh really?” he asked, and this time his tone was almost gentle. “And why would that be? Because of his great love for you? Tell me—which is worth more to a petty warlord: A son who’s a constant embarrassment? Or a son whose tragic murder in a nearby kingdom might just be the impetus for one last war of expansion?”

That sounded uncomfortably like my father’s thinking.

“But—with Makoa,” I asked. “You just saved my life.”

“That’s right, I did. Because I’m fed up with doing other people’s chores.” He yanked off his habit, revealing his mud-stained cloak and breeches. He stood, heedless of a troop of cavalry who pounded past us led by Ommarra. Gingerly, I rose to my feet as well.

“I can’t believe it.” The battlefield was growing deserted. Up ahead, Tymon’s troops were fleeing west toward their distant city, Daggermark’s militia hot on their heels.

“If I’d died under Makoa’s sword, you’d have had your fee, plus Ommarra’s eye. I saw how she looked at Francis.”

Phargas laughed—a full, rich sound. “Watching a buffoon die is no compensation for serving another one.” He gestured at Daggermark’s lines. “Besides, I suspect Ommarra will lose interest now that she knows you and I aren’t mistresses after all. And I’ve always preferred the company of gentlemen, anyway.”

“Well, who doesn’t? But I meant that she might take you as a lover.”

Phargas sighed. “Never mind. Anyway, this dung-showered detour of ours will make a fine addition to my report, but if I’m ever to write it,” he snatched up his pack and dusted it perfunctorily, “I must be on my way. Your Glyph of the Open Road, please.” He put out his palm.

It took a moment to process the request, then I dug in my pocket for the dented iron pin and dropped it into his hand. With the wayfinder in the leucrotta’s possession, my time as a Pathfinder was officially over.

“Thanks,” he said, and began to turn away. Then he stopped and studied me for a moment.

“You know, Ollix, for all I’ve said, your road isn’t set.” He tossed up the pin and caught it. “If you ever want to earn one of these,” he said, “you know where to find us.” Then he turned on his heels and was quickly lost to view.

∗ ∗ ∗

"How could anyone pass up a woman like that?"

Ommarra found me sometime later, still standing next to the dead horse. “Where’s he gone, Olive?”

“It’s Ollix. He was Phargas. And I’m apparently not qualified to follow where he’s going.”

Her smile was wry. “It seems we’ve repulsed Tymon’s little assault—their leadership has been found lying down on the job. That wasn’t a bad trick, slaying the two commanders at once. Whether you’re with the Poisoners’ Guild or working freelance, your skills are impressive.”

“Phargas was full of good ideas,” I said generously.

“Pity, he made a stunning mistress. And you? Do you care to return with us to the city you fought for?”

It occurred to me that some guildsmen in black might not be pleased to see me. “No, thanks. I have an appointment of my own to keep, back home. Family business.”

“Family business?”

My head spun with a thousand plans, none of them gentle. Perhaps it was time to show my father exactly what I’d learned on the road.

“Family’s like any band of outlaws, my lady—we have to see to our own.”

And with that, I began the long walk back to Kadria. Behind me, Ommarra blew her horn twice more. Then the soldiers returned, and the notes were lost in the cutthroat clamor of the crowd.