Dragonlance 08 - Dragons of the Highlord Skies (18 page)

Kitiara doubted if any of the commanders had even bothered to look at it.

Of course, “these criminals” might not be Tanis and his friends. There were, by report, eight hundred human refugees holed up in Thorbardin. She fished out the notice that had been rolled up in the center of the Highlord’s letter and, her heart beating fast, scanned over the names.

Her past seemed to leap out at her, as it had done in the chamber with the guardian. Faces rose from the mists of time.

Tanis Half-elven. Bearded half-elf. Thought to be the leader
. Of course, Kit thought to herself. As always.

Sturm Brightblade. Human. Solamnic Knight
. Her tryst with Sturm had certainly not gone as planned.

Flint Fireforge. Dwarf
. Grumpy old Flint. He’d never liked her much.

Tasslehoff Burrfoot. Kender
. Hard to believe that little nuisance was still alive.

Raistlin and Caramon Majere. Human. Wizard, warrior
. Her little brothers. Half-brothers, really. They had her to thank for their success.

Tika Waylan. Human
. The name sounded familiar, but Kit couldn’t place her.

Elistan. Human. Cleric of Paladine. Dangerous rabble-rouser
. How dangerous could the cleric of a weak god like Paladine be?

Gilthanas, elf; Goldmoon, cleric of Mishakal
… yes, yes … Kit scanned past them impatiently. Where was the name she sought …

Laurana. Elf princess. Capture alive! The elf female is the property of Fewmaster Toede and is not to be harmed, but should be sent back immediately under heavy guard to the Fewmaster. Reward offered
.

“So here you are,” Kit said, displeased. “Still with him.”

She stared hard at the name as though she could conjure up a picture of her: blonde, slender, beautiful.

Friends, family. Lover. Rival. Heading for Tarsis. So, presumably, was Derek Crownguard! Her spies had told her he was going to Tarsis in search of some library. What if they met? Sturm and Derek were fellow knights. They undoubtedly knew each other. Perhaps they were friends. What would be the consequences if they encountered one another in Tarsis? Would Derek mention her name?

Kit thought it over and didn’t see why he should, yet the possibility that he might reveal he had seen her and talked to her was troubling. She wished she hadn’t told him her real name. That had been a bit of bravado.

Tarsis—a day’s journey by dragon.

Kitiara sat for a long time gazing at the flames flickering in the bowl of seal oil, making plans. She did not forget Ariakas. Those who forgot Ariakas tended to live very short lives. He had to be appeased, kept happy. He had to be made to think that what she was about to do was being done for him.

She smiled and shook herself from her scheming and went back to finish Toede’s letter, expecting to be entertained by more evidence of the hob’s stupidity. Unfortunately, his stupidity did not prove to be that entertaining. Kitiara sucked in an angry breath that exploded in a curse.

“You bloody fool!”

She bounded to her feet, crumpling the letter in her hand. She started to hurl it into the flames, then checked herself. She made herself read it again, but it didn’t improve the second or third time. She then threw it into the flames and watched it and all her plans go up in smoke.

The idiot hobgoblin was going to attack Tarsis!

She knew why. The red dragons were putting pressure on Toede to take them into battle, and although the hob’s guts spilled out over his belt he apparently didn’t have enough to stand up to the dragons.

Toede should be massing his forces to attack Thorbardin, concentrating on that. Instead he was committing his forces to an assault on a city that had no military value and little wealth, a city he could not hope to keep. He simply did not have troops enough to occupy it. Once, Tarsis might have been a worthy prize, back before the Cataclysm when the city was a seaport. After the fiery mountain struck, the sea departed, leaving Tarsis landlocked, its merchants bankrupt.

She had no idea what Toede was thinking. The answer was—he wasn’t. Kitiara was on her feet, prepared to fly to Haven to try to put a stop to this when she realized, suddenly, that she might be able to use this inane decision on the part of the hob to her advantage.

She recalled the date he’d given for the attack—a fortnight from now. She did not have much time and there was a lot to be done—and done circumspectly. Not even Skie must suspect her true motives. She tucked the sheet of parchment with the names and descriptions of the assassins of Lord Verminaard beneath her shirt, took a couple of swigs of dwarf spirits to enable her to endure the freezing cold of the journey, and, bundled in furs, she gathered up her gear and went out to meet the dragon.

“Where are we bound?” Skie asked. He was in a hurry to leave.

“Thorbardin to fetch the blue wing,” said Kitiara. “Then we’re going to Tarsis.”

Skie snaked his head around to stare at her. “Tarsis! What are we doing in Tarsis?”

“I’ll explain later,” Kit said, her voice resounding hollowly from inside the horned helm.

Skie wanted to hear more about this crazy decision to bring the blue wing to Tarsis, but he decided to wait to discuss it some place where his tail wasn’t stuck to the ice. He spread his wings, wrenched his tail loose, gave a great leap off his powerful hind legs, and soared thankfully into the crystalline blue sky.

BOOK II

1

An Offering to Zeboim.

Derek Quotes the Measure.

erek Crownguard and his fellow knights, Brian Donner and Aran Tallbow, stood at the rail of a merchant ship, watching their entry into the harbor of Rigitt, a port city located about seventy miles from Tarsis. The ship, known as the
Marigold
, named for the captain’s daughter, had encountered fair weather and smooth seas the entire way.

Aran Tallbow stood head and shoulders over his fellow knights. Aran was a large man and he lived large, being jovial, good-natured, and fun-loving. He had sandy red hair and his mustaches—the traditional mustaches of a Solamnic knight—were long and flowing. He was fond of a “wee dram” as the dwarves say and carried a small flask in a leather holder attached to his sword belt. Inside the flask was the finest brandywine, which he sipped continually. He was never drunk, just always in a good humor. His laughter came from his belly and was as large as himself. He might seem an unlikely knight, but Aran Tallbow was a fierce warrior, his courage and skill in battle renowned. Not even Derek could fault him for that.

As the ship sailed into the harbor of Rigitt, the knights watched with amusement as the sailors offered up gifts of thanksgiving. The gifts ranged from necklaces made of shells to small wooden carvings of various monsters of the deep, all handmade by the sailors during the voyage. Chanting and singing their thanks for a safe journey, they tossed the gifts into the water.

“What is that word they keep repeating, sir?” Aran asked the captain. “Sounds like ‘Zeboim, Zeboim’.”

“That’s it exactly, sir,” said the captain. “Zeboim, goddess of the sea. You should make an offering to her yourselves, my lords. She doesn’t take kindly to being slighted.”

“Despite the fact there has been no sign of this goddess for over three hundred years?” Aran asked, with a wink at his friends.

“Just because we’ve heard no word from her, nor seen a sign, doesn’t mean Zeboim’s not keeping her eye on us,” said the captain gravely.

He leaned over the rail as he spoke to drop a pretty bracelet made of blue crystals into the green water. “Thank you, Zeboim,” he called out. “Bless our journey home!”

Derek watched with stern disapproval. “I can understand ignorant sailors believing in superstitious nonsense, but I can’t believe that you, Captain, an educated man, take part in such a ritual.”

“For one, my men would mutiny if I did not, my lord,” said the captain, “and for another”—he shrugged—“it’s better to be safe than sorry, especially where the Sea Witch is concerned. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, as we are coming into port, I have to attend to my duties.”

The knights stood beside the railing, observing the sights and sounds of the port. With winter fast closing in, the port was almost empty except for the fishing vessels that braved all but the fiercest winter gales.

“Beg pardon, m’luds,” came a voice behind them.

The three knights turned to see one of the sailors bowing and bobbing to them. They knew this man well. He was the oldest aboard ship. He claimed to have been a sailor for sixty years, saying he had gone to sea as a lad at the age of ten. He was wizened and bent, his face burnt brown by the sun and wrinkled with age. He could still climb the ropes as fast as the young men, however. He could predict the coming of a storm by watching the way the gulls flew, and he claimed he could talk to dolphins. He had survived a shipwreck, saying he had been rescued from drowning by a beautiful sea elf.

“For you both, m’luds,” the old man said, gumming the words, for he was missing most of his teeth to scurvy. “For to give to the Sea Witch.”

He held in his hands two carved wooden animals, and these he presented with a bob and a bow and a toothless grin to Aran and Brian.

“What is it?” Brian asked, examining the small hand-carved wooden animal.

“It looks like a wolf,” Aran remarked.

“Yes, m’lud. Wolf,” said the old man, touching his hand to his forehead. “One fer both.” He pointed a gnarled finger first at Aran, then to Brian. “Give ’em to the Sea Witch. So she’ll take kindly to you.”

“Why wolves, Old Salt?” Aran asked. “Wolves are not very sea-like. Wouldn’t a whale suit her better?”

“I was told wolves in a dream,” said the old man, his shrewd eyes glinting. He pointed to the sea. “Give ’em to the goddess. Ask ’er for ‘er blessing.”

“You do and I’ll bring you up on charges before the Council,” Derek stated.

Derek was not noted for his sense of humor, but he did sometimes indulge in small dry jokes (so dry and so small they often went unnoticed). He might be teasing, but then again, he might not. Brian couldn’t tell.

Not that it mattered with Aran, who was quick to turn anything into a jest.

“You frighten me. What would be the charges, Derek?” Aran asked with mock concern.

“Idol worship,” said Derek.

“Hah! Hah!” Aran’s laughter went rolling over the water. “You’re just jealous because you didn’t get a wolf.”

Derek had kept to their cabin during the voyage, spending his time reading the copy of the Measure he carried with him, making notations in the margins. He left the cabin only to take daily exercise on the deck, which meant that he walked up and down it for an hour, or to dine with the captain. Aran had roamed the deck from morning to night, mingling freely with the sailors, learning “the ropes” and dancing the hornpipe. He had undertaken to scramble up the rigging and had nearly broken his neck when he fell from the yardarm.

Brian had spent most of his time at sea trying to restrain the high spirits of Aran.

“So I just toss this into the water … “said Aran to the old man, prepared to suit his actions to his words. “Do I say a prayer—”

“You do not,” said Derek sternly. He reached out and plucked the wolf carving from Aran’s hand and gave it back to the old man. “Thank you, mate, but these knights have their swords. They don’t need a blessing.”

Derek looked pointedly at Brian, who, muttering his thanks, handed his wolf to the old man.

“Are you certain sure, m’luds?” the old man asked, eyeing them intently. His shrewd scrutiny made Brian uncomfortable, but before he could respond Derek cut him off.

“We have no time for fairy tales,” Derek said tersely. “Gentlemen, we will be going ashore soon and we have our packing to finish.”

He left the railing and went striding across the deck.

“You give it to the goddess for me,” said Aran to the old man, clapping him on the shoulder, “with my thanks.”

Glancing back, Brian saw the old man still standing there, still watching them. Then the captain’s voice rang out with an order to all hands to prepare to drop anchor. The old man tossed the wolf carvings overboard and dashed off to obey.

Derek disappeared below decks, heading to the small cabin the three knights shared. Aran followed after him, taking a pull from his flask as he went. Brian lingered to gaze out to sea. The breeze blew off the glacier that was far to the south and carried with it the nip of winter. The waves were sun-dappled gold on top, blue below. The wind plucked at the hem of his cloak. Sea birds wheeled in the sky, or bobbed up and down placidly on the surface of the water.

Brian wished he’d taken the old man’s wolf carving. He wished he’d made an offering to the sea goddess, whoever she was. He imagined her: beautiful and capricious, dangerous and deadly. Brian lifted his hand to salute her.

“Thank you for a safe voyage, my lady,” he said, half-mocking and half-serious.

“Brian!” Derek’s irate voice echoed up from down below.

“Coming!” Brian called.

The knights did not stay long in Rigitt. They hired horses for the journey north to Tarsis that would take them across the Plains of Dust. The road was still passable, though there had been snow up north around Thorbardin, or so Aran heard from a drinking companion, a mercenary who had just traveled that route.

“He advised us not to stay inside Tarsis,” Aran told them, as they were loading supplies onto the horses. “He suggests we make camp in the hills and enter the city during the day. He said we should keep the fact that we’re Knights of Solamnia to ourselves. The Tarsians have no love for us, it seems.”

“The Measure states: ‘A knight should walk openly in the sunshine, proudly proclaiming his nobility to the world’,” Derek quoted.

“And if the Tarsians toss us out of the city on our noble posteriors, what of our mission to find the dragon orb?” asked Aran, grinning.

“They won’t toss us out. You have this information on the authority of some rag-tag sellsword,” said Derek disparagingly.

“The captain told me much the same, Derek,” Brian said.

“Prior to the Cataclysm, the knights made Tarsis a Lord City of Solamnia, despite the fact that the city was hundreds of miles away. That way, the knights could protect the city from enemies. Then came the Cataclysm and the knights couldn’t protect themselves, much less a city far from Solamnia. The knights who had lived in Tarsis—those who survived—returned to Palanthas, leaving the Tarsians to fight their battles alone.”

“The Tarsians have never forgiven us for abandoning them,” Brian concluded.

“Perhaps we could find a loophole—” Aran began.

Brian shot him a warning glance, and Aran, rubbing his nose, rephrased his suggestion.

“Perhaps the Measure makes some provision for such a delicate political situation.”

“You should be better versed in the Measure,” said Derek reprovingly, “otherwise you would know what it says. We will not enter Tarsis under false pretenses. We will present our credentials to the proper authorities and receive their permission to enter the city. There will be no trouble if we behave honorably, whereas there would be trouble if we were caught sneaking into the city like thieves.”

“You make it sound like I’m suggesting we enter the city dressed in black with sacks over our heads,” said Aran, chuckling. “There’s no need to flaunt the fact that we’re knights. We don’t have to lie—just pack up our fancy tabards and the hand-tooled leather armor, replace our ornate helms with plain, take off the badges that mark our rank, remove our spurs, and wear ordinary, serviceable clothing. Maybe trim our mustaches.”

That last was absolutely the wrong thing to say. Derek did not even deign to respond. He made a final adjustment to the horse’s bridle, then left to go settle the bill with the innkeeper.

Aran shrugged and reached for his flask. He took a couple of sips, then offered the flask to Brian, who shook his head.

“Derek does talk sense, Aran,” Brian argued. “It might go badly for us if we were caught trying to hide our true identities. Besides, I can’t imagine the Tarsians would still hate us after three hundred years!”

Aran looked at him and smiled. “That’s because you can’t imagine hating anyone, Brian.” He sauntered over to look out the stable door, then, seeing Derek was out of earshot, he returned to his friend. “Do you know why Lord Gunthar asked me to come on this mission?”

Brian could guess, but he didn’t want to. “Aran, I don’t think—”

“I’m here to make certain Derek doesn’t screw it up,” Aran said flatly. He took another drink.

Brian winced at the crudeness of the expression. “Derek’s a Knight of the Rose, Aran. He’s your superior and mine. According to the Measure—”

“Piss on the Measure!” said Aran sharply, his jovial mood evaporating. “I’m not going to allow this mission to fail because Derek cares more about adhering to some moldy old code of antiquated laws than he does about saving our nation.”

“Perhaps without those laws and the noble tradition they represent, the nation wouldn’t be worth saving,” Brian remarked moodily.

Aran rested his hand affectionately on his friend’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, Brian.”

“So is Derek,” said Brian earnestly. “We’ve known him a long time, Aran. We’ve both been his friends for years.”

“True,” said Aran, shrugging again, “and we’ve both seen how much he’s hardened and changed.”

Brian sighed. “Be patient with him, Aran. He’s suffered a lot. The loss of castle, his brother’s terrible death …”

“I will be patient,” said Aran, “up to a point. Now I’m going to indulge in a stirrup cup. Join me?”