The Alabaster Staff (10 page)

None came.

Just as Kehrsyn was thinking she would soon be far enough away to escape the guards’ notice, the group turned to the right.

Kehrsyn was caught by surprise, and her foot slid on the cobbles as she tried to turn, to stay with the others. Thankfully, she was to the left and rear of the group, else her stumble might have attracted the attention of one of the other members. She glanced up at the front of the building the group was heading toward.

It was a solid stone building, fronting the street. Two broad stone steps led up to a large, wooden door. It had no
alcove, gave no cover to someone trying to evade the notice of the guards. Atop the doorway, she saw the sign of the five-headed dragon.

Kehrsyn’s heart stopped in her chest, clutching her breath and refusing to let it leave.

The Five-Headed Dragon. Tiamat. The Chromatic Goddess. The Queen of the Dragons (or “Queen of the Evil Dragons” when her worshipers were not around).

But, above all, the Slayer of Gilgeam.

Tiamat’s followers were reputed to be among the most ruthless people in Faerûn. They sought to emulate dragonkind, and compensated for their lack of draconic anatomy with an excess of viciousness.

Kehrsyn glanced back to the guards as casually as possible and saw that one of them was indeed still watching the group like an owl as they entered the front door of their small temple. Nothing for it, then. She had to enter; otherwise, the guards would be onto her. It was worth the risk. All she had to do was hide inside just long enough that the guards wouldn’t be looking when she left the temple. Or maybe she could slide away undetected and leave by a side route.

She took a deep breath and stepped in just behind the rearmost of the believers, finding herself in a narthex that opened into a large common room. The others pulled off their winter cloaks and hung them on ornate wooden pegs carved in the shape of dragons’ heads. Kehrsyn tried to slow down to give the others plenty of time to leave her unattended, but one of the other worshipers, muttering curses against the bitter cold, ushered her in so he could close the door behind her.

Of course, she couldn’t resist, lest her reticence draw attention, so she found herself thrust in the midst of the group, all happily divesting themselves of their garb and heading into the next room for the roaring fire that burned in a fire pit surrounded by gigantic dragons’ fangs.

“Sheesh,” said the man behind her, “you need a new cloak. Here, lemme get that.”

Kehrsyn felt his hands starting to pull her cloak off, pulling away the veil of her anonymity. Powerless, Kehrsyn tried to steel herself. Much as she didn’t want to be ejected from the walls of Messemprar again, she readied herself to lunge out the front door. It was closed by a modern lever. She could flip the latch and hit the door at full speed.

The concealing darkness of her cloak pulled away from her head and shoulders, spilling light over her dank hair and hesitant eyes. The man stepped past her with her cloak and hung it on a peg, wiping the condensation from his beard with his hand.

Near the fire, one of the other worshipers, who was just sitting down, shot back to his feet, pointing aggressively at Kehrsyn.

“Who are you?” he bellowed.

“Look out!”

“She’s got a sword!”

“Horat, watch it!”

The pace of events was far too quick for a scared, tired, wounded, hungry, cold young woman, and within a few heartbeats Kehrsyn found herself with her back to the door, one hand on the latch, surrounded by several fierce-looking men and women. Someone had a strong grip on her collar. Another had a long dagger held up menacingly. Harsh words washed over her like a wave.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just kill her!”

“Who are you? Speak!”

“Who sent you?”

“Shut up!”

“Search her!”

The press of bodies caused her left triceps to flare in pain as it was pressed between her body and the door.
Behind her back, Kehrsyn’s left hand tightened on the latch, ready to shove it down and spill into the street. She prayed for a distraction, just one instant, and she’d make a break for it. The moment came, rather quickly.

“Quiet!” a woman’s imperious voice rang in the building like a bell. It was a voice that was used to authority and a throat that was used to being loud.

The argument immediately ceased, and the people parted for the priestess to approach. It was the break Kehrsyn had been hoping for, but something in the priestess’s voice impelled Kehrsyn to be still as well.

The woman was tall, with a broad build that spoke of physical strength and a jowly neck that spoke of rich foods. She wore a lush, blood-red robe embroidered in emerald, sapphire, sable, and ermine. The robe hid all but the more massive features of her body. In a few years, Kehrsyn surmised, it might hide nothing at all.

The matronly woman moved in, standing very close. Her face bore a nasty, puckered scar, shaped like a five-pointed star. It reached from chin to forehead and almost ear to ear. Her looming shadow seemed to cover Kehrsyn like the scar covered her face, and she glared down with rich blue eyes that, though fierce at the moment, seemed fundamentally warm, not cold.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. Her tone left no room for any other option than a direct answer.

“I was curious about joining your church,” said Kehrsyn.

The woman leaned closer. Either that, or she grew by another two inches.

“Are you lying to me?” she demanded.

Kehrsyn considered her options, not moving save only to blink. “Yes,” she said.

The woman leaned back, regarding Kehrsyn anew, and said, “I’m glad to see that you’ve stopped.”

Kehrsyn, not knowing what else to do, waited.

“Why are you afraid of us?” the woman asked.

“What do you mean?” asked Kehrsyn, who was certain she didn’t want to try another brave lie.

“I can see it in your eyes. You fear us. Yet Tiamat slew Gilgeam.”

“And Gilgeam’s death brought on this war. So because of Tiamat, we’re all crowded in here hoping not to be overrun before we starve to death.”

“An unfortunate and unforeseen consequence,” said the priestess. “Tiamat was the only deity who cared for Unther. She ended this land’s oppression.”

“Unther did fine under Gilgeam for thousands of years. Oppression hardens us. A weaker people would buckle under the strains we rejoice in.”

“You learned that from your mother, or your priest,” observed the matron.

“Kind of both,” Kehrsyn answered.

The priestess thought more, and said, in a very professorial tone, “If Unther thrives under oppression, then you should not fear power. Why, then, do you fear us?”

“Gilgeam protected us,” said Kehrsyn, “and we gladly bore his yoke. Your religion worships the Queen of Dragons. You hold dragons in awe. You want to be just like them, and yet dragons protect nothing but their own hoard, killing anything that’s a threat. So of course I fear you. Why wouldn’t I, when your people greet me with blades?”

So saying, she silently opened the latch of the door behind her, ready to tumble out in the street screaming for help.

The priestess stood silently for a moment, then clucked her tongue.

“You are a very brave young woman,” she said.

“Not really,” Kehrsyn admitted. “I just try to hide my fear.” She didn’t add that she also always tried to have a back-up plan handy.

The priestess nodded and said, “Hiding your fear
is
bravery.” She took a deep breath and rocked on her heels.
“I think I like you. You rather remind me of me when I was younger.

“At least,” she added with a wry smile, “you remind me of how I prefer to think of myself when I was your age.

“You may go. If any of my people cause you any grief, tell them that you have the sufferance of Tiglath. That should spare you any trouble not of your own devising.”

She waved her hand at the door, nodded ever so slightly, turned, and walked away.

“Thank you,” said Kehrsyn to the priestess’s departing back.

The others stood back and let Kehrsyn fetch her cloak and leave.

She opened the door and peered around to look for the cordon of guards. Though the rain had petered out, the streets were growing dark. She saw the torches of the guards some blocks away and felt safe to exit. She shut the door behind her and stepped down the stairs, clutching her left arm just below the shoulder in an attempt to throttle the throbbing pain.

Messemprar after nightfall was a far quieter place. Though there was no official curfew, the populace stayed indoors anyway. The weather was miserable, the overcrowded conditions taxed the soul, and the chronic hunger and the fear of war left little gaiety in the hearts of its residents. Even if people were in the mood to celebrate, there was nothing to do it with. The taverns carefully rationed out their overpriced ales, and often they ran dry and had to wait until a new ship entered port. People were in no mood to pay coin to musicians and other entertainers, whom, with the war, found themselves cast as “beggars” or “vagabonds” or “unproductive oafs.” Entertainers, like, say, Kehrsyn.

Folks were also concerned about the possibility of being unjustly rousted and cast out of the city after dark, but Kehrsyn had not seen that happen. Once the city’s main
gate was closed for the evening, the guards didn’t want to open it back up.

That left Kehrsyn free to wander the streets of a city filled with closed doors, shuttered windows, and fires sequestered behind mud-brick walls.

Ordinarily, she scouted out potential places to spend the night beforehand. The fact that she almost always ended up getting rousted outside didn’t matter; she liked being prepared. That night, however, she hadn’t had the chance to, or, more accurately, had squandered it by feeling sorry for herself. She heaved a weary sigh and circumnavigated the Tiamatan temple. If she had the sufferance of Tiglath, she fully intended to use it.

Toward the back, she found a reasonable place, a side door with a couple of wooden steps leading up to it. The small stair step was of utilitarian design, with open sides and close-fit planking. There was enough room underneath for a destitute young woman to crawl in and at the least have a roof of sorts over her head. Kehrsyn spent a few moments trying to gather whatever detritus might be around to provide protection against the wind, then settled in for the night.

She paused and prayed to whatever god might hear her, not that she really expected any of them to pay attention to a miserable little creature like her. Then she tried to find a way to lie down that was comfortable in the limited space beneath the stair and yet wouldn’t irritate her burned left arm. Finally she found a reasonable compromise, laid her head on her lumpy bag, and tried to relax.

It was in that moment of quiet that she heard the sniffling.

It was a persistent, weak, whining sniffle, the moan of a small voice that knows no hope. Kehrsyn sagged as she heard the sound. It was one she was all too familiar with, having made it far too many times herself in her childhood. She pushed herself back out of her makeshift den, turned
her head to one side and the other, and began to move down one of the side streets.

Three quarters of a block away, she found a man holding his young girl, wedged between a slop barrel and a wagon. Even in the gathering dark, Kehrsyn could clearly see that they were hungry, haggard, and cold. The little girl cried in a quiet monotone of misery punctuated by wet snuffles, a droning, hopeless lullaby of despair. How they’d remained in the streets Kehrsyn didn’t know. Perhaps a guard had actually taken pity on them.

Kehrsyn sucked in her lips and sighed. Setting her jaw, she pulled out her half-eaten pear and gave it to the man. His hand trembled as he accepted it. He gave it to his daughter, taking none for himself. Kehrsyn started to step away, then stopped. She pulled out her two coins, separated the copper, and was about to hand it over as well, then she paused.

She stared at the man, only partially aware of his hopeful look, barely registering that the empty cry of the young girl had been replaced by the sound of crunching fruit. Finally Kehrsyn shook her head, slung the silver to the ground at the man’s feet, and stomped off, frustration, compassion, guilt, charity, hunger, and pity all warring in her heart.

The heavy strike of her footsteps drowned out the man’s hoarse blessings.

Two reptilian eyes the color of emerald watched the cloaked figure stomp back down the deserted street. The tiny dragon wyrmling scuttled along the four-inch ledge that demarked the second story of the building, keeping pace with the strange human.

The wyrmling’s sharp eyes saw the tears run down her face, saw the chin that quivered despite its defiant, proud
set. Around the corner, it craned its serpentine neck to watch as the slender human crawled back under the stairs like a fox into a den.

These were all very interesting things, for it knew the smell of food, knew the glitter of precious metals, and knew that its mistress would want to know that someone was lairing under her stoop.

Spreading its fragile wings, the wyrmling took off with a faint flutter. It circled up, then landed on the windowsill of its mistress. It tapped the window with its beaklike muzzle.