Brimstone Angels (26 page)

Tam smiled, but it was an uneasy smile, as if he were trying to decide what to say. “I’ll be in the city for a few days, at least. Should you … need anything, I’ll be in the Temple of Selûne in the northern district. The … new one.” He looked to Brin, as if he were making certain the boy had heard him well enough. Brin squirmed, but nodded.

He said his farewells to the twins. “Take care of that blade,” he said to Havilar.

To Farideh, he said quietly, after an awkward moment, “It will be all right. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” Before she could think of a reply, he nodded once more to Mehen and was off.

Now, she thought.

“I’m—”

“Does that mean his ‘apprentice’ isn’t accompanying him?” Mehen interrupted acidly. “How surprising.”

“So you figured me out.” Brin took a deep breath, seeming to screw up his courage. “I have a proposal.”

“Do you now?”

“Your bounty? That dark-haired woman? You
did
get ahead of her.”

A thrill of triumph went through Farideh—she had been
right—
before she realized Brin shouldn’t know anything about the bounty.

“Oh?” Mehen folded his great arms over his chest. “So I have two budding experts?”

“She isn’t north of here,” Brin said, “and it’s a waste of your time to go any farther. I know … I know because she’s my cousin. Constancia Crownsilver. She’s … she’s chasing after me.”

Whatever Mehen had expected Brin to say, that was not it. His ridges all stood a little straighter and sharper, and he tapped the roof of his mouth.

“You’re not lying now?” he said, roughly. “You’re not wasting my time?”

“No,” Brin said. “And that’s the heart of my proposal. She wants to find me and bring me back to Cormyr. She’s clever and she’s dangerous, and I know she’s going to find me eventually. If I stay with you three … well, then when she finds me you can capture her. That should slow her down a little bit.” He wet his lips. “But in return, you need to
promise
me that you’ll be gentle with her. Whatever she’s guilty of, she isn’t a danger to anyone but me. Just make sure she knows you’re taking her to the Temple of Torm and I promise she’ll go easily.” Mehen snorted. “What do you have to lose? You haven’t caught her yet, and you’re only running out of road.”

“If we stayed,” Farideh said, “and waited here, there are plenty of ways to make a little coin, I’ll bet.” Many of the people passing them were hauling building materials deeper into the city—carts of lumber and stone, workers with tools slung over their shoulders, sledges of bricks. “And we need supplies.”

Brin nodded. “So? Do we have a deal?”

Mehen gave a great rusty sigh. “One condition: you make yourself known. There’s no sense to us squatting in this city while this woman races right past us. Once we know where we’re staying, I want the guards and your priest friend and the priests you
do
assist, boy, to know exactly where that is. If she’ll come to us, I want the path easy and clear.”

“All right,” Brin said, and he held out a hand to shake. Mehen ignored him.

“Supplies first,” he said. “And we’ll see if anyone can point us to work.”

They wended their way up the crowded main road, following in Mehen’s wake. The buildings that lined the way shone with fresh paint and fresher lumber. The roof slates hadn’t even gotten mossy yet on most of them. And while the road itself was cobbled in places with ancient bricks and in others with worn-down lava flows, it was level and clean.

It was only when they’d gone a hundred steps or so that Farideh realized Havilar didn’t have her hood up … and no one was staring.

It nearly stopped her in her tracks. People were
noticing
certainly, but their eyes passed over the twins without much fear or menace. It was as if they’d grown bored of tieflings. One’s a person, she thought, two’s some people … 
Tentatively, she pulled her own hood off. The more she looked around her the more faces she noticed herself. And more and more of them were tieflings as well. Those old men with their scraggly horns, that woman with her bright red skin, those girls with their tails poking out through their skirts. She made eye contact with a tiefling man with a longbow slung over one arm and got a saucy wink in return.

Havilar dropped back to walk beside her. “This place is
lousy
with tieflings,” she said. “Gods, why are you blushing
now?
”

“No one’s looking at us either,” she said, ignoring Havilar’s question.

“Oh, people are looking,” Havilar said. “At least, some of these fellows are looking at me.”

“I
mean
they’re not surprised,” Farideh said, blushing even harder.

“Do you think they’re all right?” Havilar said. “I mean, the way people go on … Maybe this is where all the evil tieflings come from.”

Farideh sighed. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s not some city that creates evil tieflings like some sort of export. They’re probably as good or as bad as anyone else.”

“Anyone else with devil’s blood,” Havilar said, looking askance at an old woman in bloodred robes sitting in the shadow of a half-finished building.

Mehen stopped in front of a ramshackle shop with everything from waterskins to whetstones displayed in the small, dusty windows—Claven’s General Supplies and Armory—and barked at them to catch up and put their hoods back on. Farideh did as she was bade, even though not even she was nervous about walking through Neverwinter uncovered.

A bell tinkled over the door as they entered. The shop was tidier than its exterior suggested, though just as varied. Shelves of tinctures and salves lined the walls. A spool of rope that came to Farideh’s hip stood in one corner, waiting to be measured out in more usable lengths. A cobbler’s bench stood in the opposite corner, and a tailor’s form beside it, plus a row of dummies bedecked in armor pieces. A curtain hung over a doorway behind the counter’s table, and a slim, bald man wearing worn, but well-mended robes came through it, a broad smile on his face.

“Well met, friends,” the man said, “and welcome. Is there anything I can help you find? Anything you might need assistance with?”

Mehen stopped tapping his tongue. “We need some information and some supplies.”

The man smiled and set a pair of spectacles on the bridge of his nose. “Let me know how I can be of service.” He seemed to notice Havilar and Farideh, tucked behind Mehen then. “Well, good morning there. Well met! Are you traveling with this fine soldier, my dears? Or is he traveling with you?” He chortled to himself. “Come, come, you needn’t hide yourselves.”

“Leave them be,” Mehen growled.

But Havilar had already pulled the edge of her hood back, uncovering enough of her face to see the ridge of horn on her brow and the solid color of her golden eyes.

“There, there,” the man said, “I meant no disrespect. I don’t know where you’ve traveled from, but there are few here who would ask a lovely girl like that to wrap herself head to toe on such a summer’s day. There, my dear,” he added and Havilar pulled the hood away, freeing her sweat-stiff hair. “Much better, isn’t it?”

“Much,” she agreed, and she wandered over to admire the armor, trailed by Brin.

Farideh cautiously followed suit, the man nodding encouragement. But when she pulled free of the hood his gaze seemed to catch on her, and his smile wavered.

She nearly cursed. It was the eyes, of course—she should have been ready for that. Her cheeks burned and she turned her attention—and her eyes—to the shelves of wares displayed along the wall.

Mehen rattled off a list of things they needed—oil for lanterns and for weapons and for cooking, thread and needles, cloth for bandages, and such. “And what’s your price on healing potions? We’re short two.”

“Fifty and twelve,” the shopkeeper said, busying himself behind the counter. “I’m afraid you’ll find we’re a bit more expensive up here in the hinterlands.”

Mehen shook his head. “Leave the potions off. We’re also interested in a possible bounty for a squad of orcs in the forest. Who should we ask about that?”

The man took a moment to reply. “That … would probably be the Lord Protector’s business,” he said. “Or perhaps the House of Knowledge? The Oghmanytes won’t have much for you, but they’ve
taken over the care of those affected by the Chasm and the rigors of the journey here.”

Mehen snorted. “Which is closer?”

“Oh, the temple is at the far end of the Wall. And the Lord Protector is ensconced at the Hall of Justice west there.” He chuckled to himself. “Head north—you won’t be able to miss either. Do you need somewhere to stay? My, ahem, friends have many spare rooms. Some with good fireplace?” Farideh glanced back at the man and Mehen. The shopkeeper had a look of anticipation, as if he were expecting Mehen’s reply to be significant.

“No,” Mehen said, completely missing the man’s meaning, whatever it was.

“Mehen!” Havilar cried. “
Look
at this armor!” The armor in question was little more than strategic chainmail patches and leather straps. Even the dummy looked cold. “I would look
fantastic
in this armor.”

“My armormaker calls that the Cunning Fox design,” the shopkeeper said. “Very easy to move in. I could have it ready in a tenday or two. It would be lovely on you.”

“It would be useless.” Mehen grunted. “Bah! One swift chop here”—a thunk as he hit the dummy—“and you’ve had your lung collapsed. This is armor for people playing adventurer.”

Farideh turned back to the bottles. Reds and blues and greens. She picked up a dark blue one, tilted it to catch the light.
Potion of Vitality
, the handwritten label read,
for poisons, illness, and most grievous wounds
. She set it back down very carefully. It was probably worth more coin than she’d ever seen in one place.

A good thing too. The shopkeeper was suddenly beside her, pulling down pots of oil. He looked over at her and frowned again. She blushed and kept her eyes on the bottles.

“Would I be mistaken,” he murmured after a moment, “if I asked if you bore a mark?”

Farideh caught her breath. She glanced over at him, trying to gauge how dangerous the situation, how disturbed he was by her appearance, before she tried to explain it was only an eye—

But the shopkeeper was smiling now. When she didn’t reply, he made a vague gesture at the side of his chest, then glanced over at the others.

A warlock’s brand, she thought.

“You’re … you too?” she whispered. “How … how did you know?”

He pulled another pot of oil down. “A gift. When you’re bound, it leaves a particular signature.” He eyed her again, in a way that made Farideh feel as if he were appraising the set of her viscera. She fought not to shudder. “You’re new to this, though. Yours is very faint. And you’re a warlock.”

“Yes,” she said. “Wait … you aren’t? I thought that was the only way to …”

He chuckled. “No, but I know plenty. I could introduce you.”

“That … I would appreciate that greatly.” She smiled. “I came to Neverwinter because I heard … That is, there are supposed to be many of you here. I hardly know what I’m doing.”

“You’re alive and you’re hale,” he said with a chuckle. “You’re doing better than most. When your friends have found where they are staying, come back and visit,” he added. “We’ll talk more then.” He hurried back to the counter and began wrapping Mehen’s purchases into several neat bundles.

Havilar was still arguing with Mehen. “But if I’m
faster
, then—”

“Then you’ll have your organs speared on the move. You have perfectly good armor,” Mehen said, handing over a stack of coins and taking the bundles. “Let’s go.”

Farideh glanced back once as she headed out the door. The shopkeeper smiled again and waved. Though she didn’t mean to, she thought of Lorcan’s wicked smile—of how angry he’d be if he knew she were looking for ways to control him.

That’s exactly why you need to do this, she thought, waving back at the shopkeeper. It was unaccountably lucky she’d found what she was looking for so quickly—Lorcan would hardly have time to convince her not to speak to the shopkeeper anyway.

Rohini was walking back from the market when she spotted the dragonborn—a big surly fellow with an overlarge sword and a distracted expression.

Perfect, she thought, watching him draw closer. Better than anyone she’d seen all morning—the city might have had plenty of big, muscley sorts, but Rohini wanted clever ones too. Skilled ones. The sword on his back was a fine, unusual weapon and suggested he was no mere brute.

She slipped through the crowd, keeping pace. Being a dragonborn made it all the better. Durable with all those scales, she thought. Built like a pit fiend. He could likely snap one of the Sovereignty’s regular servitors in half—and that was before she got to spellscarring him.

She’d need more, but the best way to find more dragonborn was still to take this one. And if that didn’t work, well, he could go dig sickly orcs out of the ruined quarter instead of Rohini.

A human boy with streaky, dark hair was trailing after him, carrying a bundle of packages. When the crowd thinned, she sprinted toward him and crashed directly into the boy with the packages. Her basket of supplies dumped over, scattering candles and rolls of muslin and tinctures in metal flasks. The boy crashed to the ground with the packages. The dull
clink
of something within breaking, and a deep golden liquid began to seep through the cloth.