Brimstone Angels (5 page)

T
HE WAGON LIMPED ALONG THE
H
IGH
R
OAD MORE SLOWLY THAN
Brin could have walked, but after well over a month, he was tired of walking. To be honest, he was tired of wagons as well, and ships and horses too. He was tired of moving, and the call from the lead wagon that the caravan had reached the city of Neverwinter couldn’t come soon enough.

Brin watched the road behind them, stretching on beyond another four lumbering carts of former refugees returning to rebuild the city that had fallen nearly a quarter century ago. He did not see—as he feared—the cloud of dust on the horizon that half-a-dozen knights on chargers would kick up as they pelted along the dirt road.

This didn’t calm him the way it should have. In fact, the longer he didn’t see any sign of his cousin, Constancia, the more he worried she was just behind the last hill, ready to grab him by the ear and haul him home. He looked up at the clouds hanging in the blue summer sky and wondered if he had made an enormous mistake.

Constancia would say so: It was irresponsible. It was foolish. It was possibly illegal. And why, she would ask, by the lions of Azoun, Neverwinter?

The call had gone out halfway across the continent that the Open Lord of Waterdeep was rebuilding Neverwinter out of its shattered ruins, and all her citizens—and their descendants—were encouraged and invited to return. Among the thousands of people filtering in through the city gates, no one would notice one more boy.

And there was the city’s history—the famed clockworks and fanciful buildings, the artisans whose creations were still prized—that had caught Brin’s attention. And the catastrophic death of the city by earthquake and volcano, that had held it.

But perhaps most of all, it was far enough away that no one would know who he was or what he’d done or what he might have done if things were a little different—

“Is something troubling you?”

Brin looked up at the man sitting beside him, who had also paid the cart’s owner to carry him to Neverwinter.

“No,” Brin lied. “Just thinking.”

The man was a Calishite, perhaps in his forties or fifties, slim and muscular. The threads of gray in the man’s hair might as well have been ornaments and the crinkles in his brown skin, paint for all he wore his age. He smiled, one corner of his mouth crooked by a small scar where something had once cut the skin deeply. Brin wondered how someone came by a scar like that, and his eyes strayed briefly to the chain the man wore wrapped around his waist like a belt.

The man gave Brin a look that Brin was accustomed to getting from adults, down his broken nose, as if the man knew very well that Brin was lying. He nodded at the flute Brin wore tucked into his own belt. It was the only thing Brin had taken that he didn’t strictly need. It had been his father’s.

Brin’s hand tapped the holes of the flute.

“You seemed nervous,” the man said. “Do you play?”

“Oh,” Brin said. He set his hand back down on the cart bed. “Yes.”

“But you’re not a musician?”

“What makes you say that?”

The man shrugged. “You haven’t played it once since you joined us in Waterdeep. In my experience, someone who depends on their skills to eat doesn’t give them a chance to get rusty.” He smiled again. “You’ll have to forgive me. There’s not much to do on this stretch of the road but observe each other. I’m called Tam.”

“Brin.” Whatever other attributes Constancia and the rest of their family had tried to impress onto Brin, they had succeeded in making him curious about other people and observant enough of the minor details that hinted at a whole. His eyes dropped to the silver pin on
the man’s shoulder—a pair of eyes surrounded by seven stars. The symbol of Selûne. Another pin sat below it. But it was pinned from the inside of his cloak. Curious.

Tam followed his gaze. “Suppose the game’s a little duller if I wear my profession on my sleeve, hm?”

“Suppose so,” Brin said. “Do you like being a priest?”

Tam studied Brin for a moment, as if he were trying to divine whether Brin was making conversation or if he was really curious. Brin made himself stay quiet—let him guess.

“It’s a calling,” Tam said finally, “and it suits me. Mostly.”

Which, as far as callings went, sounded like a decent set of cards to be dealt in Brin’s opinion. Maybe the Moonmaiden was a more generous mistress than most.

“What doesn’t suit you?”

Tam leaned forward. “Traveling,” he said in conspiratorial tones.

Brin smiled because he was supposed to—the pin might be the mark of a Selûnite, but the spiked chain that looked older than Brin had nothing to do with the Moonmaiden and neither did the canny look in Tam’s eye. At least I’m not the only liar in this wagon, he thought. He wondered if the priest realized his little game of observation went both ways.

“Aren’t you a little young to have fled Neverwinter?” Tam asked.

“Not me,” Brin said. “My parents.” The parents had been part of the story since the beginning—they were his ticket to Neverwinter.

“Ah,” Tam said. “Of course. Where did they head?”

“Darromar,” Brin said, the same city he’d told the wagon driver. Before, it had been Westgate and before that Yhaunn. Later, he thought, he might say Waterdeep—a city big enough that even if he met a Waterdhavian, they wouldn’t bat an eye if they didn’t know the same people or the same areas.

Lying out in the world was easier than lying at home—for one, nobody here assumed Brin
was
lying when he opened his mouth, and nobody criticized his lies once he told them. The tricky part was keeping his story straight when he had to keep changing things.

“Oh?” Tam said. “I lived in Athkatla for some years.”

Brin nodded, racking his brain. Athkatla … was the capital of Amn—south. Not so far south as Darromar, and while Athkatla was closer—probably—to Darromar than they were now, they were far
enough apart that Brin would have no cause to have visited the larger town … except—

“Was the road north always that bad?” he said. “It felt like we’d never make it to Waterdeep.”

Tam shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I left on the road east.”

Brin shrugged and looked back at the road again, a bad feeling creeping through his thoughts. If Tam didn’t mention Athkatla because of the road, then why? Was he just looking for something they had vaguely in common? Or was he trying to catch Brin in a lie? He looked at the odd priest out of the corner of his eye.

He’d felt sure that no one who knew he’d left would be willing to send out hunters or postings. He’d assumed they would just send Constancia and her warrior-priests …

He’s not a bounty hunter, Brin told himself. And if he were, he couldn’t be sure Brin was who he was looking for: There were no portraits to show a hunter, and besides, Brin had stained his blond hair regularly since leaving Cormyr. A hunter would be told he was seventeen, but Brin had been relying on his short height and scrawny build to pass for younger—the wagon master thought he was fourteen, which would have mortified Brin a few months ago but now felt like a special triumph. And the hunter would be looking for someone to answer to another name.

Still Brin was sure of none of these things, and his stomach pulled with the familiar unease that puzzling out someone else’s motives always gave him.

“Where are you coming from?” Brin asked the strange priest.

Tam smiled again, but there was still that look in his eye. As if he knew they were playing a game. As if he could manipulate and maneuver all day long against a little turncoat Cormyrian. As if he knew exactly how Brin’s stomach felt, and how weak that made him.

“Westgate,” he said.

“Did you flee Neverwinter then?”

“No, just lending a hand.” Tam seemed to consider Brin a moment, and he was a little less certain of his assessment—Brin’s mother used to give him a similar look. “Are you sure nothing’s weighing on you?”

“It’s weighing on me that you keep asking that,” Brin said as lightly as he could. “I must look wretched. How soon will we reach Neverwinter, do you think?”

Tam began to answer, but a ululating cry out of the forest startled both of them, and no amount of maneuvering or manipulating would have made any difference then.

“Come on,” Havilar said, stomping her foot. “Hurry up. A good hard sprint and we’ll catch them.”

It was too hot to be sprinting after anyone. Farideh shifted her haversack to her right shoulder. Her scar itched where the strap had rubbed against it for the last few miles. The sweat that trickled over her skin made the itch sting in places.

“Do that,” Mehen said, coming to stand beside her on the crest of the road, “and you’ll spook our bounty.” He raised a spyglass to one eye.

“You don’t even know the bounty’s
on
the caravan,” Havilar protested. “Because you won’t let us catch up!”

“What do you think is going to happen if we wait?” Farideh asked, joining them. “We’re miles from anywhere.” Ahead on the road, the caravan that had been slipping in and out of sight for the past day was close enough to make out the black dog hanging its head over the edge of the last cart, the bright pink of its tongue.

“This one might … I don’t know … run into the woods and join up with bandits,” Havilar said, “and then what will we do? Hmm? Creep through a bandit fortress for another three bloody tendays?”

Mehen collapsed the spyglass. “Havi, calm down. Let them get ahead. Let them get to the next waystation if they need to. Then at least we’ll have a room and someone we can buy passage to the next Tormish temple from. We’ll catch up. Go practice with your glaive.”

Farideh watched the last wagon hobble over a stone in the roadway. Three tendays had passed since Mehen had taken on the bounty in Proskur, and more and more Farideh suspected they were on the wrong track altogether.

Not that she was an expert; Mehen had done such work in the time between leaving his clan and settling in Arush Vayem, and returned to it quickly enough when they left there. But none of the
bounties they’d had in the last six months had been this difficult—

Her scar suddenly flared, hotter than the baked road. She drew a sharp breath and clapped a hand to her shoulder. The pain faded, but Farideh knew it would come again. It came when the cambion was watching her, and it meant he was angry or annoyed or just wanting her attention. It meant he would come. Farideh tensed.

She had no idea why Lorcan was stirred-up—the
gods
probably didn’t know why he was stirred-up. If he came … Oh Hells, if he came with the caravan so near, they would all be in so much danger. And Mehen would never let her forget it. She rubbed her arm, as if she could rub away the lingering sensation of Lorcan’s pique.

Calm, she told herself. She shut her eyes and tried to breathe more slowly. None of that’s happened.

The burn flared again.

She opened her eyes and cursed. She’d told the cambion—repeatedly—that he couldn’t just appear in front of Mehen and not expect to get them both into trouble. At least Lorcan had stopped appearing as if he were merely coming by to borrow some butter. Now, he needled at her brand until she removed herself from any company. It was only a matter of time before Mehen noticed that, too, not that Lorcan cared.

Bastard, she thought, then wished she hadn’t. She wondered what he wanted.

Farideh looked back at Havilar and at Mehen, who was watching her grimly.

“Fari, come spar with your sister.”

Farideh watched her sister’s fluid sweeps of the wicked-looking blade, her quick jabs with its sharp end.

“Why?”

“Because you need practice,” Mehen said. “And it will help … It will give you something to distract yourself with.”

Farideh pursed her lips, but drew her short sword. She turned the hilt in her hand to get the proper grip, the leather wrappings slick and still uncomfortable in her damp palms. Havilar gave her a skeptical look.

“So are we doing basic passes, then?”

Farideh sighed. “Whatever you’d like.”

“You can’t do what I’d like,” Havilar said. “But it’s not going to help
me
to go easy on you with Kidney Carver.”

“Kidney Carver?”

“My glaive,” Havilar said. “It needs a name. Every warrior worth talking about has a weapon with a name.”

“Kidney Carver?”

“It’s … carved kidneys,” she said. “Or close enough.”

“Girls,” Mehen warned.

Havilar rolled her eyes. “Come on,” she said to Farideh, “get your guard up. You start defensive.”

Farideh readjusted her grip and brought the sword up in front of her. The glaive swung down in a careful arc, and she caught it on the flat of the blade, shoving it aside. Havi tried again, sweeping the glaive up under Farideh’s sword this time, and Farideh stepped out of its reach, knocking Havilar’s guard open.