The Shadowmask Page 3

  Sali Dalib did not miss a beat. “A trade then, yes, yes? A camel for … ” he looked at the goblin. “For your cape? It be a cape from de North, yes, yes, to keep you warm. But in de south it be warm anyway!”

  “In the south, a good cloak keeps the sun off so you don’t die of heat,” I replied. “I’d not make it far in the desert without a cloak.”

  “We throw in a Calishite cloak then, yes, yes, And de deal is done!” Sali Dalib clapped his hands loudly, excitedly, and bounced over to the shelf with the ugly old cloak. He turned back to me, holding the ragged thing aloft, to see me shaking my head.

  “I can’t trade this cloak,” I said. “It belonged to my father, and I can’t part with it.”

  Again, and instantly, Sali Dalib’s eyes narrowed, and his voice flattened. It amazed me how quickly he seemed to swing between incredible excitement and a seething anger. “Den we are at an impasse,” he said.

  “Maybe you can loan me a camel?” I said. “I told you, the drow owes me gold. I’ll pay you for your help once I collect.”

  Sali Dalib started to answer, then stopped, then started again, then stopped again, until finally his goblin cohort answered for him. “Camel can die. Not a good loan.”

  “How is it going to die?” I asked. “Are you trying to sell me a sick camel?” I tried to sound angry.

  “Maybe drow kills it.”

  Sali Dalib was nodding again. “Yes, yes, camel can die and drow maybe kills it or steals it. Yes, yes. But maybe we loan something else?” He bustled over to the shelf with the lute, but ducked behind it. I heard the click of a trunk lid opening, then some shuffling as the merchant rummaged through a container.

  “Here, dese bestest boots in de city! Make you run faster! You run on de bestest road, catch drow, and make him pay, yes, yes. Give Sali Dalib his fair cut, yes, yes!” He held up a pair of boots, a skin of water, and an open sack holding enough dried bread to last a few days. It was not much, I saw, perhaps enough for a day or two. It would certainly not get me anywhere near Calimport, no matter how fast the boots would make me run.

  But I nodded and accepted the objects as he presented them. “I’ll bring them back soon,” I said.

  “You will, yes, yes! With money to pay me for a camel, too! You look trusty, yes, yes!” he said

  “Trustworthy,” the goblin muttered quietly, doubtfully.

  I was suspicious. But I had no other choice, surely no better choice, so I accepted his boots and his far-too-vigorous handshake, and I bid Sali Dalib farewell.

  I returned to the same gate where the guards had brushed me off but an hour earlier, and found them standing in exactly the same positions as when I had left. None of them batted an eye as I strode forward to the gate. None of them said a word as I left the city. But I could feel their eyes on me, and I knew what they were thinking, because the thought crossed my mind as well.

  A single traveler, without a mount, with few rations, heading into the desert alone. I had no chance.

  But I also had no choice. Drizzt had only a slight head start, but I would have to hurry if I wanted to catch him. I could waste no more time gathering supplies.

  I said a quick prayer to Tymora—though I doubted that any of the gods would watch over me, she seemed the best bet—and walked out onto the hot sands of the Calim Desert.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I had read of deserts, had occasionally been in cities on the edge of them, had endured the heat of crowded Memnon for the past two days. But the truth of the desert—the scorching heat, the shifting sands, and the utter dryness of the land—had never reached me through my books.

  I traveled all afternoon, stopping only to take a sip of water or a small bite of stale bread every so often. But I hadn’t covered much ground. Each time I came to the crest of a dune and turned around, I could still see Memnon there in the distance. Yet my feet and legs ached as if I had marched a hundred miles. The sands of the desert provided no solid surface to step on. Each stride felt like walking across a soft mattress. My boots sank into the sand, and I pulled them back out, again and again and again.

  Not far outside Memnon’s gate, I passed a sign, written sloppily, reading “De Bestest Road” with an arrow pointing east, not south.

  Instantly I knew Sali Dalib had no intention that I would ever reach Calimport. I had read about such deceptions in my books. Had I followed his directions and taken “De Bestest Road,” I would have been intercepted by some of his minions. All Sali Dalib had to do was alert them to the presence of the boots, and his “loan” would be recovered, along with everything of mine he coveted: Perrault’s cloak, my dagger—and quite possibly my life. And so I passed the sign and kept walking south.

  The sun, thankfully, proved less of an obstacle than I had feared. Despite Sali Dalib’s warnings, my cloak proved ample protection from the brutal rays. I kept the hood up and the cowl low to keep the glare out of my eyes. I had always known Perrault’s cloak carried some protective magic—he had used it to sever the mental connection Asbeel had placed upon me during a fight on Baldur’s Gate’s docks—but on that trudge through the desert I came to believe its protective magic extended much further. But even with the cloak beating back the worst of the sun, I was sweating profusely and going through my water far more rapidly than I wished.

  Dehydration, not heat, was the greatest danger of the desert. I had walked only a few miles, only half a day, with at least seven more days to go, and had spent nearly half my water.

  And the boots Sali Dalib had loaned me were obviously fakes. Then again, I was a fake in the manner I had borrowed—or, rather, had stolen—them. I had no intention of ever giving them back.

  But I was justified, I told myself. Sali Dalib had meant to have me killed, to take back what he had lent me and more. He had lied to me, and I had lied to him; he had tried to steal from me, and I had stolen from him.

  I wondered what Perrault would think of me now.

  Would he approve of my theft? Probably, I thought. I recognized Sali Dalib for what he was and cheated the cheater. But Perrault probably would have lamented that such a decision had been necessary. He wished to protect me, in everything he did—not just from demons, but from the necessity of compromising my principles.

  I remembered the lesson he had tried to teach me after we fled Asbeel in Baldur’s Gate. Perrault had lied to the captain of a ship to get us onboard and had attempted to change the captain’s course in order to facilitate his goals.

  His goals. My safety. “You protect first those you love, then yourself, then everyone else,” he had said.

  Perrault’s lie to the captain had disgusted me then; yet perhaps I finally understood his lesson. I myself had lied, and I had been rewarded.

  That memory led to another: Joen, her hair flowing in the sea breeze from her perch high atop the mainmast, in the crow’s nest of the ship; of her smiling as she tossed a hunk of bread up to the circling gulls, that they might share her mirth; of her eyes, staring in silence at the sunset.

  Of her wrists, bound in chains, as she was led belowdecks on the pirate ship.

  On the ship Perrault had called.

  To protect me.

  Abruptly I stopped and shook my head, as if I could shake loose the painful memories. The sun had gone down, and the night air was much cooler, cold even. My legs ached, but I decided to press on.

  Travel in the desert at night was much cooler than during the day, but no less difficult. The sand still shifted beneath my feet, and the desert creatures, which stayed hidden beneath it through the hot hours under the baking sun, came out in force as night fell.

  I drew my stiletto and enacted its magic, lighting the blade with a blue flame. I was pleased to see the fire worked even when the weapon was not in its sword form. My blazing blade provided sufficient light to move by, and occasionally revealed a strange beast: a whip-tailed scorpion; a small, quick lizard with teeth too large for its mouth; a snake that skittered sideways. Each time I saw an animal, it moved qui
ckly away from my light. But I was reminded that there could be another right behind me, following in my shadow.

  I tried to keep such thoughts from my mind—and thoughts of the rarer, larger monsters of the desert, which I had read of in my books—but as my weariness grew I found I could not push the dark beasts from my mind.

  And even darker thoughts crept in. Why was Drizzt searching for the stone? How could I really be certain that he would help me if I found him? What if he wanted the stone for himself and killed me to keep me from stopping him?

  Drizzt had been in my presence along with the stone for some time on Sea Sprite. In fact, he had sat beside me when I was lying helpless in bed, seriously wounded. If he had wanted the stone, he could have taken it then. Had I hidden it that well? Perhaps he had known I had it all along and concealed his intentions, fooling me into trusting him until the time was right to steal the stone—or to trick me into giving it to him. I gulped. Was Drizzt in league with Asbeel? I glanced up at the sky, half expecting to see the demon here, following me. …

  I broke into a light jog. I tried my best to maintain a southerly heading, using the stars to guide me. Perrault had taught me how to navigate by the night sky, but I had never tried it on my own. All through the night I worried I had lost my way. By the time my strength failed me and the horizon grew light, I had no way of knowing whether I was on course or far, far off.

  When the sun rose, directly to my left, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had stayed true, and had made good ground to the south. Safe in that knowledge, and too tired to do anything about it anyway, I took a few sips of water and a bite of bread and lay down, wrapping Perrault’s magical cloak around me to stave off the sun as I slept.

  And so I continued toward Calimport and the only hope I had left. By night, I trudged through the shifting sand, dark thoughts crowding my mind. By day, I slept under the protection of Perrault’s cloak.

  On the third night, my waterskin ran dry. Sometime that same night, I dropped the sack with my old boots and my food ration in it. The weight only slowed me down, and dry food was no good without water.

  But I walked on.

  I felt the sweat bead on my neck as the sun rose on the fourth day. I did not stop to sleep. I was not halfway to Calimport, but was too far from Memnon to turn around. And I knew if I lay down, I would never rise again. The hot wind whipped the sand into a frenzy, obscuring my vision. It diffused the light but amplified the heat of the blazing orb above me.

  But I walked on.

  The wind stopped suddenly. The sand fell to rest, and the dry air sucked the moisture from my breath before it left my lungs. I pulled the cowl of my cloak over my head, and I could not see the sun, but I could feel it still, reflecting off the hot sands to bypass my magical cloak’s protection. My legs burned, my knees felt weak. I stopped sweating. My body had run out of water.

  But I walked on. And I was not alone.

  Perrault walked beside me, humming a tune, matching my pace. I tried to remember the words that went with the melody, but they were in Elvish, and I could not recall them.

  Jaide, the most beautiful woman I had seen in my life, walked beside me, her hand resting gently on my shoulder. She tried to assure me that I would be all right. But her words did little to comfort me.

  Ahead of me, Drizzt Do’Urden strode with purpose—white hair, jet black skin, and two swords belted at his hip. Drizzt had lied to me, had hidden his intentions from me. I sought him to confront him. Strength flowed out from him, yet it was not enough to keep my spirit alive.

  No, it was the most unexpected companion who saved me. Her hair flowed in a wind that did not exist, long strands of wheat whipping about, without a care, free. A bird sat on her arm, picking at a loaf of bread in her other hand. After what seemed like days, Joen turned to me and beckoned, motioning to her eyes, then to the horizon.

  I followed her gaze, over the dunes to the east, away from the descending sun. Through the hot haze it took me a while to see what she had seen, but there it was, clear as could be.

  Trees.

  Trees meant water.

  Water meant life.

  I looked back to Joen, but she was not there. Nor was Drizzt. I turned to Perrault, but he was gone, and Jaide’s hand no longer rested on my shoulder. The sun beat down on me.

  But the trees remained.

  CHAPTER SIX

  As I moved closer to the trees, my vision cleared, and my heart beat faster. I was not dreaming them, could not be dreaming them. The oasis was real—a small spring of water, barely a pond, surrounded by a few tall trees. They were not like the trees to the north, but were thinner and without branches until the top, where several great fronds extended into a natural umbrella. My heart lifted at the sight. The oasis had water, and shelter, and possibly food if those trees bore any fruit.

  Along the northern side of the pond, I saw a group of men had set camp right at the shore. I suddenly felt nauseous. There were at least two dozen men, all wearing brightly colored clothing, their heads wrapped in cloth, presumably to beat back the sun. A dozen unsaddled horses milled about, chewing the thin mossy grass growing by the pond’s shore, or sipping at the water.

  Each man carried a sword or spear. Each had rough, gnarled facial hair and was covered in dust, as if he had not seen a town in months. There were no women with them, unless they were hiding in the tents.

  Bandits. There was a good chance they held the water hole, and would share only if I paid the toll. I considered my own meager funds. I had two silver coins left—certainly not enough. I wished I could wait until nightfall, when it would be so much easier to sneak past, but my thirst would not wait. I had to go immediately, or I would never make it.

  I stayed low to the ground as I crested the last dune before the oasis, feeling fully exposed. The pond was no more than ten yards across in any direction, more a glorified puddle than a true lake. The sight of the water made my throat ache. But how would I reach its shore without being spotted? I crawled down the dune with the sun directly at my back.

  The trees had thin trunks, but on the southwestern corner of the pond they formed a dense grove. I slipped in between the trees, moving as quickly as I dared.

  I placed my hand upon one of the tall trees, feeling the roughness of its bark, delighting in the sensation, in any sensation besides sand. Suddenly, commotion broke out from the bandit camp.

  I scrambled behind the tree. I heard mugs clanging loudly. I glanced around the trunk and breathed a sigh of relief. The bandits were toasting. Water sloshed over the sides of their cups. What could have so excited bandits such as those, I tried not to imagine. I hoped they were merely happy about the discovery of a water source, not about the death and robbery of their victims. But that was not my immediate concern. My immediate concern was the utter dryness of my throat, the pounding behind my temples, the weakness of my legs, the aching in my joints. I needed water, and I needed it right away. So whatever they were toasting, I was glad for their distraction.

  I dropped flat to my belly. The sand was covered by a springy sort of short grass. I pulled myself along, arm over arm, making hardly a whisper and staying as low to the ground as possible. I inched along until finally I pulled myself right to the edge of the water.

  I drank deeply, gulping down water like I had never seen it before, like I had been parched my whole life. I dipped my hands in the water, and then my face. I let out a sigh, then stifled it until I realized the loud celebration continued, and no one could possibly have heard me. I silently toasted the bandits, feeling like I deserved to join their celebration. Then I filled my belly until it sloshed.

  “Hey,” said a voice behind me. “That water ain’t yours.”

  I froze. “It’s water. It’s everyone’s,” I replied quietly. I subtly drew my dagger as I turned, tucking it tight against my wrist and keeping my hand beneath my cloak.

  “Not in the desert it ain’t,” said the man. He was dressed like the others at the camp, in a bright red tuni
c and simple, functional breeches and boots. His head was wrapped in a slightly darker red turban, which had come partially unwound, but he seemed hardly to notice. His face would have been rough even without the days of stubble growing on it.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize,” I said. “I’ll just move along, then.”

  “No, you won’t,” he said, his voice emotionless. “Not ’til you pay me what I’m owed.”

  “Are you the toll-man, then? The leader of these ban—?” I interrupted myself, before I could say “bandits,” hoping he would not catch my slip.

  He scoffed. “ ’Course not. I’m the lookout. But right now I’m the guy you’re gonna pay not to kill you.” His eyes were dark and menacing and, I thought, merciless.

  “Looks like they’re having a party over there.” I said, motioning to the ongoing celebration. “Why weren’t you invited?”

  “I see what you’re trying to do, kid, and you might as well stop now. It don’t work like you think it works, got it? I like being the lookout. It lets me collect from the wretches like you who stumble over here while the others are busy, and don’t no one else take a cut.”

  I considered pushing further, trying to drive a wedge between him and his cohorts, or perhaps threatening to reveal his scam to the rest of his crew. But something in the man’s eyes made me stop. He knew I was powerless. There was nothing I could say that would turn him away.

  I leaped to my feet, then immediately doubled over in pain. My belly ached, my head ached, my very skin ached. I wondered what dark magic the man was using on me. Then I realized. The water I had just consumed was working its way into my system, trying to rehydrate me far too fast.

  The bandit laughed and held forward his long spear, its barbed tip glinting in the last rays of daylight. “Now, you gonna pay me, or am I gonna take the coin from your corpse?”

  I swallowed the bile bubbling up in my throat. “If you want my silver,” I said, “you’ll have to come claim it.” I snapped my hand forward, lengthening the stiletto into a fine saber.