The Shadowmask: Stone of Tymora, Book II Page 7

“Yepper, just a few miles to our’n west. She’s giving us a good wind too, right in our backs! Like a big guy blowing on us!” He puffed up his cheeks and blew a puff of air—and a mouthful of spit—right at me.

  I wiped my cheek. He blushed bright red, and offered a small apologetic giggle.

  But I was hardly concerned with a little spittle. “What of the other ship? Did the storm catch her?”

  “Nope, turned before it got to her. We all had a good cheer on deck.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Tonnid. That makes me feel a lot better.”

  “Good, ’cause the Cap’n said if you feel better you should come back up on deck.” He laughed a little. “Never knew you to get seasick, Lucky Lucky.” He turned and walked away.

  Seasick? Captain Deudermont had told Tonnid I was seasick? I felt my anger at the captain disappear. I vowed never to cross him again. I tugged on my boots—my ordinary leather boots. Waillan had outgrown them, so he’d passed them on to me. I still had Sali Dalib’s boots of course, but I kept them tucked away with the rest of my things in a canvas pack. They were hardly suitable for life aboard a ship.

  I raced back abovedecks. The storm was just off our port side, due west of us. That is to say, sheets of rain were just a few miles off our side, clearly visible. Where we were, the sky was overcast, and the wind was howling, sweeping up directly from the south. The sails had been reduced to half—the wind was so strong it would’ve ripped our rigging apart if the sails were up. But still we moved at an incredible clip.

  Up in the rigging, a few of the more agile crew, including Drizzt, held position, waiting for the call to stow the remaining sails. The decision would have to be made fast if the storm turned. Even a slight change would have it atop us in a matter of minutes. Catti-brie was still up in the crow’s nest, and when she saw me emerge from below she waved and beckoned me to join her.

  “Won’t be long now ’til we reach the Gate,” Cattie-brie said. “Perhaps the captain will give ye leave for a few hours and ye can visit with some o’ yer old friends?”

  My friends. Though Catti-brie had meant to comfort me, my stomach flipped at the thought.

  There were two people in Baldur’s Gate whom I could call friends. Alviss, Perrault’s dwarf wizard friend, had used his magic to help me spy on Perrault before. Like the seer in Memnon, he could probably try to peer through that crystal ball of his, to locate the stone, to help me if I asked.

  And then there was Jaide: the beautiful elf, the priestess of Tymora. She surely could help me, and just as surely would offer her assistance should I ask.

  But I did not dare to ask. To find Jaide, I would need to speak to Alviss. And to find Alviss, I would have to visit his inn, the Empty Flagon. The Empty Flagon where I had delivered Perrault, just before he died. I shuddered. I never wanted to see that place again.

  Malchor Harpell, I told myself, was all the help I would need. We’d be in Waterdeep in a tenday, and at his Tower of Twilight before winter made the land impassable. Until then, I would not leave Sea Sprite, where I could pretend to be an ordinary sailor, relieved for just a little while of the burden of the stone.

  I spent the last few hours of that day watching the curious behavior of the storm from my high vantage point, praying it would push us off course and delay our arrival. But when I rose in the morning, the storm’s steady wind stayed behind us, driving us even faster toward Baldur’s Gate.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The storm did eventually turn east and overtake us a day and a half later, just as we sailed up the Chionthar and made port at Baldur’s Gate. Our initial plan had us stopping in the Gate for merely one day to resupply. But the storm had other ideas. It sat over Baldur’s Gate, hardly moving, keeping us locked in. The first day was agony for me. I waited belowdecks, avoiding the sight of the docks. I was afraid of the memories they would bring back, mostly. But I was also certain Asbeel would be there, watching, waiting for me.

  On the second day, with the ship supplied but the storm not breaking, Captain Deudermont gave shore leave to any of the crew who desired it. Lucky and Tin tried to get me to go to a tavern with them, but I pretended the captain had given me work to do. I fell asleep that night, praying for the storm to end. I tossed and turned, my sleep torn apart with nightmares about Asbeel.

  The next morning, I crawled abovedecks, certain I would see blue sky. But still the rain poured down in sheets. Through the low clouds, I thought I saw a dark plume lazily rising from the city. I climbed up to the crow’s nest to see where it was coming from. The outer district? My stomach clenched.

  Without thinking, ignoring all my previous reasoning, I rushed down the gangplank and into Baldur’s Gate, limping along as quickly as I could. I had only been in the city twice, but somehow I had memorized the route. After only a few minutes I rounded a corner to see the familiar sign, the single mug, drained of liquid: The Empty Flagon.

  The building was ablaze, and a small crowd had gathered to watch as the flames leaped high into the air in defiance of the torrential rain, sometimes accentuated by a pop or a hiss or a small explosion. The buildings beside the inn were pressed tight against it, as were most structures in the city, but the flame didn’t seem interested in them, barely licked against their wet wooden walls.

  I moved to the crowd of bystanders, asking quietly if anyone knew what was going on.

  “Dunno, really,” one man said. “Place just lit up like a candle. No warning, didn’t see no one there.”

  “What about the owner?” I asked.

  “The dwarf? He ain’t been around in o’er a tenday. Just up and disappeared one day, and the people stopped coming.”

  “Actually been nice, not having them ruffians coming through all the time,” a woman nearby said. “Got nothing against dwarves, you know? But they like to drink, and drunk people always want to fight, you know?”

  “Anyone know where Alviss went? The owner?” I asked.

  “He didn’t tell no one, didn’t pack up and move or anything,” said the first man. “Just up and vanished, like I said.”

  I started back to the docks, then thought better of it. Something odd was going on, and I had a feeling a certain demon was behind it. And if he’d gone after Alviss, he may have gone after another one of our friends …

  I could hardly manage a run, with my left leg numb from the knee down, but I went as quickly as I could to the temple district and the great Temple of Tymora.

  The massive structure was imposing indeed, even more so in the downpour. Its gargoyles leered out menacingly through the rain, and its smooth walls glistened as if possessed by some inner light. I considered going around the back of the building, to where I knew there would be a door. But I did not have the password, so instead I ventured through the main entrance.

  The nave of the main temple was huge, lined with tapestries depicting Tymora and her legendary heroes, sometimes in battle but more often simply in some heroic pose. Huge marble columns lined the nave, with yet more tapestries strung between them, dividing the structure into three paths.

  Down the center aisle, before the altar, a young man in white robes holding an armful of candles approached one of the tapestries.

  I moved swiftly toward him, taking note of his jet-black hair, his slightly pointed ears, his angular face. He was half elf, I was sure.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I was wondering if you could help me.”

  “I am quite busy, but I’m sure one of the disciples will aid you,” the half-elf priest replied. He arranged his candles—seven of them, long of neck and longer of wick—side by side under the center of the tapestry. The tapestry depicted Tymora in a white robe holding a lit candle, standing side by side with her twin sister, Beshaba, goddess of misfortune, wearing black and holding an unlit candle. The priest lit the wick of the candle closest to Tymora’s side of the tapestry, and knelt before them.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. I knew I was being rude, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “I am pr
aying for one of our lost sisters,” he said in a nasal voice. “That Tymora will guide her home. Now leave me to my prayers, child.” He began whispering under his breath. As I watched, the wick of the lit candle fell sidelong onto the next, and after a moment the second candle was alight.

  “It will only take a moment. I just need to speak with Jaide.”

  “I said—” The priest’s words caught in his throat, and he rose suddenly, spinning to face me, and nearly lighting his white robe on fire with the candles. “How do you know that name?” he whispered harshly.

  “She is a friend. And I need to find her.”

  He studied me up and down and looked at my face, at my tunic—at my cloak. His eyes widened with surprise and what I thought might be horror. “You are Perrault’s ward,” he said, still whispering.

  Behind him, the second candle fell into the third, and that one caught fire as well.

  “Yes,” I said, “I was Perrault’s ward. And now I need help. So tell me where Jaide is.”

  “She left a tenday ago. It is for her that I pray.” He sounded somewhat angry. “But there is someone who needs to see you. Please, wait here.” He motioned to a disciple, then disappeared through a well-concealed door behind the altar. The disciple came over to the tapestry, bowed to me, and knelt before the tapestry, apparently to continue the priest’s prayer. The third candle, in the meantime, dipped into the fourth.

  I motioned to the line of candles. “What is that?” I asked.

  “A prayer to Tymora,” said the disciple. “The candles can fall either toward or away from the next in line. Tymora guides them, to tell us whether luck will be good or ill for that which we pray about.”

  “So the more candles are lit, the better the luck?”

  “Not quite. Misfortune is often just good fortune taken too far, so teaches Tymora. The best position for the candles is the fourth, where the fire is now. But any farther”—as he said it, the fourth candle dipped into the fifth, which then fell onto the sixth, and that into the seventh, in rapid succession—“and the luck is ill. Oh, this is not good. I must pray for our sister, please. Wait at the altar for Priest Aridren to return.” The disciple pushed through the door behind the altar. Through the dark crack, I thought I saw a flash of red skin.

  I leaped off the altar, sprinting as far and as fast as my lame leg would carry me, all the way back to Sea Sprite.

  I knew whom Priest Aridren had gone to fetch. I did not wish to be there when Asbeel emerged from that door.

  The storm did not break for another thirteen days, during which neither hide nor hair of me could be seen anywhere but belowdecks on Sea Sprite. I spent much of my time those days playing a card game called Three Dragon Ante with Lucky and Tonnid. Tonnid, despite his generally slow mind, turned out to be quite good at odds. We did not bet money, but rather duties and chores, and by the time the storm finally broke and the sun came out, I owned most of Tonnid’s turns cleaning the bilges, or clearing the galley after meals, or aiding the galley cook, or any other unpleasant task he had wanted to be rid of, all the way to Waterdeep.

  It would be a long journey. But at least I would not have much idle time. Any time not spent doing something would find my mind wandering to Asbeel and Priest Aridren, whom I was convinced was his servant; to the stone, and the uncertainty I had surrounding it; or back in time, to Perrault, Alviss, Jaide, and Elbeth, all of whom had tried to protect me and suffered instead.

  A cooperative wind could’ve gotten us to Waterdeep inside ten days. But on the fourth day out of Baldur’s Gate, the biting north wind blew in, trying to drive us back to fairer waters.

  The northern breeze more than doubled the time of our journey. During the day, we would have to tack into the wind, slowing us greatly. At night, we could not sail, for fear of colliding with the icebergs from the Sea of Moving Ice far to the north.

  I hoped the wind would break, but the more experienced sailors all knew that was impossible. Once the wind had turned, it would not shift again until the spring. We would have to cut through it if we meant to reach Waterdeep.

  The farther north we sailed, the slower the going became. On the eleventh day, the fears of an iceberg proved true, and though it appeared by daylight, we had to tack off course to avoid the massive, deadly chunk of ice.

  From that evening on, all sails were firmly stored each night, the anchor dropped, and the launch’s beacon was lit. The small craft rowed a few hundred yards out ahead of the ship each night with two men assigned to it, tasked with staying awake and watching for dangerous ice.

  I drew that duty once, and it was among the worst nights of my life. The temperature dipped far lower than I thought possible—it was late autumn, not winter!—and the breeze bit through even Perrault’s magical cloak. By the time dawn broke and we rowed back to Sea Sprite, my teeth were chattering so badly I feared my jaw would rattle right off my face.

  But something else happened that night, something that gave me hope. For in spite of that terrible cold, my left hand held fast to the oars. There on that freezing little boat, I realized that the colder it got, and the closer we got to Waterdeep, the less numbness and pain I felt. From that day on, my condition, though not cured, did not grow any worse. I knew not what it meant, but after that night, my nightmares ceased, and I no longer hoped to stay aboard Sea Sprite forever. I couldn’t wait to reach the Tower of Twilight, where Malchor Harpell could give me answers and I could begin my journey anew.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The captain had taken the helm himself the last few days, and as we sailed around the last bend into Waterdeep Harbor, I saw why. The entirety of the harbor was choked by ice floes large and small, with hardly space between them for a ship. The captain masterfully guided Sea Sprite, with Wulfgar pulling the guide ropes as mightily as any man could. The captain’s great skill and the barbarian’s great strength worked so well in concert I felt as though I were watching a dance. Sea Sprite’s movements through the choked harbor, missing ice on each side by mere feet, were as graceful as any waltz.

  When at last we pulled up to the pier, the stunned expressions of the harbormen, busy breaking down the last of the dock equipment for storage for the winter, were a sight worth seeing.

  Soon, they had the pier cleared and ropes ready as we pulled alongside to a chorus of cheers.

  Captain Deudermont moved to the rail. “Permission to come ashore, Harbormaster?” he called down.

  “Granted, with pleasure, Captain Deudermont!” a man called back, and a second round of cheers went up. “We had hoped you would reach the city before winter locked you out.”

  “You had hoped?” Deudermont repeated.

  “Oh, yes. You are summoned to a council of the Lords, good captain. I believe they’ve an offer to make you. This very evening, in fact.”

  Deudermont gave a quick set of orders, and his well-trained crew sprang into action. A group began hauling the trade cargo from the hold, while another began taking on foodstuffs and essential supplies. The sails were furled, all but the main were taken down and stowed; everything loose on the deck found its place for storage. I had not witnessed that particular dance before, but I could surmise its meaning: Sea Sprite was making ready for a winter in port.

  As if to accentuate my thoughts, a light snow began to fall. Big, wet flakes whirled and spun through the air on the sea breeze, before finally melting into spots of water on the ground. I doubted the snow would stick at all, doubted it would even leave a coat of fresh powder anywhere on the city. But it did signal things to come.

  Winter had arrived.

  Which meant Drizzt and his companions would wish to be out of the city and on their way. And I with them.

  I had next to nothing to pack—just the small sack I kept near my hammock—so instead I leaned on the forward rail and watched the snow fall on Waterdeep, watched the dockworkers at their tasks, watched the girl with the short yellow hair walk past.

  My eyes stopped roving and fixed upon her. Despite
the cut of her hair, I knew her instantly. I had seen her in my dreams, and until then, I had not imagined that she was still alive, had not imagined anything of her past her disappearance into the hold of that pirate ship.

  I could hardly breathe as I limped across the deck, down the gangplank, toward Tonnid standing guard at the end of the pier.

  “Hey, Maimun, you ain’t got shore leave,” Tonnid said, stepping in my way.

  “Yeah I do, Tin,” I said. “Captain just gave me leave.”

  “But he ain’t even on the ship.”

  “He left me a note.”

  Tonnid blinked a few times, stared up as if seeking answers from on high, then finally nodded and stepped aside.

  I felt bad for tricking him, until I remembered how many times I’d had to take his shift cleaning out the bilges on the trip from Baldur’s Gate to Waterdeep. It served him right, I decided.

  But I had more pressing business. Joen was nearly out of sight, her short stature making her difficult to see in a crowd. But I was determined not to lose her. I sprinted off, as fast as I’d managed to run since the desert.

  Waterdeep was a northern city, and I was thankful for it. In the south, in Memnon and Calimport, any patch of land without a structure was fair game for erecting a hovel. As such, the roads were unpredictable, winding, often coming to dead ends suddenly and forcing long backtracks. In the north, in both Baldur’s Gate and Waterdeep, the streets were clearly marked (in the better districts, cobbled stone and not dirt), and they followed a somewhat logical order.

  Many times over the next hour, I lost sight of Joen as she rounded a corner. But each time, when I rounded the same corner, I could either see her, or see exactly which roads she had taken. Had we been in the South, I surely would have lost her, and been lost and confused myself. But in Waterdeep, I managed to track her all the way through town, until I saw her enter a run-down inn near the middle of the city.

  The inn was in such a state of disrepair, I was surprised it was even open. A sign hung above the door, but one of the ropes holding it in place had snapped, leaving the shingle dangling awkwardly. The picture on the sign was that of a simple wooden dagger; the faded letters below it spelled out one word: “Shank.” A fitting name for such a place, I decided; anyone entering was surely at risk of being stabbed.