Anthology - Realms of Mystery Part 23

We quickly gained the streets of Waterdeep at which point the rotund thespian sped off in search of a bar where he would no doubt soon be bragging about his latest adventure. Kitten and I set off to claim a new piece of the puzzle that was my past, the taste of unnecessary death still fresh in my mind as well as new suspicions about whom I could really trust.

Darkly, Through A Gla.s.s of Ale

Peter Archer

The sun sank into a golden haze of clouds and darkness rolled gently from the east over the port of Tharkar on the borders of Ulgarth and the Free Cities of Parsanic. At the gates that breached a thick wall dividing the two states, guards yawned sleepily in the evening heat. Steam rose from the softly waving fronds that bordered the Free Cities, northernmost kingdom of the Utter East. On the Ulgarthan side, a horse-drawn cart kicked up a thick cloud of dust that obscured both driver and pa.s.senger. The guards bestirred themselves and raised hands."Who seeks entry into the Free City of Tharkar?" inquired one in a bored tone, as he grounded his halberd by his side.

The driver of the cart coughed and shook his head, clearing the dust from his eyes and throat. "I am Necht of the Free City of Whitevale. This," he said, gesturing to his companion, "is Avarilous, a merchant of Ulgarth, with goods to sell."

"What nature of goods?" The guard yawned.

"Fifty kegs of ale for the Tavern of the Tall Tankard," said the driver.

The guard, coming more awake than he had been all day, stepped back a pace and whistled loudly.

From the long evening shadows of the gate behind him emerged the chief guard, a rotund fellow barely contained in his stretching chainmail. The chief glanced at his fellows and chuckled, turning his attention to the pa.s.senger.

"Well, Avarilous of Ulgarth, as you're doubtless aware, none pa.s.s into Tharkar without paying tax."

"Tax?" The merchant stared angrily at the guard. The driver put a hand on his companion's shoulder and whispered urgently, but Avarilous shrugged him off. "There's no entry tax. I paid for an import permit and for a scroll of sales submission. They cost me enough."

The fat guard stepped a pace nearer. Sweat streamed down his face, dripping onto the rolls of flesh that surrounded his neck. From the corner of his mouth came a tiny dribble of dark juice; he had been chewing kalava leaves, a mild narcotic that, while technically illegal, were nonetheless widely available in the Free Cities. He rested a hand casually on his sword.

"This is a new tax," he grunted. "A special tax on Ulgarthan slime-dogs. It comes to exactly two kegs of ale. And since you're so anxious to pay it"-he glanced back at the other guards and grinned-"you can get down from there and unload the kegs yourself."

Avarilous stared at the dirty faces of the gate watch and snorted contemptuously. The driver descended into the roadway and smiled ingratiatingly at the guard. "You'll forgive my employer, sir," he said. "He's new to the Five Kingdoms, and our ways."

Without moving his eyes from Avarilous, the guard brought his fist around in a smas.h.i.+ng blow that knocked the driver on his back five feet away. Blood spilled from his lips and ran down his chin. The guard smiled at Avarilous, showing all his teeth. "Well, slime-dog?"

The merchant hesitated and glanced at the driver, who sat up in the white dust of the road, wiping his mouth. A subtle signal seemed to pa.s.s between the two men. Avarilous climbed from his seat and, going around the wagon, unhitched the back flap. He quickly rolled out two of the barrels, setting them upright on the ground, and refastened the wooden flap. He began to walk back to the front of the wagon, but the guard hadn't finished his game.

"Just a minute," he growled. "Let's see if you're paying this tax in good coin. Leethron, get a spout to tap this keg."

One of the other watchmen disappeared into a narrow recess in the wall, then reemerged a moment later with a tap and mallet. Swiftly, with the air of one well accustomed to such duty, he tapped the keg and, taking a dirty tin cup from one of the other guardsmen, filled it full of the frothy ale and pa.s.sed it to his chief.

The head of the watch took a long draught, then looked at the merchant and smiled soapily.

"Pig's p.i.s.s. That's what this is. But what do you expect from the hogs of Ulgarth? They've nothing to do all day but brew foul-smelling rot-gut like this." He chuckled. "Here, merchant, you try some of this swill."

He held the gla.s.s toward Avarilous, but as the latter reached for it, the captain suddenly upended it and poured the ale onto the ground while his other hand, holding a blade, came up to Avarilous's throat.

"Well, merchant, go on. Drink up."

Avarilous gave him a disbelieving look and stared at the muddy spot on the ground. The driver, who had regained his feet, started forward with a cry, choked off as one of the other guards clamped a hand round his throat. Another, coming up behind the merchant, gave the back of his knees a violent kick, knocking him to all fours. The captain thrust his foot on the smaller man's neck, pus.h.i.+ng his head down.

"Drink, Ulgarthan pig!"There was a roar of laughter from the rest of the watch. Avarilous twisted away and came to his feet, mud splashed around his mouth, streaking his cheeks. With as much dignity as he could muster he remounted his wagon and sat still, waiting for his driver. The man from Whitevale hastily climbed into his place and shook the reins. They drove down the winding street and out of sight. The guards laughed scornfully, then the captain thrust his gla.s.s at his lieutenant. "Here, lad. I'm off for the evening. Where did that fool say he was going?"

"The Tall Tankard?"

"Aye. Well, maybe I'll seek him out there and make him pay another tax."

Avarilous and his companion proceeded through the streets of Tharkar in silence for some moments.

Silent groups of heavily armed men glared suspiciously at the wagon from arched doorways. Avarilous took no notice of them; he was well aware of the tense stalemate that existed between the Five Kingdoms, whose rulers jealously guarded their most powerful magical items. The bloodforges allowed them to conjure armies to defend against attacks from fiends and from each other. In the Utter East, temporary, armed truce was the status quo.

The oncoming evening was hot, and steam rose from the horses' flanks. After pa.s.sing a few streets, the merchant cleared his throat. "How is your mouth, Necht?"

The driver shrugged and touched the blood crusted on his lip. "Could be worse." He turned to Avarilous. "But you really must be more careful, sir. This isn't Ulgarth, and our ways aren't yours. The gate watch almost always steals from goods wagons, especially those from Ulgarth."

The merchant nodded humbly. "I see. I'll try to do better in future."

He sank into a thoughtful silence, broken by Necht asking him, "Just what are you selling, sir?"

Avarilous glanced at him, surprised. Necht, looking resolutely ahead, continued, "Mind, it's really none of my business, but if you're planning to get me into any more fights, I think I should know what's going on."

He turned from the road and looked his employer full in the face. "So what's really in the barrels?"

Avarilous gave him a look of astonis.h.i.+ng blandness. "Why, ale, of course. Just what we told those louts at the gate."

Necht shrugged and shook the reins again. "Whatever you say, sir. Ale's as good a story as anything else."

There was a moment of silence between the two men. Avarilous glanced sideways at his companion, then cleared his throat. "Just in case something does happen, though, I'd much appreciate a pair of eyes at my back." He stared hard at Necht, who grinned back cheerfully.

Necht swung his wagon into the courtyard of the Tavern of the Tall Tankard and leaped easily from his seat. The merchant descended more slowly, as befitted his greater age and weight. In the dark beneath the stars, his eyes glittered. From the open door of the tavern came light, music, and a blast of beery air. A figure emerged, observed the wagon, and approached Avarilous.

"Ahoy, good sir. Have you goods for my master?"

"Aye, boy, fetch him and some stout fellows to unload these casks."

In a few moments, the landlord came out of the door, a fat, oily man with the air of being constructed of badly pressed b.u.t.ter. Behind him were four helpers who, without a word, set to removing the barrels from the wagon and carrying them through a small side door into the tavern while the landlord directed their work. When they were done and his helpers had gathered behind him, he turned to Avarilous.

"Now, sir, how much for the kegs, then?"

Avarilous and Necht had watched the proceedings without saying a word or moving a muscle. Now the merchant spoke in a soft voice. "As you well know, Daltrice, the amount we agreed upon was five crowns per barrel. Forty-eight barrels makes two hundred and forty crowns."

Daltrice shook his head, smiling and rubbing his greasy hands. "Now, sir, you are mistaken!" the landlord exclaimed. "Why, I was right here all the time, and I'll swear by Umberlee I counted onlythirty-eight barrels carried into my establishment. I believe that brings your total to, let me see, one hundred and ninety crowns."

Avarilous shuffled his feet impatiently. "Come, Master Daltrice, stop this fooling. Two hundred and forty crowns is the sum owed, and two hundred and forty crowns I'll take."

Necht tugged nervously at Avarilous's sleeve. "Remember," the driver hissed. "Discretion in all things. We don't want trouble."

Avarilous snorted. "There won't be trouble if Daltrice pays what he owes."

Daltrice laughed, a giggle of pure delight. "Oh, my dear Avarilous," he said, "such a foolish man. But perhaps they don't educate you Ulgarthans in the complex ways of commerce, as do we of Parsanic.

Very well. One hundred and fifty it is, then." He motioned to the largest of his helpers. "Sirc'al, pay the merchant."

The big man stepped forward and tossed a small sack on the pavement. Avarilous, hesitating a moment, picked it up and counted the money it contained. He looked sourly at Daltrice.

"There's one hundred here."

"That's right. Payment in full." Daltrice laughed again. "Come now, my good fellow. Come into the tavern and have a drink on the house." Turning his back on the merchant, he squeezed through the doorway.

Avarilous glared after him, then at the landlord's employees, who eyed him stolidly. He shrugged his shoulders and snorted under his breath. "Thank you very much," he muttered to no one in particular.

Pa.s.sing through the door of the inn, Avarilous and Necht emerged in an arched pa.s.sageway with doors penetrating the walls on either side and torches flickering in iron sconces. At the far end of the tunnel was a pair of wooden doors, paneled and intricately carved. These swung open as Avarilous and Necht approached them, and they pa.s.sed into the main area of the Tall Tankard.

Of all the ports along the Utter East, Tharkar was the most popular with traders, travelers, and pirates. s.h.i.+ps put into its docks carrying goods to Doegan, slaves to Konigheim, and mead and battle-axes to the far-off halls of the northmen. Because of its position, the city was also the first port of call for the infrequent s.h.i.+ps from Ulgarth, Chult, and even more faraway places in Faerun. The taverns of the city were famous throughout the Five Kingdoms for their food, ale, dancing girls, and other, less explicitly defined forms of entertainment. Among these houses, the Tavern of the Tall Tankard was the most well-known.

Smoke from a hundred pipes rose to the night sky, sparkling with stars, above the open courtyard that was typical of Parsanic inns. Palms waved, and hrashaka- tiny lizardlike creatures-ran to and fro beneath the feet of the patrons s.n.a.t.c.hing sc.r.a.ps of food from the unwary and disappearing down holes and into cracks. A chorus of raucous voices continuously called for ale, wine, brandy, and tareetha-giris, whose services could be purchased for a few coins. Serving wenches moved about bearing platters of steaming elephant and zebra meat and tall tankards of ale with which to wash it down. s.n.a.t.c.hes of broken song resounded from the room's corners and escaped through the open windows.

Avarilous cast a swift eye over the courtyard. He gestured to a raucous group of drinkers in one corner, away from the light of the torches. "Who are those people?"

Necht narrowed his eyes, squinting at the group. "Those are the inquisitors from Whitevale, sir. The ones I told you about."

"Ah, yes. Looking for adherents of the Fallen Temple." Avarilous apparently lost interest in them and glanced at the other side of the courtyard, where a collection of tough-looking bearded men were swiftly and silently downing tankard after tankard of ale. "And those?"

"Northmen. Daltrice had better watch them closely, or they'll drink up his entire cellar in one night."

Necht sn.i.g.g.e.red at his own wit.

Avarilous gave a perfunctory chuckle. "And that group?" He gestured at a long table near the fountain at the center of the courtyard. A fine spray came from somewhere in its center, and rivulets of silver ran down the figure of a coiling python in its midst.

Necht smoothed out the lines in his face and looked properly serious. "Those are the trade delegates from Konigheim and Doegan. They've been here almost six months, negotiating a pact."The merchant stared thoughtfully at the crowd. His eyes traveled slowly across the courtyard, pausing once at the sight of a stout back and dark hair hanging greasily over a rumpled collar. Necht followed his gaze, started, and began to speak, but the merchant's hand on his arm stilled him. "All right,"

Avarilous murmured to Necht, "Be careful. . . and remember what I asked of you."

White teeth flashed in Necht's dark face. "Yes, sir. Don't worry." And he was gone.

Avarilous cautiously edged his way closer to the bar, behind which stood the fat landlord contentedly surveying the anarchic scene before him. At the merchant's sharp rap on the counter, he glanced around, smiled unctuously, and slid across a tankard drawn from a barrel of the ale Avarilous himself had brought to the inn.

A balcony ran around the four sides of the courtyard. Vines hung down from its banisters.

Avarilous, admiring the lush greenery, was startled to see within the foliage the undulating forms of serpents sliding smoothly over the soft leaves. He shuddered involuntarily, then remembered the special regard in which the people of the Free Cities of Parsanic held snakes. It was even rumored that somewhere in the kingdom, in a cold underground room kept secret from all but a chosen few were evil men with hooded eyes and shaven scalps. These priests of Talona sat amid wriggling mounds of serpents and, as the snakes wove beneath their ragged robes, spoke prophecies in hissing voices that were not their own. Avarilous glanced at the python statue in the sparkling fountain and s.h.i.+vered once more.

Beneath the balcony, he spotted a seat at a table set in the shadows, away from the torchlight that illumined the courtyard. The table was already inhabited by two men who looked up in irritation as Avarilous joined them.

"This table's occupied, friend," snapped one, a tall, grim-looking man with a scar disfiguring his cheek.

Avarilous smiled ingratiatingly. "Surely you'll not begrudge me a place to sit in peace? I've been traveling the whole day, and I long for an entertaining evening away from the dusty road."

The men looked at each other for a moment; then the blond one shrugged. A colorful scarf slanted over his forehead, concealing one eye and giving him a rakish, careless appearance. "Suit yourself," he growled ungraciously, turning back to his drink.

Avarilous pulled up a chair and slowly lowered his aching body into it. Before his bottom touched the well-worn seat, though, there was a crash. The chair spun away and the merchant fell sprawling on the floor. The scarred man who had kicked away the chair at the last minute gave a shout of laughter.

"Next time, Ulgarthan sc.u.m, don't presume to sit at the same table with Tharkarmen." He gestured toward a dark nook nearby. "Get over in the corner and slurp your swill there, out of my sight."

Avarilous's shoulders tensed for a moment; then he shrugged, rose, and with as much dignity as he could muster, made his way to the place indicated. Tharkar natives sitting nearby, who had witnessed the incident with amus.e.m.e.nt, turned back to their drinks.

The merchant relaxed, leaning his chair against the wall, and observed the scene. After a time he drew a small pipe from within the recesses of his cloak and lit it.

The two men who had humiliated him drank steadily. Every now and then, one would rise and go to the bar for a fresh round of ales. They spoke little, but Avarilous overheard enough to learn that the tall, scar-faced man was named Kreelan, while his companion, shorter and blond, was Spielt.

From where he sat, Avarilous had plenty of leisure for observation. The crowd appeared at first to be a typical gathering of sailors, soldiers, and rogues from the Utter East. As he watched, though, he became increasingly aware of a subtly different dynamic in the courtyard, a tension that seemed to grow quietly among the various groups.

Avarilous's attention was gradually drawn to the boisterous group of well-dressed men gathered at the table near the fountain. It was a large party, and their penetrating voices rose above the clamor.

"Slaver sc.u.m! Traders in human flesh. The men of Konigheim! Who knows from what port they'll draw slaves next. Citizens of Tharkar, look to your children!"

"Fool of a Doeganer! We of the Mighty Kingdom of Konigheim, Beacon of the Utter East, Favored of the Five Kingdoms, take slaves only from the kingdoms we conquer. And yours will be next, unless I miss my guess. The fish-people at last caught in a net." The speaker chuckled heavily and belched."We've all seen the neck gills you Doeganers sport. What's next for you? Will you grow fins? A kingdom of codfish? We'll serve you up in a lemon sauce. Or perhaps you'd prefer to be fried in batter!" He roared with laughter at his own poor wit, as his companions sycophantically echoed him. Avarilous noted with interest the patch of wrinkled skin in the middle of his forehead, a patch surrounded by a mult.i.tude of complicated designs executed in dark ink.

Near the center of the table a man rose, evidently with some authority. As he spoke, the men at the table fell grudgingly silent.

"Now then, citizens! Peace among us all! Put aside those differences that divide us, and together, united as one powerful force, we can confront the fiendish enemy, while improving our mutual wealth and power!" The speaker lifted his gla.s.s. "A toast! A toast to our success in these negotiations. Neither shall be the loser in the pact we conclude."

There was an embarra.s.sed sc.r.a.ping of chairs, and both sides in the dispute halfheartedly lifted their gla.s.ses in a.s.sent. Once again, talk at the table sank into the general babble of inn voices.

Avarilous listened with apparent indifference to this dispute and its conclusion. The men at his table seemed at first equally unaware of it. But as he observed them closely, the merchant saw that this was not so.

As Kreelan went to the bar he spoke a word in pa.s.sing to one of the Doeganers. As Spielt, a colorful scarf slanting over his forehead so that it concealed one eye, pa.s.sed near the delegation he seemed to stumble and murmur something to the Konigheimers. The men at the large table drew together in a tighter circle, their voices hushed, suspicious looks pa.s.sing between them like summer lightning.

Avanlous watched this with growing interest, waiting for the spark that would set off open conflict. It was not long in coming.

Kreelan leaned his chair back and stretched. As he did so, Avarilous saw him, with a flick of his wrist, toss a small rock, so accurately that it upset a full tankard of ale on the Konigheimers' side of the table. A hulking, dark-haired Konigheimer with the white skin and tall build of the Ffolk, instantly leaped to his feet with a curse. He turned angrily to one of the Doeganers sitting across from him.

"Clumsy fool! Watch what you're about!"

"Slaver dog!"-the Doegarier was on his feet now-"The curse of the mage-king upon you!"

Rather than reply, the slaver picked up his chair and bashed it across his opponent's head. Other denizens of the tavern sprang up, and the brawl was on.

Avarilous slid further into his nook, avoiding flying furniture and bits of broken gla.s.s. To his right he could see his table companions watching the battle with evident satisfaction. The conflict was conducted with broken chairs and tables. Fists flew. Bottles crashed. The smell of spilled ale was overwhelming.

Then, as one fighter staggered back into the dark nook in which Avarilous was standing, the merchant was plucked forth and swept into the midst of the battle.

He found himself parrying a myriad of blows, slashes, and flying cups. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Spielt and Kreelan had entered the fray. He worked his way into the middle of the courtyard, now jammed with thras.h.i.+ng bodies, most of them held upright by the press of people. Then, just as the fighting was heaviest, the crowd drew apart to reveal a man's body sprawled facedown, floating in the waters of the fountain. Crimson ripples spread in a ghastly halo around his head.

"Murder!" The cry came from a hundred throats. The crowd poured into the street, and in five minutes the only ones left in the tavern besides the owner were the two men from Avarilous's table, the merchant, and the dead man. A second later, the landlord and his band of helpers emerged from behind the bar and ranged themselves before the door. Avarilous sank back into his nook, watching the scene with glittering, attentive eyes.

The two drinkers would have followed the rest of the crowd, but their way was barred by the landlord, who came at them in a furious rush.