Dragonlance 08 - Dragons of the Highlord Skies (8 page)

The Knight’s Helm was, as Derek stated, a reputable establishment, though not as reputable now as it had once been. The tavern was located in what was known as the Old City and its current owner liked to boast that it was one of the original buildings in Palanthas, though that claim was doubtful. The tavern was built underground, extending back into a hillside, and was snug and warm in the winter, cool and pleasantly dark in the summer months.

Patrons entered through a wooden door set beneath a gabled roof. Stairs led down into the large common room that was lit with hundreds of candles burning in wrought iron candle holders and by the light of a fire blazing in an enormous stone fireplace.

There was no bar. Drinks and food were served from the kitchen, which was adjacent. In back, cut deeper into the hillside, were the ale and wine cellars, several small rooms for private parties, and one large room called the “Noble Room”. This room was furnished with a massive oblong table surrounded by thirty two high-backed chairs, all of matching wood, carved with birds and beasts, roses and kingfishers—the symbols of the knighthood. The tavern owner bragged that Vinus Solamnus, founder of the knights, used to hold revelries in this very room at this very table. Although no one really believed him, anyone using this room always left an honorary place vacant at the table for the knight’s shade.

Prior to the Cataclysm, the Knight’s Helm was a popular meeting place for knights and their squires and did a thriving business. Following the Cataclysm, when the knighthood was in shambles, and knights were no longer welcome in Palanthas, the Knight’s Helm fell on hard times. The tavern was forced to pander to more common folk in order to pay the bills. The owner continued to welcome the knights, when few other places would do so, and the knights repaid his loyalty by frequenting the tavern when they could. The current owners kept up the tradition, and Knights of Solamnia were always treated as honored guests.

Derek and Brian walked down the stairs and into the common room. This night, the tavern was bright with light and filled with good smells and laughter. Seeing two knights, the tavern owner himself came bustling up to greet them, to thank them for the honor they did his establishment, and to offer them the best table in the house.

“Thank you, Master, but we were told to ask for Sir Uth Matar,” said Derek. He glanced keenly about the room.

Brian stood behind his friend, his hand on his sword’s hilt. Both were cloaked and wore heavy leather vests beneath. It was supper time and the tavern was crowded. Most of the patrons were members of the burgeoning middle class: store owners, lawyers, teachers and scholars from the University of Palanthas, Aesthetics from the famed Library. Many in the crowd gave the two knights friendly smiles or acknowledged them with nods, then went back to their eating and drinking and talking.

Derek leaned over to Brian to say dryly, “Looks like a den of thieves to me.”

Brian smiled, but he continued to keep his hand on his sword.

“Sir Uth Matar,” said the tavern owner. “Right this way.”

He handed them each a candle, saying the hallway was dark, and directed the knights to the back part of the tavern. When they arrived at the room indicated, Derek knocked on the door.

They heard booted feet cross the floor, and the door opened a crack. A lustrous brown eye framed by long dark lashes peered out at them.

“Names?” the person asked.

Brian gave a start. The voice was that of a woman.

If this startled Derek, he gave no outward sign. “I am Sir Derek Crownguard, milady. This is Sir Brian Donner.”

The brown eyes flashed. The woman’s lips parted in a crooked smile. “Come in, Sir Knights,” she said and opened the door wide.

The two knights cautiously entered the room. A single lamp stood on the table. A small fire flickered in the fireplace. Used for private dining, the room was furnished with a table and chairs and a sideboard. Brian glanced behind the door before shutting it.

“I am alone, as you see,” said the woman.

Both men turned to face her. Both were at a loss for words, for they had never seen a woman quite like her. First and foremost, she was dressed like a man in black leather pants, a black leather vest over a long-sleeved red shirt, and black boots. She wore a sword and looked as though she was accustomed to wearing a sword and was probably skilled in its use. Her black curly hair was cut short. She faced them boldly, like a man, not demurely, like a woman. She stood staring at them, hands on her hips. No curtseying or shy lowering of the eyes.

“We are here to meet Sir Uth Matar, Madame,” Derek said, frowning.

“He would have come tonight,” said the woman, “but he couldn’t make it.”

“He has been detained?” asked Derek.

“Permanently,” the woman said, her crooked smile broadening. “He’s dead.”

She pulled off her gloves and threw them on the table, then sat down languidly in a chair and gestured. “Please, gentlemen, be seated. I’ll send for wine—”

“We are not here to carouse, Madame,” said Derek stiffly. “We have been brought here under false pretenses, it seems. I bid you good-night.”

He made a cold bow and turned on his heel. Brian was already at the door. He had been opposed to this from the beginning, and he did not trust this strange woman.

“Lord Gunthar’s man is due to meet me here at the hour of moonrise,” said the woman. Lifting a soft and supple glove, she smoothed the leather with her hand. “He is interested in hearing about what I have to offer.”

“Derek, let’s go,” said Brian.

Derek made a gesture, turned back.

“What do you have to offer, Madame?”

“Sit down, Sir Derek, and drink with me,” said the woman. “We have time. The moon will not rise for an hour yet.”

She hooked a chair with her foot and kicked it toward him.

Derek’s lips tightened. He was accustomed to being treated with deference, not addressed in such a free and easy manner. Gripping his sword’s hilt, he remained standing and regarded the woman with a grim countenance.

“I will listen to what you have to say, but I drink only with friends. Brian, watch the door. Who are you, Madame?”

The woman smiled. “My name is Kitiara Uth Matar. My father was a Solamnic Knight—”

“Gregor Uth Matar,” exclaimed Brian, recollecting where he’d heard the name. “He was a knight—a valorous one, as I recall.”

“He was cast out of the knighthood in disgrace,” said Derek, frowning. “I do not recall the circumstances, yet I seem to remember it had something to do with a woman.”

“Probably,” replied Kitiara. “My father could never leave the ladies alone. Yet for all that, he loved the knighthood and he loved Solamnia. He died not long ago, fighting the dragonarmies in the battle of Solanthus. It is because of him—because of his memory—that I am here.”

“Go on,” said Derek.

“My line of work takes me to the very best houses in Palanthas.” Lifting her booted feet, Kitiara placed them on the chair in front of her and leaned back, quite at her ease. “To be honest with you gentlemen, I am not exactly invited into these houses, nor do I enter them to search for information which might help your cause in the war against the dragonarmies. However, sometimes, while looking for such items that are of value to me, I stumble across information which I think may be of value to others.”

“In other words,” said Derek coldly, “you are a thief.”

Kitiara grinned and shrugged, then reached into a bag on the table and brought forth a nondescript wooden scroll case. Removing the lid, she drew out a piece of rolled paper and held it in her hand.

“This is such an item,” she said. “I believe it will be quite helpful to the war effort. I may be a bad person,” she added modestly, “but, like my father, I’m a good Solamnic.”

Derek rose to his feet. “You waste your time, Madame. I do not traffic in stolen goods—”

Kitiara smiled wryly. “Of course, you don’t, Sir Derek, so let’s assume, as the kender say, that I ‘found’ it. I discovered it lying in the street in front of the house of a well known Black Robe. The Palanthian authorities have long been watching him, since they suspect he is in league with our enemies. They were going to force him to leave the city, but he forestalled them. Hearing rumors that he was to be run out of town, he left on his own. After I heard of his hasty departure, I decided to enter his house to see if he had left behind anything of value.

“He did. He left this.” The woman placed the scroll on the table. “You can see the end is charred. He burned a large number of papers prior to his departure. Unfortunately he didn’t have time to insure that they were consumed.”

She unfurled the scroll and held it to the light. “Since I assume you gentlemen are not the sort to buy a pig in a poke, I will read you a portion of it. The missive is a letter addressed to a person who resides in Neraka. I assume, from the tone of the letter, this person is a fellow Black Robe. The interesting part reads, ‘Due to Verminaard’s ineptness, I feared for a time that our enemies had discovered our greatest secret, one that would encompass our downfall. You know that dread object of which I speak. If the forces of Light were ever to find out that the
blank
were not destroyed in the Cataclysm, but that the
blank
still exist, and furthermore, that one is in the possession of
blank
, the knights would move heaven and the Abyss to lay their hands on the prize.’”

Kitiara rolled up the parchment and smiled charmingly at Derek. “What do you think of that, Sir Knight?”

“I think it is useless,” said Derek, “since he does not name the object, nor does he say where it may be found.”

“Oh, but he does,” said the woman.
“I
was the one who did not.” She tapped the piece of parchment on her pointed chin. “The name of the object is written here and also the name of the person who has it in his possession. One hundred steel buys this letter.”

Derek regarded her grimly. “You ask payment for it. I thought you said you were a good Solamnic.”

“Not
that
good,” Kitiara replied with a grin and a twitch of her eyebrow. “A girl has to eat.”

“I am not interested,” said Derek shortly. He rose to his feet and started walking toward the door. Brian was already there. He had his hand on the handle and was about to open it.

“Now that surprises me,” said the woman. She shifted her feet on the chair to a more comfortable position. “You are locked in a bitter struggle with Lord Gunthar for the position of Grand Master. If you were to recover this prize and bring it back, I guarantee that every knight in the Council would back you. If, on the other hand, Lord Gunthar’s man is the one to find this …”

Derek halted in midstep. His fingers clenched and unclenched on his sword’s hilt. His face was set in grim lines. Brian saw his friend seriously considering this, and he was appalled.

“Derek,” Brian said in a low voice, “we have no idea whether or not this letter is genuine. She could be making all this up. We should at least do some investigating, go to the authorities, find out if this tale of hers is true—”

“And, in the meantime, Gunthar will buy the letter.”

“So what if he does?” Brian demanded. “If there is truth in this letter, the Knighthood will benefit—”

“Gunthar
will benefit,” Derek countered.

He reached for his purse.

Brian sighed and shook his head.

“Here is your one hundred steel, Madame,” said Derek. “I warn you. My reach is long. If you have cheated me, I will not rest until I have hunted you down.”

“I understand, Sir Derek,” said the woman quietly. She took the bag of steel coins and thrust it in her belt. “You see? I don’t even bother to count it. I trust you, Sir Knight, and you are right to trust me.”

She placed the paper in his hand. “You will not be disappointed, I assure you. I bid you gentlemen a good evening.”

She gave them her crooked smile and raised her hand in farewell. Pausing in the doorway, she said, “Oh, when Lord Gunthar’s man arrives, tell him he’s too late.”

She left, shutting the door behind her.

“Read it swiftly,” said Brian. “We can still go after her.”

Derek was already perusing the letter. He drew in a breath and let it out in a whistle.

“Well, what does it say?” Brian asked impatiently.

“The object is said to be in Icereach, in the possession of a wizard called Feal-Thas.”

“What is this object?”

“It is something called a ‘dragon orb’.”

“A dragon orb. I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Brian said. He sat down. “Now that we’re here, we might as well order dinner.”

Derek rolled up the paper, tucked it carefully into his glove. “Don’t get comfortable. We’re leaving.”

“Where are we going?”

“To see if you’re right, my friend. To see if I have been a fool.”

“Derek, I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t,” said Derek, and he almost smiled. He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Come along. We’re wasting time.”

6

The wrong entrance. Derek’s demand.

Bertrem’s refusal.

ight had fallen by the time Derek and Brian left the Knight’s Helm. The streets were mostly deserted, for the shops were now closed; merchants and customers alike were either home with their families or making merry with friends in the taverns. Those few people walking about carried torches to light their way, though that was hardly necessary, for Solinari, the silver moon, was bright in the heavens.

Rising over the buildings of New City, the moon looked like a bauble caught and held by the finger-like spires reaching into the sky, or at least so Brian fancied. He watched the moon as he and Derek hastened through streets gilded with silver light. He watched the fingers play with the moon like a conjurer plays with a coin until the fingers let loose and the moon was free to drift among the stars.

“Mind where you are walking,” said Derek, catching hold of Brian and jerking him away from a large pile of horse manure.

“These streets are a disgrace!” Derek added in disgust. “Here, sirrah, what do you think you’re doing? Go clean that up!”

A gully dwarf street sweeper, his large broom tucked in the crook of his arm, was ensconced comfortably in a doorway, sound asleep. Derek shook the wretched creature into sullen wakefulness and sent him on his way. The gully dwarf glared at them and made a rude gesture before sweeping up the muck. Brian guessed the moment they were out of sight, the gully dwarf would go back to his slumbers.

“What were you staring at anyway?” Derek asked.

“The moon,” Brian answered. “Solinari is beautiful tonight.”

Derek grunted. “We have more important things to do than stare at the moon. Ah, here we are.” Derek laid a cautionary hand on Brian’s arm. “Let me do the talking.”

Emerging from a side street, they entered the street known as Second Ring, so called because the streets of Old City were laid out in concentric rings and were numbered accordingly. All the major buildings of Palanthas were located in the second ring; the largest and most famous of these was the great Library of Palanthas.

White walls, rising three stories into the sky, gleamed in the moonlight as if illuminated by silver fire. Semicircular marble steps led to a columned porch sheltering large double doors made of thick glass set in bronze. Lights burned in the upper windows of the library. The Aesthetics, an order of monks dedicated to Gilean, God of the Book, worked here day and night—writing, transcribing, recording, filing, compiling. The Library was a vast repository of knowledge. Information on any subject could be found here. Admittance was free. The doors were open to almost all—so long as they came at the appointed hours.

“The Library is closed this time of night,” Brian pointed out as they climbed the stairs.

“They will open for me,” stated Derek with cool aplomb. He beat on the doors with an open palm and raised his voice to be heard through the open windows above him. “Sir Derek Crownguard!” he shouted. “Here on urgent business of the Knighthood. I demand entrance.”

A bald head or two poked out a window. Novices glad for a break in their work peered down curiously to see what all the ruckus was about.

“You’re at the wrong entrance, Sir Knight,” called one, gesturing. “Go around to the side.”

“What does he take me for? A tradesman?” Derek said angrily, and he beat on the bronze and glass door, this time with his closed fist.

“We should come back in the morning,” Brian suggested. “If the information the woman gave you is a hoax, it’s too late to catch her now anyway.”

“I will not wait for morning,” Derek returned, and he continued to shout and beat on the door.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” called a voice from within.

The words were accompanied by the slap of sandals and the sounds of huffing and puffing. The doors opened, and one of the Aesthetics—a middle-aged, shaved-headed man clad in the gray robes of his Order—stared out at them.

“The Library is closed,” he said severely. “We open again in the morning, and next time, come to the side entrance. Hey, there! You can’t come in—”

Paying no heed, Derek shoved past the pudgy man, who spluttered in indignation and fluttered his hands at them, but did nothing else to try to stop him. Brian, embarrassed, entered along with Derek, muttering an apology that went unheard.

“I want to see Astinus, Brother …” Derek waited for the man to provide his name.

“Bertrem,” said the Aesthetic. He glared at Derek in indignation. “You came in the wrong door! And keep your voice down!”

“I am sorry, but the matter is urgent. I demand to see Astinus.”

“Impossible,” Bertrem stated. “The Master sees no one.”

“He will see me,” said Derek. “Tell Astinus Sir Derek Crownguard, Lord of the Rose, wishes to consult with him on a matter of the utmost importance. It is not too much to say the fate of the Solamnic nation may well rest on this meeting.”

Bertrem didn’t budge.

“My friend and I will wait here while you carry my message to Astinus,” Derek said, frowning. “Why do you dawdle, Brother? Didn’t you hear what I said? I need to speak to Astinus!”

Bertrem looked them up and he looked them down. He was obviously disapproving. “I will go inquire,” he said. “You will remain
here
, and you will remain quiet!”

He indicated with a jabbing finger the alcove in which they were standing, then he raised that finger to his lips. Finally he departed, walking off with an air of injured dignity, his sandals slapping the floor.

Silence settled over them, soothing and tranquil. Brian glanced into one of the large rooms. It was lined floor to ceiling with books and filled with desks and chairs. Several Aesthetics were hard at work, either studying or writing by candlelight. One or two glanced in the direction of the knights, but seeing that Bertrem apparently had the situation under control, they returned to their work.

“You could have been more polite,” Brian said to Derek in a whisper. “Vinegar and flies and honey and all that.”

“We are at war for our very survival,” Derek returned, “though one would not think it to judge by this place! Look at them, scratching away, undoubtedly chronicling the life cycles of the ant while good men fight and die.”

“Isn’t this
why
we fight and die?” Brian asked. “So that these harmless souls can keep on writing about the ant and not be forced to mine ore in some slave camp?”

If Derek heard, he paid no heed to Brian’s words. He began to pace the floor, his booted feet ringing loudly on the marble. Several of the Aesthetics raised their heads and glared and one said loudly, “Shush!” Derek glowered, but he ceased his pacing.

The sound of slapping sandals on marble heralded the return of Bertrem, looking harried.

“I am sorry, Sir Derek, but the Master is not at liberty to speak to you.”

“My time is valuable,” said Derek impatiently. “How long am I to be kept waiting?”

Bertrem grew flustered. “I beg your pardon, Sir Derek, you misunderstand me. There is no need to wait. The Master will not see you.”

Derek’s face flushed, his brows constricted, his jaw tightened. He was used to snapping his fingers and watching people jump and lately he’d been snapping his fingers only to find people turning their backs on him.

“You told him who I am?” Derek asked, seething. “You gave him my message?”

“There was no need,” said Bertrem simply. “The Master knows you and why you have come and he will not see you. He did, however, ask me to give you this.”

Bertrem handed over what appeared to be a crude map drawn on a bit of paper.

“What is this?” Derek demanded.

Bertrem looked down at it and read aloud the notation at the top. “It is a map to the Library of Khrystann.”

“I can see that! What I meant is what in the Abyss do I want with a map to some blasted library?” demanded Derek.

“I do not know, my lord,” said Bertrem, shrinking from the knight’s fury. “The Master did not confide in me. He said only that I was to give it you.”

“Perhaps that’s where you’ll find the dragon orb,” suggested Brian.

“Bah! In a library?”

Derek reached for his purse. “How much money will Astinus take to see me?”

Bertrem drew himself up to his full height, which put him about level with Derek’s chin. The Aesthetic was deeply offended.

“Put away your money, Sir Knight. The Master has refused to see you and his word is final.”

“By the Measure, I will not be treated in this manner!” Derek took a step forward. “Stand aside, Brother. I do not want to do you an injury!”

The Aesthetic planted his sandaled feet firmly. Though clearly frightened, Bertrem was prepared to make a valiant stand to block their way.

Brian felt a sudden desire to burst out laughing at the sight of the pudgy, anemic scholar facing down the furious knight. He swallowed his mirth, which would only make Derek angrier, and rested his hand on Derek’s arm.

“Think what you are doing! You can’t go barging in on this man when he has refused to see you. You put yourself in the wrong. If all you seek is information about the dragon orb, then perhaps this gentleman could assist you.”

“Yes, certainly, Sir Knight,” said Bertrem, wiping sweat from his brow. “I would be glad to help in any way I can—despite the fact that the library is closed and you came in the wrong door.”

Derek wrenched his arm free. He was still furious, but mastered himself. “Whatever I say to you must be kept secret.”

“Of course, Sir Knight,” Bertrem replied. “I swear by Gilean that I will hold all you say in confidence.”

“You ask me to accept an oath to a god who is no longer around?” Derek demanded in scathing tones.

Bertrem smiled complacently and folded his hands over his pudgy belly. “The blessed Gilean is with us, Sir Knight. You need have no worries on that score.”

Derek shook his head, but he wasn’t about to be drawn into a theological discussion. “Very well,” he said grudgingly. “I seek information regarding an artifact known as a ‘dragon orb’. What can you tell me about it?”

Bertrem blinked his eyes as he thought this over. “I fear I can tell you nothing, my lord. I have never heard of such a thing. I can, however, do some research on the subject. Can you tell me in what context the artifact is mentioned, or where and how you heard of it? Such information would help me know where to look.”

“I know very little,” said Derek. “I heard of it in connection with a Black Robe wizard—”

“Ah, then it is a magical artifact.” Bertrem nodded his head sagely. “We have little information on such things, Sir Derek. The wizards tend to keep their knowledge to themselves. But we do have a few resources I can consult. Do you need this information right away?”

“If you please, Brother,” said Derek.

“Then make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen. I will see what I can find. Oh, and please
do
keep quiet!”

Bertrem pattered off, making his way over to a large section of shelves. He rounded those, and they lost sight of him. They sat down at a table and prepared to wait.

“This is why I wanted to speak to Astinus,” muttered Derek. “He is said to have the knowledge of all things at his fingertips. I wonder why he won’t see me?”

“From what I hear, he doesn’t see anyone—ever,” said Brian. “He sits at his desk, day and night, recording the history of every living being in the world as it passes before his eyes. That’s how he knew you were here.”

Derek gave a loud snort. Heads raised, pens ceased their writing. He made a motion of his hand in apology and the Aesthetics, shaking their heads, returned to their work.

“Some say he’s the god Gilean,” Brian whispered across the table.

Derek gave him a disgusted glance. “Not you as well! The monks foster such nonsensical beliefs so they can collect more donations.”

“Still, Astinus did give you that map.”

“To a library! Useless. It must be some sort of joke.”

Derek drew out the scroll he’d purchased to read it over again. Brian sat quietly, afraid to move for fear of drawing down the ire of the scholars. He heard the street crier call out the hour, and then, putting his head down on the desk, he went to sleep.

He woke to Derek’s hand shaking him and the sound of slapping sandals—two pairs of sandals. Bertrem came hastening toward them, accompanied by another monk, who bore a scroll in his hands.

“I hope you do not mind, Sir Knight, but I consulted Brother Barnabus, who is our expert on magical artifacts. He recalled having read a reference to a dragon orb in an old manuscript. I will let him tell you.”

Brother Barnabus—a taller, thinner, younger version of Brother Bertrem—unfurled the scroll and laid it down in front of Derek. “This was penned by one of our monks who was in Istar about a year prior to the Cataclysm. It is an account of his time there.”

Derek looked down at the scroll, then looked back up. “I cannot decipher these chicken scratchings. What does it say?”

“Brother Michael was Ergothian,” Brother Barnabus explained, “and thus he wrote in that language. He writes that the soldiers of the Kingpriest were given lists of magical artifacts and sent to raid mageware shops in search of objects that were on these lists. He obtained one of these lists and copied down the objects. One of these is a dragon orb. A description was provided to the soldiers, so they’d know what to look for: ‘A crystal orb, ten inches in diameter, filled with a strange swirling mist.’ Brother Michael writes that the soldiers were ordered to handle the orb with caution for no one knew exactly what the orb did, though, as he writes here, ‘It is believed that it was used during the Third Dragon War to control dragons’.”