Tantras (35 page)

The pair traveled south for three blocks, then headed east to the festhall. Midnight looked up toward the blinding face of the sun; its position hadn’t changed since she first arrived in Tantras. Daylight had continued, as the watchmen at the harbor had warned her, twenty-four hours a day.

Turning her attentions to the festhall, the mage was not surprised to discover that the squat, one-story building had been painted black with blood-red trim. Agents of the Black Lord and worshipers of Bhaal, the God of Assassins, would find the Dark Harvest a welcome sight in this colorful merchant city.

But as Quillian grabbed the door to the tavern, Midnight realized how foolish she was being by entering a place frequented by the God of Strife’s allies. “I’ve changed my mind,” the raven-haired mage told her guide. “We’ll find somewhere else to dine. We can always come back here for information later, if we’re not successful anywhere else.”

The young man shrugged and looked away. “Whatever you say, milady. We could head south and pass through the ruins of the Temple of Sune on our way to another place to eat”

At the mention of the Goddess of Beauty, Midnight thought of Adon. For the first time since she’d left the Lazy Moon, the mage was thankful that she had gone to search the temples without her friends.

Quillian quickly led Midnight through a few alleys. Within ten minutes they were at the ruined temple. “It burned to the ground a few weeks ago,” the young man told the mage as they stood near the heaps of scorched timber that were once part of the house of worship. “Rumors say the clerics destroyed the place themselves, just to spite the Tormites. The Sunites left the city right after the ‘accident’.” Midnight walked through the wreckage with the sphere of detection and was disappointed once again. After a few minutes of fruitless searching, she turned to Quillian and said, “Why did the Sunites leave?”

“I really don’t know,” the dark-haired boy said. “But there may be a way to find out. In many circles, the Curran Inn is known as the Wagging Tongue. A few discreet inquiries and you should be able to learn what you want to know.” Midnight shook her head. “Another inn? I suspect you’re just taking me there so I can buy you eveningfeast.” When Quillian shrugged, the mage smiled and said, “Very well. Let’s go to the Wagging Tongue.”

Quillian led the mage west, to a small inn several blocks from the harbor. The taproom of the inn was filled to capacity, and raucous laughter could be heard a full block away from the tavern. To get a position at the bar, Midnight had to push between a pair of off-duty guards who wore the gauntlet of Torm. Quillian stood waiting behind her.

Staring at the wiry, dark-skinned man behind the bar, the mage grinned. It had been a long time since the days when she had traveled on her own and frequented noisy, smelly inns like this one. And though she could remember all the points of “etiquette” that one used to be accepted in the company of crude, ill-mannered louts, Midnight felt strange about using it. She wanted to be able to ask her questions, receive the proper answers, and be on her way. That thought would have shocked her three months ago, when she still considered herself a “wild” adventuress.

As Midnight pondered that thought, the innkeeper placed his elbow on the bar and leaned in close to her. His foul breath and bloodshot eyes shocked her out of her musings. “Would it kill you to actually order something?” the man grumbled.

“That depends on what poisons you’re trying to pass off as fine ales,” Midnight remarked without flinching.

The man tilted his head slightly. “Afraid I’ll get you so drunk that you’ll fall prey to my charms?”

Though she quickly found that she hadn’t lost any of her wit, Midnight soon tired of the little game. She would have ended it and simply asked for some information, but the mage knew that she wouldn’t learn a thing if she didn’t play along for a while, at least. “Under those circumstances, I’d have to be dead, not drunk.”

“Or dead drunk!” one of the two guards flanking Midnight said with a slurred voice then broke into a fit of uncontrollable snickering. It look him a moment to realize no one else was laughing.

Midnight let a slight laugh escape her as she said, “Give me a double of whatever he’s having. Then maybe you can tell me something.”

“I can tell you plenty,” the innkeeper grumbled as he took a large red bottle out from behind the bar. Both fighters mumbled in agreement.

“I’m sure you can,” Midnight sighed. “But what I’m interested in is that burned-out building a few blocks away. I understand it used to be a temple to Sune. I’m curious as to why clerics of Sune would leave a city as beautiful as Tantras. Beauty is what they worship, after all.”

The innkeeper laughed as he held the bottle close to his chest. “I remember that lot. They used to come in here with their fancy clothes and their fancy ways, talking like a bunch of damn poets all the time. I only let them stay ‘cause they had money.”

“It sounds like they had it pretty good,” Midnight noted, wiping her hand across the greasy bar. “But I still don’t understand why they left the city.”

The innkeeper snorted. “I suppose it’s hard to compete with a temple that’s got its own resident god. Once Torm showed up, their attendance fell off and those worshipers who were still foolish enough to worship -“

Suddenly the pair of guards stood up and kicked their stools to the floor. All sound and activity in the inn stopped as the guards stood, glaring at the innkeeper. The guard to Midnight’s right, who was wobbling from too much to drink, placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Midnight looked at the innkeeper and saw a cold, almost frightened expression cross his face. He took the bottle of liquor and poured its contents onto the floor. “It seems that bottle’s empty,” the innkeeper said when he was finished. “Is there anything else that interests you?”

“Only a well-cooked meal for my nephew and me,” Midnight told the man.

The black-haired boy took that as a cue. “Quillian Dencery,” the young man said winningly as he grabbed one of the guard’s hands and shook it vigorously.

“Dencery,” the man muttered absently. “I think I met your father once. Good man. Fine soldier. This his sister?”

“My aunt on my mother’s side,” Quillian said as he tapped his head and raised an eyebrow. “A scholar. You know the type.”

The guard looked at Midnight, laughed, and turned away. Activity and sound resumed at the inn, and the mage and her guide were shown to a table. As they ordered their meal, Midnight kept a close watch on the guards, but neither of the men even glanced in her direction.

After they ate, they left the inn and Quillian took Midnight to a small, featureless, and deserted building, not far from the tavern. “The worshipers of Ilmater, God of Endurance used to meet here,” the boy told the mage. “The city levied taxes on the church that the priests couldn’t dream of paying. When they defaulted, the city guards put them in the poorhouse. Some even live in the House of Meager Living.”

Midnight pictured the derelict who had attacked her with a spike in the poorhouse and shuddered. “What kind of taxes?” the mage asked quietly.

Quillian shrugged. “Once word got out that Torm was in the city, Tormites from all over Faerun flocked here, putting a ton of gold in the coffers of the church. Of course, the government took its share, too. After a while, the city told the worshipers of Ilmater to match the taxes paid by the Tormites or get out. You can guess what happened.”

“How very odd,” the mage noted as she turned to her guide. “In some places, the churches are exempt from taxation. Here, they’re driven away by it.” Midnight paused for a moment then recollected her thoughts. “How far are we from Mystra’s shrine?” she asked at last.

“Not far at all,” Quillian told her brightly. “It’s down in the southern section of the city, near the garrisons.”

After a long walk, Quillian led the mage up a low ridge to a small footpath that had nearly been worn away from neglect. The path, in turn, took the travelers right to the Shrine of Mystra.

The shrine was a simple stone arch, surrounded by a rough stone wall a few feet high, with entrances at regular intervals around its circumference. Midnight ordered Quillian to remain behind as she walked around the circle of stones, viewing the shrine from every angle. Then she passed into the circle and stood before the small, white statue of the Lady of Mysteries that rested under the center of the arch. Though she wanted to, Midnight found that she could not bring herself to kneel down and pray before testing the shrine with the sphere of detection. She ran from the circle of stones then stopped.

“You’re not a child anymore,” she whispered to herself, then took out the sphere and approached the shrine again. As she got close, the sphere vibrated very slightly.

A residue of spells that might have been cast years ago, Midnight thought. The raven-haired mage turned away from the shrine. A large bell tower in the distance caught her eye. “What’s that?” she said to her guide, pointing to the tower.

“A place where children used to play,” the boy told her, stifling a yawn. “Legend has it that the bell was made by the great mage, Aylen Attricus. He was one of the founders of Tantras. They say he was a thousand years old when he passed away, a century ago.” The boy picked up a small rock and rolled it down the worn path.

“He forged the bell himself, and built the tower, stone by stone, with his own two hands,” Quillian continued. “Then he used his magic to weave a spell preventing any mortal from ringing the bell. He inscribed some type of prophecy on the bell, but even the city’s scholars can’t decipher the code he used.” The black-haired boy shrugged and stifled another yawn. “All I know is that the bell has been there for hundreds of years. They say it rang once and somehow saved the city, but I don’t believe it.”

“Why not?” Midnight asked.

“Because the only people around who still believe that are wizards, and wizards never tell the truth,” the boy laughed. The mage frowned. “I want to see it,” she said grimly.

A slight whistle escaped Quillian’s lips as he tried to work out a plan. “It’s in the Forbidden Area, where the army garrisons are laid out. The soldiers usually won’t let just anyone through.” He paused and smiled. “But they know me because of my father. You and I both have dark hair and deep skin. Maybe we can get in by playing aunt and nephew again.”

“Then let’s go,” Midnight said.

“There’s a problem,” Quillian said flatly, his hand on Midnight’s arm. “Morgan Lisemore, the commander who would normally give us access, is away from the city until late tomorrow. If I ask anyone else, there’ll be a lot of questions, most of which you won’t want to answer.” As he finished speaking, the boy tried to stifle a third yawn, but failed.

Throwing her hands into the air, Midnight looked away from the young man. We’re obviously not going to solve this now,” she sighed. “You’d better get some rest. And try to get us a horse, for tomorrow. We’ll cover more ground that way.”

As Quillian turned and started toward home, Midnight put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Thank you for your help, nephew. Meet me at the Lazy Moon Inn before morningfeast.”

“Aye, milady,” the dark-haired boy said happily. “By the way, you’ll want to buy a sleeping mask before you go to bed. If you’re not used to it, the constant daylight here can make it difficult to sleep.”

It was more than an hour’s walk to the inn. Quillian bade the mage goodbye again then left her. There were no messages from Adon or Kelemvor in the room she shared with the fighter, so the mage tried to relax and sleep.

After nearly an hour of lying in bed, the sunshine causing her to think in the back of her mind that she should be getting up, Midnight dressed and found the innkeeper. The obsequious, smiling man, Faress by name, located a sleeping mask for the mage and parted with it for the price of a tankard of ale, a rather large sum for a piece of rough cloth with a string attached.

Before she went to sleep, Midnight tried to study her spellbook. When that endeavor failed, she sat down at a small desk in the corner of the room and wrote messages for Kelemvor and Adon. She retired then, and after sleeping fitfully, was startled awake by a pounding on her door.

“It’s Quillian Dencery, milady,” a voice on the other side of the door cried. “You’ve overslept.”

“I’ll be there in a moment,” Midnight mumbled and dressed hurriedly. The mage and her guide soon resumed their journey, now on horseback, and spent the day visiting deserted temples and places of clandestine worship. Through it all, the sphere of detection never registered more than a slight tremor. At the end of the day, Midnight accompanied Quillian to the military outpost in the southernmost district of the city. There they found Morgan Lisemore, a tall, sandy-haired man who was easily old enough to be the guide’s father.

“If it isn’t Quillian Dencery,” Morgan said ruefully, the listened to the boy’s story. When Midnight’s guide had finished his tale of addled aunts and research trips, the soldier sighed. “You know I hate to deny you anything, lad. But there are rules to be followed.”

The young man shook his head and pointed to Midnight.

“She may he called back home at any moment, Morgan. This could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for her.”

Morgan looked up at the sky and sighed again.

“Very well. Go on,” Morgan grumbled then motioned for his guards to let Midnight and her guide pass.

Midnight said nothing as she rode with Quillian to the bell tower nearly a half-mile in the distance. They passed a number of hastily erected barracks and were forced to detour twice to avoid groups of soldiers in the middle of training exercises. Soon, however, the Tower of Aylen Attricus stood before them.

The tower was a gray stone obelisk. Within the monument lay a winding stairway that led to a bright, silver bell. The bell itself stood exposed to the cool afternoon air through large windows on each side. Midnight felt an odd tingling sensation in her back as she gazed at the tower and prepared to dismount. The tingling felt like a thousand fingers capped with razor-sharp nails lightly tapping the mage’s back. Midnight realized what was happening just as she got off the horse and her feet touched the ground.