The Edge of Chaos (10 page)

“What if we could help everyone who’s exposed? Prevent suffering far and wide?”

“A fantasy,” he said. “I’ve seen what the changelands can do. I’ve seen it. You and your elixirs can do nothing to stop it. It’s too late.”

Slanya wasn’t sure what he was talking about. “Too late for what?”

A pained expression flashed across his face, and he turned away. “Nothing,” he said. “Don’t talk anymore about it. In fact, don’t talk to me anymore.”

“Believe me,” she continued, “if there was anyone else who could help us, I’d have never come. But Tyrangal told me that you were the only one who can safely guide me into the changelands.”

“Tyrangal sent you?” Duvan’s tone drained of animosity.

“She’s serving as a broker for your services,” Slanya admitted. ,

“You should’ve just said so.” He relaxed into the bed. “We could’ve saved all this bickering.”

Slanya cautiously stood upright, still wary. Duvan’s body language and temperament had changed completely with the mention of Tyrangal.

Duvan held his free hand out to her, empty. “You seem to know who I am. May I ask your name?”

Slanya stared at the man’s hand. It was clearly a conciliatory gesture, but she could hardly trust him now. “My name is Slanya,” she said.

“Well, Slanya, could you untie me? I can get free on my own, but you seem like you’re in a hurry.”

****** ******

Duvan sized up his companion as he dressed and walked out of the room. The human cleric could hold her own; he had to give her that. She’d had some good combat training, and he found himself respecting her. Still, he wasn’t sure he believed her story. He wouldn’t trust her until he had Tyrangal’s word.

He led Slanya out into the thoroughfare. “Let’s go this way,” he said. “Short cut.”

Slanya’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Of course it is.” But despite her wry tone, she followed.

Duvan angled away from the Changing House building so as to lower the chances of running into any members of the Order of Blue Fire who might be looking for him.

Still, there was no place in Ormpetarr truly hidden from Order eyes.

As he and Slanya made their way through the crowd, Duvan avoided eye contact with anyone. They passed the inn—operated by a member of the Order—and then skirted around the counting house—owned and run by Tyrangal and the Copper Guard. There was no law in Ormpetarr, and normally Duvan liked it that way, but the Order had started mounting patrols to persuade the darker elements to vacate the town.

Problem was that it was the Order who decided what elements were good and which were unacceptable. As soon as they decided that Tyrangal and her Copper Guard were in the dark faction, then the delicate balance would erupt into open conflict.

Many townsfolk had joined the Order and paid their tithe just to avoid being hassled. Duvan didn’t have contempt for those who did. It was the cost of business in Ormpetarr. Still, he hated bullies.

No sign of Beaugrat. Duvan surreptitiously patted his chest to reassure himself that his daggers were ready for action if need be.

Gliding beside him, Slanya remained quiet. She held herself with a ready confidence, wary and alert. Which was good—if Slanya were telling the truth, Tyrangal would have his skin for supper if he let something happen to her.

Slanya seemed content to walk in a wary silence as they passed out of the city and up the hill. They passed the ruined gates which marked the entrance into the ‘burn zone,’ as Tyrangal called it, a wide swath of destruction that surrounded the mansion.

Duvan suspected that Tyrangal purposefully kept this burn zone area around her mansion devoid of other new structures, making it more imposing and difficult for people to come visit her. No one just happened along here.

Duvan knew that Tyrangal had guards and sentries posted among the remnants of ancient masonry and sculpture that had once been part of a broad garden. Duvan knew where the hidden posts were, most of them, and he knew many of the Copper Guard too, but not all of them.

He led Slanya along the old flagstone path across the burn zone, until finally the two of them came to Tyrangal’s ornate door.

“Come in,” rang Tyrangal’s mellifluous voiee, and Duvan complied, noting that Slanya could no more resist the voice than he could.

Once inside the ornate and cluttered house, Duvan’s eyes still adjusting to the dim light, Tyrangal stood before them, radiant in her red finery. “Were you able to recover the tome?”

Duvan nodded, then slung his pack from his shoulders and pulled out the book. “I had quite the time getting this before the esteemed baron’s last bastion fell into the Underchasm forever.”

Tyrangal accepted the tome gingerly in her small hands. She muttered something under her breath, casting a spell as she examined the thick hide cover.

Slanya stood perfectly erect next to Duvan. No sign of her earlier rush to get moving on her journey was in evidence now. Duvan understood that; you didn’t hurry or interrupt Tyrangal. He’d learned that over the years.

Despite her luxurious appearance, Tyrangal was one of the most accomplished thieves he’d ever met. She’d rescued him three years earlier from the Wildhome elves—from Rhiazzshar and her ilk. Tyrangal had taken him under her wing, had continued his training in thievery, in combat, in climbing and falling and countless other things.

And in return, he acquired things for her. The sorts of things she sent him after were esoteric and bizarre: a vial of powder negotiated from a nomadic merchant in Murghdm;

an amulet containing a metallic liquid at its heart, recovered from a treasure casket in prison dungeons underneath Alaghon in Turmish; a cache of wine barrels floated from a sunken galleon in the Sea of Fallen Stars.

Duvan never asked questions about why she wanted these things. He didn’t really care, and Tyrangal would never tell him anyhow. She paid him enough that he didn’t need to ask questions. Besides, he thrilled to the challenge.

He had done the occasional job for other collectors in the past, but like a child to fire, he always returned to Tyrangal. He owed her so much, and he loved the work she gave him. Can’t stay away from the intensity, he thought. It was the only thing that made him feel alive.

Tyrangal looked up from her examination of the tome. “You have done well,” she said.

Duvan smiled. He was embarrassed to admit it, but he wanted to please Tyrangal. He had wondered on occasion what it would be like to kiss her, but he had never dared to try.

“I will need the ring back as well; it won’t work where you’re headed next.”

“Of course,” Duvan said, and handed the teleportation ring to her. Enchanted jewelry and other magical items often misfired or just didn’t work in the Plaguewrought Land. The ring would be just as likely to explode or turn into a swarm of moths as it was to work properly.

“I received word that things did not go exactly as planned.”

Duvan scowled. “There are spies among the Copper Guard,” he told her.

“The Order is getting bolder with their infiltration.”

Duvan nodded. “I should never have let Beaugrat hire the team. I should have screened them myself.”

“Yes; then you would have had but one mutineer.” Tyrangal’s gaze was intense, but not disapproving. “Tell

me, did Beaugrat or any of the others get a look at the tome?”

Duvan shook his head. “No. The other two are dead anyway, and I chased Beaugrat off when he tried to take the book.” “Did he know what he was trying to take?” “I don’t think so.”

“Excellent. Tell me the whole story.”

Duvan sent a questioning glance in Slanya’s direction. “In front of her?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Tyrangal said, her hands reached out and brushed the air in front of Slanya’s chest. The cleric went into a trance, staring straight ahead where she stood. “She cannot hear us now.”

So Duvan told her the whole tale. He relayed how they found the citadel barely hanging from a ledge down in the Underchasm, and how they’d descended to search it. He described the battle with the manticore, and the secret compartment he narrated the sorcerer’s demise and the tower’s plunge into the darkness, until finally, he told of the mutiny and Seerah’s death, Beaugrat’s spellplague attack and cowardly escape.

“Beaugrat’s spellscar created blue fire?” Tyrangal asked. “Are you certain?”

Duvan nodded. “I’m quite familiar with it.”

Tyrangal gave a laugh, although Duvan wasn’t trying to be funny. “I suppose you are,” she said, and then added, “And he realized that his attack had no effect on you?”

“Yes, I’m certain of it.”

Tyrangal frowned. “That is unfortunate. I fear you will be sought by those who would use you for your talents.”

Duvan looked away. It was convenient for Tyrangal to tell others he was clever or lucky, but she and Duvan knew the truth: he was resistant to the spellplague, and his resistance extended to anything and anyone near him. A blessing and a curse, as spellscars were, though in his

case the curse came more often by the hands of those who had stopped seeing him as a person and only saw him as a spellscar to harness.

Duvan shuddered. His years at Wildhome threatened to come flooding back over him. He tried to focus on the here and now, on Tyrangal and this new mission. He needed sleep; dreamless rest would help him focus.

“Duvan,” Tyrangal demanded his attention. “Be exceedingly careful. Avoid the Order and get out of town. Take Slanya.” Tyrangal touched Slanya’s chest again. “Duvan here has uncanny luck avoiding the threats of the changelands. He is the only person I know who has survived near-exposure to spellplague without getting spellscarred.”

Slanya came out of her reverie and nodded her nearly-bald head. “He seems like the ideal guide for my journey. Well, except for the trying-to-kill-me part.”

“Oh?” Tyrangal said. She looked enquiringly at Duvan.

Duvan smirked. “Yeah,” he said. “That was a misunderstanding.”

“I presume,” Tyrangal said, “that it won’t happen again.”

His smile grew. “As long as she gives me no cause,” he said. “Besides, she can take care of herself.”

“Excellent,” Tyrangal said. “Sister Slanya has my full approval. And her quest is an important one, even though it is probably more dangerous than any I have sent you on previously; It is your decision whether to go or not; I will not exert my influence on you in-that regard. However, it would be a convenient way to stay out of potential mischief for the time being.”

“Yes, Tyrangal, I will—”

“However, I request that if you agree to take it, you promise to see it through to the end.”

Duvan nodded. “I promise,” he said. “If I accept the job, I will see it through.”

Slanya looked at him. “Will you do it, then?”

“What’s the arrangement?” he asked Tyrangal.

“You will get triple your normal pay,” Tyrangal said. “One third up front and the balance when you and Slanya return with the plaguegrass load.”

You and Slanya—he looked over at the priestess. Solemn, but under that stern face she was worried. At least she was smart enough to know it wouldn’t be easy.

“So,” Duvan said. “When do we leave?”

****** ****** ***

Walking next to Duvan with the high Vilhon sun beating down on them, Slanya found herself sweating in the heat. For some reason that wasn’t yet completely clear to Slanya, Duvan wanted to avoid discovery by the Order of Blue Fire. So they had decided to skirt around the city on their way to the monastery, where they would pick up their supplies and head out to the Plaguewrought Land.

Gnarled trees and tall brown grass surrounded the disused trail on either side. Through the foliage Slanya could see glimpses of some ruins off to their left—perhaps an ancient military tower, its once-strong structure no more than discarded rubble now.

A stony mote floated like a low cloud above them, and as it drifted to eclipse the sun, it cast a wide shadow that blocked the searing heat. Slanya was grateful for the reprieve, even though the close proximity of the motes made her nervous. Sometimes, the small ones fell out of the sky.

“We must hurry through this area,” Duvan said, keeping his voice low. “If we are being pursued, this is the best place to—”

The sound of approaching hooves interrupted Duvan. Slanya glanced around. “You were saying?” “Hide!”

Slanya barely noticed Duvan disappearing into the tall grass and ducking behind a pile of stone rubble. And as she moved off the path and crouched down in the shadows of a ruined wall, her eyes lost track of him. She concentrated and tried to find him again.

Yes, there he was: just across the narrow track in the shade of a large flagstone. It was right where she knew he’d been all along, but if she looked away, even for a second, she had a hard time finding him in the tableau of shadows and shapes.

The riders approached at a rapid canter from the direction of the Tyrangal’s mansion. Slanya picked out four of them, coming directly for her: three human men she didn’t recognize and one red-headed female dwarf in blue clerical robes, tied at the waist with a braided white rope. The dwarf had been part of Vraith’s party when she’d visited with Gregor. Within moments they drew reins in the path next to her.

“We can see you, cleric,” said a large man in dull plate armor. “And our quarrel is not with you. I’m Beaugrat from the Order of Blue Fire. We’re looking for a man by the name of Duvan.”

Behind the man, an archer with a pockmarked complexion nocked an arrow. Next to him was a thin skeleton of a man with the air of a pilgrim.

“The criminal was recently seen walking with you,” said Beaugrat.

So they havent seen Duvan yet, she thought.

Slanya stepped out into the open, standing ready. She gripped her staff loosely, prepared to swing it. “Good morning to you—”

Beaugrat swung down from his horse and stood facing her. He wore a heavy suit of armor and a huge sword on his back.

“Criminal?” Slanya took stock of the other three. The archer and the pilgrim hung back on their horses. The pilgrim

wore leathers but seemed uncomfortable in them. The archer brought the bow up, the ready arrow aimed at her. The dwarf cleric merely looked on, her dark eyes set in a ruddy face. The Order of Blue Fire symbol of a flaming blue eyeball, was embroidered on her robes.