Erin Evans - The Adversary

“You’ve made your point.”

“My point,” she added, gentler now, which made it all worse, “is that you needn’t be so determined to make sure you’re right that everyone dislikes you as much as you believe. Whether that’s Jadzia or Lady Hedare or Vescaras.”

“Vescaras does dislike me,” he pointed out as they descended the stairs. “I don’t need your pity, all right?” He paused at the foot of the stairs and looked back at Khochen. “By the way,” he said more quietly, “are you missing any agents?”

“I lose some low-level recruits, street-eyes and such. Gangs pick them off, Zhentarim pick them up.”

Dahl shook his head. “No, I mean agents dropping off your map. No word, no sign, no bodies. Strange things.”

She frowned at him. “Not that I know of. But then that might be any of my lost ones.”

“It’s probably nothing,” he admitted.

“I’ll think about it. And,” she added, coming to stand beside him again, “might I note, if you talked to Vescaras the same way as you do me, instead of being an absolute prat, he might listen too.”

Dahl rolled his eyes and headed into the taproom. If he drank the ale quick, if he made it a small one, Nera might not notice, might not tell Tam. It wasn’t as if the High Harper could tell if he’d had just one.

“You already said he’s not a gossip,” he said. “So how am I supposed to talk to Vescaras like I do to you?”

“You could tell him your sad stories about your father.”

Dahl flushed. “Khochen, enough. I don’t need-”

But the words evaporated out of his mouth, stolen by the sight of a ghost, standing thirty feet before him, in the middle of the Harpers’ inn.

27 Eleasias, the Year of the Dark Circle (1478 DR) Proskur

Farideh eyed the drinkers scattered through the taproom, marking the heavy cloaks, heavy boots, the thick skirts and padded jackets. Things were far, far worse than she’d imagined.

The cold-she’d figured it was the early morning, the higher altitude, being farther north. Maybe she shivered because she was a little ill from Sairché’s spell-she certainly didn’t feel well. But as they came down the slopes and the sun rose higher behind the clouds, the chilly air didn’t warm.

Maybe it’s just a cold snap, she thought, a strange bit of weather here and then forgotten. She said as much to Havilar. But then they’d reached Waterdeep and she saw the old snow packed against the buildings, the bits of melting ice hanging from their eaves.

Havilar didn’t seem to notice, her expression closed and her hands clinging tight to Farideh’s arm. If her thoughts had moved away from Brin, from her missing glaive, from poor Mehen left in Cormyr, she gave no sign at all. She moved as if she just wanted Farideh to get her to Tam so they could right everything again.

But could they right anything, Farideh wondered, if Sairché’s spell hadn’t merely moved them? If perhaps, it had snatched away a season when it was cast?

She couldn’t see another option, and it made her whole body jagged with fear and nerves. It was, inescapably, winter. Late winter. It was late winter and they were both frailer, thinner. And Sairché had cut their hair-to hide the loss of time? Five months, she thought, or six or seven or more? She had to find out before Havilar did, that was sure.

You will fix it, Farideh told herself. There is nothing so broken here you can’t find a way to fix it.

“Come on,” she said to Havilar, and pulled her up to the bar and the tavernkeeper. “Well met,” Farideh said. She swallowed and dropped her voice. “We need to see Master Zawad.”

The tavernkeeper’s expression was puzzled. She shook her head. “Don’t know him.”

Terror poured down Farideh’s bones. Calm, she told herself. They like their secrets. “He’s a friend,” Farideh said, “and it’s urgent. Please.”

“Can’t help you,” the tavernkeeper said. She cut her eyes to the left, to where a lean human with pale skin and freckles was watching without watching.

“Please we-”

“You going to order?” The tavernkeeper gave Farideh a pleasant smile, an empty smile.

“I need to talk to Tam, I need to talk to him right now.”

“Because if you’re not going to order,” she went on, “I think you ought to be on your way.”

“Gods damn it!” Farideh hissed. “I know he’s here! He’ll see us.” Or maybe he won’t, she thought, maybe he’s given orders to keep us away. Maybe he died. Maybe the Harpers moved. “He will,” she added softer, a plea. “He has to.”

The woman shook her head. “Don’t know who you mean,” she said, sounding apologetic. “Maybe you should try the Rusted Anchor.”

He wouldn’t be at any Rusted Anchor. If he wasn’t here, she had no idea where he would be, and they would have no one who might help them find Mehen, find Brin. She squeezed Havilar’s hand. She reached for the necklace in the pouch at her belt-a bribe, maybe a bribe would do it. She said a silent apology to Lorcan.

“Farideh?”

She looked up to see a tall man with gray eyes and several days’ worth of stubble on his chin. He looked tired-so tired it took her a moment to recognize him.

“Dahl,” she said, almost a sigh of relief. The Harper agent had been assigned to Tam-he’d know where the priest was. If not, Dahl was the one who’d taught Farideh rituals. He knew the sending spells. He could help them. It would be all right.

But he was staring at her as if she were some terrible beast, risen up and asking politely about the weather. Her stomach clenched. They hadn’t parted angrily-she and Dahl had had their share of clashes, but things were settled enough between them. He had no reason to be angry at her.

Unless word had gotten back that she’d made a deal with Sairché. “Please,” she said. “Whatever Tam thinks we’ve done-”

“Nera,” Dahl said to the tavernkeeper, “I need a room. The griffon room. Send up. .” He shook his head and looked the twins over. Farideh shifted uncomfortably. “Bread, cheese, and some tea? And whiskey. A pot of it. Come on,” he said to Farideh, “I’ll take you to Tam.”

He led them to the stairs at the far end of the taproom, passing a petite woman with short dark hair. As they passed her, Farideh heard him whisper, “Go get Tam. This is the very next thing he needs to deal with.”

Farideh’s pulse was speeding. This was the next horrible step. They knew, they had to know. Her stomach churned, but she held tight to Havilar’s hand and pressed forward. What had happened had happened, she told herself. Now you just hear it and fix it.

But a little part of her was starting to worry that this time, there was too much to fix.

Dahl led them into one of the rooms. As they entered, Farideh felt the faint itch of a spell cast over it. There was a bed, a table with four chairs, and a writing desk with a soot-smudged painting of a griffon tearing into a sahuagin over it. Dahl opened the heavy curtains wider to let in more of the cold, bleached light. He lit candles. He moved the table out of the way. He wouldn’t look at Farideh again.

Farideh kept Havilar’s hand in a firm grip. When she found out that they’d lost half a year, she would be frantic. Furious. She wouldn’t understand the perils of the devils that could be after her, not right away. Farideh steeled herself for the inevitable fight.

Dahl finally ran out of things to fuss with and turned to the twins again.

“Do you want to sit?” he asked. “He’ll be a moment.”

Farideh would rather have stood, but Havilar dropped into a chair, and it was easier to land beside her, still holding her hand. She didn’t like the way Dahl was watching them. They couldn’t know about Sairché, she reasoned. Why would Brin tell the Harpers anything, after all?