Erin Evans - Lesser Evils

“Farideh, this city is no mountain village. There are places a young lady really shouldn’t be wandering.”

“I can take care of myself,” she said.

“Oh, believe me,” Tam replied, “I’ve forgotten nothing of Neverwinter. Not even the parts where you did need help.” Farideh locked her eyes on the cobblestones. “But I also seem to recall that if you were to come into a bad way, it’s me that your father will blame.”

She pursed her lips. “You haven’t heard from Mehen, have you?”

“No,” Tam said. “But having been to Suzail, I can tell you that getting paid for a bounty was never going to take less than a tenday. I’m certain he’s fine.”

And Farideh felt certain that Mehen would have sent a message if it turned out to take more than a day, let alone the three days that had passed since he’d left.

“You don’t need a fence for a ritual book. What were you really doing?”

“They’re expensive,” she protested. “I tried plenty of … normal sellers, and it was always three and four times what I could spare.” She thrust the package at him. “Do you want to check it?” Tam waved her away.

“What is it you want a ritual book for?”

Gods, Farideh thought, for all Tam’s insistence that he wouldn’t be a nursemaid, he could certainly play the part. She glanced over at Dahl. If he weren’t there, she might tell Tam the truth-she’d told him a great deal of it already, of Lorcan and the security and danger of the pact. But not in front of Dahl, not after the way he’d acted in the taproom. She wasn’t ashamed of being what she was, but she wasn’t about to open the gates and let his revulsion wash over her.

“Is it so unlikely I want to learn rituals?” she said. “You made that temple in Neverwinter from a ritual. That was impressive. And helpful.” The temporary shrine to Selune had provided a safe place to hide from the fiends infesting Neverwinter.

Including Lorcan.

Tam looked unconvinced. “That ritual’s no trifle. Are you planning something that might require a temple again?”

“Not if I can help it,” she said. “What is it you two were doing at a fence?”

Tam smiled that thin smile she’d come to expect when the priest wasn’t telling the whole truth. “Scouting artifacts for a buyer, you could say. What are we up for next?” he asked Dahl.

“A pair of artifacts,” Dahl said, holding out a leaflet to Tam. “The main one’s a page torn from an ancient book. A magic book. Draconic writing. Same writing on the granite facing that accompanies it.”

“Oh, stlarning Hells,” Tam said. “The dragon’s secret page?”

“So you know it?”

“The streets of Waterdeep have been fairly buzzing with talk of it-claiming it’s everything from a treasure map to the cursed testament of a plaguechanged wizard.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Gods above, this will be a sty’s pile. Did anyone approach the seller ahead of time? Try to get him to give it up?”

Dahl lowered the paper. “I tried. He wouldn’t see me without a serious bid in hand. Master Vishter told me to stand back. That we’d sort it out once we see what we’re in for. That he had an eye and a hand ready for that.”

“So you haven’t got any idea of what you have to bid with?”

“This is just a viewing for potential buyers.” He folded up the paper with exaggerated neatness. “We still have time.”

Tam sighed. “Well, shall we see what the city is fussing about?”

It didn’t take long before they hit the crowds. Hungry-eyed merchants and adventurers in scarred armor rubbed elbows with urchins and Watchmen. Waterdhavians trying to finish up their market day struggled past with baskets, or just gave in and followed the eyes of the crowd up to the covered dais where the merchant had set up his treasure.

Faded ink skipped and shifted over the yellowed surface, changing from lines of text to detailed drawings, always ebbing away from the torn, jagged edge. Held up by the invisible strings of a spell, the page seemed to shiver with the changes, as if it were alive. Something about it made the air hum, and Farideh’s brand started to itch. The hum broke into a low string of whispered words, a language Farideh couldn’t place.

The page was speaking.

“This,” Dahl murmured, “is more promising.”

Behind the spell’s shimmer and to one side of the page, there was a piece of granite leaning against a small chest. The size of a charger, it had been polished once, but years and weather and gods knew what else had dulled its surface and softened the edges of the runes that spattered the blue-gray surface. The edges were broken and jagged, all but on the right side, which ended in a smooth, straight lip, as if it had once fitted against something else.

On either side of the dais were two guards-a lean half-orc man and a human woman with dark eyes and darker hair bundled up on top of her head. She looked down at the crowd, at Tam and Farideh and Dahl, and her mouth went small. She whispered to the half-orc and slipped away. Farideh frowned and glanced at the crowd around her-not a few people were eyeing her the same way.

“Henish,” she muttered. What did they think Farideh would do? Steal the page from thirty feet away in a thick crowd?

“Mother of the moon,” Tam swore looking around at the crowd. “No. It’s too many people. The price is going to get too expensive too fast.”

“If there’s anything in this city that the Harpers ought to protect,” Dahl said, “any artifact worth watching over, it’s this.”

Dahl pressed the sheet of paper against the wall of a nearby stall and tapped the line of runes reprinted there. Draconic letters scratched their way across the paper like a line of claw marks, each dripping tails and serifs. Farideh peered at the runes.

“So the page keeps changing,” he said. “Faster, the more people that get near it. The same Draconic letters as the stone, but more, too-Dethek, Elvish, all sorts of things in bits and pieces. The merchant’s not repeating any of that. This replica is of the text on the stone.”

“What does it say?” Tam asked.

Farideh frowned. “It-”

“I haven’t translated it yet,” Dahl said over her. “But the style is old. Absolutely pre-Spellplague.” He traced the curve of a rune, a hard glottal sound, with the tip of his smallest finger. “Modern Draconic doesn’t make this line curve so much. The serifs are shortened too. It’s a strong indicator that whatever it came from is older than they’re saying. Considering how slowly Draconic changes, it could be as old as Waterdeep. Even if it’s just some dragon’s laundry bill, if it’s that old, it has to have value.”

“But it’s not Draconic,” Farideh said.

Dahl startled, as if he hadn’t expected her to know how to speak. “Of course it’s Draconic,” he said sharply. “I know what Draconic looks like, and I’m sure the merchant does too.”

“And I can read Draconic,” she countered. “It’s not Draconic.”

“What is it if it’s not Draconic?” Tam asked her.

“The letters are,” Farideh said. “But they just make gibberish. It doesn’t say a thing. Here”-Farideh reached over and drew a finger beneath the cluster of runes recreated on the leaflet. “Ah-nuh-jach nuh-thay-rell,” she read. “Even if you suppose the merchant got some letters wrong in the copy-”

“What did you say?” Tam demanded, his eyes suddenly wide.

Farideh blinked at him. “It’s … gibberish?”

“The runes, Fari, what does it say?”

“ Ah … ah-nuh-jach ,” she repeated, carefully rechecking the letters. “ Nuh-thay-rell . The vowels … it might be a little different, that’s mostly where things change. The ‘ch’ is harder in true Draconic. But not much.”