James Lowder - Knight of the Black Rose

Luckily Andari finished the tune then, and Magda could hurry to Madame Girani’s side. Because Soth had been watching Magda so intently, he had not noticed the old woman studying him closely all through the dance. “Good night, children,” Madame Girani said. The other two looked surprised by the abrupt dismissal, but did not argue. Magda bowed to Lord Soth and smiled as graciously as she could-though her concern for the old Vistani was clear on her face. Andari hurried into the caravan, his precious violin in his arms.

When they were gone, Madame Girani stood stiffly and headed for a wagon at one end of the semicircle. “We will talk elsewhere,” was all she offered as an explanation to the death knight.

The caravan she entered was the largest of the tribe’s seven. The old woman had a wagon to herself; a single, small bed-no more than a pile of blankets, really-was crammed into the crowded interior. The rest of the space was filled with jars and vials of every description, some filled with powders, others with liquids. Animal skins hung from the ceiling, blocking much of the light from the single oil lantern dangling in their midst. A few books with tattered, chipped pages and greasy leather covers lay piled in one corner. Cups filled with dice, bones, and other assorted small items were scattered everywhere.

A gilt cage, large enough for a young child, stood near the Vistani’s bed. The gap between its bars was narrow, and the bars themselves sturdy. Serpents wrought of silver twined around the base, their heads merging with the bars. The cage’s top was a single bloated snake, coiled around and around until its mouth opened at the very pinnacle. Soth had seen similar cages used on Krynn to house exotic birds. The thing trapped in this one was nowhere near so mundane.

“I see you are admiring my pet,” the old woman said. She picked up a broom handle and ran it along the bars.

The creature’s squeal sounded like a pig’s, but the string of half-finished words that followed were definitely in some exotic human tongue. The thing gripped the bars with brown fingers and toes that curled completely around the metal, like a monkey’s tail around a branch, shaking the bars hard enough to make the cage dance in place. Small wings, feathered like a dove’s, beat the air in the cramped prison, then folded against the thing’s scaly body. The face it pressed into the gaps was round with fat, but it had no nose, no ears-only a single red-rimmed eye and a large, slobbering mouth.

“A wizard traded it to me long ago for some information.” Madame Girani shrugged. “I still don’t know what it is, but every now and then it murmurs things in its sleep-secrets and spells and words of power. I learned the sorcery you saw tonight, Magda’s shadow play, from its rambling.”

Again she rattled the bars, and the creature spit out a string of words that sounded hateful, even if Soth did not comprehend the language in which the thing spoke. Madame Girani chuckled at the tirade, then dropped a heavy blanket over the cage. The creature’s muffled squeals continued for a moment, then the wagon subsided into silence.

In the center of the squalor, directly under the lantern, rested a small table bracketed by two chairs. Madame Girani hobbled through the mess, deftly avoiding the bundles of clothing and packets of feathers cluttering the floor. She took a seat on one side of the table and motioned to the other chair, opposite her. “I will tell you what I can, Lord Soth of Dargaard Keep,” she said in a whisper that sounded like tearing paper.

The death knight nodded, showing no reaction to the old woman’s use of his name. He’d purposefully neglected to reveal it when he’d entered the camp; it was obvious now such precautions were futile in this strange land. “You may find sitting so close to me uncomfortable. The cold of the afterlife clings to me like a sickness.”

The old woman laughed mirthlessly. “The chill of death seeps into my old bones with every sunrise and every sunset,” she said, knitting her fingers together on the tabletop. “Your aura can do nothing to me that time has not already accomplished. Please, sit.”

Soth accepted the invitation. “The wolves in your forest are quite large,” he noted without preamble.

Madame Girani nodded. “The wolves are but half as ominous as the other creatures that prowl these woods, but little in this land could harm you, Lord Soth.”

“And what land is this?”

“The duchy of Barovia.”

“Barovia,” Soth repeated pensively. “I have never heard of this place. Is it part of Krynn? A level in the Abyss, perhaps?”

“Though I have traveled much with my tribe, I know nothing of either of those places,” the old Vistani said. “Barovia is simply… Barovia.”

The death knight fell silent as he considered the reply. Madame Girani smiled and toyed with one of her bracelets. “The Mists brought you here, did they not?” she asked after a time.

“Yes. One moment I was in my castle on Krynn, the next I was surrounded by a fog. When it receded, I was on a hill a few miles from here.”

“Were you alone?”

Secretly, Soth frowned beneath his helmet. “I am alone now. That’s all that needs concern you.”

Madame Girani took the rebuke mildly. Her smile never faltered as she sank back in her chair. “I promised to answer what questions I could, Lord Soth, but I am an old woman who needs her sleep. Is there anything else you wish to ask?”

“Who controls the Mists?”

“I do not know,” came the answer. “Some say the Mists are a mindless force, pulling people from different places and bringing them to Barovia. Others claim that there are dark powers directing the Mists.”

“Dark powers? Is Strahd one of those beings?”

The question seemed to surprise the old Vistani, Soth thought, but she did her best to conceal it. “Where did you hear that name?”

“Can’t you read minds?” the death knight asked. “You knew my name when I did not offer it to you, so why do you not know this information as well?”

Madame Girani scowled, and the folds of wrinkles on her face knitted together, almost obscuring her dark eyes. “I had my grandchild dance for you, had her call up the shadow play, to show you we are a magical people. It was easy enough to discover your name.”

Folding his arms across his armored chest, Soth repeated his earlier question. “Who is Strahd?”

“Some information comes at a high price in this land,” Madame Girani answered.

Soth slammed his fist onto the table. A pattern of fine cracks snaked across the wood like a slowly expanding spiderweb. “I do not carry gold, and I have nothing to trade with you.”

“Ah, but you do,” the old woman said slyly. “We Vistani travel a great deal. Over the centuries my people have learned that there is one universal currency: information.”

She stood, grabbed one of the worn books lying in the corner, and tossed it onto the table. It flipped open of its own accord. Two columns of cramped script marked each page. “This is a list of the true names of all mages in the faraway land of Cormyr, magical names that can be used to control those men and women. No magic-wielder in that country would dare harm a Vistani of my tribe, because I could give that true name to an enemy.”

“I will never part with any knowledge that would grant you power over me, old woman,” Soth said, brushing the book away from him. It closed with a thump as it landed on a pile of feathers.

“I would be foolish to expect you to, Lord Soth,” Girani said soothingly. She returned to her seat. “But you realize I must have something in return for what I can tell you.”

“What do you wish to know?”

Count Strahd had dispatched a vague set of orders to the Vistani camp: learn what you can of the knight, but do not anger him or reveal too much about me. The Vistani often served Strahd in such matters, and they were skilled in gathering information from unwary travelers. The undead warrior was far from unwary, however, so Madame Girani had to consider her answer carefully.