Кейт Новак - Song of the Saurials

“Who was it, Shend?” Mourngrym asked.

“That halfling Harper,” Shend replied.

“What halfling Harper?” Morala asked.

Shend’s eyes wandered up to the ceiling, as if the halfling’s name might be written there.

Alias felt her heart skip a beat. It can’t be, she thought.

“You know the one, Lady Alias,” Shend said. “The bard what helped you and Dragonbait kill the kalmari two years back. Tree name she ’ad … Peach or Maple or—”

“Olive,” Alias supplied, rubbing her temples with her fingers.

“That were it. Olive Rustiepan.”

“Ruskettle,” Alias corrected.

“Who?” Breck asked.

“There aren’t any halfling bards,” Morala pointed out.

“She’s a rogue,” Alias explained. “A thief … a minstrel … an adventuress.”

“Olive Ruskettle,” Breck murmured. “I don’t recall any Harpers by that name. Who was her sponsor?” he asked.

Alias swallowed. “Nameless,” she said softly.

“Nameless!” Morala exclaimed. “You mean he gave her a Harper’s pin?”

Alias nodded.

“Of all the reckless, arrogant—The man is impossible!” the priestess declared.

“Olive freed him from Cassana’s dungeon in Westgate, then helped him rescue Dragonbait and me,” Alias explained.

“She could be the Princess of Cormyr and we still wouldn’t accept Nameless’s sponsorship of her,” Morala insisted. “Nameless was exiled in disgrace. He has no business—”

“Excuse me, your grace,” Breck said, “but we might yet reverse our decision, in which case this Ruskettle might be of some use to us—that is, providing she wasn’t involved with this Grypht creature. Is it possible she might have allied with Grypht in the hope that it would rescue Nameless?” the ranger asked Alias.

Alias paused to consider. After the close call Olive had had with the pseudo-halfling Phalse, who had turned out to be a fiend from Tarterus, one would have thought that the halfling had learned her lesson about dealing with strangers. Still, Olive could be awfully unpredictable. She might do something truly foolish if she believed it would help Nameless. She had seemed exceptionally fond of the bard last year in Westgate.

On the other hand, Olive’s affection might work the other way. Alias had also noted that as long as Nameless’s attention had been fixed on her, the halfling had seemed to behave with unusual civility and honor. “She wouldn’t suggest a plan to Nameless that she knew he’d disapprove of,” Alias answered.

“Where could she have gone?” Mourngrym asked.

“She would have tried to see Nameless,” Alias said.

“She would have been trapped inside Nameless’s cell, then,” Mourngrym said. “She could still be in there, hiding behind the curtains or something.”

“Unless Grypht took her along with Nameless,” Breck suggested.

“Kyre didn’t mention seeing a halfling,” Mourngrym pointed out.

“A halfling could easily hide behind such a beast,” Breck replied. “Kyre might have missed seeing her in the excitement of the moment.”

“Or perhaps Kyre mistook Olive for an imp,” Alias said with a hint of sarcasm.

Breck glowered at the swordswoman. “Grypht was a denizen of the Nine Hells,” the ranger growled. “It had horns and scales and claws and a tail.”

“I think,” Morala interjected calmly, “that whatever Grypht is, it is not as important as where it took Nameless.”

“If your grace will excuse me,” Mourngrym said, “I’m going to have a second look at Nameless’s cell. Alias, do you want to come along to see how Akabar is doing?”

Alias glanced anxiously at Morala.

As if she could read the swordswoman’s mind, the priestess said, “I think Alias should stay here to keep me company until I recover sufficient strength to scry for Nameless. Breck, why don’t you accompany Lord Mourngrym? Maybe the halfling left some tracks you could follow or something.”

Breck sensed Morala was dismissing him, but he shrugged indifferently. Searching for a halfling would be far more interesting than watching the old priestess fuss and chant over a bowl of water.

The ranger and the guard, Shend, followed Lord Mourngrym out of the courtroom.

When the two of them were alone together in the room, Morala motioned for the swordswoman to have a seat near her.

As Alias pulled out a chair from behind the table, the priestess sat with her eyes closed, absentmindedly humming an A-minor scale, at the same time brushing her fingertips along the golden embroidery of her robe. Alias noticed specks of gold flaking from the robe. Suddenly Morala started visibly and snapped her eyes open, as if she’d been napping. Alias wondered if perhaps the ancient priestess’s wits weren’t beginning to flake away like the embroidered decorations on her ceremonial robe.

“How much longer until you’re rested enough to scry again?” Alias asked the priestess.

“Not long,” Morala replied, smiling at the swordswoman’s impatience. “Perhaps, in the meantime, you could tell me if you know anything about these disappearances.”

Alias stiffened. “You think this was a plan of mine to rescue Nameless, don’t you?” the swordswoman asked, unable to keep the anger from creeping into her tone.

“No … not really. I’ve been told you are a good woman. However, we must investigate every possibility before we can rule it out,” Morala replied calmly. “So tell me, child, did you have anything to do with Elminster’s or Nameless’s disappearance?”

“No, I didn’t,” Alias answered hotly. “If I had wanted to free Nameless, I certainly wouldn’t have involved Elminster, and I wouldn’t have needed help from some wizard or whatever this Grypht is. And I wouldn’t admit it to you, anyway.”

“Yes … I can believe that,” Morala said with a chuckle. “But then, I’ve cast a detect lie spell on you.”

Alias’s eyes narrowed angrily. She was unaccustomed to having her word questioned, let alone magically analyzed. She was even more annoyed that she hadn’t caught on to Morala’s spell. The old priestess hadn’t been drifting off to sleep after all; she’d been concentrating on her spell. “I should have realized. Milil is the lord of all songs. Music is a language, too. That humming was actually your spell chant, wasn’t it?” the swordswoman asked.

Morala nodded. “Nameless taught you well,” she said. For a few moments, she studied Alias’s face. “You may look like Cassana, but there is nothing of her in you,” she said.

“Did you know Cassana personally,” Alias asked, “or are you merely comparing me to the character in the opera about her and her lich lover Zrie Prakis?”

Morala chuckled. “I knew her. I wrote that opera.”

Alias’s eyes widened. “You did? I … I didn’t know. I’ve never heard it sung. Elminster told me about it. Why did you ever want to write an opera about Cassana?”

“At the time, Cassana’s evil was a danger to us all,” the priestess explained, “but she had many powerful friends, and the Harpers didn’t have the strength to drive her from the north. The opera made the details of the sorceress’s life common knowledge. Cassana couldn’t stand ridicule. The gossip following the opera’s performance caused her sufficient embarrassment to leave the region,” Morala said. A grin lit up her wrinkled face.

Alias grinned back. She found herself liking the foxy old woman, even if she was a priestess and one of Nameless’s judges.

“I have something else I want to show you,” the priestess said, holding out a lump of what appeared to be ordinary red mud. “I picked this up from the floor. Grypht held it when he first appeared. It’s clay—of very high quality and rare color.”