Кейт Новак - Song of the Saurials

“No!” Morala objected. “It is we who made him Nameless. Nameless he will remain.”

Elminster sighed at the old priestess’s vehemence. “It is the purpose of this tribunal to decide not only whether or not to free Nameless, but whether or not Nameless’s name should be restored to the Realms. Morala and I have both taken an oath not to reveal the name unless the Harpers decide otherwise. So we must continue to refer to him as Nameless, at least until the end of this trial.”

“I see,” Kyre replied, nodding her head slightly. “Excuse my interruption.”

Elminster nodded and once again began the second half of his tale. “Nameless remained in exile for two centuries. Then certain evil powers deliberately sought him out and freed him from his place of exile.”

The tune coming from the bard’s prison ceased abruptly. Morala’s lips curled ever so slightly in satisfaction while Elminster stroked his beard thoughtfully, wondering just what Nameless was up to now.

In his prison cell, Nameless lowered the chordal horn and glared at his cell door. Something was jiggling in the lock. Elminster had given the guards specific instructions to show the prisoner every courtesy possible, including always knocking before opening his door. The prisoner scowled in anticipation of delivering a scathing reprimand to whichever guard had been so foolish to interrupt him in the middle of his composition.

The door swung open slowly. A female halfling stood in the doorway. Her hazel eyes sparkled, and she winked conspiratorially as she slid a copper wire into her russet hair. “Nice ditty,” she quipped. “Has it got any lyrics?”

“Naturally,” the prisoner replied, relaxing his angry face. “Would you like me to write them down for you, Mistress Ruskettle?” he asked.

“That’d be great,” the small woman said, stepping into the cell. She pushed the door almost, but not quite, closed behind her. Her furry bare feet padded silently across the plush wool Calimshan carpeting. She slipped off her knapsack and her wet cloak and checked to be sure the back of her tunic and pants were dry before seating herself on a tapestry-covered footstool.

The Nameless Bard lay the chordal horn down on the table. “Come in, Mistress Ruskettle. Have a seat and make yourself at home,” he said, though he knew sarcasm was wasted on halflings in general and on Olive Ruskettle in particular.

“Thank you, Nameless,” Olive replied. “Nice quarters you have here,” she said as her eyes inspected the polished furniture, the velvet drapes, the brass-bound clothes chest, the silk bedspread, the gold candelabrum, the crystal wine decanter, and all the other luxuries Nameless’s captors had provided for his cell. “You’re looking well,” she added, grinning at the fine silken shirt, fur-trimmed tunic, wool pants, and leather boots he wore.

Nameless grinned back as he seated himself cross-legged on the bed. He never could remain annoyed with Olive for long. She had, after all, rescued him from the dungeon of the cruel sorceress Cassana and also helped him free his singer, Alias, from Cassana. It wasn’t just gratitude, however, that made him fond of the halfling thief; Olive’s brash nerve amused him. It reminded him of himself.

“What have you been up to?” the bard asked. “It’s been over a year since I’ve seen you last.”

“Yes. Sorry about that. This summer’s been rather chaotic, as you’ve probably heard. I was staying with friends in Immersea, who talked me out of traveling until the trouble died down. If I’d known you were wasting away in prison, I would have come sooner,” the halfling said. From a silver bowl piled with fruit, she plucked a large, juicy plum and ate the delicacy in several dainty, but quick, bites.

“My imprisonment is a mere formality until the new trial is over,” Nameless said. “That door wasn’t even kept locked until that old bat Morala arrived and caused a stink.”

“She’s the priestess of Milil?” Olive asked. “The one who has it in for you?”

“You’ve met?” Nameless asked.

“I’ve seen her around.”

“Have you seen Alias?”

“Actually, I came to see you the moment I hit town,” Olive said. The halfling didn’t care much for Alias. Olive realized, however, that Nameless thought of the singing swordswoman as a daughter, so in an effort to be polite, she asked the bard, “How is dear Alias?”

“I don’t know,” Nameless huffed. “She and Dragonbait arrived in Shadowdale a day after Morala, and Morala won’t allow me any visitors. How did you get past the guard at the tower gate?”

“You know,” the halfling said, pulling out a silver pin from her cloak pocket, “it really is amazing how much respect the local constabulary has for this silly harp-and-moon symbol, even when it’s pinned to the breast of a short person with no visible weapons.”

Nameless grinned at the irony. He’d given the halfling thief his old Harper’s pin. According to custom, Olive would need him to vouch for her until she was accepted by the other Harpers, but he was a disgraced Harper. Now she’d used the pin to break a rule made by Morala—a Master Harper. There was nothing like the chaos a halfling—or a woman—could cause, Nameless thought, and Olive is both. “You realize,” Nameless asked aloud, “you’ll have some problems being accepted by the Harpers until I have reestablished myself?”

“You realize,” Olive retorted, “that I’ll have some problems accepting the Harpers if they don’t get off their high horses and forget this banishment business. In the meantime, you can’t stay in this dump. I’ve got a horse and provisions for you hidden at the edge of town.”

“Why, that’s awfully thoughtful of you, Mistress Ruskettle.”

“So let’s go,” Olive said, hopping up from the footstool and standing beside the bed, tapping her foot in mock impatience.

Nameless leaned forward, reached out a hand, and stroked her hair. Ordinarily Olive couldn’t stand having humans patting her on the head, but Nameless hadn’t actually patted her, and she liked him more than any other human she’d ever met, so she could forgive him a good deal. She looked up at him, puzzled that he’d even touched her at all.

“Oh, Olive,” he said with a rueful smile.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, not failing to note he had used her given name, something he’d never done before.

“Did you think me incapable of arranging my own escape, Olive?” Nameless asked.

“You’re still here, aren’t you?” Olive pointed out, growing annoyed.

“Yes, but not due to any lack of skill with locks,” Nameless said, holding out his hand and presenting the halfling with the copper wire he’d just slipped from her hair. Dexterously he twirled the shining metal strand through his fingers, then made it vanish so quickly that Olive couldn’t be certain if he’d flipped it away or slipped it up his sleeve.

“All right, I’m impressed. Can I have my pick-bone back?” the halfling asked.

“It’s in your hair, Olive, right where you put it,” replied Nameless.

Olive ran her fingers through her hair and found the wire lodged behind her ear exactly where she’d put it. “An illusion, right?” she guessed.

Nameless did not reply. Instead, his eyes twinkled with mischief.

“I hate it when you do things like that,” Olive huffed.

“You love it when I do things like that,” Nameless countered. “You just hate that you can’t do them yet.”

“All right. So you didn’t need my help to escape. Why are you still here?” she demanded.

“Because I have no desire to become a hunted fugitive when I don’t have to. The Harpers will come to their senses and release me.”

“That’s what you thought when you turned yourself over to them two hundred years ago,” Olive argued. “What makes you think this trial’s going to end any different from the first one?”