Кейт Новак - Azure Bonds

Nevertheless, he made his way from the bar to her table. Alias rose as he approached—not from politeness, but to give herself the chance to size him up. He stood several inches taller than Alias—and she was taller than most women and many other men. Beneath his soft, flowing robes, the man had a reasonably sturdy frame. However his muscles did not appear to be trained for battle or hardship, as were her own. He might be a mage, she decided, or a merchant.

“I hope you are well, lady?” His voice had the cultured tone of someone tutored in the local tongue by a scholar.

Alias scowled at his features. “Do I know you, Turmite?”

His expression turned stormy. “No. If you did, you would know our people prefer to be called Turmishmen or Turms.”

Alias sat down and motioned him into the seat opposite her. She liked his control in the face of her insult. “You care for my drink? I’ve lost the desire.”

Nodding, the Turmishman took a long pull on the mug. If it was fermented pig-swill, as Alias suspected, then such drinks were common in the south, she decided, because the stranger seemed to savor his swallow.

“I take it you are the Turmishman who declared I was not a witch?”

The man nodded and wiped a bit of foam from his moustache. “Your friendly innkeep was too afraid to take you in, and the lout who found you was ready to have you burned. Or at least relieve you of your purse.”

“But you knew I was not a witch?”

“I know that the Witches of Rashemen, if they ever leave their frozen climes, know better than to decorate their bodies with tattoos proclaiming their origins.”

Alias nodded. “I’m not of that sisterhood.” At least as far as I know, she thought inwardly, since I can’t swear to what I’ve been doing for the past week or so.

She hesitated, then asked, “Did you see who brought me here?”

The Turmishman shook his head. “I was at this very table when the northerner left and then came right back in, babbling about a dead witch on the front steps. Everyone here investigated, and I convinced them your glyphs were harmless, though I have no idea what they are. I must confess, to being most curious about them. May I see them again?”

Alias frowned but held out her arm, palm upward, revealing the symbols. In the dim common room they seemed even brighter than before, glowing from within.

The Turmishman looked at them and shook his head, still mystified. “I have never seen the likes of these before. Where are you from?”

“I … get around.” After another pause she added, “I was born in Westgate, but I ran off and never returned.”

“I’ve seen naught like this in Westgate, and I have traveled the Inner Sea from there to Thay. I must confess, though, I am by no means a sage. May I cast a spell on them?”

Alias involuntarily jerked her arm back. “You a mage?”

The Turmishman grinned, displaying a line of bright white teeth. “Of no small water. I am Akabar Bel Akash of House Akash, mage and merchant. Do not fear. I have no wish to entrap you by magics. I only wish to know if the marking’s origin is in magic.”

Alias glared across the table at the Turmishman. He was a merchant-mage. One of those greengrocers who dabbled with the art, but probably wasn’t skilled enough to cut it as just a sorcerer. Still, he ought to be capable of detecting magic, and he looked sincere. She needed to know more about the tattoo, and here was this Turmishman offering his services for free. She held out her arm. “I am Alias. Magic does not frighten me, but be quick about it.”

Akabar Bel Akash leaned over the symbols and began mumbling words quickly and quietly. If the runes on her arm were magical, Alias knew, they would radiate a dim glow.

The merchant-mage chanted, and Alias felt the muscles of her arm writhe beneath her skin as though they were snakes. The symbols danced along her arm as if mocking the Turmishman.

Suddenly, strands of hellish blue light, intense as lightning flashes, shot from the symbols on her arm, illuminating the whole room. The beacons of color crackled along the beams overhead and were reflected off all the bottles and armor in the tavern, turning the surprised faces of every patron in the room to a deathly blue.

Akabar Bel Akash had not been expecting so violent a reaction to his magical inquiry. He toppled backward in surprise, chair and all. His flailing arm caught the half-drained mug of beer and sent it flying across the commons room. The droplets of spilled ale took on the appearance of a cluster of blue fireflies.

Alias caught sight of the barkeep frozen in the blue light. An instant later, the portly man regained his senses and dove like a sounding whale behind the bar. His patrons were a tougher lot; many of them were desperately working loose the peace knots of their weapons.

Grabbing her cloak from the back of her chair, Alias twisted it tight around her arm to muffle the light. The blue glow leaked out of the cloak’s edges, and she held the arm close to her body. In an overloud voice she announced, “No problem, no problem! My friend here was just showing me a new magical trick that he hasn’t quite learned yet.”

Alias quickly circled around the table. She leaned over the tall mage’s sprawled form and, to demonstrate that there was nothing wrong, helped pull him to his feet. Already most of the patrons had returned to their drinks, but there was a good deal of scowling and muttering.

Grasping the collar of his white-striped crimson vestments, Alias held Akabar’s face close to her own and whispered in the tight voice she reserved to threaten people, “Never, ever, do that again,” then added with a hiss, “I should have known better than to trust a greengrocer. I’m going to a real spell-caster to get rid of this tattoo right now. Don’t be here when I come back, Turmite!”

With that, she spun and, clutching her cloak-wrapped arm to her belly, strode out of the inn. She caught sight of the barkeep’s head surfacing from behind the bar just as she pushed the door open.

Cursing, Alias stormed three blocks before she dared to duck into an alleyway and unwrap the cloak. The symbols on her arm had returned to their normal appearance, if one could consider a tattoo that looked like pieces of translucent glass set beneath the skin normal.

Alias cursed again, this time without venom or passion, and headed toward the Promenade, Suzail’s main street, looking for a temple that might still have clerics awake at this hour.

The first two temples she tried, the Shrine of Lliira and the Silent Room, the Temple of Deneir, were locked. Both were posted with identical signs stating they were closed until dawn services.

She passed by the Towers of Good Fortune—the huge temple to Tymora—because it looked too expensive, and the Shrine to Tyr, because it looked too prim and stuffy.

Upon reaching the Shrine of Oghma, Alias glared at the note tacked to the door. She ripped the paper from the tiny nails and let it flutter down the stairs. Pounding on the door with the side of her fist, her assault was answered by a sleepy caretaker who cracked the temple door open all of two inches and peered out at her suspiciously.

“I need a curse removed! Immediately!” she gasped with her best maiden-in-distress voice. The caretaker’s look softened, but he shook his head, explaining that the holy mother was out of town arranging a wedding and that they had only acolytes within, new officiates who lacked the power to deal with such things.

“Try Tyr Grimjaws, Miss,” he suggested.

Alias backtracked to the Shrine of Tyr the Just only to find her entry barred by two heavily armed guards. “Unless it’s life or death,” one informed her, “you’ll have to wait.” Apparently the church of Tyr had hired an adventuring party to deal with a dragon terrorizing the Storm Horn Mountains. The party’s dealings with the monster had been anything but successful. The priests of Tyr were all occupied with healing the survivors and resurrecting the bodies of their comrades who had not been incinerated.