Кейт Новак - Azure Bonds

“A nice piece of work, that,” said Dimswart, snapping his magnifier into its case and leaning back in his chair. “The sigils aren’t composed of mere pinprick punctures in the flesh like an ordinary tattoo. Each one is made up of tiny runes and patterns packed close together. They appear to have great depth as well, and yet—” the sage kneaded her forearm gently, like a surgeon feeling for a broken bone “—there doesn’t seem to be any substance to them. They look as though they are buried beneath your skin. Your flesh above must be invisible, or we could not see the symbols. They also seem to move. All in all, a most fascinating series of illusions. Very artistic. And positively unique. I’d stake my reputation on it. Do they hurt?”

“Not now, no. The tattoo ached some when detect magic spells were cast on it though, and it burned like the Nine Hells when Winefiddle cast a remove curse on it.”

“How about when magic is cast on you in general? Like a curative spell?”

Alias thought of the assassin’s magic missiles from the previous evening. Fat lot of good the signs did for her then. Why hadn’t it flashed into the eyes of her assailants when she really needed it to? “No effect, as far as I know.” She shrugged. “I’m really not in the mood to experiment on which spells do what,” she added.

“I don’t doubt you’re not,” Dimswart replied sympathetically. “Who have you crossed recently? Any dark lords from deep within the pits of the Nine Hells? Steal any unholy artifacts? Break the hearts of any cavaliers whose older siblings dabble in the dark arts? No?”

Dimswart sat back and pulled a pipe from inside his vest and began stuffing it with tobacco. He leaned toward the fire for a brand, but Dragonbait beat him to it, holding a flaming twig up to the pipe bowl as the sage puffed on the mouthpiece. The sage might have been waited on all his life by scaly servants, his reaction to the lizard was so casual.

“You have him well trained,” Dimswart noted. “Where did you get him?”

“We met at the seaside,” Alias answered.

Dimswart lapsed into a thoughtful silence, forgetting to puff on his pipe, so that it went out. Finally he asked, “When did you notice this … condition?”

“When I woke up last night.”

“From a long sleep?”

“Three days, I’m told,” Alias admitted. “Though I’ve slept nearly as long after overindulgences with ale. When I first woke, I thought I’d been drinking, but now I’m not so sure. I have a lot of missing memories, several months worth, and that’s unusual for me.”

“No doubt, no doubt.” Dimswart pulled his pipe from his mouth and leaned toward her. “What’s the last thing you remember before you picked up this little token?”

Alias sighed. “I don’t really know. I clearly remember leaving my company, the Adventurers of the Black Hawk, on good terms about a year ago. They were going south. I never liked the warm climes, so I took my share and left. Drifted. Light work, you know. Caravan guard, body guard, challenges in bars. When I woke up I had a vague memory of a recent sea voyage—but it’s all too hazy. I …” Alias halted for moment, trying to pull her memories out of the darkness. “I met Dragonbait last night, but I think I knew him from before.” She shook her head. “I just don’t remember.”

“Does Dragonbait talk?” Dimswart asked.

Alias shook her head. “What about these symbols? You called them signals?”

“Sig-ils,” corrected the sage, spreading out the pronunciation. “Sigils are a higher kind of symbol. They’re like a signature symbolizing a greater power. Clerics use the ones belonging to their churches. Mages invent their own and protect them, sometimes quite jealously. They aren’t really magical, but on a document they carry the authority of their owners, and on any other object they indicate uncontestable ownership of a valuable property.”

Alias felt herself growing hot, hotter than could be accounted for by the fire. It was a heat from anger burning within. “I’ve been branded as someone’s slave?”

“Possibly,” said Dimswart, “though that’s a very special brand. Something that intricate could only have been done with the help of magic—magic that resists its own diminishment. I suspect it’s responsible for clouding up your memories. If you knew how you got it, you might be able to remove it. That’s probably the way it thinks.”

“What do you mean, ‘it thinks’? You mean it’s alive?”

“Not in the sense that you or I or this polite lizard is, no. But in terms of a magical creation with its own will to survive, given the desires of its creators, yes. Just as an automaton or golem or summoned creature is alive.”

Alias slumped in her chair. “So where does that leave me?” This might be more expensive than she had anticipated.

“Quite frankly, it leaves you in trouble,” said the sage, pulling on his pipe and finding that it had gone out. He waved away the fresh brand Dragonbait offered. “Unless we find out what those sigils are.”

Alias drew her gaze away from the fire and fixed it firmly on the sage. “What will it cost?” she asked. Her look warned she was in no mood to haggle.

“You’re not that rich.” Dimswart held up a hand. “Yes, I know that, too. You do seem a fairly competent adventuress, however, and I need someone like that at the moment.

“You’ve undoubtedly noticed the hubbub outside.” The sage jerked his thumb toward the study door, and Alias nodded. “My daughter, Gaylyn, is getting married. Last of the brood, thank the gods. I may finally get some peace and quiet. Anyway, her young squire is from a noble family here in Cormyr—the Wyvernspurs of Immersea, some distant relations of the crown. The upshot is, in order to impress these new in-laws, I have to lay out quite a spread indeed, and to that end I’ve worked wonders: big tent, finest chefs liberated from the crown’s kitchens, silver wrought for the occasion, and four clerics for the ceremony. Stuff from which boring songs are written.” He gave a cynical laugh.

“I also sent for a bard,” he sighed. “No ordinary songster earning meals in a noble’s court, but one of the greats. The renowned Olav Ruskettle, from across the Dragon Reach. The caravan Ruskettle was traveling in was attacked by the Storm Horns Dragon. Have you heard about it?”

“I heard that the dragon has chewed up another adventuring company since the caravan.”

“Yes. Well, in the caravan with Ruskettle was a merchant who brought me an eyewitness account of the attack. Ruskettle tried to sing the beast into submission, the mark of a great bard. The beast apparently liked the music, but instead of submitting, took Ruskettle in her claws and headed back for her lair. Suzail sent out a group of adventurers in retaliation, but they were, as you said, chewed up. I did, however, manage to obtain from the survivors the location of the monster’s lair and a secret ‘back door’ into it. My question for you is: Will you help a sage who is desperate to avoid breaking his youngest daughter’s heart?”

Alias thought for a moment, then asked, “You want the dragon dead?”

“I want the bard, Ruskettle, to play at my daughter’s wedding,” the sage responded. “Clerics of Suzail want the dragon dead. Deal with them if you want to kill dragons.”

Alias shook her head. “I’d rather sneak in, reappropriate your bard, and sneak out. I prefer to leave dragonslaying to those in good standing with their gods.”

“It’s agreed, then,” said the sage. “I’ll take time out from the wedding preparations. There are a million-and-one things to do yet, but Leona, my wife, can handle them better than I. Besides, I’ll feel more useful helping you find out what those sigils mean. In the meantime, you’ll bring me my bard. Let’s see that arm.”