Кейт Новак: Azure Bonds

To my teacher, Ms. Hughes,

because her passion for the truth has always been inspiring.

To Scott and Gayle,

who care.

She woke to the noise of dogs—two distinct barkings beneath her open inn window. A high-pitched yip confronted a deep, throaty growl. Alias lay on the tan-stained cotton sheets and pictured a long-haired puppy cast out from its wealthy owner’s household; fending off some huge boxer or Vassan wolfhound.

As with men and other savage races, the show of force was as important to the dogs as force itself. The yipping canine was overmatched, yet its barking went on for what seemed to Alias an eternity. Finally, the dog with the deeper growl reached the end of its patience and snarled savagely. The sound of toppling trash brought Alias fully awake.

She opened her eyes, listening for a dying squeal from the smaller dog, but surprisingly the next thing she heard was a series of deep yelps from the large dog. The sound faded away as the large dog fled from the window.

Alias threw off the light blanket and swung her feet to the floor. She rose and immediately regretted it. Her head felt as though molten lead had been poured behind her eyes, and her mouth was as dry as the sands of Anauroch.

She blinked in the reddish light. Is it dawn or twilight? she wondered. Pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes, she yawned. Through the open window, the sea breezes from the Lake of Dragons wafted into the room, along with the far-off cries of fishermen returning with their catch.

Twilight, then, she decided. She shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs. Must have slept through the day, she thought. When did I get here? For that matter, where’s here? And what was I doing before I came here?

Alias snorted derisively. What she’d been doing was obvious. This wasn’t the first time she’d awakened in a strange place after a drunken celebration.

Nonetheless, her surroundings seemed familiar. The inn was built in the same fashion as a hundred others at this end of the Sea of Fallen Stars, and her room held the typical trappings: a bed cobbled together of a mixed pile of wood, topped with a straw tick and sheets that hadn’t been aggressively washed in months; a small second-hand dressing table; a single straight-backed chair draped with her armor and clothing; a small rag rug at the foot of the bed; a brass oil lamp chained to the table; a chamber pot; and a single door. The window, inset with colorless circles of crown glass that let in the light of the setting sun, opened inward on side hinges that creaked lightly in the breeze.

Alias got out of bed and padded barefoot to the chair. She furrowed her brows, trying to remember the last few days. There was a sailing trip. Something went wrong and I had to get out of a seaport quickly, she thought.

Random images of lizard men, shadowy swordsmen, and magic-users blurred in her memory. She shrugged. It couldn’t have been too important. I wouldn’t get drunk if there was trouble, she assured herself.

She reached for her tunic and suddenly realized that this was important, that she was in trouble. Serious trouble.

Along the inside of her sword arm, from wrist to elbow, writhed an elaborate tattoo unlike any she had ever seen before. A pattern coiled about five large, distinct symbols was set deep into her flesh, all done in shades of blue.

She held up her arm in the light of the dying sun. The symbols caught the rays and glowed as if they were stained glass lit from behind. She flexed her arm and twisted it back and forth. It wasn’t really a tattoo at all, she realized, noting how her skin rippled across the surface of the massive inscriptions, as though they were buried beneath the surface of her flesh.

Engrossed by the symbols, Alias unconsciously sat on the edge of the bed in the fading light. Afraid the symbols might have some hypnotic quality, she studied them with her fingernails pressed into her palms so the pain would distract her from whatever power they might try to exert over her.

The first symbol, at the bend of her arm, was a dagger surrounded by blue fire. The tip of the dagger rested on the second symbol, a trio of interlocking circles. Beneath this was a dot and a squiggle which reminded Alias of an insect’s leg. The leg danced above the fourth symbol—an azure hand with a fanged mouth in the center of its palm. The last symbol consisted of three concentric circles, each a more intense blue, so that the centermost circle was the white-blue of a lightning strike and almost unbearable to look at. At the base of her wrist the pattern wound about an empty space, as if a sixth symbol was yet to be added.

Alias cursed, rattling off the names of as many gods as she could immediately think of. When neither Tymora nor Waukeen nor any of the others manifested themselves, she sighed and reached for her gear. She considered bolting out of the room, sword in hand, prepared to smite anyone she could hold responsible. She also considered dropping to her knees and praying for a divine revelation of what she had done to deserve this. Neither action was likely to do her any good, so she settled for getting dressed.

Alias tugged her tunic over her head and stepped into her leather leggings. She frowned at the clothing. Why are these so stiff? I bought them over a year ago. They should be broken in by now. Unless they’re replacements, she mused. There was no mistaking the newness of this set of clothing—it even smelled new.

But I don’t remember buying any new clothes recently. Is this a spare set I shoved into the bottom of my pack and forgot? she wondered. She looked around for her pack, but it wasn’t among her belongings. It might have been stolen, she realized, but then it was equally likely she lost it or even hocked it.

She slipped her shirt of light chain over her head, but decided against attaching the breast, shoulder, arm, and knee plates. She felt a rocking sensation in the pit of her stomach. I know there was a sea trip. Did I get this … tattoo before I sailed or after I arrived?

She pulled on her hard-soled boots. The soft leather uppers reached nearly to her knees. She checked for her daggers. Each boot pocket held a slender, balanced wedge of silvered steel. All that remained on the chair was her plate mail and her cloak. Her fire-scorched longsword and the eagle-shaped barrette she used to keep her hair in place lay on the dresser. Worse than her missing pack, there was no money among her belongings, but she was still too concerned about the tattoo to worry about money.

This memory loss and tattoo may be nothing, she tried to tell herself as she reached for the barrette. Holding the silver clasp in her teeth she wound up her long reddish hair and bound it to the back of her head with the barrette. She remembered Ikanamon the Gray Mage telling her about the time he got so drunk and obnoxious that his fellow party members had a vulgar scene involving centaurs tattooed on his backside. Maybe this is just a prank, too, she reassured herself. A clerical cure will get rid of it for me.

The small hairs on the back of her neck rose, and Alias realized that she was being watched. Turning slowly toward the window, she locked gazes with a reptilian creature peering in at her from the alley.

Looking like a cross between a lizard and a troglodyte, the beast’s head just reached above the level of the windowsill. His snout was thinner and more refined than the lizard men Alias had fought before, and he had a huge fin which began just between his eyes and continued over the top of his skull. He had no lips, only sharp, disjointed teeth, and his eyes were the yellow of dead things. In his claws he held the smaller of the two dogs Alias had heard earlier. The puppy, unharmed, had short, white hair, not long as Alias had imagined. Both creatures watched her with an intense curiosity, the lizard still as stone, the puppy wagging its tail, with its pink tongue lolling stupidly out of one side of its mouth.