Кейт Новак - Masquerades

“So, what were you doing on my street last night?” Jamal demanded, switching the topic suddenly. “It’s not on the way to Mintassan’s by any stretch of the imagination.”

Alias thought fast for an answer that might satisfy the woman. “I was just passing by, reliving old memories. Someone I knew used to live on that street. The Swanmays,” she answered, hoping that memory wasn’t another of Finder’s fictions.

“That band of female adventurers? That was a long time ago.” Jamal smiled at some memory. “They were such great troublemakers. Solid cheap hero material.” Her look grew less suspicious. As she came out of her reverie, she said, “You knew it was the Night Masks who started the fire. Even so, you rushed in to save what they wanted destroyed. They have watchers. You’ve made yourselves enemies.”

Alias laughed. “We already made them enemies. This was just the salt in the wound.” The swordswoman explained how she and the saurial had taken care of the shakedown team and the assassin squad.

Jamal laughed with delight. “Definitely a cheap hero story.”

“What does that mean, cheap hero?” Alias asked.

“Cheap hero. An everyday hero,” Jamal explained. “Not one of those highfalutin, noble-born, kill-a-dragon-before-breakfast, always-get-the-girl heroes. But your regular type hero. The merchant who doesn’t cheat widows and orphans. The neighbors who bring you hot meals when you’re sick. The kid who stops the pickpocket who grabbed your purse. The fishermen who paid a protection racketeer with the racketeer’s own teeth. The festhall girl who testified at a murder trial and had to leave town. The apprentices and journeymen who helped the farmers guard their fields so no one could start a brush fire to drive up the price of grain and start famine in the outlying regions.

“I’m the Lady of Cheap Heroes. I tell their tales,” Jamal said with a flourish of her hand. “Jamal’s Street Theater. Four performances daily. Written, directed, and performed by Jamal herself, with the help of some loyal associates. That’s why the Night Masks want me dead, and the merchants wouldn’t miss me any. I tell everyone that ordinary people can fight their oppressors.”

“After tonight, it looks like you may have to make your living in some other city,” Alias replied.

“Make my living!” Jamal laughed till her eyes teared. “You don’t make a living in the theater, girl. It’s a calling. And Westgate is my city. They are not driving me out.”

Mintassan came bustling back into the room carrying a silver tea service laden with a silver teapot, a silver creamer, a silver brandy flask, a tiny parcel wrapped in brown paper, and four mismatched clay mugs.

The sage sunk into a wood-frame-and-canvas chair, which looked about ready to collapse under his weight. With a flick of his finger, he opened the paper parcel on the tea tray, revealing little cubes about the size of dice but without markings. He dropped two into a mug and held the mug out for Jamal to fill.

“Amnite sugar cubes,” Mintassan explained upon noting Alias’s curious look. “Among the many things the Amnites have stolen from the Mazticans. For years they were a novelty known only to the upper classes, but last year House Dhostar brought in a huge consignment and lowered the price. Now they can’t keep up with the demand. They’re all the rage.”

Alias picked up a grainy cube, then dropped it tentatively into the mug of tea Jamal handed her. The sugar cube bubbled and dissolved. She blew over the tea’s steamy surface while Mintassan added a dollop of cream to his mug. When the sage had taken a sip of his own beverage, Alias hazarded a taste of her own. “It’s good,” she declared with surprise. “Sweet, like honey.”

Jamal snorted. “Sweet, but no kick,” the actress said, pouring a more-than-healthy dose of brandy into her own tea.

“So what’s your poison, Dragonbait?” Mintassan asked as he handed the last mug to Jamal to fill.

“I would like it plain, please,” the saurial replied.

Alias translated, “He’ll have it straight up.”

“Please,” Dragonbait repeated.

Alias sighed. “Please,” she translated.

Mintassan smiled as he handed the paladin the mug of tea. “So it’s true what Grypht wrote—Alias does understand Saurial. I always wondered if a human could ever master it.”

“I can hardly claim to have mastered it even though I’ve lived with the saurials for eight years,” Alias protested. “Their language is a mixture of sounds, scents, and postures. A tongues spell with a permanency cast on it enables me to hear the sounds and understand them, and I can smell their scents even better and interpret the emotions they convey, but I’m not very good with the postures. I can speak the sound part as well, but I can’t put out the scents, and since I can’t do the postures, Dragonbait says, I’m sort of a monotone speaker, and there are levels of subtlety I just don’t get. Fortunately, Dragonbait understands my tongue better than I do his. I think other saurials still find it easier to speak with other dragonish and lizardish creatures than with me.”

“Perhaps their tongue is related to Auld Wyrmish, or the ancestral dragon languages. Saurials and dragons could share the same ancestors,” Mintassan suggested.

“I think not,” Dragonbait retorted, emitting a fishy smell that just hinted at how insulting he found the suggestion. Alias translated the words and the emotion.

Mintassan chuckled. “That’s the same reaction I got from Grypht.”

“Who is this Grypht?” asked Jamal, tearing her attention away from her spiked tea.

“A fellow blood,” Mintassan replied.

“A what?” Alias asked.

“Blood,” Jamal said. “That’s plane-hopper slang for professional traveler.”

“Grypht sent Alias and Dragonbait down to Westgate to make an exchange of magic,” Mintassan explained. “He and his people are exiles from their own plane and live up north now. He’s a saurial like Dragonbait here.”

“Except he’s ten feet tall and has horns all over his head,” Alias corrected.

“He’ll always be little Grypht to me,” Mintassan said, with a chuckle. “Now, down to business,” the sage said rubbing his hands together. “Show me, please, what you’ve brought for me.”

Dragonbait set the staff down on the table before the sage.

Mintassan ran his fingertips along the staff. He sighted down its length. Peered into the little mouse skulls dangling from the top. Sniffed at the orange feather. Rapped it sharply against the floor. Squinted at the runes that spiraled down from the top to the bottom. “Definitely Netheril,” he declared. “Beautiful workmanship. A staff of the undead. What can you tell me of its provenance and pedigree? Did it come from the Great Desert?”

“From Anauroch, yes,” Alias answered. “A saurial exploration party came across the slaughtered bodies of a Zhentarim patrol decaying in the dunes. The staff was among the corpses.

“That fits, too,” the sage said, nodding. “The Black Network has stooped to tomb-robbing ever since their precious city was smashed. Well, I am quite satisfied.” He pulled a small box out from under the table and set it down in front of Alias. He turned the handle on the top and the sides fell away.

A perfect blue crystal sphere glowed before Alias, bathing her in a blue light. The sphere floated and spun ever so slightly an inch above a base of white jade carved in the shape of a twisting dragon.

Alias shot a glance at Jamal, but the woman did not seem interested in the magic crystal sphere. The swordswoman looked over at Dragonbait, who squinted at the magic ball with his shen sight. “Nothing malefic,” the paladin reported.