query, 'you're quite right. Specializing in transmutation does exclude necromantic studies. But while other trans- muters choose to study the more mundane and commercially lucrative transmutations, straw to gold, salt water to fresh, sow's ears to silk purses, and so on, I prefer investigating the mutation of nature itself-or herself, as your religion requires.'
Mintassan stood beside a massive table, which dominated the center of the room. The table, some castoff from a Westgate festhall, judging by its thick legs and velvet-covered sides, was littered with various scholarly debris: maps of the inner and outer planes, tomes with mildewing leather covers, diagrams and sketches of creatures, calipers, rulers, magnifying lenses. The sage picked up a hunk of amber larger than his fist and held it out for Alias to see.
'I am seeking the secret,' Mintassan said, 'of how the descendants of a creature like this-'
Alias peered into the amber and could see an animal that resembled a bat embedded within.
'— become a creature like this.' With a flourish the sage yanked a black cloth cover off a second specimen- the mounted, mummified head of a tanar'ri, a powerful denizen of the Abyss.
Alias and Dragonbait drew back, startled. The next moment, though, Alias's eyes squinted in disbelief. Mintassan was teasing them, or testing them somehow. 'And whose ancestor is that little fellow?' she asked, pointing to the tiny mammal skull Mintassan displayed on his vest lapel.
Mintassan stroked the tiny skull almost reverently. 'My own,' he declared, but a moment later he looked just a little doubtful, 'I think,' he amended. The sage picked up the tanar'ri head, looked around with a frown for another empty flat space, and finally set the grisly trophy in an empty crate labeled, 'Spell keys and other darks.' From Finder, who had traveled in other planes, Alias knew those were planar slang for magic components and mysteries.
'Please, have a seat,' the sage said as he pushed all the remaining junk on the table to one side. 'Excuse me while I get the tea things together.' He disappeared into a side alcove, leaving Alias and Dragonbait alone with Jamal.
'Planar travel has scrambled his wits, but he's really sweet and harmless,' Jamal said matter-of-factly. There were eight completely mismatched chairs set about the table. The actress flopped into an overstuffed chair of worn and tattered brocade and put her feet up on a rocker of woven cane.
Alias settled into a wooden chair with a wolf skull mounted atop its straight, high back. Dragonbait's choice was limited by his massive tail, so he perched on a three-legged stool carved from ruby quartz.
From the alcove came the sound of rattling pots, the squeak of a hand pump, and a magical cantrip, followed by the whoosh of an enchanted flame igniting. Mintassan was singing a bawdy version of 'Lie Down, Ye Ladies' in a passable baritone.
An uneasy silence had settled over the occupants at the table. Jamal watched Alias with the attention of a fox watching a wolf. Alias held her smile until it felt like a brittle, dried leaf.
Jamal tilted her head from side to side, studying Alias. Finally, she said, 'I remember you now.' Alias felt her chest tighten. 'You do?'
'According to Ruskettle's tale, you're the one who popped in over Westgate with the mad god Moander, chased by your friends, riding a red dragon.'
Alias felt her heartbeat slow to its normal rhythm.
'I saw that battle,' Jamal declared. 'Moander puffed up like an overproofed loaf of bread. The dragon spat flame at it. Boooom! Fried dragon and chunks of rotting god rained on the city. Took out a piece of the city wall, the Dhostar warehouses, and a lot of the northwestern slums.'
Alias felt the heat return to her face. 'It was an accident. If there was something we could have done to avoid damaging your fair city, we would have. Cassana and her crew jumped us right afterward, and after we killed Cassana, we ended up in another plane, so we never got a chance to apologize.'
Jamal laughed raucously. 'Apologize? Whatever for? That crash shook out this town like a dirty rug. The town's merchant nobles thought a new Flight of Dragons had arrived! There was total chaos while they all tried to save themselves and, of course, their merchandise. All of them had egg on their faces when the furor died down, especially Ssentar Urdo. Family Urdo called in a marker with some old Thayan necromancer to protect its docks. The necromancer was inebriated at the time, centered his spell too low, and teleported a squad of skeletons into the dock itself. Little rib cages and arms and skulls waving around, trying to pull the rest of their bodies through the wood. Mintassan collected a specimen as I recall. He really wanted the dragon's skull, but someone else snatched it up before he reached the scene of the crash. He was so disappointed.'
Alias shuddered to think what someone in Westgate would want with the skull of the dragon Mist. While the ancient wyrm had been an ally at the time of her fiery demise, the beast had hated Alias. The swordswoman would have preferred to hear Mist's remains had been laid to rest in their entirety.
'Kids were playing 'Dragons and Warriors' in the streets for weeks afterward,' Jamal continued, 'and everyone talked about what cowardly leeches the merchant nobles were when push came to shove.' Jamal sighed. 'But, alas, when you did not return with more dragons, the merchants and the Night Masks reestablished their grubby holds on everyone's lives. Ah, well. I got three months worth of material for my street theater even if I had to invent a cheap hero for it.'
'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 Swan-mays,' 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. TheyYe 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
