Other Lives, Other Dreams
An inn is like a very small and poorly lit realm: It holds arrogant nobles, those who think they rule or believe they're important, the downtrodden who do the real work, and the outlaws and dark-knives whose work is preying on others. The problem is the constant stream of arrivals and departures that robs ye of the time ye need to learn which guest belongs to which group. So ye end up having to be constantly wary of them all. Just as in larger realms.
If The Sun Over Scornubel laid claim to the mantle of 'a superior inn of service and distinction,' The Stormy Tankard made no such pretensions. It was the sort of place where no one had ever cleaned anything since it was built, and rooms were small, dark bunk-holes boasting furnishings that were sparse, mismatched, and either battered or outright broken. This squalor was enlivened by the sounds of unclasped and uncloaked revelry from adjacent chambers-all such rental-quarters being situated up narrow, creaking stairs above a smoke-filled, ever- noisy den of drink and brawling and harsh-voiced chatter. There was nothing unpopular about the Tankard's taproom-it was crowded with folk of half a dozen races, who by their looks and garb hailed from a score of lands or more.
Night was falling over Scornubel like a dark cloak spread across a red, starlit sky as Marlel led Narm and Shandril-still in their robes, but fat she-priestesses no longer-in through a side door of the Tankard.
'Wait your turn,' a cold voice greeted them sourly, out of the darkness.
'Aye,' another voice agreed. 'Just stand still and keep shut an' wait.'
'Fair evening to you, Tulasker,' Marlel said merrily. 'As it happens, we're not in the market just now-make way, please, so I can get to Pharaulee and book a room.'
'Ho, ho, the Dark Blade of Doom has chosen already, has he?' Shrewd eyes peered at Shandril and Narm in the gloom, and Tulasker added with an unlovely laugh, 'Strange tastes for you, Marlel!'
'Not half so strange as what you'll be tasting if you don't roll aside, old blade,' Marlel replied lightly.
'Ho ho! And what if I don't?'
'Then, Tulasker, I'm afraid you'll learn firsthand how I came by my rather grand professional title. It will be one of those sharp, painful, and rather final lessons, too.'
'Aye, aye, impress us all,' Tulasker muttered disparagingly, as he slowly shuffled aside.
At the far end of the gloomy room, a sharp-featured woman wearing rather too much face paint and rather too little of anything else ducked out from behind a curtain and snapped, 'Next!'
'Fraea,' the cold-voiced man said quickly.
'Four gold,' the woman said promptly, holding out her hand.
'Four?'
'Dispute with me, Nalvor, and it'll be five,' was the swift reply. 'Four, or be off with you!'
Marlel led his two priestess-robed companions in the other direction, down a dark and narrow passage, to a doorway where a tall, bald mountain of flesh with tusks and large ears-a half-ore, whose face and chest were covered with old, wandering sword scars-stood with arms folded and a spike-handled axe gripped in each heavy hand, blocking the way.
'Business with Rildra,' the Harper told him.
The guard's eyes narrowed. 'You, Marlel?'
'Strange times, Ulburt, and strange doings. Look upon it as free entertainment, sent by the gods especially to you.'
'I look upon it as trouble,' the half-ore told him bluntly, 'especially when you're involved. What business with Rildra?'
'A chance to flip her a coin and so get to talk to Pharaulee.'
'That you can do directly,' the guard told him, waving them past. 'Rildra met with a little accident earlier today.'
'Her last?'
'Unless she knows some way to come back to life after hanging for half a day with two glaives run right through her. But she took a Red Wizard down to the worms first, and one of his bodyblades, too-I guess they're not used to roughing up women who aren't slaves and don't carry hairpins. Right through the eyes, she skewered them.'
Ulburt's voice was full of grudging pride. Against Narm's shoulder, Shandril convulsed in a silent, sudden shiver.
Marlel turned to his two companions. 'Wait here. Ulburt will look after you, or I'll come back, cut off his down-belows, and feed them to him as Ms next meal.'
Without waiting for a reply, the Dark Blade of Doom ducked past the half-ore's deep, annoyed rumble, through the doorway.
He returned quickly, standing aside with a flourish in Narm and Shandril's direction. They were momentarily aware of a pair of old and very sad eyes regarding them out of a large and gray-haired but lushly beautiful face, ere that face nodded and withdrew behind the half-ore once more.
'Pharaulee just wanted to see you,' Marlel explained. 'All settled. You have the-well, I'll show you.'
Running a hand over the apparently solid wall next to Narm, the Harper found something with his probing fingers. There was a click, and a section of the weathered paneling shrank back into the wall. Marlel gave it a push, and it receded reluctantly.
'Hurh!' Ulburt growled. 'You're not supposed to know about that!'
'Well, you shouldn't be so careless, Ulburt,' the Harper replied serenely. 'You're the one who showed me this back stair, last month-taking a body through it after you had a little accident with your axe, as I recall.' Giving the section of moving wall a last shove, he grabbed Narm's forearm and tugged him into the gloom.
'I never! I-'
'Come' Marlel murmured to Shandril with some urgency, 'let's get up above before anyone decides we're interesting enough to follow.'
Shandril rolled her eyes. 'Oh, half Faerun already seems to have taken that view,' she murmured. 'You lead the way.'
Marlel grinned. 'You've done this before, haven't you?'
'I hesitate to agree until I know just what you mean by 'this,'' Shandril replied evenly, waving at him to precede her. 'Increasingly, I find, I dislike disagreements-they tend to be so final.'
'No doubt,' Marlel said thoughtfully, giving her a look that was devoid of his usual smile for once. 'No doubt.'
He went up the narrow, foul-smelling stair in the darkness, Shandril followed warily and close behind him, and Narm watched the half-ore haul the section of wall closed and watched out behind them as best he could in the deep gloom that followed.
They were at the top of the stair, on a little landing where their way onward, up a few steps and along a passage of many closed doors, seemed to be blocked by two dark figures who were hissing curses at each other, when Shandril felt the first tinglings of a spell. It felt like cold tendrils, caressing her mind-without hesitation she drank the magic, her spellfire flickering in her eyes.
Each time it felt wilder. Each time she had the frightening feeling that it was going to overwhelm her thoughts and will and what inside of her was Shandril Shessair, and just burn its own willful way on in wild destruction. That feeling was growing stronger-but damn all these greedy, ruthless fools if they didn't keep on trying to snatch her, to take her spell-fire for their own.
What if they finally grew enough stone cold everyday wits and good sense to wait until she was exhausted
