Tantras

A look of embarrassment crossed Quillian's face. 'Reasonable point,' the dark-haired lad said sheepishly. 'Let's head toward the market, then. It's nearby and there used to be a small house of worship there.'

The two walked in silence for a little while. As Midnight and Quillian got closer to the market, the crowds grew in size. Soon the mage could smell food cooking and hear the droves of people haggling about prices and the merchants yelling to attract customers.

'Up ahead, on the right, there's a butcher shop,' Quillian noted as they entered a crowded square. 'The building used to be a temple to Waukeen, the Goddess of Trade. Are you familiar with Liberty's Maiden?'

Midnight shrugged. 'Vaguely. I remember something about a golden-haired woman with lions at her feet.''

'That's how they say she appears when she walks among us. I haven't seen her in town,' the boy said sarcastically, 'so I couldn't tell you if that's true or not. Tantras was blessed with Lord Torm instead.'

The mage found the boy's sarcasm surprising, especially compared to the enthusiasm about Torm's presence she'd heard from the watchmen at the dock. 'Aren't you a follower of Torm?' Midnight asked.

'Not usually. But I can be when it's necessary,' Quillian said.

I'd best change the subject, Midnight decided, noting the anger in Quillian's voice when he mentioned the God of Duty's name. 'What can you tell me about Waukeen's temple?' the mage asked.

'There were statues of Waukeen and her lions in front of the place. The Tormites purchased one of the lions to decorate their new temple. I don't know what happened to the other statues or the rest of the fixtures.'

The pair crossed the busy square. Midnight stopped in front of the butcher shop, waiting for the crowd to thin out a bit before she entered the busy establishment. She turned to Quillian and put her hand on his shoulder. 'I hope that the money I'm paying you will make you less fickle about your service to me than you are about your devotion to the gods.'

Before the boy could answer, a voice called out behind the mage. 'Fickle? That's not a word you hear very often in Tantras these days. Not since the God of Duty moved in!'

The mage turned and saw an old man with a shock of white hair and a scraggly white beard. He was carrying a small harp, and he brushed his hand across its strings, bringing a flow of beautiful notes that pierced the sounds of the crowd.

'Fickle,' the old man repeated. 'The word reminds me of a limerick I picked up in Waterdeep. Would you care to hear it? It's of great significance, I assure you.'

Midnight stared at the minstrel, examining his features closely. She was sure that he looked like someone she'd met before.

The minstrel stared back at her for a moment then asked, 'Are you feeling well? Do you need a physician? Or would the young lady prefer an epic ballad or a sweet tale of romance to sooth her frazzled nerves?' The minstrel's voice was lilting and sweet.

The mage shook her head. 'My apologies,' she said softly as she shook her head. 'For a moment you reminded me of someone.'

The minstrel ran a hand through his hair then smiled. 'Oh? Fancy that,' the old man cackled. He leaned close to Midnight and whispered, 'A little secret for you. All old beggars look the same to you younger types.'

Suddenly the old man's eyes widened in surprise. 'To your left, pretty one!' he cried and pointed to her waist with a bony finger.

Looking away from the minstrel for just an instant, Midnight saw a hand reaching with practiced skill for her money purse. Her left hand reached the purse at the same moment as the hand of the pickpocket, while her right hand balled into a fist. The mage punched the would-be thief in the face.

The yellow-bearded criminal's arms pinwheeled madly as he stumbled into a pair of elderly women and lost his balance. Midnight moved toward the cowering cutpurse, and Quillian leaped on the man.

The minstrel, on the other hand, simply stood by quietly and watched.

'This is not your day, rogue!' Quillian cried as he planted his knee in the thief's back and pushed him onto his stomach. Grabbing both of the pickpocket's hands, the black-haired boy pinned them firmly in place behind the man's back. He moved close to the thief's ear and hissed, 'Be still unless you want to end up a cripple!'

The fight went out of the thief as a group of locals gathered around Quillian, the yellow-bearded man, and Midnight. The merchants and peasants hurled insults and a few rotten vegetables at the cutpurse. Then a burly man with a red face and short, gray-shot black hair — the butcher who owned the renovated temple — made his way through the crowd, carrying a blood-drenched axe.

'Well, if it isn't Quillian Dencery,' the butcher shouted, genuinely surprised. 'What have you brought me today, boy?'

'See for yourself,' Quillian said as he fished into the sash at the thief's waist and pulled out three money purses.

The butcher raised his axe in his right hand. 'Could this be the thief that has been harassing my customers for the last two weeks?' The butcher grabbed a handful of the man's hair with his left then pulled sharply. The thief gasped and gritted his teeth as he was forced to look into the butcher's sunburned face. 'Do you know how much business you've cost me? My loyal customers are frightened to shop here, and they've been giving their business to that cutthroat, Loyan Trey, in the south end of town.'

'Fine!' the thief sputtered. 'Let me go and I'll work his shop. Then your customers will return!'

The butcher shook his head. 'I don't think so.' He looked to Quillian. 'Boy, spread his right hand flat so we can chop it off. That'll teach him a lesson.'

'Please!' the thief begged. 'You mustn't! I'll give the money back. I won't ever come here again!'

'Hah!' the butcher shouted as the thief's hand was forced to the ground, fingers clenched tight. 'Your type would say anything to save your own skin. Thieves are all alike.' The butcher hefted the axe and the crowd gasped, almost as one. 'Now keep still so I can get this over with and get back to business. I promise it'll be quick and clean. I can't promise that you won't feel anything, though.'

'Wait!' Midnight cried, lunging toward the butcher.

From the crowd, the minstrel watched with growing interest. The butcher's hand had risen into the air, the bright sunlight glinting off his axe. The blade hung above the thief's wrist, as if it were suspended by a fragile thread.

'You were the one he wanted to steal from,' the butcher growled, relaxing slightly. 'Don't you want justice?'

The mage stood beside the butcher and whispered, 'Look around you. If you're so worried about your business, then stop and think about what you're about to do. Do you really want all these fine gentlemen and ladies to remember your shop as the place they saw you maim a thief?' The mage saw the anger go out of the butcher's face, only to be replaced by concern. 'Every time they think of you, that's what they'll remember. Would they think you a good man, then? An honest man?'

The butcher's shoulders dropped as he surveyed the faces in the crowd. Some were expectant and excited. Most were horrified. Practically unnoticed by all, the minstrel was grinning a wicked grin as he watched the mage. But the butcher realized that the mage was right: he'd lose everything if he harmed the thief. 'But he'll just do it again,' the butcher growled as he lowered the axe.

'Of course he will,' Midnight told the red-faced man. 'That's how he makes his living. But that doesn't mean he'll ever be stupid enough to come near your establishment again. If he has any brains, he'll even put the word out that your shop is strictly off limits to all his brethren.' The raven-haired mage turned to the thief. 'What do you say to that?'

'I will! I'll do everything the lady said!' the yellow-bearded man sputtered.

'Then be off with you,' the butcher growled and signaled Quillian to release the thief. 'And tell everyone you know in the Thieves' Guild that Beardmere's is off limits!'

The minstrel appeared before Midnight. 'Fine lady, I will write a song in honor of your wisdom and courage.' And before Midnight could respond, the minstrel turned and vanished into the crowd.

Business quickly returned to normal in the marketplace, and the butcher walked to Midnight's side. 'It seems I owe you for your assistance,' he told the mage. 'How about a month's supply of Beardmere's finest meats?'

The mage smiled. 'Thank you, but I'd accept something far less costly,' Midnight replied politely. 'I'm a scholar. I wish to know how this former temple to Waukeen became your butcher shop.'

'Simple enough,' Beardmere said. 'The government sold me the building.'