to help them.
'Well,' said Silver, rummaging through Badger's flattened remains as any good thief would, 'there's nothing of value here.' He slipped his former friend's purse into his own pocket and blew the dust of the crushed iron box and Malaeragoth's sapphire scale off his hands. 'What have you got there, Nix?'
'It's the sign,' said Nix. He called to the tavernkeeper trying to dig out his squashed coin box from the rubble. 'Hey, Varney, do you want this?'
The sign's paint had been scraped away in several places, leaving the rearing white dragon without a head, showing only two of the three adventurers, and depicting just the remains of the painted dwarfs left boot. But the princess, with a tiny crown perched on top of her golden curls, was still smiling valiantly at her rescuers.
'Aww,' said Nix, 'it's a terrible shame that it's so ruined. It was a grand picture. Maybe you could have the painter woman paint it again. She said she was sorry for what happened, but Bates shouldn't have tried to cheat on a bet.'
Varney shuddered. 'Not her. I'll have nothing more to do with a woman who draws dragons,' he said. 'She's off to the east, says she wants to study landwyrms.'
Varney took the sign from Nix and stared at it for a few minutes.
'I have an idea,' Varney said, getting more and more enthusiastic as he talked. 'I'll cut it down and just save the princess. We could call the new place something like the Royal Rescue and hire a bard to sing tales of royal ladies in love. Everybody likes a good love story in the springtime. Stories about princesses are much safer than letting people draw dragons on a wall.'
But that princess idea, as Mrs. Varney would say in later years to friends and relations, was just the start of another of Varney's disasters.
THE HUNTING GAME
Flamerule, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)
The caravan rolled along, the wagons creaking, the men coughing and cursing, and the horses whinnying, just as it had for miles and miles before across the Heartlands. The road to Baldur's Gate would be a long one, one that many of the gruff caravan guards had seen many times before. They were familiar with it, familiar enough to watch gullies, turns, stands of trees, and boulders that made up familiar ambush spots.
The scouts were so preoccupied with watching for trouble at their flanks, front, or rear, such that few paid attention to a dark shape in the sky.
Few except Alin Cateln.
Looking out the window, idly plucking at his harp as the wagon in which he rode jostled on, the young bard wondered absently if it was a wisp of cloud or some high-flying night bird. The trip had passed so uneventfully that he was eager to make up distractions for himself on this, the sixth day out of Hill's Edge. His seat tossed him up and down, but still it was more comfortable than a saddle.
'Say, what's that, do you reckon?' he asked the driver.
The gruff-faced man looked at the sky. 'What?'
'That shape right there,' Alin said, pointing.
'There? The only thing that ain't cloud?' he asked, and Alin nodded. 'That'd be Selune, boy, on her nightly walk.'
Alin rolled his eyes. Of course the man had not seen it. Just like that, the shape-if it had even existed outside his imagination-vanished.
The stopover in Hill's Edge had been entirely too long and torturous, for the warm Flamerule nights-especially in the hot Year of the Wave-had kept joviality and company outside the inns and taverns where he had needed to play for his lodging and meals. Dashing young men with songs on their tongues and blushing maidens with flaxen or dusky hair and faces tanned golden by the sun… too bad Alin had been trapped indoors.
The wagon gave a shake and disrupted his reverie. Tossing the dark hair that fell in spikes across his face, Alin plucked a sour note on his harp. Ever since that day when his father had sent him away for failing at the Cormyrean academy, Alin had always needed to sing for his supper, or for rides with caravans, and not make merry.
Even on the road, he had to compete with another, much more practiced minstrel: an adventuring bard by the name of Tannin, who traveled with the caravan along with his adventuring companions. The caravanners would surely put Alin off soon-he only hoped they waited until Triel.
There came shouts from outside, but he ignored them. Surely it was just another arguing match between two of the caravan guards.
Unbidden, the words of a song came to his lips, and he strummed a few notes on the harp.
'I walk the road both winding and true,' he sang. 'It leads to friends both old and new.'
Alin was in the midst of remembering the third line when the front half of the wagon vanished in a flash of burning crimson fury. The force of the blast threw him back, shattering open the shutters on the wagon window as his body flew out. Immolated by flames spawned from the Nine Hells themselves, Alin screamed in pain and terror. Through the darkness, he could see only one thing-the flash of a terrible, dark eye wreathed in crackling flame.
Then he saw nothing.
When light came back into the world, Alin was aware of a sensation of softness surrounding his body. He wondered, for a moment, if he had made it to the Great Wheel and if he would see his mistress Tymora any instant.
Then, after a few happy breaths, Alin realized he was hungry-in fact, he was starving. A brief look around told him he was not quite in Brightwater yet. Instead, Alin was merely tucked under thick blankets and staring up at the ceiling of a bedroom.
He tried to rise, but his head exploded in lancing pain. At first, Alin was afraid his head had come free of his body, but he soon realized-by feeling with his fingers-that it was still attached to his neck.
What a terrible dream, Alin thought.
Finally, after many abortive attempts, Alin managed to lever himself out of bed. He was nude but he was not cold. The window, open to the night air, let in a pleasant breeze. The room was simple, bare, and small, with only a bed and a chair for furniture. His light tunic, indigo-dyed vest, and leather breeches, neatly folded, sat on the chair. Alin picked them up and inhaled their scent-not flowery, but clean.
For a moment, as he dressed, Alin wondered if it was all just a dream. Then he heard voices. The joyous sounds of a tavern rose to meet him from down a flight of stairs.
Still rubbing his head but smiling, Alin went down.
The atmosphere in the common room of Triel's Singing Wind Inn was on the somber side, though travelers still raised tankards and mugs in toasts to companions long gone and new friends made. Several spoke in hushed voices about a dragon attack, but Alin didn't know if it was for real, or just the ale talking. The rafters were smoke- stained and the air was thick with the scent of pipes, spilled ale, and unwashed bodies. A bard strummed on a harp and sung a tawdry ballad of gallant but stupid knights and the lusty barmaids who loved them.
Alin inhaled deeply and felt his lungs burn. He loved every moment of it.
Over in the corner, Alin glimpsed an unusual pair-a hulking man in dark leathers with a greataxe standing by the table and a thin woman in silks and robes who must have been half the man's size-sharing a quiet drink. He did not have time to see more, as a meaty hand came from the side to catch his shoulder.
'Hey, look who's up!' a friendly voice said.
Alin turned. Beside him was a hefty man in a gold and white tunic. His skin was fair, his hair gold, and he wore a thick mustache.
'I'm sorry, have we met?' asked Alin, who didn't know the face.
'If by 'met,' ye mean 'hauled yer half-dead carcass from the burning wreck of a caravan and healed ye while Thard carried ye back 'ere,' then aye, we've met,' the man said. 'After the dragon, ye're lucky to be alive-thank the
