dragonborn and genasi fought when they lived wherever it is they used to live. When the Spellplague scooped them up and dumped them in Faerun, they brought their quarrel along with them.”
“Now, the Chessentans,” Aoth continued, “started out as slaves of the old Imaskari Empire. Who were notable wizards, which accounts for the Chessentan hatred of magic. I’ve heard the new realm of High Imaskar isn’t really the same animal as the old one. It doesn’t keep slaves, for example. But the name is more or less the same, the people look the same, they have the same gift for sorcery, and that’s close enough to stir up the Chessentans. They’ve been poking at the new Imaskari since the latter first announced their presence to the world. You could actually argue that the current ‘piracy’ is justified retaliation, although I wouldn’t say so to the locals.”
“In other words,” said Khouryn, “it’s all stupid.”
“Well, of course you’d think so. Who ever heard of a dwarf holding a grudge?”
Khouryn strained unsuccessfully to stifle a chuckle. “Fair enough. It’s simply that there’s something to be said for fighting in a righteous cause.”
Aoth swished his brush down the length of Jet’s tail. “We did that in Thay and again in Impiltur, and look at the shape we’re in.”
“I recognize it’s a luxury, not a necessity. Still, it would be nice if those eyes of yours had given you some insight into why Nicos and Luthen are at odds, or whether Zan-akar was telling the truth about anything.”
The Spellplague had done more than extend Aoth’s years. It had sharpened his sight to a preternatural degree. He could see in the dark and perceive the invisible. No illusion could deceive him. On rare occasions, he even saw hints of a man’s true character or intentions, or portents of the future.
Aoth hesitated, scowled, and then said, “To be honest about it, when I first met Nicos, I glimpsed the form of a green dragon.”
“What? What does that mean?”
“I have no idea. We can be reasonably sure there’s no big green dragon living in Luthcheq, so it must have been symbolic, which is another way of saying it could have meant any damn thing. Maybe just that my three lieutenants were going to get involved with a couple of dragonborn.”
Khouryn tilted his head. “You talk like you didn’t even bother to think about it. Since when do you discount the value of information, no matter how cryptic? How many times have I heard you say, ‘Collect all the facts you can; any one of them could mean the difference between victory and defeat’?”
“In the field, yes. At a royal court, it’s different. Knowing people’s secrets is dangerous, and so is meddling in their business. In retrospect, I feel stupid for telling the war hero that Akanul has ties to High Imaskar. I spoke without thinking.”
“You may have earned a measure of her trust. Or gratitude.”
Aoth grunted. “I suspect it takes more than that, and I certainly made an enemy of Zan-akar. All the more reason to keep our heads down, play constable with as little fuss as possible, and then head out to fight Threskel or the Imaskari as soon as Shala will allow it.”
TWO
18-29 CHES, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
With his mail, shield, spear, and other weapons, Aoth looked like a warrior and had hoped the citizens of Luthcheq would take him for that and nothing more. But almost immediately they’d started whispering behind his back and making signs to avert the evil eye. He suspected that Luthen or Zan-akar had put out the word that he was actually a war-mage.
He stopped leading foot patrols thereafter. No point agitating the locals more than they were already. Instead, he and Jet had taken to monitoring the city from the sky.
An easterly wind carried them to the religious quarter, where the gilded dome of the temple of Waukeen, goddess of trade, gleamed at one end of a mall. At the other stood the colonnaded house of Amaunator, lord of the sun, with an enormous sundial out in front.
Drumming and chanting, Tchazzar cultists paraded past the instrument. Some carried crimson banners. Others had combined forces to animate a dragon made of red cloth. Capering inside it, they made it weave back and forth in serpentine fashion.
At first no one seemed to mind. Then half a dozen priests in yellow robes strode forth from Amaunator’s temple. The stout sunlord in the lead, his vestments trimmed with gold and amber, started haranguing the marchers.
“Fly lower,” said Aoth. “Let’s hear what he’s saying.”
Jet swooped and set down on the roof of the Red Knight’s house, a comparatively small box of a building that, with its battlements and barbican, looked more like a fortress than a shrine. Aoth hoped the patron of strategists would forgive a fellow commander the intrusion.
Nobody mortal appeared to notice his descent. The sun priests, and the dragon cultists’ reaction to them, had already captured everyone’s attention.
“Dragons aren’t gods!” insisted the chief sunlord, his voice raised so everyone could hear. “And your display, in these sacred precincts, is an affront to the true gods!”
“Tchazzar saved his people,” replied the skinny adolescent girl at the head of the procession. She’d daubed scarlet symbols on her forehead and cheeks, and had a fervid, feverish cast to her expression. Someone had given her a fine vermilion mantle to throw on over the shabby garments beneath. “He also rose from the dead. That’s what gods do. And now that we need him, he’ll come back again. We only have to believe.”
“Child, you don’t understand these matters. You can’t. You lack the education.”
“I’m glad. Because I see that all learning does is blind you to the truth.”
The high priest took a breath. “Put your faith in the Keeper of the Yellow Sun and the other powers of light. And in the war hero they’ve appointed to rule us. That’s who will save you.”
“When?” called a man with a pox-scarred face. “Threskel and High Imaskar and the filthy wizards are destroying us! What are your gods and Shala Karanok waiting on?”
“Perhaps,” the cleric said, “they’re waiting for their people to stop behaving in a manner that’s both blasphemous and treasonous.”
The marchers shouted back, jeering at him.
“My children,” said the priest, “I tried to counsel you. As you refuse to heed me, I’ll have to resort to more drastic measures.”
He beckoned for the lesser sunlords to gather in. A couple hesitated or looked alarmed, but they all obeyed. Their master started chanting, and they joined in.
“They’re not,” said Jet in disbelief.
But apparently they were. Trying to perform some ritual of chastisement with the targets standing unrestrained just a few strides away. Did they imagine Tchazzar’s worshipers would simply wait idly for them to finish?
If so, they were doomed to disappointment. The thin girl-the cultists’ prophetess, apparently-shrilled, “Stop them!” She lunged forward, and the marchers surged after her.
Jet perceived what Aoth wanted through their psychic link, or else he simply recognized himself what was required. As he sprang into the air, he gave a screech that froze some of the folk below in their tracks. Aoth pointed the long spear that served him both as warrior’s weapon and mage’s staff, rattled off words of command, and cast a wall of leaping, crackling yellow flame between the cultists and the priests. That brought the rest of the rushing men to a sudden, stumbling halt. It startled the sunlords into falling silent too.
Then Jet made a couple of low passes over the crowd, like he was deciding whom to snatch up in his talons and devour. Scowling, Aoth tried to look equally intimidating.
When he judged that their little pantomime had done as much good as it was likely to, he had the griffon land on top of the sundial. Evidently it was just his day to take liberties with the property of the gods.
“Captain!” called the chief sunlord.
Aoth dismounted. “If anyone makes a move,” he said, ostensibly to Jet but loud enough for everyone to hear,
