of the whiskey.
What was he trying to protect her from anyway? Being locked in a room and questioned for hours? That was likely to happen anyway, and it wasn’t much worse than he’d had things before. Her superiors weren’t monstrous. They knew he was troublesome. They couldn’t ultimately blame her, he decided, taking another sip of whiskey. They wouldn’t do anything worse than Constancia would if she caught Brin.
What he needed, Brin thought, was a sort of buffer. Like a layer of armor between him and Constancia. When she found him-as he had to admit she inevitably would-if there were someone to slow her down … something to trip her up …
Someone like a bounty hunter, who would give Brin a head start by conveying her to the nearest Temple of Torm.
Brin looked down at the stolen whiskey bottle. “Loyal Fury, forgive me,” he muttered, even though he knew his contrition probably didn’t much sway the god of duty. Especially when he wasn’t giving the whiskey back.
The tiefling girl with the glaive and the golden eyes-Havilar, he thought-had seen him in the bar. She’d seen him stealing the whiskey and smiled at him, like it was funny. Like she knew something about him now. He wondered if she’d tell the tavernkeeper. He wondered if the tavernkeeper would listen.
He wondered if the smile was a good thing. If it meant she might be the one to help him with Constancia. After all, he thought, a quarry you had to handle gently was better than no quarry at all.
But then he thought of Mehen, who was clearly in charge. No-it would have to be Mehen he convinced. Somehow. He swirled the whiskey around in the bottle again, lost for answers. He couldn’t imagine how to even begin guessing what a dragonborn was thinking.
Someone moved in the shadows outside Brin’s hiding place. He shifted just enough to see Tam, the Selunite priest, stepping very deliberately out of the torchlight that washed the courtyard and behind a wagon. He searched around the wagons and the crates in a cursory, distracted sort of way-thankfully missing Brin-then dropped down to kneel upon the cobbles.
Tam withdrew a trio of vials from his pack and flicked the corks out of each. He muttered a chain of words under his breath and poured the powders in tidy, practiced lines. Brin leaned a little farther out-it was a ritual, no doubt. Those were salts of copper. That, some powdered metal … the last was dark and rusty, and made Brin think of dried blood. Tam’s eyes glazed slightly and before he spoke, Brin was sure: Tam was performing a sending.
“Fisher: the caravan too slow,” Tam said to someone who might be on the other side of Toril for all Brin knew. “Hiring swords for the remainder of the journey-two days, if I can avoid more orcs. Advise Cymril. Expecting reimbursement.”
Silence hung in the shadowy corner for only a moment before another voice spoke.
“Shepherd: Message received. Will see about reimbursement. But Harpers not so rich as Viridi. Don’t bother Cymril. Report in at the first sign of lycanthropes or-”
The voice cut off, and Tam cursed. He stood and kicked the pattern of powders into the dust, muttering to himself. “Twenty-five stlarning words, Fisher. It’s always been twenty-five stlarning words.”
Harpers. Brin wet his lips on the whiskey again, despite wanting a full gulp of the stuff. He wasn’t just a priest. He was a spy.
A virtuous spy-relatively. Harpers served no government, and it was widely believed one had in fact assassinated the king of Tethyr ages ago. It was also widely believed the organization had collapsed not long after. Brin thought about what the disembodied voice had said-“Harpers not so rich as Viridi.” So Tam hadn’t always spied for the Harpers, then. New enough to be unsure about protocols, old-hand enough to demand what he wanted. Interesting.
Tam looked out across the courtyard, scanning the wagons and crowds as if looking for someone, but not venturing from their shared hiding spot. Brin frowned-how long was the priest going to be? Brin needed to find the dragonborn and-
Brin cursed. There was Mehen, storming past the gap between the two wagons, fearsome-looking as ever. Brin couldn’t very well spring past Tam and not expect trouble.
But then Torm or Selune or Lady Luck, Tymora herself, smiled down, and Tam’s hand shot out and grabbed the dragonborn’s thick upper arm.
“Hold, friend.”
Mehen turned and bared his yellow teeth. “What do you want?”
Tam smiled, at perfect ease. “Well met to you as well.” He held out a hand. “The name is Tam.”
Mehen ignored the hand. “Mehen.”
Tam frowned, looking surprised at that, and Brin wished he knew why. Mehen stared the priest down.
“You’re the one who saved the caravan earlier. You and the tieflings.”
“We did what we could.”
“You turned the tide,” Tam said. “I, for one, am grateful for that. Are you heading to Neverwinter?”
Mehen shrugged. “North. We’re tracking someone.”
“Through Neverwinter at least?” When Mehen gave another shrug, he added, “I’ll not lie to you, I’m looking for a few extra swords.”
“We’re not traveling with your caravan, priest.”
Tam smiled. “It’s not my caravan, and I don’t belong to it any longer. I need to get to the city more quickly than they can travel. I don’t dare go on my own. I was hoping I might hire your services.”
Mehen folded his arms across his chest. “You hire me, you hire my girls.”
“The tieflings?”
“The same. So I put that to you, priest: are you certain you wish to travel with a pair of ‘devil-children’ and a godless dragonborn?”
“Depends on what you’re charging,” Tam said. “If you think you’ll shock me with tieflings and unbelievers, I’ve seen things that are much stranger and much worse. I’ll give you two gold pieces for an escort to Neverwinter.”
Mehen scratched his empty piercings. He’d be a fool not to take it, Brin thought. Two gold for an escort to a place he was traveling near anyway, why not? Two gold for taking on another weapon, really.
Brin thought of the way the priest had waded into the fray, that chain slashing through the air with grim accuracy. It would make more sense for Mehen to pay Tam.
“On one condition,” Mehen warned. “You leave my girls alone. You so much as frighten them and-”
“None of that,” Tam said gently. “I’m no young idiot full of spleen and holy fire. You and I are more of a kind than I am to that sort. My days of fervent conversion are long past, and my soul is old enough to have more stains on it than your charges’. At least, consider it.”
Mehen was silent a long moment. “I’ll consider it.”
“In the morning then,” Tam said. They shook hands once more, and Mehen made his way back across the courtyard to question another group of travelers that had just rolled in.
Perfect, Brin thought. So perfect he thanked every god he could think of and swore he’d leave offerings in as many temples as he could find. He struggled to his feet, shoved the whiskey bottle in his haversack and stepped out, just as Tam was hoisting his own bag to his shoulder.
“Well met. Harper Tam,” he added with a little pleasure.
Tam started and stared at Brin. “Well,” he said, after a moment. “The piper who’s no piper. You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?”
“Quiet enough,” Brin said. “Do you think Mehen will like the fact you’re not only a priest, but a spy?”
“To be honest?” Tam said. “I don’t think he’ll know what a Harper is.”
“That’s all the worse though. He’s definitely the sort to assume if he doesn’t know it, it’s probably something bad, don’t you think?”
“Probably,” Tam said mildly. “I’d rather he didn’t think about it at all. You’re rather good at reading people, aren’t you? Did they teach you that in Cormyr?”
Brin tried to affect the same cool mildness, but inside he was cursing. What had given him away? “Of course,” he said. “It’s practically a requirement for citizenship.”
“Let’s cut to the quick of it-what were you calling yourself? Brin?” Tam folded his arms. “You want something. Tell me and we’ll see what needs to be done. Less entertaining, I’m sure, than the way they do things in Suzail … but you’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”
