The spirit snorted in derision, then tossed his head back and laughed, a move that made the interlocking silver rings dangling from his ears bob and jingle. 'Another dolt,' he chuckled. 'That is my curse, I suppose, to be servant to idiots and dolts.' With exaggerated deference, he placed the palms of both sets of hands together and bowed. 'If that is all, O master of men and beasts?'
The silver phantom disappeared without waiting for a reply.
'Yes… most unusual,' Zin repeated. He casually rolled down his sleeves and retied them at the wrist.
'Can you tell me what that was all about?'
'It should be obvious, really. The statue you found was a housing for some sort of phantom servant. The four arms make him a better guardian, more dextrous at menial tasks, and so on.' The scholar pointed to the medallion. 'His name, I believe, is Skuld. The piece has an early forgemark from the city of Bezantur on it, so I assume it to date from, oh, thirteen to fourteen hundred years ago. I wonder how it got to that ruin in the Stonelands?'
Artus took a swallow from the mug set beside him. 'So he's very old and has a cheery name. That doesn't help me a great deal. What is Skuld supposed to do?'
Zin sighed. 'Their antiquity makes the runes on the back of the medallion difficult to translate, but I managed a few: protect, danger, and eternity.'
'Eternity? You mean I'm stuck with this forever?'
'Perhaps. Perhaps not. The word is part of the inscription, but I can't fathom the context. Skuld reared his bald head before I could get that far.' The scholar buttoned his vest, then cleared his throat noisily. 'Gather your coat if you wish to keep it,' he said.
Before Artus could ask why, the owner of the Black Rat stormed out of the kitchens. He was a big man, with wavy black hair banging into his eyes. Artus might have wondered if the tavernkeeper could see clearly, save that he headed straight for Zin. Grease and ale stains spotted the apron around his waist and the shirt that partially covered his hairy chest. In one massive hand the Rat's owner held a meat cleaver. The other was balled into a fist. 'I don't mind magic in my place,' he shouted, 'but if you scare my customers away, you're not welcome.'
Sure enough, only the barmaid remained in the taproom. The other customers had wisely bolted for the street the moment the spirit had appeared. The paladin's breakfast remained half-eaten, and the Sembian sailors had spilled their drinks and toppled their chairs on the way out.
'Sorry for the commotion,' Zin offered. He donned his heavy cloak and picked up his satchel. 'The money should cover any loss.' Somehow, in all the confusion, he'd taken the time to leave a neat pillar of silver dragons in the middle of the table. The coins more than covered the trouble. 'Come, Master Cimber. I should get back to the temple.'
They left the Black Rat, the sour looks of both the tavernkeeper and the barmaid following them. A few people stared as they left the place-most notably the Sembian sailors and a small group of gawkers they had gathered around them. That crowd scattered when it became clear the Black Rat was not, as the sailors had suggested frantically, going to be blown into the Inner Sea by a magical explosion or leveled by a rampaging spirit. They looked vaguely disappointed.
It was getting close to highsun, and the streets near the docks and the marketplace were teeming with people. Merchants hawked their wares from storefronts or from behind the handles of small carts. Servants about their masters' business bustled from merchant to merchant, filling their baskets or their arms with wares. Grubby children playfully chased dogs from houses and shops, or not-so-playfully flushed rats out of food stalls. Overhead, gulls wheeled and shrieked. No one seemed to notice the chill winter air, though the carts rattled more than usual as they bumped over the frozen ground. Only a choking snowfall would slow business, and then only until the snow stopped falling long enough to be trampled into slush.
Zintermi of Oghma passed through the chaotic thoroughfares as if he were surrounded by an invisible shield. No one bumped into him. No overeager merchants grabbed his spotless sleeves, trying to pass off sawdust for powdered gryphon claw or some other exotic spell component. Even the children and dogs seemed ensorcelled to steer well clear of the scholar in their scrambles.
Artus was not so fortunate.
In short succession he was buffeted by a portly woman carrying a sack of flour, a ragman's cart, and a young boy running full tilt after a mechanical toy dragon that had escaped him. As he caught up, Artus grabbed Zin by the arm and pulled him into a doorway. 'What am I going to do? The mages I've seen tell me they can't remove the enchantment.'
'Skuld probably wouldn't let the enchantment be lifted,' the scholar noted. 'And I believe he has the power to stop all but the most skilled mages, ones with expertise in Mulhorandi magic.' For the first time, his eyes took on a sympathetic cast. 'Artus, I know of only one such-'
'Phyrra al-Quim?'
Zin nodded. 'Even if you wanted to speak with her, she resides in Tantras now. The murder charges are still pending against you there, are they not?'
'You know they are,' Artus sighed, slumping against the door. 'I wouldn't bother with Phyrra anyway. That business with the Cult of Frost was just the end of a long feud. She hated me when we were both your students. She thought you gave me too many breaks.'
'I did,' the scholar said flatly. After glancing at the bright highsun sky visible between the close-set roofs, he added, 'I really must get back to the temple. I can do a little research, but it will take some time and some more prayers to Oghma.' He smiled at the exasperated look that crossed Artus's face. 'Don't worry, though. Skuld may have a bit of an attitude, but I believe his purpose is to protect you from danger. This unfortunate incident could actually work to your favor, just so long as you stay out of trouble until we quantify the spirit's purpose and powers.'
Artus watched Zintermi pass unruffled through the bustling, noisy throng. There were few men he respected as much as the scholar, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to believe his hopeful prognosis. Artus boasted many strengths and skills, but staying clear of trouble was not counted among them.
'Welcome back, Master Cimber. We've missed you.'
The butler who served the Society of Stalwart Adventurers bowed his magnificently horned head in deference to Artus. He took the cloak the young man offered, folding it gently over his arm. 'Sir Hydel is awaiting you in the library.' With a red, clawed hand, the butler motioned for him to enter.
'Thanks, Uther,' Artus said distractedly. He barely gave the butler's demonic features a second glance as he hurried inside.
The children gathered across the street were another matter entirely. It was as if the youth of Suzail had posted a schedule, for there were always at least six children loitering there, day and night. Some begged money from wealthier members of the society, others picked pockets of adventurers and passers-by alike. All the ragged urchins taunted Uther whenever he answered the door.
The butler had been handsome once, in a mundane sort of way. Some women found him attractive still, though only those favoring a more exotic lifestyle. A spell, cast five years ago by a young dandy from Waterdeep who'd had too much to drink and too little training in magic, had misfired rather spectacularly. The dandy had, in a fit of unoriginality, decided to punish the butler for refusing to refill his glass by giving him an ass's head, albeit temporarily. It hadn't quite worked that way.
Uther had suffered many indignities at the hands of the younger members of the society, and he took this all in stride. He shrugged and went laconically about his business when it was discovered the dandy's spell had made him rather resistant to any further magic, especially any aimed at restoring his mundane good looks. The huge trust established by the dandy's family-the extremely wealthy Thanns of Waterdeep-helped him adjust somewhat. Truth be told, though, Uther secretly enjoyed his new appearance. To discourage gate-crashers, all he need do was narrow his slitted yellow eyes and arch one wicked eyebrow. He'd never been forced to use the pair of twisted horns atop his head, the black claws that capped his gnarled fingers, or the pair of fangs protruding from his thin lips. Their very existence was enough to stop any brawl that broke out in the club's gaming room.
This particular afternoon, the butler was in high spirits. He placed Artus's cloak inside on a table. Then, letting his breath puff into the chill air like a snorting bull, he snarled menacingly and took a half-dozen quick steps toward the children. They dropped the sticks they'd been using as mock horns and scattered. Their whoops of fright could be heard echoing from the alleys all around the club.
