The Spine of the World Page 16

  But it would not, the woman knew. It would be gone with the break of dawn, never to return. She’d had her one moment. A lump caught in her throat.

  For Jaka Sculi, the moment was a bit different, though certainly no less satisfying. He had taken Meralda’s virginity, had beaten the lord of Auckney himself to that special place. He, a lowly peasant in Lord Feringal’s eyes, had taken something from Feringal that could never be replaced, something more valuable than all the gold and gems in Castle Auck.

  Jaka liked that feeling, but he feared, as did Meralda, that this afterglow would not last. “Will you marry him?” he asked suddenly.

  Beautiful in the moonlight, Meralda turned a sleepy eye his way. “Let’s not be talking about such things tonight,” the woman implored him. “Nothing about Lord Feringal or anyone else.”

  “I must know, Meralda,” Jaka said firmly, sitting up to stare down at her. “Tell me.”

  Meralda gave the young man the most plaintive look he had ever seen. “He can do for my ma and da,” she tried to explain. “You must understand that the choice is not mine to make,” an increasingly desperate Meralda finished lamely.

  “Understand?” Jaka echoed incredulously, leaping to his feet and walking away. “Understand! How can I after what we just did? Oh, why did you come to me if you planned to marry Lord Feringal?”

  Meralda caught up to him and grabbed him by the shoulders. “I came out for one night where I might choose,” she explained. “I came out because I love you and wish with all my heart that things could be different.”

  “We had just one brief moment,” Jaka whined, turning back to face her.

  Meralda came up on her tiptoes and kissed him gently. “We’ve more time,” she explained, an offer Jaka couldn’t resist. A short while later, Jaka was lying on the grass again, while Meralda stood beside him, pulling on her clothes.

  “Deny him,” Jaka said unexpectedly, and the young woman stopped and stared down at him. “Deny Lord Feringal,” Jaka said again, as casually as if it were the most simple decision. “Forget him and run away with me. To Luskan, or even all the way to Waterdeep.”

  Meralda sighed and shook her head. “I’m begging you not to ask it of me,” she started to say, but Jaka would not relent.

  “Think of the life we might find together,” he said. “Running through the streets of Waterdeep, magical Waterdeep! Running and laughing and making love. Raising a family together—how beautiful our children shall be.”

  “Stop it!” Meralda snapped so forcefully that she stole the words from Jaka’s mouth. “You know I want to, and you also know I can’t.” Meralda sighed again profoundly. It was the toughest thing she had ever done in her entire life, but she bent to kiss Jaka’s angry mouth one last time, then started toward home.

  Jaka lay on the field for a long while, his mind racing. He had achieved his conquest, and it had been as sweet as he had expected. Still, it would not hold. Lord Feringal would marry Meralda, would beat him in the end. The thought of it made him sick. He stared up at the moon, now shaded behind lines of swift-moving clouds. “Fie this life,” he grumbled.

  There had to be something he could do to beat Lord Feringal, something to pull Meralda back to him.

  A confident smile spread over Jaka’s undeniably handsome face. He remembered the sounds Meralda had made, the way her body had moved in harmony with his own.

  He wouldn’t lose.

  ou will tell me of the poison,” said Prelate Vohltin, an associate of Camerbunne. He was sitting in a comfortable chair in the middle of the brutally hot room, his frame outlined by the glow of the huge, blazing hearth behind him.

  “Never good,” Morik replied, drawing another twist of the thumbscrew from the bulky, sadistic, one-eyed (and he didn’t even bother to wear an eye patch) gaoler. This one had more orcish blood than human. “Poison, I mean,” the rogue clarified, his voice going tight as waves of agony shot up his arm.

  “It was not the same as the poison in the vial,” Vohltin explained, and he nodded to the gaoler, who walked around the back of Morik. The rogue tried to follow the half-orc’s movements, but both his arms were pulled outright, shackled tight at the wrists. One hand was in a press, the other in a framework box of strange design, its panels holding the hand open, fingers extended so that the gaoler could “play” with them one at a time.

  The prelate shrugged, held his hands up, and when Morik didn’t immediately reply a cat-o’-nine-tails switched across the rogue’s naked back, leaving deep lines that hurt all the more for the sweat.

  “You had the poison,” Vohltin logically asserted, “and the insidious weapons, but it was not the same poison in the vial we recovered. A clever ruse, I suspect, to throw us off the correct path in trying to heal Captain Deudermont’s wounds.”

  “A ruse indeed,” Morik said dryly. The gaoler hit him again with the whip and raised his arm for a third strike. However, Vohltin raised his arm to hold the brutal thug at bay.

  “You admit it?” Vohltin asked.

  “All of it,” Morik replied. “A ruse perpetrated by someone else, delivering to me and Wulfgar what you consider the evidence against us, then striking out at Deudermont when he came over to speak—”

  “Enough!” said an obviously frustrated Vohltin, for he and all of the other interrogators had heard the same nonsense over and over from both Morik and Wulfgar. The prelate rose and turned to leave, shaking his head. Morik knew what that meant.

  “I can tell you other things,” the rogue pleaded, but Vohltin just lifted his arm and waved his hand dismissively.

  Morik started to speak out again, but he lost his words and his breath as the gaoler slugged him hard in the kidney. Morik yelped and jumped, which only made the pain in his hand and thumb all the more exquisite. Still, despite all self-control, he jumped again when the gaoler struck him another blow, for the thug was wearing a metal strip across his knuckles, inlaid with several small pins.

  Morik thought of his drow visitors that night long ago in the small apartment he kept near the Cutlass. Did they know what was happening? Would they come and rescue Wulfgar, and if they did, would they rescue Morik as well? He had almost told Wulfgar about them in those first hours when they had been chained in the same room, hesitating only because he feared that Wulfgar, so obviously lost in agonizing memories, wouldn’t even hear him and that somebody else might.

  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the magistrates could pin on him, as well a charge that he was an associate of dark elves? Not that it mattered. Another punch slammed in, then the gaoler went for the whip again to cut a few new lines on his back.

  If those drow didn’t come, his fate, Morik knew, was sealed in a most painful way.

  Robillard had only been gone for a few moments, but when he returned to Deudermont’s room he found half a dozen priests working furiously on the captain. Camerbunne stood back, directing the group.

  “He is on fire inside,” the priest explained, and even from this distance Robillard could see the truth of that statement from the color of the feverish Deudermont and the great streaks of sweat that trailed down his face. Robillard noticed, too, that the room was growing colder, and he realized that a pair of the six working on Deudermont were casting spells, not to heal, but to create cold.

  “I have spells that will do the same,” Robillard offered. “Powerful spells on scrolls back at Sea Sprite. Perhaps my captain would be better served if your priests were able to focus on healing.”

  “Run,” Camerbunne said, and Robillard did him one better, using a series of dimensional doors to get back to Sea Sprite in a matter of moments. The wizard fished through his many components and scroll tubes, magical items and finely crafted pieces he meant to enchant when he found the time, at last coming upon a scroll with a trio of spells for creating ice, along with the necessary components. Cursing himself for not being better prepared and vowing that he would devote all his magical energies the next day to memorizing such spells, Robillard gated back to the
chamber in the chapel. The priests were still working frenetically, and the old herb woman was there as well, rubbing a creamy, white salve all over Deudermont’s wet chest.

  Robillard prepared the components—a vial of ice troll blood, a bit of fur from the great white bear—and unrolled the scroll, flattening it on a small table. He tore his gaze from the dying Deudermont, focusing on the task at hand, and with the discipline only a wizard might know he methodically went to work, chanting softly and waggling his fingers and hands. He poured the cold ice troll blood on his thumb and index finger, then clasped the fur between them and blew onto it, once, twice, thrice, then cast the fur to the floor along a bare wall at the side of the room. A tap-tapping began there, hail bouncing off the floor, louder as the chunks came larger and larger, until, within a matter of moments, Captain Deudermont was laid upon a new bed, a block of ice.

  “This is the critical hour,” Camerbunne explained. “His fever is too great, and I fear he may die of it. Blood as thin as water pours from his orifices. I have more priests waiting to step in when this group has exhausted their healing spells, and I have sent several to other chapels, even of rival gods, begging aid.” Camerbunne smiled at the wizard’s surprised expression. “They will come,” he assured Robillard. “All of them.”

  Robillard was not a religious man, mainly because in his days of trying to find a god that fit his heart, he found himself distressed at the constant bickering and rivalries of the many varied churches. So he understood the compliment Camerbunne had just paid to the captain. What a great reputation Deudermont had built among the honest folk of the northern Sword Coast that all would put aside rivalries and animosity to join in for his sake.

  They did come as Camerbunne promised, priests of nearly every persuasion in Luskan, flocking in six at a time to expend their healing energies over the battered captain.

  Deudermont’s fever broke around midnight. He opened a weary eye to find Robillard asleep next to him. The wizard’s head was cradled on his folded arms on the captain’s small bed, next to Deudermont’s side.

  “How many days?” the weak captain asked, for he recognized that something was very wrong here, very strange, as if he had just awakened from a long and terrible nightmare. Also, though he was wrapped in a sheet, he knew that he was on no normal bed, for it was too hard and his backside was wet.

  Robillard jumped up at the sound, eyes wide. He put his hand to Deudermont’s forehead, and his smile widened considerably when he felt that the man was cool to the touch.

  “Camerbunne!” he called, drawing a curious look from the confused captain.

  It was the most beautiful sight Robillard had ever seen.

  “Three circuits,” came the nasally voice of Jharkheld the Magistrate, a thin old wretch who took far too much pleasure in his tasks for Morik’s liking.

  Every day the man walked through the dungeon caverns, pointing out those whose time had come for Prisoner’s Carnival and declaring, based on the severity of their crime, or, perhaps, merely from his own mood, the preparation period for each. A “circuit,” according to the gaoler who regularly beat Morik, was the time it took for a slow walk around the plaza where the Prisoner’s Carnival was held. So the man Jharkheld had just labeled for three circuits would be brought up to carnival and tortured by various means for about half an hour before Jharkheld even began the public hearing. It was done to rouse the crowd, Morik understood, and the old wretch Jharkheld liked the hearty cheers.

  “So you have come to beat me again,” Morik said when the brutish gaoler walked into the natural stone chamber where the rogue was chained to the wall. “Have you brought the holy man with you? Or the magistrate, perhaps? Is he to join us to order me up to the carnival?”

  “No beatin’ today, Morik the Rogue,” the gaoler said. “They’re not wantin’ anything more from ye. Captain Deudermont’s not needin’ ye anymore.”

  “He died?” Morik asked, and he couldn’t mask a bit of concern in his tone. If Deudermont had died, the charge against Wulfgar and Morik would be heinous murder, and Morik had been around Luskan long enough to witness more than a few executions of people so charged, executions by torture that lasted the better part of a day, at least.

  “Nah,” the gaoler said with obvious sadness in his tone. “Nah, we’re not so lucky. Deudermont’s livin’ and all the better, so it looks like yerself and Wulfgar’ll get killed quick and easy.”

  “Oh, joy,” said Morik.

  The brute paused for a moment and looked around, then waded in close to Morik and hit him a series of wicked blows about the stomach and chest.

  “I’m thinkin’ that Magistrate Jharkheld’ll be callin’ ye up to carnival soon enough,” the gaoler explained. “Wanted to get in a few partin’s, is all.”

  “My thanks,” the ever-sarcastic rogue replied, and that got him a left hook across the jaw that knocked out a tooth and filled his mouth with warm blood.

  Deudermont’s strength was fast returning, so much so that the priests had a very difficult task in keeping the man in his bed. Still they prayed over him, offering spells of healing, and the old herbalist woman came in with pots of tea and another soothing salve.

  “It could not have been Wulfgar,” Deudermont protested to Robillard, who had told him the entire story since the near tragedy in front of the Cutlass.

  “Wulfgar and Morik,” Robillard said firmly. “I watched it, Captain, and a good thing for you that I was watching!”

  “It makes no sense to me,” Deudermont replied. “I know Wulfgar.”

  “Knew,” Robillard corrected.

  “But he is a friend of Drizzt and Catti-brie, and we both know that those two would have nothing to do with an assassin—nothing good, at least.”

  “Was a friend,” Robillard stubbornly corrected. “Now Wulfgar makes friends the likes of Morik the Rogue, a notorious street thug, and another pair, I believe, worse by far.”

  “Another pair?” Deudermont asked, and even as he did, Waillan Micanty and another crewman from Sea Sprite entered the room. They went to the captain first, bowed and saluted, both smiling widely, for Deudermont seemed even better than he had earlier in the day when all the crew had come running to Robillard’s joyous call.

  “Have you found them?” the wizard asked impatiently.

  “I believe we have,” a smug-looking Waillan replied. “Hiding in the hold of a boat just two berths down from Sea Sprite.”

  “They haven’t come out much of late,” the other crewman offered, “but we talked to some men at the Cutlass who thought they knew the pair and claimed that the one-eyed sailor was dropping gold coins without regard.”

  Robillard nodded knowingly. So it was a contracted attack, and those two were a part of the plan.

  “With your permission, Captain,” the wizard said, “I should like to take Sea Sprite out of dock.”

  Deudermont looked at him curiously, for the captain had no idea what this talk might be about.

  “I sent Mister Micanty on a search for two other accomplices in the attack against you,” Robillard explained. “It appears that we may have located them.”

  “But Mister Micanty just said they were in port,” Deudermont reasoned.

  “They’re aboard Bowlegged Lady, as paying passengers. When I put Sea Sprite behind them, all weapons to bear, they will likely turn the pair over without a fight,” Robillard reasoned, his eyes aglow.

  Now Deudermont managed a chuckle. “I only wish that I could go with you,” he said. The three took that as their cue and turned immediately for the door.

  “What of Magistrate Jharkheld?” Deudermont asked quickly before they could skitter away.

  “I bade him to hold on the justice for the pair,” Robillard replied, “as you requested. We shall need them to confirm that these newest two were in on the attack, as well.”

  Deudermont nodded and waved the trio away, falling into his own thoughts. He still didn’t believe that Wulfgar could be involved, though he had no idea how
he might prove it. In Luskan, as in most of the cities of Faerûn, even the appearance of criminal activity could get a man hanged, or drawn and quartered, or whatever unpleasant manner of death the presiding magistrate could think up.

  “An honest trader, I be, and ye got no proof otherways,” Captain Pinnickers of Bowlegged Lady declared, leaning over the taffrail and calling out protests against the appearance of the imposing Sea Sprite, catapult, ballista, and ranks of archers trained on his decks.

  “As I have already told you, Captain Pinnickers, we have come not for your ship, nor for you, but for a pair you harbor,” Robillard answered with all due respect.

  “Bah! Go away with ye, or I’ll be callin’ out the city guard!” the tough, old sea dog declared.

  “No difficult task,” Robillard replied smugly, and he motioned to the wharves beside Bowlegged Lady. Captain Pinnickers turned to see a hundred city soldiers or more lining the dock, grim-faced and armed for battle.

  “You have nowhere to run or hide,” Robillard explained. “I ask your permission one more time as a courtesy to you. For your own sake, allow me and my crew to board your ship and find the pair we seek.”

  “My ship!” Pinnickers said, poking a finger into his chest.

  “Or I shall order my gunners to have at it,” Robillard explained, standing tall and imposing at Sea Sprite’s rail, all pretense of politeness flown. “I shall join in with spells of destruction you cannot even begin to imagine. Then we will search the wreckage for the pair ourselves.”

  Pinnickers seemed to shrink back just a bit, but he held fast his grim and determined visage.