CHAPTER FIVE

AIRSPUR
THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

THE SPECTACLE OF DEMASCUS’S STOLEN SCARF DREW THE attention of nearby eyes only for a moment before people drifted back to their own concerns. As some shops shuttered, others opened for the night crowd, including a few smaller eateries and theaters. Their windows were haloed with vapor and candlelight.

Chant Morven watched the pale man, curious to see what he’d do. Demascus stood staring at the point in the sky where the the aerial thief had slipped over the rim of a higher earthmote, his mouth slightly open in shock.

“Well, isn’t that something?” said Chant, and frowned. He wondered if he had any liability in what he’d just witnessed. It’d been his job to see the scarf safe for the last four years. Seeing it stolen right before his eyes, despite that he’d handed it and his responsibility over to its rightful owner … well, he needed to think about it.

Demascus slowly turned and gazed at Chant. The expression on the man’s face was one of shock. His mouth worked, but no sounds emerged.

“Hey, are you all right?” Chant had seen that look before, but usually only on people who’d just been stabbed in a lung.

“I’m not all right. I need … that scarf.”

“Was it a memento?”

“I’d … hoped it would prove so.”

What’s that supposed to mean? Chant studied Demascus, but the man seemed out of words, lost at sea. He noticed again, as he had four years earlier, the odd designs that marked the back of Demascus’s hands, like the gray roots of something far bigger concealed beneath his clothes. He suddenly wondered if they were not tattoos at all, as he’d supposed all along, but markings more integral to the man’s body.

Chant shifted his weight. He should walk away. He’d already been punched in the face for trying to break up the rabble in front of his shop. He had enough troubles of his own to deal with. His next payment to Raneger was overdue again, and the question about what he was going to do about his son Jaul was never far from him.

But Demascus looked as if he was being pushed under water by his situation. It was a feeling the pawnbroker could relate to. And that lingering feeling of responsibility toward the wrap he’d held for so long was an unfamiliar barb that kept poking him.

The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could call them back. He said, “Remember I told you I have a sideline in finding secrets around the city? I can find out who that thief was, maybe even find out what neighborhood she normally works; I’d have recognized her if she was based around here.”

An expression of gratitude gradually warmed Demascus’s features.

“That … Yes. I need that scarf.”

“So I gather. And I need interesting distractions to keep boredom at bay. Still interested in heading over to the Lantern?” Chant gestured toward the tavern. At the thought of food, his expansive gut rumbled.

Demascus’s chest swelled as if in preparation for a scream. But then he let it out and nodded. He said, “Yes, let’s do that. I can’t remember the last time I ate.”

Chant led Demascus into the boisterous establishment.

The aroma of garlic and seared squid settled over him. Suddenly, he knew that despite everything else, coming to the Lantern had been the right choice.

They sat near the wall. Chant asked the barkeep to bring them each a plate of bluestream squid and spiced rolls. And ale.

He let his gaze wander the establishment. He was very happy to note that Garth was nowhere to be seen. His cronies had dragged him out of the plaza, but apparently not back to the Lantern. Then he saw Mielka.

“Excuse me a moment, will you?” he said.

“Of course,” replied Demascus, who seemed in better spirits already.

The pawnbroker motioned to a short woman wearing a dull green stormcloak. She came over and leaned close. He explained in a loud whisper what he wanted. At one point she glanced disinterestedly at Demascus as Chant continued whispering. Finally she nodded, and he passed the woman a couple coins. She made a beeline for the exit.

Chant returned his attention to Demascus. Just in time to see the man cover his face with his hands.

“Hey, none of that now, we’ve got beer coming.”

Demascus sighed, but let his hands drop.

“That was Meilka,” Chant explained. “She does odd jobs for me. I gave her a description of the thief who took your wrap. With any luck, we’ll know something in a day or two.”

“Really?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Before Demascus could offer his opinion one way or another, two pints of bitter ale landed on their table, courtesy of the returning barkeep. Chant slid one over to Demascus.

He raised his mug, heavy with sloshing fluid, and said, “To finding out who took your wrap!”

Demascus clinked his mug with Chant’s.

Chant drank. The ale was yeasty and sharp, and cooler than the surrounding air. It tasted slightly of cinnamon. As far as Chant was concerned, it was the best in Airspur. By the approving look on his companion’s face, Demascus agreed.

“Better?” said Chant. “Good.” Chant felt better too. It was easier to push his own plight aside. The familiarity of his hand curled around the handle of the mug, and the kindling warmth in his stomach provided its own special comfort, if not taken too far.

When the barkeep reappeared with two heaping plates of food, the feeling of well-being doubled, and Chant smiled, feeling almost merry.

They set to. The squid was coated with slivered almonds, garlic, and red pepper. Chant fancied himself something of a gourmand, and knew that this same dish commanded triple the cost in some of the more fashionable neighborhoods. He knew it because he was the one who’d managed to finagle the recipe from those famous houses through his fledgling informant’s network, and pass it on to the Lantern’s proprietor.

When Chant recovered from his food trance, on account of there being nothing left on his plate, he realized Demascus was already finished with his portion.

Chant laughed and said, “Not many can beat me through a serving of food.”

Demascus grinned ruefully. The man’s features and posture were noticeably more relaxed.

Demascus said, “What kind of coin are we talking for identifying the thief?”

Chant brushed crumbs from his vest and said, “Give me a tenday, and I’ll have her identity nailed. I’m thinking twenty coins ought to cover my expenses, plus leave me a fair sum for my trouble.”

“A tenday!” Chant had expected the man to try to bargain him down on the amount, not the time.

“These things take time. I’m no wizard; I can’t summon helpful spirits that know too much, and if I could, you’d be on the hook for more than ten times that.”

“All right. Better than nothing.” Demascus allowed his chin to drop slightly.

Time to change the subject; Chant didn’t like morose dinner companions.

He gestured with his fork, pointing at Demascus’s jacket. He said, “So, you run with the Firestorm Cabal these days? You didn’t wear the red four years ago.”

“The Cabal? That’s what that drunk accused me of. Because of this jacket I’m wearing?”

“Yeah, what else? Or, what, you’re just wearing their colors for a lark?”

Demascus examined his jacket cuffs, his eyes narrowing as if he was remembering something unpleasant.

Then he looked up and blurted, “Tell me about the Firestorm Cabal.”

Chant felt his eyes widen as he said, “What do you mean, tell you about them?”

“Chant, pretend for a moment that I don’t know anything about red jackets or the significance of the one I’m wearing; just tell me what the Hells the Firestorm Cabal is!”

“All right, sure. Don’t burst a vein.”

Chant took a drink of his beer. Then he said, “All right, here’s the deal. Lots of folks believe the Cabal is pledged to the protection of Akanûl and genasi interests. And they do sporadically guard the nation from threats on sea, land, and in the air. They are especially vigilant whenever dragonborn out of Tymanther are seen near the borders. Most people see the Firestorm Cabal as champions of the people.”

“ ‘Most people’?”

“Well, I’m in a position to know better. The truth is they’re an organization of mercenaries and freebooters. Many who wear the red act more like villains than heroes. To my mind, all the good they do can be put down to calculated self-interest. Folks living on the higher motes are more likely to buy the Cabal’s line, but down here, most think of ’em as privateers, and they’re not welcome.”

“That explains a lot …” He ran a hand down one sleeve of his jacket, shaking his head with disdain.

“You’re not a Firestorm Cabal member, are you?” said Chant. “And you expect me to believe you’ve never heard of the Cabal?”

“Ah … something like that.”

Chant didn’t know if he should believe Demascus’s statment. Who didn’t know about the Cabal? Demascus was obviously no genasi, so he probably wasn’t a native of Airspur. His lack of knowledge suddenly struck Chant as dangerously naive.

Chant settled on saying only, “You, my friend, have some issues.”

“More than you know.”

Demascus took a long swallow of ale, then set his mug down carefully before him. He continued, “I’ve got a confession to make.”

Sharkbite, Chant thought. He really is a Cabal sellsword with a contract on me!

Chant reached for the hand crossbow hanging from his belt. “You’re working for Raneger,” he accused, his voice tight.

“Whoa, hold on!” Demascus said. “I want your help, not your blood. Here’s the simple truth; I don’t know what the Hells is going on. I woke this morning lying in the middle of some old shrine west of the city. I woke with … no memory of how I got there, or memory of, of even my own name! A few bits have since come back; I remember owning that scarf, for instance, and someone who called me by the name Demascus, but …” He shrugged.

Chant blinked. “You seem pretty functional for someone with no memory.”

“Only because I managed to fool you. Some unconscious thread obviously guided my feet to your shop, though it seems I could have just as easily missed it. I didn’t know you had my property until you told me.”

“Incredible.” Chant decided to act, for the moment, as if he were buying Demascus’s claim. He’d heard stories of people who’d been cursed or fumbled the casting of a spell, and even of spellplague victims who’d had their minds jumbled. He let his hand fall from his weapon stock and grabbed his ale tankard.

Chant sipped, then said, “And how is it you’re wearing the red?”

“When I woke up, I wasn’t wearing any clothing. Dead men lay all around me, though, and they all had coats like this one. I helped myself to what I could find.”

“You woke up in the middle of some sort of Firestorm Cabal massacre? Just this morning?” Chant hadn’t heard about recent Cabal losses. If Demascus was telling him the truth, he might just have a scoop on his hands. Which was as good as coin in his pocket if he could parley that information to the right client …

Demascus lowered his voice and said, “Besides the genasi, there were a few … demons, I think. I think it was a summoning ritual that went wrong. Way wrong! And I think I was intended to be the sacrifice. Whatever they did wiped my memory. I’m just lucky they didn’t finish what they’d set out to do.”

Chant frowned. He said, “Do you think they cursed you before the sacrifice, so if someone found and interrogated your body with necromancy afterward, your corpse wouldn’t be able to finger them?”

“I … Wow, that’s morbid. But yes, I guess that’s possible. I don’t remember enough to know.”

“Well, you remembered something when Garth attacked you out in the plaza. That light show was impressive.”

Demascus gave a half nod. “When they all started coming at me, I remembered standing on a sort of battlefield, fighting undead. A lot of undead. It was just a fragment though. I called some kind of storm of light to engulf the deathless …” He shook his head. “And I had my scarf! Plus a few other things, including an ancient sword that pretty much screamed Power.”

“Mmm-hmm. And that’s it? You don’t know why you were facing down an undead horde? Seems like an odd time to remember such a thing, in the middle of a glorified bar fight.”

Demascus shrugged.

“On the other hand, probably a good thing you remembered it; it was flashy. The way you put down Garth probably saved you from having to fight a whole lot more idiots.”

Demascus said, “I suppose that’s true.”

The pawnbroker fingered where Garth had punched him. It would probably leave an ugly bruise. He sighed. “Well, if you remembered your name, and your scarf, and now that bit about all the undead, it seems like your memories are returning. Maybe if you give it enough time, they’ll all come back.”

“Maybe.” Demascus didn’t sound too sure.

“I wonder who you really are. Obviously someone with some power to throw around.” An exciting prospect, all by itself. Because that would make Demascus someone it would be worth his time to befriend.

Demascus said, “Gods of Shadow, Chant, no one wonders that more than me!”

A simple idea occurred to the pawnbroker. He later blamed the ale for blurting it out before thinking through its implications. Chant said, “Hey, you know who probably knows who you are? The Firestorm Cabal. They’re the ones who left you at the shrine. They probably know all about you.”

Demascus sat straigher. He said, “Can you take me to them?”

“What, to the Motherhouse? Well, sure, but—”

“Wonderful.” Demascus slapped his palm down on the table hard enough to make their tankards jump. “Let’s go.”