CHAPTER EIGHT

AIRSPUR
THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

WAKE UP.”

Demascus pulled the extra pillow over his head. Someone shook him. His dreamy lassitude frayed. He moved the pillow away from his face and said, “What?”

The overweight pawnbroker was leaning over him holding a lantern. A purring pocket of warmth on his chest proved to be Fable, who was staring at him with a disquieting fascination.

“Oh, right.”

Demascus remembered. They’d decided to get some rest, then rise a few hours before dawn, when fire wizards were least likely to be stirring around their towers. It had seemed like a good plan a few hours ago. Now, with the lantern shinning into his squinting eyes, it struck him as the height of idiocy.

“Time’s wasting,” said Chant. The human set the lantern down on a side table next to the cot. Chant had procured the frame bed from a storeroom heaped with curiosities. He’d set it up in the rear of the store, next to a display that included a stuffed moose head.

Demascus sat up and pulled on his boots. A small platter of olives and bread, and a mug of tea lay on the table next to the lantern. On the floor next to the cot was the sword he’d taken from the shrine. A long leather jacket dyed black with scarlet stitching was draped over the end of the counter.

“I found you a new coat. A merchant pawned it a few tendays ago. He needed the coin to pay off a hefty festhall debt.”

“Thanks.” Demascus helped himself to the food and drink. He rose and belted on the sword, then turned to examine the jacket. It was of a finer cut than the red coat he’d returned to the Cabal, but the red pattern along the hem was especially vivid. Six silver buttons ran down the front, and dramatic epaulets erupted from each shoulder. He said, “It’s quite … attention-grabbing.”

“Nice, huh?” Chant grinned.

“Yeah.” He wasn’t sure what to think of it. “How much do I owe you for something like this?”

“We’ll work it out after we see if Chevesh is harboring demons.”

Demascus nodded. He rubbed the last of the sleep from his eyes and noticed the dark circles beneath Chant’s. He said, “Did you get any rest?”

“Hardly. Too much to think about. I’ve got a few pokers in the fire besides this business with you and Chevesh. A business like mine has difficulties all its own.”

“Oh.” Demascus couldn’t tell if the pawnbroker wanted to talk about it or not. He decided to let the topic go. When the man didn’t volunteer anything further, Demascus figured he’d made the right call.

He pulled on his leather armor, then the coat over it. While he dressed, Chant prepared another meal for the cat. From the smell, it seemed Fable enjoyed a meal of dried fish. “This ought to hold you a while,” Chant told the animal.

They left the shop. The streets of Airspur finally seemed empty. Their route took them down along the bay.

Chant muttered, as if to himself, “If only people were like the sea …”

Demascus replied without thinking, “People are like the sea. You can only tell what’s on the surface, and anything could be hiding underneath.”

Chant grinned. “You’re pretty clever for someone who’s lost half his mind.”

Demascus was surprised at the pawnbroker’s praise. He wasn’t trying to be clever; he was frustrated. With so many of his associations wiped away, reading people and their motivations was proving difficult for him.

Finally they came to a neighborhood of wide streets and empty windows. Nestled among the dark buildings was a single tower built of wide marble blocks. Orange light fingered the closed shutter slats of the top floor.

Chant said, “Not only is Chevesh mad, he’s also centuries old, if you can believe the stories. Despite his obsession with fire, he’s human. A human who thinks the gods somehow cheated him by not making him a firesoul.”

“You’ve met him?”

“I’ve heard things. He’s even crazier than rumors paint him. Which is why we must get in and out without Chevesh being any the wiser. If we’re discovered, he’ll flash fry us quicker than you can say ‘Master of Melee-Magthere.’ Think you can be sneaky?”

“Sneaky? I …”

Out of nowhere, a memory came to Demascus. He was hunched before a sealed iron gate with the likeness of a man’s screaming face. His sword was a comforting weight on his back, and his scarf was wrapped tightly around his left sleeve. He pushed his hair back, from which several charms dangled. A bundle of dark cloth lay before him.

He unrolled the bundle to reveal a neatly organized selection of thin wires and tiny hooks. He withdrew a hook and a wire with practiced hands, and applied them to the lock set in the screaming face. Gold highlights flashed from the twist of golden metal he wore on his thumb as he worked on the lock with quiet, cold, effortless mastery.

The recollection whispered away.

Demascus blinked. Where’d that been? He’d had his scarf. And that was the second memory he’d recovered where he’d had that overly large runesword, the glittering ring, and the charms in his hair. But unlike the previous recollection, instead of wearing a panoply of silver armor, he’d been draped in leather armor so black it might as well have been sewn from night itself.

“Hey,” whispered Chant. “Lost you there for a moment. You all right?” The pawnbroker glanced at him nervously.

“Sorry. Yeah, I have a little skill at skulking, or at least getting past locks. But I don’t have my tools.”

“You remembered something?”

“Just a flash. I may have once possessed passable skills as a lockbreaker. And better fashion sense.” He fiddled with the design on one of his cuffs.

Chant studied him a moment, as if suddenly wondering whether Demascus was of sound mind. The pawnbroker apparently decided Demascus wasn’t about to lose the rest of his mind then and there because he said, “I hope your body can recall what you cannot. We’ll approach along the left side of the street. Stick to the shadows.”

Chant advanced, and Demascus followed. The pudgy man impressed Demascus with the loose ease of his gait and his ability to slip in and out of the light. Demascus attempted to do the same.

After a few paces, he found he could replicate Chant’s stealth nearly move for move. The darkness was like a cloak he could pull across himself, almost at will. A wave of pure enjoyment swept through him, and he had to concentrate not to grin like a madman.

When they reached the side of the tower, Chant raised a hand.

“What?” whispered Demascus.

Chant shook his head, and tapped his ear.

Demascus listened. Very faintly came the merest intimation of a regular sound from the tower. Not so much a boom, but a vibration through the stone. Each beat corresponded with a flicker of light from the shuttered windows high above them.

The pawnbroker dashed forward, darting into an alcove along the tower’s side Demascus hadn’t even noticed.

Demascus followed, and found the pawnbroker huddled over the lock of a small service door. The hook and wire in Chant’s hands were akin to the ones Demascus had seen in the vision of himself, if a bit rustier.

He lowered himself so his eyes were even with Chant’s. He couldn’t quite recall the name of the little metal sliding parts inside the lock, but his hands moved in sympathy with the pawnbroker’s. He grinned.

The lock snicked. “We’re in,” Chant said. He stowed his picks in their cloth case and rolled it up. Then he inched open the door and peered in. A beat later, he pushed into the space beyond. Demascus followed and quietly closed the door after.

They stood in a dingy pantry lit by a flickering taper held by Chant. By the dim light Demascus saw shelves stacked with provisions of every sort. The neatly organized chamber appealed to him, but he felt suddenly nervous.

“Chant,” he whispered. “How is it that by picking a single lock on a service door, we now stand inside a wizard’s tower? Seems too easy.”

“You were expecting a magic ward, or a guardian drake maybe?”

“Uh, something like that, given how you’ve described Chevesh.”

The pawnbroker nodded and dropped his picks into his satchel, one that hardly seemed big enough to contain the bundle. He said, “The thing about Chevesh is that he’s really crazy. Word on the street is that he doesn’t guard his tower because that means he can pretty much do what he wants to people stupid enough to break in here—of course, the thieves of Airpur know this. Everyone gives Chevesh’s tower a wide berth.”

“What do you mean, ‘do what he wants’?”

Chant shrugged. He said, his voice hardly more than a whisper, “That’s the question, isn’t it? For all I know, the rumors are all bunk. It’s all been academic before now. Either way, we’re going to be better off if we stay quiet. You ready?”

Demascus nodded, despite how his mouth had gone dry as a desert.

They went to the opposite door and peeked out. Beyond was the tower’s core, around which stairs spiraled upward. The stairs paused in their ascent at a series of landings, all of which were dark except for the topmost level, which blazed with flickering light. Three doors opened off of the ground floor besides the one in which they stood.

A bronze statue with hair and beard of red flame stood at the base of the stairs, providing light for the lowest level of the tower. The figure was squat like a dwarf, nearly as wide as it was tall, and masterfully detailed in its execution. It almost looked as if the colossal hammer clutched in the figure’s right hand was a separate object—

The “statue” scratched its chin with its free hand, then returned to apparent immobility.

Merciful gods, that thing was alive.

Demascus tapped Chant on the arm and whispered, “So, what do we do?”

The pawnbroker returned his look, his expression apprehensive.

Demascus pulled the man back from the door and said as quietly as he could, “That’s no firesoul. It looks like it could smash us into paste with that hammer.” Something about it was familiar. It was just on the tip of his tongue …

Chant shuddered, “Yeah. Maybe we should—”

“Azer,” said Demascus suddenly, a little too loud. Then, quieter, “Azers are the servants of fire giants, usually. Or titans. They’re at least as tough as they look.”

Chant said, “Are they from Faerûn? They must be from an echo world …”

“Maybe. I don’t remember anything else. Can we get to the upper level another way?”

“I don’t see one. Well, we could climb up the outside.”

Demascus looked at the pawnbroker’s bulging belly. No matter how graceful Chant seemed, it was hard to imagine the human inching his way up the smooth expanse of the tower’s exterior.

He said, “How about we try a distraction? We need to lure its attention to the front door. When the fire dwarf checks it out, we dart up the stairs.”

Chant nodded, a smile breaking through his worried frown. He said, “I know just the thing. Wait here. Be ready.” Then he slipped back the way they’d come and out the service door.

Demascus inched forward. He flicked his eyes between the azer and the main entrance. He wondered what the pawnbroker had in mind. His hands felt clammy, but he wasn’t scared. If anything, he felt almost … disappointed that they were going to sneak past the guard.

A half song later and Chant was back. The man whispered, “Wait for it …”

A muffled bang resounded from outside the tower. The front doors shuddered slightly.

The azer’s head swiveled toward the sound. It hurried toward the main entrance.

“Now,” hissed Chant as he glided forward. He traced the wall like a fat shadow. Demascus revised his earlier opinion about the pawnbroker’s agility should scaling a wall prove necessary, and followed in Chant’s footsteps.

The azer paused at the doors and blared, “Who goes there?”

Demascus blanched. He quelled an urge to charge the vulnerable backside of the dwarflike extraplanar guardian.

Chant took each step like a cat on the prowl and Demascus did his best to imitate the man’s technique.

The azer’s gaze never wavered from the front doors, and then the curve of the next tower level blocked the view. Another few steps and they were on the second level. No guardian waited for them there.

Chant gave him a light clap on the arm, and Demascus grinned, despite his regrets.

They continued upward, ascending five levels in all, without incident or azers. The third level was painted bright red, and the fourth echoed with faint music.

The topmost landing had two doors. Flamelight roared around the frame of one.

A crash of breaking glass came from beyond the illuminated door, followed by a lunatic laugh that literally raised the hair on Demascus’s neck.

They tiptoed to the entrance. Chant looked at Demascus and mouthed, “Ready?”

Demascus nodded. The human carefully set his hand to the dragon’s head ring and pulled open the door just enough to see in.

Balls of free-floating flame banished all shadows in the room beyond. A third of the roughly circular chamber gurgled and hissed with elaborate glass piping. The tubes pumped magmalike fluid between a series of ever more complicated vessels.

A portion of the chamber was empty but for a ring of cooled brass poured out to form a wide circle on the floor. Arcane formulas written in chalk spiraled around the brass fixture like a madman’s depiction of a whirlpool.

A series of workbenches, shelves stuffed with containers of every description, and odd bits of equipment Demascus couldn’t immediately identify circled the walls.

Where was the crazy wizard?

Chant took a quick breath, then carefully lifted a finger to point at the ceiling.

A man floated among the balls of fire. A powder blue robe draped him, blue but for the snarling embroidery depicting flame flowers and fire eyes on his sleeves. Red tongues danced along the man’s fingers, along the wand he clutched in one hand, and along individual strands of his long, unkempt hair.

“That’s our lunatic,” confirmed Chant, his voice pitched just above the crackle of fire.

Demascus nodded. A haze of pale blue smoke surrounded the wizard. Chevesh seemed lost in some kind of meditation. Whatever suicidal urge had goaded him to attack the azer remained quiescent in Chevesh’s presence. Good. Demascus took a deep but quiet breath, then began studying the room for anything suggesting demonic summoning rituals, extra fake Cabal coats, or white scarves missing their owners.

The only thing immediately suggestive was the brass circle. Though he couldn’t remember exactly how he knew, Demascus was certain a fixture like that could be used to call entities from the Abyss. On the other hand, a magic circle could serve as the endpoint for a long-distance teleportation. Or as a barrier to screen out background magical influences. Or …

Lots of things, probably.

Circumstantial evidence wasn’t going to fly. They needed something substantial to bring back to the Firestorm Cabal. He glanced at Chevesh again. The wizard remained enthralled with the inside of his eyelids.

Without giving himself the benefit of consideration, Demascus darted out onto the main floor. Chant made a quiet sound of protest, but Demascus didn’t pause.

He skirted a metal chair that was bolted into the stone floor. Leather straps lay slack on arm rests, and an elaborate crown of needles perched on an extendable metallic arm. Demascus was glad that the chair’s insectoid embrace was empty.

Another two steps and he was at a workbench. Demascus glanced up at Chevesh; still in his trance. Demascus began sorting through the jumble of papers and scrolls. If he could find a piece of evidence implicating the fire wizard in the series of demon incursions, great. But what he was really searching for was some hint of his own place in all this, some scrap of his own lost identity.

Topological mixing, haepthum shipments, primordial blood, density of periodic orbits, flame vortices, strange attractors, thaumaturgic exclusion zones, and a litter of incomprehensible diagrams and calculations were all he could find on the workbench. None of it triggered the least hint of memory, or had any obvious demonic connection. Demascus looked up and saw Chant lingering in the doorway. The pawnbroker motioned frantically for Demascus to retreat.

Demascus shook his head, and pointed to the next workbench.

“Can I help you find something?” a voice overhead said.

He jumped as his gaze snapped up. Chevesh’s eyes were open and fixed on his own. They were the color of a candle flame with just a hint of coal at the center.

“Um,” said Demascus, mentally fumbling for something halfway plausible.

“I don’t recall inviting you into my laboratory. But here you are, riffling through my research. That’s very rude. Care to explain yourself?” Chevesh’s voice was as melodious and polite as if he were speaking to a naughty nephew, not a thief in his home.

Demascus cleared his throat and tried again. He said, “I apologize, mage. I need to find something out. For instance … do you know who I am?” He held his breath.

Chevesh’s blond eyebrows rose slightly as he gave Demascus a closer look. Then he said, “No. Should I? Are you the new deliveryman from the prison?”

Demascus said, “The—”

“We are the new deliverymen from the prison,” interrupted Chant from the doorway. “But it looks like we’ve caught you at a bad time. We’ll come back in the morning, when it’s full light out. How’s that sound?”

Chevesh regarded the pawnbroker for a moment, then said, “Neither of you wear the prison insignia, and if you’d come from there, you’d know to leave the inmates in the cells I’ve prepared on the third floor.”

“We’re new,” persisted the pawnbroker.

The wizard said, “Chant Morven, isn’t it? I haven’t taken so much haepthum that I don’t recognize one of Airspur’s up-and-comers. You pull the strings of snitches, sniffers, and gossip-mongers who infest Airspur’s dingier neighborhoods. At least, when you’re not selling people’s castoffs.”

“Ah. I’m delighted my reputation precedes me,” said the pawnbroker—in tones that implied the opposite.

Chevesh descended until his feet, tucked into boots the color of blood, touched the floor. He returned his regard to Demascus and said, “But I don’t know you. Yet you asked me as if I should. So tell me; who are you? I don’t even recognize your race. You’re no genasi, nor human either.”

The wizard didn’t think him human? Demascus pushed the feeling of surprise to the back of his mind to deal with later. He said, “I don’t know who I am. I was hoping you might.”

“Lost your faculties, eh? How fascinating. But why would I know? I’m no mind reader or fortune-teller. However … there is a way to learn more about you. How would you like to volunteer for a little test?”

“Could your test restore my memory?”

“I doubt it.” Chevesh shrugged. He walked to the iron chair with the straps. “But, if you’ll just sit yourself down right here—”

“Does your research have anything to do with demons?” interjected Chant, who still retained his position just outside the room.

Chevesh said, “Demons? Please. Nothing lies down that path but degraded bloodlines and disturbing dreams. Believe me, I’ve tried. Decades ago. It was a blind alley for my purposes. Look around; see any demons? Any Abyssal alphabets? Can you smell the stink of fiendish ichor or hear the screams of sacrificial victims? No.”

“Then what is your research?”

“I am on the trail of primordial blood. To begin with, I aim to instill the blood of firesoul genasi into one not born with that heritage.”

“Why?” said Demascus.

“Because I want it!” the wizard screamed suddenly. He cleared his throat and returned to his original calm tones, “Once I perfect the technique, I’ll apply it to myself. Imagine how extraordinary that will be.”

The wizard’s eyes gave off twin streams of smoke. The man had apparently already made some steps toward his goal.

Chevesh continued, “Now, enough with the all the questions.” The wizard patted the seat and raised his eyebrows to Demascus in invitation.

“Hold on,” said Demascus, taking a step back. “You’re telling me you don’t know anything about a demon summoning ritual gone wrong west of Airspur?”

Chevesh gave an exasperated sigh. “You seem awfully interested in demons. Is that what I sense is different about you? Does the blood of fiends runs in your veins?”

“No,” said Demascus, “At least, I don’t think so …”

“Sit down, and we’ll find out.” said Chevesh.

“Demascus, I think it’s time for us to leave this nice gentleman,” said Chant. “We have an appointment to keep.”

The wizard frowned. As thoughtlessly as if swatting a fly, Chevesh flicked his wand in Chant’s direction. A bead of flame snapped from the end. The pawnbroker dived out of the door as the bead detonated into a ball of swirling incandescence. The boom and shockwave swept back across the laboratory, shoving scrolls off workbenches, fluttering Chevesh’s robes, and enveloping Demascus in a rush of warm air.

The wizard said to Demascus, “No, please stay. I insist.”

Demascus ducked behind an enormous glass vessel filled with burning red fluid. The wizard didn’t follow. Demascus wondered if Chant had moved far enough to avoid the wizard’s attack. Or was his only friend and confidante in Airspur suddenly a crispy outline on the floor of the tower?

He pulled out his borrowed sword and gazed at it. What could base metal do against a master spellcaster of Chevesh’s league? Probably only anger him further.

Cryptic syllables rang through the laboratory. Demascus realized the wizard was chanting. A spell, probably one designed to flush him out into the open.

“You are behind the demon incursion in Airspur! Admit it!” yelled Demascus in an attempt to disrupt the mage’s concentration. He steeled himself to emerge from cover and charge the wizard.

The chanting petered out, then Chevesh spoke in his polite way, “Who’s the crazy one here? I told you three times, I’m not into that stuff. If you wanted demon summoners, you should have gone to the Firestorm Cabal.”

Demascus blinked. He rounded the side of the vessel, but he didn’t charge. “What do you mean?”

Chevesh stood ensconced in a swirl of fire. His wand was ablaze, and sparks danced between his teeth. He said, “The Cabal has secrets and projects it hides from the Crown. For decades they’ve been meddling with plaguechanged creatures, bringing them in from the changelands for study. But that’s taken a twist. A changelands salvage team returned with something from the south, a fragment of an old statue or fossil. But it had nothing to do with the Year of Blue Fire. I have it on good authority that ever since they began researching the relic, the Cabal has suffered demonic nightmares.”

A bad feeling skittered through Demascus. Had Lieutenant Leheren sent them on a wild boar chase? Or was the fire mage lying?

Demascus studied the wizard. The man, in all his flame and finery, didn’t seem concerned with how the world perceived him.

“What do you mean, demonic nightmares?”

“Figure of speech,” replied the wizard, who had caught a reflection of himself in a crystal panel. The man smoothed his mustache ends with his free hand as he spoke. “The Cabal is apparently trying to revive the ways of an elder cult of chaos.”

“A chaos cult,” Demascus said flatly.

“The Cult of the Elder Elemental Eye. Not a good idea. Which is why Elemental Eye worship has caught on in Toril. Even I am not insane enough to dream of rousing the Chained God. Anyhow, none of that matters for you.”

Chevesh brought his wand down so it pointed directly at Demascus. “Get in the chair, or burn. And really, I don’t care which you choose. I love a good fire.” He smiled like a child anticipating a sugarplum.

Demascus ran for the door.

Two streaks of fire blasted from the wizard’s wand so fast they whistled as they flew.

One struck Demascus a glancing blow on his left shoulder. He felt the initial impact like a tap. Then it bloomed into dull heat. He smelled burning leather as the armor beneath his jacket caught fire. He kept running.

A wall of flame roared down to block his path. Demascus skidded to halt with his heels only inches from the barrier, lying on his side. At least he’d retained his grip on his sword. For all the good it would do him.

Chevesh held his wand high. Its tip burned the same hue of red as the wall of fire.

“You’re faster than you look,” said the wizard. “I can’t wait to crack open your ribs and see the color of your heartblood.”

A curl of anger commandeered Demascus’s arm. He swept his sword out of its sheath. As before, the ghost of forgotten runes trailed a wake of swirling, ethereal light. The crescent of radiance glided across the floor and enveloped Chevesh. A flash of lighting blasted the wand from the wizard’s hand.

The wall of fire blinked out, leaving behind a haze of gray smoke.

Was the wizard down? No. Chevesh’s wild hair was even more crazed than before, but otherwise the man seemed no worse for wear; the human apparently drew strength from crazy.

Seeing he was observed, Chevesh made a show of crooking his finger. The wand clattered back into his grip.

The pawnbroker’s voice hissed from the exit, “Stay down!”

Three crossbow bolts whizzed over Demascus’s head. Two embedded themselves in Chevesh’s shoulder, and one smashed into glass piping behind the wizard. Burning fluid sprayed into the laboratory.

Demascus jumped to his feet and threw himself through the door. Behind him echoed a scream of rage and a blast of scalding air.

Chant was already bounding down the spiral stairs three at a time, gripping his remarkable crossbow in one hand. The pawnbroker’s green brocade shirt was blackened, but he was obviously still very much alive. Demascus was relieved; if the human had come to serious harm helping him—

Light blossomed overhead, bright as the noonday sun. Demascus didn’t look; he concentrated on overtaking Chant even as his suddenly sharp shadow fluttered ahead of him on the curved steps. His body worked smoothly and efficiently, and even in the face of being burned to a crisp, he exulted in the sense of strength in his limbs.

The azer waited for them at the bottom of the stairs. Its hammer was so hot it glowed white.

Chant yelled, “Don’t engage it!” and hurtled over the side railing while still ten feet above the floor. He did a fair impression of someone skilled at leaping from heights, though his landing lacked something of grace; it was more of a bounce. But then he was up and making for the kitchen even as Demascus vaulted the railing on the opposite side.

“Chant Morven, you’ve made yourself an enemy this night!” thundered Chevesh’s voice from somewhere above.

Demascus dropped, delighted with how easily his body took the impact. His muscles knew what to do; he flexed into the fall with his waist and knees, and vacated his landing spot a heartbeat before the azer’s hammer smashed down.

Then he was through the kitchen and out of the tower, running down the street after the pawnbroker beneath a sky showing the first hints of approaching dawn.