Rising Tide Read online

  At times, even conversation with other flesh and blood people outside of Madame Iitaar and Jherek left Malorrie weakened. It was a hardship for the phantom, the young sailor knew, because Malorrie was one of the most sociable people he’d ever met. Over the years, Malorrie had always been there with a story, a comment, or simply a kind word.

  “Easy does it, boy. Walk before you run,” Malorrie advised.

  Jherek wrapped his hand around the quarrel and steeled himself.

  “What are you planning to do?” Malorrie asked.

  “I’m going to pull the bolt out,” Jherek said in a hoarse, weak voice. Truthfully, the thought of yanking the quarrel out of his chest unnerved him.

  “No,” Malorrie said, placing a hand over Jherek’s. “Leave it in.”

  “It hurts,” Jherek protested. He tried to take a deep breath and couldn’t. The tightness in his chest almost panicked him. “It’s hard to breathe.”

  “The wound’s making it hard to breathe, boy,” Malorrie said, “not the quarrel. Most likely it’s helping block some of the bleeding. Leave it for Madame Iitaar to handle.”

  Jherek was only too willing to leave the quarrel in place.

  “Feel ready to try a few steps?”

  He nodded, noticing the black spots on Malorrie’s arm. As he watched, another formed, wrapping itself around the phantom warrior’s wrist. “Let me go,” he rasped, realizing the contact was rapidly draining Malorrie’s afterlife.

  “Why?”

  “I won’t have your second death on my hands,” Jherek gasped. He pulled weakly, trying to escape the phantom’s grip. With the appearance of the black spots, he knew Malorrie had to be in pain as well. Yet the old warrior said nothing about it.

  “You can hardly stand, and Madame Iitaar’s is further up Widow’s Hill.”

  Jherek pulled his hand from the phantom’s weaker grip. Fever gripped him, causing perspiration to coat his face. “My death if I can’t make it, Malorrie, not yours. I’ve cost too many people too much in this life already.”

  Malorrie drew himself up to his full height, standing inches over the young sailor. “Damn you for that pigheadedness, boy. Accept help when it’s offered.”

  “Not when it costs so much.”

  “That’s my choice to make.”

  “Aye,” Jherek agreed as he gathered his cutlass and hook, then took his first step toward home, “and mine. Can you tell me that you’d make it up that hill while helping me?”

  “I can.”

  Jherek took another trembling breath, getting even less air this time than the last. The left side of his chest had gone completely numb, and a coldness spread across his shoulders. “Swear it to me, and remember that we’ve never had any lies between us.”

  “I can’t.”

  Jherek nodded, moving slowly. “Don’t be so quick to speak against my pigheadedness either. It’s going to get me to the top of that hill.” He looked up before him, seeing the incline swell dramatically upward. He’d never thought about how high Widow’s Hill was in years. Even as a youth he’d flown up and down the trails to the harbor like a bird. He focused on the two-story house at the top of the hill, feeling its pull. That was home, the only home he’d ever known.

  “Just you see that it does,” Malorrie commanded, “because the first time you falter and fall, I’m going to drag you by the hair to that house if it kills us both.”

  Jherek didn’t doubt for a moment that the phantom would do exactly that. Malorrie’s word was his bond. As he walked, the young sailor tried not to think of the wages that had been stolen from him. It was gone, as was his job aboard Butterfly. He didn’t dwell on those things, though, but on Madame Iitaar, who’d raised him for the last handful of years and more, who’d shown him the only mother’s love he’d ever known.

  In his eyes he was a failure, but he knew she wouldn’t see it that way. Madame Iitaar had always shown hope for him even though he was sure he would only break her heart.

  X

  30 Ches, the Year of the Gauntlet

  “… and salty diamonds stained the maiden’s cheeks, as she laid the sod o’er her gallant knight.

  Though the battle claimed her man,

  Her heart stayed forever true.”

  His eyes closed, Pacys listened to his voice echo in the large room and knew that he’d fully claimed his audience. His fingers dwelled upon the strings of his yarting for a few beats more, mourning the loss of the lady for the man. Except for his song and the last fading chords of the yarting, silence filled the room.

  Taking a deep breath, the old bard opened his eyes. Men wept openly, their voices hushed so they wouldn’t reveal their pain and out of deference to his voice. The candles illuminating the room showed the emotions on the faces of the priests and the other faithful of Oghma. Shadows and candle smoke clung to the large beams showing through the ceiling.

  Even large as it was, the room was near to overfilled. Fifty men and more sat around the plain pine board tables or stood along the unadorned walls of the meeting hall. Plates and cups scattered over the table were the only remnants of the fine meal they’d enjoyed before he’d started singing.

  “I stand corrected, old man,” a young priest said, rising to his feet. “Your voice has seasoned like fine whiskey.” Tears mixed freely in with his beard. “I’ll gladly stand the price of a tune such as that.” He picked up an unused bowl and dropped a silver piece onto it. He passed it to the man on his left, who added more coins.

  “There’s no need for the bowl,” Pacys said with a smile. “Tonight, in a much honored tradition for those in my trade, I sing for my supper,” He hoisted a tankard of ale that had warmed during the ballad, “and for the drink afterward.” He sipped the ale and found it warm, but he’d gotten used to drinking it just like that over the years of his long travels.

  The bard was old, had seen seventy-six winters in his time, and showed his hard life in wrinkles and the stringy meat that clung stubbornly to his bones. He shaved his head these days, giving in to the baldness that had claimed him in his fifties. The sun had darkened his skin to the tone of old leather and turned his eyebrows silvery. He went clean-shaven and wore the newest breeches and doublet he’d had left in his kit. His clothing was serviceable, not gaudy as some in his calling preferred. His voice and his tales kept him employed, not a costume. He sat easily on one of the round dinner tables that filled the room, his legs crossed despite his years. Thick beeswax candles burned on either side of him, placed by him so that their light fell across his face.

  “Another song,” a man at one of the nearer tables pleaded.

  Pacys smiled, loving the sound of the passion in the man’s voice. His fingers carelessly caressed the yarting’s strings, plucking melodious notes that haunted the large room. “Another song, gentle sir? And what would you have? A ballad of great daring in which fair Kettlerin reversed the schemes of Thauntcir Black-Eyed to gain back the heart of her lover? An epic poem of grand adventure of Derckin and Dodj and how they found the lost treasure of Gyschill, the Topaz Dragon of the Far North? Or a seafaring lyric of ghost ships that plunder the Sword Coast still?”

  “Enough, good Pacys,” Hroman said, standing at a table to the bard’s left. He was a short man like his father, Pacys knew, but broad shouldered and good-natured. It was strange to see him as he was now, well into his forties when the bard wanted only to remember the boy as he recalled him. “You’ve entertained these layabout priests of Oghma well for the past three hours.”

  “And only whetted our appetites for more,” another priest lamented. He was an older man among those around him, but Pacys felt he was still ten years his junior. Looking around the crowd, the bard knew he was probably the oldest man there.

  Hroman laughed, and he sounded a great deal like his father, Pacys discovered. He was also full of the same fire of command. Sandrew the Wise, the high priest of the Font of Knowledge in Waterdeep, had proven his name by lifting Hroman to a place of command within the temple.
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  “Yes, and he’ll be here tomorrow night as well,” Hroman said, “unless you strip the voice from him tonight with your demands.”

  “Will you be here tomorrow, Pacys?” a priest roared.

  The bard’s fingers still moved across the yarting’s strings, instinctively plucking out a soft tune that underscored Hroman’s words and lent them even more weight. Part of his magic was in lending his music to words and making them more commanding. “Yes. I plan on being in Waterdeep for a tenday or more this trip.”

  “We want to hear all your songs and your tales,” one of the younger priests said.

  Pacys only grinned in appreciation, then reached down and snuffed the candlewicks between his fingertips. The hard calluses from playing the yarting for sixty years didn’t let the heat through. “As many that we are able to share,” he promised.

  Hroman chased them out of the big room.

  Pacys unfolded his legs, feeling the knee joints pop back into place and creak in protest. The legs were always the first to go, from too many miles spent walking, too many hours spent on a table or in a chair. He took a moment to place the yarting in its leather and brass case, then hooked his boots up by their tops in his free hand.

  “Oghma has truly blessed you, old friend,” Hroman said.

  “I fear I played for a captive audience tonight,” Pacys said. “With all the building that is still going on here, I suspect they’ve seldom seen much in the way of entertainment.”

  “More than you think,” Hroman said. “Tallir, the lad who first started the singing tonight, had thought of becoming a bard before Oghma touched him and brought him into our fold.”

  “Pity,” Pacys said, meaning it, “the boy has a rare and golden voice.”

  Hroman smiled. “I’ll tell him you said so. It took a lot of nerve for him to get up in front of the group tonight, knowing you were going to perform.”

  “I hope I did not offend him.”

  Pacys took his travel kit from under the table where they’d eaten. It was tattered and scuffed, showing signs where he’d repaired it himself, serviceable but with no art about the stitching. Shouldering the kit and the yarting case, he gathered the iron-shod staff that lay under the bench.

  “You didn’t,” Hroman said. “I saw young Tallir with a quill and parchment, writing furiously in that bastardized symbology he’s developed for himself to take notes. He’s skillful with it. I’d dare say he’s written down every word you uttered tonight and will add it to his own repertoire.”

  “Those songs and tales aren’t mine,” Pacys said. “They’ve been given to me on the road, things that anyone can pick up. Though, in truth, I should give him the names of the bards who first arranged them.” It was the only way a bard achieved fame and a certain kind of immortality, the old bard knew. It was something that had escaped Pacys for all his years.

  “You’ll have time to set him right tomorrow.” Hroman grabbed their plates and headed for the kitchen. “Let me drop these off with the cook staff and I’ll show you to your room.”

  “I’d planned on supper,” Pacys admitted, “but I hadn’t intended to beg a room as well.”

  “Pacys,” Hroman said, “it’s by High Priest Sandrew’s will that you will always be a guest within this temple.”

  “He’s a generous man,” Pacys said.

  “I’ll send word to him in the morning that you are here. I know he’ll want to come, and it would do him good to be away from his projects for a time.”

  “You mean the building of the Great Library?” Pacys asked.

  Hroman handed the stack of dishes to a priest in a stained white apron in the kitchen. Hroman took a candle from a box on one of the tables and lit it from the stove. He guided Pacys back to the large room and out into the hallway leading back to the personal quarters. The rumble of voices and bits of song, good-natured teasing and prayer filled the hallway as the bard walked by the doors.

  “You know about the library?” Hroman asked.

  “Of course,” Pacys said. “Besides songs and tales and physical comedy a bard claims as his bag of tricks, there is always the news.”

  Hroman nodded and said, “Of course …”

  He said something more, but Pacys couldn’t hear him, lost in the aching melody of the music that had been drifting through his brain for the last few months. The strains and chords were clearer now than they had been in years. He paused, listening for more, but the music was taken from him, leaving only what he’d learned this time. He looked up at Hroman, who gazed at him with concern.

  “… you all right?” the priest asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Perhaps the wine,” Hroman suggested, “or the lateness of the hour. I didn’t even think to ask how many days you’d been traveling to reach Waterdeep.”

  “It’s not that,” Pacys replied. He hesitated, not wanting to say too much. Hroman was the son of one of his best and truest friends, though. “Come. Show me to my room and we’ll talk.”

  Hroman looked indecisive for a moment, then walked further down the hallway. “We’ve not got an extra room at the moment. With the building of the new temple and the additional clergy Sandrew has put on, we’re packed into these rooms like tuna in a fisherman’s hold.”

  The current Font of Knowledge was located in a row house on Swords Street. They hoped to have the new temple finished this year. “I can take a room at an inn, or sleep outside.”

  “No,” Hroman said with some force. “Even if I could be so cold-hearted, Sandrew would give me a tongue-lashing that would shame me for weeks. I’ll give you my room.”

  He pushed open a door on the right. Weak candlelight flickered over the room, revealing the narrow bed under the only window, a small bookshelf against one wall next to a small fireplace, a wardrobe, and a compact desk.

  “Where will you sleep?” Pacys asked.

  “We’ve a common room.”

  “I could stay there,” the bard protested.

  “As could I,” Hroman said. “Please take this room. As a priest, there’s not much I have to offer in the way of tangible assets, but I can make a gift of this. I have earned it with my work, and it’s mine to give.”

  Pacys saw the earnestness in the younger man’s gaze and nodded. “As you say,” he said humbly as he laid the yarting gently on the bed and sat. “Take up a chair and well talk.”

  Hroman pulled the chair out from the desk, then took a wine bottle from the book shelves. He smiled as he sat. “I’ve been saving this for something special, if you’ve a stomach for it.”

  “For wine, I’ll always have the stomach,” Pacys said, smiling, “though not always the head.”

  “Isn’t that the way of it?” Hroman said. “This is from our own press. One of our best vintages.”

  “Maybe we should save it for another time.”

  “When you’re leaving?”

  “That would seem a more appropriate time.”

  Hroman’s face darkened. “I’d rather say hello over a bottle of wine than good-bye. I’ve said enough good-byes of late.” He unstoppered the bottle and handed it to the bard.

  Pacys took it. “I heard about your father,” he said. “I’m sorry. If I’d known, I’d have been here.”

  “I know.” Hroman took a deep breath and looked away for a moment. His eyes gleamed and he said, “He left a letter for you. It took him a long time to write it. Lucid moments were very few … very hard for him at the end.”

  A chill touched Pacys. Last year when he’d died, Hroman’s father had been five years Pacys’s junior. Death didn’t scare the bard, but old age, infirmity, and mental loss did. It was hard not to grow more terrified with each passing year.

  “Then I shall read it with pleasure,” Pacys said.

  “I’ve not read it,” Hroman said, “so I don’t know what he had to say, or if any of it makes sense.”

  “Your father was a good man,” Pacys told him. “He’d not leave anything behind that didn’t reflect that. I
need only look at you to know that.”

  “Kind words,” Hroman acknowledged.

  “And truly meant.” The bard held up the wine bottle. “To your father. One of the best men I ever knew. Fearless in heart and strong in his faith.” He drank deeply from the bottle, then passed it back to the priest. The wine was sweet and dry.

  Hroman drank deeply too. “What brings you to Waterdeep, old friend? A simple longing to see the Sword Coast again?”

  “Compulsion,” Pacys admitted. “My end time lies not too far before me now, and I’m not fool enough to believe any other way.”

  Hroman started to object and Pacys shushed him with a raised hand. “Kind words lie out of kindness, young Hroman, that’s why numbers were invented.”

  Hroman passed the wine bottle back across.

  “I come on a quest,” Pacys said. “Of sorts.”

  “Of sorts?”

  “I can’t say that it’s a true quest,” the old bard admitted. “I can only hope for divine intervention.” He drank again, passed the bottle back, then pulled the yarting from the bed and opened the case. He took it across his knee and strummed the strings. Even though it was in perfect pitch, he twisted the tuning pegs, gradually returning them to the positions they were in. “Listen.” His hands glided across the strings, fingertips massaging the frets.

  Music, beautiful and as true as rainwater, filled the room.

  “Dear Oghma, but I’ve never heard the like,” Hroman said when Pacys stopped playing.

  “Neither have I,” the old bard said. “Not outside of my head.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.” Pacys’s hands worked the yarting, underscoring their conversation with the lyrical sound. “Fourteen years ago, when last I saw you and your father here in Waterdeep, I was given that piece of a song. It came to me in a dream. That was the same night the mermen first came to live in Waterdeep Harbor.”