Zan-akar smiled contemptuously, although the space in which he stood darkened a little more. “At a moment like this, it’s good to know that Her Majesty is far too shrewd to heed the forked tongue of a mage.”

Shala glared at him. “Is the sellsword lying? Answer honestly! You know I can find out the truth for myself.”

Zan-akar hesitated, then said, “Majesty, you know as well as I that the ministers of a realm receive envoys from here, there, and everywhere. I believe that Akanul has talked to High Imaskar, and possibly even worked out an arrangement or two regarding trade. But nothing that compromises our friendship with Chessenta!”

“Go,” Shala rapped. “Diplomats, counselors, the lot of you. We’ll take up your spite and accusations another day, when I’m in firmer control of my temper.”

It seemed to Balasar that thanks to Aoth, Tymanther had at least held its own in the battle of words, so that made two debts Clan Daardendrien owed the sellswords. As they all filed out, he caught the Thayan’s eye and gave him a respectful nod. Aoth responded with a smile that, though cordial enough, came with a certain sardonic crook.

Khouryn combed through Vigilant’s bronze and white plumage, checking for broken feathers and parasites with the two-tined iron fork designed for the purpose. Smelling of both bird and musky hunting cat, the griffon lay flat on the stable floor so the dwarf could reach all of her. In fact, she looked like she’d melted there. The grooming had produced a state of blissful relaxation.

“It sounds like everything went all right,” Khouryn said.

“Maybe,” Aoth replied. He’d already finished with Jet’s aquiline parts and started brushing his fur, first against the grain and then with it. The black steed’s eyes were scarlet slits. “But I hate talking to zulkirs-or lords or whatever-and getting mired in their lies and intrigues.”

Khouryn worked his way along Vigilant’s limply outstretched wing. “Such is the lot of a sellsword leader. But I don’t blame you. I’m not even sure I understand, from your account, what the palaver was fundamentally about.”

“Nor do I. The brawl? Our presence in Luthcheq? Some rivalry between our employer and Lord Luthen? The hatred between Akanul and Tymanther? Or between Chessenta and High Imaskar? Take your pick. It was all tangled up together.”

Khouryn spotted a nit lurking at the base of a feather. He set down the fork, took up his tongs, pulled the larva out, and crushed it. “Why do all these people despise one another anyway?”

“Aside from recent transgressions, you mean? As I understand it, everything goes back a long way. The dragonborn and genasi fought when they lived wherever it is they used to live. When the Spellplague scooped them up and dumped them in Faerun, they brought their quarrel along with them.”

“Now, the Chessentans,” Aoth continued, “started out as slaves of the old Imaskari Empire. Who were notable wizards, which accounts for the Chessentan hatred of magic. I’ve heard the new realm of High Imaskar isn’t really the same animal as the old one. It doesn’t keep slaves, for example. But the name is more or less the same, the people look the same, they have the same gift for sorcery, and that’s close enough to stir up the Chessentans. They’ve been poking at the new Imaskari since the latter first announced their presence to the world. You could actually argue that the current ‘piracy’ is justified retaliation, although I wouldn’t say so to the locals.”

“In other words,” said Khouryn, “it’s all stupid.”

“Well, of course you’d think so. Who ever heard of a dwarf holding a grudge?”

Khouryn strained unsuccessfully to stifle a chuckle. “Fair enough. It’s simply that there’s something to be said for fighting in a righteous cause.”

Aoth swished his brush down the length of Jet’s tail. “We did that in Thay and again in Impiltur, and look at the shape we’re in.”

“I recognize it’s a luxury, not a necessity. Still, it would be nice if those eyes of yours had given you some insight into why Nicos and Luthen are at odds, or whether Zan-akar was telling the truth about anything.”

The Spellplague had done more than extend Aoth’s years. It had sharpened his sight to a preternatural degree. He could see in the dark and perceive the invisible. No illusion could deceive him. On rare occasions, he even saw hints of a man’s true character or intentions, or portents of the future.

Aoth hesitated, scowled, and then said, “To be honest about it, when I first met Nicos, I glimpsed the form of a green dragon.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“I have no idea. We can be reasonably sure there’s no big green dragon living in Luthcheq, so it must have been symbolic, which is another way of saying it could have meant any damn thing. Maybe just that my three lieutenants were going to get involved with a couple of dragonborn.”

Khouryn tilted his head. “You talk like you didn’t even bother to think about it. Since when do you discount the value of information, no matter how cryptic? How many times have I heard you say, ‘Collect all the facts you can; any one of them could mean the difference between victory and defeat’?”

“In the field, yes. At a royal court, it’s different. Knowing people’s secrets is dangerous, and so is meddling in their business. In retrospect, I feel stupid for telling the war hero that Akanul has ties to High Imaskar. I spoke without thinking.”

“You may have earned a measure of her trust. Or gratitude.”

Aoth grunted. “I suspect it takes more than that, and I certainly made an enemy of Zan-akar. All the more reason to keep our heads down, play constable with as little fuss as possible, and then head out to fight Threskel or the Imaskari as soon as Shala will allow it.”

18-29 CHES, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

With his mail, shield, spear, and other weapons, Aoth looked like a warrior and had hoped the citizens of Luthcheq would take him for that and nothing more. But almost immediately they’d started whispering behind his back and making signs to avert the evil eye. He suspected that Luthen or Zan-akar had put out the word that he was actually a war-mage.

He stopped leading foot patrols thereafter. No point agitating the locals more than they were already. Instead, he and Jet had taken to monitoring the city from the sky.

An easterly wind carried them to the religious quarter, where the gilded dome of the temple of Waukeen, goddess of trade, gleamed at one end of a mall. At the other stood the colonnaded house of Amaunator, lord of the sun, with an enormous sundial out in front.

Drumming and chanting, Tchazzar cultists paraded past the instrument. Some carried crimson banners. Others had combined forces to animate a dragon made of red cloth. Capering inside it, they made it weave back and forth in serpentine fashion.

At first no one seemed to mind. Then half a dozen priests in yellow robes strode forth from Amaunator’s temple. The stout sunlord in the lead, his vestments trimmed with gold and amber, started haranguing the marchers.

“Fly lower,” said Aoth. “Let’s hear what he’s saying.”

Jet swooped and set down on the roof of the Red Knight’s house, a comparatively small box of a building that, with its battlements and barbican, looked more like a fortress than a shrine. Aoth hoped the patron of strategists would forgive a fellow commander the intrusion.

Nobody mortal appeared to notice his descent. The sun priests, and the dragon cultists’ reaction to them, had already captured everyone’s attention.

“Dragons aren’t gods!” insisted the chief sunlord, his voice raised so everyone could hear. “And your display, in these sacred precincts, is an affront to the true gods!”