The water was hot, drawing the little aches and pains from
Malora's limbs. She lay in the tub, her head lolling on her shoulders, thinking
of her next move.
After discovering the shrine to Ryat, the raiding party had
returned to Treeport. Lord Terret had been informed of their discovery and had
gone into immediate consultation with the town's spiritual leaders. Malora had
excused herself from the scene and slipped away. She'd run into Fericille who
had escorted Malora to an inn near the High House.
"I'm pretty sure Eamor is going to want to hear your
take on the matter," said the sorceress. Then she'd left, with a wave at
the innkeeper, and Malora had asked for a bath.
When she saw that her fingers were going pruney and the
water was going lukewarm, Malora reluctantly climbed out of the big wooden
tub. There were thick, soft towels to
hand and a bathrobe that was almost indecently fluffy. She slid into it, winding one of the towels
around her head.
Her gear was, no doubt, still among the horde at the
monastery. The only thing she really
wanted back from that were her blades. They had been custom-made for her, a
gift from an old friend in V'resh. Her
horse, poor beast, was long gone. Probably sold to a horse-trader or a butcher.
It didn't bear thinking about as there was nothing to be done for the animal.
She made her way to her room from the bathing suite. The inn
was small, but luxurious, obviously accustomed to dealing with individuals of
wealth and taste. The floors were carpeted, spell-lights dispelled the darkness
and there were tasteful paintings and tapestries hung on the walls. The rooms
were comfortable, with thick, soft mattresses and there were bell-chords close
to hand to summon a servant any time of the day or night. Malora was fairly certain that, in a place
like this, the maids and houseboys did more than turn down blankets and move
luggage. If the price was right.
She entered her room and locked the door. Her fingers brushed the globe on the bedside
table and soft spell-lights blossomed from several small glass spheres
suspended from the ceiling. Malora shook her head at the extravagance, then dug
in her boots for the scroll-case. She opened the case and pulled out the
scroll. Its wax seal was broken. Unfurling the paper, Malora scanned the
contents again.
For all his faults, Brother Varre hadn't lied about the
scroll. This was no letter between academics, but a request from the Regent of
Fallen Baramir to one Isteban Mirelle, asking him to return to the city and
take charge of its defense during the coming war.
The wording of the letter was terse and direct, much like
the Regent himself. Malora got a sense that the Regent was not so much
requesting this Mirelle person return to Fallen Baramir, but requiring him to
do so. Which implied there were unpaid debts between either the Regent and this
Mirelle character or the man and the city.
She was more curious about why she had been given the letter
under false pretenses. If the Regent had wanted her to deliver the message, he
could have hired her. Why go through all this pretense? Why go through Selne Venestar
and the Adamantine Archive? Discretion was one thing, but this all smacked of
secrecy, of politics.
And Brother Varre's words drifted through her memory. That
his letter was no mere letter, but the spark to a powder keg that could blow
the entire continent apart. Varre may have been a thief, but he would have had
no reason to lie to her about this once he knew she didn't recognize the name.
I need information, thought Malora. I can't just ride into
the dark. I need to see where I'm going and who I'm going to meet.
She returned the scroll to its case and dressed. It was after noon and the sun was high and
bright in the sky. Not her favorite time of the day to go out, but she needed
answers.
The woman seated behind the reception desk probably could
have told her where to go, but Malora wasn't certain she trusted her discretion.
Malora nodded at the woman as she drew her hood up and stepped onto the street.
The great tree towered overhead, its broad branches and
massive leaves filtering some of the sun. This afternoon, the streets of
Treeport were busy with activity. She noted that several shops were doing a
thriving business. Curiously, she stepped into one or two and was surprised at
their contents.
One shop was a dress boutique, catering to an upscale clientele,
with wooden mannequins adorned in expensive silks, satins and laces. Another
was the jeweler's shop she had seen her first day in Treeport. Malora had
expected to find a few simple wares, brought from cash-strapped travelers.
Instead, she'd found herself in a room of glass cases filled with glittering
necklaces, strands of fine silver and gold adorned with precious and
semiprecious stones.
Her curiosity sparked, Malora started to truly study
Treeport's people. They were an eclectic mix. Humans were the majority. There were olive-skinned men from the
Palatine Peninsula, fair-skinned blondes from the northeast dressed in elvish style
and even, to her surprise, solidly-built men with raven-black hair displaying
sigils and coat-of-arms from V'resh. There were elves from Moonhome and a trio
of aasimar from Pax. A water genasi man in a sailor's cap strutted past her
smelling of brine. Ahead of her, a dark-skinned tiefling crone tottered out of
an apothecary's shop, her skin adorned with ritualistic scars, chattering at
the large black man who held her arm in a language Malora had never heard.
These were people Malora would have expected to encounter at
a port city, not a large town in the middle of the countryside. There was obviously more to Treeport than she
had suspected, but she put those questions aside and refocused on her own task.
Eventually, Malora found a small, pleasant cafe run by a
gnome family. A young gnome woman showed her to a table and brought her tea and
pastries. The fare was excellent and Malora complimented the
establishment. When she had finished her
tea and was paying, Malora asked, as casually as she could, for what she sought.
"Go two blocks ahead to Lark Street, then take a left
onto Ryonteen, miss. You can't miss it."
Malora thanked the girl, left a generous tip and continued
on her way.
She found the building easily thanks to the directions. It
stood on a quiet street, a simple three-story structure of wood and stone. The
building was not ostentatious. There was nothing to indicate what it housed at
a casual glance. You had to look to notice the apple tree carved with care and
artistry into the heavy wooden door, and you had to know what that apple tree
signified.
Malora pulled and the door opened on well-oiled hinges
without so much as a whisper. Beyond the door was an antechamber, that led into
the sanctuary. In the antechamber, sitting on a wooden stool, reading a thick
book, was a thin, half-orc woman. She
raised her head and Malora saw that she wore spectacles.
"Well met, traveler," said the half-orc.
"Welcome to the Temple of Amhog. Do you seek knowledge?"
"Yes," said Malora.
She lowered her hood and studied the woman's reaction. The
half-orc's eyes widened behind her glasses, more in surprise than
consternation, then her expression smoothed itself out.
"What sort of knowledge do you seek?"
"Information on a man," said Malora.
"Living or dead?"
"Living," said Malora. "In Moontree."
The half-orc's eyes narrowed. "Why do you seek this
knowledge, traveler?"
"I was sent to deliver a message to this man under
false pretenses. I want to know who he is so that I might know why I was lied
to."
"What is this man's name?"
"Isteban Mirelle."
The half-orc flinched. She drew a hitched breath and
carefully shut her book, marking her place with a paper strip. Holding the book
to her chest, almost like a shield, the woman stood. For a half-orc, she was
tall and skinny.
"You should talk to Learned Brother Ostren. Follow
me."
Without another word, the half-orc turned on her heel and
walked into the sanctuary. Malora followed her.
