Queen of Thorns Tops Locus Bestsellers!

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Congratulations to author Dave Gross for topping the Locus Magazine bestseller list!

Dave's characters of Radovan and Jeggare have been a lynch pin of the Pathfinder Tales line since its inception. From the very first time I opened one of Dave's manuscripts, I knew that the brilliant Count Varian Jeggare and his streetwise sidekick Radovan were exactly what I'd always been looking for without knowing it: two characters that burst with life, an odd-couple team every bit as compelling as Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. It's been a pleasure to watch them grow over the course of the series, and to see readers fall in love with them the same way I have. To now see their latest novel, Queen of Thorns, hit #1 on the Locus bestseller list is hugely satisfying, and a confirmation of something I've believed since the beginning: that these two characters—and their author—are the sort of storytellers that weasel their way into a reader's heart and leave you anxious for more.

The next Pathfinder Tales novel from Dave Gross, King of Chaos will be available in August 2013.

James L. Sutter
Fiction Editor/Senior Editor

Tell Me About My Characters

Thursday, January 10, 2013

I've been told, all right.

A few weeks ago we ran a contest, in which people competed to stat up characters from my Pathfinder Tales fiction. Choosing only three favorites from these entries was incredibly hard. There wasn't a dog among them—no offense, Arni—and of course almost everyone who built an entry (or five) did something unique.

With a little help from "Mean" Russ Taylor, I narrowed the field to five favorites. That made things even harder, because every one of them had something different to recommend it. Some were elegant in their simplicity, others demonstrated exacting (and rather flattering) attention to detail. Others just plain put me to shame, because you folks know the rules so much better than I do.

What won me over in the end was a combination of authenticity to the characters coupled with innovative or surprising design choices. My three favorite entries gave me a new way of looking at how those characters do what they do.

My Favorites (in no particular order)

Xellos (Jeggare)—This one is both highly faithful to the novels and a very innovative build, since the magus didn't exist when I first imagined the count. Excellent explanations. Just outstanding all around.

havoc xiii (Radovan)—While I originally thought of monk levels for Radovan, the cad works out really well. This is another innovative build that challenged my preconceptions even as it was faithful to what we see Radovan doing in the books.

Rosgakori (Kemeili)—Really excellent, a trifle more powerful than I'd imagined her, but in ways that fit. Spell selection a little different from what I'd sketched out for the book, but since I didn't show her casting every spell she knew, that's not a problem.

Very Honorable Mentions (also in no particular order)

Jesse Benner (Jeggare/Radovan)—Extremely faithful to the books, these straight-up builds are pretty close to what I'd jotted down in my notes. Although I hadn't given Radovan any fighter levels, they certainly make sense.

Yumeko (Goblin Who Swallowed the Wind)—A beautifully simple presentation of one of my favorite secondary characters. This one would have my "less is more" prize if I had a bag full of special awards.

Beek383 (Jeggare, Arnisant, Zandros, Mon Choi, Radovan)—Together, these were easily the most comprehensive survey of characters, nice and straightforward. I like to think this is how others are using some of the novel characters in their games.

LoreKeeper (Radovan)—A good basic build for Radovan, a little lower-level than I'd imagined but with all of the essentials. I love the explanation. That makes the entry—and those that followed its example—that much more interesting.

Tangaroa (Azra)—I actually like the "ugly little girl" take on Azra, and this version definitely pays attention to her abilities from the book. Azra's the character whose "build" I've most questioned since her first appearance, since the oracle class came out soon after.

Blue_Hill (Caladrel)—A very good interpretation of the character, and surprisingly close to what I statted up in Hero Lab. Well done!

Kevin Andrew Murphy (Iolanda)—I never gave Iolanda's game stats this much thought, but if I had, I hope I'd have come up with something this good. The skill and spell selection make perfect sense. In this version, she's even deadlier than I'd imagined.

Dave Gross
Pathfinder Tales Author

In the Seattle area this month? Join Dave Gross at University Books in Seattle on January 25 at 7:00 PM! Dave read from Queen of Thorns and preview an upcoming novel. Afterward he'll sign copies of all his Pathfinder Tales novels, including Elaine Cunningham's Winter Witch, for which Elaine has kindly provided book plates, so you can have both authors' signatures at once.

Dave Gross: Stat Up My Characters!

Saturday, December 15, 2012

Illustrations by Eric Belisle

We joke about gamers at conventions who want to tell you about their characters. Most of the time it's perfectly okay, but there's always that one guy who follows you into the bathroom talking about his +5 Holy Avenger. Dude. It's not all right.

As a long-time gamer, I sympathize with the desire to tell others about your paladin. Hell, in the Pathfinder Tales novels I'm basically telling you about my characters. Maybe it's time to turn the tables... with a twist.

When Prince of Wolves came out in 2010, James Sutter wrote a good article describing Radovan for Kobold Quarterly. I tease him that Charisma shouldn't be Radovan's dump stat, but I can't complain unless I stat him out myself.

But I won't. Or at least, I won't show those stats.

My secret is that with Hero Lab I have created character sheets for the important characters for all of my Pathfinder Tales novels. They're a big help when I deal with spell battles, but they also provide inspiration for action scenes. Can the game version of Radovan catch a knife thrown at him? I looked it up. Totally legit!

While I don't want to reveal any "official" stats to preserve the mystery of the characters, there's no reason you can't show us your version.

How would you stat up Radovan and Jeggare? How about Azra or Malena from Prince of Wolves? Burning Cloud Devil would be a challenge, as would Jade Tiger and all of the kami Arnisant meets in Master of Devils. Perhaps the most fun would be statting out Caladrel, Fimbulthicket, Kemeili, and Oparal from Queen of Thorns. And don't forget Ellasif and Declan from Winter Witch! I'm not sure Elaine or I ever did stats for them.

Post your character stats for any of my Pathfinder Tales characters in this blog's comments by January 2, 2013. With a little help from the Paizo editorial team, I'll choose three favorites to receive a signed copy of Queen of Thorns and a Radovan miniature.

What do you say? You've got my full attention. Tell me about my characters.

UPDATE: Additionally, each of the three winners will receive a free copy of Hero Lab from Lone Wolf Development. If the winner already owns Hero Lab, you’ll be able to select up to $20 worth of add-on packages for Hero Lab. The contest has also been extended to January 2, 2013.

Dave Gross
Pathfinder Tales Author

Killing Time

by Dave Gross

Chapter Four: The Killing
Radovan

It'd been over a year since I'd felt the touch of a woman's hand, much less the rest of her. Iolanda, the most beautiful prostitute in Absalom, had just offered me a whole night with her. All she wanted in return was one little murder.

"No dice, sweetheart."

She looked me over again, her eyes lingering on my arms, the spurs on my elbows, my fists, and all the fights carved into my red leather jacket. "I thought you might be the sort of man who had killed before."

"I'm trying to cut back."

She turned real slow, her dark eyes stroking me. A bead of sweat slipped down my neck.

It'd been over a year. I'd never gone a year.

"What'd this guy do to make you want him dead?"

She sat down in front of a vanity and held my brothel token near the lamp. I could just make out the naughty image on its face. "He took a purse full of tokens like this one."

"Exactly like that one?"

"No," she said. "All different. He doles them out as tips to common, ugly men, brutes and servants."

I tried not to take it personal. There wasn't a thing I'd rather do than to go through that purse and cash in every token, one by one. Still, it wasn't worth a man's life. I said so.

"He beat me," she said. "In front of everyone."

Back in my Trick Alley days, I beat the hell out of the men who got too rough. I broke a lot of arms and legs, cracked more than a couple of skulls, and I was happy to do it. But the rule was, you don't take a life except for another one.

And yeah, I knew some men need killing. Those cutthroats I'd beaten earlier. It wasn't wrong to say I'd have done Absalom a big favor by ending them.

But I hadn't. Sure, both in the Goatherds and later, working for the boss, I'd had to do some killings, but it'd always been to keep the other guy—or rat-man or demon—from killing me first. They all had it coming.

This last year, though, in the body of my own personal devil, I'd killed plenty of guys who didn't have it coming. I thought about the monks of Iron Mountain almost every day. I had nightmares about those phoenix girls.

"I can get those tokens back for you. I can even bust him up real bad. But I don't kill him."

She turned to spill all that black, black hair over the shoulder. "For an hour of my attentions."

"All night."

"You drive a hard bargain."

It had been a year. "Sweetheart, you got no idea."

∗∗∗

Iolanda pulled a bell rope that summoned the thin white butler. She whispered in the servant's ear, and she or he nodded, led me halfway downstairs, and pointed through an open archway at a game of towers in the next room. There was my mark.

The big fellow lounged back in his chair, drawing on a fat cigar as one of his two toadies played his cards for him. Thick hair bristled on his bulging forearms, and his beard was coming in after a morning's shave.

"They will leave soon," the servant whispered. "They must be far away before any misfortune falls on them."

I gave the servant the don't-tell-me-my-business stare. She or he called over a hellspawn girl to keep me occupied, but I didn't want to spoil my appetite. "I'll just hang out."

The mark gave up on towers a couple hours later. He tipped the dealer with one of those platinum tokens. I couldn't see what favor was on its face, but from the dealer's eyes, it was a good one. The mark and his lackeys pushed off. I gave them half a minute and followed.

I saw the mark's goons walking away without him, a carriage rolling off in the opposite direction. I recognized the shape of the mark's head in the rear window.

Desna was smiling on me.

Before I could whistle, another carriage pulled up. The horses shied as they got close to me, so I jumped into the cab. As they settled down, the driver who'd dropped me off turned around with a grin. He'd been waiting for another good tip.

"Follow that carriage," I told him. He slapped the reins.

We followed the mark back toward the docks, where he got out beside a warehouse office. His buddies were nowhere in sight, but he paused before putting a key in the door. He looked right at the carriage. Right at me.

He pointed at the docks and crooked a finger before walking over to the boardwalk.

"Shall I drive on, sir?"

"Nah, this is good." I tossed him the second-smallest of the purses I'd taken from the cutthroats. Before he could ask, I said, "Stick around. This won't take long."

I followed the mark across the boardwalk. The place was almost deserted, with only a few night watchmen swinging lanterns between the warehouses. My guy went up to one of them and bought the lantern from him. The watchman got lost while my guy climbed a narrow stair beneath the boardwalk.

I followed him down. The beach stank of fish and seaweed, and the lantern light cast long shadows across the pebbled shore.

The other fellow rolled up his sleeves as I moved in, showing off just how big his arms were. The way he did it reminded me of the bouncers back at the brothel. In fact, everything about him reminded me of those bouncers, like they were imitating him when they used that gesture.

He just put up his fists and beckoned me to come on. I kissed my thumb, drew the wings of Desna on my heart, and went in.

The guy surprised me with a quick, long punch. I got my arms up barely in time, but he smashed my guard back into my face.

He fought in the classic style, fingernails up for inspection, thumbs outside. I bounced back, slid to the side, and went in for a shot to the ribs. He shot back with a one-two that cracked my wrist and smashed my ear. I danced away, grinning with a confidence I didn't feel. He rushed me again.

I put a dock piling between us. He came around, and I ran behind another one. I needed to think. All those great moves I'd learned in Tian Xia were scrambled in my head. I'd learned them while stuck in a devil body. Now that it was gone, I didn't feel them the way I had for the past year. I had to think about them, and that made me slow.

"You going to run, run now," he said. "Just don't let me see you back at my brothel."

Radovan's jacket tells a story, but not a happy one.

Your brothel?

I came around the piling, fists high. When his shoulder dropped for a punch, I Swept the Beach. My foot barely caught his heel, but quick as spite he stomped my ankle. He put all his weight down, pinning me.

He walked up my leg. I tried kicking him, but he caught my other foot and twisted hard. He got a scream, but not as much as he wanted. He raised a foot to crush my gnarlies.

I winced, expecting the pain but knowing it'd be worse for him. He must have seen it on my face. At the last instant, he turned just enough to smash my thigh instead of impaling his foot on my spiked cup.

I scissored my legs around his foot and rolled. We both went down, tumbling over the stones. A dead crab tore the hell out of my cheek. The guy got his finger in my ear, moved to put a thumb in my eye. I kneed him in the gut and tried to roll away, but he hung on.

His size and strength gave him the advantage. We fought with knees and elbows, which gave it back to me. I bloodied his hip with a spur. He pulled a razor from his belt and damned near drew me a new smile.

"Stupid son of a bitch, I wasn't going to kill you," I growled.

"You think you're the first? I'm sick of it. Once I'm done with you, I'm going to kill that whore."

I pushed away the hand with the razor in it. Then I let it come back, only this time I turned my head and opened wide. I'm not proud to be a biter, but you got to go with your strengths.

He lost the razor along with most of the use of that hand.

"I'll kill her slow," he gasped. "Believe it."

Before I could answer, he smashed my nose with a head-butt. The pain blinded me. He pushed me away. We got to our feet, blinking and reeling. Somebody kicked the lantern, sending the world spinning under the docks. I closed my eyes and listened for his breath. I charged, catching him right in the breadbasket.

We fell into the surf. His head hit something hard, but not hard enough to knock him out. He fought for his life, because that's what we were fighting for now. I got his ear in one hand, a hank of hair in the other. I shoved his head under the water.

His fingers found my throat. For a second I faltered. His head came up. "You don't know who you're dealing with! You'll never get out of Absalom ali—"

I put his head back under and counted. At thirteen I let him up again. He sputtered, "I'll pay you!"

That got my attention. "What about Iolanda?"

"You can buy out her contract. She gambles it all away anyway. You can win it back like I did."

He beat me. Those had been her words. I'd just assumed she meant the other thing.

Which was what she'd been betting on.

This guy was her pimp, not a bad customer. Iolanda knew he wouldn't let things go if I just beat him. If he went back to kill her, it was her own damned fault.

Still.

"Tell me you won't lay a hand on her," I said. "Make me believe it."

"I swear."

His eyes flicked down as he said it.

"Sorry, pal." I put his head back under. "I believed you the first time."

∗∗∗

It was just after dawn when I hopped out of the carriage in front of the boss's little clubhouse. Smoke rose from a blackened building. The boss stood beside a scorched semicircle in the lawn, standing straight while a couple of Pathfinder mucky-mucks chewed him out. Arnisant caught my eye like he wanted to escape, so I called him over and scratched his jaw.

When the shouting was done, the boss came over with a fire-crippled servant carrying his satchel. The boss stopped when he saw the cab. "I have been too long without the Red Carriage," he said. "Back to the inn. We shall collect our things and take the first ship to Greengold."

That was fine by me. I'd be glad if we never saw this damned town again.

Arnisant followed the boss into the cab, and the burned servant offered me the boss's bag.

I said, "You want to help with the luggage?"

He hesitated, glancing back at the smoldering building. I could tell he wanted an excuse to leave but needed a little incentive. I held up the purse I'd taken from Iolanda's pimp. "I'll make it worth your while."

Coming Next Week: A band-new adventure featuring Norret the alchemist and his resurrected brother Orlin in "Thieves' Vinegar"!

Enjoying this story so far? Check out even more adventures of Radovan and Varian in the new novel Queen of Thorns, available now!

Dave Gross's adventures of Radovan and Count Jeggare include the Pathfinder Tales novels Prince of Wolves, Master of Devils, and Queen of Thorns; the novellas "Husks" and "Hell's Pawns"; and the short stories "A Lesson in Taxonomy," "A Passage to Absalom," and "The Lost Pathfinder," all available at paizo.com/pathfindertales. He also co-wrote the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch with Elaine Cunningham, and has written novels for the Forgotten Realms as well as short stories for such anthologies as Tales of the Far West and Shotguns v. Cthulhu. Dave is the former editor of magazines ranging from Dragon to Star Wars Insider to Amazing Stories, and is currently a writer for Baldur's Gate: Enhanced Edition.

Illustration by Carlos Villa

Killing Time

by Dave Gross

Chapter Three: The Dead Prince
Varian

The intruder stepped out of the shadows. I stood, shocked by several simultaneous realizations.

Foremost was that he had employed magic to read my thoughts, thus causing my momentary dizziness and his echoing of my unspoken notion. My irritation with the Decemvirate paled in comparison to my outrage at the violation.

"You will never guess who I am." The intruder's voice was a sneer behind his golden mask.

Locking my gaze to his jaundiced eyes, I made a silent inventory of my weapons: riffle scrolls before me, the Shadowless Sword at my hip, and Arnisant at my feet. Yet for the moment, my most powerful weapon might be a sharp tongue. "Prince Kasiya of Osirion."

He choked. "How—?"

"You wear the funereal garb of the royal family of Osirion, with the addition of a few rather gaudy accessories." The latter caught my interest: the miniature chariot had to be a magical conveyance, and by the durable bindings—one crocodile hide, the other the skin of a large blue-skinned reptile—I inferred Kasiya's books contained arcana or similarly rare material. To my knowledge, Kasiya had not been a spellcaster when we last met. Of course, to his knowledge, neither had I.

"So my attire made it all too easy for you to guess my mortal identity. Still, you can hardly deduce the nature of my incredible return from death and entomb—"

"Vampire."

"How could you possibly—?"

"You are smothered in the traditional burial ointments and herbs, yet not of sufficient quantity to disguise the stench of a ghoul or ghast. You are obviously tangible, so you cannot be a spectre, wraith, or ghost. You speak articulately, so your mental functions are no worse than they were in life. And let us be frank, Kasiya: You were never lich material."

"Prince Kasiya!" he sputtered, bloody flecks forming around the rim of his mask's mouth. He struck the table with such force that he left the impression of his fist in the mahogany. "You will address me as 'Your Highness.'"

As he raged, I slipped a pair of riffle scrolls into my coat pockets. I did the same again and put a third pair in my hands before he regained his composure.

"You are no longer a prince, Kasiya. You are a corpse, a carcass, a cadaver—a casing of dead flesh. You have sunk lower than the grave, become more common than dust. 'Kasiya' is too much name for you."

"You, a mere count, dare speak to me with such insolence? You should bow to the ground and grovel for mercy, for I have bided my time for decades, mastered the arts arcane, plotted every calculation for the singular purpose of—"

"Revenge." I yawned into my palm, holding the riffle scroll between my fingers like one of those loathsome cigars with which Radovan used to annoy me. It was, I thought, a rather good semblance of nonchalance—so long as Kasiya did not notice the trembling of my fingers. "Vengeance is the common motivation for your ilk."

"Again you say 'common'!?" Kasiya sputtered. "And my ilk?"

"Vampires are as susceptible to pride as... well, as susceptible as princes. Dead ones."

Kasiya raised a bandaged hand to trace a symbol in the air. I recognized the gesture as the beginning of an incendiary invocation. As he cupped his hands around a growing spark, I dropped a riffle scroll and snatched another from my pocket. Its pages snapped across my thumb. I felt the arcane tingling of my counterspell wash away his nascent fireball.

"Not in the library," I admonished him. While he glowered, I dropped the expended scroll and slipped another into my hand. "After all, you too were a Pathfinder, once."

Kasiya's halting breath gurgled and broke into such a repugnant sound that it took me a moment to recognize it as laughter. "You hide your fear well. I had forgotten that you too enjoy some excess of pride."

"Honor."

"Semantics."

His words struck like a dash of cold water. Either Kasiya had been spying on me for hours, or else—

No, I refused to believe my artless Osirian nemesis had gulled me with an impersonation of a member of the inner circle. Besides, it was inconceivable that a vampire could infiltrate the Decemvirate. Or so I prayed.

"You mentioned revenge," said Kasiya, rising confidence in his voice. "Tell me, Chelaxian, what in your infernal empire is a fit punishment for a man who betrays a prince and leaves him for dead?"

"Your implied accusation is false on both counts."

"How do you mean 'false'?"

Kasiya's mask cannot hide the horror he's become.

"First, I did not leave you for dead; you were in fact dead. Second, I did not leave your remains; I returned them to your royal brother, whose noble hospitality I repaid by withholding the true account of your treachery."

"Enough," said Kasyia. "It is time to make you suffer."

"In that you have already succeeded with your tiresome posturing."

Kasiya lifted the blue-bound book hanging from his girdle. He twisted open the latch and revealed the contents. In an instant I recognized the weird writing and detestable illustrations.

"The Lacuna Codex!"

"Ah!" Humor returned to Kasiya's sepulchral voice. "At last I surprise you."

In the hands of a powerful wizard, the rituals contained in the Lacuna Codex could alter the course of history. They were weapons so dreadful that the last prince of Ustalav hesitated to unleash its powers, perishing at the hands of Tar-Baphon before the hero Arnisant finally sacrificed himself to imprison the Whispering Tyrant. After recovering the Codex from that prince's tomb, I entrusted it to the Decemvirate.

And now Kasiya had it.

"What do you think of me now, Count Jeggare? With such power in my grasp, do I still amuse you?"

"Read me a bit."

"What?"

"Anywhere will do. Perhaps that caption under that rather disgusting illustration."

"You test my patience."

"Surely you can read ancient Thassilonian," I said. "If not, this tome is of no more use to you than to a blind beggar."

I raised a riffle scroll, but before I could place my thumb upon its edge, Kasiya leaped over the table and struck me full on the chest.

His icy hand pressed down upon my heart. I slapped the golden mask from his face.

Where once Kasiya's face had been a study in Osirian beauty, it was now a patchwork ruin. The brown skin, once lustrous, now resembled a patch of moldering leaves through which writhed livid worms. His teeth floated in his lumpish jaws, irregular except for the prominent fangs peculiar to blood-drinkers. As I watched, his crooked nose wriggled back into place after my strike had flattened it against his cheek.

Kasiya lashed out again, tearing open my shirt. There on my chest lay the outline of his hand, white fading to the natural hue of my flesh.

"You life essence should be mine. How—?"

I had an inkling of the answer, but the time for badinage had passed. "Arnisant!"

The hound did not stir from his place near my feet. For an instant I felt the panic of imagining he were dead, but his chest moved, and I heard the steady groan of his snore.

Kasiya let out another horrid gurgle. "Your pet will not wake until you are dead. When I have finished with you, I shall let him dine on your corpse."

I snapped a riffle scroll. Kasiya drew an eldritch sign to ward off my spell, but I had not aimed at him.

My magic peeled away the enchantment that kept Arnisant asleep. I pointed at Kasiya. "Arnisant, hands!"

With a scrabble of claws on the floor, Arnisant leaped. Kasiya grasped the hilt of his khopesh while fending off the dog with his empty hand. He shouted and drew back the hand, one finger short.

Kasiya slashed his khopesh toward Arnisant. The blade missed, but he pummeled the hound with the weapon's butt. Arnisant fell back, choking on the putrescent finger. He coughed it up, and the gray appendage dissolved into slime on the floor.

I dropped the expended scroll and drew the Shadowless Sword, thrusting at Kasiya's exposed face.

He fell back with inhuman speed, yet my swift blade scratched his cheek. Black ooze welled up on his mottled skin.

I struck again. He grabbed at my blade, but I withdrew before he could capture it in his unholy grip.

Kasiya retreated, but only one step. He whirled the khopesh above his head, bringing it down in a blinding arc. I stepped back scarcely in time to avoid destruction. The heavy blade splintered my chair.

I unleashed another riffle scroll. Its magic tingled through my sinews. Poised for another attack, Arnisant uttered a querulous whuffle as he felt the spell affect him too.

Kasiya flew toward us, but now Arnisant and I matched him in alacrity. The vampire's sword struck empty air where I had stood an instant earlier. Arnisant blurred behind Kasiya, harrying his heels.

I circled the table, attacking Kasiya's exposed face at every opportunity. His parries struck hard against my blade, but they were hasty—he still feared attacks to his face and eyes. He feinted a leap onto the table but turned instead to cut at Arnisant.

"Arnisant, out!" Kasiya's blade scored a shallow cut across the hound's hip as Arnisant ran back. I stabbed deep into Kasiya's ham. His lunge faltered, but he staggered forward, recovering as abominable energies repaired his severed ligaments.

I pressed the attack. Kasiya retreated into the library stacks. With his free hand, he swept books from the shelves. They crashed over me, the dust of decades blinding me.

The creaking of a high shelf alerted me to the danger I could no longer see. Pushing books through the nearest shelf, I snaked through the towering stack even as it fell upon its neighbor. The massive shelves cascaded one against the other as I rolled back toward the tables at the center of the room. I turned to witness the ruin of the windows as the last stack fell against them, shattering the stained glass.

Beyond the broken window, the pink of dawn colored the eastern sky.

I repressed the impulse to taunt Kasiya. He still had time to kill me, if I were careless. Taking another riffle scroll in hand, I watched the open window, ready to slow his escape with a frost spell. Nothing moved above the roiling dust. Instead, I heard a crackle of flames from the direction of the door.

Kasiya released the fireball. As it flew toward me, it grew from the size of a pea to the circumference of a pumpkin. I leaped for Arnisant, trying to knock the dog flat on the floor.

The blast swept us both across the room.

My head rang with the explosion of dust. Burning pages flapped around us like fiery birds landing on a charred beach.

Kasiya stood before the door, unperturbed by the explosion. Retrieving his mask, he favored me with an ugly, eel-like smile. "This is the first of your punishments, Count Jeggare. Do not dare to hope that it shall be the last."

As he spoke, his features melted. So too did his flesh and garments, dissolving into a greasy cloud that seeped beneath the crack of the repository door.

Scrabbling to my feet, I grabbed the door handle and pulled. Locked.

Heedless of the flames rising around me, I collected my satchel and as many of the materials as I could find in the wreckage of the table. Happily, the scroll I required was one of those I recovered in the debris. I discharged its magic to open the door and stepped out of the smothering smoke into the cool air of dawn.

The hue of "Fire!" rang across the grounds of the Grand Lodge. Servants and Pathfinders poured out of the nearest buildings. A few lugged buckets, demonstrating the efficiency with which they had learned the menial lessons taught to burgeoning Pathfinders—lessons that I, by virtue of my noble birth, had been spared.

"Venture-Captain, you are injured." Timon thrust his bucket into the arms of another man and produced a handkerchief to press against my temple. By his fearful grimace, I saw he was glad of any excuse not to approach the inferno.

I took the handkerchief, grateful for the gesture but uncomfortable at the touch of a servant.

A Pathfinder, I reminded myself. Timon was not always a servant. I shuddered to imagine myself set down so low, a humiliation I had experienced recently. A growing light from the sky arrested my attention.

Another fireball fell toward us. Illuminated in its glow, Kasiya rode upon his now full-sized chariot, drawn by a pack of flying saluki dogs. Beside me, Timon gasped but stood paralyzed by fear.

Frantic, I fumbled with my satchel, eyes searching for the right scroll. My fingers found it, my thumb pressing against its unbound edge, and the blaze engulfed me.

Coming Next Week: Blood and waves in the final chapter of Dave Gross's "Killing Time."

Enjoying this story so far? Check out even more adventures of Radovan and Varian in the new novel Queen of Thorns, available now!

Dave Gross's adventures of Radovan and Count Jeggare include the Pathfinder Tales novels Prince of Wolves, Master of Devils, and Queen of Thorns; the novellas "Husks" and "Hell's Pawns"; and the short stories "A Lesson in Taxonomy," "A Passage to Absalom," and "The Lost Pathfinder," all available at paizo.com/pathfindertales. He also co-wrote the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch with Elaine Cunningham, and has written novels for the Forgotten Realms as well as short stories for such anthologies as Tales of the Far West and Shotguns v. Cthulhu. Dave is the former editor of magazines ranging from Dragon to Star Wars Insider to Amazing Stories, and is currently a writer for Baldur's Gate: Enhanced Edition.

Illustration by Carlos Villa

Killing Time

by Dave Gross

Chapter Two: Token of Affection
Radovan

"Stand fast, varlet!"

I could hardly believe my ears. "What did you say?"

"Don't move." The bravo struck a pose and looked down his skinny sword at me.

"That ain't what you said. What did you call me?"

He sneered, probably thinking I couldn't hear his buddies creeping up behind me. When I told the boss I was going out for some exercise, this wasn't what I had in mind. The swordsman looked me in the eye. "Varlet."

"That's what I thought." I crooked a finger. "Why don't you come over here and whisper it in my ear."

He slid a step closer before thinking better of it. He had a good five inches of height on me. Along with the sword, that gave him plenty of reach. In the narrow alley, that gave him one hell of an advantage. Judging from the purses I saw dangling from his belt, it'd been working out for him so far.

I could've put a dart in his eye, but that would've spoiled the surprise for his buddies, who didn't know I knew where they were. Besides, after the past year, I wasn't in much of a killing mood.

"When I hear a word like 'varlet,' I know I'm talking to a special kind of guy," I said. "The kind with a scented hanky in his cuff, maybe a monocle just for show, a box of powdered tobacco to sniff off the back of his wrist. You know the kind of guy I mean. In Cheliax, we'd call you a poet."

"Mind your tongue, hellspawn, or I will give you such—"

"A poet'd say 'thrashing.'"

"—a thrashing— Curse you, you insolent Chel!"

"I've got to hand it to you, though. You Absalom thugs dress better than Egorian river rats." I sniffed at him. "Smell nice, too. What's that, lilac water?"

"How dare you! I am no thug. I am a gentleman. I keep the streets of Absalom—"

"Alleys."

"I keep them clean of scum like you."

I nodded at the purses on his belt. "And charge us for the privilege, yeah?"

For a second he lost his tough and looked past me at his partners. His eyes told me I'd guessed right when I heard their boots scrape the cobblestones: there were two moving in, one on either side. They needed a little more time, so I vamped.

"So you want my purse? What about my fancy new jacket? You wouldn't believe how much it cost. I had it made in a city on the other side of the world, ten times bigger than this little hamlet." I showed off the dragon running down either sleeve, the monkey and the swordswoman tooled on the chest. I imagined the backstabbers checking out the phoenix on the back. "On the other hand, it's a bit wide in the shoulders for a skinny little poet like you. You ever lift anything heavier than that toothpicker?"

"You'll eat those words—"

The guy on my left made his move. I whipped around to put a spur in his belly. Lucky for him, I caught him in his big thick belt. The sharp bone jutting from my elbow didn't perforate him, but it knocked the wind out of him.

The second guy lunged for where I wasn't standing anymore. I threw out my leg in a move my late "master" called Sweeping the Grass. For the first time I realized that name didn't make any sense. Who sweeps the grass? It should've been Sweeping the Porch or the Sweeping the Street or something. Maybe I'd rename it now that the old bastard was gone to Hell and I wasn't. Not yet.

When I took out his legs, the second mook hit the cobblestones hard. He tried to stand but slipped in a pile of garbage, raising a terrific stink before falling again.

While I was dancing with his friends, the gentleman moved in to take a stab at me. I tugged the first goon over by the belt, careful to let his pal's sword miss the important parts. That's the kind of guy I am: considerate of others' feelings. Not that you'd believe it from the guy's yowling.

"Desna weeps." For all I knew, the city guard showed up in Absalom alleys. I was going to have to wrap this up.

The second knucklehead tried to get up, so I gave him a rap on the noggin. The bleeder sat on the alley floor, clutching his belly and wailing.

"Shut up, you, or I'll give you something to cry about." Maybe I didn't want to kill these jerks, but he was testing my resolve.

I grabbed the blades they'd dropped and saw the bloodstains. They'd used these knives recently.

"You aren't just robbers," I said. "You're cutthroats."

Gentleman took a step toward me. I showed him the big smile, and he froze.

"Stand still, knave. I will hold you here to answer to the city guard."

"Seriously? You want to explain these to the city guard?" I threw away the bloody knives and pocketed the stolen purses from the backstabbers.

The point of his sword drooped.

"That's more like it. Now hand over your loot."

The man had no guile. His feint was obvious. Before his point came anywhere near me, I lunged below it, sitting splits in a lunge the aforementioned late master called Monkey Plucks the Peaches.

Gentleman recited his vowels, top of his lungs at first, then weak as a squeaky hinge.

"Drop it." When he didn't, I shook the tree.

The sword hit the ground. Three of the purses followed.

"All of them." I squeezed.

Fingers shaking, he slipped out a platinum coin and tucked it behind his sash before letting the purse fall to the ground.

I collected the money while he cradled his peaches. When I reached for his sash, he tucked an elbow over the coin. I cracked him across the face and took the coin. It was different from the local currency I'd seen. "What's this?"

"A token," he wheezed. "Sentimental value. Please... let me keep it."

Instead of the head of a queen or a bishop, stamped on the face of the coin was a woman performing what the boss would call "an unmentionable act."

For a couple seconds I considered what to do with these lousy killers. Cutting their throats would be a big favor to the neighbors. But I really was sick of killing.

I flipped the coin, slapped it flat on the back of my hand, pretended to make a choice. "Desna smiles on you boys tonight."

I sauntered away until I turned the corner. Then I ran.

∗∗∗

Who could say no to a face like Iolanda's?

According to the fourth guy I asked, the brothel that minted the coin was way across town. Between the boss's purse and the loot I took from the cutthroats, there was no reason to walk. I flagged down a carriage. Settling into the cab, I couldn't stop looking at the coin, rolling it across my knuckles. It'd been a long, long time since anyone'd done something that kind of unmentionable to me.

At the brothel, I tossed the driver the smallest of the stolen purses. He took a peek inside and whistled his appreciation. "Shall I wait for you, sir?"

"Nah, I'm going to take my time."

He tipped his hat as I jumped out.

The bouncers took one look at me and started pushing up their sleeves. I didn't want any more trouble. One of the bouncers was a half-orc with tusks bigger than my spurs.

"Take it easy, fellas," I said. "I got this coin."

They squinted at the token, grumbled a bit, and nodded at the halfling doorman. As I went inside, the slip whispered, "Nice jacket."

I never get tired of hearing that. Some fellas spend all their money on booze or shiver. Me, I like to look sharp. I tipped the slip a gold coin, which didn't seem to impress him much. Once I got inside, I saw why.

The boss, he's probably the richest guy in Egorian, capital of Cheliax, which is pretty much the richest country in the world. That makes my boss the richest guy in the world.

Well, maybe that's not what he'd call "empirically true." But let's just say that the difference between my boss and the actual richest guy in the world is less than the difference between me and somebody else who ain't rich.

The boss is better with the metaphors.

The brothel's salon made the boss's look like a warehouse office. It was all red velvet cushions, tiger-hide couches, chandeliers like all the stars fell down at once, carpet so thick you needed a machete to cross the room, with all the knobs and fixtures made of gold-plated gold. And the girls...

Years back, my old boss Zandros the Fair put me in charge of security for a couple of the Goatherds' houses on Trick Alley. Even after he got jealous and put me back on collections, I spent a fair amount of my free time getting to know the ladies of the lane. Whenever one of the houses brought in a great beauty, the madam always said the new girl was from some far-away land: Osirion, Qadira, Tian Xia, Rahadoum, or Katapesh. Standing in this fancy brothel, I realized they'd all lied.

All those beauties came from Absalom.

The girls were made of all the colors, hair and eyes and skin. There were elf girls with ears as slim as milkweed, and their eyes were jewels. There were slip girls nimble as forest nymphs, three of them chasing each other over the furniture and through the legs of the clients. There were fat girls, skinny girls, tall girls, short girls, a couple of bald girls, and one dwarf girl with biceps bigger than mine. I winked at her. Later on, we were going to talk massage.

Somebody put a cool glass in my hand. I drank it without looking. Fizzy.

"Can I help you find something in particular?" A slim fellow in a white butler's coat stood beside me. When I got a closer look, I wasn't so sure it was a fellow after all.

"I got this coin." I showed it.

"Iolanda. You lucky devil." His or her wink smoothed over my suspicion that it was a crack about my bloodline. Lots of folks mistake the grip of the big knife hanging from the spine of my jacket for a tail, which I don't have—and no horns neither, so don't even start. Not-a-butler pointed up a spiral staircase to indicate a balcony on the third floor. "Up there."

I tossed away the glass and started up the stairs.

From some angles the hair she let spill over the balcony was black as ink. From others, blue as midnight.

People got in my way, but I pushed them aside without a glance. I couldn't look away from Iolanda.

It was her eyes. They weren't blue, not if sapphires are blue. Not purple either, if that's what you call amethysts. They were the color of those stars you think you see some nights, only when you point them out to someone else, they're already gone, dark as the blank sky. But you never forget them.

Iolanda didn't look at me, even after I got close. I tried to follow her gaze, but she wasn't looking at anybody downstairs, although plenty of them were staring up at her. She sighed through lips like ripe plums.

On the way up, I'd worked out a few ice-breaking lines, real charming stuff. When the moment came, I cracked the little smile and said, "I got this coin."

She looked down at me. She didn't quite sniff, but her expression told me she was used to seeing a higher class of client. Still, she took the coin. Her fingernails were painted the exact same shade as her lips. Somebody's got that job, I thought, staring at her lips while mixing that color. Desna smiles on that guy.

"Come." She led me to a bedroom door. "This won't take long."

"Don't be so quick to judge." On the other hand, I thought, I'd been what you call abstinent for over a year. "Let's take our time. I got all night."

She stopped and turned toward me, her voice serious. "You understand what these tokens indicate. You receive only the favor shown."

"Yeah, I know. I just figured..." I shrugged, hopeful.

"Only what is shown, and only for as long as it takes." She gave me a closer look. Her eyes trailed across my jacket. She frowned like she was thinking. I wanted to make her smile.

"How much for the night? I got money."

She named her price. The only guy I knew who could pay it was the boss, and he'd need more guys to carry that purse.

She saw it on my face and raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps there is something else you can do for me. Something that would be worth more of my attention." She trailed a finger along the dragon on my left shoulder. Even through the leather, her touch gave me a thrill.

"What do you want, sweetheart? Just name it."

She smiled.

"A killing."

Coming Next Week: Old enemies reaquainted in Chapter Three of Dave Gross's "Killing Time."

Enjoying this story so far? Check out even more adventures of Radovan and Varian in the new novel Queen of Thorns, available now!

Dave Gross's adventures of Radovan and Count Jeggare include the Pathfinder Tales novels Prince of Wolves, Master of Devils, and Queen of Thorns; the novellas "Husks" and "Hell's Pawns"; and the short stories "A Lesson in Taxonomy," "A Passage to Absalom," and "The Lost Pathfinder," all available at paizo.com/pathfindertales. He also co-wrote the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch with Elaine Cunningham, and has written novels for the Forgotten Realms as well as short stories for such anthologies as Tales of the Far West and Shotguns v. Cthulhu. Dave is the former editor of magazines ranging from Dragon to Star Wars Insider to Amazing Stories, and is currently a writer for Baldur's Gate: Enhanced Edition.

Illustration by Carlos Villa

Illustration by Mathias Kollros. Widescreen version here.

Q&A With Dave Gross

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Last wednesday marked the release of Dave Gross's new Pathfinder Tales novel, Queen of Thorns! Starring his trademark characters Radovan and Jeggare, Queen of Thorns takes the half-elven Pathfinder and his hellspawn bodyguard deep into the isolated forest kingdom of Kyonin, where long-lived elves spin political webs longer than human lifespans and demons struggle to expand their foothold in the mortal realm. We took a few moments to ask Dave questions about his newest novel and the writing process.

What inspired Queen of Thorns? Radovan and Jeggare have obviously been around for several years now, but how did you come up with the other characters and plot for this particular novel?

In all the R&J novels, I first think of what aristocratic characters Jeggare can meet, and then what low-lifes Radovan can rub elbows with—not that it’s a good idea to rub elbows with Radovan. So the first character I knew I wanted to include was Queen Telandia.

After that, I wanted to show that elves aren’t all the same, so I chose one who represented the goddess Calistria (Kemeili), another who is the epitome of a ranger (Caladrel), and a third who was an outcast among her own people because she grew up among humans (Oparal). Then, because gnomes are a small but important element of Kyonin’s population, I included Fimbulthicket.

After thinking of the types of elves and gnome I wanted, I considered what each of them might want under the circumstances that I imagined Kyonin faced. That’s how the plot began to take root.

I knew from the start that I wanted this to be a quest for the truth behind Jeggare’s enigmatic past. I’ve dropped some hints about both his mother and father, but he grew up among her people, and the elves remained largely a mystery to him.

At the same time, I want to make each novel equally about Radovan, and since Kyonin is infested with demons, I knew it was time to make a great big revelation about Radovan’s true nature. Thus, both characters ultimately face themselves before the end of the book.

What part of Queen of Thorns was the most fun to write? What was the hardest?

Pretty much any of the nude scenes was huge fun, because I find nudity not only sexy but also hilarious, especially when Radovan is the one who’s naked. But really any of the humorous exchanges, the quarrels, the misunderstandings are all great fun to write. I can’t say that the novel is a comedy, but there’s certainly plenty of humor in it, and that’s some of the easiest and most fun material to write.

While I enjoy writing action scenes, I’ve written so damned many of the things that sometimes I just stare helplessly at the blank Word screen in hopes that my forehead will begin to bleed and I can come up with something different from all the fight scenes I’ve written before. Sometimes that’s just not possible, but I can tilt the action slightly so it seems fresh even though I’ve done similar fights in past. I need to make it fresh for me or else I can’t imagine it’ll seem fresh to other readers.

Other than Radovan and Jeggare, which character in this book is your favorite?

This is extremely difficult to answer because each of the major supporting characters was my favorite at one time or another. Kemeili was an early favorite because of her sass and volatility. Caladrel grew on me a lot more than I’d initially expected, because he’s such a "bro" compared with the odd-couple of Radovan and the count. Fimbulthicket always delighted me because of his unusual condition and because of his connection to the Green as a druid. In the end, I think Oparal is the character I grew most fond of, both because her struggle is often the hardest on her and because even when she’s wrong, she’s right—which makes more sense after you read what she goes through.

Complete this sentence: "This will be your favorite Pathfinder Tales novel if..."

"...if you like elves, gnomes, demons, fey creatures, ancient archeological sites, and gigantic revelations about the main characters."

What do you find most interesting about Kyonin, the book's setting?

While we give each other a hard time, James Sutter and I have massively overlapping tastes. He wrote the Kyonin article that formed the bulk of my "research" on this novel, and it’s because I loved that material so much that I so desperately wanted to set a story in Kyonin. Again, it’s hard to point to a single thing, but the element of Kyonin that most appeals to me is that the elves abandoned the place and came back thousands of years later. There’s stuff in the forest they don’t even remember, and other stuff they’ve forgotten how to use. To them it’s as dangerous as it is potentially useful—even moreso to outsiders like Varian and Radovan.

What makes elven society so different from human society, and how did you go about trying to show that in this book?

I think the key to most non-human species in Golarion or any fantasy setting is that they are—let’s not kid ourselves—basically human. Otherwise we couldn’t sympathize with them the way we need to do. But elves and dwarves and gnomes all emphasize certain elements of human characteristics.

One way—surely not the only way—to look at the elves is through the gods they worship. Some are devoted to the Green, or nature. Others worship Desna, who Count Jeggare sees as the Tender of Dreams while Radovan calls her Lady Luck. But the god most often associated with the elves is Calistria, with her three aspects or "stings": guile, lust, and revenge. While the inquisitor Kemeili is the one most obviously associated with the goddess, you also see Calistria’s "stings" in most of the other elven characters. The exception is the paladin Oparal, who grew up away from her people and who has adopted a different set of values.

Showing off the lust aspect is easy, since elves are often seen as sexual creatures. The guile is also pretty familiar to readers who think of elves as stealthy rangers or subtle thinkers. The revenge element seems a little unusual for the elves of other settings, but I kept it in mind until the last few chapters of the novel.

Queen of Thorns has a dragon as a key character—how do you go about writing a "monstrous" character, especially one so old and powerful?

I suppose I tried to do a little of that through description, but mostly I relied on dialogue and the reaction of other characters to her. Rough and tough as he is, Radovan doesn’t usually scare easy, but he’s sure he’s one wrong word away from death every time he talks to the dragon.

Of course, when the fighting starts, what a dragon is able to do against dozens or even hundreds of opponents is pretty terrifying. Unfortunately for her, she’s got a lot more than hundreds to deal with, and ultimately I don’t think she’s the scariest presence in the book, although she’s darned close.

If you could have Radovan and Jeggare fight or fall in love with any character from another author's Pathfinder Tales novel, who would it be and why?

I look forward to the day when Radovan meets Ellasif from Elaine’s Winter Witch. I don’t think it’ll go well for him whether it’s a fight or a frolic. Jeggare might have an interesting relationship with Howard’s Elyanna, but I doubt it would be romantic. She’s not aristocratic enough for him, and I imagine he’s far too snooty for her. If they fought, she’d win in any physical contest, but I have a feeling he might outsmart her.

If you had to pick actors to play the main characters of Queen of Thorns, who would they be?

After musing over deceased actors like Basil Rathbone and Jeremy Brett, I’ve turned toward Michael Fassbender as the man who should play Count Jeggare. It’s more difficult choosing an actor for Radovan. For attitude, I like Stephen Graham (Al Capone in Boardwalk Empire), but for presence I like Vic Wertz’s suggestion of Ray Stevenson, even though he’s about a foot too tall.

Meg Chambers Steedle (Boardwalk Empire) would make an interesting Kemeili. Jeffrey Donovan (Burn Notice) for Caladrel. Gina Carano (Haywire) is Oparal. Maybe a digitally reduced Giovanni Ribisi (Avatar) as Fimbulthicket. Arnisant, of course, would play himself.

Check out Queen of Thorns, now available in paperback or ePub format! Also, join Dave Gross in a live web chat at 7 PM Pacific Time TONIGHT, November 8th!

Killing Time

by Dave Gross

Chapter One: The Night Visitor
Varian

The old servant fumbled with the keys. The glow of the lantern transformed his gnarled hands into dried roots.

At my side, Arnisant growled a warning. The instant I touched the Shadowless Sword, a gloved hand covered mine in a gesture doubtless intended to reassure me. Instead, the unwelcome touch raised the hairs on my neck. My pulse remained calm, however, a reminder of the strange transfiguration of my lately sundered heart.

Invisible a moment earlier, a woman glanced up at me. The shadow beneath her voluminous hood offered no impediment to my half-elven vision, yet I perceived only a platinum mask inlaid with blue gemstones. I had seen that mask only a few hours earlier, on one of the Decemvirate, the anonymous inner circle of the Pathfinder Society.

I showed Arnisant a hand sign. The wolfhound's growl ceased.

"I'll take those, Timon." The woman released my hand and reached for the lantern and keys.

I recognized the servant's name. As he surrendered the lantern, I saw that the wrinkles on his face and hands were the result not of age but of horrific burns.

"Timon of Korvosa," I said. "The Timon who stole the captain of the Sable Company's steed. The Timon who eloped with Chief Redmuzzle's daughter."

He bowed, stiff from his wounds but with a crooked smile acknowledging his pleasure at the recognition.

"Eloped?" The masked woman fidgeted, keys rattling, light bobbing. "Wasn't Chief Redmuzzle a goblin of the Mushfens?"

"The marriage was strictly a matter of self-preservation," said Timon.

"But goblins hate humans."

"Shortly before encountering Redmuzzle's tribe, I ran afoul of a marsh witch—"

"Green Sobeska!" I recalled his decades-old report in the Pathfinder Chronicles. "From the hag you retrieved several fragments of the tablets of Xanderghul. She transmogrified you into a goblin as you fled her grotto."

"I am flattered that you remember, Venture-Captain."

Timon's use of my Society title pleased and irritated me in equal portion. After my infuriating audience with the Decemvirate, I remained uncertain of my status. In my long absence, they had reassigned all of my field agents to others, leaving me a venture-captain in name only.

"Thank you, Timon." The woman's cool tone indicated dismissal.

For a moment I wished Radovan were with me so that he might slip a few coins into the retired Pathfinder's withered hand.

As Timon withdrew, the woman brushed past me and opened the door. Before I could identify her perfume—something Qadiran—the mingled scents of old paper, parchment, and leather poured out of the building. The woman snapped her fingers. Two rows of yellow lamps flickered to life along a pair of long reading tables.

Ranks of bookshelves surrounded the tables. Like tombs in a catacomb lay thousands of old, damaged, or misfiled volumes of arcane and mundane lore. The curators of the Grand Lodge's many libraries would determine which to restore for general use and which to retire.

I felt a pang of sympathy for the forgotten books and for Timon.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather use one of the libraries?" she asked.

"I enjoy the solitude."

"It's better for sulking, isn't it?" She saw the effect of her remark in my posture. "No, no, I'm sorry, Varian. That isn't how I meant to begin. Here, I brought you a gift in honor of your long-awaited return from Tian Xia."

She produced a goblet from beneath her cloak. I stifled my annoyance at her familiar address, made all the more infuriating by her own anonymity. Since my return to the Grand Lodge, no one but Timon had addressed me as "Venture-Captain." In default of that title, anyone less than a prince should address me as "Your Excellency," or at least as "Count Jeggare."

She set the goblet on a reading table and produced a pair of bottles. The curling labels seized my attention: the wine came from my own vineyards in Western Cheliax, two of the finest vintages ever produced in the Inner Sea.

Decades earlier I had sent such bottles to certain of my field agents, who reported their excursions to me for fact-checking, annotation, and ultimately submission to the Decemvirate for potential inclusion in the Pathfinder Chronicles. Could this woman be Medesha? Khirsah? It should not surprise me to learn that either of those talented women had entered the Society's innermost circle.

I studied what little I could see beneath the mask: sea-green eyes, coral lips, and a long, fair chin. The enchantments of a Decemvirate mask could very well extend beyond the features it covered, even disguising the wearer's voice. Perhaps the masked stranger was not a woman, perhaps not even human.

As she poured the wine, I noticed that the corks of both bottles had been previously drawn and reinserted.

"You will join me, of course."

The Decemvirate has a flair for the dramatic.

"I hoped you would ask." She produced a second goblet from beneath her cloak. She filled both vessels and allowed me to choose.

Her gesture only heightened my caution, despite the seeming absurdity that a member of the Decemvirate would poison me on the grounds of the Grand Lodge. I chose the goblet nearest me. As I nosed the wine, she lifted the other goblet and said, "To old friends."

"Whoever they are." I put the goblet to my lips to cover my sarcasm.

The wine covered my palate with ripe cherry balanced with a hint of black olive and tobacco. After a moment's savor, I let the wine trail down my throat, relishing its decades-mellowed character.

The woman admired her goblet before setting it down. "Patience has its rewards."

By her tone, I knew she had prepared that remark.

I gestured for her to sit, taking the chair opposite as Arnisant settled at my foot. He laid his head upon his crossed forepaws and closed his eyes.

"Believe me when I say I understand your frustration," she began. Uttering my thoughts on that proposition seemed impolite after accepting a drink, so I smiled. "All right, I can't possibly understand your frustration. But I can imagine that you feel you deserve an explanation."

"And you feel I do not deserve one?"

"I'm not saying that. I'm saying you must trust that we know what we are doing."

"What I know is that I accepted, without explanation, a mission to retrieve this Celestial Pearl." Even as I named the artifact, I felt the cool pulse of half of its former contents within my breast. My brief death and subsequent resurrection by virtue of the dragon's heart was one of several intentional lacunae in my report to the Decemvirate. "During my absence, no effort was mounted to aid or rescue me and my—"

"We had no message from you."

"So you say. I sent three before misadventure prevented further communication."

"So you say." She drained the rest of her wine and refilled the goblet as I seethed. Once again, I noticed the eerie calm of my heartbeat even as the muscles in my neck drew painfully tight. "The truth is that I believe you, Varian. Others do as well. What I don't believe is that all the wizards of the Grand Lodge are lying about receiving no messages."

"It takes only one to sow deceit."

"Your concerns are noted. And..." She looked toward the door and peered into the darkness between the book stacks. Beside me, Arnisant lay still, breathing steadily. Surely he would have scented any intruder, so I took her gesture for more mummery. "The oaths of the Decemvirate are more demanding than those of the Society at large."

"If nothing else, my tenure in the Society should afford me the courtesy of an explanation. What was the purpose of my fetching the Celestial Pearl? Why can I not see the Lacuna Codex? Why will no one explain—?"

"I'm sorry, Varian. Already I've told you more than I should. You must place your faith in the judgment of the Decemvirate."

"As Eando Kline did?"

She sighed. "I knew you would throw that in my face."

"The machinations of the Decemvirate seem to be driving away the most promising members of the Society even as others retire."

"Kline's mistake was to place his judgment over that of the Decemvirate."

"Was that a mistake?"

"You don't have all the information."

"Perhaps if I did—"

"It is strictly need-to-know—"

"I am a Pathfinder. By definition, I need to know."

She made a silent snarl, a gesture reminding me of Radovan's big smile, except for her perfect white teeth. I raised an eyebrow, half amused at the image she presented.

She let out a sigh and shook her head. "Try to resist the impulse to have the last word tomorrow. You might get it."

"Perhaps tomorrow I will want it."

"I beg you not to follow Ollysta's example, Varian. Don't throw away a long and distinguished career for the sake of pride."

"Honor."

"Semantics."

"Only to someone who has forgotten the difference."

She pushed back from the table, jostling the bottles and goblets. "Enjoy the wine. Timon will return later to unlock the door."

As she walked away, I took her advice and resisted the impulse to have the last word. When she slammed the door shut behind her, I opened my satchel.

Arranging my remaining riffle scrolls, I set out a pot of ink, two compartmentalized boxes full of various material essences, dozens of blank riffle scrolls, a blank journal, another half-filled with my notes and sketches from Tian Xia, and my latest grimoire.

It was to fill the latter volume that I had come to this repository. While I had learned many new spells during my time at Dragon Temple, I wished to add others to my repertoire now that I was no longer an armchair arcanist but a practicing wizard.

Draining my goblet, I selected a riffle scroll and raised the cup. With two fingers I pinned a riffle scroll against the heel of my palm and thumbed the edge. The pages zipped past with a satisfying burp. Arcane light surrounded the goblet.

Holding it high, I searched the stacks for the tomes I sought. The organization was more or less as I remembered. Soon I returned to the table with three books of spells.

For a few minutes I indulged the nostalgic reflex, lingering over the names and annotations of the Pathfinder wizards who had fallen in the field. Two had once reported to me as their venture-captain. The other had been a friend, one whose humorous letters I could recite almost verbatim.

After pouring another goblet of wine, I set to work. Hours later, I had inscribed several long-desired spells. As I finished copying an interesting illusion, I lifted the second bottle to find that it, too, was empty. A wave of fatigue fell over me. I shook my head, and the feeling passed.

Arnisant distracted my thought with a loud and abrupt snore. Placing my toe against the dog's ribs, I reconsidered jostling him but instead withdrew my foot. Like Radovan and me, he had endured a long, arduous journey. The loyal hound deserved his rest.

"A loyal dog does deserve his rest." A liquid voice echoed my thoughts as a masked man stepped into the lamplight.

He wore a mask of hammered gold painted with enamel at brows, lips, and beard. Beneath jeweled arm rings, crisp linen wound tight around his arms. He wore a breastplate of compressed peacock feathers and a pleated scarlet kilt. From one hip hung a khopesh in a jeweled half-sheath. From the other dangled a pair of bound books and a miniature chariot of elm, ash, and sycamore. Scents of myrrh, sandalwood, cedar, and attar of roses flowed from him.

The stranger's obscured face rose in an imperial gesture, and he said, "Although you are a most disloyal dog, Count Jeggare, you too shall have the rest you deserve—a final rest."

Coming Next Week: Brawls and brothels in Absalom's seedier districts in Chapter Two of Dave Gross's "Killing Time."

Dave Gross's adventures of Radovan and Count Jeggare include the Pathfinder Tales novels Prince of Wolves, Master of Devils, and Queen of Thorns; the novellas "Husks" and "Hell's Pawns"; and the short stories "A Lesson in Taxonomy," "A Passage to Absalom," and "The Lost Pathfinder," all available at paizo.com/pathfindertales. He also co-wrote the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch with Elaine Cunningham, and has written novels for the Forgotten Realms as well as short stories for such anthologies as Tales of the Far West and Shotguns v. Cthulhu. Dave is the former editor of magazines ranging from Dragon to Star Wars Insider to Amazing Stories, and is currently a writer for Baldur's Gate: Enhanced Edition.

Illustration by Carlos Villa

Queen of Thorns Sample Chapter Scavenger Hunt!

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

It's Halloween, and in the spirit of going door-to-door looking for treats, we've decided to do something a little unusual for the release of the new Pathfinder Tales novel Queen of Thorns. Instead of offering a single sample chapter, we've spread the first four chapters across four prominent fantasy and gaming websites, giving you a free sneak preview of the first 70 pages of the book! Here to talk a little bit about the project is the author himself, Dave Gross:

To give people a taste of the Pathfinder Tales novel line, Paizo's fiction editor solicits short prequels for the web fiction page. These stories allow us authors to show a glimpse of what happens to our heroes between books. I appreciate the opportunity to go darker or funnier or just a little different from the novels while showcasing the same protagonists.

I love them.

Paizo also posts chapter excerpts from the novels, often from the middle of the book, with glorious full-color artwork.

I hate them.

Well, I love that Paizo is showing off beautiful art and a sample chapter, but why is it never Chapter One? That drives me crazy! I wrote the chapters in order, damn it, and I think the first one is a pretty good introduction to the story. Why can't that be the excerpt?

So I complain, as anyone who's read my editor's blog knows all too well. And he responds with perfectly reasonable-sounding explanations like, "We wanted to show off some action, because we like your fight scenes." (That's a dirty trick, the appeasa-flatter.) Or maybe he'll say, "We loved this character and wanted an excuse to commission a painting of her." (I loved her too, so I'm thwarted.)

But, damn it! I still want everyone to read Chapter One (and Two and Three) before Chapter Four. And so I keep complaining, and my editor keeps posting lists of things authors should never say to editors, and so it goes.

But something different happened this time. I don't know, maybe my editor was just tired, or maybe the stars were right. I suspect the enlistment of publicity impresario Jaym Gates might have been a factor. The result is that you can follow the links from blackgate.com to flamesrising.com to sfsignal.com and finally to paizo.com (below) to read Chapters One, Two, Three, and Four of Queen of Thorns.

If you like what you read, I hope you'll buy a copy of the book. And if you like that, I hope you'll tell everyone you know to buy one, too.

In the meantime, let's thank our hosts at all the participating websites, as well as Jaym Gates and my long-suffering editor, James Sutter, for making this happen.

I promise not to complain for the rest of the week.

About This Chapter

After Prince of Wolves and Master of Devils, in which the boys spend much of their time on separate journeys, for Queen of Thorns I wanted a plot closer to a classical quest fantasy with a group of heroes. You know, like a Fellowship or a Ring of Companions or something like that. So in Chapter Four, Count Jeggare assembles a party that leaves Radovan wishing he'd stayed in Rivendell. I mean, Iadara.

Jokes aside, Kyonin is only superficially similar to Middle-earth. In addition to the fey creatures infesting the woods and the horde of demons threatening from the south, the Fierani Forest is full of half-forgotten archaeological sites, some concealing arcane or cosmological mysteries. What could be more exciting to a Pathfinder like Count Jeggare? Although, as things turn out, the expedition into the Fierani Forest might reveal as many secrets of Radovan's infernal heritage as of Varian's long-absent father.

Chapter Four: The Fierani Forest

Somebody was making a hell of a racket, and not just in my nightmare. I'd been having a lot of those lately. I shook off the terrors, sat up, and rubbed sand out of my eyes.

Desna smiled. Nobody was getting murdered outside of dreamland. Arnisant just had Fumblewhatsit backed up against the campfire.

"Call off your animal! Great glens and gardens, he'll eat me in one bite!" The gnome wasn't tall enough to hold the skillet out of reach. He protected it with his body, but the hound's big jaws shook his confidence.

"Arni, get over here!"

The dog bounded and sat beside me, a long rope of drool running from his jaws.

The gnome scowled at Arni and set the skillet back on the fire. Fat black sausages sizzled in the pan.

"You all right, Fim?"

"Fimbulthicket," he winced as he pressed a hand to hip. "And I'm fine, thanks for asking. Dodging a hungry dog is nothing new, I'm sorry to say."

"Where's the boss?"

The gnome tilted his head in the direction of the brook. His baggy eyes told me the boss had kept him up late, as he had our last couple of nights in Omesta, quizzing him about his old man. It didn't help that we'd slept this last night in the forest just outside the elf and gnome city. The boss said it was supposed to get us prepared for the upcoming journey.

It was going to take a lot more than one night's camping to toughen up the gnome, who winced every time he moved. He probably hadn't spent a night out of a soft bed since he'd last seen Variel. That was around the time the boss was born, and I still had trouble thinking of him as working on a hundred years old.

I didn't mind sleeping on the ground so much as the fiends tearing through my dreams. I couldn't blame it on last night's supper, which had been pretty plain fare after all the rich elven goodies back in Iadara. No, I had a pretty good idea where my nightmares came from. They didn't come from the things I'd eaten. They came from the things I'd done.

As I pulled on my boots, the back of my neck itched. I looked around, saw nothing. Listening, I heard the sizzling meat on the fire, the water from the brook, and birdsong from the trees, but nothing out of order. Still, it felt like somebody was watching me.

I shook out my blanket and made a cloud of gray dog hair. No wonder I'd dreamed about wrestling a demon-bear. Whenever I slept near the boss, Arni waited for him to fall asleep before moving from the foot of his bunk to steal my covers, the big mooch.

The starknife rested behind the pack. I'd carried it with me ever since we'd left Ustalav. Even all the time I tramped through Tian Xia in a devil's body, I kept it near. A few times I'd had to use it to kill, but that's not why Azra gave it to me. Despite swearing to Bishop Senir that I'd never go back to Ustalav, I wondered sometimes whether Azra was waiting for me to return her knife and seal the offer she'd made me.

It was a stupid thing to think about. I wrapped the starknife in my blanket and stuffed them both into my pack.

I fetched my jacket off the tree where I'd hung it. It looked no worse for the dunking I'd taken back in Iadara. Most of my scrapes and bruises had healed, too. While the night I spent with Kemeili was fun, I was glad it was behind me. There'd been a time I'd have felt different. Maybe the problem was I'd spent a year stuck in a body nobody could love. Or maybe I'd had my fill of rough stuff for one lifetime.

My spurs slid into their elbow slots as I shrugged on the jacket. I rolled my shoulders to feel the slack hidden under the overlapping strips of red leather. It was the best jacket I'd ever had, and I liked feeling my tools close to hand. If I slapped my arms just so, razor-sharp blades filled my fingers. Even in a tight spot, it was easy to slip a rake or probe out of a hidden pocket.

I snagged a couple sausages from the skillet, juggling them as the fat dripped down my fingers. It was time I learned to be more careful around hot things.

Arnisant followed me out of camp. When I paused, he sat at my side and gave me a pitiful look.

I broke a sausage in half and held it up. "You stay off my bed. Got it?"

The Arnisant Falls started flowing. Before he could drown in his own puddle of drool, I dropped the sausage. He made it disappear and looked to me for more. I finished mine before I let him have the other half of his. Otherwise he'd harry me all the way to the brook.

We found the boss in the middle of the stream. He stood on a stone, his pose telling me he was halfway through the Thirty-Six Forms he'd learned from the masters of Dragon Temple. I'd learned the same exercises from a less reputable source. No surprise, the boss still practiced the Forms, and I had to admit he was a lot better at them than I was. Still, I made better use of them up close and personal.

I hopped onto a nearby stone and joined him. Usually we didn't go for more than a minute before he started pointing out my mistakes. This time he didn't say a word. We just let our bodies flow through the motions.

We finished and began again. As we Gathered the Sun and did Crane Steps Forth, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. The elf ranger Caladrel crouched on a branch overhanging the brook. He watched until we finished the second routine.

The boss looked at Caladrel. An unspoken message passed between them, and the elf dropped as light as a leaf to the ground. He set aside his bow and quiver, slipped the long elven curveblade off his back. Facing us, he imitated our movements as we did it all again.

By the time we reached Tip the Leaf, I knew he was one hell of a quick learner.

"Immaculate," the boss said when we were done. "Have you studied?"

Caladrel shook his head. "I practiced Willow-Oak calisthenics while training for the rangers. Your exercise seems to have a similar purpose."

They collected their weapons, and Arni and I followed them back to the campsite. Caladrel and the boss were the same height, a good five inches taller than me. As they locked step, the boss fell into the ranger's rolling gait. As long as I'd known him, he was a natural mimic, even when he wasn't trying.

It was good to see the boss in his long coat with the riffle scrolls slung around his chest. The Shadowless Sword hanging from his hip should have looked all wrong with his Chelish clothes, but somehow its black-and-gold lacquered scabbard seemed to fit in just perfect. When he drew the blade, it moved as swiftly as his Chelish rapier ever had. Swifter, even. He said that's how it got its name, because it moved too fast for the sun to throw a shadow behind it.

The one difference I noticed in the count lately was that he'd lost that little bit of gray in his hair. I couldn't tell whether he was using dye or magic, but it was only a matter of time before I caught him at it. He was getting old, even for a half-elf, but he hid it pretty good.

"Prince Amarandlon sent me to aid in your search," said Caladrel. He saw the boss's eyes narrow, same as me. "He explained that the expedition is under your command. I welcome the opportunity to learn from you."

The boss nodded, but he was preening on the inside. He likes having his toes kissed. I guess that can't be helped, when you're born into the richest family in the richest country in the world. "The prince's message said I should expect two others."

"Maybe Faunra?" I'd hoped to find that doe-eyed ranger in Omesta while the boss and Fimbulthicket planned our excursion, but the gnomes told me she'd flown back to Iadara. I made up for my disappointment by catching up on the sleep I'd lost with Kemeili.

The boss gave me a look, but Caladrel smiled. He was turning out to be a regular guy, despite the toe-kissing.

"I'm afraid not," said the elf. "I'm here for the rangers. The others will represent other concerns. Doubtless one will be the queen's creature."

The boss's eyebrow rose a bit. Otherwise he masked his suspicion pretty good.

"That reminds me," Caladrel said, rummaging in his pack. "I bring a gift from Prince Amarandlon."

"Your master has been most generous to me," said the boss.

"Actually, the gift is for your associate."

The boss masked his disappointment pretty bad.

Caladrel pulled out a dirt-colored cloth and handed it to me. It was light as a handkerchief, but I let it fall open and saw it was a full cloak with a hood.

"Thanks," I said, trying to sound polite. "But it's not really my style."

"Your red leathers stand out against the forest," said Caladrel. "With scouts from the Witchbole venturing ever closer, stealth is our first line of defense."

"It's kind of warm to wear a cloak, don't you think?"

"Try it on."

The boss gave me the look, so I threw the cloak over my shoulders. The hem fell just above the top of my boots, covering up my red jacket and pants. It wasn't too warm after all.

"Much better," said Caladrel. "Now you aren't visible from a mile away."

"Thanks." Maybe it'd get caught in a briar patch. Maybe a breeze would blow it into a ravine. I revised my wish list for Lady Luck.

Back at the camp, the gnome with the goofy name rolled his eyes when he saw we'd brought company for breakfast. When the boss told him to expect two more, he shuffled over to his pack and dug out more sausages. Grumbling as he rubbed his wrists, he said, "I hope they bring more provisions."

"It would appear one has," said Caladrel.

A tall figure came out of the forest. Mirror-bright armor glinted out from beneath a hooded elven cloak like mine. The warrior's backpack was twice the size of mine, and it came with a barn door of a shield and a rafter of a sword.

The newcomer dropped the pack. Pulling back the hood, she revealed herself as the Forlorn woman who'd slugged me at the queen's party.

"Desna weeps." Sometimes I forget and say it out loud.

Caladrel coughed. "Count Jeggare, allow me to introduce Oparal, paladin of Iomedae."

"Your Excellency." She made a stiff Chelish bow.

Oparal can certainly handle herself in a fight.

The boss barely nodded, reminding her of the pecking order. With a sly smile, he said, "I believe you are already acquainted with my bodyguard, Radovan."

The black pupils of her steel-colored eyes slid toward me. Her nostrils flared. Her expression was almost comical except for the fact that my jaw still ached. Otherwise, I would have tipped her a wink to show I wasn't scared.

I wasn't. Not much, anyway.

"Hungry?" asked the gnome.

"Yes," said Oparal. "Our owl only just arrived."

At a nod from the boss, Oparal went to sit beside the fire. I made the "let's talk" sign. Caladrel caught the hint and joined the others at the fire while the boss and I strolled out of earshot.

"You sure this is a good idea? I mean, seriously—a paladin?"

"We could wish for no better ally if we encounter demons in the forest."

"We don't need one of these holy avengers. They make me nervous. You don't like them either. Besides, we've handled fiends before."

"I never said I don't like paladins. As for demons, you and I have only ever faced one or two at a time, usually with the Egorian Watch only a shout away."

"You're forgetting Iron Mountain."

"I forget nothing," he said. "Those were devils. And you were on their side."

He had to remind me of that. "I couldn't help it."

"All I am saying is that the circumstances are different."

"You weren't the one that ogress clobbered."

"I was not the one who offended her."

"Thanks for the sympathy."

The boss looked past me. That sly smile found its way back onto his face. "Perhaps our last companion will be more to your liking."

I turned to see her approach. Under an elven cloak she wore black-and-yellow leathers—wasp colors. A coiled whip hung at her back, pushing up her cloak like the bustle of a ball gown.

Kemeili planted a fist on her hip and smiled at me. "You didn't think I'd let you get away that easily, did you?"

∗ ∗ ∗

Caladrel paused and raised a hand. He lowered it, palm-down. We all crouched low. Even Arnisant lay down without needing to be told. Clever boy.

Whatever the ranger spotted, I was glad to set down my overstuffed pack. The boss kept his books in his satchel, but I was the one hauling around the rest, including his tent. At least he had all his little scrolls and widgets in his coat and bandolier.

Caladrel beckoned the boss forward. I went with him.

We peered through some bushes at a mob of demons ambling through the forest. They wore the bodies of elves, some of them in scraps of ranger leathers, but there was no mistaking them for real elves. They jiggled with every step, glutted with something wriggling inside them. I counted seventeen of the damned things.

"Vermleks," whispered Caladrel.

"I will lead the attack," said Oparal, who'd joined us without an invitation. She shrugged off her pack and set her shield on an arm as thick as mine. Traced in gold on the shield's face was the image of a winged, eagle-headed woman.

"No," said the boss. "There are too many for us simply to rush in."

"The count is right," said Caladrel.

"But we are less than half a day from Omesta," said Kemeili, who I hadn't even heard creep up on us. "They have never come so close before."

"They have, and more often than you might think," said Caladrel. "But we are charged with protecting the queen's guest. You take your duty seriously, don't you, Oparal?"

"I—" Oparal looked at the boss and me. "I do."

"Then wait. With your permission, Count Jeggare ...?"

The boss gave him the nod, and Caladrel drew an arrow from his quiver. I could have sworn the fletching moved itself into his fingers, like the container was handing it to him. He nocked the arrow. On its tip was a lump that looked like a plant bulb.

The boss whispered to Oparal. "Caladrel knows the forest. We will follow his lead."

"Of course, Excellency."

"In the field, call me Varian."

I didn't like having a cloak on me, even if it didn't make me too hot. I dropped it on the ground. As an afterthought, I shrugged off my jacket, too. Oparal looked at me like I was stupid. Maybe she was right, but I didn't want demon gore all over my new leathers.

Caladrel popped up and back down so quick that I noticed the sound of his bow only after I realized he was moving. The demons heard it, and some of them looked back in our direction. A few stared so hard I felt like they were looking straight at me. I moved real quiet-like, and their elven eyes followed me.

Past the demons, the arrow hit the ground with a squelching sound. That got the attention of all the demons. Wailing, they rushed toward the arrow, shoving each other to reach it first.

"The scent drives them mad," Caladrel whispered. He pointed through the brush at a pair of demons ripping hunks of meat off each other. Caladrel nodded up toward the forest canopy. "It also attracts help."

At first it looked like cones were dropping from the high branches, but there were no pines around. The "cones" were fist-sized wasps.

"Well done, Caladrel," said Kemeili.

The demons noticed nothing but what was between them and the scent. The wasps swarmed over them. For a few moments, the demons didn't seem to notice. Then one began screaming and slapping at its elven body. Its head swelled and darkened. An instant later, it burst open like a rotten melon. A liver-colored worm's head burst out through its gaping neck, squealing as it squirmed free of its wasp-stung body.

"Now?" Oparal had her hand on her sword.

"Let them weary themselves," said Caladrel.

An impatient growl rumbled in Oparal's chest. She sounded like Arnisant when he spied a cat. She was spoiling for a fight.

Six or seven of the demons raised their stolen hands above their heads, gurgling unholy prayers. The air around them congealed. The wasps fell to the ground while the demons crushed the insects in a frenzy of slaps and stomps.

"Now," said the boss.

By the time I realized Caladrel had stood, he'd unleashed three or four arrows. One jutted from the chest of a vermlek, blood spurting through its hollow shaft.

Oparal charged the demons. Her sword struck quick as lightning and blazed twice as bright. Two demons came up behind her, black energy surrounding their hands as they reached for her. The boss riffled a scroll, and two gray bolts of magic struck each vermlek in the face. They howled and clutched their eyes as Oparal whipped her sword around and opened their bellies. Bloody worms as thick as my arm poured out of the wounds. Below each thick head, the worms split into four long tails, the tails further tipped with nests of countless tiny tentacles. The abandoned elf bodies slumped to the ground.

The boss tucked his expended scroll back into his bandolier. I stayed close in case one of the worms went for him. Arni did the same, barking as a worm shot quick as a snake past Oparal. The hound jumped in front of the boss, but the demon didn't go for the count.

It raised a dripping tail and pointed straight at me. In the squealing tongue of demons, it called out to its wormy buddies. Their heads swiveled in my direction. They rushed me.

I tensed, deciding whether to stand or dodge.

With a crack, Kemeili's whip caught the first vermlek by one of its wormy tails. The demon struggled to get free, but the curved flaps of the whip held it tight. Kemeili pulled it off course, giving me all the room I needed.

I planted the big knife a couple of feet below the worm's five-jawed mouth. Dark blood sprayed up as I pulled out the blade, but the demon barely grunted at the wound. Maybe that's not where it kept its heart.

Or maybe vermleks don't need hearts.

It rammed its head against my ribs, knocking the breath out of me. Arnisant's jaws caught the worm just below its head. The hound shook once, twice, and the third time tore away a mass of ruined flesh and six inches of bloody windpipe.

Turns out vermleks do need windpipes.

We left it flopping on the ground and turned to stop the next one coming toward me. None even came close.

Caladrel and the boss each put down another one with their swords. The ranger's big two-hander moved so fast that all I could see was its red blur. It hummed as it moved, louder when it touched a demon. In the instant it was out of its sheath, the boss's Shadowless Sword was damned near invisible. It looked as if everywhere he pointed his hand, some magic power tore wounds in the demons' flesh.

Oparal cut the legs out from under two vermleks trying to break away. As the worms escaped their host bodies, she chopped them into pieces.

Kemeili twisted the handle of her whip. Three long, wicked barbs grew from its tip. She lashed a vermlek across the belly, revealing the worm inside. With another stroke, she tore it out of its shelter. I filled it with darts from my jacket sleeves. It flopped a few times and lay still.

It was over before I'd worked up a good lather. I thought about how the vermleks had looked at me, then I began to sweat.

Oparal looked at me herself, eyes narrowing. The white light of her sword began fading. She raised it up and chopped the head off another demon.

Caladrel joined her in the beheadings. The closer his sword came to the vermleks, the more it glowed like blood on a lantern pane. As the demons died, so did the glow.

The boss had been right. It was good to have a couple demon slayers with us. I only hoped they didn't mistake me for one of the bad guys.

Kemeili wiped the gore off her whip while the gnome looked us over for injuries. A gnome-sized whirlwind floated just above the grass behind him, but it hadn't left his side during the battle. He didn't find any wounds on us. "Not even a scratch!"

Good thing, I thought as I fetched my jacket. Otherwise I'd have felt pretty silly setting aside what little armor I had. I promised myself not to do that again, even if it meant getting a little slime on my leathers.

"Don't sound so disappointed," Kemeili said to the gnome. "Or maybe next time just help us fight them."

He waved away her complaint. "I've seen scum like these a dozen times before. I knew you could handle them. They're boring."

The boss knelt to examine the dead demons. I counted time in my head until he broke out his sketchbook. Fourteen seconds—a new record.

Kemeili shot me a silent question. What is he doing?

I could have told her that the boss is a student of everything, but the truth is he likes weird stuff best. For instance, he calls himself a botanist—a fancy word for "gardener"—but the plants he likes most are the freaks like those whispering lilies he used to give his Pathfinder agents. They could plant one wherever they were, talk into the flower, and their words would come through lily's twin in the boss's greenhouse.

I could have told her that, but I didn't want to lead her on. If she'd finagled her way into the group because she couldn't get enough of me, well, who could blame her? On the other hand, it was way too convenient. If the queen had sent Oparal, that left the temple to send Kemeili. And while the Calistrians were bunches of fun with their temple baths and prostitutes, guile and revenge weren't high on my list of good times.

Kemeili waited for an answer until I shrugged and turned away, pretending to concentrate on cleaning the gore off my knife. Once the boss decided we had to bury the elven bodies and burn their demon hosts, I kept busy enough to avoid her for the rest of the afternoon.

After we finished, we hustled east until the boss called a halt at dusk.

It was about time, I figured, since I was carrying twice as much gear as anybody except the paladin, and I'd decided she was half giant.

Actually, she didn't look half bad. I liked how the sunlight made her black hair shine almost blue, but she never cracked a smile, especially when she saw me looking back at her.

The gnome dropped his pack. It hit the ground with a heavy thump. I grabbed the strap and hefted it. It was almost too much to lift in one hand.

"Hey, Thick. How do you haul so much?"

"Fimbulthicket," he corrected me, but then he smiled. He'd shaken off his morning grump, but he still winced as if every move brought out a bad ache in his bones. "I imbued myself with the might of an ant."

"An ant?"

"Proportionately, they are far more powerful than we gnomes. Even stronger than you humans."

He called me human, so I liked him a little better, despite his stupid name. "So you cast a spell?"

He nodded.

"You got to teach the boss that one." I touched my own aching back. It'd be worth one of his riffle scrolls to lighten my load.

The gnome shook his head. "It's not some arcane formula, but rather my connection to the Green that lends me power."

"I get it. You're more like a cleric than a wizard. But the boss is a clever guy. Maybe he could figure out a way to do with his scrolls what you do with your Green."

"Perhaps." The gnome shrugged, then brightened. "If he did, it would certainly be the first time that I ever heard of such a thing."

The boss doled out chores, and no one seemed to mind his giving orders. Caladrel made a fire as Kemeili skinned the hares he'd shot while he scouted ahead during our hike. She was good with a knife, as I knew better than most.

"Hey, boss. I could use a little help with that thing over there."

He glanced at Kemeili and back at me. We walked off far enough that I figured the elves wouldn't overhear us.

"I'm starting to think it's a bad idea to take Kemeili with us."

"She is an official representative of the temple of Calistria," he said. "You realize they are the most influential sect in Kyonin?"

"Yeah, yeah." He'd given me the long lesson before we'd arrived, and I could list the names of all the elf gods. I liked that they worshiped Lady Luck, same as me and the boss, but their favorite was Calistria, the Savored Sting. "I'm just saying I don't think she's here for the right reason. Even if she was, she's going to be a distraction."

"She is important not only to the success of our mission but to the continued goodwill of her temple, the court, and the queen herself."

"Sure, but—"

"Just keep her happy," he said. "That should not be too onerous. Or have you lost your touch with the ladies?"

"Lost my—? Hey, now. You know that's not a problem."

"I hear quite a few wild boasts, but when we face a situation that requires a certain subtle—"

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Fine, I'll keep her happy."

"Excellent," he said, turning to go back to the others. He paused and added, "Just not near camp. Show some discretion."

The boss and Oparal went off to fetch water, talking as they went. I had his tent set up and his gear stowed inside by the time they returned with filled canteens and waterskins.

I stretched out Arnisant's supper by giving him a little at a time rather than throwing him a whole hare. By the time it was gone, he didn't even give me the starving dog routine. He just settled down at the boss's feet.

"What other varieties of fiend might we face?" the boss asked Caladrel.

"The list is endless," said Caladrel. "The vermlek are the least of them. I have fought over a dozen kinds, but many others lurk in Tanglebriar or await summons from the Abyss."

"This is why I returned to Kyonin," said Oparal. "To wipe this filth from our land."

Caladrel raised his leather tankard in salute. "May you touch the Brightness."

"A laudable goal," said the boss. "But I would be as glad to avoid them as to slaughter them. Our mission is to find Variel Morgethai."

"We are all here to help you find your father, Varian," said Kemeili. He usually told people to call him by his given name 'in the field,' as he put it. Still, I didn't like the way she said it. Maybe he would have to be the one to keep her happy. That thought was more annoying than I'd expected it to be.

"Are we certain he still lives?" said Oparal. "No one has seen him for almost a century."

"I would know if he had died," said the gnome. He rubbed his knuckles. "I would feel it."

The boss shot him a curious look. It was a weird thing to say. From the way everyone else looked away, I wasn't the only one who thought so.

The gnome picked up on it too. "I would feel it in the Green. Variel has always been a strong presence in the land."

Everybody nodded as if that explained everything, but it still killed the conversation.

Caladrel and Oparal discussed the best ways to kill demons. Lightning and poison were useless. Fire, frost, and acid weren't so good either, but that mattered more to the boss, who had to pick the right spells to write in his riffle scrolls. Since I'd had the big knife whammied in Goka, I was all set to slice off a hunk of demon.

As we banked the fire and got ready to sleep, I caught another of those looks from Kemeili. It was weird how she could look like a girl one moment—complete with a baby-doll voice that shouldn't have done it for me but, to be honest, kind of did—and then turn her head in the firelight to become all woman.

Well, maybe part tiger, too.

Sleep is what I wanted, and Kemeili looked like she had more than cuddles on her mind. I rolled up the elven cloak and shook out my jacket, trying to make it clear that I was ready for sleep.

"What's that?" said Oparal. She sat on a fallen log beside the fire, her big sword across her knees. "That image on your jacket."

I held it up, showing off the phoenix on the back. "Phoenix. Big flaming bird. They got them over in Tian Xia."

"Did you see one?"

"Yeah. Once. Kind of."

Oparal tilted her head to the side, obviously not buying my story.

"I had this jacket made to remind me of all the fights I had in Tian Xia. That's a land on the other side of the—"

"I know what Tian Xia is."

"Well, long story short, I got into a few tussles over there. Each of these pictures is kind of my souvenir."

"Trophies of your kills?"

I didn't like her tone. It didn't matter to me what god she wore on her shield. She had no business judging me. Still, I wasn't about to back down just because she wore shiny armor. "I didn't kill them all," I said. "Just the ones who got in my face with their righteous attitudes."

"That's no phoenix." She held up her shield to show off the bird-woman—which now that I looked closer, did bear some suspicious similarities to the symbol on my jacket. Not the same, but close enough to make me wonder what the artist had known. "It was someone bearing the symbol of my order, wasn't it?"

"Nah," I said. "It was a whole other country. Different gods and everything."

Oparal reached into a belt pouch and brought out a little jar. She opened it and dipped in a finger before drawing a little sun on her brow, across her lips, and on the armor over her heart. "Tell me again who you killed," she said. "I will know if you lie."

"That's enough," said the boss.

"So you know what he did?" said Oparal.

He didn't know, because I hadn't told him. The moment he hesitated to answer, Oparal knew it too.

"There were two of them," I said. "Well, one woman in two bodies. I think one of them was a paladin. I wasn't looking for a fight, but they were. This phoenix on my jacket, that's what was left of them afterward."

Oparal's eyes widened. No doubt she was surprised I'd told the truth.

"Like I said, I wasn't the one looking for a fight."

"You killed a paladin!" She dropped her jar of holy balm and drew her sword an inch from its sheath. It lit up the trees around us.

"Put that away," said Caladrel. "They can see that light in Razmiran."

When Oparal didn't move, the boss snapped, "Sheathe your weapon, or return to Iadara and tell the queen we have no use for you."

Oparal shoved the blade back into place, but her eyes never left my face. I folded the jacket so nobody else could see the phoenix or any of the other figures carved into its leather. Eventually I turned away from Oparal and walked out of camp, half-hoping the boss or Arni would follow. But they didn't.

I found a cozy spot just within range of the fire's light and sat down. What pissed me off about Oparal wasn't that she'd made me admit what I did. I didn't give a good damn what she thought. I just didn't like thinking about the people I'd killed. Most of them had it coming—killers themselves, or worse. Others came looking to kill me, and I shouldn't have felt a bit bad about killing them first.

But this phoenix paladin, when she'd found me, she thought she'd found a devil. A monster, not a man. I tried telling her otherwise, but she wouldn't listen. So I could say I hadn't killed her. She'd killed herself.

But that was a lie, and I knew it. The truth was that I beat her before I killed her. I could have walked away. Well, run away. But I could have got away—that was the point. I could have got away and left her there alive.

But that's not what I did.

Shoving the jacket under my head for a pillow, I lay down alone. When sleep finally caught up with me, it brought me nightmares about the people who hadn't had it coming.

People I'd killed anyway.

Want more? Check out Queen of Thorns in paperback or ePub format!

Coming Next Week: A brand new Queen of Thorns prequel story of murder and rivalry in metropolitan Absalom, courtesy of Dave Gross!

Dave Gross is the author of numerous Pathfinder Tales novels and stories. His adventures of Radovan and Jeggare include the novels Prince of Wolves, Master of Devils, and Queen of Thorns, as well as the Pathfinder's Journals "Hell's Pawns" and "Husks" (published in the Council of Thieves Adventure Path and the Jade Regent Adventure Path, respectively) and the short stories "The Lost Pathfinder" and "A Lesson in Taxonomy." In addition, he also co-wrote the Pathfinder Tales novelWinter Witch with Elaine Cunningham.

Illustration by Eric Belisle.

Pathfinder Author Chat Next Monday!

Thursday, September 21st, 2011

Hey there, fiction fans! This coming Monday, September 26th, Pathfinder Tales author Dave Gross has set up an awesome Pathfinder Tales round table discussion in the Paizo chat room. Starting at 6:00pm PST, this is your chance to catch all of the current Pathfinder Tales novelists in one place, to offer your opinions and ask your burning questions (such as the all-important “Who would win, Elyana or Ellasif?”). The floor will be entirely open, and your questions will determine what we talk about, so drop by http://chat.dmtools.org/ on Monday night to chat with Dave Gross (Prince of Wolves, Master of Devils, Winter Witch), Elaine Cunningham (Winter Witch), Howard Andrew Jones (Plague of Shadows), Robin D. Laws (The Worldwound Gambit), and yours truly (Death’s Heretic, Fiction Editor). (Once you get there, be sure to type /join PFTales to enter the side room hosting the discussion.) It’s guaranteed to be a riotous, educational, and undeniably literary affair.

I’ll be there—will you?

James Sutter
Fiction Editor

A Passage to Absalom

By Dave Gross

Chapter Four: Cheap Sack

The dwarf slumped on the floor of the closet. The manacles on his wrists were newly bolted to the deck to form a makeshift brig.

“I’d never harm Pekko,” said Jaska. “Without him, I’m out of business.”

“You’re out of business because you got pinched smuggling poison,” said Radovan.

“Satyr’s tears aren’t just poison,” said Jaska. “They’re are a key ingredient in remedies for all sorts of ills. For some, it’s the only thing that works.”

That much I knew to be true, but the satyr’s tears had now been used to murder two men aboard ship, and a search of their cabins had failed to uncover the Lacuna Codex. The poisonous herbs, however, turned up in a search of the crates—already opened—in the dwarves’ cabin.

“Who else might have had a motive for poisoning your partner?” I said.

“Nobody,” moaned Jaska. “Everybody loved Pekko. He had an easy way about him. I know the business, but Pekko knew the customers. He did his best work with that flask of his.”

“Yet you never indulged in drink.”

Jaska flushed. “Even outside my people, no one respects a dwarf who won’t so much as raise a toast.”

“What? Are you some kind of monk or something?” said Radovan.

I ventured a supposition.

“You suffer from some sort of inflammatory ailment, probably gout,” I said. “If it is so acute as to require satyr’s tears, then alcoholic beverages must incite excruciating attacks.”

The dwarf nodded. “I told Captain Qoloth as much, but he wouldn’t hear it. All he cares about is arriving in Absalom with his murders solved.”

“How did you intend to disguise your abstinence at the sherry tasting?”

“I usually say I’d just had a drink or two. This time it was trickier, since Pekko and I had just been chatting with Menas. They shared a few drinks in our cabin before the party.”

“Did you have business with Lord Neverion?”

“Not yet,” said Jaska. “Pekko thought him a good future prospect, so I left them to it while I visited the head.”

“Could anyone else have overheard their conversation?”

He pondered. “I passed a crewman, and also that girl and the elf. One of them might have entered the cabin between the time I left and when I arrived at the Neverions’ party.”

“Who awaited you there?”

“Our hosts, of course. And Pekko. Oh, and one of the crew was just leaving. He’d brought fresh glasses. Menas almost handed me one, but thankfully his wife distracted him, and then Pekko kept him occupied with...” he choked "...with his stupid jokes.”

The presence of the ship’s crew complicated matters more than I liked, yet I knew no reason Shadya or Murviniel would desire the death of Menas Neverion. Worse, my most recent visit to the deck confirmed my suspicion that dampening magic was not the least of the Sea Lion’s enchantments. We had nearly arrived in Absalom, far ahead of schedule even considering the favorable winds. Time was running out.

We left Jaska to his confinement. As we walked to Lady Neverion’s new quarters, we saw a deckhand emerging from her cabin, arms full of bags. The ship turned sharply, and the docking whistle sounded above. We had arrived.

With a brief pause to fetch Arnisant from our cabin, we hastened above decks, where the crew prepared to dock. Already we were within the wide harbor of Absalom, its docks stretching east to west. Ships from a dozen different ports vied with the Sea Lion for an available berth. Behind their colored sails and banners, the manors and temples of Absalom rose up to the grand Starstone Cathedral in the distance.

Captain Qoloth stood near the main mast, Lady Neverion’s hand on his fingers.

“Thank you for agreeing to speed our journey,” she said as his whiskers brushed her hand. “It will soothe my nerves to spend a few days on land before returning to bury my husband.”

“And no doubt it is some consolation to see justice done.” He glowered at Jaska, who stood shackled and glum between a pair of sailors.

“Indeed,” Charikla sniffed before indicating a crate of wine bottles left on deck. “Please accept this gift for your men. I never touch the stuff. This common sack is all my husband would drink when no one was looking, even though it aggravated his gout.”

Something tickled in my mind at the word “gout.” Considering his age and girth, it was no surprise that Menas should suffer from the same affliction as Jaska. But what could the dwarf hope to gain from the merchant lord’s death?

The captain, on the other hand, had been most considerate in providing Charikla with an alternative to the cabin in which her husband had died. Furthermore, he had commanded me not to trouble her after the discovery of the poisonous herbs among the dwarves’ cargo. As a wealthy widow, Charikla was well suited to reward Qoloth for his compliance.

"What exactly is Murviniel carrying in that enormous backpack?"

Shadya and Murviniel emerged from the passenger cabins. A porter trailed behind the Qadiran woman, but the elf carried his own over-burdened backpack.

“You ask me,” said Radovan, “every damned one of them is guilty of something.”

Such a simple remark, yet it spawned a hasty theory that just might fit our circumstances.

“Captain Qoloth,” I said. “A moment, if you please.”

Everyone who had been preparing to debark stopped to listen. That was well, but the ship’s master looked displeased. “Make it quick.”

“I implore you to keep everyone aboard until we can summon the city guard and resolve the matter of these murders, not to mention the theft of my property.”

“We have our killer, and I already told you the theft is not my responsibility.”

“But you don’t have the killer,” I said. “In fact, you’ve imprisoned the one innocent man among your passengers—myself excepted, of course.”

“And me,” said Radovan. He grinned, stopping just short of revealing the full horror of his smile. “I haven’t done anything real nasty in weeks.”

Radovan’s uninvited aside once again proved handy.

“Despite his fearsome appearance, my bodyguard is a fine example of the adage that one should not judge a book by its cover. Of course, sometimes a cover is honest. For example, you, Captain, are probably much as you appear: a practical businessman who runs an efficient ship with a disciplined crew.

“I’m—” Qoloth hesitated, considering whether I was mocking or flattering him.

“Lady Neverion is also much as she appears, a woman of noble breeding in mourning for her late husband.”

Charikla bowed her head in assent.

“But not mourning for her second late husband.” She bristled, and I added, “No one could mistake you for a happy couple. You were ashamed of his coarse manners and low breeding. If not for the misfortunes of your estate, you should never have thought twice about marriage so far beneath your station. Oh, I believe your horror at his death was genuine. Perhaps you did not expect the method of his murder to be quite so horrible, nor for it to occur so close to you. Yet twice you prevented him from offering a drink to others. You knew which was the tainted glass.”

Charikla’s lips trembled briefly, but she could deny none of what I had said. I turned toward Shadya.

“Our other female companion is also much as she appears, but one must examine her cover closely.” I raised a finger to silence Radovan, who I sensed had been poised to add a remark. “Despite your immodest behavior, Shadya, you have no air of desperation about you. No matter how successful your thefts, you could not have stolen the refined taste to choose such fashionable garments as those you wore the night of the sherry tasting. You are a dilettante from a wealthy family. You steal not for necessity but for the thrill of transgression.”

“I didn’t take your book,” she said. Her voice betrayed a rising fear, and I marked the direction of her gaze when it left my eyes.

She indicated exactly the person I had begun to suspect.

“No,” I agreed. “You merely provided the diversion, drawing my attention and that of my bodyguard while the true thief stole the Codex from my satchel. What I did not realize before was that not everyone at the dock in Cassomir was fooled by your charade. Someone else witnessed the theft, and the price for her silence was the murder of her husband.”

Lady Neverion’s face paled. She was past anger now, wading deeper into the cool waters of fear as I spoke.

“But why was Pekko killed?” demanded Jaska. One of the sailors guarding him jerked his chains to silence him, but the other man looked at the dwarf with sympathy.

“To cover the killer’s tracks. The murderer visited your cabin before the party and acquired a sample of the satyr’s tears from Pekko.” I turned toward the elf.

“But I told you,” Murviniel said. “I’ve only read about such herbs.”

“And yet you brought along a pouch of nettle tea on what you pretend is your first visit to Absalom. You fooled me at first, but I see now what lies beneath your false cover: a thief and a killer.”

“You’re mad,” he said. “Very well, then. Let’s hear the rest of it. What tale will Venture-Captain Varian Jeggare spin for us next? Oh, will it appear in the next volume of the Chronicles?”

“You are no mere Pathfinder applicant. That ring upon your finger resembles those a certain venture-captain presented to her agents decades ago.”

Murviniel shrugged. “One of whom must have fallen on hard times and sold it.”

“Plausible, I admit. But there are more surprises under your cover. The nettle tea you drink soothes a number of ailments, most of them peculiar to men of middle years. Sometimes even I forget how misleading a youthful elven appearance can be. One day—perhaps already—the nettle tea will no longer ameliorate your illness. You cannot say you are unfamiliar with the effects of satyr’s tears, both beneficial and toxic.”

“That’s—that’s—” His naive front evaporated. “What motive would I have for killing Neverion?”

“Before you stole the Lacuna Codex, you had none. But you had to repay the silence of the one who witnessed your theft. Is that not correct, Lady Neverion?”

Charikla adopted a statue’s gaze, staring off into the distance.

“Everyone else present was a man, except for the barmaid—whose attentions were devoted to Radovan—and Lady Neverion, who as a lady of noble birth naturally turned away from Shadya’s bawdy antics. What did she see? I would have noticed had you approached close enough to dip a hand inside my luggage. I wager you plucked it out with a spell.”

“You did do it!” Shadya shoved Murviniel away from her. She closed the distance and struck him again, pushing him over and over.

“How do you know that, sweetheart?” said Radovan. He slid over to Murviniel’s other side, drawing his attention by producing his big knife.

Shadya answered me rather than Radovan. “This elf bet me I couldn’t let your henchman see that I was lifting your purse while leaving you unawares.” She pointed at Murviniel. “If I had known about a killing, I would have told someone. He said it must have been the other dwarf who killed him, over some sort of business dispute.”

“So much for honor among thieves,” said Murviniel, turning his back to the gunwales. “You may be your own most ardent admirer, Count Jeggare. But I must admit you figured it out eventually. Too bad it’s just a bit too late.” He fell over the edge of the ship and plunged into the water.

“Man overboard!” cried a sailor.

I ran to the side and looked down just in time to see Murviniel kick away from the ship. Once free of the Sea Lion’s dampening field, he vanished in a twinkle of magic. I recognized the effect of a minor teleportation spell and looked up along the pier. There he reappeared, already sprinting through the chaotic mass of laborers.

I withdrew a riffle scroll and prepared to throw myself into the water, hoping the scroll would still function after a good drenching.

“Wait,” said Shadya. “You can find him later, can’t you?”

“Perhaps, but I cannot allow him a chance to pass the Lacuna Codex to a confederate. The book is untraceable by magic, and I—”

“This is your book?” Shadya tossed me my Bestiary of Garund. I shook my head, but then I saw fragments of Murviniel’s wicker backpack clinging to the cover, and I recalled the shoves Shadya had given him. She had cut his pack like a purse.

The Bestiary was stuffed full of loose sheets between its pages. Flipping through, I recognized pages of the Lacuna Codex. Murviniel had hidden them in plain sight during my visit to his cabin. Yet there were too few pages to account for the entire tome.

“Not all of it is here.”

Shadya revealed several more slender volumes she had liberated from the elf’s pack and concealed behind her back. Two more were also full of Codex pages. A quick accounting ascertained that she had recovered them all. My sigh of relief deflated me so completely that I almost sank to my knees. Arnisant approached to sniff me, assuring himself I was unharmed.

“Nice work,” Radovan told Shadya. She smiled before remembering she was angry with him. Before she could cement the frown to her face, he whispered something to make her laugh.

I looked past them to see one of Qoloth’s men take Lady Neverion by the arm while a second confiscated her dogs. Shaking his head, the captain signaled the guards to release Jaska from his bonds.

“I can’t say I’m glad to lose the bonus the lady promised for swift passage,” said Qoloth. He said nothing more, perhaps hoping that his silence would prompt me to compensate him for his loss.

As the crew set the gangplank on the dock, I oversaw the conveyance of our luggage while Radovan exchanged a few words with Shadya. The manner in which they stood so close suggested she had forgiven him, at least in part, for his earlier rough behavior. It had, after all, won her wager with Murviniel.

“I don’t expect the boss will want you charged,” Radovan said. “He’s a pretty understanding guy.”

“Perhaps a reward for rescuing his books?”

“He ain’t that understanding. But what kind of reward did you have in mind?”

“Perhaps another kiss,” she said. “I wasn’t prepared to appreciate the last one.”

A smile spread across Radovan’s wide jaws. He stopped it at what he calls “the little smile” before moving in to grant Shadya’s request.

Standing beside me, Qoloth asked, “How does he do that?”

I shrugged. “No one knows.”

We finished our business, glancing up from time to time to see whether the way was clear. When Shadya at last withdrew from Radovan’s embrace, she shouldered her bag and skipped across the gangplank. She waved once without looking back and disappeared into the crowd.

Radovan was still grinning as he hefted a few of our bags.

“You know she lifted your purse,” I said.

Radovan traced his thumb over his lips and gazed into the waterfront crowds. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

Coming Next Week: The guilty conscience of a halfling in Galt in Amber E. Scott's "The Seventh Execution."

Dave Gross is the author of numerous Pathfinder Tales novels and stories. His adventures of Radovan and Jeggare include the novels Prince of Wolves and Master of Devils, the Pathfinder's Journals "Hell's Pawns" and "Husks" (published in the Council of Thieves Adventure Path and the Jade Regent Adventure Path, respectively), and the short stories "The Lost Pathfinder" and "A Lesson in Taxonomy." In addition, he's also co—written the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch with Elaine Cunningham.

Art by Tony Foti.

A Passage to Absalom

by Dave Gross

Chapter Three: Peach Brandy

My pronouncement of death silenced the room. Everyone else stared as I knelt beside the corpse. I watched for clues in their faces.

Lady Neverion clutched the nearest arm, which happened to belong to Captain Qoloth. The hirsute ship’s master patted the woman’s hands, but his eyes remained locked on the dead man. His grimace deepened into a scowl.

Young Murviniel peered around the captain’s shoulder with naked curiosity, his brow furrowing as he inspected the dead man’s countenance. Whatever killed Menas Neverion had burst the veins in his eyes and colored his face purple.

Beside the elf, the dwarves gaped at the dead man. Pekko appeared confused, but considering his flushed cheeks and the two goblets in his hands, I concluded he was simply inebriated. He raised a goblet toward his mouth, but Jaska lay a hand on his arm and shook his head until Pekko noticed the sherry glass lying beside the dead man. Pekko set both goblets carefully on a sideboard and wiped his hands on his shirt.

I could not at first see Shadya. She had retreated from the corpse until her back pressed against the ship’s bulkhead. She pressed a fist against her mouth and stared at the floor, in either utter revulsion or else an excellent facsimile of that emotion. When she saw Radovan looking at her, she looked away.

A loud whistle pierced the silence. At Qoloth’s signal, a crewman opened the door.

“Escort this lady to the empty cabin.” The captain drew Charikla Neverion away from the corpse of her husband.

“But sir, it is full of the dwarves’ extra cargo—”

“Then remove it.”

“Aye, sir. But where—?”

“I don’t give a damn!” bellowed Qoloth. “Can’t you see the lady is distraught? You can put the cargo on deck or in the bilge for all I care.”

“Wait, wait!” sputtered Jaska. “The contents are fragile. I will go with you.”

Before Qoloth could object, Lady Neverion shrieked.

“Ladybug, no!”

One of the lady’s tiny dogs lapped at the damp spot beside the fallen glass. Radovan scooped up the tiny creature and snagged its mate before it too could sample the spilled sherry. He poured the shivering dogs into Charikla’s arms, and she hugged them to her breast while recoiling from him. To his credit, Radovan pretended not to notice her disdain.

"Lady Neverion certainly seems distraught. But then, when doesn't she?"

Qoloth’s head wobbled as though he were stifling the urge to shout some more. Instead he simply steered Lady Neverion toward his crewman before waving them and Jaska from the room. As the door closed behind them, Qoloth muttered, “Gold—Fisted Abadar, couldn’t you have given the fat fool his heart attack in Absalom?”

I suppressed the urge to stop Qoloth from letting the others go, as the captain had already cautioned me not to challenge his authority. Even so, I could not stop myself from correcting him. “Lord Neverion did not die of natural causes. He was murdered.”

“Poison?”

I nodded, tugging a handkerchief from my sleeve.

“It was the sherry, wasn’t it?” Pekko slurred. He pressed the backs of his hands against his cheeks and forehead. “Great gods and little fishes, he had only two. I drank four. No, seven!”

I lifted the glass Menas had dropped, careful to shield my bare skin with the handkerchief. In addition to the impression of the dead man’s lips and a few remaining drops of sherry, I perceived a faint discoloration around the outer rim of the glass.

“It would appear you are in no danger,” I assured the dwarf.

Murviniel bent low to examine the glass, placing his face close to mine in a careless gesture of familiarity. His breath smelled of nettle tea as he whispered, “Satyr’s tears.”

The faint blue tint of the otherwise unobtrusive stain led me to the same conclusion. I stood. “You are familiar with poisons?”

Murviniel also stood. “Not poisons especially, no,” he said. “But with herbs in general, yes. I suppose I should have kept quiet.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’ve just made myself a suspect, haven’t I?”

“Everyone is a suspect.”

“I’m not,” said Qoloth. “Murder aboard ship’s bad for business. If Neverion’s death is somehow related to this stolen book of yours, I expect you to sort it out before we reach port.”

“Then you withdraw your objections to my using magic?” Much as I deplore divination spells as a cheat, in this matter I was willing to stoop. Allowing the power of the Lacuna Codex to be unleashed upon the world was too terrible to consider, and it seemed quite possible that I would discover a link between the theft and the murder.

Qoloth barked a dismissive laugh. “When I told you there’s no magic aboard the Sea Lion, I wasn’t objecting. I was stating a fact.”

I should have realized sooner that the Katapeshi’s exorbitant fare included certain amenities not commonly available on other vessels. Many wealthy travelers were happy to pay a premium for protection from magical detection or attack while traversing the Inner Sea. I had simply engaged the first available passage, heedless of the expense.

“You cannot deactivate the effect?”

“I’m a sailor, not a sorcerer,” said Qoloth. I saw no evidence of falsehood in his expression, but he was the bold sort of man to whom big lies come easy.

“Very well,” I said. “In that case, I wish to begin questioning those present. Would you be so good as to have your crew escort the men to their cabins, there to remain until I visit?”

Qoloth narrowed his eyes, perhaps deciding whether my request sounded too much like a command. Now that the captain had endorsed my investigation, it was imperative that I establish some measure of authority without undermining his.

“Good,” he said. “Report to me at eight bells.”

The ship’s cook had struck four bells just before we arrived at the Neverion’s cabin. Informing the captain of my progress less than two hours hence would interrupt what would doubtless prove an arduous inquiry. Nevertheless, if reaffirming Qoloth’s authority in this manner would permit me greater freedom to investigate, I would be content. I bowed my assent.

As the others departed, Qoloth whistled up another pair of sailors to remove Neverion’s body to the cold locker. As the corpse vanished from sight, Shadya spoke. “Please, Captain. Don’t leave me alone with them.”

Qoloth paused at the door. He followed Shadya’s gaze to Radovan, who offered him the little smile and a parody of a naval salute.

“Allow me to apologize for the manner in which my associate retrieved my purse,” I began. “I assure you that my inquiry will remain strictly verbal.” While my apology was sincere, it also served to remind Qoloth of the circumstances preceding Radovan’s frisking. Shadya had already proven herself less than trustworthy.

Qoloth summoned another sailor to stand watch inside the room. There was little harm in that, I thought, so long as Shadya revealed nothing I wished to keep from the captain’s ears. He did not seem a likely candidate for the theft, but for the murder I knew I must not discount anyone.

The moment the door closed behind Qoloth, Radovan said, “Knock it off, sister. You’re not fooling anyone with the delicate routine. The captain’s this close to letting us toss your room. I wonder what we’ll find tucked beneath your mattress.”

Rather than intercede, I awaited her response. My bodyguard had chosen the proper tack. My courtesy had granted Shadya an undue sense of security. Radovan, in his coarse manner, had disrupted her cool facade.

She hesitated, but her countenance still betrayed more shock than umbrage. Unless I misread her, she was truly surprised by Neverion’s death.

“I didn’t know the man,” she said. “His wife has a few tempting jewels, I admit, but there was nothing for me in his death.”

“You did not partake of the sherry,” I said.

She hesitated, and in her eyes I saw that she was considering her answer. “I almost did,” she said. “I arrived shortly before you. When I went to greet our hosts, that woman threw me such an icy glare that I thought better of it.”

All too well I understood my peers’ ability to shun undesirables with a glance. So did Radovan, who had experienced such snubs far more often than I.

“Very well.” I signaled the sailor to open the cabin door.

“That’s it?” Shadya sounded almost disappointed.

“That is all for now.” I bowed.

Radovan and I navigated the narrow passage to Murviniel’s berth, passing a lone sailor who stood watch over the passenger cabins. Inwardly I approved of the captain’s caution, but I wondered how well the crewman could overhear conversations within the cabins. Judging from the sound of movement inside Murviniel’s cabin, I expected the guard could hear anything spoken above a whisper.

The elf spoke before I could greet him. “Lord Neverion served the sherry himself. I didn’t notice anyone else handling the glasses, but I think one of the crew set up their sideboard. I don’t know which one, but of course the captain would.”

While pretending to listen, I observed Murviniel’s quarters. He had strewn his personal belongings haphazardly throughout the small cabin. I lifted a battered volume of spells from the bed. “You study magic?”

“Yes,” said the elf. “My brother gave me his first spellbook. I’m not much past the cantrips, I’m afraid.”

“The Society can always use another practitioner of the arcane.”

Among the other swollen and dog-eared books that had escaped Murviniel’s backpack, I spied a copy of my own Bestiary of Garund and thought of his earlier fawning. Had he left it out in an obsequious gesture?

Radovan recognized the book and understood the meaning of its presence. He rubbed his eye in a rude gesture to indicate what he thought of Murviniel’s ploy. It was only a matter of time before the elf solicited my support in his application to the Pathfinder Society.

“What else can I tell you?” Murviniel said, apparently oblivious to the communication that passed between Radovan and me. “I arrived after the dwarves, but before everyone else. No one was talking of anything but the motion of the ship and the favorable wind. The Qadiran girl and the dwarf Jaska did not drink the sherry, but everyone else did. The other dwarf was already half in his cups before he arrived. He and Neverion acted like old friends, but I could have sworn they had never met before boarding the ship.”

“What herbs do you carry in that pack of yours?”

“Ah,” said the elf. His eyes brightened, the opposite of the usual reaction to my changing the subject. “I thought you might ask, so I emptied my pack. Here, you can see them all. Not much here, just these two pouches for tea. I’m not a practicing herbalist. I’ve mostly just read a few books.”

In addition to the nettle I detected on his breath earlier, I recognized a mélange of rosehips, hibiscus, and peppermint commonly steeped as a relaxing tisane. Neither mixture was the least bit toxic, and both suggested that Murviniel was of a delicate constitution, probably suffering from some urinary dysfunction.

Before I could frame a question he had not already anticipated, Murviniel came to his point. “If there is any way I could assist you in this investigation, Your Excellency, I would be only too happy to put myself at your service.”

I weighed the likely distraction of the young elf’s assistance against any genuine help he might provide. In truth, I had chosen to speak with him next only to give Pekko time to sober up and fret about what I would ask him. Considering the famed fortitude of dwarven drinkers, I decided the time was now. “We shall talk more tomorrow.”

“But—is there nothing else?”

“Not at this time, thank you.”

We left Murviniel gasping like a beached fish, his hopes frustrated. Radovan smiled and scratched the back of his neck as we left the cabin. “Kid’s got it bad.”

“We were all young once.”

“Even you?” he said. “Somehow I can’t picture that.”

I stopped before the door to the dwarves’ cabin. My keen hearing detected no sound but the rhythmic creaking of the ship as it rose and descended upon the waves. At my signal, Radovan rapped on the portal. When no reply came, he tried the latch and found it unlocked. He opened the door to reveal a small cabin crowded with several crates lodged between the two bunks. On the tiny space of floor that remained sprawled Pekko. A few inches from his hand lay a pewter flask and funnel, beside it a spilled bottle of liquid exuding the unmistakable odor of peach brandy.

Pekko lay quite motionless, his face the color of a ripe eggplant.

Coming Next Week: Uncomfortable revelations in the final chapter of "A Passage to Absalom."

Dave Gross is the author of numerous Pathfinder Tales novels and stories. His adventures of Radovan and Jeggare include the novels Prince of Wolves and Master of Devils, the Pathfinder's Journals "Hell's Pawns" and "Husks" (published in the Council of Thieves Adventure Path and the Jade Regent Adventure Path, respectively), and the short stories "The Lost Pathfinder" and "A Lesson in Taxonomy." In addition, he's also co—written the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch with Elaine Cunningham.

Art by McLean Kendree.

A Passage to Absalom

By Dave Gross

Click here to read this story from the beginning.

Chapter Two: Dry Sherry

"Please, Captain, you must see it from my perspective."

Captain Qoloth brayed so vigorously that the top of his close-shorn head bumped the ceiling. The Katapeshi stood several inches taller than I and doubtless carried thrice my weight on his broad frame. His prominent jaws and bristly whiskers suggested a parent among that nation's hyenafolk, though my studies at the Acadamae suggested that such a hybrid was categorically impossible. Considering the bestial odor of his fur-clad body, I reevaluated my understanding of the term "impossible."

"Do you know, my half-elven friend, what it is that I most enjoy about being captain?" Qoloth smiled, revealing long canine teeth. "It is that everyone else aboard my ship must see things from my perspective."

"Very well." My station was no advantage so far from my native land, even had I chosen to announce my Chelish origins on a vessel flying the crowned white lion of Taldor. My attempts at reason had failed to move Captain Qoloth, who noted with perfect logic that the Lacuna Codex had been stolen before I came under his protection by boarding his ship. Thus, I was reduced to begging the most meager concession. "Will you at least grant me permission to question the other passengers?"

"Talk all you like. Just remember, there is no magic aboard the Lion. And keep your boy out of the other cabins."

Radovan bristled at the dismissive term. It mattered little to him that he had, in fact, been spotted attempting to pick the lock of Shadya's cabin to search for the missing tome.

"Very well, Captain. Thank you for your time."

Arnisant awaited us on deck. A sea breeze ruffled the hound's pewter-gray coat, but the sun's warmth assuaged the winter chill. The wolfhound's eyes flicked toward Radovan before settling on me. I bade him heel as we strolled the deck, careful not to intrude upon the labors of the crew.

The Lacuna Codex had to be somewhere aboard the Sea Lion. Under other circumstances, I would appreciate the captain's insistence that none of his guests were to be subjected to physical or magical inspection. For the exorbitant price he charged for passage, one expected a modicum of privacy while traveling between Taldor and Absalom.

Yet someone had absconded with my property, and the thief had to be one of my fellow passengers. Apart from the crew, who had been nowhere near my luggage before the theft, there were only six others aboard. In his own coarse manner, Radovan had already searched Shadya, the Qadiran woman who had lifted my purse at the wharf. While not eliminating her as a suspect, Radovan's "inquiry" left five other likely suspects.

Lord and Lady Neverion seemed innocuous, but it is my business to dispel seeming. The wealthy Menas Neverion began life as a butcher, gradually expanding his business until he had accumulated sufficient capital to speculate on imports. Desna favored his investments, and eventually he bent his vast fortune toward his ultimate goal: the title, hand, and lands of the widowed and impoverished Lady Charikla. Had catastrophe withered their holdings? The stolen Codex was worth a fortune to the right buyer.

Or to the wrong one.

Pekko and Jaska were dwarf merchants conveying cargo to Absalom. They too took the air, their breath forming clouds as they walked arm-in-arm on the far side of the deck. Pekko threw us a jaunty wave. He was a gregarious sort with bells and charms tied in his red-brown beard. Jaska was his opposite in almost every regard, disagreeable of countenance with a sooty smudge of a beard and an angry canker-blossom overtaking his left nostril. He was the one who seemed most concerned with the safe handling of their cargo, the nature of which I had not yet discovered. Did either of these ostensible traders harbor a lust for rare tomes?

"Pekko is likeable enough, if something of a lush. But is his jovial exterior a front for something more sinister?"

The young elf called Murviniel had revealed himself to be a Pathfinder aspirant, as I had surmised. Once he overcame his trepidation, he asked whether I was, as he suspected, "the famous" Venture-Captain Varian Jeggare. Accustomed as I am to idle flattery, I was surprised that his admiration sounded genuine, if born of innocence. Any active Pathfinder would know that my once-flourishing reputation had paled. In fact, my latest excursion had proven a failure except for the discovery of the now-missing Lacuna Codex. Did Murviniel hope to steal for himself the prize that would win back my former status?

The creak of salt-encrusted hinges interrupted my reverie. As the portly Menas Neverion held the door, his delicate wife emerged from below decks. She squinted at the white sky as the breeze ruffled the various furs of her stole. In her arms shivered a pair of tiny dogs that must have arrived within their baggage. Arnisant lifted his snout to catch their scent but remained obediently at my side.

"I bet you could eat both of those little rats in one bite, couldn't you, Arni?" Radovan scratched the back of the hound's head.

"Please," I said. "Do not confuse my hound by using a diminutive of his name."

"Arni's not confused," said Radovan. "He's smarter than he looks, like you always say about me."

"Considerably smarter, I hope. All the same—"

"There you are, my dear fellow." Menas Neverion bustled toward us, extending his hand to grasp mine as if I were some common broker of fortunes. I countered his unseemly greeting by offering a curt Chelish bow. He withdrew the offending appendage and fiddled with a button on his fur coat.

"Your Excellency, my husband wishes to invite you to sample his sherry this evening," said Lady Neverion. She stroked a finger across the heads of the tiny dogs cradled in her arm. They trembled and strained their little necks for a view of Arnisant. "If the sherry pleases the foremost count of Cheliax, it should dazzle the connoisseurs of Absalom."

While I had taken no special pains to conceal my identity, I had not expected to be known among the other passengers. Only Murviniel had recognized me, and I now wondered how. Certainly my name was well known among members of the Society, but my image was not so commonly distributed. Even setting aside that question, either Murviniel had identified me to Lady Charikla, or else some other intelligence allowed her to identify me by title.

Lady Neverion anticipated my question. "We were never formally introduced, my dear Count. I glimpsed you once, some years ago, during a procession in Oppara. You cut quite the dashing figure among the Chelish emissaries. I pray you won't think me forward when I say you appear quite unchanged."

"My lady is most kind," I replied with a more courtly bow than I had offered her husband. Menas appeared undisturbed by the attention she shone upon me, but I could not return the compliment, for I had no recollection of the lady. My most recent visit to Oppara had occurred more than forty years earlier, when I served a minor role in a diplomatic gesture following the revolutions in Galt and Andoran. Unless some magic were responsible for preserving her appearance, Charikla must have been little more than a child at the time of my visit. A sudden eructation drew my attention. The sound emanated from my hound. Arnisant gazed up at Charikla's little dogs, who yipped in fear. With a sign, Radovan directed him to move farther away. Charikla cradled her darlings to her breast.

Before I could frame an apology, Menas spoke again.

"Do be a good fellow and join us for a drink before supper." He glanced to the side and waved at Pekko as the dwarves completed their latest circuit of the deck. Pekko waved back, but sour-faced Jaska tugged him down the stairs to the cabins. Menas added, "We've invited everyone, and I promise I won't be stingy, even though it's very expensive stuff."

Lady Neverion glanced away from her husband's crass remark. Radovan cleared his throat to cover a chuckle. Even to one raised on the streets of Egorian, the pretensions of this merchant lord were risible.

"I would be honored," I said.

"And do bring your man," he added. "I've invited that Qadiran girl. What do you think? They'll add a bit of color."

Menas grinned, awaiting my approval. His wife's eyes narrowed as she considered my bodyguard. Radovan smiled without revealing his teeth, but I knew he was stifling the urge to wink at her. That was wise, for Lady Neverion was doubtless unaccustomed to including hellspawn or pickpockets in her social gatherings.

"We should be honored," I said.

"Don't bring your hound, of course. My lady wife's precious little creatures are not among the hors d'oeuvres." He leaned in to whisper, "Not that I'd mind the quiet afterward!"

Radovan snorted. Charikla turned away, murmuring assurances to her noisy little dogs until Menas offered her his arm and escorted her around the deck.

∗∗∗

We arrived at the Neverions' cabin twenty minutes after the appointed hour. I wished to observe the dynamics established among the other passengers in my absence. Also, it would not do for a count of Cheliax to stand awaiting the arrival of those of lesser status.

The chamber was larger than I had expected, even considering the high price Captain Qoloth charged his passengers. Not even the enormous master of the ship had any need to stoop beneath the seven-foot ceiling. His evening clothes included a hyena-pelt cape that only exacerbated his resemblance to the hyenafolk.

For the occasion I had chosen an embroidered coat to wear over a linen shirt with laced cuffs. Radovan's leather garb was barely presentable, but none of my clothing would fit his wide chest. I insisted that he wear a soft gray half-cape I had made for myself in Caliphas.

The Neverions appeared well appointed as usual, all fine furs and tasteful jewelry, the selection of which I attributed to Lady Charikla rather than her husband. Menas laughed as he poured another drink for the jocular Pekko, who held two large wine goblets rather than the dainty sherry crystals held by the other guests. Despite the effort to appear unconcerned, I could see Menas wince slightly as he calculated the cost of every drop he poured for the seemingly insatiable dwarf. The dwarves had donned gray waistcoats over fresh linen shirts, but Pekko had already managed to stain his cuffs while quaffing sherry from both goblets. Judging by his rosy cheeks and the ever-increasing volume of his voice, he had already imbibed plenty, and he had a bottle of his own nestled into one of his trouser pockets.

I started toward the group, but then I heard Radovan's intake of breath. I followed his gaze to the other side of the cabin.

Shadya appeared less a thief and more a lady in loose silken trousers draped as sensuously as a skirt over her long legs. Over a beaded shirt she wore a brilliant azure vest of crushed velvet, its stiff fabric somehow failing to conceal the curves of breasts and hips. Subtle patterns appeared in the fabric as she moved, betraying its fine quality. Either Shadya was an exceptionally successful thief, or else she picked pockets for the thrill of the act.

Radovan straightened. Before he could take a step toward the woman, she lifted her chin and turned away. Radovan jutted his jaw, deterred for now.

"Captain Jeggare?"

Murviniel appeared at my elbow. Alone among the guests, he appeared out of place. His robes were the color of old sailcloth, and his tri-corner hat was unfashionable even in Andoran where it had once been popular. His only ornament was a cheap brass ring on which was stamped the emblem of the Pathfinder Society.

"There's only one captain on this ship, by Abadar!" Qoloth's voice thundered across the cabin, but his wide grin belied his threatening tone. He drained his glass and held it out for Menas to refill. The trader obliged, tugging at his tight collar as the captain joined Pekko in guzzling his expensive sherry.

"While we are aboard ship, you must address me as Count Jeggare."

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace."

"'Excellency' is the traditional honorific."

"I'm sorry, Your Excellency."

Radovan moved away, but not before I saw him roll his eyes.

I waved away Murviniel's apology. It is acceptable to dispense with formality in the field, but the young elf was not yet a member, only an applicant to the Society.

"How is it that you recognized me?" I asked.

Murviniel lowered his eyes. "The truth is, Your Excellency, you are my idol."

"Your what?"

"My hero," he said. "You travel the world and uncover secrets no one else has ever found, even other Pathfinders. My copy of your Bestiary of Garund has fallen to pieces, I have read it so often. I want to be just like you."

"Your words are…gratifying." It was now my turn to feel flustered, but before I could recover my composure I saw Menas Neverion pull at his collar again, this time with far more force. The man's face had turned dark red. His eyes bulged, the veins darkening as they spread toward his iris.

Beside Menas, Pekko peered into his goblets, one after the other, glassy-eyed and seemingly oblivious to the events around him. Charikla recoiled from her husband, her face a mask of revulsion as she realized the extent of his distress. Qoloth squinted suspiciously at the choking merchant before reaching out to steady the man.

"Help him!" cried Charikla. Jaska grabbed Menas and eased the man to the carpet. The others all moved at once, some toward and others away from the fallen merchant. I pushed through the crowd and felt the man's throat.

"Too late." I said. "He is already dead."

Coming Next Week: Theft turns to murder, and an elegant ship becomes a dangerous prison in Chapter Three of "A Passage to Absalom."

Dave Gross is the author of numerous Pathfinder Tales novels and stories. His adventures of Radovan and Jeggare include the novels Prince of Wolves and Master of Devils, the Pathfinder's Journals "Hell's Pawns" and "Husks" (published in the Council of Thieves Adventure Path and the upcoming Jade Regent Adventure Path, respectively), and the short stories "The Lost Pathfinder" and "A Lesson in Taxonomy." In addition, he's also co-written the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch with Elaine Cunningham.

Art by Mike Capprotti.

Four Musketeers

Sat, Aug 6, 2011 at 05:43 AM Pacific

Howard Andrew Jones, Dave Gross, Wolfgang Baur, and Pierce Watters commandeer the authors area of the Paizo booth.

Sean K Reynolds
Developer

Gen Con Facebook Roundup

Friday, August 5, 2011

In addition to the live blog coverage of Gen Con, our intrepid staff has been posting photos to the official Paizo Facebook page to the delight of fans everywhere (as well as those of us stuck back at the office!)

We've rounded up some of their pictures from the show (so far) to show off for today's blog.

Mark Moreland and the Pathfinder Society Venture-Captains dine at the aptly-named "Pope Table."	Dave Gross signs copies of the new Pathfinder Tales novel Master of Devils at the Paizo Booth.

Of course, they haven't just been sharing snapshots from Gen Con, they've been showing off samples of Pathfinder Battles miniatures from WizKids:

Unpainted sample miniature for the Black Dragon promo miniature for Heroes and Monsters (for more information on Heroes and Monsters or future Pathfinder Battles releases, see our press release).

Painted samples of the Beginner Box Heroes minis.	Ezren and Merisiel face off against the Black Dragon in a recreation of the Beginner Box cover art.

As you can see, we're as excited about Pathfinder Battles as all of you are.

Ross Byers
Assistant Software Developer

A Passage to Absalom

by Dave Gross

Chapter One: Mulled Wine

The first blush of dawn cast the Imperial Shipyards into stark silhouette, a forest of black cranes and masts standing on the eastern docks of Cassomir. Along the strand, gulls vied with ravens for the shellfish buried beneath a thin blanket of midwinter snow. The lapping waves left a sensuous border of sand at the edge of the snowfall, like the impression of a woman's lips upon a crystal goblet. Soon the tide would recede, and the Sea Lion would set sail for Absalom.

The cost of passage on the converted freighter had been dear, but I felt anxious to return to the City at the Center of the World. Among its hundred wonders was the Grand Lodge of the Pathfinder Society, to whose secret masters I would soon report. Our expedition to Ustalav had met with mixed success, but now I returned with an unforeseen treasure: a copy of the lost Lacuna Codex. Within its pages lay magics so fell that even the Whispering Tyrant had feared their discovery.

A return to Absalom might also assuage the disappointments of our visit to Greengold, where traders and diplomats treat with the elves of Kyonin. There I had hoped to employ a craftsman to repair my beloved Red Carriage, the sole legacy from my elven father. After days of fruitless negotiations with the sheep-faced bureaucrats, I realized my half-elven heritage was no advantage to gaining entrance. Thus I entrusted my vehicle to storage and chartered a riverboat to Cassomir, where I secured passage to Absalom.

Beside me, Arnisant sat as still as a gargoyle. The stone of the quay must have been cold beneath his haunches, but the Ustalavic wolfhound was proving an obedient guardian. I sensed his gaze on me but did not return it. It was his part to look to me for instruction without expectation of reward. It fell to me to dispense those rewards when they would serve to reinforce his training, not simply to cultivate his affection.

My own seat was scarcely more comfortable than Arnisant's. The entrepreneur who had established this refreshments pavilion for departing passengers warmed his guests with enormous coal braziers, but the furniture consisted of the rough benches and communal tables one might expect in a barracks. To deter others from sitting too close, I repositioned our luggage on the seats beside and opposite my own. Only my most precious satchel, that containing my spellcasting materials and the Lacuna Codex, remained by my side.

Radovan returned from the serving cart with a cup in either hand. One smelled of strong tea. From the other rose the scent of cheap wine smothered in clove and cinnamon. He set the latter on the table and glanced back to wink at the buxom barmaid, who returned his leer.

"How much time we got, boss?"

"Insufficient for dalliance."

Radovan sighed, but I doubted his sincerity. No doubt he wished to maintain his reputation as a ladies' man, but I sensed an air of melancholy about him since we departed Caliphas. There he had left behind a Varisian hedge-witch for whom I suspected he harbored a lingering devotion.

The morning air had already cooled the wine, which filled barely more than half of the glazed clay cup. I peered at Radovan, who had lately assumed an inappropriate custodianship of my consumption of wine and spirits. Considering the other evidence, however, it was equally likely that the vendor employed a stingy ladle. My first sip of the sour wine confirmed my expectation that, despite the high prices, it was the cheapest available.

"Dreadful stuff, isn't it? At least it's hot." A corpulent man from a nearby table toasted me with his own cup before draining it. He winced, his chins wagging as the dregs hit the back of his throat. I took him for a merchant, noting that the high quality of his furs and jewels belied his coarse manners.

So did the woman at his side, who sat with the poise of a Qadiran cat. Whatever beauty age had stolen from her she had won back in elegance. Her high cheekbones and thin nose marked her as a descendant of an old Taldan family. If she were wed to the merchant, I deduced that theirs was yet another expeditious marriage between ambitious wealth and impoverished nobility.

Lest I appear uncivil before the lady, I raised my cup to return her husband's salute. The wine was less disagreeable on second sip, more for the wine's fortification than for its quality. I drained the cup, careful to avoid the sediment, and signaled Radovan to fetch me another.

"Hot this time," I said. "And full to the brim."

As I turned to give him the cup, Radovan pretended to study the ceiling of the tent. I knew at once I'd caught him at mischief. Arnisant's drooling jowls confirmed my suspicion.

"How many times must I tell you not to feed my hound?"

Radovan shrugged. "Somebody must have dropped something on the floor."

I saw Arnisant swallow before resuming his stoic posture, which I now realized was a ruse born of natural cunning rather than the fruit of my instruction.

"It is imperative to his training that I alone dispense rewards, and then only—"

"Looks like last call," said Radovan. "Better hurry." He returned to the wine cart, where the barmaid greeted him with a lascivious wetting of her lips.

I checked my impulse to scold Arnisant. Negative reinforcement is effective in the short term, but it would only muddle the more potent accumulation of reward-for-behavior training. Still, I disliked the notion that Arnisant might divide his loyalties. I was the dog's master, not Radovan.

I showed Arnisant the sign to lie down. When he obeyed, I bade him roll over, rise, stand, and return to his seated vigil. Only then did I reward him with a sliver of beef liver sausage from a pouch among the many in which I had secured my riffle scrolls.

Wiping my hands upon a fresh linen handkerchief from my sleeve, I saw the merchant rising from his table. For a moment I feared he might introduce himself, but instead he bustled past me to visit the wine cart. On his way he stumbled into a young Qadiran woman whose snug winter clothes failed to conceal the rich curves of her figure. I wondered how she had escaped Radovan's attentions until I saw the barmaid's finger hooked into my bodyguard's collar, pulling him close to whisper in his ear.

I resigned myself to the prospect of another cup of tepid wine.

The sun had risen high enough to reveal the details of the harbor. Across the bay to the north, the triple towers of Harbor Watch stood vigil over the docks. Ballistas, catapults, and trebuchets fairly bristled on their many platforms, promising doom to any vessel so rash as to assault the shipyards. A great rusty chain descended into the water from the southernmost tower, but I had read more than one report suggesting this hull-breaking chain had never been completed, its appearance merely a stratagem to deter ambitious armadas.

"Quite a sight, isn't it?" The young elf pacing the perimeter of the pavilion blew at the steam rising from his cup. His sallow complexion and nervous gaze lent him the aspect of a scholar. Upon his shoulders he bore a tall woven backpack that sagged with the weight of its contents. I knew him at once, not as an individual but as one of a breed of optimistic youngsters I had encountered year after year via the Pathfinder Society. No doubt he dreamed of traveling Golarion and uncovering ancient secrets, beginning his apprenticeship in Absalom.

As I turned to speak with him, however, the boy shied away like a colt. If that was the extent of his spirit, his over-stuffed pack would seem all the heavier for his disappointment when he was turned away from the Grand Lodge.

The remaining occupants of the wine tent were a pair of dwarves. They were obviously traveling companions, one scowling as he observed the porters loading crates onto the ship, the other distracting his companion with jests at the expense of their fellow passengers. When his gaze fell upon me, the jocular dwarf sketched a bow that seemed more friendly than insolent. I returned the courtesy with a scant nod.

"Pretty or not, she needs to keep her
hands off other people's purses."

The merchant's wife favored me with a bright smile, which I returned with as little encouragement as possible. Her expression faltered somewhat as she understood that I wished to be left alone, but she masked her disappointment with the practiced grace of noble breeding.

The shadow of Grayguard Castle crept toward us by the time Radovan disentangled himself from the barmaid, who clutched his coins with more ardor than she put into her smile. Yet perhaps I do him an injustice. Despite his infernal ancestry, Radovan's knack for enchanting women verges on the uncanny.

That was an interesting thought. Among the benefits of his tainted blood were an ability to see in total darkness and a certain resistance to the effects of heat and flame, which lately seemed to have evolved into a remarkable transformation triggered by great fire. Unfortunately, he rebuffed my proposal to study his metamorphosis. A few simple experiments might determine whether heat or flame was the true catalyst, and whether time or tranquility caused him to revert to his half-human self. Was his unlikely charm another quality of his unusual condition?

The woman fell upon me before I could react. By the time I heard Arnisant growl a warning, she clutched at my neck and shoulder. My own arms instinctively encircled her body, pulling her close to prevent her head from striking the table. For an instant I thought it was the merchant's wife who had tripped over the satchel at my feet, but it was the young Qadiran woman.

Her momentary struggle before settling on my lap evoked an involuntary reaction that she could not fail to notice. In the private company of a gentlewoman of certain charms, I should have welcomed the phenomenon. Yet we stood exposed to the public eye, and she was no lady.

The young woman smothered a giggle with her gloved fingers.

"I beg your pardon," I said, although I was hardly responsible for our collision.

"That's quite a tower you've erected." She did not refer to the luggage.

Not six feet away, the talkative dwarf guffawed. Behind him, his companion frowned at the disturbance, while the young elf ceased pacing, frozen and staring like a startled hare. Near them, the merchant's wife covered her blush with a lace fan, while her husband bit his knuckles to stop his own laughter.

"Nice try, sister." Radovan pulled the woman from my lap. She struggled to escape, but he held tight to her arm while slipping a hand beneath her cloak. Before she could scream, he removed his hand and dangled my purse before her eyes.

This time the merchant could not help but laugh. "That's very good, don't you think, my dear?"

His wife nodded, but her eyes lingered on Radovan as he favored the pickpocket with the lopsided leer he calls "the little smile."

"What's your name, sweetheart?" Radovan asked.

Her hesitation was almost imperceptible. "Shadya."

"What are we going to do about this little incident? If I call the guards, we're going to miss our boat."

Shadya slipped out of his grip. She raised a defiant chin and glared back at him, rubbing her arm where he'd bruised her. "What do you want?"

Quick as an adder, Radovan slipped an arm around her waist and bent her low for a kiss. She struggled briefly while his fingers explored every contour of her body.

The merchant's wife was the first to turn away. A moment later, she prodded her husband with the fan, and he cast his gaze to the floor. The elf and the cheerful dwarf stared, one gaping, the other grinning. The dour dwarf cleared his throat.

I could bear it no longer. "That is quite enough, Radovan."

He released the woman and returned to my side. She retreated, her expression wavering between confusion and outrage.

Radovan returned my purse. "That's all she got."

While no doubt he enjoyed the pretense of collecting a kiss, I knew its true purpose was to search the woman for any other items she might have stolen.

"Passengers aboard!" the burly captain bellowed from the edge of the gangplank. The ship's mates arrived to transfer our luggage to our cabins.

As a spindly sailor approached to take our bags, I noticed that the leather latch on the most precious of my satchels lay unsecured. I opened it, my heart racing. What I feared had occurred.

The Lacuna Codex was missing.

Coming Next Week: A classic tale of theft and suspicion as Radovan and Jeggare attempt to recover the Lacuna Codex in Chapter Two of "A Passage to Absalom."

Dave Gross is the author of numerous Pathfinder Tales novels and stories. His adventures of Radovan and Jeggare include the novels Prince of Wolves and Master of Devils, the Pathfinder's Journals "Hell's Pawns" and "Husks" (published in the Council of Thieves Adventure Path and the upcoming Jade Regent Adventure Path, respectively), and the short stories "The Lost Pathfinder" and "A Lesson in Taxonomy." In addition, he's also co-written the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch with Elaine Cunningham.

Art by Florian Stitz.

Master of Devils Sample Chapter

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

by Dave Gross

In Master of Devils, Dave Gross takes Pathfinder Venture-Captain Varian Jeggare and his hellspawn bodyguard Radovan into the distant land of Tian Xia in search of a magical pearl, where things quickly go awry. Trapped in the body of a devil, Radovan finds himself held hostage by the legendary Quivering Palm attack and fighting on behalf of a mysterious master.

Chapter Sixteen: Phoenix Warrior

The basilisk slithered through the streets of Khitai. Now and then it lunged, always at a child or a pretty girl who froze in place. The monster’s orange eyes bore down until its victim shrieked. Then it shook green and yellow scales out of its mane and danced away.

Children gathered the scale-shaped leaf wrappers and ate the sweet bean cakes inside. The eight-legged basilisk moved along to the next throng of children, its painted silk skin rippling at every turn. The bare feet of the men inside the monster slapped the pavement in time with the festival drums.

I was the opposite of the basilisk, a monster hidden beneath the silk cover of a man.

Even without Burning Cloud Devil’s magic, it was a good enough disguise. Unless someone got close, I could have been another of the big northern barbarians who’d come south looking for mercenary work. I was glad I’d picked up a black rice hat with a brim so low it had an eye slit in the front. I felt like a kid playing at knights in armor, but at least no one had run screaming when I came into town.

Burning Cloud Devil was still holed up at the inn. I’d wandered off to find a smith to repair my big knife. As an afterthought I asked him to make a new one just like it, only big enough for my devil hands. We negotiated until I got tired of pantomime. I showed him the big smile, and we had a deal.

The rest of the day I figured I’d take in the sights. There was no point telling Burning Cloud Devil where I was going. After our long journey back from the western mountains, and a hundred failed attempts to teach me his Quivering Palm technique, he said he needed to catch up on his sleep.

After the business with the Moon Blade Killer, we’d both had some rough nights. More than once I’d woken from nightmares of the boss writhing inside a dragon’s belly. Across the fire, Burning Cloud Devil twitched in his sleep, soaked with night sweat. I figured he dreamed of Spring Snow in the same damned place.

Despite the nightmares, I wasn’t buying his “need some sleep” excuse. He’d been wound up tight since I showed him the silver sword. He said he didn’t believe I’d seen Spring Snow, but I could tell it was gnawing at him. I’d seen it a thousand times before with the boss.

Burning Cloud Devil wasn’t slipping away to rest. He was off to get stinking drunk.

Weeks ago I’d figured out that most of the joints he called “tea houses” were really taverns. Let him drink, I figured. At least it spared me more lessons on clarifying my soul or maintaining the perfect nature of my body or some other airy stuff. When he wasn’t full of wine, he was full of bad poetry.

Since I’d seen her face, I had a hard time picturing Spring Snow with this guy. She struck me as a good kid, full of life at one time. She had to have been a lot more fun than he was. Burning Cloud Devil didn’t deserve someone like her.

The way I saw it, he was responsible for the deaths of the family back at the restaurant. Sure, it was me the Moon Blade Killer had come to kill, but Burning Cloud Devil knew it would happen. He’d tricked me into burying the wrestler’s head. He might as well have murdered those boys and their father himself.

Anyway, it had to be his fault. Otherwise, it was mine.

I couldn’t stand to think that.

Among the festival crowd, a woman dressed as a warrior caught my eye. Her golden scale armor glittered in the sun. She held one of those long-bladed glaives, sort of halfway between a spear and a sword. Where its grip met the blade twined a golden phoenix.

Something told me she hadn’t dressed up for the festival.

Most people in town hadn’t given me a second glance, but this woman stared in a way that made me think she could see through the brim of my hat. In other circumstances, I’d tip her a wink, but she was the one who threw me a fetching smile.

Normally, that’s all the encouragement I need. Instead of taking her up on the invitation, I walked away.

Until Burning Cloud Devil released my body, I was in no fit shape for a cuddle. And yeah, I knew that probably wasn’t what her smile meant, but it was what it made me think about.

Likely she wanted a whole different kind of trouble. Without Burning Cloud Devil around to slap me up with the fight whammy, there was nothing in it for me.

She called after me in Tien. “Face me, devil.”

I kept walking. A few steps later, a wave of nausea rolled through me. She’d thrown a spell on me.

I ran down a narrow lane between a block of townhouses and a spice shop. Waiting for me at the other end was a woman dressed identically to the first, except she held a scepter with a golden phoenix on its head. She looked exactly like the other woman.

Twins, of course.

Under other circumstances, I’d have been tickled. With their thick jaws and thin noses, they were no beauties, but they were all right. Later there’d be time to imagine the scenarios that could have been, assuming I survived this little tryst.

She pointed the scepter at me. Its wings began to move, its feathered breast glowing red.

I didn’t wait to see the result. I pulled a little juice from inside the core of my spirit and jumped from the ground to land on the roof of the spice shop.

No matter how many times I did that trick, “flying” never got old. Burning Cloud Devil said it came easily to me because of my abundant ki. Sometimes I wondered whether I’d still be able to do it when I got back to my regular body. It’d be a useful trick, not to mention one hell of a lot of fun.

My first step crunched through the roof tile. I weighed a lot more these days, so I stuck to running along the beam lines. A few more tiles clattered away behind me, but I made it to the other side without falling through. I leaped down onto the next lane, heard a cry, and looked around to see who I’d startled.

There was no one in the street except the armored woman. She lunged, twirled the glaive, and stepped back. I realized she’d already hit me only when the front of my rice hat fell off, revealing my face.

She gave me a smug smile and turned her blade so the reflected sunlight light dazzled me. I shaded my eyes until she turned the blade again, showing me the opposite side.

On the metal was etched a familiar symbol. I’d seen it in Minkai. It was the mark of Shizuru, goddess of ancestors and honor. This woman wasn’t just a warrior.

She was a paladin.

Her smile vanished as she advanced, whirling the long blade. I turned to run, but there she was on the other side, this time with the golden scepter.

“Xifeng.” The one with the scepter saluted her sister. “The honor of first attack is yours. Smite the evil beast!”

Xifeng returned the salute. “I thank you, Dongmei. I accept your charge and—”

“Listen, ladies, thanks all the same, but no smiting today. Despite my looks, I’m not actually evil.”

Hey, I’m entitled to my opinion.

“It says it is not evil,” said Dongmei, translating my devil-speech to Tien. Good for her, I thought. Know your enemy. Speak the language. Maybe we’ll have a drink later.

“Impossible,” said Xifeng. “I see its aura. It is a fiend from Hell.”

“Cheliax, actually,” I said. Dongmei’s face remained blank, so I did boat-on-the-wave with my hand. “Far across the sea, on the other side of the world.”

Dongmei showed me her palm, two fingers up, thumb nestled to the side. She said a few words in the language of angels, which I never learned because it’s got no decent curses. A pale golden circle formed around us. Motes of holy light danced in the alley like dust under a bright window.

“Say it again,” demanded Dongmei. “Tell us you are not truly evil.”

“I’m not— I’m actually a perfectly— The thing is—”

I couldn’t say the words. Her magic turned them to dust in my mouth.

“You condemn yourself!” cried Dongmei. “Not even a devil can tell a lie within the Circle of Truth.”

Xifeng’s slipper scuffed the ground behind me. Even in armor, the woman was quick. She damned near succeeded where the Moon Blade Killer failed. I moved just in time to make sure it was only the rest of my hat that fell onto the street.

I jumped back to the roof. Xifeng vaulted up behind me. I let her chase me across a couple more buildings while I searched for an escape route.

No dice. Dongmei had already cut me off, running up steps of air on the other side. I’d seen that trick before. It meant a god was listening to her prayers.

I was fighting both a paladin and a priest. If there’d ever before been a question of my going to Hell, it was answered now.

I tossed a handful of darts to keep her occupied. She covered her face with her arm, but the little blades glanced off an invisible barrier a few inches from her skin.

A crunch on the roof tiles warned me of Xifeng’s attack. To make sure I knew it was coming, she added a battle cry. “Shizuru, guide my hand!”

I leaped away. The roof exploded in yellow light inches away from me. Sharp tile fragments bit into my face and neck.

Xifeng’s battle cry was mighty.

I feinted a forward roll and swept her legs with a kick. Xifeng fell for it, and then she fell for it—right off the side of the roof.

It’s always funnier when something like that happens to a paladin.

	Illustration by Florian Stitz

I grinned as I turned to face Dongmei. She had just finished calling down a spell, her arms raised to heaven to receive it.

It landed on me, a pillar of roaring flames. I threw back my head to laugh—fire doesn’t bother me when I’m cloaked in Hell—but out of my mouth came a howl of pain.

The holy fire was hot and cold and something else I can’t explain. It hurt far more than the burning I feel just before fire turns me big. My hair floated up like I was underwater. My clothes rustled but didn’t so much as smoke.

My grin turned into a snarl.

“All right, sister, you got my attention.”

Dongmei’s eyes widened. She ran and leaped to the next building, once more walking on an invisible stair. I sent a pair of darts after her, putting one just above her shoulder blade. She faltered but didn’t fall.

The gap was wider than those I’d jumped before. I pumped my legs, my clawed toes tearing divots in the burning roof. I threw myself across the street and landed hard on the opposite roof, leaving the burning building behind me.

Dongmei’s fingers sketched another spell. She babbled holy words.

I charged across the tiles, diving into a tumble to come at her from below. My palm caught her on the breastbone. I let my fingers do the spider-crawl strike Burning Cloud Devil taught me. I sealed them with the final blow.

Dongmei recognized the attack. Her face paled. She slapped at her sternum, gasping as I raised my fist and squeezed it tight.

I felt no invisible strings between my fingers and her heart. I still hadn’t got the knack.

Her color returned. She raised her scepter.

I shot her a fast one in the breadbasket. My knuckle spurs pierced her armor.

She pressed her hand against my forehead. I felt her pulse fluttering through her palm. The last few syllables of her spell came out in blood, but she pronounced them well enough for her goddess to hear.

The goddess replied.

Holy fire erupted out of my brain. Hot tears poured down my face, so thick I feared they might be my melted eyeballs. Dongmei showed me a pained smile of triumph as her face blurred from my vision.

My thoughts melted away next. All I had left inside my head was hatred. My hand found the grip of the big knife. I brought it up hard and low, through Dongmei’s belly and up into her chest.

She didn’t scream. The only sound was the scrape of my blade across her metal armor and the bone beneath. I lifted her up, twisting and jerking the blade to tear her heart to pieces. The cloud over my vision drifted away.

“Sister!” Xifeng screamed from the edge of the roof.

I turned to show the paladin what I’d done with her sister. Dongmei’s blood was on my face, running down my lips and across the long, ragged teeth of my big smile.

Across my shoulder, Dongmei stretched a feeble arm toward Xifeng. For an instant, the gesture plucked at something that had slipped down deep inside me. It was something important, something I used to value. I couldn’t think of its name.

Whatever it was, I didn’t need it anymore.

Xifeng stood at the edge of the roof. She raised her hand toward her sister’s.

Dongmei’s weight lifted off of me. Her body faded away, but the ghost of it floated toward her sister. As their outstretched hands touched, the image of Dongmei vanished. Xifeng stood alone, her sword-glaive in one hand, the phoenix scepter in the other.

She tucked her sister’s weapon inside her belt and assumed a fighting stance.

“You want some of the same?” I said.

There was no one to translate, but she was done talking. She came on like a storm.

I drifted back and tried another kick, but she set the butt of her weapon into the tile and blocked me. The dark wood was hard as steel. There’d be one hell of a bruise on my instep.

She attacked with both the blade and the spiked butt of the glaive. She was strong as a bull, and fast. It was all I could do to bring up my arms to protect my body. The blade hit hard, but it couldn’t cut the sleeves of my enchanted robes. Xifeng noticed and redirected her blows to my hands, face, and feet.

Her limited targets gave me breathing room. With the big knife I gave her a good shot in the shoulder, hard enough to bloody her golden scales. The wound barely slowed her.

I followed up with a knee to the belly, but she faded back and stepped to my right. She’d gulled me!

The blade creased the back of my skull. The bone cracked, and I felt a cool rush of air slip inside. I rolled away, expecting a finishing shot to land where my head had been.

Xifeng anticipated that, too. The butt of her glaive slammed into my mouth. I choked on blood and the shards of my teeth.

Something came apart inside me. It felt as though some enormous hand had grasped my spine and cracked it like a whip. Everything I saw turned the color of blood. I clutched and clawed, kicked and raked, snarling and spitting like an animal.

It didn’t matter what I touched. I ripped it in my hands, shredded it in my ruined teeth. Shattered tile, metal, and flesh filled my mouth. At last I felt a hard kick on my ass, and I fell off the roof and face-first onto the pavement.

I came up spitting fragments of paving stones.

Mocking laughter rained down from another roof across the street.

“The gods punish you for starting another fight without me,” said Burning Cloud Devil. His voice was equal parts amusement, irritation, and wine.

He sat cross-legged on the edge of a bakery roof. Cradled in his legs were a steam basket and a wine jug. He’d brought refreshments for the show.

The sun exploded behind me. That’s how it felt, anyway.

I turned, shielding my eyes from the radiance. On the roof stood the silhouettes of both sisters, each holding her weapon. They stepped forward. Each was bloodied, but Dongmei’s wound now appeared little more than a deep cut.

They hesitated at the sight of Burning Cloud Devil. He laughed at their reaction.

“The Phoenix Warrior! I meant to seek her out, but only after you had mastered the Quivering Palm.”

“Maybe you can give me a hand,” I said. Even in devil-speech, my words came out a mushy mumble through my broken teeth. “Which sister you want?”

“Which sister?” He juggled a hot dumpling one-handed. “There is but one Phoenix Warrior.”

I figured he meant Dongmei, then, since she carried the phoenix scepter. I pointed at her. “Almost got that one.”

Dongmei scoffed. “Burning Cloud Devil, let us see what fiend you have summoned to plague our town.” She touched the butt of Xifeng’s glaive to wet her fingers with blood.

My blood.

She blew it like a kiss onto a strip of white parchment and read the words that formed there. “Radovan Virholt Norge kel Zogreb Dokange the Flaying Tongue Fell Viridio ...This is not a name!”

In her hands, the blood turned her parchment completely red before trickling down her fingers. She cast it away like a filthy thing.

Burning Cloud Devil choked on his dumpling. “So many!”

Dongmei and Xifeng raised their arms to the sky and bathed in healing radiance. I’d have to start all over.

“Bitches cheat,” I said. “Come on, Lefty. You can take the little one.”

Burning Cloud Devil lost his smirk and glared at me. All right, I admitted. That was a little mean. But if he hadn’t come to fight, he could use all the encouragement I had to offer.

Dongmei ran down her steps of air to stand twenty feet away to my left. Xifeng hit the ground on the right. They raised their weapons and closed in toward me.

“It is a pity you were not a more diligent student,” said Burning Cloud Devil.

Before I could ask what he meant by ‘were,’ Xifeng made a flourish with her glaive. Despite my tough robes, I was shy of that blade, but I was tired of running. I sidestepped, but her attack was only a feint. On the ground between us, Dongmei’s shadow swallowed up mine and kept growing.

I leaped aside just in time to avoid her massive fist. It struck the ground like a boulder, and I kept rolling away. She’d grown taller than me, bigger than an ogre.

On the roof, Burning Cloud Devil laughed. His voice echoed through the streets and shook the shutters. He wrote on a sheet of paper on his knee.

“Take your notes later!” I shouted.

Xifeng came for me in earnest. Her glaive smashed a hitching post where my legs had been an instant earlier.

It was time to get away. I ran up the street and skidded to a halt. The city guard had arrived. They formed a barricade of pikes and shields. I turned to run down the street, dodging the giant Dongmei and her smaller but still vicious paladin double. Beyond them, another phalanx of guards appeared.

I looked around, but every path was closed. There were archers on the rooftops, and every door and window had shut.

“A little help!”

Burning Cloud Devil washed down the last of his dumplings with a huge swig of wine. “Very well,” he said. “But only if you use the Quivering Palm.”

“I can’t—” What the hell. I could give it a go. “Fine!”

“Put them close together.” Burning Cloud Devil’s voice whispered in my ear. I heard it as clearly as if he’d stood behind me, but he remained on the rooftop. He dropped the empty jug and steam basket and assumed a horse stance.

He let the giant kick me around a little while I focused on keeping Xifeng’s blade from my neck. At last, the spell that made Dongmei big wore off. I rolled toward a wall, ran three steps up the side, and flipped back to kick her in the face.

It was a heavy blow made worse by the claws on my toes. Four deep grooves cut across her face, and for a second I thought I’d taken out an eye. In an instant, the wound faded to half its depth. She whipped around to strike me with her glowing scepter. I leaped out of the way.

From the other side, Xifeng screamed as she lunged for me. I twisted aside and felt her blade slide across my shoulder blades. One glimpse of her angry face showed me she’d suffered half the kick I gave Dongmei.

“Now,” whispered Burning Cloud Devil. “Strike both at once.”

I crouched low and struck both women at once. My palms hit just below the breastbone. The fingers of my left hand traced out the pattern of a cage, or a net. I’d never thought of it that way before, but I knew it could capture a life.

Xifeng gasped.

The fingers of my right hand moved also, but too slow.

Dongmei slapped my hand away.

“Do as I do,” hissed Burning Cloud Devil.

For another second I tried to remember the moves he had made through my left hand. Then I gave up and just tried to feel them.

I struck again, hitting both women in the same place. My fingers moved, this time faster than Burning Cloud Devil could command them. They formed the same patterns, built the same cages. Xifeng and Dongmei cried out as one. Their bodies trembled and became translucent. They moved together, forming a single person holding Xifeng and Dongmei’s weapons in either hand. She fell to her knees.

I rolled back and stood. A cool calm washed over me, but underneath I felt the heat of anger. They—she—had meant to kill me, but now I was the one who held her life in my palm. I felt it trembling there, like a hummingbird.

“Mercy,” moaned the Phoenix Warrior. “Spare me.”

“Crush her,” whispered Burning Cloud Devil. “Prove what you have learned.”

“I didn’t come after you,” I told her. “You came after me.”

“Please.”

I needed another reason. “You broke my teeth.”

She opened her mouth, but before she could plead again, her courage returned to clamp her jaw shut.

“You have this coming,” I told her. I wanted to believe it, too.

I closed my hand. A bird-shaped flame leaped from her chest and flew away. In its wake, the buildings caught fire as the woman’s corpse fell onto the dusty street.

Purchase the whole novel here.

Coming Next Week: A brand new Radovan and Jeggare mystery on the high seas, courtesy of Dave Gross!

Dave Gross is the author of numerous Pathfinder Tales novels and stories. His adventures of Radovan and Jeggare include the novels Prince of Wolves and Master of Devils, the Pathfinder's Journals "Hell's Pawns" and "Husks" (published in the Council of Thieves Adventure Path and the upcoming Jade Regent Adventure Path, respectively), and the short stories "The Lost Pathfinder" and "A Lesson in Taxonomy." In addition, he's also co-written the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch with Elaine Cunningham.

Illustration by Kekai Kotaki

Pathfinder Fiction News and Podcast!

Thursday, May 26, 2011

It's always a good day when we get to announce the next Pathfinder Tales novel, but today is especially important for me, as today I get to announce the November release of Death's Heretic, the new Pathfinder Tales novel by—well, me!

Death's Heretic is the story of Salim Ghadafar, a desert warrior forced against his will to work as an agent of Pharasma. When a powerful merchant in Thuvia is assassinated on the eve of receiving the sun orchid elixir, an elixir capable of reversing aging, few people are surprised—after all, immortality is a risky business. Yet when the merchant's soul goes missing from Pharasma's Boneyard and a mysterious note offers to ransom the man's spirit back to his family in exchange for the elixir, it's time for the church of the death goddess to step in and find out who would dare steal from the Lady of Graves herself. With his unique skill set, Salim should be perfectly suited to the mission. There's only one problem: The investigation is being financed by the murdered aristocrat's daughter. And she wants to go with him.

Illustration by Lucas Graciano

Along with his uninvited passenger, Salim must unravel a web of intrigue that will lead them far from the blistering sands of Thuvia on a grand tour of the Outer Planes, where devils and angels rub shoulders with fey lords and mechanical men, and nothing is as it seems...

This book has been a long time in coming, and I'm obviously pretty excited to finally be able to talk about it. Yet rather than ramble on the blog (there'll be time for that closer to the release date), I'd like to direct you over to the brand new, all-Pathfinder-Tales episode of the Atomic Array podcast! In addition to talking with me about Death's Heretic and the line as a whole, Ed and Rone also interview Pathfinder Tales authors Dave Gross, Robin D. Laws, and Howard Andrew Jones. It's nearly two-hours of hard-hitting fiction questions and anecdotes regarding Pathfinder Tales, so check it out, and feel free to ask your own questions in the comments thread below!

Last but not least, we've also unveiled the final cover art for Master of Devils and Death's Heretic, painted by Lucas Graciano and Kekai Kotaki, respectively. That's all from the Pathfinder Tales front for now, but stay tuned next week for the beginning of an all-new story from Robin D. Laws as part of our free weekly web fiction!

James Sutter
Fiction Editor

New Books and Epubs!

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

It's an exciting day over here in the Pathfinder Tales department! Not only does today introduce the final chapter in Erik Mona's "Two Pieces of Tarnished Silver" (which you can read right here for free), but it's also the release date of two things that folks have been anxiously awaiting for a while now.

Illustration by Daren Bader

The first is Robin Laws' The Worldwound Gambit, a rollicking heist novel set in the demonic madness of the Worldwound. Hitch a ride with veteran con man Gad as he gathers the perfect team of scoundrels and thieves to infiltrate a cult's living tower deep in demon-held territory. Together they'll attempt to pull off the biggest job of their lives, saving their home from destruction and keeping business booming. Along the way, they'll have to deal with insufferable paladins, a dangerously seductive priestess, their own quirks and faults—and of course, plenty of demons. By turns hilarious and disturbing, Robin's new book is a dark, witty romp that will show you Mendev and the Worldwound like you've never seen them before.

Illustration by Jason Engle

The second thing we're proud to unveil is the latest batch of Pathfinder Tales ePubs, which includes not just several of the web fiction stories, but the first three Pathfinder's Journals from Pathfinder Adventure Path, available now in compiled electronic form, complete with all their original illustrations! For years, people have been asking for compiled versions of the journals for ease of reading and transportation—in fact, before he worked here, Mark Moreland compiled all the Eando Kline stories into a self-printed chapbook to read on his commute—and we're glad to finally be able to oblige. Appearing in this first batch are "Hell's Pawns" by Dave Gross, which marks the first appearance of Varian Jeggare and Radovan; "Dark Tapestry" by Elaine Cunningham, which follows the adventures of half-elven Pathfinder and desert druid Channa Ti; and "The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline," which presents the entire epic journey of Pathfinder Eando Kline from his first appearance in Pathfinder Adventure Path #1 to the stunning conclusion in #18. Much longer than a typical web fiction story, both "Hell's Pawns" and "Dark Tapestry" are full-length novellas, while Eando's story is roughly as long as a Pathfinder Tales novel! "The Compass Stone" also comes complete with a new foreword by yours truly, discussing the evolution of the Pathfinder's Journal, and of Eando's story in particular. Joining these journals are the compiled web fiction tales "Lord of Penance" by Richard Lee Byers and "The Secret of the Rose and Glove" by Kevin Andrew Murphy.

And this is just the beginning! We hope to unveil the next novel in the Pathfinder Tales line fairly soon, and you can look forward to seeing further batches of web fiction stories and Pathfinder's Journals compiled for your electronic reading enjoyment at regular intervals. Because when it comes to Pathfinder fiction, more is better!

James Sutter
Fiction Editor

What happens in the Academae...

Thursday, April 14th, 2011

	Illustration by J. P. Targete

What's this? Another new story already in the free Pathfinder Tales web fiction? As we discussed in the blog last week, this month brings us two short pieces from Pathfinder Tales superstars Elaine Cunningham and Dave Gross, both of which were recently previewed in Wayfinder #4. This week is "The Illusionist," a totally self-contained one-shot story from Elaine featuring a young Mwangi wizard from the Magaambya who travels to the Acadamae in Korvosa on a sort of study-abroad program, only to discover that the northerners are far less cultured than they pretend...

If you've read Winter Witch, you may notice a few familiar faces in this story. One of the main comments I've heard regarding the novel is that people are really curious about Declan's brother Asmonde, and the backstory with him and the Acadamae—I know I found Declan's relationship with his not-quite-sister-in-law and tiefling niece one of the more compelling aspects of his character. Thus it should come as no surprise that when Elaine contacted me about writing more about that bit of history, I jumped at the chance. And of course, seeing our old friend Jamang in his natural habitat lends that much more life and breadth to the underhanded world of Korvosa.

Click here to read Elaine's new story, and don't forget to come back next week for a rollicking new yarn by Paizo publisher Erik Mona himself!

James Sutter
Fiction Editor

Jeggare in the Jungle

Wednesday, April 6th, 2011

With all the excitement of last week's Meet the Iconics post for Hayato, our new iconic samurai—who we unveiled ahead of schedule as part of our auction to help tsunami relief efforts—we unfortunately didn't have a chance to talk about the new web fiction story that started that Wednesday. Which is really too bad, because the new story is awesome on several fronts!

	Illustration by J. P. Targete

In "A Lesson in Taxonomy," Dave Gross brings us a glimpse of Pathfinder Varian Jeggare, the longstanding co-hero of Pathfinder Tales novels, journals, and webfiction stories, as he was in his early days as a Pathfinder, well before he became a venture-captain or met up with his bodyguard Radovan. Just two episodes long, this story takes us through historical Sargava and into the heart of the Mwangi Expanse, where Dave sheds some light on the not-always-amicable practices of competing Pathfinders.

If you're a fan of Wayfinder—and how can you not love free, high-quality, fan-created Pathfinder material?—then this story might look a little familiar. When the Wayfinder folks originally told us that both Dave Gross and Elaine Cunningham had agreed to write new short stories for the zine's Mwangi-themed issue, we were all excited, yet the deal raised some sticky issues regarding continuity and the community use agreement. The solution? We bought Dave and Elaine's stories and let them run first in Wayfinder as a preview before bringing them here to the website for the world to see, thereby making them official Pathfinder Tales content. Everybody wins!

This week represents the final chapter in Dave's safari adventure, and next week we'll have Elaine's fabulous one-shot story "The Illusionist." And after that, we'll be starting a story by one of our very own Paizo staffers. Who could it be, you ask? For the answer, stay tuned...

James Sutter
Fiction Editor

A Lesson in Taxonomy

by Dave Gross

Chapter Two: The Observation Post

"Are you certain those are the females?"

"Very certain, Most Excellent Count," said Amadi. "I have seen where they lay their eggs."

I lowered my spyglass and compared what I had seen through the mist with Amadi's sketch of the dinosaurs. His illustrations were astonishing for both their simplicity and their accuracy. At first glance, the dinosaurs we observed from our treetop post appeared identical to the brachiosaurus. They were slightly smaller, perhaps no more than twenty-five tons. Their most distinguishing feature was a large gill-like organ on the females' heads, just below the angular jaws.

Proving that these creatures were a species distinct from the brachiosaurus would be a commendable addition to my bestiary, but to deduce the function of this singular feature would surely impress upon the Decemvirate the value of my studies.

"We need a closer look," I said.

"No, Excellency, I beg you not to approach," said Amadi. "It is too dangerous during the mating season. You must list these creatures as 'dangerous' in your book."

The simple classification of creatures into the "dangerous" and "docile" categories had charmed Amadi. During our trek from Kalabuto, he had pointed out various wildlife along the way, categorizing them himself. He pronounced a band of tiny lemurs "docile," but then declared a family of similarly tiny monkeys "dangerous." Before I could demand an explanation, Remigo threw a stone among the monkeys and suffered a barrage of feces in retaliation. Under cover of his curses, I whispered to Amadi, "Definitely 'dangerous.'" Amadi laughed.

Much as I had grown impatient in our arboreal perch, I had to acknowledge the wisdom of Amadi's warning about the dinosaurs. It was tempting to send some of the bearers for a closer look, but they too were wary of approaching the beasts. I would have sent Remigo, but the villain had slipped away a few nights earlier.

Remigo's desertion was surprising only in that it occurred so long after I had relented to the man's pleas to remain in service rather than to return alone to Cheliax. I had expected him to accept his dismissal with relief after the indignity of his punishment, although it could not have been too severe judging from his unhindered gait. Instead, Remigo surprised me with an apology so abject that I could not find it in my heart to refuse him—or rather, I could not bring myself to disappoint my cousin Ersilia. With reticence, I allowed him to remain in service under a few absolute strictures, foremost of which was that there would be no mupute or any other alcoholic drink among our supplies.

The absence of his beloved liquor wore on Remigo as the days slogging through the humid Mwangi jungle elongated into weeks under the increasing torrent of the rainy season. At times the rain fell so hard that it splashed up at us as violently as it descended, and even the native bearers gulped in an atmosphere thicker than a lake bottom.

By the time our party reached the observation post that the Taldan Pathfinder Vors Nevarion had constructed nearly thirty years earlier, we tumbled into the barren tool hut at the base of a great rahuru tree and collapsed beneath its shabby roof. We stirred as the susurrus of the rain subsided, and I set the bearers to work conveying supplies to the upper level. They ignored the rotting rope ladder and clambered up hand- and footholds I could barely perceive in the gleaming brown and green bark. When at last I turned to give Remigo his orders, he was nowhere to be found. The brief silence surrendered to a rising cacophony of hoots and shrieks from the monkeys for which the Screaming Jungle earned its name.

Amadi reported seeing Remigo step outside the hut during the rain and assumed it was to empty his bowels. The former Hellknight did not appear before dusk, when I sent the bearers out with torches. An hour after dark, the men returned with the rain, having found Remigo's tracks leading back the way we had come.

Remigo's absence was as much a relief to the men as it was to me, but kind-hearted Amadi wished vocally that the man would find his way back home. I wished the same, although with somewhat less enthusiasm. There was no telling what falsehoods he would relay to my cousin Ersilia about the conditions under which he left my service.

Once we had repaired the observing post, I established a daily routine for our camp. The men were experienced at journeys to the Mwangi interior and needed little direction to establish rain pots for fresh water. After repairing the lower hut, the rope ladder, and the observation platform, they set themselves to gathering and hunting to supplement the provisions we brought from Kalabuto, while Amadi and I began our survey of the southern plains between the edge of the forest and the Pasuango River, the last natural barrier between the site of our survey and the dangerous Mzali tribes.

Through the veil of rain we could discern the shadows of the colossi in the distance. On misty days we saw their serpentine necks craning up past the river bushwillows to tear the leaves from the middle boughs of the lofty baobabs, whose leaves they favored. They moved with elephantine grandeur. Males and females alike greeted each other by nuzzling necks, to which I could observe no reaction from the unusual gill-like organs on the females.

Those gill-like apertures posed the most intriguing question about the creatures. Were they secondary sex organs? Scent emitters? Were they used in some form of echolocation? No one even glancing at the illustrations Amadi drew for me would fail to ask the question, and my Bestiary of Garundi would be incomplete without the answer.

"I can see nothing through this confounded mist."

"We pray to Gozreh," he said, placing his cupped hands upon the points of his shoulders. "There will be more sun."

I found myself ambushed by a yawn and caught Amadi's amused grin before he turned away, wary of my displeasure. I let out the next one with a roar and a broad stretch of my arms, crass as a porter. At that he laughed, and I felt the first moment of joy since Remigo's departure.

"Wake me when Gozreh answers your prayer," I said before withdrawing to the relative comfort of my hammock. I fell asleep to a muted symphony of simian chatter.

Human voices woke me.

"Excellency, you must wake up," hissed Amadi. "They are here."

"Who?"

"Prince Kasiya," he said. "And your man Remigo. The bearers have fled."

There was but one reason I could imagine for Kasiya's arrival, especially if he were guided by Remigo. He wanted the bestiary for himself. I hastened to the table containing my journal and Amadi's sketches. There was no place to hide them, nor did we have any avenue of escape from our treetop shelter. The platform trembled under the weight of men climbing the restored rope ladder.

I could have torn my journal to shreds, or lit it on fire if I dared, but I could not bear to destroy my life's work even to spite a thief who would present it as his own. There was little hope of arguing against his claim, even assuming he permitted me to live long enough to return to Absalom. The word of a prince outweighs the word of count.

A wicked thought emerged from my imagination. I took a paper knife and lifted the labels from the dinosaur sketches, reversing them. The paste was still moist, and I completed the task just as Remigo rose up from the trap door opening.

"I'll have those, Jeggare," he growled. I stepped away, wishing briefly that I had taken up my sword instead of the knife. Remigo followed my fleeting glance and put himself between me and my blade as Kasiya followed him up onto the platform. Behind him came two of his armored guards.

A long smile creased his eel-like jaws. He began to speak, but something held him back. His cheeks darkened, and I realized he was blushing.

"You would have let him flog me," said Remigo. Hatred colored his face, and I needed no further explication of events. Remigo had traded his punishment for betraying my location.

	"Prince Kasiya has a strange sense of honor."

"Forgive me, Count Jeggare." Prince Kasiya's voice rang with sincerity. "Perhaps one day, when you have forgiven this offense, you will allow me to demonstrate my gratitude."

"Let me demonstrate mine first," said Remigo. He jerked me toward the edge of the platform. The ground was so far below us that I could not make it out through the mist.

"Unhand him," ordered Kasiya.

Remigo scoffed, but he sobered as he saw the deadly earnestness in the prince's eyes.

"You are a treacherous dog. Your hands are unfit to sully a noble person," said Kasiya. "Await us below."

Remigo glowered at me before descending the rope ladder.

"I must delay your pursuit." Kasiya whistled a command, and one of his guards bound me to the guardrail. The other placed food and water within reach of my hands. "Once we have captured a specimen and have a good lead, I shall send a servant to release you."

"Most Great Highness," said Amadi. "You must not approach the females. It is their season, and they are dangerous."

Kasiya looked to me for confirmation, and I let him see it on my face. The warning would do him little good, after my change of the labels.

"Also," added Amadi. "The labels on the drawings, they have been changed."

Two treacherous dogs!

Kasiya bent to examine the drawings. He lifted the edge of one label with a long fingernail and saw the imperfect bond of paste beneath.

"Very cunning," said Kasiya. His expression darkened again, but not in shame this time. "And most wicked." He stepped toward me and kicked the food and water over the edge of the platform. "I suddenly find that my gratitude for your labors knows bounds."

With that they abandoned me.

My initial efforts to wriggle out of my bonds suggested that I would sooner starve to death than escape them. That was of course assuming that no predatory visitors found me first. The prospect of being devoured alive tempted me to implore Asmodeus for vengeance upon my betrayers, but I would not break the vow I had made to my late mother. Instead I prayed for some fantastic stroke of fortune.

Amadi's prayer was answered first with a glorious parting of the clouds and the evaporation of the mist. From my vantage I watched as Kasiya's party traveled across the grassy plain to the river's edge, where they carefully waited to approach a lone dinosaur.

They had for some reason chosen a female. I watched in astonishment as Kasiya commanded his men to dab their spears in some dark toxin. Remigo was among them, holding his own spear cautiously away from his body as if whatever they had told him about the poison was more frightening than the dinosaur that became restless at their approach.

As the men raised their spears, the dinosaur trumpeted her alarm. The "gills" upon her neck flared into thick, tumescent rills of brilliant color. From them radiated a deep, barely discernable sound. Its effects were more visible than audible, for the surrounding trees shuddered and shed their foliage. A moment later, I felt a horrific scrape along my teeth and in my sinus cavities.

The soldiers' spears bent and melted under the sonic wave. The bodies of the men leaped from the ground, their limbs jerking involuntarily into a hundred unnatural postures as their bones shattered and their organs burst.

Behind me, Amadi panted as he returned to the observation post. He must have slipped away even before the ill-fated party approached their prey. He released a breathless torrent of apologies as he released me from my bonds, but I already guessed why he had done as he did.

"You altered the drawings before I switched the labels."

Amadi grimaced. It was as beautiful as his smile, but more sad. Despite the treachery of Kasiya and Remigo, he mourned their deaths.

∗ ∗ ∗

It required patience and swift running to retrieve the trampled remains of Prince Kasiya from the riverside. I hoped against all chance, and Desna rewarded me with the recovery of the Bestiary of Garundi. We left Remigo and the prince's guards to the scavengers.

Amadi remained with me all the way back to Kalabuto, and then to Eleder. His cheerful disposition had been diminished by the horrors we had witnessed, but still I felt a bond of affection had grown between us. The day before I embarked upon the voyage home, I offered him a place in my household.

"You would make an excellent secretary," I told him, meaning it. "I will send you to the finest schools."

"Your Excellency is most generous," he said. "But I will remain here, in my homeland."

"Whatever for? Among the Sargavan colonists, you will never be treated better than a slave, and outside the cities, there is nothing but danger."

Amadi offered me a wan smile. "I have met many of your people before," he said. "Even in your homeland, and in that of the prince, I would classify most of them as 'dangerous.'"

It was impossible to argue with that. Disappointment wrestled with admiration in my heart. "Farewell, Amadi."

"Farewell, Most Excellent Count. Do not feel too bad. You are not so much like your countrymen," he grinned. "I am pleased to classify you as 'docile.'"

Coming Next Week: A young Mwangi wizard's introduction to subterfuge in the Acadamae of Korvosa in Elaine Cunningham's "The Illusionist."

Dave Gross is the author of numerous Pathfinder Tales novels and stories. His other adventures of Count Varian Jeggare (usually paired with his hellspawn bodyguard Radovan) include the novels Prince of Wolves and Master of Devils, the Pathfinder's Journals "Hell's Pawns" and "Husks" (published in the Council of Thieves Adventure Path and the upcoming Jade Regent Adventure Path, respectively), and the short story "The Lost Pathfinder." In addition, he's also co-written the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch with Elaine Cunningham.

Art by J. P. Targete.

A Lesson in Taxonomy

by Dave Gross

Chapter One: The Bestiary

No reprobate more taxes my patience than a drunkard.

My new bodyguard entered my employ under a cloud. Since the adumbration of his character originated from the headquarters of the Order of the Scourge, I weighed its warning against the value of a favor to my cousin Ersilia. She pledged to place me foremost in her prayers should I offer the former Hellknight an opportunity to redeem his reputation. As my cousin is famed throughout Cheliax as much for her influence in the Court of Thrune as for her personal charms, I was powerless to refuse.

The first harbinger of discord occurred during our passage from Egorian. Whilst we passengers of noble birth enjoyed a late supper of roast pheasant at the captain's table, a supremely vulgar song erupted belowdecks. The ensign departed the cabin to investigate the disturbance. Moments later, the same slurring voice that had regaled us with excerpts of the amorous adventures of the Trick Alley Trio bellowed curses, threats, and finally pleas as the mates clapped the singer in irons. My appetite perished as I recognized the voice as that of my new servant.

Four of the ship's mates bore the proof of my man's violence upon their faces. The malefactor had already fallen into an unshakeable slumber, due less to his own injuries than to the copious amount of grog he had consumed. A brief investigation revealed that he had begun the evening with Desna's kiss upon his brow, for he had a blazing streak of luck in a game of dice in the crew's quarters. Having won the grog ration of every off-duty sailor for the evening, he stepped on the hem of Cayden Cailean's cloak and proceeded to mock his conquered foes by drinking it all while regaling them with his favorite brothel ditty. When the sober crewmen implored him to constrain his volume, he responded with fisticuffs.

The knave presented a grotesque figure as he emerged from the brig in a miasma of cheap alcohol and body odor. I shielded my nose with a handkerchief my cousin had granted me as a sign of her favor. Her delicate perfume succumbed to the assault of the drunkard's stench. A smile flickered over his mouth as he witnessed my reaction, but it vanished when he recognized the handkerchief. Instead his eyes beamed intense jealousy.

At that point I fully understood my cousin's interest in the man.

I returned the man's scowl until he relented and cast his eyes to the deck. "I trust I need not articulate my displeasure, Remigo."

"No, sir."

The hairs on my neck became needles. "Do I resemble a knight of your acquaintance?"

"No, Your Excellency."

I withdrew to the main deck for fresh air. Remigo's conduct was sullen until we reached Khari on the north coast of Garund, where we disembarked to await passage to Eleder under Sargavan colors, lest we attract the rapacious eyes of the so-called Free Captains who, emboldened by their victory at Desperation Bay, continued to prey on lone Chelish vessels. In hindsight, I would have been wise to delay my departure and seek a replacement for my bodyguard, but I was anxious to begin what promised to be my final expedition as a member of the Pathfinder rank and file. Once I had completed my Bestiary of Garund, the Decemvirate would surely offer me the reward for which I had longed since first joining the Society: my commission as a venture-captain.

∗ ∗ ∗

Of the marvels witnessed during the voyage along the western coast of Garund, I have expounded at length elsewhere. We disembarked at Eleder, which resembled a half-completed Chelish city. Since my previous visit two years earlier, the proportion of fair-skinned inhabitants had risen to nearly one-fifth of the crowd gathered by the docks. I counted dozens of halfling porters and several dwarves. There was even a pair of elves awaiting our vessel, one of them a tall, pale figure with eyes the color of amethysts. For a moment I imagined him to be the specter of the father I had never met.

"Most Excellent Count Jeggare?"

Puberty had not yet coarsened the speaker's voice, but the Mwangi boy stood taller than my shoulder. I estimated his age as something between ten and twelve. His accent was a peculiar marriage of the native Kalabuta dialect and my mother tongue.

"Beat it, boy," snarled Remigo. His demeanor had grown more surly for his abstinence.

"No," I said. "Who are you?"

"I am Amadi, Excellency." His bow was perfect, although it revealed wicked scars upon the back of his shoulders. He wore an unbuttoned Chelish waistcoat and short trousers cinched with a length of sisal. He had a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. "Your esteemed colleague bade me await your arrival and offer my service as a guide to Kalabuto." He proffered a sealed letter.

I opened it to find a short note of recommendation from the explorer Rosk Hargun, a fellow Pathfinder whose acquaintance I had made during my previous visit to Sargava. Our association had been collegial, but I had no expectation of such a favor from the dwarf.

"What do you have there?" I nodded at a rolled parchment protruding from the satchel.

Amadi's radiant smile indicated that he was pleased to be asked. He unfurled the parchment and revealed a sketch depicting me. It was an extraordinary likeness, and my first impulse was to imagine that Hargun had commissioned it so that Amadi could recognize me. Yet behind my image was an equally striking depiction of Remigo.

"Does your bag contain a spyglass?" I asked.

"No, Excellency." He smiled again, obviously apprehending the trajectory of my inquiry.

"How long did this take?"

"Since you left your ship."

We had been on the stone docks for only a few minutes. Amadi's combination of speed and accuracy was a rare gift, one that I could fruitfully apply to my bestiary. I understood why Rosk Hargun would recommend the lad.

"Tell me how much Hargun paid you," I said. "I shall give you twice that."

∗ ∗ ∗

We remained in Eleder long enough for the local venture-captain to assure Baron Grallus that my visit was wholly divorced from any intrigue of the House of Thrune, to whom all loyal lords of Cheliax had sworn obedience. If the baron had received any intelligence on my service during the war, it was insufficient to compel him to detain me from my personal ventures.

Remigo complained constantly during our passage upriver. He hated the temperature, the humidity, and most of all the mosquitoes. On the final count, my sympathy was limited, since the sickly odor of mupute on his breath only attracted the vermin. If he thought I could not smell the pineapple liquor, he was more stupid than I had imagined. In past expeditions I too had endured the depredations of the pests, who seemed particularly fond of my half-elven blood. At last I had relented and applied the noisome unguent the natives used to deter the insects. Amadi had offered him the balm, but Remigo refused to acknowledge the lad, much less to contaminate himself with a native concoction.

At last we navigated the Lake of Vanished Armies and turned northward to Kalabuto, an oasis of civilization upon a mound of ancient ruins. While the city is named for the most populous local tribe, the Kalabuta were not its founders. Rather, the tangled mound among the pineapple fields, date orchards, and cattle ranches is all that remains of a long-forgotten tribe whose mysteries linger in every crumbling monument protruding between the contemporary huts. There was no telling where a marketplace ended and the homes began, but there was also no mistaking the grand pavilion of Prince Kasiya. Its silken tents and golden-helmed guardians appeared like a mirage of distant Osirion.

The prince was no older than I, although as a human he appeared a good fifteen years my elder. The illusion of chronological seniority served as a reminder that the prince was my superior outside the Society. He was the sixth son of the great Khemet and brother to the current ruler, Khemet II, known by the lurid appellation of "the Crocodile King." Kasiya greeted me with a fraternal grip of my hand before I could bend knee.

"Welcome, brother." His smile revealed a legion of tiny white teeth. If his elder brother was a crocodile, then Kasiya was an eel.

"Your Highness." I glanced back to ensure that Amadi had knelt and to remind Remigo that he should do the same.

In what seemed but a few moments, the servants were dismissed and we reclined upon embroidered pillows, replete with a sumptuous meal of local fare prepared with the subtlest Osirian spices. Only when the sorbet arrived and the last of the servants withdrew did the prince inquire as to the particulars of my expedition. I shared with him as much as one usually does, which is to say I was honest but indistinct about my intended course. I would indeed travel into the Screaming Jungle, but he did not need to know exactly where.

"It is said that this could be the last of your field excursions," he ventured. "All I hear from Absalom is a buzz of anticipation about this bestiary of yours."

I raised my glass to acknowledge the accuracy of his intelligence. It was little surprise that he knew of my hopes for advancement. With gossip and rivalry, our Society is as rife as the courts of Cheliax.

"There is no doubt your work will persuade the Decemvirate you are a deserving venture-captain."

His unwavering gaze told me he was awaiting a reaction from me, but I could not fathom what secret he hoped I would reveal. I knew that he too harbored ambitions for advancement within the Pathfinder Society. Unfortunately, such advancement was limited, and as all evidence suggested that the Decemvirate made their selections of new venture-captains based on merit rather than station, I favored my chances over his.

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to show me this fabled work?"

"Your Highness, it is incomplete," I demurred. "Upon its publication, I shall be honored to send you a copy."

The moment the prince's lips moved, yet before he could speak, a woman shrieked from the far corner of his pavilion. The prince composed his face as we heard the clamor of his guards' armor. Shouts of accusation, a familiar voice raised in protest, and the minutes crawled upon my throat like a disease. I knew what I would see even before the guards entered the prince's tent and forced Remigo to his knees. The mupute from his breath was almost visible. Beside him knelt Amadi.

"We found these wretches within the tent of Your Highness's concubines," reported the commander.

	"Amadi is a good-natured boy, and does not deserve to suffer for the crimes of others."

Kasiya's eyes flashed a question.

"They were apprehended before laying a hand on any sanctified person."

"In my country," said Kasiya, "the punishment for looking upon my concubines is six ounces of flesh." Remigo squirmed, and Amadi froze. The prince did not need to specify which six ounces he meant.

"Sir," Remigo blurted at me. "I mean, Your Excellency—"

"Silence," I said. "Prince Kasiya is master here."

The prince nodded approval of my deference. His fury subsided, and he turned back to the prisoners.

"You, boy," he said. "I know you."

"I am Amadi, Most High Prince Kasiya." He kowtowed. "It was my honor to accompany your expedition to the Kaava Lands last season."

"And now you wish to mount an expedition to my bed?"

"No, Most Merciful Prince, I wished only to prevent—"

Remigo snarled. "Shut your hole, you dirty little monkey."

The guards kicked him flat on the carpet.

Kasiya waved away the guards, who dragged the prisoners out of his tent. The prince sighed.

"Count Jeggare," he said. "In respect of our affiliation, I can reduce the punishment to a lashing, but no less."

I bowed. "Your generosity knows no bounds."

"I know it is difficult for you to surrender a countryman to the lash. My honor will be satisfied if only one of your servants endures it. You may choose."

"Remigo."

"The Chelaxian?" Kasiya raised an eyebrow at my swift answer. I knew what he was thinking, yet I had seen the marks on Amadi's back, and I had sufficient evidence to surmise he had followed Remigo to the forbidden tent only to prevent his trespass.

"Or," said Kasiya with a cunning glint in his eye. "Perhaps his absolution could be purchased with a gift. I am fond of books."

I took his meaning, but Remigo was not worth a single page of my bestiary. "Let him be flogged."

Coming Next Week: More of Varian Jeggare's youthful Mwangi explorations, and the startling conclusion of "A Lesson in Taxonomy."

Dave Gross is the author of numerous Pathfinder Tales novels and stories. His other adventures of Count Varian Jeggare (usually paired with his hellspawn bodyguard Radovan) include the novels Prince of Wolves and Master of Devils, the Pathfinder’s Journals "Hell’s Pawns" and "Husks" (published in the Council of Thieves Adventure Path and the upcoming Jade Regent Adventure Path, respectively), and the short story "The Lost Pathfinder." In addition, he’s also co-written the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch with Elaine Cunningham.

Art by J. P. Targete.

Illustration by Dan Scott. Wallpaper design by Crystal Frasier. Widescreen version here.

Bark at the Moon!

Friday, March 4, 2011

Last week we showcased the cover art from Howard Andrew Jones' Pathfinder Tales novel Plague of Shadows. This week we go back to the beginning and give you a wallpaper based on Prince of Wolves by Dave Gross, the novel that launched the entire line. If you haven't read it yet you really should. It's got fighting, murder, mystery, true love, werewolves, ancient magics, curses from beyond the grave, and even dead Pathfinders! Best of all, if you know any Pathfinder Tales subscribers, they may have received a free copy to give away...

And tune into this spot on Monday as Pathfinder Designer Stephen Radney-MacFarland guest-blogs and things get... explosive.

Hyrum Savage
Marketing and Organized Play Manager

Winter Witch Preview

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Illustration by Jesper Ejsing

As you may have already noticed if you're a regular follower of the free weekly Pathfinder Tales web fiction—and if you're not, you should be—this week's offering is a little bit different. Normally, each Wednesday brings you a serialized chapter in a brand-new Pathfinder Tales short story by a promising new author or established fan favorite.

This week, however, we're trying something new. We realized recently that while the web fiction stories have hopefully been rousing some enthusiasm for Pathfinder fiction as a whole, we've ironically shown off very little of our flagship novels. To that end, from now on, each time a new novel releases, we'll choose one of the book's chapters and reprint it here in its entirety as a free sample (usually with additional art—we didn't come up with the idea quite in time to order new art for this round). After that, we'll make the sample chapter available in perpetuity both here and as a free downloadable PDF from the product page.

First up in this new plan is the just-released Winter Witch, for which we've selected the prologue as a perfect example of the kind of barbaric fun this book has to offer. Back when Elaine was first pitching the story to us, this chapter was the first thing she wrote and sent to us as an example of where she was headed. Once you've read it for yourself, I think you'll understand why we immediately knew we had to publish this book.

Normal web fiction will return next week with Ed Greenwood's explorations into the corrupt and combustible politics of Alkenstar, but for now, head over to the web fiction and get a first glimpse at Winter Witch! And as always, don't be afraid to comment on this blog or head over to the Pathfinder Tales messageboards to tell us exactly what you think.

James Sutter
Fiction Editor

Illustration by Dan Scott

The Future Is Here!

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Perhaps you've been saying to yourself, "Gosh, I think I'd really love Pathfinder Tales novels, but I just can't bring myself to buy a paper novel when my e-reader is so much more convenient!" Maybe you're desperately curious about the further adventures of Radovan and Jeggare following the Pathfinder's Journal in Council of Thieves, but your eco-friendly ideology can't justify buying the story when it's printed on dead trees.

Never fear! As part of Paizo's continuing efforts to bring you the future in a timely and convenient fashion, Pathfinder Tales novels are now available in ePub and PDF format, as well as on Apple's iBookstore! Whether you want to download them from iBooks or purchase the files directly from us on paizo.com, each new Pathfinder Tales novel that comes out will be available in a variety of formats. (At the moment, we don't yet support the Kindle, but we're looking into it.) What's more, subscribers to the print Pathfinder Tales line will also receive electronic copies of their books absolutely free.

But that's not all—starting with Dave Gross's "The Lost Pathfinder," completed web fiction stories are also going to be available in all the same formats, downloadable for a nominal fee. (Of course, for those who want to read them in a web browser, all the stories will continue to be both free and archived in perpetuity—this just offers one more way to read them.)

The future: it's here, and it's all about carrying your bookshelf in your pocket. So bust out those comlogs and tricorders and check out Prince of Wolves and "The Lost Pathfinder."

James Sutter
Fiction Editor

Winter Witch is Off to See the Printer

Monday, August 30, 2010

Illustration by Jesper Ejsing

August is always a weird time for us, as we alternate between manic, panicked productivity and post-Gen Con recovery. As a result, sometimes we get so wrapped up in our projects that we forget to tell you what it is we're even working on! Such was the case with Elaine Cunningham's new Pathfinder Tales novel, Winter Witch, which after a long run-up finally shipped to the printer two weeks ago!

While I won't spoil the plot, (which you can check out here), Winter Witch is primarily the story of two characters: Ellasif, a shield maiden from the Lands of the Linnorm Kings who's determined to rescue her little sister from the witches of Irrisen, and Declan, a young Korvosan wizard-turned-mapmaker who gets drawn to Irrisen's capital of Whitethrone when the girl he's infatuated with gets kidnapped by weird ice magic. Together with the help of a Varisian caravan, gruff Ulfen barbarians, and a plucky pseudodragon named Skywing, the two make their way across hundreds of miles of dangerous landscape in order to infiltrate the witches' stronghold. Yet it quickly turns out that nothing about their quest is as simple as it appears...

Speaking as the editor, this book is a lot of fun. Though I adore Dave's Prince of Wolves and the gritty, noir-ish feel Radovan and Jeggare brought to Ustalav, I was glad that this book presented a very different voice. In my opinion, Winter Witch has more of a traditional epic fantasy flavor, with a solid dose of Slavic fairy tale thrown in there. I think people will enjoy the characters a lot, and particularly Skywing—it's hard to resist falling for a tiny, overconfident dragon.

And since the subject of Prince of Wolves came up, I think it's high time to reveal a closely guarded secret: Elaine wasn't working alone. It's true! Though the book was originally solicited as being by Elaine, back when she created the characters and outlined the plot, as the writing went on—and as she saw her old friend Dave's excellent work on Prince of Wolves—she decided to bring him in on the project as well, turning it into a collaboration. Given how happy we were with Prince of Wolves, the idea of having two awesome authors on the book sounded fine to us, and together Dave and Elaine wrote what I think is going to be an instant fan favorite.

This post also wouldn't be complete without mentioning that in Winter Witch, and in each Pathfinder Tales book going forward, there's also going to be an excellent new map at the front of the book, detailing the areas where most of the action takes place. For Winter Witch, that map was hand-drawn by our own Crystal Frasier, and it looks marvelous!

Winter Witch should be available in November in time for the holidays, and I sincerely hope you all enjoy it as much as I have. Elaine and Dave have done a bang-up job, and I can't wait to see what they do next!

James L. Sutter
Fiction Editor

Famous author and two icons

Sat, Aug 7, 2010 at 03:30 PM Pacific

Dave Gross of Prince of Wolves fame with Amiri and Feiya.

Pierce Watters
Sales Director

Contract signing

Sat, Aug 7, 2010 at 01:02 PM Pacific

Author Dave Gross and editor James L. Sutter sign a contract for the first Tian Xia Pathfinder Tales novel.

Pierce Watters
Sales Director

Cruel Fate

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Look what advance copies happened to arrive in the office today, just when our indolent Fiction Editor, James Sutter, decided to fly the coop and go on vacation!

Christopher Paul Carey
Editor

The Lost Pathfinder

by Dave Gross

Chapter Four: Behind The Curtain

A good crack on the skull is worse than you might think. Assuming it doesn't kill you, there's a good chance it'll soften your brain, cross your eyes, destroy your sense of smell, or leave any of a dozen other unpleasant reminders of that time you were stupid enough to walk past the hiding spot of the hellspawn assassin you were meant to be sneaking up on.

But I'm not whining, and it's not like I hadn't been knocked cold once or twice before. This time I went down hard, my head bouncing off the bare backstage floor. Chances are I would have stayed down if hot, stinking vomit hadn't filled my mouth and nose.

The pungent stench was better than a slap for dimming the sparks that danced in my head. I rolled over and let the rest of the curried fish stew I'd had for dinner gush out. If Malla had served something less aromatic, maybe I would have choked to death before coming to. I shuddered at the thought and made a mental note to steal something nice for the plump cook.

Above me, quick footsteps rang out on the scaffold ladder, evoking a flurry of admonishing shushes from the performers who wanted silence before the curtain went up. That was my deadline, too, since the woman who'd coshed me on the noggin was here to murder my boss.

Still dizzy, I wobbled up to my feet and grabbed the iron ladder for support. I felt my adversary's weight on the framework, and looked up to see her silhouette looking down at me. She hesitated for a second, but when I put a foot on the ladder, she ran. Her steps were a thunder above the singers, whose hushing added the sound of a rain shower to the clamor.

I reached the catwalk just as the curtain began to rise. Limelight flooded the stage twenty feet below us, but I barely noticed the dazzling colors of the set and costumes. To either side of the scaffolding hung flat walls, tree boughs, and latticework arbors crawling with painted vines, all awaiting their turn in the next scene change.

Between the twin iron rails, the assassin stood in the center of the catwalk, the phony flower box lying at her feet. She cradled an elegant stock in one arm and fixed the crossbow in place. Three bolts were clamped to the stock, and she'd set one against the string. In the reflected light from below, I saw the dark gunk that covered the sharp head of the bolts.

It had to be black lotus paste. One shot of that, and even the priests of Asmodeus wouldn't be healing the boss. Of course, if this were a serious hit, they'd have already been paid to find fault in any contracts he'd made with them.

	"A whispering flower is ominous, but its silence is more so."

This was definitely a serious hit.

I was halfway to the assassin when she cocked the lever. Realizing I wouldn't make it before she set the bolt in place, I snatched one of the little knives out of my jacket sleeve and flicked it toward her. It was a good throw, but she avoided it with the merest bend of her knees and a tilt of her head. The second one, aimed to strike her when she dodged the first, flew harmlessly past her shoulder. There must have been some snake mingled with her human and diabolic blood. I could come to like this woman if she weren't messing with my livelihood.

She glanced out toward the boxes and hesitated. Shoot at me or shoot her target is what she had to be deciding. The question was whether success or survival was more important to her. She raised her crossbow and pointed it out into the audience. I shouted my filthiest curse.

Say what you like about a country that's held onto its remaining imperial might by bargaining with the legions of Hell, but queen-ruled Cheliax is still the most powerful nation in all of Avistan. Even so, there's a word or two that'll strike any woman sharp enough that the first thing she wants is to put you down. I figured halflings still bristled at "slip," and, no matter how much I like to keep my cool in any situation, "boy" and "hellspawn" still raised my hackles. Manly as the assassin was, I was betting that was doubly true of her. I needed her to hate me for a second.

My epithet rippled over her face. With a snarl, the assassin turned the crossbow toward me. Only then did I realize the stakes. Even when I was in his good books, the boss wouldn't have paid the small fortune it would take to resuscitate me. He'd have to sell one of his precious orchards or an entire farm, assuming I was only dead and not destroyed. I didn't really know how it went with black lotus. The thought made me flinch, and I dove low to knock the legs out from under the assassin.

The killer was smarter than she'd looked. As I flew toward her knees, she leaped straight up and set one foot on either rail, deft as a bird on a line. I hit the iron platform hard. All I could do was hope the impact would throw off her aim, but the assassin's knees bent to absorb the shock. Steady as a veteran sailor on the crow's nest, she held the stock of the crossbow against her cheek and drew a bead on her target.

Something she saw made her frown and hesitate again. I grabbed her ankle and wrenched her down from her perch.

She twisted as she fell, hitting me dead in the sternum with the butt of her crossbow. The blow took away my breath and wet my eyes. She was even heavier than she looked, with muscles hard as cobblestones. I thrust an arm through the open wedge of the bow but couldn't get a grip on the bolt. My other hand clutched at her face, fingers seeking her eyes.

She cracked my chin with an elbow and struck me again in the throat. I turned to avoid the third shot, which caught me on the thick of my neck, and she caught my arm in a wrestler's grip and bent it painfully, forcing me onto my face.

Through the grille of the catwalk, I looked down at the singers. Their voices barely smothered the sound of our fight above, but a lone chorus boy stared up at us as he sang, his mouth an O of astonishment as he sustained his note. Despite my predicament, I threw the kid an apologetic grimace.

Using my opponent's strength against her, I tried twisting in the direction she was forcing me, but she planted a knee between my thighs to stop my escape. If she had kneed me a little harder, she'd have discovered the surprise I wore for those who go for the cheap shot. Maybe she knew I wore a spiked cup. If she'd asked for such detail about her target's bodyguard, she was even more dangerous than I already understood.

She let go of the crossbow I had tangled with my arm, and I finally caught hold of the haft and threw it away. The weapon clattered across the catwalk and came to a stop beside the railing. I half wished it had fallen onto the stage, summoning help. If that arrived in the form of local guards, it'd go a lot worse for the assassin than it would for me. But if someone called the Hellknights, it'd go badly for both of us. It was better to wrap things up and get the hell out of here.

I whipped my head back and cracked her on the face. It wasn't much of a blow, but it threw her off balance enough that I twisted out from under her. We lay side by side on the catwalk, and that's where you don't want to be if I'm mad at you. My spur caught her high on the chest, and I felt more than heard the crack of her breastbone. The strength evaporated from her arms as she reached for me, and I gave her another shot to the shoulder for good measure. We scrabbled over the catwalk for a few more seconds, but it was all over save for the rap on the head.

When she lay still, I glanced out where she had aimed her weapon, but all I saw was one of those tiny balconies. It was empty.

I collected her crossbow and dragged the assassin to the end of the catwalk. At the base of the ladder, four beefy stagehands awaited us. After removing the bolt and loosening the crossbow string, I lowered her unconscious body and dropped her into their arms. When I climbed down after her, the big boys blocked my path.

"What's all this, then?" asked the smallest of them. He must have been their boss.

I thrust the crossbow into his chest. "You work it out," I told him. When one of his boys reached for my arm, I menaced him with the poisoned crossbow bolt. He stepped back and looked to his boss for direction, and by the time he looked back I was out the door and into the hall.

A cluster of guards stood over their unconscious comrades where I'd left them. One of them was just coming to, and his rescuers eyed me with suspicion. Their boss asked the obvious question, but I ignored it and answered the important one.

"These knuckleheads let an assassin bribe her way into your playhouse," I said, thrusting the crossbow bolt into his reluctant hands. His eyes widened as he recognized the poison on the tip. I pushed past him.

"Wait," he demanded.

I turned to face him. The fight had taken it out of me, and I was too tired to run. "My boss is waiting," I said. "If you have something to say, make it quick."

He hesitated, looking down at the bolt and considering his culpability in the matter. After a moment's consideration, he looked me up and down and said, "Nice jacket."

∗ ∗ ∗

My opera cloak was scant comfort against the chill I felt upon emerging from the opera. However fine the weather, a cold wind blew in on me from the direction of all my peers. I was beginning to understand at last, after decades of effort to integrate myself fully into the human society of my mother, that I had never been one of them—not truly, not at all. I was born before House Thrune ascended the throne on the backs of devils and men sworn and damned. We did not like it, my mother and I, but since her death I had been ever loyal to the throne, answering each summons to war, spilling my coffers when taxed and overtaxed, and yet still turning the course of my wealth to the comfort of those least buoyed by the national triumphs, employing halflings not as slaves but as servants, elevating a hellspawn street thug as my bodyguard, and bending my considerable talents to the advantage of my peers who wished their personal injuries and indiscretions to be soothed privately...

It was intolerable ingratitude. That one misfortune—in a career of hundreds of favors rendered discreetly and without a single instance of advantage taken over those whose secrets I had uncovered and recovered and kept safe—should result in such a bestial display...

I had endured such abuse as only the lowliest of criminals deserve, and from the very crust of the scab that has formed over the wound left by the death of Aroden, usurped by the infection praised in my homeland as the Prince of Law. That we citizens of an empire should come to serve at the foot of Asmodeus, better described by our foreign foes and rivals as the Prince of Lies, master of all us damned Chelaxians who think nothing of exploiting the generosity of a peer only to...

"Boss?"

I had thought I was alone, but Radovan has a most distasteful habit of creeping up on me.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Why should I be otherwise?" I said.

"You made a sound," he said. "And, you know, you left the opera."

I did not wish a description of this "sound" Radovan had heard, nor did I wish to discuss the matter of my early departure. Still, it was an unexpected comfort to hear the voice of one I could trust, no matter how rude his manners. My headache had dissolved into a maelstrom of indecision. I felt as though I were on the brink of an abyss, capable of surrendering myself to the void or else turning to leap... I knew not where.

"You look like you could use a drink," said Radovan.

The surrender in his voice was more damning than any chastisement. It was Radovan, among all my servants, who had most blatantly hinted that I had been drinking too much since the unfortunate affair of the Henderthanes. That he would encourage me to seek the solace that he believed diminished me made me feel more poignantly ashamed than any admonishment my mother had ever gently delivered.

"No," I said. "That is the last thing I need."

"All right," he said. To his credit, he kept most of the relief from his tone. "Then maybe it's time to get you home."

The comforts of Greensteeples were plentiful, and no lord of Egorian had grown more accustomed to his house than I, who had resided in mine, apart from the occasional tour or campaign, for nearly a century. Yet I knew I would find no solace in Egorian, even if I were to close my doors to visitors and mingle exclusively among the society formed by my books, my gardens, and my memories. As I came to this realization, it was the image of the whispering lilies, drooped and wilting in the solarium, which sprang foremost to my mind—a symbol of all that had gone wrong.

And which might yet be set right.

"No, Radovan," I said. "It is time to depart."

Coming Soon: For the further adventures of Radovan and Jeggare, see the forthcoming Pathfinder Tales novel Prince of Wolves. Meanwhile, stay tuned for next week’s Pathfinder Tales webfiction and the first installment of “Noble Sacrifice,” by Richard Ford!

Dave Gross has been a technical writer, a teacher, a magazine and book editor, and a novelist. He is the author of the forthcoming Pathfinder Tales novel Prince of Wolves and the Hell's Pawns series in the Pathfinder's Journal for Council of Thieves, both of which star Varian Jeggare and Radovan, the heroes of this story. His previous novels include Black Wolf and Lord of Stormweather.

Art by Joe Wilson

Dave Gross!

Sat, Jun 19, 2010 at 11:31 AM Pacific

Author of the first Pathfinder Tales title, Dave Gross, is here and hobnobbing.

Chris Self
Sales Manager

The Lost Pathfinder

by Dave Gross

Chapter Three: The Grand Opera

Thanks to the longevity granted by my mingled elven and human blood, I have held a box at the opera longer than any other member of the Jeggare family. Even before my mother bequeathed it to me, her parents had held it throughout their long lives, and so had their venerable parents before them. It is in fact one of the four longest-held boxes in the Opera House of Egorian, and upon her ascent to the throne, the first Queen Abrogail condescended to spare it when she claimed the first and third boxes for herself.

It is, however, one of the smaller boxes, accommodating only two in comfort. Such limited space was no hardship while my mother lived, for we happily entertained each other. Since her death, however, the limited seating has on occasion presented me with mild social quandaries, as any invitation I might extend to an eligible lady posed her chaperone the uncomfortable choice between standing and abandoning her charge for the duration of the performance. Often I preferred to avoid the dilemma by offering the lady and her chaperone the box with the understanding that we would meet afterward to discuss the opera.

In recent decades, I have enjoyed the comforts of the box unaccompanied. The whispers of my peers returned like flotsam on the tides of gossip, so I knew the prevailing speculation was that I had simply accepted the fact that I had grown too old for marriage. Some hypothesized my sexual interests lay beyond the field of Egorian's noble maidens and widows. The most offensive rumors were those that hinted at perversions that could be satisfied only in the utmost secrecy. The latter had the unfortunate effect of stimulating the curiosity of women for whom traditional assignations had grown stale.

Thus it was that I had become accustomed to appearing alone within my box on opening nights of a new opera, to a general stir among the audience. As the ushers parted the drape, I tugged my gloves snug at the wrist. My opera cloak lay folded over my right shoulder, revealing its plum-colored silk lining. I stepped through and rested a hand upon the back of one chair, adopting a casual posture as I observed the house.

	"That they would dare snub a scion of House Jeggare is unthinkable."

The velvet curtain hung in sensuous crimson folds from a height of twenty feet. The fabric displayed the first hints of wear and would soon be replaced, a transition I had witnessed with some mourning six or seven times over the past ninety years. Each time, in support of future performances, I had purchased a scrap of the fabric as a memento, which I kept in frames on the walls of my library at Greensteeples. The edge of the stage was aglow with limelight that warmed the first few rows, rendering them the least desirable of the floor seats. Ushers led nobles to their seats on the floor and the three general balconies, while those of us privileged to enjoy private boxes were attended by servants employed by the opera house. Above us all, the lighted chandeliers cast a golden aura about the vast, multi-tiered auditorium.

I searched for a friendly face among those taking their seats below. Soon I spied a plump matron of House Elliendo, but she missed my smile or pretended so. That was not too strange, since her cousin and I were rivals. I was more disappointed when a toothsome widow of House Leroung obviously ignored my bow in her direction. Her gaze was not entirely averted, so I raised a hand in greeting.

She turned her back to me. She had clearly seen my gesture, yet she rebuffed it.

Shocked at the blunt offense, I turned away. My gaze fell upon a young woman who had only six months earlier hung on every word of my account of an investigation into a lost idol of Sarenrae. A smile flickered upon her lips until her mother bent to whisper in her ear. Then both showed me their backs.

As a few stones accumulate into an avalanche, so too did the several snubs spread throughout the auditorium until everyone who had turned to notice my presence turned away to face no particular direction, which is to say any direction other than the one in which I stood.

They had no other object to attend. There could be no mistaking their intention. One and all, my Egorian peers shunned me.

∗ ∗ ∗

The carriage driver was a slip named Miro. He'd been working for the boss for a few years, but I'd only recently learned his name after he did me a good turn. That opened my eyes to the fact that slips didn't have it much better than my sort did. In Cheliax, both halflings and hellspawn were more often slaves than free men. I'd looked down on the little fellows all my life, just like the humans turned their noses up at both of us. Problem was, slips were little, and lifetimes of abuse had turned a lot of them crafty or mean. Hell, when I thought about it, I had to admit the same was probably true of me. I couldn't decide whether I was getting enlightened or just starting to realize what an ass I'd been to the slips.

Anyway, Miro was a good fellow. I stood him a few pints after the Henderthane affair, and I'd sort of apologized for putting him in a bad spot and sort of thanked him for helping me out of it. He liked this restricted tobacco from Nirmathas, and I'd found him a pouch on the black market. The stuff smelled good, but smoking it made me slow and goofy, so I declined when he offered me some. We'd been chatty ever since, which was good. Like my old colleague Maccabus, sometimes I wanted a favor, and now there was another place I could find one.

Miro's sons also served at Greensteeples, Lom assisting the gardener, Vono working in the stables. Miro made sure both of them came along on the ride to the opera house. That was good because it gave us two footmen to wear the house livery, which I hate. While they were grown halflings, Lom and Vono were small enough to share one of the carriage's steps while I balanced them by standing on the other, after the boss was inside. The way he'd treated me earlier, I figured it was simpler if he didn't know I was along for the ride, especially out of uniform. When he got this way, it was best to leave him gazing into Elfland while the rest of us took care of business.

When the boss disembarked, I stayed on the other side of the red carriage. The boys escorted him to the opera house entrance and bowed as he went in. With very few exceptions, the guards didn't welcome nonhumans inside, especially hellspawn. When the boys came back to the carriage, I told them the plan.

"Pick a side," I said. "See anyone with horns or a tail, hustle it back here to finger him. I'll take it from there."

They nodded and strolled up and down the line of carriages parked along Carthagnion Drive, where drivers and footmen would smoke, share hip flasks, and throw cards while their betters enjoyed the show. Only tonight, one of them was a hellspawn assassin looking for a shot at my boss. If I spotted him first, he'd have a bad night. If not, I'd be out of a job.

I was confident Vincenzo's information was good. Caught between me and the giant bunyip, he'd spilled all he knew. If nothing else, his sense of self-preservation was strong enough to know a lie would mean I'd find him again, and this time I wouldn't just leave him to dream off his last dose of shiver.

Impatience was making me fidget. I climbed the back of the carriage to stand on the roof. A gull-faced driver from House Sarini tilted his head back to look down his nose at me. I shot him the tines, and he flustered up like a nanny who'd just been pinched on the bottom. Ignoring him, I checked out the line of carriages in either direction. I saw a lot of familiar faces, and those I didn't recognize were human or, occasionally, halfling.

I spotted Vono pumping his little arms as he ran back toward the red carriage. I jumped down to meet him halfway, but he was already pointing to the side entrance. A couple of guards stood beside the service door. One of them was reading a card he'd taken from a broad-shouldered man holding a long box under one arm. Even from this distance, I recognized the guard dipping his hand into his pocket to secure the bribe he'd been passed with the card. I couldn't identify the house crest on the visitor's livery, but his face had a fiendish silhouette.

By the time I reached the door, the hellspawn was already inside. The guards stepped forward to intercept me. Each was a good six inches taller than me, and a stone or two heavier.

"I'm with him," I said.

"Nice try," said one of them. His partner slipped his baton out of its belt loop.

I showed my palms to the sky and smiled a weak apology. There hadn't been time to come up with a better bluff, so I gave them each a knuckle-shot to the throat. The friendly one dropped to his knees, while his buddy dropped his weapon. I snagged the baton and gave the stunned guards a rap on the head to buy a few minutes. There hadn't been time to be gentle, either.

Inside was a hall connecting the lobby to a couple of doors. From the side entrance we were below stage level, so I figured the doors led to the orchestra pit and backstage. An usher of considerably less physical menace than the door guards had just closed the second door. He looked at me suspiciously, and I ran toward him while beckoning him close for a whisper. The gullible fool leaned in, and I gave him a nice clean rap on the sleepy button. I caught his body before he could hit the floor, dragged him in through the door, and closed it behind us.

Past the second door was an irregular little room with two exits: another door and a short flight of steps leading up to a heavy black curtain. The fabric still swayed as though someone had recently pushed past it.

Beyond the curtain was just what I'd guessed, a high room filled with a confusion of scaffolds, curtains, wheeled scenery, ropes, hoists, ladders, and a dozen objects and tools I couldn't begin to name. Ahead of me was the main stage, barely illuminated by offstage lamps as the chorus took their places.

From nights I'd accompanied the boss home after the opera, listening to his detailed accounts of the evening's entertainment, I knew enough to realize that meant there were only moments left before the curtain rose. As if mocking my thought, a sharp report from a timpani marked the beginning of a rising drum roll, and music overflowed the orchestra pit beyond the curtain. Before I looked away, I saw the famous soprano taking her position on the opposite wing. One look at her beefy arms, and I knew I wouldn't want that woman coming after me with a switch.

I looked around for any clue as to the assassin's trail. The ladder to the scaffolding nearest the front curtain shuddered, and I looked up to see someone stepping onto the catwalk twenty feet above. It could have been one of the stagehands, but it also looked like the best spot for a sniper. Maybe that had been some sort of disassembled crossbow in the box he'd carried inside.

I put a foot on the first iron rung of the ladder. Something cracked me hard on the back of the skull, and my vision wavered. I reached for the grip of my dagger, but a hand slapped my arm away, and I was too weak to send it back before I teetered and fell in a clumsy spiral to the floor. My last vision was of a face looking down at me. It wasn't a man but a masculine-faced woman, hellspawn like me, but a lot less pretty. She shook her head slightly as if disappointed as she held a leather sap above her head.

Then she brought it down between my eyes.

Coming Next Week: Radovan meets his match in the final chapter of "The Lost Pathfinder."

Dave Gross has been a technical writer, a teacher, a magazine and book editor, and a novelist. He is the author of the forthcoming Pathfinder Tales novel Prince of Wolves and the Hell's Pawns series in the Pathfinder's Journal for Council of Thieves, both of which star Varian Jeggare and Radovan, the heroes of this story. His previous novels include Black Wolf and Lord of Stormweather.

Illustration by Eric Belisle

The Lost Pathfinder

by Dave Gross

Chapter Two: The Bunyip Dock

Vincenzo smiled feebly when he saw me. His tiny mouth and buckteeth gave him the look of a ferret. I smiled back, and he bolted up the crooked stairs.

I found Vincenzo right where Mac said I would, in a small warehouse abutting the Bunyip Dock. Even in the heart of the Cheapside districts, the sagging pier was a lonely place. Some of the local toughs, including me, liked to take a woman there if time was short and she wasn't picky. Others took marks down the long pier, knowing the ravenous creatures that prowled the waters would dispose of the body. And a certain addict of my acquaintance apparently used the place to ride out his latest shiver-induced dreams.

The warehouse was small and inhabited mostly by rats and the occasional squatter. The owners wouldn't pony up for repairs, so those foolish enough to rent the space sometimes found their goods floating past the pilings after the rotten floor gave way. The last tenants had abandoned their wares, so the place stank of mildewed grain and imported fruit that had long since turned to slime and mold.

"Don't make me chase you," I called after Vincenzo. I doubted that would stop him, so I followed him up the stairs, grimacing at the squealing steps. If Vincenzo had taken his hit already, he wouldn't run for long. But when the shiver took him down, he'd be out for hours, his head filled with spider dreams.

The upper floor was a confusion of crates and slanting beams of sunlight. The sound of his footsteps had stopped, but I saw Vincenzo's wake in the dusty air. Thinking of the sharp knife he favored, I glanced to the sides in case he wanted to try his luck at an ambush.

The stack of crates beside me creaked. I leaped forward, avoiding the falling boxes but not the disgusting explosion of rotten fruit that burst from them. As I rolled up to my feet, I slipped in the mess and fell down hard in the splinters and slime. The stench was worse than anything I'd smelled since crawling up through the privy in House Tauranor. I tried breathing through my mouth, and that was worse. The mold spores wet my eyes and prickled the back of my throat.

Behind me, Vincenzo scrambled over the boxes to reach the stairs. Trying to stand up, I slid in the muck and nearly added my breakfast to the goo. Before the mess could swallow me whole, I grabbed an unbroken crate and pulled myself onto the stack. My first few hands-and-knees steps just smeared more of the crap over the crates, but enough of the stuff came off to give me friction. Despairing of the insult to my new clothes, I uttered a vow of revenge on that miserable addict. I crawled over the unbroken crates and saw Vincenzo's head disappearing down the stairwell. One of the rotting stairs cracked under his foot. He stumbled and cursed, but I heard him plant his feet at the bottom.

I made it to the stairs and leaped the rail. Desna smiled, and Vincenzo ran directly under my trajectory. My knees caught him in the kidneys. He screamed for half a second before the pain shut down his breath and he hit the floor beneath me. The floor beneath him gave, and we fell through the splintering timbers.

I caught the edge of the hole with one hand, Vincenzo's graying ponytail in the other. We let out simultaneous shouts as my arm and his scalp went taut. Below us, fragments of the broken floor splashed into the water where Lake Sorrow drained into the River Adivian. They bobbed to the surface before a swell raised them up within inches of Vincenzo's kicking feet. A dark shape emerged from the water to disintegrate a three-inch plank with one snap of its jaws.

It was a bunyip the size of a fishing boat. Its head resembled a seal's, only five times bigger and with a maw bristling with three rows of shark's teeth. I'd never seen one this close, and one look at its grin told me there was no intimidating something like this with my own pretty smile.

Vincenzo squealed and grasped my wrist. He struggled to climb my body back into the warehouse. If I didn't need his information, I'd have shaken him off and let the monster have him. It wouldn't have taken more than two or three bites for the bunyip to gobble him up.

Instead, I strained to pull us both up with one arm. Vincenzo was so frail that it would have been a breeze under different circumstances. Between his thrashing about and the splintered edges of the broken warehouse floor digging into my palm, I was lucky just to hang on. The remaining floorboards creaked as I pulled us up.

The bunyip leaped, causing a big wave to wash over the pilings. It came so close that I felt the warmth from the big mammal's body, and its fishy breath washed over us. The monster's jaws snapped shut just behind Vincenzo's ass as the informant clambered up my legs. He almost fell back into the water when he grabbed my "tail" and unexpectedly pulled my big knife out of its hidden sheath. A second later I felt his knee in my kidney, then his feet upon my shoulder as he climbed back into the warehouse.

	"Not even the Big Knife is much good against an angry bunyip."
	Illustration by Joe Wilson

"Give me a hand," I demanded. He turned to face me, his eyes dreamy and confused. For an instant he brandished my own knife at me. Then he looked at it in horror and dropped it as if he'd just realized he'd picked up a snake. He turned and ran.

My foulest curse chased him, but I felt the air pressure drop beneath me. Refusing to look down, I grabbed the shattered floor with my other hand and pulled with all my might. In two quick motions, I jerked my body above the floor and rolled forward onto my feet just as the bunyip's head smashed up through the floor and doubled the size of the hole.

Vincenzo hesitated at the warehouse door to look back at me. He shrieked at the sight of the bunyip rising above my five and a half feet of height. Feeling cocky, I ignored the thing, brushed a few splinters off the shoulder of my jacket, and crooked a finger at Vincenzo.

"Last chance to play nice," I told him. Beneath us, the bunyip fell back into the river with a splash that shook the warehouse. Vincenzo moved toward the door. I took a throwing knife from my sleeve. The moment his hand touched the latch, my knife pinned it against the door.

Vincenzo screamed and tugged at the blade, but I'd thrown it hard. I retrieved my big knife and strode over to him in six big steps. Removing my throwing blade from the door, I grabbed his ponytail and dragged him back to the hole in the floor. There I held him over the river water.

I fixed my eyes on his face, but he stared down at the water. We both heard the furious splashing, but only he could see what swam down there.

"You know what I want," I told him. "Who and where?"

"At the opera," he screamed, his pupils rolling back as the shiver began to grip him tight. "I don't know the name. One of yours!"

"One of my what?" I growled. I felt the air pressure change again, and Vincenzo hugged his knees to his chest. We both knew that wasn't going to be enough.

"A hellspawn!" he shrieked as we heard the bunyip crest the surface.

∗ ∗ ∗

"I am in no vein for bad news," I warned Radovan. He had burst past the butler to enter the solarium, causing me once more to reevaluate my decision to employ so many halflings. I considered adding a few guards large enough to encourage him to develop better manners.

"Can't be helped," he said. The several foul stenches he had brought into the hothouse threatened to wilt the nearby orchids that I had cultivated for decades since my all-too-brief expedition to the Mwangi Expanse. "One of your peers hired an assassin."

I blinked at him, uncomprehending. The scent of flowers had lulled me toward an afternoon nap. I reached for my wine, but the clumsy butler must have repositioned it after refilling the glass. I bumped it from its table onto the stone path, where the crystal shattered into a thousand glittering fragments. They sparkled in the afternoon sun, briefly mesmerizing.

"Do you hear me?" said Radovan. "It's a hit on you."

"Ridiculous," I said. Granted, I was perhaps a trifle drowsy, but I could not at that moment think of anyone who would be so rash as to threaten a scion of House Jeggare. I did, of course, have one prominent rival. However, his ethics, if not his demeanor, were beyond reproach. The day he chose to end my life, I would see it coming. "Who would be so reckless?"

"I didn't get names," he said. "But I have a description of the assassin and a location. You'll want to skip the opera tonight. There's a tiefling you want me to find before he finds you."

"Out of the question," I said. What I did not explain, what Radovan could hardly understand, was that a performance of The Water Nymph promised my only solace in a day that had brought nothing but miserable tidings. Besides, the Opera House was the perfect location for me to avoid hellspawn, since none were allowed within. I waved Radovan away, but he failed to grasp my meaning. I tried to rise from my reclining chair and said, "You may go."

My hand slipped off the chair, and I began to fall. Radovan caught my arm, his grip exceedingly tight. "Boss," he said, "you need to take this seriously. A lot of families got hurt in the Henderthane business. I'm just surprised we haven't taken more heat before now."

I removed myself from his presumptuous grasp and stepped back, slightly unsteady. All of this unwelcome news was exacerbating my headache. I felt dizzy and confused, but most of all I felt angry.

"It is not for you to tell me how to receive this or any other information," I said. "You've delivered your news, and you are dismissed."

He stood in perfect stillness for a moment, his expression caught halfway between wonder and anger. Never before had he released his fury on me, although I had seen him cow thieves and informants with one of his notorious smiles. If he retained even a fraction of the good sense he had demonstrated in past service, he would not test me now.

He did not speak for many seconds. At last he rubbed the back of his neck and said, "Right."

Radovan never addressed me properly, and I had been permissive, perhaps excessively so, in allowing him such informalities as "boss." He turned and walked away, brushing past the butler, who scurried toward the broken wine glass with a brush and pan. Before he bent to tidy the mess, he set another crystal goblet on the table and filled it from the bottle.

I lifted the new glass to observe the color of the wine. Instead, I noticed a difference in the glass itself.

"Why is this not the same as the previous?" I asked the butler.

"Forgive me, Your Excellency," he said with a low bow. "I am afraid that was the last of the old set. Recently there has been some... attrition."

I squeezed the bridge of my nose, hoping to dull the rising pain. How could I have been so careless, so forgetful? I felt a sudden urge to call Radovan back, but I could think of nothing to say.

Coming Next Week: A night at the opera turns deadly in Chapter Three of "The Lost Pathfinder."

Dave Gross has been a technical writer, a teacher, a magazine and book editor, and a novelist. He is the author of the forthcoming Pathfinder Tales novel Prince of Wolves and the Hell's Pawns series in the Pathfinder's Journal for Council of Thieves, both of which star Varian Jeggare and Radovan, the heroes of this story. His previous novels include Black Wolf and Lord of Stormweather.

Prince of Wolves Sample Chapter!

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Illustration by Dan Scott

Free Pathfinder fiction is everywhere! In the interest of showing off the premiere novel in the new Pathfinder Tales book line, we've decided to post up a free, downloadable sample chapter from Dave Gross's Prince of Wolves! If you haven't already been following the excitement, Prince of Wolves follows Dave's mystery-solving duo of half-elven Pathfinder Varian Jeggare and his tiefling bodyguard Radovan as they adventure through the eerie, gothic landscape of Ustalav in pursuit of a deadly secret. For even more of a preview, see Dave's new story in the free Pathfinder Tales Web Fiction, starring the same characters in an adventure of assassination among the Chelish nobility...

James L. Sutter
Fiction Editor

Pathfinder Tales Are Here!

Thursday, June 3, 2010

As you may have noticed, along with a host of other changes to the website that rolled out yesterday, the front page of paizo.com now has a new addition—Pathfinder Tales web fiction!

Here's the deal: Every Wednesday, we're going to bring you new serialized, illustrated short stories set in the Pathfinder campaign setting, written by some of the best authors around. These stories will also be archived in perpetuity, allowing you to read each multi-chapter story as it comes out, as well as go back and reread your favorites in their entirety. Add in fun little toys like an RSS feed that allows you to easily check out the latest action, and you've got a pretty cool new feature, especially when you consider that it's all absolutely free.

To kick things off, we enlisted our old pal Dave Gross, author of the "Hell's Pawns" series in the Council of Thieves Pathfinder's Journal, as well as the upcoming debut novel for the Pathfinder Tales book line, Prince of Wolves. His new story, "The Lost Pathfinder," once again stars Pathfinder Varian Jeggare and his tiefling bodyguard Radovan, and bridges the gap between the journal and the novel (though all three works stand alone).

I couldn't be more excited about all the new Pathfinder stories, and I hope that you are as well. To sound off and let us know what you like—or would like to see more of—head on over to the Pathfinder Tales messageboards, or click here to dive in and start reading!

James L. Sutter
Fiction Editor

The Lost Pathfinder

by Dave Gross

Chapter One: The Solarium

It was good to be home, but the tranquility of my greenhouse had not yet ameliorated my headache before the butler interrupted my reverie with a letter. He lingered after I took it from the silver tray, requiring me to dismiss him by raising an eyebrow. The staff had taken to hovering since the Henderthane affair. The devotion the halflings had cultivated over four generations of service to my house was degenerating into sentimentality. I hoped it would not become necessary to dismiss the worst offenders as an example.

The postmark from Absalom piqued my interest. It had been months since my superiors in the Society had contacted me. There had once been a time when I received frequent notes of praise and requests to direct my agents to pursue new leads and uncover previously undiscovered sites. Such a message might be exactly the tonic I required to sooth the ennui that followed my recent misfortunes.

My hope vanished as I read the first lines of the message, and when I glanced down to see not a signature but merely the seal of the Decemvirate, indignation filled my heart with steam. Some anonymous member of the inner circle presumed to chastise me, Venture-Captain Varian Jeggare, one of the longest-serving members of the Pathfinder Society.

After the initial shock of the effrontery, I drained my glass of a promising vintage from one of my southern holdings. Although the unwelcome news diminished my pleasure in the wine, it was an altogether drinkable claret of deep red hue and a deep, earthy nose. Fortunately, the bottle contained just enough to refill my glass as I examined the message closely.

While I found the letter's tone irritating, I could not dispute the facts it presented. It had been more than two months since I last received reports from the Pathfinders it named, and the agent who last reported from Ustalav had not contacted me since early spring. In her case, fortunately, I had arranged a contingency should she find herself in a location too remote for mundane channels of communication.

I rose from my lounging chair, stumbling before catching myself on the edge of a planter. I made a mental note to admonish the gardener for leaving the stone path slippery, although the rest of the walkway seemed dry enough as I navigated the long rows in search of the whispering lilies. I found them in a sunny spot beside a flourishing patch of memory ferns whose properties I had yet to exploit to their full potential.

There were eight rows of whispering lilies, each containing four distinct plants. I had entrusted the twins of each set of four bulbs to my most daring agents. In the event that they should find themselves stranded, they had only to plant the bulbs. Once beneath moist soil, the bulbs bloomed within a day or two, and their roots transmitted a signal that could be received only by the bulb's other half. I theorized that the transmission occurred via the elemental planes, accessed via microscopic gates, but I had yet to perform the necessary experiments to compose a treatise on the subject. No matter the exact nature of the mechanism, the lilies provided almost instantaneous communication between twinned flowers. One had only to speak into the open blossom of one, and the message emerged simultaneously from the other.

Of the thirty-two whispering lilies in the flowerbed, none had changed hue from the white-peach color that indicated the plant's twin remained dormant. However, all four of those I had given to my agent in Ustalav had withered, their dull petals lying at the base of limp stems.

Whatever had become of my Pathfinder, the bulbs she carried had not survived.

∗ ∗ ∗

	"Say what you will about Radovan’s heritage, he’s good at what he does."

"Nice jacket."

I tensed the way you do when hearing an unexpected noise in an Eel Street alley. I knew the voice and stopped myself from going for the big knife hidden in the spine of my fancy new jacket. The grip hung down like a stubby tail, which had gotten me some ribbing in the Trick Street brothels.

"Desna weeps, Mac," I said without turning. My heart was pumping so hard he could probably hear it. I kept my eyes on the street, where I expected to spot Paracount Unizo Fermat sometime that morning. His wife wanted to prove he'd been gambling away the family income, and the boss had passed the boring job down to me. With any luck, I'd be done before lunch.

"Sorry, Spikes," he said, using a childhood nickname that had never really stuck. The only time anyone ever used it was to remind me how long we'd known each other. Mac needed a favor.

Among the Goatherds, Maccabus was one of the old men, by which I mean he had lived past forty years on the dirty streets of West Egorian. He was the top enforcer for Zandros the Fair, and over the years he'd earned a reputation for acquiring with a cool word what usually took a few pints of blood and a busted kneecap. He was one of the few surviving members of the gang who I'd drag out of a fire. Now and then we'd stand each other a pint and talk about anything but business.

Problem was, we'd been quits for a long time. Before I'd agreed to work for my present boss, the count, I'd earned my freedom from Zandros—not that he always remembered that fact. The scabby old bastard still tried to call in favors I never owed from time to time, jealous that I had a new master. Employer, I should say. That was one of the terms of our arrangement. I'm nobody's slave these days.

On the other hand, Mac had stood up for me the last time Zandros tried pulling my tail—metaphorically, that is. Despite what those doxies say, a tail is not among my devilish features.

"What do you need?" I asked.

"Little muscle for ten minutes."

"And what's for me?"

"Word on a hit," he said. "Your boss."

That got my attention. Both the boss and I knew there'd be repercussions from our last case. We'd gotten the job done all right, but in the process we'd busted open a bigger secret. It was the kind of thing that hurt a lot of the noble houses, the sort of people who usually hire the boss. They're also the sort of people who usually hire assassins.

"Where'd you hear it?"

Mac said nothing. When I turned to look at him, he just stared at the street.

"Vincenzo, right?" Lately the weasel-mouthed informer had been leaking word of high-end assassinations so often it was a wonder he hadn't taken his last swim in Lake Sorrow.

Mac shrugged.

"I could just go ask him." Vincenzo had developed an expensive habit, and if he'd sold news of this magnitude, he'd have gone straight to a shiver den. The problem was Vincenzo was notoriously paranoid, so he probably wouldn't take the stuff there.

"It's going down tonight," said Mac.

That's what made Mac so good at his job. He had a way of offering choices that weren't choices at all. I gave up my vigil for the paracount and followed him.

A few blocks away, he nodded at a row house I recognized as the front for a lending operation. We went around to the rear alley. It was empty except for a pair of scabby cats picking through a spilled garbage pail, and the back door of the lending house was boarded shut. Mac looked up at the second floor windows, which were shut against the stink of the alley.

I took his cue and climbed up. The shutters were closed with a simple latch, so I didn't bother removing any of the tools hidden in my sleeve pockets and instead slipped it open with the thin blade of one of my throwing knives.

Peering in, I saw an unoccupied room with four straw mattresses on the floor. Through the open door I heard the sound of knucklebones clattering downstairs. Three, maybe four voices crowed and complained without enthusiasm. I shot Mac the all clear and eased over the sill. A few seconds later, he was beside me. Together we padded out onto the landing and looked down.

Three men with their sleeves rolled up crowded a little table dotted with piles of copper and silver coins. All of them had long knives at their hips, and beside one lay one of those hand crossbows that are barely worth a damn unless you've poisoned the dart. Mac pointed out the fellow he wanted, leaving the other two to me. I raised my eyebrow, and he made the thief's signs for "big entrance" before easing onto the stairway. It was only about an eight-foot drop. I vaulted the rail and dropped down just as one of the men threw the dice.

Coins flew in all directions as my feet hit the table. I'd hoped it would splinter, breaking my fall, but it held up, and I went down on one hand to keep from tumbling off. The first man to reach for a knife got my new boot in the face and tumbled backward over his chair. The second—Mac's target—had the good sense to throw himself to the floor and roll away, but the third reached for the crossbow.

I showed him the big grin. It's a sight that has made grown men piss themselves, and it doesn't come without cost. I'd have a sore jaw for a few hours after exposing a smile that resembles a box of long nails.

To his credit, the man before me barely whimpered. The bow wasn't cocked, but it had a barbed dart already in place. His hand moved an inch toward the lever and hesitated. A second later he lay the weapon down and showed me his hands as he backed against the wall.

I nodded my approval and heard the gasp that told me Mac had his man. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the one I'd kicked standing up, his hand on the grip of his knife.

I whirled off the table, throwing my back against the wall. He turned, surprised to find me beside him. That's where I'm most dangerous. I threw him an elbow, pinning his knife shoulder with my spur. My spurs aren't long enough to staple a man to the wall—they won't even reach the heart—but they hurt.

When his knife hit the ground, I kept the man pinned and whispered a sweet nothing in his ear. He nodded and showed me his hands. I glanced at his companion to make sure he was still where I wanted him. He was.

Across the table, Mac had put his man back on a stool and gripped his shoulder, bending over to whisper in his ear like a concerned uncle. Whatever he was saying made the man's face pale as sailcloth. He said nothing, but from time to time he nodded an affirmation.

The five of us stayed that way for a few minutes. The man I'd pinned grimaced in pain, and I removed my spur. He released a grateful sigh and kept his eyes on the empty table. The other fellow looked me up and down, admiring my new clothes: jacket, trousers, and kickers, all red Chelish leather tooled in swoops and thorns that highlighted my devilish good looks. They'd cost me the better part of what the boss called my "retention bonus," a fat purse he'd given me when I didn't leave town after our last caper went sour.

Mac gave me the look that tells me he's done. We left through the front door and walked away like honest citizens. When we were out of sight of the house, he gave me what he'd promised.

"The guy you want to talk to?" he said. "Vincenzo."

Coming Next Week: Knives in the dark and one seriously angry bunyip in Chapter Two of "The Lost Pathfinder."

Dave Gross has been a technical writer, a teacher, a magazine and book editor, and a novelist. He is the author of the forthcoming Pathfinder Tales novel Prince of Wolves and the Hell's Pawns series in the Pathfinder's Journal for Council of Thieves, both of which star Varian Jeggare and Radovan, the heroes of this story. His previous novels include Black Wolf and Lord of Stormweather.

Art by Eric Belisle

Over the Mountain

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Working at Paizo is awesome—there can be no question about that. Most days—those days when I'm in my happy-hippie, all-is-right-with-the-world mood—I show up to work and think, "Wow, we're all so lucky to be editing RPGs all day! How did we ever get so lucky?" That's most days.

And some days, we *&#@ing earn it.

Last Saturday was one of those days. Every year around this time, we start to reach the mission critical phase on our Gen Con products, and it's all hands on deck trying to get them out the door in time for the do-or-die ship date which will allow them to be at Gen Con. This year is no exception, and while most of the big products (such as Dave Gross's Prince of Wolves—more on that soon!) have already been put to bed, the Advanced Player's Guide is still in the last, messy phases of its birth. Thus it was that Saturday found me, Rob McCreary, Judy Bauer, Sarah Robinson, Wes Schneider, James Jacobs, and Erik Mona in here for more than 11 hours on Saturday to try and get things handled. (It should be noted that Chris Carey was in his Fortress of Editorial Solitude, having been saddled with the final proofing of Before They Were Giants, and Sean was busy moving. I'm pretty sure Jason was in a coma somewhere.)

Even with most of the Editorial Pit on hand, weekend workdays still feel different than normal ones. Everything's a little looser, and what professionalism we cultivate tends to get abandoned (though I did not, as originally planned, wear my jammie pants).

All of this is necessary to explain the photographs, I promise.

You see, when we moved into our new office last September, it was immediately noted that the otherwise normal-looking office building is bordered on two sides by a big field of brambles (reportedly haunted by vagabonds and feral corgis) and a big grassy ridge. At several points since the move, Wes and I have looked up at the ridge and wondered what mysteries might lie, Narnia-like, just over its crest.

Around 7:00 p.m. on Saturday, having just finished editing chunks of the classes chapter of the APG until my eyes were ready to bleed, I decided I needed something stronger than caffeine to keep me going, and stormed into Wes's office.

"Wes," I said, in my most inspiring voice, "It is time. We're going over the mountain."

Wes looked at me for a moment.

"Yeah, okay," he said.

Thus it was that everyone save Erik and Sarah (who had left for the evening) and Jacobs (who's too old and wise for such things) trooped outside on our Voyage of Discovery. Leaping over the drainage ditch, we scrabbled up the steep, grassy rise and came out into a magical wonderland!

Photography by Rob McCreary

Well, okay, maybe it was a gravel pit. But the point was, we had gone over the mountain! And for what it's worth, the gravel pit was pretty cool. Wes and I spent a few minutes running up the mountain of rubble to get a view of the surrounding countryside, then noticed the idling dump trucks and realized it was an active gravel pit—one which might not appreciate a bunch of trespassing nerds—and beat a hasty retreat to recommence editing.

And there you have it—the wild excitement of a Saturday at the Paizo offices!

(EDITORIAL NOTE: Sutter and Wes would like any authority figures to know that the preceding anecdote is entirely fictional; that they in no way condone trespassing, accidental or otherwise; and that they're both too pretty for jail.)

James L. Sutter
Fiction Editor

Winter 2010 Releases: An Early Look!

Thursday, February 18, 2010

This week Paizo posted new product descriptions for dozens of products to be released in the third trimester of 2010, including new hardcover books, a revision of the Pathfinder Campaign Setting, and a brand new line of Pathfinder novels!

We've been hard at work on these items for months, and even though you'll have to wait until at least September before they hit your game table, we're thrilled to finally be able to discuss some of this stuff in public. The suspense has been killing us!

Folks are already discussing some of our new releases on the paizo.com messageboards, but as the commentary has been flying fast and furious over the last couple days, I figured it might be helpful to post a broad overview of our new offerings here on the blog, with direct links to the products in question.

So without further ado, let's plug ourselves into the future-caster time machine and take a journey forward to September through December 2010. Bring your dice and a few character sheets. You're going to need them!

PATHFINDER FICTION
The biggest announcement is a brand new line of Pathfinder novels written by some of the biggest names in fantasy fiction! The first book, Winter Witch, by New York Times best-selling author Elaine Cunningham, explores the tale of a barbarian shield maiden who ventures from Varisia to the winter-locked land of Irrisen to rescue a possessed sister—and the canny young cartographer who follows her into that haunted land. The book formally releases in September, but we'll have copies on hand at this year's Gen Con Game Fair as a special preview. October sees the release of Prince of Wolves, by former Amazing Stories and Dragon editor Dave Gross, which revisits the Pathfinder agent Varian Jeggare and his tiefling assistant Radovan, last seen in the Pathfinder Journal section of the Council of Thieves Adventure Path. Additional novels will follow in 2011 from well-known authors including Paul S. Kemp and other familiar faces. Stay tuned for more info!

NEW HARDCOVERS
Following up on the forthcoming GameMastery Guide and Advanced Player's Guide, 2010 will see the release of one more hardcover rulebook in the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game line: Pathfinder RPG Bestiary 2! Like the first Bestiary, Bestiary 2 will include more than 300 monsters for use with the Pathfinder RPG, including old favorites like the hippogriff and new planar creatures like the aeons and proteans. This book will cover most of the standard monsters from the history of the game that we couldn't fit in the first Bestiary, as well as tons of other great monsters you've never seen before. Each monster will receive a full page or a 2-page spread, using the same format as the original book.

Supplies of the Pathfinder Chronicles Campaign Setting hardcover are dwindling faster than we can count, so in September we'll release a revised edition in the form of the Pathfinder Campaign Setting World Guide: The Inner Sea. Fully updated to the Pathfinder RPG rules and with expanded coverage of nearly every nation, the latest version of this book contains a new cover from Wayne Reynolds, an updated map, fixed errata from the first edition, and more than 300 pages packed with tons of information about the lands, peoples, beliefs, and cultures of the world of Golarion. Paizo Creative Director James Jacobs is giving this project his personal finish, making sure our campaign setting book is a solid bedrock of our publishing operation for years to come. We're really pleased with the early development of this book, and think it will be an ideal resource for all Pathfinder players and game masters.

PATHFINDER CHRONICLES
In addition to the revised campaign setting, in late 2010 we'll release the Inner Sea Map Folio, a massive 32-panel map of the Inner Sea region containing all "canonical" locations from every Pathfinder product published to date! This monster is sure to brighten up the gaming room or man-cave of any Pathfinder enthusiast, and its "four poster" format will even allow for easy reference at the game table for those lacking the wall space to do it justice. The Campaign Setting product line will also see a new Classic Monsters-style book in the form of Misfit Monsters Redeemed (and you won't believe what that's about until you read the description, believe me) as well as Lost Cities of Golarion, which explores six adventure locales from throughout the world of Golarion.

PATHFINDER PLAYER COMPANION
We can't let the GMs have all the fun, after all, so we've also planned a couple of sure-fire player's guides for the last third of 2010 that will be must-buys for Pathfinder RPG players. October sees the release of the Inner Sea Primer, a slimmed-down overview of the Pathfinder world designed specifically for players. This book will include tons of new character traits tied to the regions and religions of Golarion, and will provide a perfect "gist" of the setting for those looking to dip a toe in the water without needing to buy a big hardcover book. December sees the release of Halflings of Golarion, which rounds out the player's guides to the standard "demihuman" player character races in the Pathfinder RPG with plenty of details on how to integrate them into Golarion campaigns. Lots of fun equipment and lore in this one for fans of halflings (and everyone else, too)!

PATHFINDER MODULES

Gamers have been asking for a high-level Pathfinder adventure since the very beginning, and now I'm pleased to report that the time has come at last! Shipping in September, The Witchwar Legacy takes 17th-level player characters to the snow-shrouded witch kingdom of Irrisen to thwart a plan by the Ice Queen involving the insidious Baba Yaga herself! If that's not enough, in November we'll release a brand-new 1st-level starter adventure called The Godsmouth Heresy, set in the shadowy city of Kaer Maga, site of June's City of Strangers sourcebook!

GAMEMASTERY ACCESSORIES
Paizo's popular map products keep on coming in the last part of 2010, including the first-ever crossover between the Map Pack and Flip-Mat lines! Everything starts innocently enough in September with the release of Flip-Mat: Forest, but things really get interesting in October, with Map Pack: Shops. This 18-tile map set includes the interiors for several different stores, apothecaries, taverns, and the like, but things become super-special when you combine this pack with November's Flip-Mat: City Streets, which details a mercantile district suitable for use with other city Flip-Mats. The roofed buildings on this Flip-Mat (suitable for rooftop chases) correspond exactly to the interiors presented in Map Pack: Shops, providing a uniquely immersive tabletop experience. And if that's not enough to impress your jaded players, spring December's Map Pack: Ambush Sites on them. They probably deserve it.

GameMastery Cards keep coming as well, this time in the form of new GameMastery Condition Cards, handy reference cards for all of the various conditions in the Pathfinder RPG rules.

PATHFINDER ADVENTURE PATH
And, of course, we haven't forgotten the date that brought us to the big dance in the first place. The last trimester of 2010 will see plenty of action in the Pathfinder Adventure Path line, as the Serpent's Skull Adventure Path takes a jungle trail toward its stunning conclusion! Ruined Azlanti cities, Red Mantis assassins, monkey-men, the Pathfinder Society, ancient serpentfolk, and one very, very angry Gorilla King are all in store in a quartet of adventures by Tim Hitchcock, Kevin Kulp, Greg A. Vaughan, and Graeme Davis! The Serpent's Skull is a return to classic-style adventuring in the Pathfinder tradition, and we can't wait to get you guys into the jungle!

I'm saving our Planet Stories releases for tomorrow's blog, so be sure to tune in then for some of the biggest Planet Stories news we've had yet!

So much is happening here at Paizo these days that it's difficult to remember the uncertainty and horror of the last few years, with major changes to our business, our game system, and our lives. All of us really appreciate the support you have shown us so far, and we look forward to more exciting products in the months and years to come!

Erik Mona
Publisher
Paizo Publishing

Fact and Fiction

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Those of you who recognize a striking similarity between the title of this blog post and Pathfinder Adventure Path #29's editorial have no doubt already inferred what I'm about to say, but I've been waiting almost a year to say it, so here goes:

Pathfinder Fiction is here.

Not here in the warehouse, of course—you'll have to wait until Gen Con Indy to get your hands on the first book in the line. But for the first time ever, you can now visit the Pathfinder Fiction page, post on the Pathfinder Fiction messageboards, and preorder both of the new books that have been announced.

And what an announcement it is! First up, releasing officially in September but with early preview copies slated for a Gen Con release, is Winter Witch from New York Times best selling author Elaine Cunningham. Journey to the icy land of Irrisen with a barbarian shield maiden and her ne'er-do-well (but magically gifted) accomplice on a quest to save the woman's sister from the sinister daughters of Baba Yaga!

Immediately after that, we have the triumphant return of Dave Gross's mystery-solving duo, half-elven noble Varian Jeggare and the tiefling Radovan, in the gothic adventure Prince of Wolves. Something is rotten in Ustalav, and only Egorian's greatest detective team can delve into the haunted hills to uncover the truth—and make it out alive...

Each Pathfinder Fiction novel is a mass market paperback, completely standalone, and costs just $9.99. What's more, very soon we'll be launching the ability to subscribe to the line, with subscribers receiving a free PDF of each book they buy.

While we've only announced two of the books so far, I can also say with authority that the party is just getting started. In addition to several fabulous authors currently in negotiations and development, it's my pleasure to also introduce the addition of fan favorite Paul S. Kemp to the line. Though we're not ready to share any details about books beyond the initial two just now, rest assured that more news will continue to come as we get closer to the line's official launch at Gen Con Indy.

In the meantime, rather than joining me in counting the days until the release, why not head on over to the Pathfinder Fiction messageboards and let us know what you think? Who would you like to see writing in the line? What regions seem ripest for a novel? As with everything we do at Paizo, we're always listening.

James Sutter
Fiction Editor

The Pawns of Hell

Monday, November 16, 2009

Illustration by David Bircham

It's an exciting time around here at Paizo. With all the hustle and bustle, if you've seen me on the boards at all, it's probably been commenting on Pathfinder fiction—how it's spooling up now, how some of the authors signing on are blowing my mind, and how we plan to manage things so that both the novel line and the gaming lines can flourish without breaking the world. (If you're curious, it's also the subject of the editorial in Pathfinder #29.) Yet in all this discussion of the Pathfinder fiction that's coming, it suddenly came to my attention that it had been a while since I'd talked about the amazing fiction we already have.

If you've been reading Council of Thieves, I don't have to tell you that Dave Gross is one of the most talented authors we've had the pleasure of working with on Pathfinder fiction. But I can tell you, having just finished the final chapter of "Hell's Pawns"—the noir-fantasy Pathfinder's Journal in which the tiefling Radovan and half-elven Pathfinder Varian Jeggare hunt a murderer through the upper echelons of Cheliax's corrupt nobility—that Dave has something few fantasy authors in any world achieve: Weight. Gravitas. An honest, emotional connection to characters, not just the world they live in. It's what we've always striven for with Pathfinder fiction, and there can be no question that Dave delivers—along with plenty of murder, intrigue, and gangsters both official and amateur.

But I won't get into spoiler territory. Instead, I'd rather give you all a sample of what I'm talking about, a snippet from the beginning of the story, in Pathfinder #25:

On the scaffold, a knobby-kneed herald emerges from behind the canvas. He looks to either side, shuddering with exaggerated fear when the guards eye him up and down. The groundlings laugh, recognizing him as one of the Fools of Thrune, a jester from House Sarini sent out to amuse them while they wait. I lose interest the moment he raises a trumpet to his lips and blows out a length of crimson silk and a pair of sagging pillows meant to suggest he's blown his lungs out through the horn.

I see plenty of familiar mugs among the groundlings: stevedores, stable hands, street sweepers, barmaids, a seamstress I once gave a memorable night on the Bunyip Dock. A pickpocket I know tips me a wink as he pats a mark on the shoulder while his adolescent accomplice dips his hand in on the other side. A few others touch their chins or smile when they see me. I nod back.

No one from the stands throws me a greeting, but more than a few know me better than they'd admit. I know several of them better than I'd like their husbands to know, but to most I am only the silent bodyguard of Count Varian Jeggare. The only one among them bold enough to return my gaze is Ivo Elliendo.

The Paralictor glides out of the stands where he has been receiving the compliments of the ladies. His tall figure stands out like a plow cutting through a garden. The sharp red scourges on the ribs of his black leather jack give him a gaunt silhouette.

He squints when he spots me, and I can feel his scorn hot on my face. What else can I do but shoot him my toothiest smile? All around him, ladies who had followed his gaze snap up their fans to shield themselves from the sight of a mouth that I'm told looks like a drawer full of knives. The commotion distracts Elliendo, and when he sees he is surrounded by a halo of fluttering fans, his lined face darkens.

Elliendo stalks away from the stands and mounts the stairs, followed as usual by two hulking Hellknights. I begin to frame a prayer for rotting steps before deciding that's too much to ask, even on Judgment Day. On the scaffold, Elliendo peers north at the approach of the golden Royal Carriage down the Imperial Promenade. He snaps his fingers, and the clown retreats behind the canvas to a clatter of applause. Once the carriage halts and the window shades rise just enough for the occupant—no doubt some minor Palace official, rather than the Queen herself—to peer out, the canvas on the scaffold falls away to reveal the Instruments of Judgment.

In the center is a blazing furnace in the shape of a three-faced devil. From each of its gaping jaws jut a bramble of iron implements: knives, spears, chains, rods, brands, and most conspicuous of all the Tines of Cheliax. Each is a two-pronged fork sized for a stone giant, and today there are two of them.

Arrayed between the furnaces are racks of torture devices retrieved from every civilized nation on Golarion, and several not so civilized. The spiked cages of Geb are a crowd favorite, and two of them already hold prisoners. One is a fat man who begins screaming the moment he is revealed, while the other is pock-faced Gellius Bonner, the Butcher of Merrow Lane.

I fell into the Bonner case when the boss sent me to nose around the tannery across the river. I was supposed to catch a stable master selling the carcasses of his lady's mysteriously sickened horses. That went nowhere, but I spied the tanner sneaking out of his own home well past midnight. Curious, I followed him into town, expecting to discover nothing more than a mistress in some Cheapside flat. Instead, he led me to Bonner's shop, where he joined six men wearing crude robes. Bonner greeted them with some fiendish phrase, though I could understand only a few words before he led them downstairs. I let myself in for a peek. When I saw the yak-headed thing Bonner conjured and what they intended to offer it, I ran to Greensteeples and beat on the boss's door until his sleepy halfling butler woke him. With a few questions, Jeggare confirmed that the cult was demonic, not diabolic, so he sent a message directly to the Temple of Asmodeus, who in turn asked the Hellknights to capture the cultists, minus a few who resisted arrest. They even recovered two boys who had not yet been devoured.

The discovery broke the cases of more than a dozen missing children, disappearances that Elliendo had publicly sworn to solve. As he was not on duty that night, he was surprised to hear the criers' announcement of another mystery solved by the celebrated Varian Jeggare.

If it were for the murders alone, Bonner might have met his Judgment at the edge of an axe or, if it were only one or two killings, in hard labor for a decade. The devil-worshiping lords of Cheliax, however, do not suffer the denizens of the Abyss in the city. For consorting with demons, Bonner earned his special voyage to Hell.

While not an admirer of the spectacle, I make a point of witnessing the Judgment of anyone convicted on one of our cases. This time, the boss insisted that I bring something to confirm it was Bonner and not some magic-masked substitute who did the dance of the Tines. He sent me to the Plaza of Flowers with a couple of sakava leaves plucked fresh from a plant in his greenhouse.

Once the Instruments are unveiled, four proper heralds stand on the corners of the scaffold and announce the list of Judgments. Behind them, brawny shirtless men in red hoods prepare the braces for the Tines.

When a couple of the big men unlock Bonner's cage, I slip the sakava leaves from a sleeve pocket. The size of my thumbs, they are thick green ovals with tiny white hairs glistening with oil. Just before I crush them, someone calls my name.

She is taller than me, which is not too uncommon, but most of that height comes from a pair of legs snugged in black calfskin trousers with tiny stars and suns cut out along the outer seam to reveal bare skin. Her blouse hangs loose except in just the right places to make a celibate throw himself off the roof. Her big hazel eyes are too far apart with heavy eyebrows, but they look fine above a long nose pierced above one nostril with a tiny ruby. The stone sets off a hint of late-summer red in her brown hair.

I'm staring at her over the little green leaves.

"Are you Radovan?" she asks again. I could listen to her say my name all day, but then she ruins it by adding, "Count Jeggare's servant?"

"His bodyguard." Immediately I think of three or four suave answers.

"My messages to Greensteeples have gone unanswered, and I require the count's assistance," she says. "And naturally his utmost discretion."

"Naturally," I say, but before I can give her the pitch, I feel a sharp poke just below my shoulder blade.

"Say goodbye to the girly, copper-tongue," reeks a voice inches beneath my ear. I know who it is from the stench of garlic and boiled eggs.

"Not now, Ursio." I try to sound casual, but the scratch he gave me starts to itch. Out of the corners of my eyes I see a couple of shapes that must be his backup. "I'll stay in this very public place while you and your playmates go climb your thumbs."

"These bolts are tipped with black lotus venom," says Ursio, and I know it's his treasured hand crossbow with its steel "fangs" jammed into my back. "You'll be dead before your body hits the street."

It seems unlikely that Ursio has acquired the deadly and expensive poison, but on the scaffold I see the hooded men dragging Bonner to a table, where a third man awaits with a pair of curved knives held high for the crowd's acclaim...

For more of Radovan's adventures in Cheliax, check out the Pathfinder's Journal section of Pathfinder volumes #25 through #30. I promise you won't be disappointed.

James Sutter
Fiction Editor