Behind the Book—Starspawn

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Hey there! Josh Vogt speaking... er... typing. I hate to interrupt your regularly scheduled Pathfinder Tales blog post that James Sutter usually provides, but he's so focused on Starfinder these days that I think I can steal his slot without him noticing until it's too late...

Illustration by Eric Belisle

If you ever get the chance to meet Wendy Wagner in person, you'll likely come away a little dazzled by the joyful energy she projects. It's practically impossible to not to get swept up in her enthusiasm about any topic you happen to latch on to, be it a favorite recipe or a fantastic horror flick. Whatever the project, Wendy is sure to bring a real passion to it.

The thing is, this same energy comes through in her writing. In her first Pathfinder Tales novel, Skinwalkers, Wendy introduced us to Jendara, an ex-pirate who'd given up her marauding ways to try and raise her son. However, raids by a brutal clan of shapeshifters threatens the safety of her island home, and Jendara must use her wits and axe-wielding prowess to defend those she cares for at all costs.

Reading Skinwalkers made me realize I'd never want to get into a cage match with Wendy, because she refuses to pull a punch. Her characters feel incredibly vibrant and alive. Her action scenes leave you breathless. Her descriptions can be brutally detailed (did I mention her penchant for horror, both subtle and shocking?). So when I heard that Wendy would be tackling another Pathfinder Tales novel, Starspawn, I was thoroughly excited, even before I found out the premise would be...

Vikings versus Cthulhu.

Vikings. Versus. Cthulhu.

I mean, come on—I could practically see Wendy grinning with glee at being able to pit seafaring barbarians against Lovecraftian horrors. And I knew she'd do a smashing job of it, too.

In Starspawn, Jendara returns, and is once more trying to find a measure of peace in life. Yet the stars are aligned against her, and when an unnatural tsunami devastates the area, it leaves a mysterious island in its wake. Strange structures, murderous cultists, and mind-twisting art are just a few of the disturbing elements Jendara and her crew encounter on exploring the new island—but these are hardly the most terrifying things they'll be forced to face before the end.

So get ready for Wendy to ramp up the adventure, the horror, and the thrills, all while delving into the sanity-skewing intersection of the Elder Mythos and Golarion—a perfect appetizer to get you in the mood for the new Strange Aeons Adventure Path. I know I'll be enjoying the adrenaline rush the whole way.

Josh Vogt
Editor

Behind the Book—Liar's Bargain

Wednesday, June 29, 2016

It's no secret that I find Tim Pratt hilarious. I first got a taste of his snarky humor back in 2012 in his first Pathfinder Tales novel, City of the Fallen Sky—and Skiver remains one of my favorite supporting characters—but it was in 2013's Liar's Blade that he introduced the charming con man Rodrick and his talking sword Hrym and won my heart forever.

Illustration by Eric Belisle

See, humorous fantasy is really, really difficult to do well. If you're not careful, it can end up feeling juvenile or corny, or else become a farce—a wink-nudge pastiche that is as much laughing at fantasy as with it. Tim's humor, on the other hand, comes from the characters he creates. The world isn't designed to be humorous—it's as serious as our own—but the characters find the humor inherent in even the bleakest circumstances, often at their own expense. This is Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser territory, as well as that of glorious 80s action-comedies like Die Hard and Lethal Weapon, and the snappy self-aware dialogue of a Tarantino or George Clooney character. It's bombastic action that understands the frequent absurdity that goes hand in hand with being awesome.

Which is why, when Tim pitched me on the idea of a new Rodrick and Hrym novel with the phrase "Rodrick and Hrym join the Suicide Squad," I was hooked. Where Liar's Island had been a chance for us to check out Jalmeray in a way we hadn't since the module Cult of the Ebon Destroyers, this book would focus on some of our more familiar settings: Lastwall and Nirmathas. It'd also give Tim the chance to invent a bunch of high-end criminals, and make them all try to work together, which goes about as well as trapping a bunch of cats in a sack. (When Rodrick's starting to sound like the reasonable one, you know you're in trouble.) Add in a favorite monster from the very birth of Pathfinder, and I was sold.

I deeply enjoyed the chance to ride along with the Bickering Duo again in Liar's Bargain, and I hope you will as well!

James L. Sutter
Creative Director

Behind Pirate's Prophecy

Thursday, February 4, 2016

We interrupt this blog for a special announcement: The Pathfinder Tales novel Death's Heretic is still totally free in audiobook form on Audible.com until February 16th! Grab it now before the offer expires!

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post.

At this point, with three books in his Pirates series, you might think I'd be sick of talking about Chris Jackson's books. But you'd be wrong.

Illustrations by Eric Belisle

See, Chris is one of those authors that editors like me dream about. Not only is he a fabulous writer, perfectly balancing action and character development, but he also lives and breathes Pathfinder. He knows Golarion inside and out, and has a mastery of the rules that never ceases to amaze me. (Seriously, if you only knew the number of times he's brought up an interesting corner case or rules exploit that caused hours of discussion among the designers and developers...) Combined, those two aspects of his writing make his books a delight to read, both as a reader and as a gamer. How would naval combat work in Pathfinder? What kinds of magical defenses would a Chelish ship have? How could a naga best disguise herself as human? How might a sorcerer use magic to infiltrate a coven of paranoid witches? Chris uses the rules of magic not just as a storyteller looking to forward a plot, but as a person living in that world would, which means there's always something I can take away from his books for use at the gaming table.

Yet really, it's Chris's characters that get to me. At this point, I feel like I know Torius and Celeste and Snick and Vreva as well as I know Chris himself—maybe better, since I've spent so much time in their heads. They feel like real people to me, in a way that only the best characters do. When I suggest an edit to Chris, it's usually phrased like "Celeste wouldn't say that"—as if she were a mutual friend, rather than someone he made up out of whole cloth. That's the power of a good character.

So in Pirate's Prophecy, it's exciting to catch up again with the crew of the Stargazer, to see them settling into their new roles as abolitionist privateers for Andoran. While the crew may be perfectly happy to steal from slavers and spirit the freed slaves away to freedom, being involved in the world of international politics comes with a whole new heap of troubles. When expert spy Vreva Jhafae uncovers a Chelish plot to unleash a terrible weapon on Andoren ports, only the crew of the Stargazer can stop it without blowing her cover. Yet even as Vreva puts herself in harm's way with a series of Mission: Impossible style infiltrations, Celeste finds herself suddenly speaking in tongues and wrestling with the appearance of strange new powers...

James L. Sutter
Executive Editor

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Illustrations by Wayne Reynolds.

Inside Pathfinder #100

Friday, December 18, 2015

Illustration by Matias Tapia

Last week, James gave a run down on the path to Pathfinder #100 in this blog. Now I'm here to talk a bit about the contents of this special volume—Pathfinder Adventure Path #100: A Song of Silver.

First off, since James wrote the adventure for this volume, we needed someone to develop it and I was the man for the job. Normally we don't sub in another developer for an adventure in an Adventure Path in order to maintain continuity, but when the developer running the Adventure Path is the adventure's author it makes it easy for someone to step in. I'm pretty sure James knew the story he wanted to tell, and he was readily on hand for any questions I had.

The next cool thing about this volume of Pathfinder—at least for me—was that I had the chance to get the publisher to write an article for me. He's a busy man, but I managed to convince Erik Mona to pen the Aroden article. It's a good thing too. If he didn't agree we wouldn't have run the article, because as Aroden's creator, Erik was the only man for the job.

The biggest new addition to this volume is the Friends and Foes section where we present an NPC inspired by every Adventure Path we've done so far—from Rise of the Runelords to Giantslayer. These NPCs provide a GM with a new character to introduce to their campaigns, and the write up gives plenty of suggestions for the NPC's role in other Adventure Paths than the one they are primarily associated with. Best yet, I made sure to get some of your favorite Adventure Path writers to create these NPCs. It was a lot of fun wrangling all these authors to present this special retrospective. Be sure to check out the introduction to see who wrote which character.

Illustrations by Dave Allsop, Eric Belisle, and Dmitry Burmak

Finally, since James indulged himself and put one of his characters into the adventure, I decided to do something similar and nab half of the bestiary for myself (James did the other two monsters). At this past PaizoCon, I ran a game that featured a monster that I designed especially for the adventure. I also was on a panel with artist Jason Engle and the art team where we talked about monster design while Jason sketched up a new critter based on the conversation. When we were done with the panel I was shocked by how much what he drew looked like the monster I designed for my adventure, and I knew what I had to do. I talked with Sarah Robinson, and we ended up getting Jason to turn the sketch into final art so that we could use the art for my monster that I suddenly planned to inject into this volume. And that's how the telgrodradt ended up in Pathfinder Adventure Path #100.

Illustration by Jason Engle

I've only been on staff since the first part of Skull & Shackles, but I've been a fan (and charter subscriber) since "Burnt Offerings." Getting to Pathfinder #100 has been a long and fun road, and it's a great accomplishment for any monthly publication. I'm proud to be on the team that gets these books into your hands every month. Here's to the next 100 (and much, much more)!

Adam Daigle
Developer

Halloween Monster Movie Playlist

Wednesday, October 21, 2015

For those of you that are big fans of monsters like me, paging through a bestiary is always a delight. While we pull many of our devious and dangerous creatures from folklore, we also draw from pop culture from time to time. Many of us here are fond of horror movies (and monster movies), and it's no small surprise that a number of our monsters are inspired by the movies we so love.

As a Halloween treat, here's a list of ten monsters from our bestiaries that owe part of their origin to the silver screen. For this list I tried to stick to influences that were strictly movie-based instead of things from folklore that happen to be the monstrous stars of horror movies, otherwise this list would be full of vampires, werewolves, flesh golems, ghosts, and even leprechauns (oh, come on... you know you've seen at least one of the Leprechaun movies).

And now for our feature presentation...

• Augur Kyton (Bestiary 3) Phantasm (1979)
• Body Thief (Bestiary 4) Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956, 1978)
• Carnivorous Blob (Bestiary 2) The Blob (1958, 1988)
• Deadly Mantis (Inner Sea Bestiary) The Deadly Mantis (1957)
• Hungry Fog (Bestiary 3) The Fog (1980, 2005)
• Immortal Ichor (Bestiary 4) Prince of Darkness (1987)
• Mogaru Kaiju (Bestiary 4) Godzilla (various; 1954-2014)
• Weedwhip (Bestiary 4) Day of the Triffids (1963)
• Wickerman (Bestiary 4) Wickerman (1973, 2006)
• Xenopterid (Bestiary 4) Mimic (1997)

Illustrations by Ryan Portillo, Joshua Meehan, David Melvin, and Eric Belisle

Whether you're handing out candy or rolling dice or watching a scary movie or going out with your fiends, we hope you have a creepy Halloween!

Adam Daigle
Developer

Liar's Island Sample Chapter

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

In Liar's Island, when Rodrick and his talking sword Hrym are summoned to the royal court of Jalmeray, the con men—well, con man and con sword—sense the opportunity for easy money. Yet while the legendary island is as fantastic as the stories tell, and the thakur's treasury as full as either man or sword could hope, there's more to this summons than a simple social visit. As intrigue mounts and the island's deadlier residents begin revealing themselves, Rodrick and Hrym quickly realize that the most important treasure they can escape with may be their own lives...

Chapter One: Cornered

Kresley was head of the little lord's household guard, a position that seldom required more than standing around looking good in a polished breastplate at interminable balls and occasionally kicking priests, beggars, or solicitors who somehow made it past the lord's gates back out into the streets of Absalom. Today, unfortunately, he'd been sent on an errand that was really more the province of the city guards... but the little lord wanted it handled personally, because the city guards were interested more in the law than in allowing the lord to exact a terrible revenge.

Kresley cleared his throat and tried once more to do it the easy way. "Rodrick! Come out! None of us want to see blood spilled." This gray street in a rough part of the city had probably seen plenty of blood spilled, though the predominant scent was actually urine.

"Especially our blood," muttered Haverford, a grizzled veteran with a long scar down one cheek who'd been hired onto the household guard because he'd once saved the little lord's cousin from getting a crossbow bolt in the face on one battlefield or another. Haverford was fond of wine and didn't respect Kresley's authority at all, even though Kresley's breastplate always far outshone Haverford's own.

Kresley, Haverford, and three other men—and the wizard, but Kresley didn't want to think about the wizard; they weren't the sort of people you wanted standing behind you, because what if one of their spells went off by accident?—were arrayed in a loose semicircle before an abandoned storehouse in the Coins. The wizard had tracked their quarry this far, through the winding streets of Absalom, and there was no doubt they'd found their prey, and that he was trapped. Kresley had scouted for other exits, and this door was the only way out, since the storehouse was built right up against the similarly dilapidated buildings around it on all sides.

But the thief, Rodrick, wasn't acting like he was trapped, and showed no interest at all in giving himself up. Kresley wasn't keen to bash his way into a building full of who knew what, through a door only large enough to admit one man at a time, against an enemy who'd had time to set traps or an ambush.

Especially this enemy. Kresley had seen the damage done by Rodrick's sword, the holes blasted in the little lord's wall, ragged gaps still rimed with frost. He knew the wizard was here to take that icy advantage away, but what if the man's magic missed?

The front door of the storehouse was even hanging askew, practically an invitation to enter, which surely meant some terrible preparations had been made beyond. Kresley had never served in any organized military force, but he knew attacking an enemy on prepared ground was harder than kicking a beggar down the little lord's front steps.

"Why don't you come in?" Rodrick called, voice muffled. "It's nice in here. Plenty of room. We can sit and chat."

"If we have to come in after you, there will be violence!" Kresley said. "Give yourself up, and it will go easier on you!"

"I see," Rodrick called, but his voice seemed to come from farther away. What was he doing in there? "So, if I come out, you won't harm me?"

"That's right!"

"But you'll take me back to the little lord, who will harm me?"

"He... hasn't told me his plans for you... "

"Oh?" Rodrick's voice was bright, and now sounded closer. "He could want me for anything, then. Perhaps I'm to be guest of honor at a feast, or he wants to play a game of towers. Sit with me and sip brandy by the fire and discuss the peculiarities of Osirian funeral rites or the philosophies of the Mammoth Lords, just us, two men of the world. I suppose that's the sort of hospitality he offers thieves? Though to be accurate I'm not a thief at all, because I was discovered before I had a chance to steal anything. The indignity of fleeing the palace—of running from you—isn't that punishment enough, especially considering I made no profit off this endeavor at all?"

"You did get your wages for serving as security at the ball," Kresley said. "Those are ill-gotten gains." Why was he arguing with the man? Oh, yes: Because it was better than rushing someone who had a magical sword. Or indeed any kind of sword.

Rodrick and Hrym are always up for a job, provided it doesn't involve any actual work.
Illustration by Eric Belisle

"Are you claiming I didn't provide adequate security?" Rodrick sounded outraged. "Was the dance floor attacked by hordes of ravening demons? Did ogres overturn the punch bowls? Did a bugbear eat the goose liver off a rich man's plate? Were the musicians torn apart by werewolves? They were not, and I'm sure my presence made all the difference. I gave good value for those meager coins."

Haverford spat and, to Kresley's surprise, spoke up loudly enough for Rodrick to hear: "The little lord paid you for your loyalty, thief. Just for one night, but you took the coin, and you made the deal, and so were bound by it. You betrayed him, and a man who'd betray another is no man at all. Treachery's a worse crime than theft."

"Oh, in that case, I'll be right out," Rodrick said. Something clattered, and someone else inside the warehouse swore.

Kresley frowned and leaned over to Haverford. "Is that... is there someone else in there? Does he have an accomplice?"

"It's the sword." The wizard rolled his eyes. He was fat and robed, but he wasn't old, and didn't look like a proper wizard at all, being entirely beardless. "You know, the whole reason I'm here? The reason this Rodrick was hired to provide security at the ball in the first place? He's just a man, but that Hrym is a wonder. A talking sword of living ice."

"I knew about the ice," Kresley muttered. There'd been something about the sword talking, too, but he'd dismissed it as exaggeration. The sword certainly hadn't said anything back at the little lord's manor house.

"I can also sing!" the second voice called. He—it?—sounded jovial and curmudgeonly all at once, like a drunken grandfather at the wedding of a relative he didn't like much.

"No, Hrym, don't sing!" Rodrick cried. "We want them to leave, not die!"

Kresley pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He was getting a headache, and this street really did smell like every cat, dog, and vagrant in the Coins used it as a latrine. "All right. This is nonsense. We're going in. Rodrick, this is your last chance—"

"Oh, well, if you really want to die, I can't be blamed," Rodrick interrupted. "But I have to wonder if you've thought this through. Say one of your men manages to get a sword into my neck before Hrym freezes him solid. What have you accomplished, really? You can kill me, but you can't kill Hrym. He's a sword. And a magical one, at that—you can't even melt him down. Believe me, many have tried."

"I daresay the lord would be pleased to have a... a talking sword... to add to his collection."

"Ha! You don't want this sword." Rodrick's laugh was booming and hearty. "He's cursed, you know."

Kresley blinked. "I... what?"

"My sword. Ooh, look, a magical sentient sword of living ice, everyone's always so impressed. But, yes: he's cursed. Cursedly cursed."

"You have, by all accounts, traveled with this blade for many years," Kresley said. "In what way is it cursed?"

"What? Look where I am now," Rodrick said. "I'm about to be murdered by a bunch of household guards, of all things! Hrym's obviously cursed. It's just a slow-acting curse."

The wizard sighed. "The sword isn't cursed. Are we going to stand around here much longer? It's only, I've got plans."

"Cursed or not, the very idea of Hrym languishing in your master's collection disgusts me!" Rodrick said. "Hrym thrives on open air, long roads leading to nowhere in particular, and a general life of adventure!"

"I wouldn't mind resting on a pile of gold coins somewhere cool and dry, actually," Hrym said. "If anyone's asking me. Which no one ever does."

"Honestly!" Rodrick said more loudly. "Doesn't the thought of such waste, of turning a majestic creature like Hrym into an ornament—doesn't it sicken you, Kelso?"

"It's Kresley," Kresley said automatically.

A long pause. "If you say so. I'm sure you know best. But your confusion about your own name aside, doesn't it trouble you? The way your lord and master keeps such wonders—none as wondrous as Hrym, but still, quite wondrous—locked up, out of sight in a vault, made useless? Is it any wonder I wanted to take a few of them away with me? Those relics deserve to be appreciated, not kept sealed away for one rich man's pleasure."

"You were just going to sell them," Hrym said. "And for sums only another rich man could afford."

"Yes, true, but I was going to sell them to several rich men, to sort of spread the joy around, you see."

"I get the sense that Rodrick isn't taking us very seriously." Haverford looked Kresley up and down. "I can't imagine why."

"Fine," Kresley snapped. "Men, let's go in."

"The first man who comes through that door," Rodrick called, "will be frozen into an ice sculpture of himself. The process is generally fatal, but at least you'll make a beautiful decoration at your own funeral."

"Don't worry about it," the wizard said. He muttered something and made a series of complex gestures. He stepped forward, tapping each man briefly on the back of the neck. "There," he said. "Protection from ice, cast on all of you. Go forth and do whatever it is people like you do. As you should have ten minutes ago."

"Protection from ice won't help if they've got traps set up in there," Haverford muttered.

The wizard rolled his eyes again. "I wouldn't worry about it. This Rodrick probably hasn't had to think his way out of a problem since he first got his hands on that sword. This building, it's just an old storehouse, not an armory. They might try to push a pile of crates on top of you, but otherwise I wouldn't fret."

"Did someone out there say 'protection from ice'?" Hrym said.

"You're still a sword," Rodrick said. "We can, you know... cut them. Stab. What have you."

"But you're no swordsman," Hrym said. "No offense, but if it's just you against, what, three of them?"

"Four!" Haverford called, and drew his blade. "Five, counting our illustrious leader." Now he was smiling. "Things are looking up. These are the sort of odds you like, eh, Kelso?"

Illustration by Michal Ivan

"Kresley," Kresley muttered. But, yes—he did like these odds. He considered sending Haverford in first, in case there were traps, but the man would look at him with even more scorn than usual if he did that. Kresley strode forward and kicked the door off its hinges. The interior of the storehouse was visible in light streaming through the dusty skylights, and the space was almost entirely barren, apart from a few cobwebbed shelves near the back.

Rodrick stood in the center of the space, sipping from a flask and holding a crystalline longsword that shimmered like diamonds and sent up faint curls of icy vapor all along its length. Rodrick lifted the sword, and a blast of white wind spiraled toward the door. Kresley winced and closed his eyes, but apart from a cool, damp breeze, he felt nothing, and when he opened his eyes, Rodrick was making a face like he'd bitten a lemon.

Haverford shouldered in, followed by the other men. The wizard seemed content to wait outside. "How bad of a beating do we put on him before we drag him back to the little lord?" Haverford asked.

"Medium bad," Kresley said. "Feel free to break his arms and hands, but leave the legs and feet—otherwise we'll have to carry him the whole way back."

"You are cursed, Hrym," Rodrick said.

"You're cursed," the sword replied, voice emerging from the empty air in the vicinity of the blade. "Oh well. It's been a while since I was owned by a nobleman. As I recall, they hardly ever sleep in ditches or haystacks."

The guards advanced.

They were quite surprised when a djinni appeared before them in a swirl of mist and wind, rising nearly eleven feet tall, its lower body a swirling funnel of air, its upper body that of a muscular dark-skinned man, with a very solid-looking scimitar gripped in each hand.

"You will not harm this man," the djinni intoned, dust and filth swirling around in its whirlwind. Kresley stepped back, and even Haverford retreated a few steps. Kresley looked at the sword in his hand. He considered dropping it so the creature wouldn't mistake it for a threat.

"Ha," Rodrick said from behind the genie. "You didn't expect that, did you, Kelso? I can summon djinns. Djinn. Djinnis? One of my many skills."

"No it's not," Hrym said. "You've never even seen a djinni before. The plural is djinn, by the way."

"Shh," Rodrick said. "This is a marvelous opportunity to embellish my already considerable legend."

Kresley swallowed. "Ah... wizard? Do you... is there such a thing as... protection from... djinn?" He stole a glance through the open door and saw the wizard running away as fast as his sandaled feet could take him.

"Guess not," Haverford said, and ran away too, followed by the other guards.

Kresley waited a moment longer, as befitted his position as head of the household guard, and then he ran away as well.

Purchase the whole novel here!

A Farewell to Web Fiction

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

For the last five years, Wednesdays have held a special place on this blog. Every Wednesday, it was our distinct pleasure to present a new chapter of serial Pathfinder web fiction. Some stories were from authors you already knew, tied into the latest Pathfinder novels. Others were from first-time Pathfinder authors, trying out new characters in front of a live audience—the entire internet.

Illustrations by Eric Belisle

Of all the fun that the web fiction has brought us, far and away the part I appreciate most is the number of authors who started with web fiction, knocked it out of the park, and went on to become beloved authors in the novel line. Some, like Chris. A. Jackson and Liane Merciel, were already accomplished novelists, simply taking their first crack at shared-world writing. Yet for others, like Wendy N. Wagner, Josh Vogt, and Gary Kloster, scoring a critical hit on their web fiction led directly to the sale of their first published novels. As an editor, there's no greater joy than being the first to snag an author destined for great things, and I cackle with glee at the thought of having been the midwife to those awesome authors' first novels.

But all good things must come to an end.

Over the last half a decade, Pathfinder has grown immensely, and Paizo with it. This blog, once such a fragile creature that it could be taken out simply by removing all the keys on Wes's keyboard, is now a robust beast with more posts per week than there are days. And while the web fiction was once one of very few outlets for folks hungry for Pathfinder fiction, there are now dozens of novels, not to mention the Pathfinder's journals, comics, audio dramas, and a huge backlist of free short fiction. Where once I (and later Senior Editor Chris Carey) desperately needed the web fiction to help us find the next great Pathfinder Tales authors, in the wake of Pathfinder Tales teaming up with Tor/Macmillan, I've got amazing, established authors like Max Gladstone, Sam Sykes, and Richard A. Knaak joining a roster already packed with folks like Tim Pratt, Dave Gross, Chris Jackson, and Liane Merciel. Add in the expense, both in time and money, of buying and illustrating free web fiction stories, and it just doesn't make sense to continue the tradition.

The web fiction we've already posted will continue to be available for free in perpetuity, and I'm also hoping to complete the ePub processing of the stories very soon for folks who prefer to read them that way. We'll also continue to post free sample chapters of the novels as each one comes out to let you test-drive the books before you buy.

Many thanks to all the faithful web fiction readers, and I hope you continue to enjoy Pathfinder Tales in all its various forms!

James L. Sutter
Executive Editor

Hell Unleashed: 10 Infernal Secrets

Friday, July 10, 2015

Just in time for the Hell's Rebels and Hell's Vengeance Adventure Paths, Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Hell Unleashed hits later this month. For this entry into the Unleashed series, Jerome Virnich and I broadened the book's focus to encompass more than just dragons, just undead, or just any one creature type. Instead, we investigate a spectrum of Hell's servants, be they immortal fiends, damned mortals, or more terrible things in-between. Also expect a few other nasty tricks you've never seen in an Unleashed book before.

So you're as prepared as you can be for the coming blasphemy, here are 10 infernal topics in Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Hell Unleashed that your party paladin doesn't want you to read.

1. Roads to Hell: Before you can face the horrors of Hell you have to get there. Learn more about gates, spells, ferrymen, and talismans that provide direct routes to Hell—or that bring it to you!
2. Manifestations: Learn how to conjure forth manifestations, new haunt-like dangers that allow divinities—both fair and foul—to exert their wills upon the mortal plane. Along with these new rules you'll find examples of foul miracles for all of Hell's archdevils, and more.
3. The Book of the Damned: Learn more than ever before about Golarion's most infamous tome, The Book of the Damned, including its history, its lingering masters, how to conduct research within the book, and the god-like being that guards its secrets.
4. The Cult of Lies: Hell has many allies in the mortal world. In once such case, a cult of Asmodeus on the cusp of breaching the border between the mortal world and Hell. This elaborate encounter features customizations to make it a threat for a wide range of play, making it an appropriate climax to either an adventure or an entire campaign.
5. Exorcism: Fiends sometimes wear the fairest of faces, and their disguises aren't always illusions. Can you defeat a zebub devil? What if that disgusting devil is firmly rooted inside the body of a 12-year-old?
6. Everything has its Price: Whether you're striking a deal with a contract devil or your trading artifacts in the legendary Market of Breaths, everything has a price. Yet Hell rarely accepts currency as mundane as gold. What would you trade for power, immortality, or a chapter from the Chronicle of the Righteous? Once you've decided you're buying, it's just a matter of finding who's selling.
7. Living Blasphemies: Not all of Hell's denizens are devils. Asuras, immortal beings with grudges against the gods, also strike from Hell's depths against pious mortals. The Flowering Jasmine Monastery has fallen to one such living-heresy. Can you, and your faith, survive what that holy place has become?
8. Test of the Hellknights: Before any armiger can call herself a Hellknight, she must survive a lethal test: defeat a devil in single combat. Learn more about the Hellknights' most infamous rite of passage, with details on its strictures, testing grounds, and devils to confront would-be Hellknights of all levels.
9. The Gate to Dis: The passage between Hell's first layer, the wasteland of Avernus, and its second, the metropolis of Dis, is one of the most traveled routes in all the planes. The Forked Pyre guards that passage, twin spires flanking an endless volcanic cascade. Infernal Duke Furcas oversees the orderly passage of the damned through his realm to the torments beyond. Learn more about one of Hell's most notorious warlords, his eon-old fortress, traits for all infernal dukes, and details on their infernal demesnes.
10. Visions of Hell: Glimpse the face of Hell with one of Pathfinder's most METAL covers ever, by Remko Troost. Inside, you'll also see more of Dis, depictions of infernal personalities, and maps for every diabolical locale.

Illustrations by Eric Belisle and Roberto Pitturru

Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Hell Unleashed debuts at the end of this month. Pick it up, and put the fear of Hell back into your players.

F. Wesley Schneider
Editor-in-Chief & Author

Lord of Runes Sample Chapter

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

In Lord of Runes, when Count Varian Jeggare is bequeathed a dangerous magical book by an old colleague, he and his hellspawn bodyguard Radovan find themselves on the trail of a necromancer bent on becoming the new avatar of an ancient and sinister demigod—one of the legendary runelords. Along with a team of mercenaries and adventurers, the infamous investigators will need to delve into a secret world of dark magic and the legacy of a lost empire. But in saving the world, will Varian and Radovan lose their souls?

Chapter One: The Acadamae

Radovan had placed seven pebbles on the sundial between the shadow and the next hour. As darkness covered the next tiny stone, he flicked it away. It skittered across the plaza, narrowly missing the toes of a woman hurrying east. By her well-made dress of common cloth, the basket trailing a few errant threads, and the distinctive callus on her finger, I took her for a seamstress. She frowned at Radovan. He offered her a wink and the smirk he refers to as "the little smile." She turned away an instant too late to conceal her own smile.

"A servant will bring me the keys at any moment," I said. "Go."

Radovan stretched, pointing his wicked elbow spurs at the sky. His red leather jacket hung loose on his broad shoulders. The tongue of his belt lolled out from the tighter cinch. In the months it had taken us to reach Korvosa, I estimated he had lost seventeen pounds. He nodded toward the gate. "I don't like the way those guys are looking at you."

I turned to see a trio of students emerging from the Acadamae, the girls laughing at the boy's quip. I could only presume that Radovan referred to the hellspawn guarding the gate. The devil-blooded sentries were notorious throughout Korvosa for abusing students and visitors alike.

One of the guards snarled as the students emerged. "What's so damned funny?"

Unlike Radovan, who boasted he could pass in dim light so long as he avoided the "big smile," these hellspawn would never be mistaken for human. One had vestigial gills and an eel's snout; the other could barely see out from beneath a pair of coiling horns.

The students lowered their heads and hastened past. The horned hellspawn whistled after them. The other turned toward me. His piscine eyes lingered on the sword on my hip and the Ustalavic wolfhound at my heel. He weighed the danger and looked away.

Suppressing a smug smile, I turned to Radovan. "As you can see, 'those guys' know better than to menace a count of Cheliax."

"Not those guys," said Radovan. He plucked another pebble from the sundial and made a catapult of his thumb and middle finger. He aimed at the top of the gate. "Those guys."

A spotted raven, a chimera cat, and a potbellied imp peered down at us.

"Radovan, it would be prudent not to—"

Radovan flicked the stone. The half-black, half-orange cat shrieked and fled along the wall. The raven flew into the safety of the Acadamae grounds, but the devil flew toward us, cursing in the guttural tongue of Hell. It demonstrated an impressive vocabulary and a flair for simile.

"That cat might have been a professor's familiar," I said. I drew the Shadowless Sword and plucked a riffle scroll from my pocket. "Or, worse, a master's."

Radovan shrugged, but I saw by his posture he was prepared to produce a razor-sharp throwing dart or star from one of the many secret pockets in his jacket sleeves. "I was aiming for the imp."

Hovering just beyond reach of my blade, the devil hissed, revealing a mouth full of needle-sharp fangs. Radovan hissed back through his big smile, revealing a jumble of teeth a Mendevian general once compared to a demon's armory.

The imp peeped and flew after its cohorts.

Radovan popped his jaw back into joint. He turned to see where the seamstress had gone.

"Go."

"You don't mind if I take the night?"

"Look for me at Upslope House tomorrow. I will return there after I finish cataloging Ygresta's library."

"You got too many books already."

"One can never have too many books. Still, I doubt I shall find any worth keeping. Just strive to remain inconspicuous. Stay out of Thief Camp and Old Korvosa."

"Old Korvosa, huh?"

I should have known better than to present Radovan with a forbiddance. By naming the two districts I most wished him to avoid, I practically ensured he would visit them. "The important thing is to avoid Chelish attention. The moment I receive the queen's summons, I am duty-bound to return home."

Thanks to warnings from military friends in Sarkoris, I had thus far avoided the heralds of Her Infernal Majestrix. I knew what message they must carry: Queen Abrogail would demand to know why I sent her a copy of the Lexicon of Paradox rather than the original. I had prepared several excuses, but none would withstand a rigorous interrogation by the inquisitors of Asmodeus. How could I admit that I trusted the crusader queen of Mendev to use the book for the good of all Avistan? How could I conceal my fervent belief that the queen of Cheliax would use it only to further her own power? One sharp question was all it would take to condemn me to impalement upon the tines.

Self-preservation was not my only motive for remaining abroad. What began as a self-imposed exile to escape scandal had become an adventure. Radovan and I had faced many horrors, and wonders too. Some came not from the fabled lands we visited but from within ourselves. One of the wonders—or horrors—within myself remained an unsolved mystery.

And I hoped to find the answer to that mystery soon, here at the Acadamae in Korvosa. Yet as Queen Abrogail's impatience grew, it was only a matter of time before she instructed one of her sorcerers to contact me with a spell. There were ways to avoid such communication, but none I could safely explain to her inquisitors. When I received the summons, by writ or dream, I would answer.

"You'd think she'd cut you some slack now the war's over," Radovan said.

Despite the sun warming my shoulders, I felt a gloom. "The war is never over."

"Come on, boss, lighten up. Take a picnic over to Jeggare Island. Go for a stroll around Jeggare Square. There's a Jeggare Museum, isn't there? You like museums. You like stuff named after you."

"How many times must I tell you—?"

"Yeah, I know. They named those places for your uncle Monte."

"Montlarion Jeggare the explorer, one of the esteemed founders of Korvosa, my accomplished great-great—"

Arnisant pricked up his ears at the sound of irritation in my voice. I patted his shoulder. A sly smile grew at the corner of Radovan's mouth. He was trying to be amusing. As usual, he succeeded more at being trying than at being amusing.

"I just wish you could relax is all," he said. "Ever since we hit town, you've been tense."

"Tense" was too small a word for the vexation I felt since meeting with Toff Ornelos. What I sought from the headmaster was an explanation of why the Acadamae had failed to detect my magical bloodline, which I had discovered only recently. For reasons of their own, the proctors allowed me to engage in a futile struggle to master the science of wizardry when they should have turned me away to develop my innate talents under the tutelage of a sorcerer.

Instead of answers, what the headmaster gave me was news that one of my oldest friends had died having named me executor of his meager estate. Headmaster Ornelos would hear none of my complaints until I had dispensed with what he deemed the more urgent matter.

Yet none of that was Radovan's fault. I looked him in the eye and said, "There is a park."

"Huh?"

"Jeggare Green. It is a modest size, but Queen Domina dedicated it to me, not my ancestor."

"'Jeggare Green,'" Radovan mused. "I'll look for it. If you're all right, then I'm going to—" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the vanished seamstress.

"Go!"

Radovan departed at a jog.

I turned back to the hellspawn gatekeepers. They glowered but kept their tongues still. I wondered whether their caution had more to do with my sword or my hound. The Shadowless Sword was swift and Arnisant fearless, but the guards had more to fear from my spells—both those inscribed on the riffle scrolls concealed throughout my coat and those I could summon by force of will, now that I understood that I was a sorcerer rather than a wizard.

The guards turned at the approach of another student from inside the Acadamae grounds. Rather than taunt the woman, they bowed as she passed.

The hem of her skirt swirled about her ankles as she strode toward me with swift grace. Upon each hand she wore a jeweled ring, and around her throat a cameo on a black ribbon. Across her hips hung a plaited belt holding a pair of holstered wands and a tooled-leather pouch, to which she had pinned the silver Acadamae badge that granted her access to the campus. To my surprise, I could not estimate her age more precisely than mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Ordinarily I could make a guess accurate to within two years.

On impulse, I uttered a brief cantrip. The spell indicated powerful magic on the woman's cameo, rings, pouch, and wands, but none on the woman herself.

"Count Varian Jeggare." Her eyes registered surprise as she drew near. "Why, you look entirely rejuvenated, if a bit underfed. You must come to my father's house and let us give you supper."

Unable to recall her name, I bowed and fell back on a banal courtesy: "You are as lovely as ever, my lady."

Her lips quirked—with pleasure or amusement, I could not tell. My inability to read her expression irked me.

My gaze slipped from the woman's deep purple eyes to the cameo at her throat. Carved into the stone was an exquisite death's head moth, its wings dappled in tawny shades fading to ivory.

"Did I see you cast a spell as I approached?" she said.

It was bad form to cast a spell on a fellow noble. "A minor divination, lady, nothing to violate your person. Forgive me. I must strive to shed my wartime habits."

"No apology necessary. We are all grateful to those who held back the Worldwound demons. Besides, no one can cross the campus without being subjected to a few divinations, if not a transmutation when the upperclassmen feel prankish. I just didn't think you could do that."

"Do what?"

"Cast a spell."

"Ah." My disability was not a well-kept secret, but few were bold enough to mention it to my face.

With a gesture for me to follow, the woman led me through the gates. As we strolled along the gravel path, Arnisant snuffled at her shadow and growled.

"Arnisant, heel!" The hound returned to my side, his gaze locked on the lady's feet. "I beg your pardon. He is usually better behaved. Perhaps he too must shake off the rude habits of war."

The woman lifted her skirt a few inches and examined the soles of her boots. They were of a fashion popular decades earlier, one that I found uncommonly fetching. "Perhaps I stepped in something as I passed the conjurers." She appraised Arnisant, who remained calm. "May I pet him?"

She showed no fear, so I nodded.

The hound remained still as a statue as she stroked the curly gray fur on his head. "What a handsome fellow. And what a fine name for him."

Since I was in Ustalav when I found Arnisant, I named him for the famous general who martyred himself to defeat the Whispering Tyrant. "My grandfather always said, 'Give a dog a good name.'"

"Because others will think you a brute if you call him 'Fang'?"

"For that reason too, but also as a practical blessing. When you give a dog a brutal name, your tone grooms him to become a brutal animal each time you call to him. But a dog hears respect as well as scorn. Call him by a hero's name, and he may become a hero himself."

"In that case, Arnisant must be ready to give his life for you."

That notion troubled me more than it ought, for I had grown fonder of Arnisant than of any other dog I had raised.

We continued our walk across campus. Plots of ornamental foliage provided a Chelish order to the grassy swards between the academic buildings. The spring flowers perfumed the grounds. A bell from the Hall of Summoning tolled the hour. Moments later, students spilled out to enjoy a few minutes outside before their next classes began.

"They look so young, don't they?" said the woman beside me. Her smile should have seemed familiar, yet it did not. Still I could not place a name with her face.

In my memory library, the mental construct I have nurtured for nearly a century, I perused the gallery of every Korvosan aristocrat I had ever met. The woman's black hair and purple eyes suggested she shared my mother's Azlanti heritage, the rarest of bloodlines. She bore none of the other Jeggare features, which my father's elven blood muted in me.

I nodded agreement and smiled before looking away, pretending to take in the scenery while wracking my memory for her identity. As we passed the statue of Acadamae founder Volshyenek Ornelos, I found a clue in his countenance.

I last met unfamiliar members of House Ornelos at the funeral of Fedele Ornelos, one of the finest men I ever had the privilege to call friend. After the memorials, I remained in Korvosa to attend to business. In the evenings I renewed old acquaintances and established new ones. Among the new were young scions of the noble families, including House Ornelos. Children seldom leave an impression on me, but I record their names and ages in my memory library nevertheless.

My escort was surely one of Fedele's nieces, making her the grandniece of Toff Ornelos and thus accounting for the deference the hellspawn guards showed her. No doubt the headmaster had sent his grandniece to keep me and my hundred questions out of his office.

Arnisant woofed as a raven swooped near. Once more I drew the Shadowless Sword from its scabbard, but not to strike. In addition to its swiftness, the blade revealed the truth beneath any illusion. It revealed the raven's true form as that of another imp.

"Don't let them frighten you," said the woman. "The familiars are worse bullies than the guards. Professor Ygresta had the right idea. Each term he would destroy one as an example to the others. They never harried him as they do some of the timid professors."

The Shadowless Sword revealed no illusion on the woman. I put away my blade. "Was he not concerned he would kill a colleague's familiar?"

"Oh, no," she said. "He always summoned the imp himself."

Her anecdote brought a nostalgic smile to my lips.

"So it's true he learned that custom from you?" she said.

"Not the idea of a warning demonstration, but I might have provided the inspiration." Even before the rise of House Thrune, summoning a devil was a mandatory exercise at the Acadamae. There was no requirement to keep the fiend as a familiar, however, nor to let it free to torment the citizens of Korvosa, as so many reckless students do. Though the convulsions I suffered while casting the spell were agonizing, I gladly suffered them again to destroy the fiend after the proctors recorded my success. One less devil in Korvosa. One less inch of the world surrendered to Asmodeus.

As we passed the Hall of Whispers, a stench of boiling urine from the necromantic laboratories wet my eyes. I plucked a scented handkerchief from my sleeve and offered it to the lady.

She waved it away. "After four years among the cauldrons, I became quite immune to the stench."

"Ah." The significance of the moth on her cameo struck me. "You specialized in necromancy."

"Your favorite subject." Her tone indicated that she knew of my disdain for her specialty.

"Ah."

"Ah." She softened her mimicry with a smile. "Uncle Toff warned me that you despise necromancers, but I know that can't be universally true. After all, Professor Ygresta was your friend."

Despite our social disparity, Benigno Ygresta had been a friend of a sort. In fact, he had been perhaps my oldest living friend, although I had seldom seen him in the seven decades since we left the Acadamae. I decided not to mention that we first met when I hired the lowborn Ygresta as my bottle-washer, a menial job he gladly accepted to supplement his paltry income.

"You studied with Ygresta?" I asked.

"He was the one who persuaded me to join the Hall of Whispers. I'd always thought only ghouls and grave robbers would study the art, but he caught my attention by demonstrating the best spell I had ever seen. Eventually, his lectures on the ethical applications of necromancy won me over. His life-matter theory alone should have earned him distinction, if only he could have won over the masters."

I nodded sadly, remembering one of Benigno Ygresta's many shortcomings: he had little talent for the subtle politics of wizards, especially the more conservative masters of the Acadamae. "Ygresta always struggled to express his fancies as proofs the traditional necromancers could embrace."

"I'm more than half certain they were more than fancies," she said. "But you're right: He could never satisfy the masters that they were more than eccentric ideas. Everyone always thought it was another part of his hopeless quest to improve the Acadamae's reputation."

I was familiar with Ygresta's arguments that necromancy was not inherently evil. His points were cogent enough, sometimes even compelling. Yet even if I could overcome my disdain for the ghouls and grave robbers, as my enigmatic companion described her colleagues, I would never break a promise to my mother.

"The professor once told me that you could have been one of the best necromancers at the Acadamae, if only you'd chosen to pursue our specialty."

"Arcane theory was my best subject." It was in practice that I had failed, not in principle. Even through the long decades when I barely dared to cast a meager cantrip, my knowledge of the arcane served me well.

"Let me guess: you studied evocation."

There's nothing Varian loves more than a good book—except maybe an evil one.

"Did the headmaster tell you that?"

"No one told me anything."

"Why do you guess evocation?"

"Am I wrong?"

"No," I admitted. Not only had I failed to read her expressions, but she seemed singularly capable of reading me. "But I still want to know why you guessed it."

"You strike me as the fire-and-lightning type."

Much as I despise being categorized, I held my tongue. One does not wish to seem defensive.

She continued leading the way to Ygresta's rooms. I continued to worry at the knot of her identity.

Realizing she was Toff Ornelos's grandniece narrowed the possibilities. When I had met them, the girls had ranged from ages six to fifteen. This woman was surely not Nicoletta, who married an ambassador to Sargava and likely resided there still. I did not think she was Letizia, whose constant yawning was her singular attribute. Of the others I remembered only names and relative ages. The youngest was Ambra, and her sisters were Filomena, whom Shelyn had blessed with exceptional beauty, and Illyria, whom the goddess had overlooked.

With that thought, I knew the answer.

By virtue of my half-elven longevity, I had seen generations of human children grow to adulthood. Lady Illyria was not the first ugly duckling to become a swan, but hers was the most pronounced transformation I had witnessed. The nose that seemed thin in childhood had grown regal, the fey cheekbones elegant. As a girl, she had barely spoken to me, yet I could now envision her watching the adults in silence while her sisters chattered among themselves.

Past the Hall of Whispers, we came to a row of faculty cottages. At the farthest, she climbed three steps up onto the landing and unlocked the door. Turning with a flourish, she offered me the key.

Also with a flourish, I held the door for her. "After you, Lady Illyria."

"Ah!" she said, still mimicking me. She straightened a pin holding her hair in a display of purple-frosted roses. "I knew my name would come to you eventually."

I recalled that Illyria's mother lived in Westcrown while her father—Fedele's sickly brother, nephew to Headmaster Toff Ornelos—kept a home in Korvosa. "How is your father's health?"

"I am making sure he eats properly before I sail to Riddleport next month."

"To Riddleport?" The city was more popular with pirates than with gentlewomen.

"Some friends are throwing an eclipse party beneath the Cyphergate."

I resisted the impulse to correct her use of the term. The phenomenon is more accurately an occultation of the sun, not an eclipse. Yet one does not wish to seem pedantic.

Inside, the cottage appeared largely undisturbed since Ygresta's death. Someone had stripped the sheets from the sagging mattress in the bedroom. We shooed flies from unwashed dishes in the kitchen but were relieved to discover the pantry had been cleared. A film of dust had accumulated on the furniture.

The sitting room featured a pair of overstuffed chairs beside the hearth. A deep depression in one seat indicated Ygresta's favorite. On the wall behind it hung a portrait of the man. His tall figure was much as I remembered, if withered. It had been decades since we last met, so I had never seen Ygresta's thinning gray hair, his round spectacles, or his sunken cheeks. Recognizing the portrait as the work of a painter who had died twenty years ago, I wondered how much more time had ravaged Ygresta before death. Considering he was the same age as I, and wholly human, he had enjoyed an exceptional life span.

"They say he slipped away in his sleep," Lady Illyria said. Sorrow tinged her voice.

"Then the Tender of Dreams kissed his face." I sketched the wings of Desna over my heart.

Illyria drew the spiral of Pharasma over hers. How strange, I thought, for a necromancer to invoke the Lady of Graves, whose priests abhor the undead. No stranger to the paradoxes of character, I found this anomaly deepened my curiosity about the woman.

After a moment, we broke our separate reveries.

"The library?" I asked.

"Between the dungeon and the torture chamber," she said, her voice sinister yet whimsical.

We descended a spiraling iron staircase. Magical flames sprang up in glass fixtures, casting our shadows behind the bars of the railings. Arnisant followed us down to the wooden floor and sniffed the corners of the room. Again he growled.

"Arnisant!" He came to heel.

Lady Illyria sniffed. "I can't blame him. This place is full of weird stinks."

That was so. The library smelled more like an alchemist's laboratory. Shelves lined the walls, except where they parted for a fireplace and two doors. One door stood open, revealing a cluttered storeroom. Judging from the odor, the closed door concealed a privy.

Librams, chapbooks, scrolls, folios, and loose manuscripts crammed the shelves. The collection was smaller than expected. At a glance, I estimated I could complete the inventory within a day. The sooner the cottage became available for another tenant, the better pleased the headmaster would be. Pleased enough to answer my inquiries, I hoped.

Knickknacks interrupted the ranks of books. Apart from a devil's skull and a brass candelabrum resembling a hand of glory, I spied few tokens of necromancy. Between the shelves stood a pair of tables. One lay empty, one stacked with crates overflowing with packing straw. A ledger, brush, and paste-pot lay beside a stack of blank labels, as the custodians had promised.

Ygresta's desk stood across from the tables, before the little fireplace. Beside it hung a birdcage, empty but for a dry water dish and a carpet of hardened fecal matter. At my approach, a brass lamp flared to life, spilling light on the desktop.

There in the center of the desk, upon a discolored paper blotter, rested a teak box beneath a calling card inscribed with my name.

Without disturbing the card, I scanned the box for magic. Detecting none, I scanned the room. The lamp above the desk and the lights on the stair radiated steady magic. On a few of the shelved books I discerned traces of metamorphosis spells. The latter were likely the residue of simple preservative spells, but their presence suggested more valuable tomes. Those I set aside for further study.

"The professor left his entire library to you?" said Illyria.

"His will names me his executor but indicates no beneficiaries, so in effect he did. After gathering the collection into lots, I will circulate an inventory to the Acadamae librarians and entertain their requests."

"You won't keep it for yourself? I thought you liked books."

"Perhaps one or two volumes." My library surely already contained any interesting volumes I might find here, but I did not say so. One does not wish to boast.

"In that case, may I be the first to lodge a request?"

"On behalf of the Hall of Whispers?"

"On behalf of myself."

So, I thought, Illyria was not merely smoothing over her uncle's sour greeting. She had her own agenda as well. "Name it."

She indicated a shelf of chapbooks. "Professor Ygresta's collection of the Pathfinder Chronicles."

My own collection was the most comprehensive I had ever seen. It included volumes dating from the very founding of the Pathfinder Society, with many annotated duplicates. In the unlikely event I should find one I lacked on Ygresta's meager shelf, I would claim it. But I saw no harm in giving Illyria the rest. "Is that all?"

She averted her eyes. "If you aren't taking them, perhaps also your letters?"

"My letters?"

"Please."

Her blush appeared genuine, but a sincere appearance is the goal of every ruse. "My letters to Professor Ygresta?"

"Exactly." She withdrew a pasteboard box from a shelf and lay it before me. I opened the drawer and saw it was full of letters, all addressed to Professor Benigno Ygresta in my handwriting.

Out of a sense of collegial obligation, I had always responded to his letters about current affairs at the Acadamae with some account of my latest excursion. The letters contained nothing not also reported to the Society. Naturally, I never mentioned military, political, or personal matters to someone beneath the aristocracy. I could not fathom what interest they might hold for Lady Illyria.

The foremost letter was my most recent message, a request for Ygresta to speak on my behalf to Headmaster Toff Ornelos, for whom I had so many questions about my admission and education at the Acadamae.

"I'm sorry." Lady Illyria winced. "I knew it was too much to ask."

For a moment I considered whether she was flirting with me. Long before I reached the age of maturity, my mother armored me against the attentions of women attracted more to my wealth than to myself. Yet Illyria did not strike me as the type. An Acadamae graduate would be far too intelligent to expect me to succumb to such manipulation.

Whatever her agenda, I could think of no harm that could come from giving her the letters. Moreover, a favor to her was a favor to the headmaster. I still required answers to my questions.

"You will understand that I must review the letters before deciding."

She brightened. "Naturally."

"Then let us revisit the matter after I have finished cataloging the library."

She rubbed her palms together. "In that case, let me help."

Before I could protest, she drew a wooden disk from her pouch. She wound a string around a slot in its circumference and flicked the disk away. As she uttered the spell, the whirling disk reached the end of the string and vanished. In its place, a whirlwind stirred the loose pages on the nearest shelves.

"Start in there." She directed her invisible servant toward the storeroom. "Dust every surface, but move nothing."

While I appreciated her careful instructions, I preferred to discharge my duty in solitude. "Lady Illyria, I assure you I require no assistance."

"You'll choke to death on these cobwebs before we can have you to dinner." She fanned away the cloud already emerging from the storeroom. "There must be a window in one of these rooms."

She cast a light on the palm of her hand and entered the storeroom.

With a resigned sigh, I sat before Ygresta's desk. The chair felt too large, but so did my coat. Radovan was not the only one who had lost weight during our journey. Arnisant sat at my foot, sniffing to confirm I had no food to share. I admonished him with a look, and he laid his head on his crossed paws, the guilty beggar. During the worst of our privations on our journey from the Worldwound, I had succumbed to pity and secretly fed the hound a portion of my ration. He learned to linger whenever I ate. Now I had to be strict with him lest he learn to beg whenever I sat before a table.

The box on Ygresta's desk appeared to be of recent construction, no more than a year or so old. The golden teak was of a type commonly imported to Varisia from eastern Garund, but in the carving I spied the iconography of ancient Thassilon.

I lifted the card bearing my name. Engraved on the box's lid was the sihedron, a star with each of its seven points notched like one of Radovan's throwing blades. I had seen the symbol etched on artifacts recovered from the demesnes of the long-lost runelords and their predecessor, the great King Xin, Emperor of Thassilon.

Illyria emerged from the storeroom with a bottle of wine. "Was 4690 a good year?" She presented the bottle like a sommelier.

The label had begun curling at the edges. The bottle was from one of my best vineyards, but an early frost had bruised the grapes that year. "That vintage has not aged as well as others."

"There's plenty more where that came from. What's a good year?"

"Is there any '84?"

"I see bottles dated back to the Age of Enthronement. You could open a shop with all of these."

Since I left Korvosa upon my graduation from the Acadamae, it had become my custom to send a gift of each year's wine to friends and associates in the city. Benigno received only one bottle annually, so I was surprised so much remained. "Did Ygresta stop drinking wine?"

"We didn't exactly run in the same social circles."

"No, of course not." Despite his academic accomplishments, modest though they were, Benigno Ygresta remained a vintner's son.

"What have you found there, a sihedron?" Illyria sat on the corner of the desk and peered at the box. "You see all sorts of adventurers with those lately."

"Do you?"

She nodded. "Fortune-hunters have been dredging up Thassilonian artifacts all across Varisia. So many Pathfinders have been exploring the region that they opened a new lodge in Magnimar. Oh, but of course as a venture-captain you already knew that."

In fact, I did not know of a new lodge, but I had no desire to discuss my estrangement from the Society and its ten anonymous leaders whose motives I no longer trusted.

I opened the box. Inside I found a thick stack of unmarked parchment. The pages fit perfectly inside the box's velvet lining, suggesting the container had been made to size. I retrieved a magnifying glass and a pair of clean white gloves from the satchel. A cursory inspection offered no clue as to the parchment's age or origin. Even with the aid of my glass, I could not identify what animal's skin constituted the material. Removing the parchment, I felt its substantial weight. Its outermost pages, only slightly thicker than the rest, formed its only binding.

"It's a book," said Illyria. "A codex, to be precise."

The study of ancient manuscripts remained one of my abiding interests, so I appreciated her specificity. "You must have earned full marks in Paleography."

"One of my best subjects." She made no attempt to disguise her pride.

I flipped through the pages. The interior was as blank as the covers.

"A gift of stationery?" said Illyria. "The professor often said how much he enjoyed reading accounts of your travels. Maybe he intended you to use it as your next journal."

"Perhaps. But if it was a gift, why not send it to me?"

"Maybe he wanted to give it to you in person."

"Then why leave a calling card with my name upon it? Except for a recent message I sent him, we had not corresponded in several years. He never told me I was to execute his will. He left me no instructions."

She picked up the calling card I had set aside. "Perhaps he had just begun making arrangements."

That was as reasonable a suggestion as any, but it hardly satisfied the questions of the carved box and the blank pages. Setting aside the box, I began to lay down the codex but paused when I noticed the stains on the blotter. Among the usual ink spots and food stains lay a dark spatter surrounding a rectangular void.

"Let me tear that away for you." Lady Illyria reached for the blotter page.

"No, leave it." I laid the codex in the blank space within the spatter. Its corners fit one side of the blank. I opened the pages to lie flat, and it fit perfectly within the unblemished space.

"He must have spilled wine," said Lady Illyria. "Later he cleaned the pages with a spell."

That was possible, but I did not like the color. I rubbed a gloved finger across the stain. Faint granular residue remained on the white cloth. "Not wine. Blood."

"How interesting."

I raised an eyebrow.

She wrinkled her nose. "I mean, how gruesome."

The stain was beyond interesting. Ygresta had left me far more than a codex of blank pages. He had left me that which I love best: a mystery.

Purchase the whole novel here!

Illustration by Eric Belisle.

I Smell the Blood of a Player Character

Thursday, June 11, 2015

The first three volumes of the Giantslayer Adventure Path are out in the wild, and in a short time the fourth volume, Pathfinder Adventure Path #94: Ice Tomb of the Giant Queen will be hitting stores and subscribers' doorsteps (and downloads). Hopefully, if you're not playing though this campaign, some of you have been living vicariously through the Order of the Amber Die by reading along and looking at all the amazing pictures they have been sharing with us all from their marathon sessions. (If not, go check it out now: Giantslayer Marathon: Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.)

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Illustrations by Johan Grenier and Miguel Regodon Harkness.

It's been a wild and dangerous ride so far filled with towering odds and heavy hitters, and that's not about to stop. In fact, things are just going to get harder for your PCs as we step up the ranks of the giants.

Illustrations by Johan Grenier and Ekaterina Maximovich

Here are some of the things you'll encounter in the second half of the campaign. In Pathfinder Adventure Path #94: Ice Tomb of the Giant Queen the PCs have to take on a frost giant village and later on they come across one of the more rare types of giants in the Inner Sea.

Illustrations by Johan Grenier and Eric Belisle

Then, in Pathfinder Adventure Path #95: Anvil of Fire, the PCs assault an elite fire giant training facility in their way to finding the Storm Tyrant. The PCs also get a chance to put a hellhound in a headlock.

Illustrations by Aleksey Bayura and Yigit Koroglu

Wrapping things up (assuming everyone is still alive) Pathfinder Adventure Path #96: Shadow of the Storm Tyrant gives the PCs a chance to finally put an end to the Storm Tyrant's ambitious push at starting a new giant empire and subjugating the smaller folk of Avistan. Along the way the PCs encounter evil cloud giants and some new strange creatures, and hopefully emerge alive and victorious.

Illustration by Roberto Pitturru

Oh, remember when we said that there were more than just giants in this Adventure Path? Yeah, there are dragons too.

Adam Daigle
Developer

2014 Art Review

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

As we close out 2014, I wanted to end on a high note and give you one last year-end blog. I went to our Managing Art Director Sarah Robinson and Senior Art Director Andrew Vallas to get some help rounding up some favorite illustrations from the past year. Seeing how great their selections were, I also asked various members of our editorial team to pick a few of their own favorites to add. So here are some of our best illustrations from 2014!

Let's start off with some covers! The above are selections were made by Andrew, Sarah, and Developer John Compton.

Pathfinder Roleplaying Game: Monster Codex Illustrated by Wayne Reynolds, Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Lost Treasures Illustrated by Igor Grechanyi,
Pathfinder Module: Plunder and Peril Illustrated by Kiki Moch Rizky, and Pathfinder Player Companion: Alchemy Manual Illustrated by Kerem Beyit

Monsters and gods are up next! The above selections were made by Andrew, Sarah, and Designer Stephen Radney-MacFarland

Pathfinder Roleplaying Game: Monster Codex Illustrations by Subroto Bhaumik and Jason Rainville, Pathfinder Adventure Path #80: Empty Graves Illustration by Johan Grenier,
Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Occult Mysteries Illustration by Ralph Horsley, and Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Inner Sea Gods Illustration by Yu Cheng Hong

Brigh and Zyphus are two of the many Golarion deities featured this year. The above selections were made by Adam Daigle and myself.

Pathfinder Adventure Path #86: Lords of Rust Illustration by Johan Grenier, and Pathfinder Adventure Path #89: Palace of Fallen Stars Illustration by Matias Tapia

And to round out this art blog, some portraits of deities, monsters and important characters of 2014!
The above selections were made by Andrew, Associate Editor Judy Bauer, Editor Ryan Macklin, Developer Rob McCreary, and Managing Editor James L. Sutter

Pathfinder Roleplaying Game: Monster Codex Illustration by Tim Kings-Lynne, Pathfinder Adventure Path #80: Empty Graves Illustrations by Ekaterina Burmak,
Pathfinder Adventure Path #84: Pyramid of the Sky Pharaoh Illustration by Johan Grenier, Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Inner Sea Gods Illustration by Maichol Quinto, and
Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine Illustration by Eric Belisle

What was your favorite piece of Pathfinder art from 2014?

Mark Moreland
Developer

Pirate's Promise Sample Chapter

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

In Pirate's Promise, Torius Vin is perfectly happy with his life as a pirate captain, sailing the Inner Sea with a bold crew of buccaneers and Celeste, his snake-bodied navigator and one true love. Yet all that changes when his sometimes-friend Vreva Jhafae—a high-powered courtesan and abolitionist spy in the slaver stronghold of Okeno—draws him into her shadowy network of secret agents. Caught between the slavers he hates and a navy that sees him as a criminal, can Torius continue to choose the path of piracy? Or will he sign on as a privateer, bringing freedom to others—at the price of his own?

Chapter One: Auspicious Arrivals

Raucous laughter shook every cup and tankard in the bar. Windy Kate wiped ale from her chin and handed over a silver coin, having just lost a bet that she could drink a tankard without touching it with her hands or spilling any. Torius Vin leaned comfortably against the bar, close enough for a good view, but far enough to avoid getting wet.

"They're a noisy lot." The barkeep scowled as he refilled Torius's glass.

"Just a little well-deserved celebration." Torius sipped the fine spiced rum. The barkeep might not like Stargazer's boisterous crew, but he couldn't complain about the coin they were spending.

"We might be noisy, but we smell good!" Grogul drained his tankard and thumped it down on the bar, grinning at his captain. "Damn near forgot what it was like to be really clean. Thanks again, Captain."

"The least I could do." After a month at sea, springing for a stint at Trillia's Bathhouse for his entire crew had been worth every scarab. Besides, he could afford it.

Torius sipped, surveyed the well-mannered debauchery, and sighed in contentment. The scam they had just pulled off had been a near thing, but even after subtracting Vreva Jhafae's cut and the crew's shares, he had more gold than he could imagine spending. He could buy another ship and still have enough to live handsomely for years.

"A shame Celeste couldn't join us." Grogul accepted his refilled tankard and quaffed a third of it.

Torius doubted that Celeste regretted using all her daily transformation spells on the trip to Trillia's. Lunar nagas didn't sweat, and a quick swipe with a damp cloth was enough to cleanse her scales of dust and dirt, so their trip to the bathhouse had been a novel experience. He smiled as he recalled her look of delight as she immersed her human form into the hot, sudsy water, reveling in the luxury.

"She's busy planning our trip to the Observatory anyway."

More laughter rang from the betting circle. One of the caravan guards with whom the Stargazers were competing had spilled ale all over himself, and good-naturedly handed a silver back to Windy Kate. She wiped the ale from his chin with a sultry gleam in her eye amid the hoots of the onlookers.

"When you leavin'?" Grogul asked.

"Oh, not for a few days, at least. I need to discuss the alterations to Stargazer with Snick, and set up an account that she and Thillion can draw on for the work."

Grogul snorted. "Give that gnome free rein, and she'll spend you into the poorhouse."

Torius couldn't deny the truth of that. He'd already ordered Thillion to keep Snick's modifications under close supervision.

"And how long's this little vacation gonna take?" Grogul sipped his ale and narrowed his eyes at his captain, but Torius just grinned.

"A few weeks at least, more likely a month. Why? Are you bored already?"

"Just thinkin' about the crew sittin' in Katapesh for so long with nothin' to do. Boredom and money are a dangerous combination."

"Once Stargazer's back to her old self, Thillion could run a load of cargo up to Absalom or Sothis."

"Aye, that might keep 'em out of trouble." Grogul scratched his chin in thought. "Fenric should be able to handle the crew for a simple cargo run."

"Fenric?" Torius cocked an eyebrow. "And where will you be?"

"With you, of course. The desert's a dangerous place! Got a few others picked out to—"

A harsh shout and a crash brought the festivities to an abrupt halt.

"Uh-oh." Grogul slammed his tankard down, his eyes suddenly as sharp as the two kukris tucked through his sash.

Torius followed his bosun's gaze and saw Fenric with a bared cutlass in his hand. The Stargazers and caravan guards glared at one another across the tankard-littered table. Between them, Windy Kate slumped in a chair, spilled ale dampening her lap. Two more Stargazers sprawled in similar conditions nearby.

The hairs stood up on the back of Torius's neck. Something was wrong. Later in the evening, after much more drinking, passed-out crew members would not have been an untoward occurrence. But this early? Not a chance.

"No fighting!" the barkeep bellowed over the growls of the crowd.

"I'll handle this." Torius strode forward, Grogul at his flank. "What's going on here, Fenric?"

The bosun's mate pointed his cutlass at one of the caravan guards, a swarthy man with short-cropped hair and a long, angular jaw. "That motherless son of a scrub slipped somethin' in Kate's ale! She's out like yesterday's bilge water! Troy and Fenthis, too!"

"That's a load of camel dung!" the man protested. "They just can't hold their booze!"

One glance and Torius knew the man was lying. But why would they be drugging his sailors? He bristled with rage when he considered that they might be slavers out to supplement their stock by preying on the unwary. Whatever they were, they were outnumbered. Though Torius had no doubt that his score of pirates would prevail over a dozen caravan guards, a fight would be bad. Katapesh was their home port, and the Zephyr Guard enforced the laws of the Pactmasters with unwavering efficiency. A little diplomacy was called for.

"Stow your blade, Fenric." The man dutifully slid his cutlass into its sheath. Torius nodded toward the door as he glared at the caravan guards. "Now, you all move on to another bar. We don't like your tricks and we're not going to play your games."

"You move on! We were here first!" Spittle flew from the leader's bared teeth, and his hand edged closer to the hilt of the gleaming axe at his hip.

"Now friend, you really don't want to start something you can't finish." Torius nodded to his grim-faced crew. "We don't want trouble, but—"

Six more Stargazers suddenly crumpled to the floor, taking the pirates' numerical advantage with them. Torius's stomach clenched, and as he reached for his cutlass, he realized just how much trouble they were in.

The leader's eyes gleamed with malice as his face and form changed. His jaw elongated and opened wide, baring prominent canines dripping with saliva. Thick fur sprouted from his skin, and his legs bent backward into the limbs of a bipedal canine.

"What in the name of Gozreh?" Torius doubted if even the sea god could give him an answer. He recognized the features and coloration of the jackals he'd seen in the wildlands around Katapesh. Only those were much smaller and didn't clutch weapons in claw-tipped hands.

The leader's axe flashed as the werejackal lunged at Torius.

"Stargazers!" As Torius drew his cutlass to parry, a kukri flashed past his ear to cut a deep line in the werejackal's neck, ruining the creature's aim. Torius turned his parry into a slash that opened the other side of his assailant's neck, and the beast went down in a spray of blood.

The barkeep's high-pitched shouts rose over the din, but none paid heed. Accustomed to fighting in tight quarters and on uneven footing, the pirates reacted as a single unit. Fenric kicked the table into two more charging werejackals and fought off a third, while the remaining Stargazers formed up to protect their unconscious comrades.

Grogul snatched up the fallen werejackal's axe and stepped to Torius's side. "Come on!" His bellow shook the walls and, from the sudden doubt in the eyes of the leaderless werejackals, their morale as well.

In the brief lull, Torius considered reining in his pirates, but the werejackals had obviously been trying to kidnap some of his people, either to sell as slaves or to have for dinner. To let them go without a proper lesson simply wouldn't do. Torius grinned at the snarling creatures. "It's time we taught these curs how to heel! Have at 'em, Stargazers!"

The pirates leapt to the attack, battle cries rising from their throats. The werejackals met the assault with blades and gnashing teeth. Torius's new opponent was a quick creature wielding a jagged scimitar and a set of fangs capped with sharpened steel. Parrying the scimitar with his cutlass, Torius drew his fighting dagger and plunged the blade into the toothy maw. Teeth like sabers raked the back of his hand, but the tip of the blade pierced the back of the creature's throat. Hot blood gushed out over Torius's hand and the werejackal fell twitching to the floor. To his left, Grogul's axe reduced his opponent's skull to a spray of shattered bone and meat, while to his right, Fenric scored a deep gash in his adversary's arm.

In no time, half of the werejackals were on the floor, either bleeding or dead. The survivors disengaged and dashed for the exits. The Stargazers let them go, chasing them only with a resounding cheer of victory.

"For Stargazer!" Torius thrust his cutlass high in the air.

His crew cheered and waved their weapons in menacing arcs, more inebriated by their victory than the ale and rum they'd imbibed. Only two Stargazers had taken wounds, neither serious. Torius wiped his sword clean on the tattered shirt of the werejackal leader, snapped it into its scabbard, and bellowed for a round of drinks. The barkeep was nowhere to be found, however, so Torius took the liberty of grabbing a bottle of rum from behind the bar and emptying it into the cups and tankards of his cheering crew. The ones who had fallen unconscious roused easily enough, though they were upset at having missed the fun. Windy Kate, Troy, and Fenthis blinked in confusion, unsure of what had happened.

Torius raised his cup high and shouted for silence. "To the crew of Stargazer! Best damn buccaneers in the whole Inner Sea!"

Torius quaffed his rum amid the cheers of his crew and started pouring the next round, but their celebration was interrupted by a hard-toned shout from the tavern's entrance.

"Drop your weapons in the name of the Zephyr Guard!"

As one, the Stargazers turned toward this new threat. Torius heard a low growl from his bosun's throat, but he knew instantly that this was not a fight they could win. A half-dozen troops flanked the Zephyr Guard squad leader, who had not even drawn her sword. She had no need to. The monstrous aluum that ducked low to enter the tavern ensured her safety. Humanoid in shape, but twice the height of Grogul, the aluum eyed them passionlessly. Created and controlled by the Pactmasters, the virtually indestructible magical constructs were powered by the bound souls of executed slaves and prisoners, and knew no mercy.

"Stand down, Stargazers." Torius waved his crew back and strode forward, executing a respectful bow to the squad leader. She wore no badge of rank other than the gleaming blue gem dangling around her neck. She needed no other badge, for that trinket commanded the hulking aluum. "I'm glad you arrived. We were beset by these creatures and had just managed to fight them off." He waved a hand at the dead werejackals.

"He wrecked my bar!" The barkeep advanced from behind the Zephyrs. He pointed at the broken furniture, blood, and gore that littered the floor. "I'm ruined!"

"Oh, you're not ruined, man," Torius argued. "Nothing that a carpenter and a little soap and water won't fix! And we didn't do any of the wrecking! Three of my people were drugged, several more rendered unconscious, and we were attacked. You saw it happen!"

"I saw nothing of the kind!" A gleam of avarice outshone the despondency in the bartender's eyes for just a moment, but long enough to show Torius the game he would play. The werejackals were long gone, so the only source of gold left was Torius. "These ruffians were loud and drunk and looking for a fight!"

"We were not." Torius turned to the Zephyr Guard squad leader. "Please, ma'am, my name is Captain Torius Vin. I'm a guildsman in good standing, and these are my crew. Ruffians we are not! We were simply celebrating our arrival in port, and ended up defending ourselves from these creatures. This was not our fault, but since the guilty parties have fled, I'll be happy to pay for the damages."

"I'm pressing charges!" The barkeep folded his arms over his skinny chest in defiance. "It'll take a month to put this place to rights, and I'll lose my lease if I can't bring in customers. My livelihood is ruined!"

Torius refused to even look at the man for fear that he couldn't keep his hands from around his lying throat. "That's a complete fabrication. My crew can have this place spit and polish by tomorrow evening, and I'm willing to do so out of my own pocket. He's after more than his due."

"And what about the rumors? My business will be ruined when the whole city finds out that there were murders here!"

"Nobody's been murdered!" Torius rounded on the man, so furious at the accusations that his hand slipped unthinkingly to the hilt of his sword. "You're lying just to get more money out of me, and I won't stand here and—"

There’s far more to Vreva than meets the eye.

"Enough!" The Zephyr Guard squad leader's shout rivaled Grogul's. Everyone fell silent. "Master Helwek, Captain Vin has offered to pay for damages and repair your establishment out of his own pocket. That sounds fair to me. Will you not have an end to this without bringing the guard into it?"

"I'm pressing charges!" the bartender repeated, his face red. "Disorderly conduct, public drunkenness, destruction of property, and loss of livelihood due to wanton negligence."

"Public drunkenness? Gozreh's guts, man, it's a tavern!"

"Arrest this man! I insist!" He pointed a shaking finger at Torius.

Torius seethed, but managed to compose his face before turning to the squad leader. "My people want no trouble with the Zephyr Guard, ma'am. We'll go quietly, but you better add one more charge to that list."

The woman's brow wrinkled in confusion. "What charge might that be, Captain Vin?"

"Assault."

Now it was the bartender's turn to look confused. "But I wasn't—"

Torius doubled up his fist and cut the bartender's protest short by laying him flat out on the floor. Turning back to the Zephyr Guard squad leader, he dusted off his hands and smiled. "Lead on to the gaol! I hope you've got room for all of us, because Stargazers stick together! Grogul, get Windy Kate and the others."

Amid another round of cheers, the boisterous pirates hoisted their still-woozy mates onto their shoulders.

The squad leader only shook her head and said, "This way, Captain."

∗ ∗ ∗

Vreva paused for a moment at the second landing, just out of sight of the room below, and took a deep breath to still her pounding heart.

*You ready for this? You seem nervous,* Saffron said from the crook of her arm, keeping his meows low.

She looked into the bright yellow eyes of her friend and familiar and smiled. "You're such a worrier," she whispered back. "Of course I'm ready."

She took another breath, and her body responded to the long-practiced technique, calming her singing nerves. Raising her head and moving with majestic grace, she continued down the sweeping marble stair that led to the opulent entry hall of the Inn of the Eighth Sin.

A joyful shout brought all eyes to her, and impromptu applause rose from the crowd. Vreva beamed in the light of their adoration, sweeping an appreciative gaze across the crowd as if astounded that all this fuss was for her. At least fifty Okeno notables—some clients, some not—and a scattering of unknowns crowded the room. It was enough to turn any woman's head, if that woman wasn't more worried about her head ending up in a noose.

"Quopek, you sly dear." At the bottom of the stairs, Vreva playfully slapped the innkeeper's shoulder. "A surprise welcome-home party for me? How sweet of you!"

"Nothing but the best for Okeno's foremost courtesan!" The fat man quivered with excitement. Of course he was happy to see her; he earned ten percent of her profits, and her long absence had undoubtedly cut into his cash flow.

Vreva curtsied with consummate grace and waded into the throng, accepting kisses from those she knew, and proffering her hand to those she did not. Everyone jostled to catch her eye. Her reputation, it seemed, had grown during her sabbatical.

"Absence apparently does make hearts grow fonder," Vreva whispered so quietly that only Saffron could have heard her. None could understand their secret language, but talking to a cat could draw attention. They'd long practiced the art of conversing covertly, even in crowds, her whispers seeming nothing more than an owner's senseless endearments to a beloved pet.

A callused hand caressed the curve of her buttocks, and she barely suppressed the urge to slap it away.

*Absence evidently makes the heart grow randy, too.* Saffron's hiss at the slaver captain needed no interpreter.

"Oh, be civil, Saffron!" Vreva chided. She kissed her familiar on the head, then whispered, "You forget yourself! Now scout the room and report back!" Dropping the cat to the floor, she turned to her groper with a smile. "My apologies, Captain. We've been aboard ship for the better part of a week, and my poor kitty is in a snit."

"No offense taken, Mistress Jhafae," the slaver gushed, giddy with her attention. "We've got cats aboard Hell's Razor, you know. Keeps the rats from chewing up the merchandise!"

Vreva laughed at the supposed witticism, bestowed a smile and subtle caress sufficient to leave him dazzled and momentarily speechless, and continued circulating through the crowd.

"You look gorgeous, my dear. Absolutely gorgeous!"

"Where have you been? It seems like you've been gone for ages!"

"Mistress Jhafae, you simply must put me at the top of your calendar. Even my wife has complained about how edgy I've been, and only you ..."

Compliments, promises, pleas, and questions battered her like waves against a rocky shore, but Vreva responded with the glib dissemblance she had perfected long ago. The physical contact, however, set her teeth on edge. A hand on her arm or a kiss on the cheek roiled her stomach, while the more intimate caresses forced her to suppress violent reprisals. Weeks among pleasanter company had dulled her ability to block the revulsion she felt for these people.

I never thought I'd miss Torius and his boatload of pirates so much!

Vreva caught an empathic flush of urgency, then a flash of delight, and the flavor of seasoned meat flooded her mouth. Someone had dropped a tidbit, and Saffron had pounced. Quashing the sensation with a sip of wine, she broadcasted a thought of stern disapproval.

You have a job to do. Do it! He couldn't actually hear her thoughts, but would get the gist.

"I hope you are quite finished traipsing all around the Inner Sea, Mistress Jhafae."

Vreva recognized the voice and turned to the rotund slave merchant behind her.

"It was just a little holiday, Master Werreg." She accepted his kiss of greeting and did not flinch as his pudgy fingers caressed her hip. Werreg might be a fat lecher, but he was also an important member of the local merchants' council, and a font of information.

"I heard that you were spirited away by the Ruby Prince himself!" Looking pleased by his attempt at flattery, Werreg gave her an ingratiating smile. "I was worried that you'd succumbed to his charms and gone away for good!"

"How could I ever leave my dear friends here?" Vreva caressed his sweaty cheek, tracing the nerve along his jaw. "It was not the Ruby Prince whose company I kept. Just a ...special friend who asked a favor." That was true enough. Torius was a friend, or as close to one as she had. And Quetaal, the commander of the Sothis Guard, with whom she'd kept company there, had been like a breath of fresh air compared to these sniveling traders in human flesh.

"A toast to your favors." Werreg raised his glass, leering openly at her. "May they never run short of supply!"

Laughing, Vreva lifted her own glass in acknowledgment, but as her lips touched the rim, panic surged through her. Then a jolt of pain between her shoulders snapped her head back.

Saffron! The glass trembled in her grasp, and her vision glazed over as she concentrated on Saffron's mental cries. Rage, panic, fear ...trapped!

"Are you all right, Vreva?" Werreg's voice snapped her attention back to a circle of concerned guests.

"Yes, I ...I'm fine. Just a moment's fatigue." Sipping her wine, she attempted to quell the emotional onslaught from her familiar before it overwhelmed her. Considering her arsenal of spells, she silently cursed. Her magic was subtle, tailored to the boudoir, not the battlefield, and certainly not a room full of people. She had to disengage herself from this crowd and find Saffron. Vreva handed off her glass and made her excuses. "I've yet to recover from my voyage. The wine, I'm afraid, is going to my—"

"Is this yours?"

Vreva turned to the unknown man. He wore a snug headscarf in the Keleshite manner, and his beard was trimmed to a neat point. His clothes were rich, and the long whip at one hip and the scimitar at the other gave him a rakish appearance. She might have thought him handsome, except that he dangled Saffron by the scruff in one large, callused hand. The sight sent a surge of ice water through her veins.

"I caught it running loose." He held the cat out, sneering as if he'd just as soon wring the feline's neck.

"Saffron!" The familiar's relief echoed her own as she took the panicked cat in her arms. The ice water turned to fury, and Vreva glared at the man. "I don't know you, sir, but molesting my pet is not a means to garner my favor."

*He smells like blood!* Saffron spat and hissed, mewing dangerously. *His boots and that snake at his belt stink of it! I only sniffed, and he grabbed me!*

"My pardon, Mistress Jhafae." The man nodded and touched his forehead with a flourish. "I am Captain Heclech, master of Sovereign Chain out of Katheer. You must forgive my reaction, but where I'm from, animals belong in cages or on plates, not running free to soil a man's boots."

"My pardon, Captain Heclech, but I must not forgive you." Vreva was dismayed at the harsh words and acerbic tone that tumbled from her lips, attributing them to the waves of rage from Saffron that surged through her mind. "This is not your home, but mine, and in my home, my pet is afforded the same regard as any guest."

*‘Pet' my pink, puckered ass!* Saffron hissed.

"Shhh." She stroked his chin to ease his temper.

"Your home?" Heclech looked around the inn's opulent hall. "I was under the impression that this was Master Quopek's establishment. He keeps many men and women of your sort, does he not?"

"Master Quopek does not keep me, Captain. I come and go as I please." She tried to keep her tone civil, but could not disguise her dislike for the man.

"A fact that has left us all pining for the last many weeks, Captain," Werreg interjected from beside her.

"Yes." Heclech's eyes flicked to the merchant with a sneer of distaste. "This is why I came here, to see this woman who commands such obedience from men."

"I do not command anything, Captain Heclech." Vreva regained her composure and gave him a sultry smile. "They offer their respects willingly."

"Along with a good bit of gold." Werreg laughed, obviously trying to diffuse the situation. "I daresay we're all a bit richer for her recent absence, but I for one intend to pay my respects to her as soon as she'll have me."

"Where I'm from, women of her ilk do not have the respect of men." Heclech turned his eyes to Werreg and grinned a challenge. "And men who curry the favor of such women are little better than dogs."

Werreg paled, his blubbery chins quivering with rage, but he obviously knew better than to take up the man's challenge.

"And in this city, Captain, it's considered rude to insult a lady." The voice over Vreva's shoulder was low with a slight rasp, like well-oiled steel sliding across a fine whetstone.

She recognized the speaker even before Saffron said, *The wine man's behind you.*

Vreva felt a hand settle onto the small of her back and urge her aside. She didn't know whether to be relieved or agitated.

"And this particular lady has friends in very high places." Her champion stepped forward. His dark hair, pale complexion, and richly brocaded clothing marked him as Chelish, while the hand on the gleaming rapier at his hip marked him as a swordsman. Vreva knew that he was neither, but something else entirely.

"If you wish to do business in Okeno, Captain Heclech, and not be shunned like a plague-carrying rodent, you should apologize, and reconsider your opinion of Mistress Jhafae."

"And you are?" Heclech's hand drifted to the scimitar at his waist.

"Captain Fieson Templeton of Devil's Dawn." He made a short, courtly bow, and nodded to Vreva. "Chelish merchant and close personal friend of the lady."

"And by whose authority do you threaten me?"

"Threaten?" Fieson laughed, but his mirth didn't reach his eyes, and his gaze never left Heclech. "Oh, that was no threat, Captain, just a bit of advice. If you treat the lady with contempt, her friends will see to it that you do no business here. It's that simple." He shrugged. "Insult her again and I will personally feed you your own testicles. Now that," he added in a helpful tone, "was a threat."

"Gentlemen, please, you mustn't—"

"She's nothing but a high-priced prostitute!" Heclech stepped aggressively forward, and Vreva eased back a step, realizing the futility of attempting to placate the two men. "And you pay for her favors because you could never earn the attention of—"

The sounds of tearing silk and a wet plop on the marble floor interrupted his tirade.

Heclech's eyes flung wide, his voice caught in a strangled cry. Fieson stepped back as the larger man collapsed to his knees, hands clutching at the flood of crimson down his legs. The crowd gasped, and Vreva turned away, pressing a hand to her mouth in feigned shock. She knew Fieson did not threaten idly and, while he might not be skilled with a sword, he was entirely apt with the stiletto he wore strapped to his forearm beneath his sleeve. His cut had both gelded the man and severed one of the large arteries in his leg.

*Good!* Saffron purred as the man fell into the spreading crimson pool. *Now he smells like his own blood!*

"Captain Templeton! What is the meaning of—" Quopek stepped through the onlookers and gaped. "Abadar's key, man, what have you done?"

"The man insulted our guest of honor." Fieson casually cleaned and sheathed his blade. "After I warned him about his conduct, he insulted me with his hand on his sword. With Mistress Jhafae so near, I had no choice but to carry through with my warning. For her safety, of course." He bowed to Vreva, then the innkeeper. "My apologies to Mistress Jhafae, and to you, Master Quopek, for the mess. I'll be more than happy to pay for the cleanup."

"Well!" Quopek assessed the dead man, the stained marble floor, and the crowd. "I really should call the city guard about—"

"Please, Master Quopek." Vreva stepped forward, fanning herself with her hand as if she might faint. The blood affected her not one bit, but she had a façade to maintain, and needed to avoid calling official attention to the incident. "Captain Templeton was only defending my honor. I've never seen this man before, and I wonder at his motives for coming here. He picked the fight, sir, and he picked it with the wrong man."

A buzz of confirmatory assertions swept through the crowd, lauding Captain Templeton. In the end, Quopek merely called for a flock of slaves to clean up the mess, and shifted the reception to the common room. Vreva sighed with relief as she allowed Templeton to escort her to the new venue. Envious glances followed them as the captain leaned in close.

"I have a present for you, Vreva."

She beamed up at him. "How sweet of you, Captain. And in gratitude for your gallant defense of my honor, you shall have my first appointment. Is tomorrow afternoon good for you?"

"I am at your disposal, my lady," he said with a satisfied smile.

Chris Jackson is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novel Pirate's Honor, as well as the short story "Stargazer," also starring Torius, Celeste, and the rest of their bold crew. For information on his many other award-winning novels and novellas, check out jaxbooks.com or follow him on Twitter at @ChrisAJackson1.

Illustration by Eric Belisle.

Nightblade Sample Chapter

Wednesday, November 5, 2014

In Nightblade, Isiem is a fugitive, a former wizard-priest in the church of the dark god Zon-Kuthon who rebelled and left his old life behind to follow his conscience. Now, his unique heritage makes him perfect for a dangerous mission into an ancient dungeon, one said to hold a magical weapon capable of slaying demons and devils by the thousands. With allies ranging from a righteous paladin to the mercantile mercenaries of the Aspis Consortium, it’s up to Isiem to lead the expedition back into shadowed lands that are all too familiar...

Chapter One: Plague Birds

That's the last of the stevedores," Ena said. The hooded dwarf unfolded herself from her perch atop the lintel of a barrelmaker's shop, collapsed the miniature spyglass she'd been using to watch the warehouse in the distance, and swung down to the street with a nimbleness that seemed at odds with her stocky figure. "We'll give them a few minutes to clear out, and then it should just be us and the night watchmen around the warehouse." She raised an eyebrow at Isiem, the gesture almost invisible in the shadows of her hood. "You're sure you can handle them?"

"Two untrained men with cudgels?" the Nidalese wizard asked dryly. "I should hope so."

"Without killing them, please," another of their conspirators snapped. She was a tall woman, almost as tall as Isiem himself, and although the red scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face masked her features, he guessed she had some elven blood. It was in the inflections of her voice, the litheness of her movements—and her peremptory tone. He'd never met the woman before, and the rebels recognized no ranks, yet she commanded him like a servant.

But it wasn't worth the argument. It had been just over a year since Isiem joined the rebellion in Pezzack, and in that time he had learned that the rebels were an impossible bundle of contradictions. Merciless and merciful, crude but idealistic, largely disorganized yet capable of orchestrating sophisticated attacks.

Their assault on the warehouse was one such operation.

For years, the provincial town of Pezzack had been a nest of rebellion against the diabolists who controlled Imperial Cheliax. Its remoteness and the natural barricade of the mountainous, monster-infested wastelands to its east made it difficult for Queen Abrogail's agents to control. Despite two fiery assaults, infighting among the rebel factions, and an ongoing campaign by the Chelish navy to starve the resistance into submission, Pezzack remained effectively free.

That naval blockade was the reason that Isiem stood out here, shivering on a frigid winter's night, amid a ring of accomplices whose names and faces he did not know. Other than Ena, they were strangers to him, and he to them. Hoods and masks hid their faces; an illusion guised his own. None of them used names. If Chelish agents or insurgents from a rival faction caught one of them—as had happened before, and would happen again—that unlucky captive would have little to betray.

The only thing the conspirators shared was their goal. Ena's informants had whispered that something terrible was secreted in the crates that the stevedores had just unloaded into the loyalist-controlled warehouse on the water. What it was, the informants hadn't known, but it was deemed dangerous enough that Ena had contacted the best in the rebellion for help.

"I wasn't planning to kill the watchmen," Isiem said, sifting through the spell components arranged in his top pocket for easy access. He didn't need to re-sort them—he knew them all with calm, sure familiarity—but the ritual soothed him in the quiet moments before action. "I'm well aware that it does no good to turn their families against us. Besides, it's hardly necessary. They pose little obstacle to our goal."

"Likely to be bigger problems inside," Ena said. "Still don't know what, though. The devilers won't leave valuables unguarded, but they won't use obvious guards either. Whatever's protecting their goods, it's hidden and it's not living. They didn't have any extra guards on the ship, nor meals carried down to the hold. My spies saw nothing. Might be the cargo itself is the danger."

"We should burn it," one of the other masked conspirators interjected. His voice, like the half-elf's, was unfamiliar to Isiem. Ena seemed to have reached farther afield than usual in putting together this night's crew. "Bar the doors and burn down the whole warehouse."

"That is a profoundly stupid idea," Ena said. "Profoundly." The dwarf stretched her legs and started toward the warehouse, melting in and out of the shadows effortlessly in her mottled gray cloak. "Let me remind you: the point is to find out what the devilers are doing. If their cargo is valuable, we want to steal it and sell it. If it's not, we want to find out what their plans are. We can't do that if we burn it, now can we?"

"And the rest of the warehouse is filled with food," the woman in the red scarf added. "That's what raised our suspicions initially. How often do ships carrying food get through Governor Sawndannac's blockade? She's been trying to starve the Pezzacki into submission for months. But even if it was a ruse to ensure we'd take in their cargo, the fact remains that the warehouse is stocked with food. We can't waste it."

Kyril, like most paladins, has little tolerance for evildoers.

Chastened, the man offered no answer. Ena didn't seem to want one. The dwarf turned back to them long enough to hold one finger up to her lips, under her hood, then pointed to the right side of the warehouse and held up two more. With that, she slipped off to the warehouse's left side, facing the water, where a smaller side door stood beside the large loading doors. The dwarf crouched against the wall, working on the padlock that secured the smaller door.

Isiem went the other way. He could see the watchmen coming; their lanterns cut bright lines through the night's salty fog. They kept close together, sheltering themselves against the dark. Their oiled cloaks were beaded with damp, their hoods pulled low so that he could not see their faces.

Not that he needed to. As the watchmen passed a narrow alley between two warehouses, Isiem struck. He sifted a pinch of fine sand from a pocket, letting it trickle to the ground while he spoke the words of magic that would send his unknowing victims into slumber.

As its last word left his lips, Isiem's spell seized the watchmen. Without a word of protest, they slumped gently into the fog.

Isiem swiftly bound and gagged the men. They woke as soon as Isiem stuffed the rags into their mouths, but were too startled to offer much resistance. One after the other, he pulled the struggling watchmen into the alley and out of casual view. Morning would find them stiff, cold, and scared—but they'd live to see the new day, and that was all the kindness he could spare them.

At his signal, two of the other conspirators took up the guards' badges, cudgels, and fallen lanterns. Raising their lights to cut through the night, the false watchmen took up the patrol. They'd maintain the illusion that nothing was amiss, and serve as a first line of warning if some outside threat should intrude.

Isiem went around to the waterfront side of the warehouse. Ena had forced the lock on the small office door. The dwarf eased the door open and waved Isiem and the woman in the red scarf forward, slipping ahead of them into the warehouse. None of them carried a light; either by magic or by the innate gifts of their blood, they could see well enough by the misty moon.

Shelves and pallets filled the warehouse in towering rows. Pezzack was not a large town, and its warehouses were modest, but even so it was disorienting for Isiem to see corded bundles of salt cod stacked higher than his head, or rows of hanging hams like impossibly fat, salt-crusted bats crowded in a roost. The pungent aroma of garlic mingled with the spicy fragrance of the long, wrinkled red peppers that the Pezzacki called "rooster's beak"; under it all was the earthy odor of the cured meats that filled most of the visible space.

"Where's their bloody secret cargo?" Ena muttered, stopping amid a cluster of hams. The dwarf pulled a small charm out from under her jerkin: a single-pointed blue crystal wrapped in silver wire and hung from a leather thong. She slipped it from around her neck and let it dangle from her fingers, watching it intently through the dusty gloom.

After a moment, the crystal vibrated, then pulled toward a few unassuming wooden boxes stacked under a heap of grain sacks. "Magic," Ena grunted in satisfaction, putting her charm back on and tucking the crystal under her shirt. "There'll be something more than carrots and onions in those boxes, I'll wager."

"Be ready," said the woman in the red scarf. She drew a longsword with a smooth, blued blade. Another crimson scarf wrapped its hilt, but the pommel was bare, and on it Isiem saw a sword-and-halo etched in gold. Iomedae's mark.

"Help me with these sacks," Ena told Isiem, grabbing one end of a sizable bag.

It must have weighed over eighty pounds, and the dwarf's short stature made moving it awkward. Isiem hoisted the other side with a grunt, helping Ena ease it to the floor. He tipped his chin at the woman who stood poised with her sword. "She could help, instead of trying to stare down this barley. She's probably stronger than either of us."

Ena snorted. "That's what paladins do. Look noble while the rest of us do the heavy lifting." She raised her voice, directing two of the other conspirators: "Get the next sack."

Minutes later, with the grain sacks piled on the floor, Ena pried open the top box under the paladin's watchful gaze. She brushed aside a layer of straw and sacking, then paused and stepped back slowly. "Wizard. Come here."

Isiem came forward. The box was packed tight with bones, all painted black. Most appeared to be the bones of large birds, although he couldn't tell whether they were from eagles, vultures, or some rarer breed. He'd never been a great student of the natural world.

Alongside those bones were others that seemed to be the fleshless hands and arms of some small, clawed creatures. Kobolds, perhaps; Isiem judged that they were slightly too small, and the claws too developed, to belong to goblins. They, too, had been painted entirely black.

He picked through the bones. They had been stacked in neat, careful rows, nestled together to conserve space. Gummy, necromantic preservatives stained their joints and the crevices under the hands' hooked claws.

"What is it?" Ena asked tensely.

"Undead of some type, I think. I've never seen ones quite like this." Isiem shrugged, stepping back. "Open the next box."

The next box contained more black-painted bones, as did the one beneath it. The final box, however, held something different under its coat of yellow straw. Hinged glass cases, each filled with dead birds, gleamed inside.

Isiem picked up one of the cases. It held eight birds ranging in size from crows to sparrows, and it felt strangely light in his hands. A whiff of funereal spices—frankincense, sandalwood, Osirian black resin—hinted that it, too, bore some necromantic spell. A curled copper shaving on each of the birds' eyes, and a sprinkling of salt in their feathers, told him what that magic was: a rite to stave off decay.

More cases of dead birds filled the box. Isiem peered more closely at the one in his hands. The birds' throats looked swollen, as if they'd all swallowed eggs that had lodged in their gullets, and there seemed to be a dried, flaky residue about their nostrils and the sides of their beaks ...But even though his magic allowed him to see clearly in the dark, it was impossible to be sure through the glass.

Curiosity pushed him to open the case, even as caution pulled him back. Isiem didn't recognize the necromancy at work here, nor could he identify the disease that had killed the birds—if what he'd seen was a disease, and not some poison or side effect of the preservative spell—but he wanted to. Pezzack had little to interest a wizard of any real skill, and less to challenge one; Isiem had spent much of the past year mired in boredom. This was a mystery, and that pleased him.

He didn't want to kill his collaborators for the sake of his own curiosity, though. Or himself. Glancing over at the Iomedaean, Isiem asked, "Can you cure diseases?"

She nodded silently.

"Good." Isiem turned to Ena, who had taken up a seat on the barley sacks and was chewing a piece of purloined ham while she watched. "Warn the others not to come in here, please. I'm about to do something very stupid, I suspect."

"That's always promising." The dwarf stuffed her slice of ham into a pocket and stood up. "Try not to actually do it until I get back. Don't want to be surprised any more than I have to."

She disappeared amid the warehouse shelves, returning moments later with a satisfied nod. "It's done. I told them not to come back in until I give leave, whatever they hear in here. The three of us will have to handle whatever you're about to unleash."

"Nothing, I hope." Isiem unlatched the case. Even as he grasped the glass lid to lift it, however, a clatter and rustle from the bone boxes told him that his hopes were for naught.

"So much for that," Ena said, reaching into her cloak. Spinning on her left foot to face the boxed bones, she pulled out a small, spherical glass bottle that sloshed with liquid. The dwarf did something to it—Isiem couldn't see what—and flung the glass ball at the boxed bones.

With a crystalline tinkle, it exploded into a cloud of thick, fragrant fog. Bones rattled and scratched against the boxes' wood as if a dozen skeletons were dancing a jig within the mists. The undead were rising.

The paladin strode forward, her shield raised with one gauntleted hand and her longsword shining radiantly in the other. The fog glowed around her like a sunlit cloud—and then it erupted into a second flurry of motion, this time from the inside out, as dozens of avian skeletons hurtled up in a lace-winged flock. They hurled themselves into the paladin's face, threw their bodies against her shield, bashed against her armored legs. The sheer momentum of the skeletal flock drove the woman stumbling backward. Her red scarf fell away, confirming Isiem's suspicions that she was a half-elf.

"You were wrong," Ena said, letting a second glass ball tumble back into her cloak. She sidestepped around the chaos, looking for an opening. A pair of hooked knives flashed in her hands, reflecting the blue fire of the paladin's sword. "They're not undead. That fog is holy water, and it isn't doing anything to them."

"I can see that," Isiem said through gritted teeth.

The black-boned birds weren't attacking the paladin. She was only an obstacle to them, and they whirled past her like windblown leaves parting around a tree trunk. What they wanted—what drew them and drove them—was in the glass cases at Isiem's feet.

They swept toward him, sieving the air with their whistling wings. Between the birds' naked ribs, the skeletal kobold hands dangled like stirrups, twitching as they neared the cases and their cargo of dead birds.

As they drew near their goal, the flock funneled into a tight formation: a vortex of bones spinning toward Isiem. His hood blew back as they approached. Dust stung his eyes, blurring the oncoming skeletons into a single dark cloud.

He could still see them well enough to kill them, though. Squinting through his tears, Isiem focused on a spell.

The wizard plucked a tiny crystal cone from a pocket. Holding the cone to his lips as if it were a war horn, Isiem whispered an incantation through the polished stone. As he spoke the last word, he pointed two fingers in a V directed at the flock of winged skeletons and the paladin still caught in their midst.

The half-elf threw herself to the floor, not a moment too soon. Wintry cold and bitter frost blew from Isiem's crystal, smashing into the skeletal birds. Several of them burst apart immediately, blasted into pieces by the elemental force of the cold. Shards of their bones ricocheted off the walls and embedded themselves in the hanging hams like hellish peppercorns. Others froze and fell to the ground, where their ice-rimed bones shattered on impact. A few flapped away at the edges, slow and lopsided under sudden coats of ice. Ena pounced on the crippled birds, smashing them to the ground with a box lid and stomping them under her boots.

In seconds, it was over. The paladin picked up a discarded piece of straw-flecked sacking and scooped the last of the struggling skeletons into it, then dropped the whole bundle into one of the empty boxes and put the lid back on. "I don't think these were made to fight," she said, while knotting a rope around the box. Its lid thumped with the captive skeletons' efforts at escape. "They had some other purpose. Do you know what it was?"

"I have a guess," Isiem said, "but it's only a guess."

The half-elven woman rubbed her forehead, where a long red scratch disappeared into her dark auburn hair. With the scarf gone, she was a handsome woman, with high cheekbones and a strong square jaw. Not girlish, and perhaps not beautiful in the traditional sense, but possessed of a calm certitude that drew the eye. "I expect you'll want to study them, then." She examined her sword for dirt or damage, found none, and sheathed it. "Can you do so safely?"

"I should be able to." Isiem plucked a shard of black bone from the side of a ham. He could see no sign that the meat had been contaminated, but he pulled out a small knife and carved out the flesh around the puncture mark anyway. One never knew what taints such creatures carried. "Help me collect the pieces, please."

It didn't take long to collect the larger bones. The smaller fragments, however, had been scattered across the warehouse by the force of Isiem's icy blast, and spotting them among the piles of spilled grain was tedious work. After the better part of an hour, they still hadn't gathered all the pieces, and Ena began to cast meaningful glances toward the door.

"We should go," the dwarf said. "It'll be sunrise soon, and someone might come to check on the watchmen. No need to linger looking for bone scraps. We've got enough."

"I'd like to find them all," Isiem said.

"Why?" Ena pushed down her hood, rubbing at a nick above her left ear. Short brown stubble covered most of her head, but scars from a long-ago explosion left irregular bald patches across her scalp and eyebrows. "You can't cover up that we were here. The devilers are going to know that anyway. All you'll do is maybe get yourself caught."

"I won't get caught." Isiem showed her one of the little balls of resin he kept tucked in a pocket. An ivory eyelash was embedded in the gum, its pale arc barely visible. "Not by any ordinary watchman. And if they've got someone capable of breaking through my magic, we'll have trouble whether or not I stay to pick up these bones."

"What makes the bones so important?" the half-elven paladin asked. "Why risk yourself over them, even if you do have a spell to hide with?" She had wrapped the red scarf around her face again, concealing everything but her eyes, so Isiem could not be sure of her expression.

He heard no suspicion in her voice, though, only honest curiosity, and so he answered honestly in turn. "I think they're plaguebearers."

"Plaguebearers?" Ena recoiled. She eyed the toppled boxes nervously, scrubbing a hand against the front of her jerkin as if trying to rid herself of some invisible stain. "When were you planning to warn us?"

"When we left." Isiem shrugged. "The paladin says she can cure diseases, and I don't think the plague is directed at us, nor do I think the sickness escaped from its bonds. In my estimation, we are in little danger. Nonetheless, I'd rather not risk ordinary Pezzacki if we can avoid it. I've been wrong before."

"Who's it meant for, then?" Ena asked. "They sent it to us."

"The strix," said the paladin. Her dark eyes hardened above the scarf. "Birds, not people. Those dead birds in the cases are meant to carry sickness. The winged skeletons were meant to ...disperse them, perhaps?"

"Something like that," Isiem agreed. "The preserved birds hold the sickness, and the skeletal carriers see that it reaches its intended victims. The cases were not opened, so the plague should be contained. That's my theory, anyway. It's only a theory. I'll need to study them." He waved them toward the door. "In the meantime, I'll try to find the rest of these bone fragments. Don't wait for me."

"We'll meet at the usual place when you're ready," Ena said. "Two days?"

"Two days." Without waiting for Ena and her taller companion to leave the warehouse, Isiem resumed his search for the scattered pieces. A cold draft through the door told him when they had gone.

Hours later, stiff-backed and bleary-eyed, Isiem looked up to see soft gray light spilling through the warehouse's small, filthy windows. Morning was upon him. His spell of disguise had long since faded, and although he wasn't sure if he'd found all the bone shards in the warehouse, there was no more time to look. He had to go now, or risk being seen and recognized when the sun rose high enough to show his face.

The boxes were already stacked and waiting by the warehouse doors. Isiem cinched the neck of the sack he'd been filling and dropped it atop the heap. He plucked a few strands from a knot of horsehair in his pocket and let them float to the ground, weaving a short incantation between the falling threads.

From shadows and sea fog and five scattered hairs, a mottled black horse arose. It stood patiently as Isiem loaded the cases onto the black horse's back, covered them with sacking and fastened the bundle in place with crisscrossed ropes, then took the animal's bridle and led it out to the streets of Pezzack.

Off in the distance, blurred by fog, the small lantern-lit boats of fishermen pushed out to the cold black sea past the creaking, floating hulks of Docktown. Across the way, a baker's hearth threw a warm orange glow like a lighthouse in the mist. No one else was awake or abroad. Fog swirled over the ruts in the town's dirt roads and slicked the cobblestones of its few paved streets. It enclosed Isiem in a gentle haze, lulling him toward somnolence.

Until he rounded a corner and found himself abruptly face to face with a child.

The child was eight, ten, something like that. Boy or girl, he couldn't tell. Wide brown eyes, a smattering of freckles, a dirty wool cap pulled low over protruding ears. A puff of startled breath escaped the child's lips and hung white in the air between them.

Their gazes locked, and in those huge waif's eyes Isiem saw a fatal flash of recognition.

His illusory disguise was gone. It was his true face that the child saw. And that face, Isiem knew, was difficult to forget. As filled with colorful eccentrics as Pezzack was, a near-albino Nidalese from the Uskwood still stood out. There was only one such man in this part of Cheliax, and that one was known to be wanted.

He would be remembered. If the child was a loyalist—as some were, even in this rebellion-rife border town—Isiem could be reported. Then the Hellknights would come, implacable in iron, and the tensions in Pezzack would explode.

If the child was a spy for one of the other rebel groups, Isiem's position wasn't much better. The Galtan faction, led by a madman named Habar Curl, was always looking for proof that his rivals were insufficiently pure in their dedication to the cause. The slightest whiff of cooperation with Imperial Cheliax was enough to earn a beheading, as far as they were concerned, and tolerating a Nidalese traitor went far beyond that. There was no question that if he caught Isiem's friends, Habar Curl would bend their necks to his blade.

The safest course, therefore, would be to kill the child. It would be so very easy in the sleeping silence of the town. The mists would hide his bloody work; the sea would swallow its aftermath.

But Isiem hesitated, and the child spun on his foot—her foot?—and in a swirl of rags and skittering footsteps, vanished into the night.

Isiem didn't pursue. Swallowing a mixture of relief and fear, he tightened his grip on the black horse's reins and turned down his own path through Pezzack. Once again, quiet closed around him, broken only by the muted clop of the horse's hooves and the clacking of bones inside the boxes it bore.

It was not a loud sound, but that clacking filled the wizard's ears with echoes. Other places, other bones. Pangolais. Nisroch. Westcrown.

He had enough of those burdening his conscience already. Deaths filled his memories: friends, enemies, victims of fate and circumstance. Some had been avoidable. Most had not.

As he turned down the last twisting alley to his temporary refuge, Isiem wondered about tonight's encounter. Was it sparing the child or killing him that was the mistake?

He didn't know. He couldn't. Such knowledge was not for mortals in this world.

But there was only one choice that he would not regret. And as he stepped into the quiet darkness of his borrowed home, leaving the budding dawn behind, Isiem knew that he had made it.

Coming Up Next: A holiday hiatus for the Wednesday web fiction—we'll be back with more weekly stories in the new year!

Liane Merciel is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novel Nightglass and the free Pathfinder tales "Certainty" and "Misery’s Mirror", a well as the novels The River Kings’ Road, Heaven’s Needle, and Dragon Age: Last Flight. For more information, visit her website at lianemerciel.com.

Illustration by Eric Belisle.

A Glimpse Inside the Inner Sea Pawn Box

Thursday, October 30, 2014

It's always an exciting day when an envelope arrives containing a monthly Paizo subscription. It's even better, however, when that envelope is replaced by a box. In the near future subscribers to the Pathfinder Pawns line will find in their mailboxes not only a box, but a box inside a box—the Inner Sea Pawn Box!

This large pawn collection features over 200 unique figures and 439 total pawns, assembled from such seminal Pathfinder Campaign Setting sources as The Inner Sea World Guide, Inner Sea Gods, Inner Sea NPC Codex, Paths of Prestige, Inner Sea Combat, and Inner Sea Magic. But even with so many incredibly illustrated sources to draw character images from, we still wanted more. So we ordered new pieces to fill in the gaps.

Among the pawns I'm most excited to get out into the wild are a priest and priestess of each of the setting's core twenty gods, and mounted versions of a Hellknight, a Knight of Ozem, iconic cavalier Alain, and a Sable Company marine.

Illustrations by Konstantinos Skenteridis, Mariusz Gandzel, and Subroto Bhaumik

While most of the pawns in the set represent nameless characters from nations or organizations from the Inner Sea region, there are also a fair number of named individuals like Grandmaster Torch, the Gorilla King of Usaro, the iconic characters from the Advanced Player's Guide, Ultimate Magic, Ultimate Combat, and the Advanced Class Guide, and the goblin adventurers from We Be Goblins!

Illustrations by Subroto Bhaumik, Firat Solhan, and Eric Belisle

What archetypal Inner Sea encounter are you going to use the characters in the Inner Sea Pawn Box to run first?

Mark Moreland
Developer

Four Tales, Ten Heroes

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Last year the Pathfinder Society Organized Play campaign introduced a new system for sanctioning Pathfinder Tales novels. Rather than create a Chronicle sheet for each new book, we introduced the "Pathfinder Tales, Volume IV Chronicle sheet," so named because it represented the fourth distinct set of four Pathfinder Tales novels. This means a player only needs to print the Chronicle sheet once to enjoy the benefits of reading four books. As has always been the case, a player must bring a printed or digital (legally obtained and including a watermark indicating such) book to a sanctioned Pathfinder Society event to unlock a novel's Chronicle sheet boon.

It's my pleasure to announce that "Pathfinder Tales, Volume V" is now available for download. This Chronicle sheet sanctions Stalking the Beast, The Dagger of Trust, Skinwalkers, and, The Redemption Engine for the organized play campaign. As was the case for Volume IV, this most recent installment also grants one of your characters a permanent boon if you have all four novels. You can download it from the Additional Resources page or any of the product pages.

Illustrations by Eric Belisle

Of course, with Nightblade just about to hit shelves, we're only a few months away from needing "Pathfinder Tales, Volume VI." Best get reading!

Last week we also released the pregenerated characters for all 10 of the new Pathfinder RPG Advanced Class Guide iconic characters. Having first debuted at Gen Con Indy 2014, these characters are now available for use by everyone in the organized play campaign.

As always, let us know what you think about this newer format for the Pathfinder Tales Chronicle sheets and the new two-sided versions of these latest pregenerated characters.

Happy gaming!

John Compton
Developer

PS: The Adventure Card Guild blog won't be happening today, but will be returning next Tuesday with more exciting tidbits!

Illustration by Caio Maciel Monteiro

Ships Ahoy!

Thursday, October 9, 2014

One book I've wanted to put out for as long as I've worked at Paizo has been a gazetteer of different ships one could find in the Inner Sea region. Because ships are mobile, a ship of any type can be found in just about any port, opening up nearly endless options for Game Masters.

When Ships of the Inner Sea finally made it onto the production schedule instead of my wish list, I wanted to make sure that the book could serve GMs in a number of ways. The included ships, of which there are seven, range in challenge rating from foes appropriate for parties of levels ranging from 4 to 15, and are thus useful additions to all sorts of adventures. For those running the Skull & Shackles Adventure Path or otherwise using the ship-to-ship combat system presented in the Skull & Shackles Player's Guide, each ship includes statistics compatible with the system, allowing all seven vessels to be potential prey for pirate PCs prowling the Fever Sea. Each ship is fully mapped (and gorgeously so, by Jared Blando) for tactical combat and can be used as a potential PC or enemy vessel. While the crew compliment of each vessel is enough to fill a book by itself, each ship's chapter includes full statistics for its captain, one prominent crewmember, and a generic sailor or passenger stat block.

To provide more useful and general tools for GMs running nautical campaigns, we also included a chapter on sailing the Inner Sea. This includes a glossary of nautical terms, definitions of several different ship classes, and details on the region's most traveled trade routes and the hazards that make them full of adventure potential.

Three of the authors who worked on the book live or have lived on functioning boats, including naval vessels. Their knowledge of nautical terms, ship layouts and life at sea really shows in their writing, and I was very lucky to be able to get them all together for the project. It's the same reason we had Sutter write about space aliens and Wes write about Infernal contracts; you're best at writing what you know.

Illustrations by Caio Maciel Monteiro, Eric Belisle, and Yama Ocre

What I'm most excited about in this book, however, is the art. This is one beautiful book. It was really tough to pick a few pieces to show off and whet everyone's appetites, so I decided to share one piece per type: a half-page introduction, a ship portrait, and a full-body illustration. And another half-pager simply because, holy cow, is it amazing!

Mark Moreland
Developer

Boar and Rabbit

by James L. Sutter

Chapter Four: The Succession Sword

Roshad stood speechless, unable to parse the words, and even less able to handle the melancholy smile.

"You're not wearing your veil," Bors noted.

The wound Roshad had been salving with action tore open anew. He wanted to slap Bors, to scream at him, to fall into the big man's arms and be comforted.

Stick to the plan. Roshad reached back into the satchel on his back and pulled out the chain.

"Remember this?" He held it out, letting its links hang down. "This is the promise we made, Bors. Shared mind, shared heart. Always." He dropped the chain between them, letting it clatter to the floor. "Have you forgotten that?"

Bors was no longer smiling. "They were going to kill you, Roshad."

"So you did it for them?" Roshad felt the heat building in his face, the tears starting their slow treks down his cheeks. "Because that's what this is, Bors. If you cut a man in half, both halves die. Together, we're szerik. Apart, we're nothing. Did you think I would let you kill us both?"

"No."

"Well, too bad, you bastard, because I'm not—" Roshad paused. "What did you say?"

"No, I never thought you would stay away. That was the point."

Roshad grimaced. "But when you said it was over—I saw it in your eyes. You meant it."

"Of course I meant it! Anything less would have gotten you killed. If I wanted my father to believe it, I needed you to believe it, too. I had to believe it."

"Then how did you know I'd come back?"

Bors smiled, and now there was nothing sad in it. "Because I know you, Roshad. You're as stubborn as a half-trained camel. You'd never be able to let me go—not without at least getting the last word."

Then he opened his arms, and Roshad was in them, face pressed against the warm lacquered scales guarding the big man's chest. "I thought..." he whispered, and then his voice caught. "So why did you look so gods-damned sad when you saw me at the window?"

Bors's stubbled cheek pressed down against the top of Roshad's head. "Because I had to hurt you, Rabbit. That should never be easy."

"Damn straight."

They stood together then for a long moment, neither saying anything. At last Bors unwrapped his arms and pushed Roshad away. He reached for his true sword. "Come on. It'll be dawn soon."

Roshad felt hope bloom inside his chest. "We're leaving?"

"Of course we're leaving. Isn't that what I said? Now that my father's convinced I've given up, we can make our escape. You have your climbing spell?"

"Already cast."

Bors grinned. "That'll make it easier."

"But not easy enough."

Both men spun at the voice. Ulzhan stood in the room's doorway, bow drawn and arrow nocked. She wore her armor as well, along with a blue sash to complement Bors's red. With her heel, she kicked the door closed. "I thought this might happen, so I had a servant listen at your door."

Ulzhan does what's best for the tribe. Always.

Roshad started to raise his hands, ready to burn the woman to cinders, but Bors slapped them down. "No!"

"He's right," Ulzhan said. "We have many things to discuss, but if you try to cast a spell, I'll shut your mouth with an arrow and render this conversation moot."

Roshad let his hands drop. "What conversation?"

Seemingly satisfied that Roshad was pacified, Ulzhan dismissed him, turning her attention to Bors. "My prince, I'm going to go ahead and assume you're less than thrilled about our marriage."

Bors's face was back to its normal, stone-hewn blankness. "It's nothing personal."

"I believe you. Maybe if you were differently inclined, I'd be offended, but no matter. The point is, I'm not your father. I can see your love and respect it. But this marriage has to happen, for the good of the tribe. So I'll make you this offer: marry me, and I'll turn a blind eye to your man." Her head tilted to indicate Roshad. "The tribe can never know—I won't let you undermine our authority or give other tribes a lever to use against us—but you can arrange whatever rendezvous you desire. You don't need to take my bed except to give us an heir."

"How generous," Roshad spat, but Bors touched his arm. The prince nodded his head to Ulzhan, almost a bow.

"You honor me, Ulzhan. Under other circumstances, I would have been honored to stand at your side. But I can't lead the tribe."

Ulzhan's gaze hardened. "I thought better of you, Bors. You're the heir. There's no alternative."

"Actually, I think there is." Bors gestured to the dagger in Roshad's belt. "May I?"

Ulzhan drew the fletching back to her cheek, the arrow's steel point in line with Roshad's eye. "No tricks." But the arrow bobbed a gesture for him to continue.

Bors reached down and drew the dagger. In one smooth move, he slit his palm, then held it out to Ulzhan.

Roshad gaped. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Bors held the dagger out to Ulzhan, hilt-first. "I'm marrying her."

Ulzhan stared at him, and then a smile spread across her face. Roshad wouldn't have said it transformed her features, but as with Bors, a face that rarely smiled was all the brighter when it did. She lowered the bow. "I see."

"I don't!" Roshad moved between them. "After all this, you're going to marry her now, an hour before the damned wedding?"

"She's right, Roshad. Only the hakan's blood can challenge him for the throne. But as soon as I marry Ulzhan, my blood becomes hers. She can challenge him. And from what I've heard, she'd lead the tribe better than I would."

"A wise assessment, my prince." Ulzhan let the bowstring go slack, and with a final mistrustful glance at Roshad set it down against the wall. She took the proffered dagger and slit her own palm, then reached forward to clasp Bors's hand.

"Gods," Roshad whispered. "I can't believe you're marrying her."

"What's a marriage, Rabbit?" Bors squeezed Ulzhan's hand, then pulled it back and showed Roshad the wound in his palm. "In the lands beyond the sea, this is just another scar."

"The lands beyond the sea..." Roshad grinned. "I guess you're right."

Bors reached up and tugged loose the yellow armband, then carefully wiped both his blood and Ulzhan's on it. She let him tie it around her wrist, the embroidered horse showing through the orange-red stain.

"It's done, then." Roshad said.

"Not quite." Bors reached down and drew the wooden sword from his sash. He held it out on flat palms, offering it to Ulzhan. "The Succession Sword. Lead the tribe well for me, Ulzhan."

Ulzhan stared unbelieving at the sword, then slowly took it, holding it upright before her face. "No," she said. "Not for you. The Horse Throne won't survive an absentee hakan. Once I challenge your father, I'll rule in my own name."

"Of course." Bors smiled. "You're the son he always wanted. Once he gets over the shock, I hope he sees the gift I've given him. And the tribe."

Ulzhan's eyes gleamed. She lowered the sword. "You're a strange man, Bors Kaskyrbai. But you would have made a fine husband." Swiftly, she stepped forward and kissed him on the lips, then pulled back a few inches to meet his gaze. "Don't come back."

Bors laughed. "Don't worry."

And then Ulzhan was through the door and gone.

Bors turned to Roshad. "Shall we?"

A laugh exploded from Roshad. "I can't believe you're married!"

"I believe I already was." Bors stooped and picked up the chain, then held it out to Roshad. "Are we leaving or not?"

"Oh, we're leaving all right." Roshad shoved the chain into his satchel, then turned around and braced his hands on his legs. "Your steed, my prince."

"Not prince." Bors secured his helm and sword and settled his bulk piggyback on Roshad. "Not anymore."

Then they were out the window, moving quickly down the stone wall. At the ground, they broke apart and moved swiftly over to the curtain wall, keeping the palace between them and the wedding pavilion. Figuring the time for subterfuge was past, Roshad grabbed the top and levered himself up and over, Bors just behind him.

"My horse is hidden on the south side of the camp," he said.

"And are you sentimentally attached to her?" Bors asked.

"What? No, why—"

But Bors was already whistling. In response, a herd of a dozen horses appeared from behind a screen of tents, the stallion at its head leading them right up to Bors. He scratched the beast's nose.

"That's amazing," Roshad said.

"What did you think it meant to be a horse prince?" Bors pulled himself up onto the stallion's back. He held out a hand for Roshad, and the sorcerer let himself be pulled up, seating himself in front. Bors dug in his heels, and they began to ride quickly through the tents. In moments, they were through the last of them and out onto the open steppe. Behind them, the sun rose above the hills in earnest, casting their shadow long in front of them.

"We'll never outrun them riding double," Roshad noted.

"We won't have to," Bors said. "I don't think they'll be coming after us again."

"You think your father will allow it?"

Bors laughed. "Honestly, it's a better arrangement than he could have hoped. But even he can't step away from a challenge. Ulzhan has the Succession Sword, and by the time he realizes I'm gone, she'll have issued the challenge. If she's half as good as everyone says, she'll take him apart. By the time he can see straight again, she'll be firmly on the Horse Throne, and we'll be over the horizon."

Roshad leaned back against Bors's chest. "And then?"

Bors wrapped one armored arm around him, holding him close.

"And then we'll see what there is to see."

Want more Bors and Roshad?

Read the first three chapters of "Boar and Rabbit" here, here, and here, or check out their further adventures in the new novel The Redemption Engine!

Coming Next Week: The return of Darvin and Fife in Lucien Soulban's "The Tide of Blood"!

James L. Sutter is the Managing Editor for Paizo Publishing and a co-creator of the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game. He is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Death's Heretic and The Redemption Engine, the former of which was #3 on Barnes & Noble's list of the Best Fantasy Releases of 2011 and a finalist for the Compton Crook Award for Best First Novel. He's written short stories for such publications as Escape Pod, Apex Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and the #1 Amazon best-seller Machine of Death. His anthology Before They Were Giants pairs the first published short stories of science fiction luminaries with new interviews and writing advice from the authors themselves. In addition, he's published a wealth of gaming material for both Dungeons & Dragons and the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, including such fan-favorite Pathfinder Campaign Setting books as Distant Worlds and City of Strangers. For more information, check out jameslsutter.com or follow him on Twitter at @jameslsutter.

Illustration by Eric Belisle

Boar and Rabbit

by James L. Sutter

Chapter Three: The Freedom of the Dead

A contingent of horse warriors escorted Roshad back to the city, following at a respectful distance but doing nothing to disguise their presence. At the Gate of Winds, they finally closed and encircled him, not moving until he dismounted and handed back the reins of the horse he'd stolen in his flight. Then they turned and rode back north without saying a word.

Which was just fine with Roshad. He had the feeling that if they'd said anything, he would have burned them all where they sat, and promises to Bors be damned.

But then, did a promise to Bors mean anything anymore? It certainly didn't seem that the horse prince had much regard for the words they'd whispered in beds and barrooms, on rooftops under the moon.

And should I be surprised? After all, who was Roshad to lay claim to the heir to the Horse Throne?

Roshad passed through the city gates without incident, though without Bors at his side the gray wrappings and loose chain around his waist drew stares. After a moment he removed the chain from his collar and coiled it over his shoulder.

Before him, Ular Kel, greatest city of Karazh, rolled out its majesty. The slope from north to south lent him a god's-eye view of the sea of rooftops. From here, he could see the grand crossroads that gave the Caravan City its life, each of the four great gates birthing roads that would take him places he knew only from stories: Avistan. Garund. The great Castrovin Sea. All his life, he had longed to set foot on those roads, to follow them to the mysteries at their ends. Yet the knowledge of what he was—a citified street-rat with an inconveniently sharp tongue and only half a knack for magic—had always kept him here.

Until Bors. Bors, who hadn't laughed at his dreams but shared them. Who had followed him into his filthy haunts and hidey-holes, stolen with him, learned the language of the streets. And who had told him all about life on the steppe, the sunsets over fields of grass stretching on without end, where a man could ride for days and never see another soul. Bors, who had dreamed them a life beyond Ular Kel.

And now he was gone.

Bors isn't one to mince words.

Roshad screamed, startling a procession of shaven-headed priests. He ignored them and sprinted flat-out at a cart filled with dawn melons. One foot caught the wheel, the other the cart's side, and then he was airborne and pulling himself up onto a stone-carver's awning. He made a short jump to a window, startling the woman cooking flatbread inside, then swung up onto the roof.

He ran, not caring where he went, just needing to move. He hurtled over gaps that would normally have given him pause, sometimes dropping half a story to lower roofs, tucking into a roll to distribute the impact. He didn't bother with magic, free climbing up the mud-brick walls with only his hands and feet.

He was nearing the center of the city, the grand market where the caravan routes met. Above him rose the city's great landmarks, guiding him in. There were the Water Houses, the fortress-cisterns of the Water Lords who owned the city, their life-giving aqueducts stretching out like spiderwebs. And there was the Spire of Azi, a thin needle of gold stabbing into the sky, where mystics blinded themselves staring at the sun in an effort to understand Sarenrae's divine will.

And then he saw where his path had led him. Roshad didn't fight it, just let the momentum carry him across the ledge and down through the window.

Into stillness. Silence. Sunbeams caught motes of dust, yet nothing else moved in the little apartment.

Apartment, hell—it was nothing but a squat, and Roshad knew he shouldn't kid himself. A pallet on the floor. A lantern. A few buckets and a screen for privacy. Most importantly, a door that had been boarded up by its landlord after the Ghost Plague and never unsealed.

And just like that, the frantic energy left him. Roshad ripped the veil from his face—what was the point, now?—and collapsed onto the pallet. He pulled the ragged blanket into a puddle and buried his face in it, shutting out the light.

No relief there. The cloth was heady with the smell of Bors, the sweet stink of man and horse. It invaded Roshad's silence, until finally he cast it away and rolled onto his back, staring at the cracked ceiling.

Why? How, after all this time—after so many stolen afternoons, the constant game of excuses and evasions—how could Bors look at him and say it was over?

Roshad understood, of course. It was to protect Roshad. Bors wasn't one for idle threats, and Roshad doubted very much that the hakan of the horse tribes was any better. No, Bors knew that if he didn't accede to his father's demands, the hakan would simply have Roshad killed.

If that was it, they could have worked with that—played along until the hakan let his guard down, then made one last escape. But that wasn't what Roshad had seen in Bors's eyes. In that canvas-topped throne room, Bors had understood that they had never really fooled his father, and that any attempt at subterfuge would just result in Roshad's death. If he wanted to save Roshad's life, he had to say goodbye.

And he had to mean it.

Roshad reached up to wipe the tears from his eyes, and the coiled chain dug painfully into his shoulder. He pulled it off and let it run through his fingers, clicking off links like prayer beads.

Tomorrow at dawn, Bors would be married. Roshad could close his eyes and picture it: The open tent, the slit palms mingling blood. The tying of the cloth. And as soon as it was done, Bors's father would push him into the challenge, making him draw the wooden Succession Sword and fight for leadership of the tribe. The older man was eager to pass his burden and secure the tribe's future, and that meant Bors.

The future. Did Roshad even have a future, without Bors? He could ride out with the next caravan, but what was the point? In his heart, he'd still be here. Chain links bit into his palm as his fists clenched.

Be the chain. That's what they'd sworn, watching the Iridian Fold men in the darkness. To be one mind, one spirit. Without Bors, Roshad might as well be dead.

Slowly, damp cheeks twisted into a smile.

If he was already dead, then what did he have to lose?

∗ ∗ ∗

The sun was still below the horizon, but already the grasses of the steppe were lightening, waving in the breeze. Ahead, the nomad camp was just beginning to stir, the silence of sleep broken by the snort of horses, the flap of canvas, and the small sounds of cookfires being kindled.

There was little cover out here, save for the long grass. Roshad crouched low and moved as quickly as he could. Once in the shadows of the first few tents, he straightened and began walking normally. A half-repaired saddle sitting unattended near one of the tents caught his eye, and he hoisted it onto his shoulder. Better and better.

He felt naked, walking with his face exposed like this, but the veil and grays would have been an instant giveaway. Instead, he wore one of the long caftans the nomads called deels, a patchy fur jacket, and a small satchel—all dull, threadbare, and purchased for three times their value from an ex-nomad back in the city. Roshad's blue eyes might still give him away if anyone looked closely—such things were rare among the horse tribes—but he hoped the predawn shadows would hide them for now.

Long before Roshad had begun to discover sorcery, life on the streets had taught him an even more fundamental magic trick: walk with purpose—preferably with a uniform or artisan's tools—and you can go anywhere. A tradesman at work is invisible, beneath the notice of all but children.

So he walked, carrying his broken saddle, past old women boiling water and the tent-muffled sounds of waking. In moments, he was standing before the curtain wall ringing the Trade Palace.

Here the easy part ended. At the break in the wall stood an armed guard. Beyond him, the grounds were busier than the rest of the camp, with workers passing to and fro. On the right side of the palace, Roshad could see people constructing a large tent over a raised platform and altar.

The wedding pavilion. Roshad ground his teeth, but there was no time to think about that now. He could haul himself up and over the wall in an eyeblink—no doubt the horse tribes considered any wall tall enough to stop cavalry sufficient defense—but that would attract too much attention. Instead, he approached the guard. "You! Can you return this saddle for me?"

The guard eyed him suspiciously. "What?"

"This saddle." Roshad tossed the thing on the ground at the man's feet. As the guard's gaze followed it, Roshad quickly twisted his hand into the correct gesture and coughed to cover the final words of the incantation.

The man's face changed. Suspicion drained away like water, replaced by a round-cheeked smile. "I know you, don't I?"

Roshad smiled back. "Of course you do. We rode down those horse thieves two years back." He took in the bags under the man's eyes, the flushed skin. "Don't tell me you drank so much at the celebration that you forgot me?"

"Me? Drink too much? You sound like my wife!" The man laughed, then looked down at the saddle. His smile turned to a look of genuine apology. "I'm sorry, though—I can't leave my post."

"Still as lazy as ever, I see. Fair enough—just let me past, then, hey?"

The guard looked uncertain. "I don't know if—"

"Damn it, man!" Roshad jabbed a finger at the saddle. "If I don't return this to the prince before the wedding, who knows when he'll find time to pay me? I'll be eating grass with the horses."

"Well..."

"Besides, we're all going to be in here once the sun rises anyway. The only difference is that other people will have had time to dress properly, while I'll look like a half-plucked chicken."

The guard made up his mind. "Fine, but be quick about it. And you owe me a drink."

"Done." Roshad picked up the saddle and slapped the man on the back. "Where are the prince's quarters?"

The guard pointed to the side of the palace opposite the wedding construction. "Around the back there. Second story, I think."

Roshad grunted appreciatively and took up the saddle again, then walked quickly through the bustle.

No point trying for the main doors—inside the fortress there'd be too many people for a simple charm spell to be effective, and the servants in charge of the wedding preparations would be too likely to know who was supposed to be where. That left the direct approach.

Roshad reached the indicated spot. Here on the western side of the palace, the shadows were still long.

Perfect. Roshad dropped the saddle, glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then cast the spell. There was no outward effect, but as he touched the stone he felt the effortless security of his hold. Reaching up, he began to climb.

This part of the palace was fully stone, with no canvas anywhere. At the first set of windows, arched and glassless, Roshad paused and peeked through, moving his head slowly so as not to attract attention. Below him, men and women bustled about kneading dough and using paddles to move pastries in and out of a great stone oven. Roshad's spirits rose—royal quarters would of course be near the kitchen chimneys for easy heating on cold nights.

He kept climbing. The second set of windows was almost at the top of the wall. Once more, he peeked through.

Bors stood in an opulent bedchamber, its stone hung with tapestries depicting herds of horses and branching royal lineages. He was dressed in his usual armor, but it had been polished to a mirror shine and augmented with a bright red sash. A brilliant yellow armband embroidered with a horse sigil wrapped around his right bicep, and his huge two-handed sword stood scabbarded against the wall, a smaller but intricately carved wooden practice sword thrust through his sash instead. His helmet was off, and he was leaning on a table with both hands, staring into a large oval mirror.

Roshad slipped silently through the window, then stopped, uncertain. Up until this moment, he'd been filled with purpose, but now, seeing Bors...

Bors turned slowly, casually, and gave Roshad a sad smile.

"What took you so long?"

Want more Bors and Roshad?

Read the first two chapters of "Boar and Rabbit" here and here, or check out their further adventures in the new novel The Redemption Engine!

Coming Next Week: A wedding in blood in Chapter Four of James L. Sutter's "Boar and Rabbit"!

James L. Sutter is the Managing Editor for Paizo Publishing and a co-creator of the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game. He is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Death's Heretic and The Redemption Engine, the former of which was #3 on Barnes & Noble's list of the Best Fantasy Releases of 2011 and a finalist for the Compton Crook Award for Best First Novel. He's written short stories for such publications as Escape Pod, Apex Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and the #1 Amazon best-seller Machine of Death. His anthology Before They Were Giants pairs the first published short stories of science fiction luminaries with new interviews and writing advice from the authors themselves. In addition, he's published a wealth of gaming material for both Dungeons & Dragons and the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, including such fan-favorite Pathfinder Campaign Setting books as Distant Worlds and City of Strangers. For more information, check out jameslsutter.com or follow him on Twitter at @jameslsutter.

Illustration by Eric Belisle

Boar and Rabbit

by James L. Sutter

Chapter Two: Child of the Horse King

Bors stepped between Roshad and the warriors. "This man is no thief, Erzhan. I go with him of my own free will."

The captain—Erzhan, presumably—chuckled without humor. "This sorcerer has cast a spell on you, my prince. Your father warned us of as much."

Bors glared. "Do I look enchanted to you?"

"Running off with some street thief? Abandoning your tribe?" Erzhan snorted. Roshad got the feeling the man did that a lot. "But it doesn't matter what I think. Your father tasked us with bringing you back, and that's what we're doing."

"Not while I live!" Roshad stepped out from behind Bors's armored bulk.

Erzhan shrugged. "That was always an option." He turned to his archers.

Metal sang as Bors's sword flew free from its sheath. In three steps he was across the intervening distance, the long, straight blade hovering still and horizontal an inch from Erzhan's throat. The captain blanched.

Bors's voice was the rumble of a distant storm. "You overreach yourself, Captain." He lifted his gaze to the other warriors. "If any of you touch this man behind me, you die. Either here, by my blade, or dragged by your heels across the stones of the steppes until your own mothers won't recognize you. I will not repeat myself."

There was a tense pause, and then bows lowered and hands moved from hilts. Heads bowed.

"Good." Bors looked down at the captain. "And you, Erzhan?"

Erzhan was sweating from more than just heat now, but he managed to keep his voice from cracking. "All respect, my prince, but you're not hakan yet. Your father still holds the Horse Throne. And it's from his lips that this order came. We must bring you back or die in the attempt."

"I know which option I prefer," Roshad suggested.

Bors didn't answer, just stared expressionlessly down at the soldier. At last he stepped back and sheathed his sword.

"Then you'll bring us back," he said. "Both of us."

∗ ∗ ∗

They rode north from the Gate of Winds, the red sandstone walls of Karazh's capital shrinking rapidly behind them. Ahead, the steppe rolled off into eternity, the bunching hills like waves, giving the Grass Sea its name. It was still early summer, and everywhere was a carpet of green.

They road in silence, Bors and Roshad riding double on a mare commandeered from one of the warriors. Beneath his veils, Roshad did his best to match Bors's calm, to give nothing away to their captors, but inside his emotions roiled. All he'd ever wanted was to ride away from the city with Bors's arms locked tight around him, but not like this. Never like this.

The road curved around a low hill, and the camp came into view. Hundreds of tents and round-walled gers spread back through the shallow valley, their white felt walls gleaming. Long streams of colorful pennants flapped from every roof's apex like helmet plumes.

Between them moved horses—whole herds of them, of every color and description. Many were in use by the tribespeople, being groomed or trained or used to haul goods, but still more wandered seemingly unattended. Several came to investigate the new arrivals, and Roshad watched in fascination as the soldiers nodded to the animals as if they were sentries.

No one dismounted as they rode through the settlement. Several curious onlookers—humans, this time—stopped what they were doing to watch the procession, and Roshad felt their eyes on him. Bors's armor was similar enough to the soldiers' that he likely wouldn't have attracted attention even if these hadn't been his people, but Roshad's face-veil and wrappings were unmistakable. Even backwater nomads knew about the Iridian Fold. He searched the watching eyes for judgment, but found only that expressionless regard that so infuriated him on Bors.

In the center of the encampment, a small stone curtain wall six feet high marked the edge of the smaller tents and the beginning of a large ring of open space, bare save for the ubiquitous wandering horses. In its center stood a structure that Roshad couldn't properly call a tent, or even a pavilion. Walls of stone twenty feet high were capped by conical felt roofs, and smaller fabric outbuildings clustered around its sides in an amorphous explosion of canvas.

Erzhan must have caught his widened eyes, because he snickered. "Like that, city man? A gift from your Water Lords, who know how to pay proper respect to the horse tribes." He dismounted.

Bors and Roshad followed suit. Several of the soldiers looked like they might take hold of the prisoners, but Bors's glare drove them back, and they settled for spreading out ahead of and behind them. Erzhan took the lead, speaking to the two guards at the front door, who saluted with fists to chests and stood aside.

Inside, Roshad couldn't help but rubberneck. The hall they walked through might have been in any conventional castle or fortress, yet while some arches led off to similar corridors, others led into canvas tent-rooms, or simply out onto open grass, without so much as an awning.

"The Trade Palace is shared by all the horse tribes," Bors murmured. "The stone foundation came from the city, but your lords knew better than to presume what the tribes desire, or to build to any single han's specifications—even my father's. Whichever tribe resides here completes it as it sees fit, then breaks it down when they move on."

Roshad only nodded.

The corridor ended in a set of bronze doors, each embossed with a rearing stallion. Two more guards stood at attention there, but before Erzhan could speak, they caught sight of Bors and swung the doors wide.

Roshad expected a great hall, tall and dourly majestic, or perhaps a cushioned seraglio. Instead, he found himself in a tent—a stone-floored one, to be sure, but still little more than a larger version of the gers they'd passed on the way in. One wall was open, its canvas drawn back like curtains to reveal the sunlit grass of a parade ground where several people were at work training horses.

A wooden throne stood on a raised platform against the far wall, its arms and back carved into the shapes of horses. A man sat on that chair, facing out at the training yard. As the warriors entered, he turned.

Roshad froze, and might have taken a step back if not for Bors's hand on his arm.

The man on the chair was tall, his armor like Bors's but richer, the lacquered scales a deep burgundy. Stylized horseheads adorned the steel bracers on his forearms and the clasp that held the long fur mantle over his shoulders. Twin axes lay crossed in his lap, yet none of these were what took Roshad aback.

The face he turned to them was steel, molded into the long moustaches and beard of a patriarch. It extended from his conical helm down to his chin, where it met the chain coif around his neck. It was polished mirror-bright, turning the holes for his eyes into darkened pits.

A litchina. Gods above. Bors had shown Roshad his own war mask once, the smooth lines modeled on his own expressionless face. He carried it everywhere, but Roshad had never seen him wear it, as a Horse King wearing his litchina meant one thing, and one thing only.

He was ready to kill.

Hakan Temir Kaskyrbai stood, taking an axe in each hand. The steel-encased head nodded minutely, and the soldiers who had surrounded Bors and Roshad stepped back.

The hakan knows the price of the throne.

"So," the hakan said. "This is the man who would steal my kingdom."

Roshad groped frantically for a response, but Bors squeezed his arm warningly and spoke instead. "He steals nothing, Father."

"Doesn't he?" One axe rose to point at them. "I see a thief who would break my line, who would see the greatest of the tribes fall to internal bickering, and let some lesser han take the Horse Throne. And you, my only son," the axe head drew a line between them, "you chain yourself to him like a dog on a leash."

"Watch your words." Bors's tone was suddenly as hard as the hakan's, his face a mask of its own. "You are my lord and father, and I honor you with every breath, but you will not insult me again, nor the man that I've chosen."

A laugh, ringing behind steel. "Or what? You'll draw your sword and strike me down, here in the heart of the Trade Palace?" The hakan laughed again, but this time it sounded to Roshad like the mockery was turned inward. "Split hooves, boy, isn't that all I've ever asked?"

The hakan seated himself once more on the wooden throne. He waved one of the axes dismissively. "Leave us. And send in Ulzhan." Roshad started to turn, and the axe shot forward. "Not you."

A moment later, the three of them were alone, save for the trainers continuing unperturbed on the far grass. The metal face regarded Bors and Roshad silently for a long moment, and Roshad suddenly understood at a visceral level why the Horse Kings wore the litchinas. That blank, expressionless stare was more terrifying than any grimace or battle cry.

"The Iridian Fold," the hakan said at last.

"It's a noble calling," Bors said. "You've said so yourself, when Koshkin left to join them."

The hakan nodded. "So it is. And you think that matters?"

The question caught Bors short. "But—"

"How many great tribes are there, Bors?"

"Thirteen."

"And which is the greatest?"

"Kaskyrbai. The wolves of the steppe."

The hakan nodded. "You've known that all your life, haven't you?"

"Of course."

"And that's the problem." The hakan took both axes and set them down on the arm of the throne. "You're young, Bors. You've been raised as heir to the greatest of the tribes, but you didn't watch what your grandfather—my father—had to do to take the Horse Throne. I grew up in the middle of it, the blood and shit that coated the steppes. The hans of the other great tribe are as proud as us, boy. They cede us respect because they have to. Because I've kept us strong. But if we show any weakness, they'll slaughter us. And then they'll slaughter each other, until the last one to fall from his saddle and land on this wooden chair can call himself hakan."

Someone pounded once on the bronze doors, and the hakan looked up. "Enter."

The doors opened, and a woman stepped through. She was big—only a few inches shorter than Bors himself—and wore armor of brown and gray, topped by a fur-lined helm. A huge sheath on her back held a recurve bow, and a longsword swung at her waist. She spared Bors and Roshad only the briefest of glances as she stalked past and knelt at the foot of the platform. "Hakan."

"Rise, Ulzhan." The hakan gestured for her to ascend and take up a position next to the throne, and now Roshad felt the frank appraisal in her gaze. He was momentarily glad for his veil—he could never have matched the expressionlessness of these damned nomads.

The hakan spoke. "What's your name, city-man?"

"Roshad, lord."

"Roshad what?"

"Just Roshad."

The steel face bobbed agreeably.

"And are you perhaps the son of a Water Lord, Roshad? Or maybe a prince of the East with a thousand camels in your caravan? No, wait—you're the sixth reincarnation of Sogys Taramai, here to lead us all off the steppe and into the Land of No Winters."

Roshad felt his face burn, and only Bors's grip on his arm and the knowledge of a thousand horse warriors in the surrounding camp kept him from spreading his fingers and letting the fire flow, torching the old man with the metal face and the stupid, flammable throne.

Bors's voice was quiet. "I love him, Father. And he loves me."

"And I love you, boy." The hakan shook his head. "Which is why I'm giving you the chance to save his life."

"What?" Roshad and Bors spoke in unison. Even as the shock coursed through him, some small part of Roshad smiled to see how quickly he and his szerik were growing together.

The hakan waved at the warrior next to him. "You've known Ulzhan since you were a child, Bors. Her father was the greatest captain I ever had, and already she's nearly matched him—with the horses, with the bow, and as a combat leader."

The woman inclined her head slightly at the praise.

No wonder she's good with horses, Roshad thought, she's got the face of one. But of course that was just his anger speaking. In truth, the woman was unremarkable, save for her size and the way she stood like a crouching lion, ready to pounce.

"Tomorrow at dawn, you will slit palms and marry Ulzhan, binding your blood with hers. Then you'll take up the Succession Sword and strike me down. Together, with me to advise you, you and she will lead our tribe to greatness."

"And if I refuse?"

The hakan picked up one of his axes and pounded twice on the platform with its haft. Suddenly the doors were open, and the room was full of dark-eyed steppe warriors.

"Then your city-man dies, and you marry her anyway."

"Bors!" Roshad grabbed tight to the man's arm, but his szerik paid him no attention. The bigger man's gaze was fixed on the hakan.

"I was born to be hakan," Bors said. "And you would make me a slave."

"All kings are slaves." The hakan sighed, then reached up and pulled off his litchina. The man beneath it was surprisingly young—no more than twenty years older than Bors, with plenty of black still in his long mustaches. He had the face of a hard man, yet the gaze that met Bors's was strangely soft.

"We both knew this was coming, Bors. I'm glad you found love, and I let you play as long as I could. But it's time to grow up."

Bors said nothing. The silence carried.

Roshad ran frantically through escape scenarios. Fire, that was good—fire scared people, called out to the animal instincts in them. He'd flame the old bastard—or better yet, the tent canopy above them, set the whole palace on fire. While the soldiers scrambled to put it out, he and Bors would race out the open side-wall, leap onto the horses that were being trained, then gallop through the camp and back to the city before anyone could stop them. Once there, they could hole up until a suitably large caravan was leaving the city, then—

Bors reached up to his chest and disconnected the chain, handing the end back to Roshad.

Roshad did his best not to grin beneath his veil. He and Bors only removed their chain when they were about to pull a particularly tricky stunt. He readied the spell.

"It's over, Roshad."

Roshad looked up at Bors. The man wasn't reaching for his sword. He wasn't tensing to move. Just looking down at him, mouth drawn tight. "What?"

"He's right. This time that we've had... I would have loved to be your szerik. But I have to do this."

"Right. Of course." Roshad searched Bors's face, looking for something—anything. This had to be a diversion, to catch the soldiers off guard. Later, Bors would kiss his brow and apologize for having said such a thing, even as a front.

But Bors was shaking his head. "No tricks, Roshad. Not this time. The city is your world, and I love you for showing it to me. But this is mine."

Gods, could he actually mean it? Roshad's stomach lurched. "I won't leave you." Smoke began to rise from his clenched fists. "I'm not scared of them."

"This isn't about fear." Bors's face was the same mask as the others, but now his eyes, always so full of emotion and expression for Roshad, held something indecipherable. "If you ever loved me, you won't make anyone hurt you." He took Roshad's head in his hands, and leaned down, pulling their foreheads together.

"Go now, Rabbit. Please. For me."

Then he let go and stepped backward, becoming one with the mass of soldiers. A sea of blank faces stared back at Roshad.

"If he's still here in three breaths," the hakan said to his soldiers, "shoot him."

Then tears blurred the scene, and Roshad turned and fled.

Coming Next Week: Desperate measures in Chapter Three of James L. Sutter's "Boar and Rabbit"!

James L. Sutter is the Managing Editor for Paizo Publishing and a co-creator of the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game. He is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Death's Heretic and The Redemption Engine, the former of which was #3 on Barnes & Noble's list of the Best Fantasy Releases of 2011 and a finalist for the Compton Crook Award for Best First Novel. He's written short stories for such publications as Escape Pod, Apex Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and the #1 Amazon best-seller Machine of Death. His anthology Before They Were Giants pairs the first published short stories of science fiction luminaries with new interviews and writing advice from the authors themselves. In addition, he's published a wealth of gaming material for both Dungeons & Dragons and the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, including such fan-favorite Pathfinder Campaign Setting books as Distant Worlds and City of Strangers. For more information, check out jameslsutter.com or follow him on Twitter at @jameslsutter.

Illustration by Eric Belisle

Boar and Rabbit

by James L. Sutter

Chapter One: Catch the Wind

Two men knelt at the foot of the dais. One wore thick-plated lamellar armor, the other snug gray wrappings that hid all but his eyes. Similarly dressed pairs made a half-circle around the kneelers, each individual set connected by a short iron chain.

On the dais, two more men stepped forward. Though they were dressed no differently from anyone else in the great cathedral, no one could have mistaken them for the others. They stepped forward in perfect unison, as though each were a mismatched reflection of the other, stretched and warped by a carnival mirror. Between them, they carried a chain like the others, holding it reverently in all four hands.

"This chain does not bind." The leaders' voice—for there was only one voice, spoken with two mouths—was smooth and reverent, rising up to ring off the cathedral's high dome. "Today, you cease to be two men, and instead become szerik—shared mind, shared heart. This chain will be your symbol, announcing your bond to the world. Yet the Iridian Fold is not a guild, with a chain of office. It is no religion, with a chain for a holy symbol. It is greater than these. For with love, with discipline, the lines between you will blur and fade. You will be as one soul in two bodies. This is the great mystery of the Iridian Fold: to let the bond between you grow until the union eclipses the self. And in that moment, you will no longer need the reminder of the chain." Two sets of eyes crinkled into a smile. "You will be the chain."

"Be the chain!" the congregation chorused.

Fifty feet above, Roshad glanced over at Bors and squeezed his hand. The pair crouched on the narrow gallery running the circumference of the cathedral's dome, Bors's bulky lamellar forcing him to contort himself like a dying insect in order to stay hidden behind the low balustrade. Despite the obvious discomfort, the bigger man's stone-slab face broke into a smile as he met Roshad's eyes, and he tugged lightly on the stolen chain running from his chest to the collar around Roshad's neck.

Roshad prefers the direct approach.

Roshad smiled back, knowing that no veil could hide the expression from his partner. His szerik.

My Boar, Roshad thought, and the words came bittersweet. This is no place for him, lurking in the darkness like a beggar. If only we could be down there with the others. We—

The cathedral's doors banged open, replacing the soft glow of stained glass with the flare of noonday sun. As quickly as it appeared, the light was blocked by half a dozen figures, men and women in the furs and leathers of the horse tribes.

"Where are they?"

The leader of the troop, a bull-faced man with a long horsehair plume atop his conical helmet, shoved his way through the assembly until he stood at the foot of the dais, looking up at the congregation's leader. Around him, the gathered men of the Iridian Fold hissed at the affront, hands going to blades. The other invaders looked less comfortable, yet dutifully spread out behind their captain.

The men on the dais raised their hands in a calming gesture. "You do us a disservice, stranger."

The captain snorted. "I figure you get serviced plenty." Behind him, several of his own people frowned. "But what you Iridian Fold do is no business of mine. Now where are they?"

"Where are who?" the Iridian Fold men asked.

"I don't have time for games, holy man. One of the street kids saw them slip in here not half an hour ago." He looked back at one of his warriors. "Dosk?"

"They're not in the group, Captain. Unless they're disguised."

The captain grimaced, then looked around at the cathedral's many shadowed corners. "Fine. Aizha, light this place up."

A woman in a thick-furred hat stepped forward and raised her hands, grasping the air as if kneading dough. Four globes of golden light blazed into existence around them, each the size of a juggling ball. She gestured, and they shot outward, making a circuit of the vast chamber at head height, then rose higher to light the gallery.

Roshad searched frantically for somewhere else to hide as the globes floated closer, but without the shadows, the posts of the stone balustrade did little to obscure the two men. He met Bors's eyes.

"There!" Down below, one of the horse warriors pointed. The captain gave a command, and the company ran for the narrow spiral staircase leading up to Bors and Roshad's perch.

They were trapped. The stairway was the only way down to the cathedral floor—as usual, Roshad and Bors had crept up it shortly before the Iridian Fold men arrived for their ceremony.

A narrow ladder on the opposite side of the cathedral's dome caught his eye, its rungs disappearing up into the shaft of the cathedral's windcatcher.

Well, if they couldn't go down...

Roshad yanked Bors to his feet and jerked his chin toward the ladder. Bors nodded once and ran, his armored bulk threatening to overflow the narrow catwalk. If he tripped, the thigh-high balustrade would do little to save him, but the man moved with the grace of a desert wolf. Roshad's heart swelled as he followed, the chain swinging lightly between them. Below, the whole congregation now pointed and shouted, shocked to see two men dressed as their own racing around the inside of the dome.

They reached the ladder and began to climb. The shaft was blessedly wide, and broken at intervals by smaller horizontal tubes that led back to the dome, the better to let the rising hot air escape and draw up cooler air from the cathedral's catacombs. Roshad could feel the breeze as he hauled himself quickly upward.

The shaft ended abruptly in a covered ledge, barely wide enough for Roshad and Bors to stand together. Beyond a row of narrow pillars, the grand city of Ular Kel spread out before them, beckoning with a thousand places to hide, to lose themselves in the market crowds like loose stones on the steppes.

If only they could reach it. Roshad stuck his head out past the pillars and looked down. The drop was at least eighty feet, and the outer face of the windcatcher tower had no access ladder. Nothing but smooth stone until it met the blue-tiled plaza below. He grimaced and pulled back inside.

"Nothing?" Bors rumbled.

"Not that way." Roshad clasped Bors's armored forearm. "Hold tight."

"When haven't I?"

"Yeah, well..." Taking a deep breath, Roshad planted one foot firmly on the edge of the ledge, then swung out into space. He let the momentum pivot him around, doing his best to ignore the dizzying expanse of air below him as he reached out and caught the outer edge of the tower's wall. He hugged the corner as if it were Bors himself, pressing into it, and looked around.

Damn. He'd hoped for some sort of access ledge on this side, but instead the tower was one long fin of stone extending back to the dome's apex. Even if they could get on top of it, there'd still be no good way down.

"Rabbit." Bors's voice was calm but urgent. "Time to go."

Roshad swung back onto the safety of the ledge. Below them, the horse warriors were in the shaft now, their curses rising up ahead of them. "Just had to check." He let go of Bors's arm and unclipped the chain from his collar, then stepped close to the larger man, his back against Bors's armored chest. He quickly looped the chain around both of them, under their arms, then handed the loose end to Bors. "Ready?"

Bors wrapped huge arms tight around Roshad's shoulders. "Always."

Roshad kissed the man's bracered wrist, then fixed the image of a small brown house spider in his mind, his hands twisting in the motions that had come to feel so natural. He knelt, Bors wrapped around him like a shell, and whispered the words.

Then he rolled off the ledge.

There was a moment of disorientation, his stomach rebelling at the shifting horizon. Then his hands found the sheer stone of the tower wall, and suddenly it was as if the world had turned ninety degrees, and he was crawling along a flat plane leading to the vertical blue wall of the plaza. His hands and feet moved effortlessly, sticking and releasing at will as he crawled, hindered only by Bors, who did his best to lock his legs around Roshad's middle. The warrior's weight on Roshad's back pulled steadily forward, urging them on.

And then they were down. The world twisted again as the two men untangled themselves and stood. Bors's expression was as stoic as any war mask, but his breathing was quick and his tan skin paler than normal. Roshad smiled up at him and refastened his chain.

A shout from the tower drew their attention. High above, the soldiers were peering down at them from between the pillars.

Bors tugged at Roshad's arm, leading him away across the plaza, but Roshad couldn't resist shooting their pursuers a rude gesture. "Better luck next time, geldings!"

Except that there wouldn't be a next time. At long last, he and Bors were finally leaving the city, heading out to—

The woman in the furry hat appeared between the pillars. She shouted something, then began shoving warriors off the ledge. One by one, they fell, unable to keep from pinwheeling their arms, faces contorted with fear—and yet moving nowhere near as quickly as they should have. In a heartbeat, the first had touched down, as lightly as a falling leaf. He smiled at and drew his sword.

"Right. Wizard." Roshad turned back to Bors. "Okay, now we go."

They ran, cutting across the plaza and through the crowd of onlookers that had gathered. Beyond it, the street was packed with merchants, travelers, and locals out for a walk in the city's picturesque temple district. Barrow runners pushed their one-wheeled carts to and fro, working on commission to spread caravan goods from the city's central market out to the rest of the populace.

Roshad grabbed the edge of one such barrow and pulled, dumping a load of ornamented baskets into the street. The runner screeched in protest and dove to recover her goods before they got trampled or stolen by the swarming street kids who knew an opportunity when they saw one. The pursuing horse warriors cursed, bogged down in the morass, and Bors and Roshad turned a corner and kept running, staying close together to keep their chain from clotheslining bystanders.

Someone shouted, and Roshad looked back to see that several horse warriors had broken through and were still on their trail. This part of the street was less densely packed, and the pursuers were gaining.

"The hell with this!" Roshad careened around the edge of a coffeehouse and ducked into an alley, pulling Bors along with him. He pressed the big man back into the shadows against the wall, then held his hands out toward the alley's mouth, fingers spread.

A gauntleted hand grabbed his shoulder. "Rabbit, no!"

Roshad grimaced and shot Bors a look. "They're not going to stop, Bors."

Bors simply stared at him, mouth set in a disapproving line.

"Piss and hell!" Roshad grabbed Bors's shoulder and shoved him back into a run. "If they catch us, it's your fault!"

They sprinted through a maze of alleys and access ways, past middens and watering troughs, their footfalls echoing off the mud-brick walls. Their pursuers weren't even bothering to yell anymore, just focusing all their efforts on closing the gap between them and their quarry. Roshad yanked Bors around another corner—

And stopped. The alley dead-ended in a small courtyard, kept shaded and cool by the many-storied buildings on three sides. Every door was shut tight.

Roshad grabbed the latch on the nearest door, but to no avail. Bors gave it a tentative slam with his shoulder, but the ironbound wood didn't even groan. They spun around just in time to see the first of the horse warriors appear.

"Now?" Roshad asked Bors, raising a hand.

Bors only shook his head. His fingers were tight on the hilt of the huge sword slung across his back, but Roshad knew it was a bluff. Bors would never hurt these people.

Fine—there were other spells. The climbing again. Roshad began the incantation—

"I wouldn't." The voice was the captain's, albeit strained. The man emerged from between his troops, sweating but exultant. To either side of him, warriors stood with bows drawn, arrows pointed straight at Roshad's chest. The captain grinned and moved forward.

"Now, thief," he said, "you'll give us back our prince."

Coming Next Week: An audience with the lord of the Horse Throne in Chapter Two of James L. Sutter's "Boar and Rabbit"!

James L. Sutter is the Managing Editor for Paizo Publishing and a co-creator of the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game. He is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Death's Heretic and The Redemption Engine, the former of which was #3 on Barnes & Noble's list of the Best Fantasy Releases of 2011 and a finalist for the Compton Crook Award for Best First Novel. He's written short stories for such publications as Escape Pod, Apex Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and the #1 Amazon best-seller Machine of Death. His anthology Before They Were Giants pairs the first published short stories of science fiction luminaries with new interviews and writing advice from the authors themselves. In addition, he's published a wealth of gaming material for both Dungeons & Dragons and the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, including such fan-favorite Pathfinder Campaign Setting books as Distant Worlds and City of Strangers. For more information, check out jameslsutter.com or follow him on Twitter at @jameslsutter.

Illustration by Eric Belisle

The Redemption Engine Sample Chapter

Wednesday, April 23rd, 2014

by James L. Sutter

In The Redemption Engine, extraplanar investigator Salim Ghadafar is back at it again, only this time he's tasked with tracking down murdered sinners who fail to show up in Hell. In order to do so, the former priest-hunter will need to descend into the anarchic city of Kaer Maga, following a trail that ranges from Hell’s iron cities to the gates of Heaven itself. Along the way, he’ll be aided by a host of otherworldly creatures, a streetwise teenager, and two warriors of the mysterious Iridian Fold. But when the missing souls are the scum of the earth, and the victims devils themselves, can anyone really be trusted?

Chapter Three

The Devil's Due

Salim realized he was gripping his sword hilt. The devil looked pointedly at it, then shifted his gaze to the corner hidden behind the door. "Not much for etiquette, is he?"

"Please, Salim," said another voice, this one all too familiar. "Come in and close the door."

Gritting his teeth, Salim let go of his sword and moved inside. As he let the door swing closed behind him, he tasted iron and felt the familiar warm trickle as blood ran from his nose, catching in his short black beard.

The devil looked at Salim with something between fascination and disgust, then past him over his shoulder. "He's leaking."

"Just a little reminder from the Lady," said the other voice, now behind Salim. "It's a little game we play. Isn't that right, Salim?"

Salim turned.

The angelic creature hung motionless in the air, its toes several inches above the floor. Beneath black hair, the face was too perfect to be human, its smooth features more like a sketch by a master artist than anything nature designed. Its flesh was the alien, hairless white of marble or maggot, and the sheer gray fabric that wrapped its torso was more shroud than toga. If there was gender beneath that garment, Salim had never seen it. Great black wings rose from behind the creature's shoulders, oily feathers melding with the shadows to seem at once comfortable and far too big for the room. They stretched lazily, swirling the shadow into little eddies and currents.

"Hello, Salim."

"Ceyanan." The word was a curse. Salim made no effort to wipe his face. Blood from his nose made its way across the well-trimmed lawn of his beard and dripped onto the wooden floor with a quiet plip.

"Really, Ceyanan," said the devil. "I'm not one to tell others how to housebreak their pets, but this hardly seems suitable for our conversation."

"Of course," Ceyanan said, in its maddening, genderless voice. "My apologies."

There was a sudden touch of wind on Salim's face, stale and cold as the breeze from a long-sealed tomb, and then the blood was gone. Salim refused to react.

"Please," Ceyanan said, raising a hand toward the chairs around the table. "Be seated."

Salim contemplated his options. Normally, he would stand just to spite the angel, but such pettiness might seem a sign of weakness to the devil. With a hard look at the placid apparition, he moved to the table and took a seat, pushing his chair back against the wall so that he could see both of the room's residents.

Ceyanan drifted over, neither walking nor flapping, but rather pulling the shadowy wings along in its wake like streamers that grew and stretched as it moved. It stopped on the other side of the table. An alabaster hand indicated the devil.

"Salim, allow me to introduce Hezechor."

Maedora doesn't tolerate dissension in the ranks.

The devil smiled, showing perfect teeth only slightly too pointed for a human. He inclined his head.

Salim had met devils, of course. It was impossible not to in his line of work. This one was a classic breed, with features reminiscent of Asmodeus himself. A crown of short horns sat above a red-skinned and ruggedly handsome face with dark eyes and a small, pointed beard. His robes were a matching red, emblazoned with infernal symbols in black and gold, and left his muscular chest bare.

There, however, the devil's similarities to the Archfiend of minstrels' stories stopped. From the creature's back sprouted a clutch of huge black horns, twisted and ridged like a ram's. They curved out and around him like the tentacles of some tide pool anemone, threatening to cage him in. From several hung scrolls of parchment and papyrus, as well as one that looked suspiciously like human skin, all covered in dense, crabbed sigils that were nauseating to look upon.

"You're a contract devil," Salim said.

"A phistophilus, yes." Hezechor smiled broader this time, and Salim had to suppress a shiver. The devil's eyes seemed to bore through him, even as the rest of the face invited trust. Salim had known confidence men before, and master merchants who could convince you to trade everything you owned for a handful of tin. This creature was in another class entirely. "You're familiar with us?"

"Not personally, no." Salim shook off the devil's uncanny charm like a dog shakes off water. He gave Ceyanan a look. "I'm afraid I strike my infernal bargains elsewhere."

"Pity," said Hezechor, and looked to Ceyanan as well. "Shall we begin, then?"

"Certainly." Ceyanan paused to make sure Salim was paying attention, then spread its hands.

The air between them filled with rows of tiny faces. The illusions swung side to side, giving Salim a full view of the disembodied heads. Out of habit, Salim began memorizing them, breaking them into smaller groups by race and gender and noting scars, tattoos, and other distinguishing features. Most of the faces were human or half-elven, but there was a gnome in there as well, the little man's hair a bloody red too bright for a human's. None of the faces looked particularly friendly.

"Over the last several months, Kaer Maga has suffered a rash of unexplained murders," Ceyanan said. "Dozens of bodies have washed up in the aqueducts and back-alley trash heaps of the city's southern districts, or spattered across the stones at the foot of the cliff."

Salim said nothing. Considering his own welcome, Kaer Maga gave every appearance of being a hard town. He would be astonished if there weren't a dozen murders here in any given month. Or week.

Ceyanan noted his silence and nodded slightly. "Of particular significance is the fact that, of the identified victims, all have been singularly unsavory individuals. Slavers, rapists, murderers, and the like. Despite a great variety of wounds, all were ultimately dispatched by a neat stiletto puncture through the back." This time Ceyanan let the pause stretch.

Always the showman, Salim thought. He sighed and accepted his cue. "So? Why does the Gray Lady care? Let Hell have them."

"Precisely," said Hezechor. The devil was no longer smiling.

Ceyanan looked at Salim. "As Hezechor implies, the issue is not what happened, but rather what failed to happen. Of the fifty-some individuals who have been slain, none have appeared at the Spire for judgment."

Salim sat back in his chair and let out a breath.

Fifty souls. And from the same city, at that. It was a mind-boggling number. Across the various nations and worlds of the Material Plane—the realm of existence where mortals lived—there were few constants. In fact, despite the old sayings, even tides and taxes were avoidable, depending on where you were. But death—death was the great equalizer.

No matter who you were, or what you were, if you lived, one day you would cease living. On that day, your spirit would leave your body on the Material Plane and join the River of Souls, the great procession of recently deceased spirits that flowed all the way to Pharasma's Spire, the huge pillar of stone that was the heart of the Outer Planes—what mortals thought of as the afterlife. Once you reached the Boneyard, Pharasma and her minions—psychopomps like Ceyanan—would divide you up according to how you lived and what you believed, and send you on to whatever plane or deity was most appropriate. If you were a particularly contentious case, there might even be a trial of sorts. But regardless of how exactly it happened, there was no getting around it: if you died, you were judged. Pharasma's servants were meticulous record-keepers, and since the Gray Lady was the goddess of fate and prophecy as well as birth and death, she already kept tabs on every sentient creature in the multiverse. Trying to avoid her notice was like hiding from the passage of time.

Not that people didn't try. They ran, or hid their souls, or transformed themselves into undead monstrosities. Some destroyed the souls of their enemies, or managed to bottle them up before they could reach the Spire. That was where Salim came in.

But still—even one soul unaccounted for was an anomaly. Fifty...

"I presume this is limited to the murders?" Salim asked. "Other folk who die in Kaer Maga are reaching the Spire as normal?"

Ceyanan nodded. "It's not simply a matter of murder, either. A great number of people are killed in Kaer Maga on a regular basis. Most of these continue to arrive and be judged as normal. Of the ones who haven't, the only link is that all appear to have died violently via the stiletto, and lived in a manner that even Kaer Magans would find abhorrent."

"Isn't it obvious?" Hezechor snapped. The contract devil's red skin seemed to glow faintly with irritation. "We're being robbed."

Salim gave him a level look, then turned back to Ceyanan. "Is that true? Were all the souls destined for Hell?"

"No," Ceyanan said. "Some were too chaotic to be useful to the devils, and better suited to the Abyss. A few were nihilists, and the daemons of Abaddon would have gotten those. But it's true that they were all evil, and the majority would have gone to the devils."

Hezechor looked mildly affronted at having his grand statement amended, but he bobbed his horns in acknowledgment and sat back in his chair.

Now Salim turned to address the devil. "So where are your demonic and daemonic counterparts?"

Hezechor snorted. "You ever see a demonic accountant?"

"I suppose not."

"Of course you haven't. The children of chaos aren't big on records, and the daemons pretty much eat anyone that shows up on Abaddon." He gestured at one of the scrolls draped from his horns. "Hell, on the other hand, never forgets."

Salim nodded and chewed mentally. "Hags?" he asked. "Have you checked the markets on Axis?"

"Naturally," Ceyanan said. "None of the souls in question have shown up in any of the usual places."

That wasn't terribly surprising. There were creatures—most notably the nightmare witches called hags—that enjoyed trapping souls and bottling them up, selling them to unsavory spellcasters who used them in magical rituals. Then there were the creatures that fed on souls—things like the daemons Hezechor had mentioned—which didn't care whether they'd been judged yet or not. Those were always a problem.

Yet neither of those would bother restricting themselves to evil souls. What sort of creature was simultaneously crazy enough to incur the wrath of the Lady of Graves by disrupting a soul's natural cycle, yet conscientious enough to worry about their prey's morality? Salim supposed it could be some sort of crusader—perhaps a paladin with a sword that ate souls—yet the magic required to destroy or capture a soul was itself taboo in most cultures, and there was little incentive. An evil soul sent to Pharasma's judgment was bound to face punishment harsher than whatever a mortal vigilante could mete out.

Salim looked back to Hezechor. "So you're here to figure out who's cutting off your supply."

The devil smiled. "My dear boy, I'm doing nothing of the sort. I'm afraid this is entirely your mess."

"He's correct," Ceyanan said, emotionless as ever. "Hezechor expressed an interest in meeting you, but that's as far as Hell's involvement goes. The procession and judgment of souls is Pharasma's domain, and any discrepancies are our responsibility to correct."

Salim felt the familiar, stomach-warming anger that characterized all his interactions with Ceyanan. "You mean my responsibility."

"Of course."

"Of course," Salim mimicked, and crossed his arms. "Because it's not enough to make me wade waste-deep through human filth chasing down packs of sewer ghouls. Or staking little girls who happen to be vampires. Or getting my arm charred to the bone by some delusional fire wizard trying to bring back his dead parents." He flexed his right arm, though of course the priests had long since healed that particular injury. "Now you want me to do your accounting for you, too."

Ceyanan smiled. "At least there won't be rivers of sewage. Probably."

Salim shot back an exaggerated rictus grin. "As you wish." Still seated, he bent at the waist and swept out the repaired arm. "The Grave Bitch commands, and I obey."

"And we thank you for your service," Ceyanan said, as polite as if Salim's bow had been real.

"Fascinating." Hezechor watched the exchange with interest, bearded chin in one hand, tone equal parts scorn and amusement. "And your mistress allows this sort of insubordination?"

"Salim's something of a special case."

Salim flashed the devil the fake smile as well. "I get the best treatment a slave could hope for."

"I see," said Hezechor. "Well, as educational as this has been, I believe my involvement here is at an end. My superiors look forward to seeing the matter resolved in short order." He reached out two black nailed fingers and pulled a narrow scroll from where it draped over a horn just above his right shoulder. He glanced at it, then looked over it at Salim.

"Please don't take this the wrong way," the devil said, "but I suspect we'll be meeting again."

The paper between his fingers ignited, a brilliant flash that left Salim dazzled for the second time that day. When his vision cleared, Hezechor was gone, leaving behind only the slight scent of brimstone and a faintest wisp of smoke drifting up from his chair.

Salim looked at Ceyanan. The angel-shaped psychopomp hung in the air, unflappable as always.

"So," Salim said. "Alone together at last."

Ceyanan tilted its head. "Not quite. Maedora?"

At the far end of the room, something moved.

At first it was like a breeze, a faint stirring of dust motes—but of course there was no wind in the windowless room. As Salim watched, the shadows in the corner seemed to reach forth, spinning out into long threads that tangled and wove together, splitting and multiplying as they stretched toward him. The shadows paled from black to gray, then began to shimmer as they formed an outline, interlacing like the straw of a wicker man. The web became a cocoon, then bulged obscenely.

A woman stepped through. She was undeniably beautiful, with long black hair that trailed behind her in the nonexistent breeze. She was also at least eight feet tall. The iridescent threads that painted her naked body were the silken patterns of orb-weaver spiders, and every bit as clingy. They wrapped her from head to toe and fanned out behind her, spreading into gray wings that were more bat than bird. Even her face was covered, the webs thickening into a flared mask that hid her eyes and left only her pale mouth and nose exposed. All together, the effect was that of a recently mummified corpse.

The trailing shadow-strings snapped and faded away as she strode over to stand next to Ceyanan. She turned her head to evaluate Salim, and he didn't need to see her eyes to feel the weight of that stare.

"Nice outfit," he said.

The web woman remained silent.

"Salim," Ceyanan said, and for a moment Salim thought the angel sounded almost anxious. "This is Maedora."

"A pleasure to meet you, Maedora," Salim said. "Do you always make such an entrance, or am I especially privileged?"

Still the woman said nothing.

"Maedora is another psychopomp," Ceyanan said tightly. "A morrigna."

The angel said it like it should mean something. Salim shrugged. "Sorry. You all look the same to me."

Which wasn't true, of course. Salim had worked with a number of psychopomps over the years—those agents of the death goddess that mortals often called spirit guides, angels, or reapers. Yet with the exception of Ceyanan, those had mostly been birdlike things that guarded the River of Souls from creatures looking to prey on the defenseless petitioners. Nothing like this woman.

Maedora walked around the table toward Salim. Though the body underneath the shroud was flawless, her hips had no seductive roll, and her feet made no sound on the floorboards. As she drew near, the physical size of her grew more and more imposing, and the shifting patches of shadow that moved across her wrappings resolved themselves into thousands of tiny black spiders that rippled and flowed in precise movements. She loomed over his chair.

"You really should be more polite," Ceyanan noted. "After all, you and Maedora are in the same line of work."

"Oh?" Salim asked.

"Hunting." The voice that emerged from beneath that mask was soft, arch, and as cold as the grave.

"She's an inquisitor," Ceyanan explained. "Like all her kind. They gather evidence to aid in judgments, and hunt down and destroy would-be immortals and those who trade in stolen souls."

"And atheists." Maedora placed a single finger on Salim's neck. Cold raced across his skin, raising gooseflesh all down his side. "The faithless can't be allowed to corrupt the Inner Court."

Salim crooked a smile at her. "Of course."

"Maedora will be investigating the murders as well."

Salim gave Ceyanan a sharp look. "I don't need a partner."

"And you're not getting one," the angel replied coolly. "I'm afraid the situation is more complicated than that. You see, while I've been given charge of this investigation, there are certain factions within the Inner Court that have a different point of view."

"Fifty-three souls," Maedora said. "Their return is too important to trust to a mortal."

"Spare my feelings, why don't you?" Salim looked to Ceyanan. "So you're running both of us against each other?"

The angel shook its head. "Not against. Merely in parallel. You both work best alone, so you'll work alone. I trust you won't interfere with each other, and will share information as benefits the aims of the Boneyard. It's simple division of labor. For instance, in light of the Lamasaran debacle, Maedora will be handling all interactions with the local Pharasmin congregation."

"Excuse me?" Salim asked. "As I recall, I successfully retrieved the kidnapped soul and rooted out corruption in the church."

"By nearly burning it down," Maedora pointed out. "Several of the faithful were injured defending the cathedral."

"And promptly healed each other up, good as new," Salim countered.

"Nevertheless," Ceyanan said, "the Kaer Magan cathedral will not be subject to your special breed of etiquette. Maedora will be the Boneyard's liaison in this matter."

"Fine." Salim had no desire to deal with a bunch of stiff-necked priests anyway. "Then where do you want me to start?"

"Wherever you can," Ceyanan said.

"You know, for spirit guides, both of you interpret the ‘guide' part pretty loosely."

The web-wrapped thing called Maedora moved closer—very close. She hunkered down so that her face was just above Salim's, forcing him to tilt his head back to meet the blank, gauzy expanse that hid her eyes.

Salim wondered how many eyes that mask actually hid.

"Listen well, Salim Ghadafar," Maedora whispered. The web wings spread out behind her to block the light, casting them both in shadow. "Your service has been noted, but your insolence as well. Ceyanan may tolerate such things, but I will not. Stay out of my way, and find your own leads as best you can. If you interfere with my investigation, you will be removed. Permanently."

Despite the shivers tracing lightning arcs up and down his spine, Salim had to smile. "Are you threatening to fire me?" he asked. "Because if so, I'm not sure you did your homework."

"There are worse fates than death, Salim," Maedora hissed. "You of all people should know that."

"Believe me, I do." Bending sideways so that he could see past the shield of gray wings, Salim said, "I see why you wanted her involved, Ceyanan. She's clearly a people person." He straightened and stood, moving the chair back so he could look the stooping psychopomp in the eye.

"With all due respect to your charming personality," he said, "I think you might want to find a cloak or something. This whole ‘winged mummy' bit might not put your informants at ease."

Maedora's lips quirked up in a smirk, and she drew back. "The dead are rarely so squeamish. But you have a point."

She raised a hand, and the spiders that had been congregating in little pockets around her body converged on it, covering it in a writhing glove. She whispered something, and the spiders rolled down her arm and over her body in a seething tide, expanding out over her wings, devouring the webbing as they went. When the swarm reached the fingers of her other hand, it disappeared.

The psychopomp was gone. In her place stood a human woman in her early thirties, with pale skin and a stern face. She wore fitted pants and a shirt of a military cut, as well as high boots, all of them black. A gray cape hung from broad, straight shoulders, secured by a clasp in the shape of a spiral. Only the long black hair remained unchanged.

She crossed her arms. "Better?"

Her new shape was attractive, in a no-nonsense sort of way, and wouldn't draw any attention beyond the usual. Yet there was still a blankness in the eyes. A dead thing, wearing the shape of a woman.

Salim nodded.

"Remember what I said." The new Maedora's voice was the same as the winged giant's. "I'll be seeing you."

Then she turned and walked out the door.

Salim watched the door shut, trying to get a grasp on how his day had suddenly become so complicated. Eventually he turned back to Ceyanan. "Nice company you're keeping these days."

"Whatever serves the Lady."

"Yeah, I know. So what's the point?"

"What do you mean?" the angel asked innocently.

Salim hooked a thumb at the door. "Why am I here, if you've got spider-lady on the job?"

"It's complicated." For the first time in their long acquaintance, Salim thought the angel sounded tired.

"Everything's complicated," Salim observed.

Ceyanan spread its hands. "The Lady has many servants. I represent one division, Maedora another. Sometimes we disagree on how best to proceed. When that happens, the Lady often sees fit to let us sort things out among ourselves."

"So I'm just a game piece," Salim said.

"When has it ever been otherwise?"

The angel never failed to get under Salim's skin. "So what if your horse decides not to run?"

"I'm afraid that would go very poorly for the horse," Ceyanan replied. "Horses that refuse to run end up at the knacker's. But you don't have to worry about that."

Salim waited expectantly.

"Your pride, Salim. The same thing that led you to us in the first place. The pride that led you to try to handle the Lamasaran situation on your own, in order to impress that noble girl, and nearly cost you both your lives. What was her name? Neila?"

The word was like a stone in Salim's chest. "You leave her out of this."

Ceyanan waved the issue aside. "It doesn't matter. You'll run because Maedora said you weren't good enough, and thus your desire to spite her is momentarily greater than your desire to spite me."

Salim started to respond, then realized it was true. As much as he resented Ceyanan, the goddess, and everything about his joke of an existence, part of him did want to solve the mystery—all because Maedora had told him he couldn't. Perhaps she was a better inquisitor than he'd thought.

Besides, his real problem was with the goddess herself, and both Maedora and Ceyanan were part of her coterie. Which toe he stepped on was irrelevant.

Ceyanan nodded as if Salim had replied. "I've left the necessary funds with Canary House's owner. I suspect you'll need them, unless those thieves earlier were kind enough to refill your purse."

Salim frowned. "So you were watching that."

"Always."

That spark of anger again. "I could have been killed."

"No," Ceyanan said. "You couldn't. I believe we've already proved that point."

Trust the angel to find a way to work that in. "Go to hell, Ceyanan."

The psychopomp smiled.

"But Salim, that's what I have you for."

Purchase the whole novel here.

Coming Next Week: An all-new story set in distant Casmaron, exploring the origins of the two mysterious Iridian Fold warriors from The Redemption Engine!

James L. Sutter is the Managing Editor for Paizo Publishing and a co-creator of the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game. He is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Death's Heretic and The Redemption Engine, the former of which was #3 on Barnes & Noble's list of the Best Fantasy Releases of 2011 and a finalist for the Compton Crook Award for Best First Novel. He's written short stories for such publications as Escape Pod, Apex Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and the #1 Amazon best-seller Machine of Death. His anthology Before They Were Giants pairs the first published short stories of science fiction luminaries with new interviews and writing advice from the authors themselves. In addition, he's published a wealth of gaming material for both Dungeons & Dragons and the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, including such fan-favorite Pathfinder Campaign Setting books as Distant Worlds and City of Strangers.

Art by Eric Belisle.

Pathfinder Legends: A Visual Companion

Sunday, April 6, 2014

Right after the debut Pathfinder Legends full-cast audio drama was released, my wife and I got stuck in an unexpected traffic snarl (which shouldn't have been too surprising, living in Seattle, and all). To kill the time, I put on the CD, and my wife—Shelyn bless her—obliged me by listening. It didn't take very long before she was getting into the story and following closely. There were a few instances when she made me pause playback, however, so that I could explain what certain locations, creatures, and characters looked like. It hit me then that not everyone listening to Pathfinder Legends may play Pathfinder or be familiar with some of the fantasy tropes that those of us who've been playing D&D or variants thereof for decades can sometimes take for granted. One of the reasons the audio drama is so captivating is that it doesn't include a lot of exposition dumps or narration, meaning some of the physical descriptions one might expect in a novel or RPG experience just aren't there.

Thus, I put together this quick visual guide for listeners new to the Pathfinder universe to aid you in acclimating to some of the elements encountered in Burn Offerings. The following images and descriptions could be considered a spoiler, so if you aren't familiar with the Burnt Offerings story, I recommend scrolling down the page as you're listening to the audio drama.

First up we have the town of Sandpoint, where the adventure begins. This is a settlement of about 1,200 people in the nation of Varisia, in a coastal wilderness region known as the Lost Coast.

Illustration by Noah Bradley

Among the personalities the heroes encounter during the Swallowtail Festival are Mayor Kendra Deverin, Sheriff Belor Hemlock, and Lonjiku Kaijitsu (all pictured below).

Illustration by Andrew Hou and Maichol Quinto

Lonjiku's daughter, Ameiko, has a prominent role in the adventure, serving as their hostess at the Rusty Dragon, Sandpoint's finest inn and tavern (she appears on the cover of the third Pathfinder Legends release, The Hook Mountain Massacre). Her half-brother, Tsuto, also makes an appearance. It's pretty clear from the dialogue in the audio drama that he's a half-elf—here's what he looks like.

Illustration by Eric Belisle

One of my wife's most pressing questions toward the end of the adventure was, “what's a bugbear?” The character Bruthazmus plays a large role in the adventure's conclusion, as does his boss, Nualia Tobyn. They're both depicted here. He's a large-yet-sneaky goblinoid (bugbear), while she's a demon-tainted human with angelic ancestry (making her both beautiful and ugly at the same time).

Illustration by Eric Belisle and Eva Widermann

That should take you right up to the adventure's end. Does having images to accompany the audio heighten your listening experience? We can't add visuals to the audio itself, but if this is the sort of thing listeners like, we may make a habit of this sort of blog for future Pathfinder Legends releases. Comment on this blog and let us know your thoughts, both about this visual companion as well as Pathfinder Legends in general.

Mark Moreland
Developer

Mythender in Golarion

Saturday, March 8, 2014

Kyra, hierophant and future goddess of retribution

One of the great things about working at Paizo is the after-work gaming culture. Sure, there are home games, but there are also one-shot rounds of RPGs that I might not have tried otherwise. What's more, they're run by GMs who are passionate about sharing their latest non-Pathfinder discoveries. A little more than a month ago, Paizo editor Ryan Macklin decided to run a game of Mythender, a roleplaying game about killing gods. That's right, the characters are Mythenders, powerful heroes that straddle the line between mortality and the divine in their quest to rid the world of all Myths. The game's website describes it in better and greater detail, but suffice it to say it's an intense, action-packed experience that involves handfuls of dice, encourages over-the-top descriptions, and is well suited to heavy metal background music.

It's also a free game, and I encourage you to give it a try.

So what does this have to do with Paizo? Well, Ryan's the author, and the game just celebrated its first birthday. He approached me about working on a Golarion version of the game, and we just released a 14-page web-supplement under the community use policy adapting some classic canon to Mythender rules. Now you can take the fight to Asmodeus, Irori, Nethys, Rovagug, Sarenrae, and Aroden along with all of their servitors. We present each Myth with a heretical, sinister twist to make it all the more satisfying to End, which is not to be confused with official Golarion canon.

Check it out. Play it for free. End some gods.

Happy gaming,

John Compton
Developer

Illustration by Eric Belisle

Skinwalkers Sample Chapter

by Wendy N. Wagner

In Skinwalkers, Wendy N. Wagner returns to chronicle the further adventures of Jendara, who was first introduced in the web fiction story "Mother Bears." As a young woman, Jendara left the cold northern isles of the Ironbound Archipelago for fame and fortune on a pirate ship, only to return home to find her family slain by raiders. Now, many years later, she's forsaken her buccaneer ways and sails the islands in search of a simpler life, hoping to raise her young son in peace. When a strange clan of shapeshifters begins pillaging the islands, however, the past comes crashing back, and there's no choice for Jendara but to take up her axe and help the islanders defend all that they hold dear...

Chapter Two
The Quarry

The thwack of wood against wood jolted Jendara awake. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the sound reverberated throughout her whole head.

"I shouldn't have had so much of that lingonberry wine," she grumbled.

Wood cracked outside again. Jendara pushed back the furs and swung her feet over the side of her bed. She padded out into the hallway. Kran's door was open and his bed stood empty, his clothes missing from their hooks.

She sighed. He'd avoided her all day yesterday, and skipped the going-away feast. She shrugged on her sheepskin coat and trudged into the main room of the cottage.

"Kran?"

But he wasn't to be seen. His latest woodworking project sat on the plank table, the tools neatly in their case. A half-eaten slice of bread sat beside it. Jendara reached for her sword belt, hanging by the door, and buckled it on.

"Kran?" She opened the door. A swath of mist swallowed up the rest of the village. It cast a wintry pall over the summer morning, and Morul's house, just a few hundred feet away, was so shrouded in fog that it may well have been on the other side of the world. Fog was common here in the islands, but she never enjoyed the otherworldly cast it spread across the landscape, or the clamminess it left on everything.

With a sigh, she stepped out into the damp morning. Her toe squished on something wet and ropy on the doorstep, and she whipped her bare foot back.

It was the neck cord for Kran's slate. If the boy had taken it off, it was a sure sign he didn't want to talk.

Jendara's lips compressed. She didn't have the luxury of waiting around to settle this. In a few hours, the tide would change and she and the crew of the Milady would take their last trip to the mainland before winter's snow and ice hit. The thud resounded again, and she followed the sound to the back of the house.

No one messes with Jendara's islands.

She rounded the corner of the little cottage and saw Kran's shape, the woad-blue sweater and shaggy black hair. He stood just past the wood-chopping block, his attention on a stick of firewood balanced on top of a fence post. His pants, she realized, cleared the top of his boots by a good half an inch. He was going to be tall, like his father. Like her father. The boy was made up of the best of both sides of his family.

She didn't know where the muteness came from. When he'd been littler, she thought it was something she'd done wrong before he'd been born. Maybe she should have made offerings to other gods beside Besmara, dark l0ady of pirates. Maybe she should have stayed on land instead of climbing so much rigging. But she'd never found a real reason for Kran's inability to speak, and she had to admit that as he'd gotten older, it didn't seem to matter much to the boy.

Kran wound up his sling and lobbed a shot at the firewood. It hit dead center and launched the wood far out into the mist.

Jendara clapped.

Kran spun around. His face, for one instant bright with his own success, went dark. He spiked two fingers toward his eyes, then pointed out over the fence line. The gesture spoke for itself: See?

"I saw. You've got a nice release." She held out her hand. "Can I take a look at your shot?"

He reached in his coat pocket and held out a handful of wooden marbles. She rolled one between her fingers. It was smooth and heavier than it looked.

"You carved these?"

He nodded.

"Makes a world of difference, using shot that all weighs the same. Can really improve your aim." She tossed the marble in the air. "May I keep this? I need a good shooter if we play marbles on the ship."

He tapped his full belt pouch, suggesting he had plenty more.

"You still practice with rocks at all?"

He shrugged a shoulder.

"You should. What if you run out of shot while you're out hunting? Be sad to miss out on a really good snowshoe hare just because you forgot how to adjust for the weight of an off-balance stone."

At the word "hunting," his face crunched into a scowl. He reached for his chalk and board and made an exasperated sound when he realized he'd left it behind.

Jendara took a seat on an old driftwood log and patted the spot beside her. Kran didn't sit. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't take you hunting yesterday. I was afraid. Boars are trouble. I've heard of too many things going wrong on a boar hunt."

Kran was quick to tap his ear, then raise his eyebrow and point at his eye. He didn't know much of the sign language other mutes used, but he was good at finding his own ways to communicate.

"That's true: I've only ever heard stories, I haven't seen anything. But I know a man whose uncle—" She broke off, suddenly reminded of Yul's ridiculous story about the skinwalker. "Look, Morul's dog was almost killed yesterday. Hunting is dangerous."

Kran shook his pointer finger at her and then crossed his arms. He must have picked the gesture up from Yul over the last few summers spent ashore. She wondered, not for the first time, if perhaps she should have insisted the boy accompany her on trading journeys. He was the son of two sailors. He should practice his seamanship.

She reminded herself to focus on the problem at hand. Her son was angry. She had only a few hours before the tide turned and she set out on a two-month-long journey. She rubbed her head and wished it would stop aching.

She switched tactics. "You're going to be eleven in spring. That's pretty grown up." Really grown up. At age eleven, she'd gone with her father on her first raid, sailing to the mainland and stealing five sheep and a gallon of Chelish brandy. He'd let her drink it, too.

The boy kept his eyes on her face, his own expression guardedly neutral.

"If you can show me that you're ready for hunting big game, then I'll take you hunting with me. Maybe moose, down on Flintyreach. They're dangerous, but you haven't lived until you've made your own moose jerky."

He tapped his belt, beside his belt knife. She knew just what he meant.

"Yes, you'll get to take your own weapons. I'll even make you your own hunting spear. A good ash one, like my father made me."

Kran frowned and made a gesture with his hand like a half-closed fist, the thumb lifted. Jendara cocked her head, mimicking him. He repeated the gesture, raising the fist to eye level and giving it a little snap. She stopped in the middle of raising her own.

"No." She shook her head, even though it hurt. "My father didn't give me my belt axe. I took his when he died. To remember him."

Kran stepped over the scraps of wood and put his arms around her. She leaned her head against his. He normally considered himself too mature for babyish hugging.

He released her and beckoned toward the house. She got up off the log and paused a moment to brush wood chips off herself. Beyond her own small garden space, kept tended by Kran and Leyla, the fog was lifting. She could see all the way out to the harbor now, although the view was hazy. The Milady's yellow-and-blue pennant already waved. She smiled a little. She'd bet a gold coin Glayn had raised it before the sun had even reached the horizon. The oldest member of the crew, the gnome loved the Milady as much as she did.

She scanned the path leading up to the village. A familiar figure was approaching, the ridiculous peacock feather in his felt cap bobbing along. Vorrin, of course. That must mean the Milady was ready to set sail.

Jendara waved at Vorrin. She was happy to see him, even if she wasn't ready to leave Kran just yet. But she knew a good way to buy a few more minutes with her boy. "Kran!" she called. "How would you like pancakes for breakfast?"

"Pancakes?" Vorrin asked. "You know I can't resist pancakes." He gave Kran a friendly punch in the shoulder.

The boy punched him back with a grin. Vorrin slung his arm around Kran's shoulder. "You sure you don't want to go with us? We're going to swing south a bit to meet Boruc—he's Morul and Yul's brother, and some kind of hermit-artist-genius. He lives in a mine."

"A quarry," Jendara corrected. She stooped to gather up Kran's slate and pass it to him. "I guess he lives in Averaka most of the year, but in the summer, the quarry reopens and he goes out to get first dibs on the best stone. Yul says all Boruc does is carve rock, drink mead, and chase wo—" She eyed her son. "Chase parties," she corrected herself. "He likes to have a lot of fun."

"Maybe we're glad you're not going," Vorrin said. "Boruc doesn't sound like a very good influence."

Kran rolled his eyes. Boats are boring, and so are statues, he wrote.

Jendara ruffled his hair. "I love you, Kran."

You, too, he wrote. Pancakes???

Vorrin laughed. "It's good to know the lad's mind is in the right place."

∗ ∗ ∗

Flintyreach, one of the largest islands in the Ironbound Archipelago, lived up to its name. Off the Milady's bow, the gray rock of the island's bones stretched down to the water, no softness of soil or grass to invite a sailor off her boat. A few stunted shrubs sprang up out of the cracks in the rock. But although these plants were small, Jendara felt certain she'd never seen any such a happy green. The people of the islands were like that: a hardscrabble lot, quick to fight, but quicker to reach for the mead. Every day was a celebration when you worked so hard to survive.

"I can't see why Yul's brother wants to live in a place like this," Vorrin said, leaning his elbows on the deck railing beside her.

She reached into her pouch for a bundle of leftover pancakes and passed him one. "Boruc's a stoneworker."

"He could go anywhere to find stone." Vorrin waved at the gray expanse. "There aren't even trees here."

Jendara pointed to the south, where greenery climbed up the steep flanks of Flintyreach's inner hills. "The beaches look harsh, but most of Flintyreach is forested. Unfortunately, the interior is also infested with trolls, giants, and ettins. The folk down in the villages organize hunting parties, but it's still dangerous. People stay close to the sea here. It's safer."

The Milady began to swing around, preparing for its approach to the docks. In a few minutes, the ship was tied up and the twelve-man crew ready to explore the little fishing village of Alstone—or at least, its tavern. Vorrin consulted with Tam, the big blond first mate who'd grown up on Flintyreach, and then met Jendara at the edge of town, where a little cart road ran off toward Alstone Quarry.

"Tam says he and the crew will pick up our other trade goods, so there's no rush to get back to town." He eyed the sun, about three fingers above the horizon. "But let's try to be back by nightfall."

Jendara nodded. Morul claimed there hadn't been any major problems with giants or trolls in this part of Flintyreach lately, but she didn't want to risk a run-in. Wild animals were bad enough, but giants...Jendara could definitely live without running into any of them.

As the cart road snaked away from the shoreline, the scrubby trees grew taller and the undergrowth thicker. Still, the place didn't feel anything like Sorind, the island she'd just left behind. The trees here had grayer bark and twisted limbs. They did little to soften the wind coming off the ocean.

Jendara glanced over at Vorrin. He had gone quiet, his teeth working the edge of his mustache like he did when he was worried. She watched him a minute longer.

"All right, what's bothering you?"

"Nothing. It's just getting awfully late in the season."

"It'll be fine," she said. "Sure, we've had a busy summer and it's kept us moving more than usual. Maybe we're a few weeks behind, but it's no big deal. And you've been wanting more variety in our trade goods. Boruc's carvings might be just the moneymaker you've been looking for."

He sighed. "I understand the logic, but that doesn't make me any more comfortable. We playing it close this trip, Dara. You and I both know summer fades fast out here."

She gave him a particularly winsome smile, one that rarely failed to soften him. "This is our last stop before we leave for Varisia. We'll be fine."

"It's going to make for a hard trip back to Sorind, and you know it. That's why you've been so awkward with Kran. Because you're worried."

"I'm not worried, and I haven't been awkward." She paused, her eyes scanning the brush. "Did you hear something?"

Vorrin shook his head. "No. It's perfectly quiet."

"Now it is. But just now, I thought..." Jendara trailed off. She sniffed at the air, but smelled only smoke and the faint scent of roasted meat. "We must be getting close to the quarry."

"I hope Boruc's work is as good as Yul claims it is. Our shipment this fall is too ordinary. Too many furs and wines, not enough ivory. If we could get some walrus—"

Jendara cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Hush." She listened for a long moment, head cocked. "Don't you think it's too quiet?"

He didn't answer. There were no birds calling, no squirrels rustling the branches. Jendara broke into a run. Vorrin hurried after her.

The road tilted downhill. A few ruts showed where carts loaded with rock must have dug into the surface, and Jendara avoided them, glad it hadn't rained lately. The smell of smoke intensified, as did the heavy smell of roasted meat.

Vorrin grabbed her shoulder. "Wait."

"What?"

"It's a long time till dinner. Why would anyone be cooking right now?" He shook his head. "Something feels wrong."

"We should be careful." Jendara moved closer to the edge of the road, ready to dive into cover at any moment. She crept forward.

A crow exploded from the bush in front of her, its scream launching her backward. She fell onto her backside and pushed herself away. The crow rose up, cawing once, twice as it cleared the treetops.

Vorrin helped her to her feet. "You okay?"

She nodded.

They moved forward again. The cart road turned a sharp corner. Jendara and Vorrin stopped, staring down at the encampment at the edge of the quarry. Nothing moved.

"It's too quiet," Jendara murmured.

"Jendara," Vorrin whispered. He pointed.

Beside a cart, a man stood awkwardly, head hung low, arms behind him, legs too straight. It took her a minute to make sense of the strangeness of his pose, to see the stake running through him, lifting his feet inches off the ground. To see the black puddle beneath, clotted with flies.

A crow settled on his shoulder and nipped at his cheek.

"No!"

Even as she ran, she knew it was stupid, knew it couldn't change anything. But she couldn't just watch the bird eat his face. Her sword jumped into her hand.

"Jendara!"

The bird fluttered aloft, but the sword was already swinging, already biting into its neck. For a second, the crow hung in the air, eyes fixed on her face. Then its head soared out over the brink of the quarry. Its body fell to her feet.

"Damn it, Jenny!" Vorrin spun her around by the elbow.

"Don't call me Jenny." She shook him off and began pacing, too upset to hold still. "I've seen this before."

"We need to scout out the camp," Vorrin said, keeping his voice low. "We need to know if there are any survivors."

"Or worse, any attackers." She took a deep breath, regaining a little control. "You're right, we need to go through the whole place."

"Do a quick perimeter check. I'll head west, you go east. And don't take any chances." He reached out for her, brushed his fingers against her cheek. "I don't like this."

"Me neither," she whispered, but she was already turning away from him. She still couldn't hear any sounds save for her own footsteps crunching the gravel underfoot. That was bad.

She sank into her hunter's crouch and approached the nearest building, the largest around. The presence of a tin stovepipe suggested it might be the kitchen and mess hall for the quarry workers. Jendara pressed her ear to the wall and listened hard. Still quiet, save for a faint drip-drip-dripping. She wished she could look through the window, but the shutters were closed.

Jendara's fingers trembled as she reached for the doorknob.

She snapped open the door and almost staggered backward at the overpowering stench of blood and offal. The kitchen looked like a scene from a nightmare. Bloody handprints covered the counters. Flies buzzed over raw-looking heaps that she didn't want to name, and blood slicked the floor. Jendara swallowed hard and took a step inside.

"Is there anyone here?"

She didn't know why she called out, except in the faint hope that someone hiding might hear her and come out to explain that this was all a joke, this was all animal blood, those weren't human intestines curled around that sack of onions, there was nothing horrible in the big pot sitting on the stove. She kept her grip on her sword, but her knees wobbled a little as she picked her way across the room. She had to look. Had to know. She peered over the lip of the pot.

It was empty.

Jendara sagged. She had expected...she shook her head. Silly perhaps. Whatever happened here, it must have happened fast, and whoever did it hadn't stopped to cook. They weren't that civilized. She knew they weren't that civilized.

After all, she'd seen this before.

She shook her head and pushed forward.

A door opened up into the dining hall, and she stepped out into the space. The dripping was louder here. With only a few windows, the big room was almost too dark to see into, but she saw enough. Something squelched under her boot as she crossed to the nearest table and righted a bottle of milk. The puddle on the table kept dripping, a soft slow pattering onto the tin mug lying on its side on the floor.

The door burst open. Sunlight poured in, lighting up a long sweep of blood leading outside. Vorrin stopped in the doorframe. He took in the empty room. "I see you forgot we were just circling the perimeter. Any survivors in here?"

Any survivors. Such a flat way to say the worst. She shook her head. "It's empty. Just blood and parts."

The dripping stopped.

"This must have just happened," she realized. "A lot of this blood is still wet. And the milk bottle couldn't have been knocked over more than a few minutes ago."

"We must have scared someone away. A looter, maybe. From what I saw, I think most of this was done longer ago. Maybe this morning."

"Most of what?" Her voice sounded faint even to her own ears. An attack at dawn. That was what happened on Crow's Nest, her father's island. Her sister's island. She thought of the man tied to the stake and felt sure it was no coincidence. She stiffened her shoulders. "Show me."

They stayed silent as Vorrin led her around the side of the nearest building, passing by a clothesline with a few limp garments hanging in the still air. An open door showed a basket of dirty shirts and a washtub. Ordinary items in an ordinary washhouse.

They rounded the corner. A heap of bodies lay ahead, a raw mound of broken and bloody dead.

"Gods," she breathed. "That has to be eighteen or twenty men."

Vorrin circled around the pile. "Some of these bodies don't look...whole."

"What?"

He waved her over. Jendara knelt to look at a body on the bottom of the stack. She was glad she couldn't see his face; only his feet and legs stuck out—or more aptly, his mutilated legs and foot. Jendara's stomach twisted. "Is it just me, or do his legs look like the meat's been cut off in strips?"

"I don't want to think about it." He pointed to the remains of a small campfire. "Someone definitely built a fire here, like they stayed a few hours."

Jendara stooped to hold her hand above the ashes. She nudged a flat rock in the center. "Still warm, and if I had to guess, I'd say those were grease stains on this stone."

Vorrin blanched. "I don't want to think about it," he repeated. He pressed his fist to his mouth, skin pale.

Jendara felt her own gorge rise, but swallowed hard. "We should check out the rest of the camp."

She moved to the next building, a woodshed. Jendara freed her sword to circle it. Behind her, Vorrin moved quietly, only the occasional crunch of gravel giving away his movement. There was no blood in the woodshed.

Jendara steeled herself to walk past the mound of dead again, but Vorrin caught her eye. He tapped his ear and nodded toward the gaping pit of the quarry.

She listened. She heard nothing at first, but then caught a small sound: a scrape of leather against stone. "Do you think it's our milk spiller?" she whispered.

He nodded. They crept toward the cart road. As they passed behind the washhouse, Jendara felt a momentary gratitude that its bulk hid the grisly mound, a feeling which passed all too quickly was the tiny sound of a foot crushing gravel caught her ear. There really was someone down there. She wondered how deep the quarry went and tightened her grip on her sword.

The cart road led to the rim of the quarry—a deep stony bowl cut out of the hillside. It stretched a good quarter of a mile across. Jendara peered over the edge. The narrow track continued down into the rocks, following the curve of the walls. For the first hundred yards or so, mounds of yellow sandstone lay piled up on the shoulders of the road. Trees and brush obscured the turn beyond. Jendara leaned out farther. The bottom of the quarry looked empty, the flat expanse of sea-green stone like a placid lake.

Jendara turned back to Vorrin. "Whoever went down there, they haven't reached the bottom yet."

He glanced over the edge. "I don't like that descent. It's too easy to rig an ambush on a road like this."

Jendara laid her hand on his arm. "If the person we're chasing is dangerous. This could be a survivor, scared out of their mind after what they saw back there. Or it could be a witness, some woodsman who just walked into a nightmare. No matter who they are, I want to talk to them."

"Let me go down."

"No. I'm a local, they're more likely to trust me." Jendara pointed to the far side of the quarry. "I think you'd better follow the top of this cliff around to the far side. The ground's rough, but I think that looks like a footpath leading out of the quarry, don't you?"

Vorrin squinted a moment. "I see it. Good plan." He gave her a sharp look. "You'll be careful, right? You're not running down there with your sword half-out just because of what you saw back there?"

Jendara began walking down the steep path without sparing him a backward look. "I know I'm doing, Vorrin. Just watch the trail."

As she went, she studied the path ahead for clues. There was no way to make out tracks on gravel this heavily traveled, but blood would stand out. No way to kill that many people without getting bloody. And it was hard not to leave tiny signs of passage that a good set of eyes might pick up: with every step, a person shed spoor like hairs and threads and fragments of the foods they ate.

She paused to listen for other footsteps. The quarry was silent. Jendara took a few steps forward, focusing on the sound of the gravel beneath her boots. She knew how to step lightly, but the tiny stones made a certain amount of noise no matter what. She paused again. There. That might have been the rustle of a foot passing over pea gravel.

She resisted the urge to run toward the sound. It would be all too easy to think of those bodies piled up by the wash house and let hot rage whip her into a run, but she pushed the anger aside. If she ran toward a survivor, it would only further terrify the poor man or woman. And if it was a killer, well, it would still be just as easy to die by falling to the bottom of this pit as it would be to get jumped by a slavering cannibal.

Cannibalism. Just the thought of it sickened her. The only cannibals she'd ever heard of were the Kalvamen, those reclusive island dwellers far to the north. Few risked the trip to Kalva to see the massive barbarians with their milk-white eyes and sickening eating habits, and no Kalvamen had raided the islands in generations. Morul and Yul weren't the only ones who thought the Kalvamen were nothing to fear. If asked, most islanders would agree that the people of Kalva were too deranged and inbred to manage a sea crossing.

Maybe they should be more afraid, Jendara thought. After she'd returned home that day to find her father dead and her sister missing, she had taken to her ship and scouted the island of Kalva from the sea. It was true she had seen no sign of ships large enough to travel the ferocious seas between Kalva and the Ironbound Archipelago, but it was also true that plenty of islanders had sailed remarkable distances in small raiding vessels. She had never discounted the Kalvamen just for lack of seafaring ability.

She tripped on a stone jutting out of the worn path, and at the last second caught herself on a massive boulder. She clung to it a moment, trying to catch her breath. She needed to pay better attention if she didn't want to kill herself.

A few feet beyond her, someone had cleared away the piles of fallen rock and brush, and she could clearly see the bottom of the quarry. The current work zone stood out from the rest of the rock floor, with racks of gear and tools stacked around a square perimeter. Piles of rock sat waiting to be loaded onto carts. Jendara knew little about stones or masonry, but thought the green stuff might be soapstone. It was always in high demand, being easy to work.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. All those piles provided easy cover for an ambush.

She picked her way forward and kept low to the ground as she came out into the flat stone-working area. A massive chunk of green rock sat beside the edge of the path. There was no way to see behind it.

Jendara brought out her handaxe. She pressed her back to the stone and reminded herself that whoever was down here might not be a white-eyed cannibal killer.

"I don't want to hurt you," she called out. "I just want to talk."

No reply.

She threw herself around the side of the stone with her axe ready. She saw no one.

The jolt of unused adrenaline made her legs go to jelly. She ignored it, kept her axe at the ready, and began to walk the perimeter of the quarry. She'd expected the worst. It felt strange not to face a monster when she was ready for one.

She stopped. She'd reached the side of the quarry bottom almost directly below its entrance, and a dark blot lay on the ground. The crow's head she'd lopped off at the top of the quarry. An ant crawled over the still-glossy bead of its yellow eye.

She had to avert her gaze. Beheading the crow had been a bad idea. She'd been raised to uphold the old clan traditions, and the crow had been her clan's totem. Life at sea had been one way to escape the bird's constant presence on dry land—the only time she had to look at them was when the ship docked, or when she saw someone wearing one of those crow-shaped traveler's pendants. She tried not to look at those necklaces for too long. She'd bought one once for Kalira, her sister. The younger girl had adored it.

Jendara had circled most of the way around now, and still hadn't seen anyone. Where was the person who'd gone down into the quarry?

Above her, something scraped. Jendara looked up and swore. She'd missed the entrance to the little footpath, and now her prey was escaping up it.

"Vorrin!" She had to warn him.

But a roar answered her shout: the rumble of something huge rolling down the hill. Vorrin might not be in danger, but she was.

She somersaulted over the soapstone block, pressing her face against its rough surface. Dust filled the air. She couldn't see. Or breathe. The soapstone shuddered as something massive hit it and stone shards rained down on her. Jendara hissed as one pierced her sleeve and drove into her forearm.

Coughing, she managed to get to her feet. Chunks of rock lay all around the soapstone block. If she hadn't moved behind it, she would have been crushed.

She scanned the trail above. Dust obscured all details. She was going to have to climb it blind.

Jamming her axe back into her belt, she scrambled forward. The ground was steep, the yellow sandstone of the main cliff walls unstable. She kept sliding backward in the stuff. Jendara grabbed for a handhold and dug her fingers into a gnarled root. The dust was clearing.

Something dark moved up ahead.

Jendara reached for the next handhold. Until she got her feet under her, she didn't dare try to attack the thing. She had a good arm, but on a nearly vertical path, the odds of her hitting him with her handaxe were small. She pulled herself up over a knoll of solid stone and caught her breath.

There he was. A man—a tall man in a long, shaggy cloak—hurried up the trail. He pulled himself up the steep hillside, snatching at the branches of the overhanging trees like rungs on a ladder.

"Hey!" she shouted, and reached for her belt axe. She'd never really believed she was chasing was an innocent bystander, but the man's grace and mass made his guilt a near certainty in her mind. No islander would have just stood by to watch his friends be ripped apart and eaten, not unless he was sick or crippled.

He leaped forward and disappeared between a pair of bushes. A rock as big as Jendara's head rolled out of the brush, bouncing and tumbling straight toward her.

"Damn it!" She threw herself aside and skidded on the path. She caught herself on a tree and raced up the hill.

Up above, Vorrin gave a sudden shout of surprise. Jendara hurried, but by the time she reached the top, Vorrin was just picking himself up, pinching a bloody nose and swearing.

"It got away," he growled. "I turned away for a second—I thought I heard something behind me—and it jumped me. Looked like a bear."

Jendara shook her head. "A bear? I was following a man. A big man, but a man."

Vorrin shrugged. "It happened fast, and there was a lot of dust in the air. Could have been a man, I guess. But it looked furry. And it had claws." He held out his hand. A gash ran down the back of it.

Jendara looked out into the forest. Some kind of trail continued into the forest, but here the trees were thick and the bracken dense. If anything wanted to disappear out here, it would. And back at Alstone Village, the crew of the Milady were waiting.

"Let's get out of here," she said. "Someone should know about this."

Purchase the whole novel here.

Coming Next Week: An all-new story starring Jendara!

Wendy N. Wagner is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novel Skinwalkers and the web fiction story "Mother Bears." Her short fiction has appeared in anthologies such as Armored and The Way of the Wizard, and in many online magazines. Wendy lives with her family in Portland, Oregon, where she also teaches writing for youth. An avid gardener and board gamer, she can be found online at winniewoohoo.com.

Art by Eric Belisle.

The Dagger of Trust Sample Chapter

by Chris Willrich

In The Dagger of Trust, Chris Willrich introduces us to Gideon Gull, an Andoren musician training at one of Taldor's greatest bardic colleges—and not just as an artist. For in the secret halls beneath the school, Gideon studies to become a Lion Blade, one of Taldor's elite espionage agents. When a mysterious fog starts turning ordinary men and women into rabid monsters, it's up to Gideon and a team of his friends to stop the chaos. But in the murky world of international politics, there's always more at stake than just a few lives...

Chapter Two: Chamber Music for Three Assassins

Taking leave of the headmaster, Gideon raced into the building upon whose roof he'd greeted the day. Footfalls echoed through halls of dwarf-cut stone from the World's Edge Mountains and timber from the grim druids of the Verduran Forest.

Even corridor acoustics concerned the Rhapsodic College.

Weaving and dodging, Gideon passed classrooms, recital halls, dance studios, practice rooms, and the big performance hall, until he reached twin oaken doors carved with musical notes.

The smells of paper, leather, vellum, and papyrus greeted his nose. A gruff "Howzit, Mister Gull?" from the gnome librarian greeted his ears. Wintry light glowed through stained-glass windows depicting the rainbow-tailed bird of the goddess Shelyn and the purple butterfly of the goddess Desna, two powers particularly admired by bards. In their light, bookshelves stretched all around him.

"Need work, Mister Gull?" The librarian's skin was as dark as the oiled wood of his desk, and his gray hair had highlights that matched the colors of the windows. "They say a ship's in port all the way from Vudra. Might have some new sitar tunes."

While the library couldn't match the rival Kitharodian Academy's collection for size and depth, the gnome was fanatical about competing in breadth. Students could make money scouting docks, gates, and markets on the librarian's behalf, hunting for anyone with a new scrap of music. When busking went dry, Gideon often worked for the librarian, expanding his own repertoire in the bargain.

Gideon is a man of many talents, only some of which are musical.

"Not today, Master Spindlegrim. Late for...studying."

"It's winter exams, boy!" As one of the oldest students in the college, Gideon only had to endure the term boy from this ancient gnome; he didn't begrudge it. "You're a little late indeed!"

"Don't I know it!" Gideon retreated into the stacks. He was never sure if Spindlegrim was in on the secret of the Shadow School or not, but in any case Gideon couldn't give the game away.

A dark turn in one corner led to Antique Musicology, a dusty, mazelike nook. The ancient music discussed here preceded all notation, and its true sound could only be guessed at, never recorded with certainty. Most students were too practical-minded to venture here.

If they did—if they slipped around the absurdly narrow last turn and peered through the shadows at the farthest books—they might find a low, slim, volume titled Toward an Ethnomusicology of the Serpentfolk, with letters of onyx embossed on black. It took squinting to find it, and it appeared jammed between its bulkier neighbors.

But if you were a truly determined seeker, seizing knowledge in both hands, you could slide the book out...and in so doing discover it was no book at all, but a slab of stone.

Pulling it further, you'd trigger two silent mechanisms, one shifting the stacks to cut off this alcove, the other sliding the final shelf just a fraction, revealing a dark passageway. If bold enough, you might slip into that tunnel before the shelves slid closed again.

Now trapped in total darkness, you'd have no choice but to descend steep stairs to a landing where magical light suddenly sprang to life. When your eyes at last adjusted, you might notice the murder holes surrounding you, through which guardians might jab poisoned spears if they didn't like what stood revealed in the light.

But if you were Gideon Gull, you said, "The crab catch is catastrophic in Korvosa," giving the passphrase of the week. "And hurry, I'm late."

Someone grunted and cranked a lever. A stone wall carved with notation from a requiem groaned aside and revealed the Shadow School.

It was not the only Shadow School, of course. Everyone knew there were others. It was guessed, but never admitted, that there was another beneath the rival Kitharodian Academy. Gideon suspected there were more, and there was even a rumor of one under Cassomir. The mastermind of the Lion Blades obviously liked both secrecy and redundancy. He also liked keeping his recruits on their feet.

Gideon moved as fast as he could without alarming the hooded guards that stood at attention like pieces of architecture. He passed quickly through a labyrinth of drab corridors whose only ornaments were slogans spelled out with magical glowing stones.

Speech is a sword, said one group of red stones, while Silence is a shield, answered another batch in blue. Around the bend, purple stones announced the silent pun No thieves aloud. Beyond another turn was a kind of mandala composed of green stones spelling out repetitions of Illusion Reality Illusion Reality in an ever-tightening spiral. Students argued as to what the innermost, tiniest message actually said. (Made You Look was Gideon's favorite guess.)

Gideon panted up to one particular slogan, Here lies truth. Gideon caught his breath and pressed the letter s. Stone rumbled.

His first time in the Shadow School had also been his first hazing, of sorts. Students were set loose alone into the maze, which apparently had no particular rhyme or reason, let alone classrooms.

Eventually he'd guessed that the slogans marked concealed doors. Gideon's first class had been behind Silence is a shield, where he'd met the other members of his cell. The instructor there, the Mistress of Lies and Memory, had claimed the particular slogan you first triggered said a lot about you, and determined which students you trained with. What exactly it said in their case, the Mistress never explained.

The concealed door marked by Here lies truth shifted inward, revealing the shape of a tombstone, then slid sideways. Gideon stepped through, and the tombstone rumbled back into place.

He stood within a vast chamber that at first glance appeared mobbed. The magical illumination was silvery as moonlight. As his eyes adapted, he recognized the crowd as fake. Mannequins, statues, straw men, and potato sacks, all wrapped in clothing, filled this arena. Facades like those Sebastian had spoken of created civic scenes. This time, judging by the sharply pointed buildings and the jagged symbols of devils and diabolism, Gideon was supposed to be in Cheliax.

The decor made the locale's nickname all the more apt. Although officially termed the Simulation Gymnasium, students called it the Scar Chamber.

"You're late, Gull."

Above, on the Rhapsodic campus, students were "mister" and "mistress." Down below, you were meat.

"As such, the simulation will incorporate your delay." If tones could cut like knives, this one was a surgeon's blade for that meat.

"Yes, ma'am."

"You're a Lion Blade on assignment in Cheliax, and you've stolen war plans from the desk of Queen Abrogail herself. Her armies mass on Andoran's borders, threatening to destroy Taldor's buffer with Cheliax—and, incidentally, your own native land."

"Yes, ma'am."

His instructor stepped forward into the faux moonlight. She was a short, compact woman with cropped gray hair, wearing a severe black tunic and goggles with lenses of dark crystal. Two dueling scars sliced her impassive face like a chart of the Porthmos and Sellen Rivers, with the curve of her left eye the coast, the Porthmos slashing east on one side of the eye, the Sellen slicing north on the other. She passed Gideon a scroll, sealed with a red, waxen mark that rivaled a sea-urchin for sheer number of pointy bits. "Find your contact and hand over these plans. Escape by locating a spot marked Exit in the language of devils. The word will be incongruous, but inconspicuous."

"How...how will I know my contact?"

"He—or she—is wearing a hat marked with the azure coin of the archdevil Mammon of the Third Layer, Hell's treasurer. Move quickly. Your colleagues Ozrif and Viridia are playing treacherous Lion Blades in the queen's service. Their job is to ‘kill' you. I will unleash them sooner, because you were late. Now inspire yourself!"

With that, the Mistress faded into shadows.

A low growl, nearly inaudible, filled his throat. The vibration's sound and sensation triggered a series of memories: hours spent beside the Mistress of Lies and Memory in a darkened chamber, surrounded by anonymous Lion Blades in leonine masks, all growling and chanting about him.

You are loved, brother!
You will triumph!
Your claws will tear the foe!
Your fangs will rip the enemy!
You will taste the blood of victory!
We are always with you, brother!
No force in the world can stop you!

And so on, in this enthusiastically bloody vein. On one level it was silly. Yet the sensation of trust and support had been powerful. Daily repetitions of the ritual had clawed the feeling deep into his brain, so that now if he merely rattled a soft, wordless echo of the chant, it was as if every Lion Blade stood beside him, urging him on.

Now he stepped into the crowded moonlight. The crowd wasn't moving, of course, but the Mistress would be watching, her magical eyewear bestowing perfect vision in the dark, so he had to behave as though it were. Gideon slipped into the frozen bustle and wove through it.

He couldn't tell where she was—perhaps due to some magical effect—but the Mistress's voice echoed through the chamber, goading and encouraging.

"The structures around you aren't lifeless, Gull! Crowd and city aren't just random flotsam! They're embodiments of what we glibly call ‘society.' They box in your body. Just as rules, strictures, and customs box in your brain."

As a child in Andoran, Gideon had gotten used to teachers who ordered him to sit still while they lectured. He'd never have dreamed of an instructor like the Mistress, who shouted maxims like some Ulfen wrestling coach.

"You can bypass these obstacles. Your body knows how. It's hungry to evade, to twist, to leap. Let it!"

Something in Gideon quickened at these words, as though every muscle he possessed yearned for the challenge of a city and the need to traverse it. He encountered a cart hitched to a wooden horse; he jumped smoothly over the singletree.

"Most people shamble endlessly through their days, as unmindful as constructs or walking corpses. You can be free!"

The faux horse was triggered to kick; Gideon spotted the danger and rolled away, getting himself around a corner.

A sound rose magically in the chamber, that of a multitude upon a busy street.

The Mistress's voice rose above the hubbub. "Remember, city dwellers have a mental shorthand. Class, gender, race, objective—all are surmised at a glance, below the level of true awareness. That shorthand is your friend. Step lightly, and leave no trace in the pliant mud of the mind."

Gideon hustled, searching everywhere for his contact. How long till his hunters found him?

"But not everything can be average or ambiguous. You can't help but present a gender and a class. Viridia! Your gender invites danger and opportunity. There are shadowed streets a prudent woman won't walk alone, yet also social occasions where only a woman blends in."

At Viridia's name, Gideon immediately ducked close to the facade of a building and removed his boots. This would call attention to him, and in daylight would be a critical error. But in this moonlight, it might not matter. He pulled off the boots and tangled the laces in his hand, so that he would have a pathetic little club, if need be.

"Class is more subtle," the Mistress said. "Its power varies by nation, city, and district. Here in Taldor, take special note of what stratum you're emulating—especially you, Gideon."

Now, as if people pulled off their shoes for no reason every Moonday night, Gideon returned to the crowd. His footfalls would be quieter now.

"In Katapesh, everything's for sale—including, potentially, you. Be suspicious, and in that way you'll be acting like everyone else. An innocent is a mark, or an idiot, or has something up his sleeve. I don't fear for you in this, Ozrif, though beware of sentimentality should you return."

A dummy moved, attempting to block him.

Gideon had expected this, though not so soon. Many of the figures were mounted on movable panels, responding to pressure plates or cranks operated by unseen staff. Some of the figures were even magically self-animated.

Gideon dodged.

"In Andoran, swagger—but not you, Gideon—to the point of insulting your betters. For the point is that an Andoren has no betters. Walk down every street as if you own it. For after all, you do."

Now he heard footfalls elsewhere in the Scar Chamber, though he couldn't tell where.

"It's best to think of wondrous Absalom not as one city, but many. Its variety is such that it's always easy to blend in to a degree. But each district has its special customs, and you'll have to learn them to operate with real success."

Glints of red and gold, emerald and turquoise lay on many of the dummies' hats or arms or necks. Gideon's eyes shifted back and forth, hunting for the blue coin of the archdevil Mammon.

"In Cheliax, tell yourself you're smarter than anyone else, and the appropriate sneer will develop. Learn the diabolic deferences, but remember that Cheliax respects devils without worshiping them. And never forget your common humanity with the Chelaxians. They'll surprise you with little kindnesses toward their foes, even amid the business of backstabbing their friends."

At last Gideon glimpsed an azure disc across an alley. He ducked low and veered between the building facades.

A mistake. A foot jabbed from behind a mannequin and tripped Gideon. He fell, rolled, and was up immediately, kicking at a dark shape that skittered backward. Such was Ozrif's style.

The juggler from Katapesh had grown up on mean streets, performing but also stealing, evading grown-up thieves and slavers and worse. Gideon's own street experience—mainly lying insensible in them—could not compare.

Remembering the lay of the crowd, Gideon gambled and danced backward between dummies. When he'd gotten a sufficient distance he threw his shoes to a point beyond where Ozrif must be.

Before the shoes had even hit the floor, Gideon was off through the forest of mannequins, circling the block to bypass the alley.

He reached his contact, an unusually realistic mannequin wearing a cap adorned with a devil-faced blue coin. Gideon stuffed the small scroll under the cap and ran, hoping neither Ozrif nor Viridia had seen. Now his job was to run.

He rounded a corner and met Viridia's knife.

The rough-and-tumble frontierswoman from Stavian's Hold had good hearing, and now that Gideon was taking risks with speed, she was quick to find him. She jabbed and swung like someone who'd grown up with a blade in her hand.

"Die, enemy of the queen!"

"She's a rebel!" Gideon pointed, knowing the Mistress would be imagining a crowd's response. "An Andoren trying to undermine the regime!"

"I'm a loyal servant of Cheliax!"

"Oh, yeah? Name all of the eight archdevils below Asmodeus!"

Viridia spat. "Creepy, Snarly, Greedy, Nasty, Farty, Crazy, Chilly, and Scum! Who the hell cares?"

When you first looked at Viridia, you thought you were looking at a weathered, strong-minded, dark-haired young woman with the plain-spoken wisdom of the eastern frontier. It was only after hearing her snorting bark of laughter, after watching her swill hard liquor with a burp or listening to her haggling at the market, that you realized either your idea of the solemn dignity of the plains was utterly quaint, or that Viridia was unique. Perhaps both.

Gideon leapt onto a facade's balcony. With Viridia swearing beneath him, Gideon jumped to the balcony of a neighboring facade and, with one quick scan for the word Exit, leapt back to the street.

He'd glimpsed a golden word...

Somewhere out there, the Mistress said, "Remember! Whenever you speak in the field, you play a role! When you're silent, only then will you be yourself."

"It's well you should know the names of devils," said a different voice, "for you'll be meeting them soon."

He whirled and ducked beneath Ozrif's spinning kick.

Ozrif's light brown skin, black hair, and almond eyes revealed his Keleshite heritage; and in a nation still remembering a withering war against a Keleshite land, this forever marked him as suspicious. Gideon sometimes wondered if Ozrif's bardic specialty deliberately deflected that suspicion. For a juggler is necessarily apart from his audience, the center of a whirling, transfixing phenomenon—if all goes well, anyway. It's only if one drops the ball that the spell is broken. It helped that Ozrif was also a bit of a comedian.

Oops! Gideon had once heard Ozrif say. Well, every moon must descend. Parents, thank you, and remember I have magic powers to cure your children of childish traits. Za zim zab! There, bring them back in thirty years and we'll see how that worked. Unattended money attracts thieves; save yourselves from such a fate by means of my handy cup!

Ozrif had no juggling clubs or quips today, but his limber punches and kicks testified to his quick reflexes and wit.

Viridia reappeared, flanking Gideon. She jabbed him in the arm. Gideon's old friend Pain rattled the bell of his mind. Ozrif and Viridia were indeed the perfect couple, if you needed someone hunted down.

Spellcasting was unwise under these conditions. But then again, anything was unwise under these conditions.

He wished he'd retained his spell to fascinate a crowd, but you played the instruments you had. He recalled one spell he didn't associate with any particular music, but rather with the random, perplexing, fascinating racket of an orchestra tuning up.

Waving his hands, he intoned syllables that would implant perplexity.

It probably shouldn't have worked, but it did. Ozrif froze. He began babbling what might have been a Keleshite nursery rhyme.

Gideon rolled away from Viridia, noticing that the straw mannequin nearest him, done up as a Chelish Hellknight with cloth for armor, was bound together with twine.

Humming the tune of "Haul Away for Arcadia," he rose beside the dummy. Viridia advanced within a foot of the Hellknight. The shanty opened a hatch in Gideon's mind, and out popped the arcane formulae and gestures for a spell.

The twine unraveled and engulfed Viridia.

As she shouted "Cheat!" and Ozrif's addled brain set the juggler to punching himself, Gideon reached the shadowy spot where he'd glimpsed the word Exit.

He heard the Mistresses' voice again, now from a new direction. "Remember, you're a paradox, for Taldor is flamboyant even in its secrets. Who but Taldor would recruit performers to become its corps of spies?"

He spotted a glint of gold.

The Mistress had never said Exit would appear on a structure.

He ran toward the voice.

"Only Taldor so smoothly blends guile and show," the Mistress said. "Hello, Gull."

"Hello, Exit." The word glittered, golden letters strung upon a necklace.

"Well played," said the shadowy shape wearing it. "But you must tag me to escape."

Gideon circled. "What does this represent in the scenario?"

"The unexpected. No plan survives contact with reality." She moved gracefully, shifting with him. "So sometimes our simulations simply cheat."

Gideon lunged. She shifted aside easily.

Behind him he heard the footfalls of Ozrif and Viridia. Gideon's spells had worn off or been overcome.

All he had to do was tag the Mistress of Stillness and Motion. But she could see in the dark and he couldn't.

Ozrif was upon him then, attempting a flying tackle. Gideon dodged, rolled, rose—and realized what he needed to do. As Ozrif got to his feet, Gideon treated the Mistress as a pillar, an obstacle, and she seemed not to object, so long as he wasn't trying to touch her. He kept his distance, so as to goad Ozrif into another leap.

Now—

Instead of evading, Gideon threw himself into the brunt of Ozrif's tackle. He'd positioned things so that the momentum threw him against the Mistress. Tag.

But even as he knew his gambit would succeed, his ears brought him the sound of Viridia's drawling incantation, the voice swiftly shifting location, for Viridia usually danced as she cast. He recognized it as her sleeping spell...

He awoke to the Mistress of Stillness and Motion splashing water on his face.

"Wake up. You're dead."

He was as groggy as if awakening in a gutter. His arm had the tingling sensation he always felt upon receiving magical healing.

"Twice in one day," Gideon groaned.

"All part of life." The Mistress offered him a hand and hauled him up. The lighting in the Scar Chamber now resembled bright noontime, revealing the mannequins in all their rumpled artificiality, the facades as disguised exercise platforms. "You did achieve your goal, at the cost of your death."

"It's becoming a habit." Gideon blinked at Viridia and Ozrif, who were sitting nearby, drinking some of the cold water Gideon was now wearing. Being dead was thirsty work. He took a cup from the Mistress and gulped it down. "Didn't I escape in the end?"

"You did, but with your opponents glued to you. No clean getaway."

Viridia drew a line across her throat.

"A draw," the Mistress concluded. "Class is done. I have a message for you from the headmaster, Gull. He'd like to discuss this morning's events, whenever you find it convenient." She paused. "And do be cautious, topside, all of you. Something strange is in the air."

"I appreciate the warning," Ozrif said. "I'd appreciate specifics even more."

"That's Kelish for ‘spill it,'" said Viridia, then added, "please."

The Mistress shook her head. "Just an intuition."

As they left the Scar Chamber, Ozrif said, "The longer I know the Mistress, the less I think I know her."

"She's odd," Viridia agreed, "even for this place."

"I'd listen to her, though," said Gideon.

"Well, you're odd too." Viridia turned toward a branching corridor. "See you both later?" The cell usually took different exits to the surface.

"This time let's stay together."

"You do take her warning seriously," Ozrif noted.

Gideon shrugged. "She's an honest spy, as these things go."

"Do you feel a chill?"

At first, Gideon thought Ozrif was joking, but then Viridia answered, "Yes," and Gideon's skin felt clammy too.

All sounds were muted. Usually there was a hint of footsteps elsewhere in the school, but now it was as though the trio walked alone in a long-abandoned labyrinth.

They rounded another corner.

"—what in Desna's name is that?"

Everyone stopped. Viridia pointed.

Mist crawled through the corridor. It was as though the air of some remote bog had been grasped by a divine hand and deposited here, where it had no business being. Aside from the glow of a nearby slogan—Every brain is a pickable lock—the white fog, swirling with hints of green, obliterated vision. It didn't begin gradually, as a natural fog would, but rather blurred into view a few yards ahead of the trio, and filled the hallway like a mass of cobwebs.

Perhaps it was the corridor's chill, but Gideon recalled his sessions in the Shadow School's icy dissection chamber, where exhumed corpses were sliced to show the finer points of humanoid anatomy.

No, that was not entirely true. It reminded him of something else as well. Something long ago, just out of his mind's grasp.

"This must be a prank," Viridia said. "The Night of the Pale's less than two weeks from now..."

"An expensive prank," Ozrif said. "Some sort of magic..."

"There are shapes inside," Gideon said, unable to look away.

Three long shadows of human forms stretched into the fog, as though he and his companions were backlit. Above each shadow twisted even darker images. At first Gideon thought of these as ink spills, then as octopuses, and finally as shadow plays, like those Leothric performed with certain puppets imported from Jalmeray. For now in crisp silhouette there loomed scenes from each bard's life.

Above Ozrif's shadow Gideon saw a dancing, juggling boy he was sure was Ozrif himself. The boy jumped aboard a ship and was embraced by the people there. The ship soon encountered a larger vessel, and it flew a chiaroscuro flag of a crown above a lion. Many on the smaller ship were killed, and many treasures taken from it. The ship sank into the mists.

Meanwhile over Viridia's shadow there rose a farmstead, where a girl rode a horse through the grass. There came an ornate carriage bearing the crown-and-lion banner, and the girl's parents pleaded with a robed official. In the end many bags went into the laughing tax collector's hands.

Gideon didn't want to look at his own shadow.

Above Ozrif's there was now a bazaar scene, with the boy fleeing a slave stockade where his old crewmates stood for sale; and above Viridia's were hangman's nooses, their purpose fulfilled, with the girl raging before them.

And still Gideon did not look to the third scene. He saw instead his friends' expressions, haunted, contorted in old anger and pain. But worse, they looked also toward him.

"Gideon," Viridia said, "what are we seeing? I know the girl is me, and I know enough about Ozrif's past to recognize...but I don't understand yours."

"These are scenes torn from our pasts," said Ozrif. "Grim things. Yet yours seems different, Gideon."

Now Gideon looked.

In his own shadow play, a boy wrestled with his older brother. From the little cape worn by the bigger boy, Gideon knew it was his brother Gareth. And from the smaller boy's toy sword, Gideon knew that he was looking at himself.

The idyllic scene by itself was not the cause of his dread. The Singing Knight had fought the Opera Ghost many a time, sometimes with the participation of their sisters in the form of the Captive Diva, the Master Detective, and Chomper the Dinosaur. (That was Zitha, the littlest, who introduced Chomper into everything from tea parties to formal dinners; after a while it made a strange kind of sense.)

There was no diva or detective or dinosaur this time, but there was another element. Little specks flew back and forth in the air above the brothers.

"What are the dark dots?" Viridia asked.

"Bees."

"Did the bees attack you?" asked Ozrif.

"No! The bees are just bees." What mattered was not the bees but what their presence said about the time and place. "Those are the bees of Bellis."

The fog curdled and thickened near the bees, and the swarm dispersed. The boys looked up, the Singing Knight and Opera Ghost forgotten as they looked to where the fog had congealed.

"What are they looking at?" Ozrif asked.

"It," muttered Gideon.

"What?" said Viridia. "I don't see anything."

"That!" said Gideon, for it was plain as a bear on the Grand Bridge. And now it was as if he were back in time.

He unsheathed his dagger and confronted the fog.

"Gideon!" Viridia shouted, and Ozrif tried to restrain him. But he plunged forward.

The touch of the fog was like the caress of some undead lover. It sickened him, for all that he remembered it well. And within it, something touched his mind. The same presence he'd felt on the conservatory roof. Laughing.

All at once, the fog withdrew around a corner. He followed, his friends close at his heels.

When they rounded the bend, it was gone.

"What manner of monster was this?" Viridia demanded.

"Now you're leaping to conclusions," said Ozrif. "It was a trick, a spell effect..."

"I suggest," Gideon said, trying to return to the here and now, "that you two reach an exit and inform the guards. I'll see if the headmaster will speak to me early."

"You sure?" Viridia asked.

"You seem most affected—" said Ozrif.

"I'm fine." Gideon turned and walked toward the headmaster's nook of the maze, not wanting to speak further. He needed to be alone.

The past was the past. And Gareth was gone.

Gideon at last reached a wall where silver light stones spelled out the sentence If you want to know what lies ahead, learn what lies behind. He found a spot on the unmarked wall directly opposite the word behind, and pressed the stone there. A panel slid aside, and cold rock gave way to warm wood, silk curtains, and embroidered furnishings.

The headmaster had an open-door policy—if you could figure out how to open the door.

In Xeritian's office hung portraits of the sort that great men, or men who fancy themselves great, commission. Each noble or official or wealthy merchant stood in a pose of ease and power, often fondling some token of authority—a heraldic shield, a book of laws, or brass scales—as though it were a concubine.

In each picture Xeritian stood in the shadows behind the great personage, a dagger in his hand, a smirk upon his face.

There was a large chair facing a vast desk strewn with papers. Xeritian made a point of having his back to you if you entered his office. A dare, Gideon supposed, though he personally thought it theatrical.

The chair was empty, however.

"Gideon!"

Sebastian came down the hallway from the direction opposite Gideon's.

"I was hoping to catch Xeritian," the corsair said. "What are you doing here?"

"Sebastian. I'm glad to see you." Gideon explained about the fog, though something made him hold back anything about dead brothers or voices in his head.

Sebastian frowned. Entering the office, he leaned over a brass horn embedded in the desk, its cone opening onto some cavity in the wood. He blew. Gideon heard nothing.

"That should bring everyone running," Sebastian said. "They'll also send a messenger to Xeritian, wherever he might be."

"They?"

"A school like this requires many hidden staff. Will you show me where this fog manifested?"

When they reached the spot in question, Ozrif and Viridia were gone, but there were guards present, as well as the Mistress of Stillness and Motion. Sebastian conferred with her, adding, "Do you think it was the same?"

"That's supposition. But I mistrust coincidences."

"The same as what?" Gideon asked.

Sebastian took his arm. "Come with me, Gull."

They reached a guard post and ascended a switchbacking stairway in the dark. "There've been reports across Oppara of these manifestations," Sebastian said. "Even in the Senate's halls."

"An attack?"

"A strange one, if so. Only certain people perceive it. Thus we've not been able to convince the mighty. Also, no one's suffered worse than a scare, and a riling of their emotions." He paused. "You do seem upset."

"I'm fine. On the green, you mentioned a fog. Are these apparitions similar to what Corvine described?"

"Her letter was brief, but yes, I think so. She requested an investigation. I was personally inclined to wait, but given the excitement her messenger caused at the debate, I had to show her letter to the headmaster. He insisted we inform Director Rell. I did so personally, and was returning to Xeritian when I found you. Evidently the headmaster chose to do some investigating of his own."

"I'd volunteer. To go to Cassomir, I mean."

"You're eager to see Corvine."

"Well, how would you feel?"

Sebastian laughed. "That's unclear, since no one but you and she understands your relationship. You were clearly lovers once, but something happened—"

"I became a worthless drunk is what happened. Well, became one again. She's hinted we might start again. But I need to build a life that doesn't center around a bottle."

They reached the top of the stairs. Dim light seeped through the edges of a secret portal. They emerged between wine barrels into a storeroom with frosted window-slits lining the upper ceiling. A permanent illusion portrayed the squeak and scuttle of a rat infestation. Sebastian pulled down a trapdoor from the ceiling as Gideon rolled a barrel back into place, with beady, illusory eyes glaring at him all the while.

"She knows you've gone to the Rhapsodic," Sebastian said. "Does she suspect the rest?"

"I don't think so."

"Do you think she's the sort who can love a Lion Blade?"

"I think that's a premature question." Gideon paused. Unless he's asking for his own benefit. "By the way, I hope our little argument on the green didn't raise a cloud between us."

Sebastian paused on the trapdoor ladder. "That could never happen. Even if I'm a great believer in the Taldan way and you're an addled democracy-fool of Andoran."

"Thanks, I guess. It's been a long while since I voted, however."

"Do you ever want to go back?"

"I love Andoran. But we're...estranged."

"Hm."

They ascended to the owner's office of The Harp and Harpoon, a tavern and inn popular with bards and sailors, and thus a natural safe house for the Lion Blades. Sebastian hailed Tithra Sparksteel, the proprietor, who grunted invisibly from behind her stack of ledgers.

"Thought that racket was you, Tambour. By the way, that girl from The Cat and Feather came by."

"I hope you told her I'm busy."

"I almost told her I had an opening. If she's going to keep popping up, she might as well work."

"You won't, of course."

"Settle your business, man."

"My business is Taldor, madam."

Sebastian pulled a heavy book from a shelf and led Gideon to the common room. Amid the bright babble of seafaring conversation and snatches of song, Sebastian said, "I must take my leave for now. For even without these apparitions, I've a full schedule."

"You won't be investigating?"

"Not primarily. Not with the faculty already involved. I've an appointment with a ship's manifest and a mug of Bellis Mead. I'd hoped to find the headmaster here, but a school messenger's surely found him by now. My own business with him isn't urgent, and I'd best resume my duties."

"What should I do? Before all this happened the Mistress of Stillness and Motion told me the headmaster wanted to see me."

"You've made the effort. I'll vouch for you. I suggest you return to the college, prepare for exams, and let him find you." Sebastian smirked. "If he does, mention I'd like to speak to him again as well." After a pause, he said, "Do be careful out there."

"You mean the fog?"

"I mean everything."

When Gideon emerged from the tavern into the street, the air had changed. The sky, once so bright and clear, was now pale gray.

As he stepped onto the cobblestones, something swooped out of the pale sky.

Gideon dove across the street, ducking around a carriage, a trio of sailors, and a flower girl in a way that might have impressed the Mistress of Stillness and Motion. He rolled into a crouch beneath a townhouse's timber jetty, dagger out.

Swooping past the staring faces, the pigeon landed beside Gideon. A little scroll clung to its leg.

Gideon rose and bowed to the passersby. "Alas, pigeon training is never done!"

There was muttering to the effect that there ought to be laws against this sort of thing as the wayfarers moved on. Gideon removed the scroll. The pigeon looked familiar; some of Corvine's couriers returned to her, which spoke well of her treatment of animals.

Bard said to bird, "Thank you. Go free."

The pigeon fluttered into the dour sky. He opened the scroll and squinted at rows of intricate and increasingly diminutive handwriting.

Dear Gideon,
Salutations, greetings, waves! I'd have sent a seagull, Gull, but pigeons are better at this, and I need to move fast. How are you? I'm haunted by eldritch forces, but otherwise fine. No, don't be alarmed. It's not me personally, just my whole city. Maybe that doesn't reassure you. Maybe it doesn't reassure me. Anyway, the long and the short of it is, there's a mysterious, magical, fog-like effect that seems to drive people mad. We've had reports of it around town and up the Sellen. Actually one of the reports is mine! Earlier I sent a letter to our mutual friend Sebastian

"A coded message from the Qadiran Satrap, Gull?"

Gideon started, and pocketed the scroll. "Headmaster!"

Headmaster Xeritian chuckled. He was still dressed in his spattered groundskeeper's robe. "I fear you mistake me for someone else, Master Gull. I'm but a simple groundskeeper." His eyes flashed a warning.

The day grew suddenly warmer as Gideon realized his error. They stood in the middle of a busy street, and here he was loudly proclaiming the headmaster's true identity. "Of course. My mistake."

Xeritian nodded to the pocket containing the scroll. "Your blushing haste suggests not treachery, but romance. Your friend in Cassomir, then."

Gideon's face burned hotter still. He stepped closer and lowered his voice to a safe level. "The Mistress of Stillness and Motion said you wanted to see me? And you were informed about the apparition at the school?"

"Yes and yes. Walk with me."

He followed the old man through Westport, feeling increasingly agitated at Xeritian's lack of agitation.

They crossed some of the rougher streets of that rough district. Sometimes Xeritian would chuckle at this folly of humanity or that. Gideon had no sense of what the headmaster was up to. From time to time a disturbance would make Gideon ready to spring. A man came hurtling through the much-abused window of a tavern. Beside a brothel a woman in a man's clutches laughed in a shrieking, mocking way that hammered the ears. A man in a gutter gripped at Xeritian's leg and gasped, "Money for pesh?"

Gideon wanted to say, You have enough trouble without sucking up that stuff, but Xeritian passed the man a coin, to a babble of thanks from which the headmaster silently removed himself.

"You disapprove?" Xeritian asked Gideon.

"I've seen pesh carve brains like melons."

"His fate isn't my concern, and I admired his candor. A little honesty is a fine thing in this deceitful world."

"In that case: why aren't you back at the Shadow School, when something like that fog's gotten in?"

"The truth isn't going to be at the school. This is a city of a million lies, and I'm a master of liars. Sifting the lies, I may find the answers."

"If you admire honesty," Gideon wondered aloud, "doesn't it bother you, being a master of liars?"

Xeritian raised an eyebrow. "Not at all. I train them, but I have the privilege of being an honest man myself. If anything, I feel guilty at the discrepancy. Do the lies bother you?"

"Somewhat." If Xeritian appreciated candor, then Gideon would give it to him. "Every song's a lie of sorts, you know. You take the pose of a narrator. Sometimes that narrator is you, sometimes not. Spycraft is kind of like that, I think. Except it isn't a show, it's a con. It does bother me, sometimes..."

"Spoken like a bard. You're not the first with that reaction."

"Were you a bard, Headmaster?"

"No. I was a historian." A few unexpected snowflakes fell around them as they spoke. Xeritian caught the year's first snow in his hand. "When you grow up amid the bones of past greatness, it's a lively field." The snowflake melted, and they walked on.

They departed Westport, and the snowflakes became a throng, dancing on the air like fat, lazy gnats. At first they left only a little moisture on the cheek or a few brief bright motes in the glorious weaves of a Taldan woman's hair. Opparans, busy with the business of the City of Empire—or surviving the City of Empire—ignored it. But the sky's gray mills weren't to be denied, and relentlessly churned out their snowy flour. Bit by bit, the streets and rooftops were covered in white, and the Gilded City became silver.

Xeritian led Gideon to the doorstep of the House of the Immortal Son, the temple of the dead god Aroden, now converted to an opera house. He pushed open one of the great doors and gestured inside.

"Headmaster? What does an opera rehearsal have to do with the fog?"

"Nothing, Gull. I summoned you because of your performance this morning. It concerns me. Crises come and go, but the need to train new Lion Blades remains."

A singing troupe was rehearsing inside, sans orchestra, yet augmented with the presence of spellcasters. As Gideon watched, illusory fires seemed to fill the air around the singers, and blasts of water withered the fire; yet the waves were outflanked by further flames.

"Have you heard of the thaumacycle?" Xeritian asked.

"A composition that incorporates magic. A revival of a lost Azlanti tradition. A difficult form." While true bards studied both music and magic, each discipline was quite demanding on its own. The combination defeated most composers. By tradition, every spell in a thaumacycle performance had to be at least theoretically castable by the author. The exact form was up to each composer, but most entries were operas.

"You're aware of the Taldan Thaumacycle Festival?"
"I've heard of it but never witnessed it. It travels around." Corvine had spoken of it with interest, and had mentioned wanting to try her hand at it.

"The next one will be held here on Longnight, a little over a month from now. This group's already rehearsing." Xeritian winked. "But I believe there's enough time for you to enter and compose something."

"Me? What about the fog?"

"You're forgetting you're still a student, Gull. More experienced hands will deal with today's danger. I still need you in training, to face tomorrow's threats."

"But—respectfully—how does this help me become a better Lion Blade? I could do it, but I'd have to drop everything else, and I doubt very much I'd win." And if he were to devote his winter recess to the work, he wouldn't be able to travel to Cassomir to investigate the fog. And see Corvine. "Maybe I'd manage the score, but the magic..."

"Challenging, yes. But experience is the point, not victory. You seemed reluctant to employ magic during the Shadow Taunt."

Gideon reddened. It was true. He was a quick study at spells, and could cast them at need, but they never seemed natural to him. Outside of immediate danger, he rarely thought of employing them.

"I suspect your difficulty with magic's less a matter of talent, and more that you have a lopsided interest in music."

"Well, I was just a musician until recently."

"Quite. Sometimes we must coax the brain, rather than flog it. I have recommended the thaumacycle for others before."

Gideon smirked. "And it'll keep me out of trouble?" And possibly, Gideon considered, give him something that could entice Corvine to visit him.

"There's that. I'll place you on special assignment. For the college as well. As it's almost winter recess, that will be simple. Indeed, as soon as I return I'll cancel your commitments for the day, and rearrange your tests, so you may begin work. It might be good to keep you out of the official eye. Be careful this fine frosty day." Xeritian turned.

"Wait."

The headmaster stopped.

"You're the third person today who's warned me to be careful," Gideon said. "Is there something I should know? If there's danger, why can't I investigate along with you? What does the future hold?"

Xeritian smiled. "I'll use the historian's standard answer: ‘That is not my period of study.' As for the rest—you're simply not ready, Gull. I'm sorry. Even I must be wary, as I go hunting."

"Be careful, Headmaster."

"Always, Gull." The headmaster paused. "You dislike lies, and that is admirable. Remember the value of truth. It is high. But it is not infinite."

"I don't understand."

"I believe you will."

Xeritian walked into the crowd, and there should have been no way that the old historian could simply disappear from Gideon's sight, but that was exactly what happened. Of course the headmaster of the Shadow School would have access to magic. But Gideon knew that thought was merely an attempt to salvage his own pride. You're forgetting you're still a student.

Hoping his pride would be burnished by Corvine's letter, Gideon pulled it out and finished reading.

as we both know he must be rather connected in government. But he may be at sea. Alert whom you can. You're surrounded by bards, I'm sure you can get the word out. Sorry this is so rushed. I have good gigs, will report later. Am I done? No, I'm never done! But there's no more room and these letters are as tiny as I can make them GBYE

Gideon reread the letter and pocketed it. He smiled. The concerns about anything between Corvine and Sebastian dissipated like morning mist. He strode jauntily into the snowfall, looking here and there for swirling shadows. He took the letter out and read it again, put it back in his pocket. He whistled.

A dim part of his mind replied, You are pathetic, Gideon Gull. Your would-be lover is under threat and all you can think of is how relieved you are there's probably no reason to be jealous of Sebastian.

A bright-lit part of his mind said, You have that part right, Gideon Gull! But she did say not to be alarmed!

Pathetic.

Whistling, his mind drifted toward the problem of a thaumacycle. It was a welcome change after the visions of the fog. Perhaps if he completed the work quickly, he could still be involved in the investigation, somehow.

As his thoughts drifted, so did his path through the snowfall, his feet leading him through the city, the deep parts of his mind in charge.

Gideon's boots led him to an empty sliver of city park dominated by a bust commemorating the sponsoring royal. Dark trees cradled the air and brought a hush to the white cobblestones and granite benches. It reminded Gideon of the Verduran Forest that enfolded the border of Andoran and Taldor far to the north. He remembered the family trip to Bellis on the Andoren side, and running around trees trying to tag Gareth...

But best not to think of that day.

He stopped and stretched. Gideon appreciated the park but could never remember the benefactor's name, only the patrician expression the sculptor had conjured. He decided the royal looked like he'd take chill without a hat, so Gideon molded one from snow.

The two took up parallel views of the river, as men in serious discussion might.

"You know much about women, Prince?" Gideon asked the bust. "I'm assuming you were a prince. If you appear to desire a woman, she frequently edges away. If you give up your desire, she frequently returns. This would seem to be perverse behavior, yet I've seen it time and again."

Gideon paused and nodded.

"Yes, of course you're right, the obvious stratagem is to pretend a lack of desire. And as a performer I normally find pretense as simple as plucking a note. Yet in the matter of Corvine Gale, I'm just not myself. For I find, with her, I can only be myself. Maddening."

A long-suffering member of the Lighters' Guild shuffled into the park with his pole and began to kindle the park's lantern. He stopped to study Gideon as the bard conversed with a stone head. Gideon waved. The Lighter muttered a prayer to Abadar, god of cities, and hurried about his work.

"True," Gideon continued, as if the bust had just lectured him, "she's no flower wilting in the snow. If I want Corvine's attention, I must live what, to my lights, is a life of attainment and honor, whether or not she consents to share it. She won't want a man whose chief occupation is talking about her with rocks. Thank you, Prince."

The Lighter might have set a speed record, for his work was already done, and he padded on. The sky darkened, and with the lantern ablaze there was a wash of amber light about the white-frilled, dark-wooded branches, as though the park were some old etching in bronze.

The stillness was broken by the sounds of a snapping twig and the unsheathing of a blade.

Gideon's well-trained ears had alerted, him but couldn't make out the exact direction. So he did the prudent thing and scrambled onto the bust.

A thug was approaching with a dagger, faster now that he was discovered. The man wore a leather jerkin and breeches and a fine cloak. Even in this prosperous swath of the city, he might pass as a well-to-do merchant or a buccaneer who'd fetched a rich haul. For that matter, perhaps he truly was one of those things, and was angling for supplemental funds. This was not the finest of times for Taldor.

"First snow's beautiful, eh?" said Gideon.

"It is, good madman, it is!" said the other. "Now howsabout you throw down your purse, and you can enjoy it with your eyes still in your head?"

"Crude! Uncouth! Good sir, I've lived in places where mugging is a refined art, with certain protocols. I might say, ‘Lovely weather,' and you might say, ‘Yes, but it's cold,' and I might say, ‘Ah, and you are seeking a donation for those without good winter gear, who've only a rusty knife to see them through,' and of course you might say, ‘That's about the size of it,' and then I offer my purse out of generosity, you bow, and I run like mad. Civilized!"

"I got your civilization right here." The mugger waved the blade. "Just hand it over!"

"Ah, you didn't specify, ‘it.'" Gideon reached into a pouch, but not his coin purse.

He pulled forth a small rolled piece of parchment, wider at one end, upon which he'd written the aria "Valley of Echoes." Under his breath, Gideon incanted strange syllables to the song's tune...

"Who dares disturb the peace of my park?" rumbled a voice.

"What?" screeched the mugger. "Who's there? What was that?"

It was Gideon who mouthed the words, but the sounds seemed to emanate from elsewhere. "It is I, Prince..." (he thought a moment) "...Acerbic, of the...Age of Enthronement!" (As the Age of Enthronement had lasted over four and a half thousand years, Gideon figured he could tuck an imaginary prince in there somewhere.)

"Where are you hiding?" The mugger, while frightened, had still not discerned that the voice emanated from the bust.

Gideon rolled his eyes and slapped a hand over his face. He thought of the old Carpenden song "A Helping Hand" and murmured another incantation as he spread his fingers to keep an eye on his assailant.

With his other hand he gestured and caused a clump of snow to rise from a bench and move toward the thief.

"Boo," Gideon said, and remotely shoved snow down the man's back.

This sort of trick was commonplace enough, but the thief was already nervous. He screamed.

Some people, if taken by fear, will run. Others will lash out. This one was the second kind. He whirled and jabbed madly at the air, shouting, "Where are you where are you where are you—"

Gideon, a person of the first inclination, was already fleeing the scene. He could probably overpower the thug, but it wasn't his job to protect the streets, and no amount of training was a guarantee when a knife was involved. Besides, the college didn't need a criminal investigation on top of their run-in with Matharic, Royal Adjunct Pain in the Posterior.

Panting, Gideon at last stopped upon the Grand Bridge over the River Porthmos.

A river. The thought hit Gideon like a snowball to the face. The thaumacycle—my characters will escape assailants by taking a raft upon the Sellen. That northern river, greater even than the Porthmos, churned with more than a thousand miles of adventure and mystery. Where better to let loose a raft of vagabonds?

His characters would come from Galt, he decided. They would flee the guillotines of that failed democracy and ride the river south, encountering elves and dwarves and gnomes, crusaders and traders and pirates, Andorens and Taldans and druids. They would argue and laugh and weep. And sing, of course. At last at the sea, all would be resolved, as much as anything in life is resolved. Blood and crescendos.

Smiling to himself, he nodded to the passersby, for there was always somebody on the bridge. He came around the foot of the statue of General Coren, leader of the Third Army of Exploration. There was a legend that if you touched Coren's foot you would always make a return journey to Oppara. He reached out and patted the statue. "Just in case," he murmured.

An image came to him unbidden, of a small hand touching a huge insectile leg.

Gideon stopped in his tracks.

Snowflakes hit his face like scores of tiny biting insects, the kind that attack once and perish. His eyes saw nothing of the bridge or the city or the wayfarers who glanced at him curiously.

In his mind's eye, he was ten years old again, looking up at a monster. It resembled a giant beetle with legs like broken halberds, vast green eyes and curved mandibles, and antennae that flexed and quivered far out from its nightmarish head. Behind it swirled an unseasonably thick, cold fog. His heart was pounding, in the past and in the now, and the monster had him half-entrapped by the spears of its legs. Yet terrified as he was, the boy Gideon knew the creature didn't mean to eat him. An eerie sound like a pipe organ cut through the fog of memory, and Gideon imagined the monster turning its head, and the boy following its alien gaze.

Then the vision was gone, and Gideon stood alone on the Grand Bridge.

But he could still hear the dirge.

No one else appeared to notice. The sound seemed to emanate from somewhere upriver. He moved to the eastern edge of the bridge, leaned upon it, and looked out. He had a good view of the river and the city. The crescent moon was up, and the lamps were lit everywhere except the slum district known as the Narrows.

The eerie music came louder to his ears, and squinting for a source he saw a ship beyond the city, a long way upstream.

It was a ship that had no business being that far inland. This was a galleon with a sweeping prow and high stern, wide amidships, with four spindly masts, and a deep draft. Gideon was no mariner or boatman, but even he knew that the river's unseen shallows should gut such a keel.

And perhaps such a fate had already occurred, and this was a dead ship. For the vessel was suffused with a ghostly glow. Its torn sails gleamed, its gargoyle figurehead glinted, and its crew stood at attention with skeletal poise, eye sockets aimed at the Grand Bridge.

"Do you see it?" Gideon demanded of the nearest bystander, a Taldan nobleman. "Do you see the ship?"

The richly garbed man's expression was unreadable. "There are many ships," he ventured, with a nod toward the harbor.

"Not like this! Right there! Something right out of Blacwin's Wanderloss. Isn't it the spitting image of Wanderloss's adversary, the cursed ship Demonwake?"

The man took a step back, then appeared to find his courage. "Good sir...your accent marks you as Andoren, no? You must be a stranger here. I happen to contribute to Madame Floret's Home for Troubled Travelers, and I'm sure they can assist you with whatever afflicts you. If you'll just come with me..."

"Don't you see?" Gideon looked around at the few other witnesses who might validate his vision of the ship (sailing closer, blithely unconcerned about the Taldan noble's reaction). All looked at him blankly or with unease. A young girl did venture, squinting at the river, "I think, perhaps, I do see a glint of light..." before her parents hauled her over to watch something suddenly fascinating on the bridge's seaward edge.

No, Gideon realized, they didn't see.

And even as he'd made the comparison, Gideon had realized that the spectral craft didn't simply resemble the fictional Demonwake. It was Demonwake, just as he'd seen it in a performance in Almas many years ago. It was correct down to the flag of the horned skull above the crossbones and Captain Crookwing there in his torn black cape, and his daughter Desdimira beside him, the only human-appearing spirit aboard, ready to tempt the similarly dead cabin boy Wickham of the Wanderloss.

All in a rush the ghost-craft reached the bridge, far swifter than a true sailing ship should manage, and as Desdimira passed beneath Gideon she looked up at him, mouthing some secret message. Then there was a flash of light, and she and her ship were gone. Gone, too, was the mournful dirge. Only a trace of bubbles remained below the bridge, and in this lunar illumination Gideon doubted even these.

No one else nearby was looking at the waters.

Just at him.

The Taldan grandee was saying, "If you'll just hold still a moment, sir, everything will be all right..." The noble inched forward, and was joined by a tough-looking sightseer dressed for dockland work. First a thief, and now these excessively honorable citizens. A man can't win.

He bowed. "Let this be a lesson to me. This is what comes of too much opera."

From his spell component pouch he plucked a feather and a clutch of diminutive fruit tarts. He stuffed the tarts in his mouth and commenced waving the feather at the dockhand.

"What?" said the man, and with that Gideon blessed his good luck that his spell looked too ridiculous to be considered magic. Mouth full, Gideon began the incantation.

"Fate and Chance walk into a tavern," he said, magic embellishing his words. "‘I wasn't expecting you,' says Chance. ‘Just the person I wanted to see,' says Fate, adding, ‘I wanted to play some chess.' So they agree to play chess, but every time Fate and Chance flip a coin to see who chooses colors, the coin explodes. Every time they pick a taverngoer to choose, the taverngoer's head explodes. By now the chess pieces have been so knocked around by exploding coins and so bloodstained from exploding heads that you can't tell which is white and which is black. And Fate and Chance both smile and say, ‘I choose red.'"

The man's eyes got big and he commenced a horrid giggling. He collapsed upon the ground, unable to do anything but gasp and titter at the cosmic joke.

The noble stared at Gideon.

"I can tell another," Gideon said.

The noble ran toward the far end of the bridge and the vagabond camp there, which said something about his desperation.

Gideon wasted no time dashing in the opposite direction, toward the city.

He had to talk to Xeritian about this. Even if the headmaster decided Gideon was insane, Gideon instinctively trusted the man. Once off the bridge, Gideon panted in the shadows of an alley and watched the river a little longer, until the call of the fire-lit dormitory and his pillow proved too much, and he retraced his steps to the college. Apparitions, he decided, could wait until morning.

But in the morning Headmaster Xeritian was dead.

Purchase the whole novel here.

Coming Next Week: Web fiction will be going on hiatus for two weeks due to the holidays, but stay tuned for an all-new story starring Gideon after the break!

Chris Willrich is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novel The Dagger of Trust. He is a former children’s librarian best known for his sword-and-sorcery tales of Gaunt and Bone, which have appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and elsewhere, and which continue in the novels The Scroll of Years (Pyr, 2013) and The Silk Map (forthcoming). Chris lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his family. Visit his website at www.chriswillrich.com.

Illustration by Eric Belisle.

Notoriously Good

Thursday, Novermber 21, 2013

In this volume of the Wrath of the Righteous Adventure Path the PCs journey to the Abyss at the behest of Queen Galfrey to get to the bottom of the sinister plots before them. While there the PCs visit the Midnight Isles where they have to gain notoriety in order to obtain a meeting with the realm's ruler—Nocticula, demon lord of assassins, darkness, and lust. Even though Nocticula allows nearly anyone into her realm, not all of the denizens there are going to be happy to see the PCs poking around the Abyss. Though this animosity might make things more difficult for the PCs, it certainly helps them gain notoriety. Getting into fights with demons, openly showing affiliation to lawful or good deities and organizations, and competing in blood sports all helps earn notoriety. For example, the PCs can earn a solid chunk of notoriety if they enter the arena of Battlebliss and defeat its reigning champion Gelderfang. Can the PCs pilot a safe course through the intrigues of the Midnight Isles to achieve victory? Until you can get your hands on Pathfinder Adventure Path #76: The Midnight Isles to find out, enjoy these fine illustrations.

Illustrations by Eric Belisle, Ekaterina Burmak, and Miguel Regodón Harkness

Adam Daigle
Developer

Mythic Preview—Mythic Lich

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Time for one more preview before Mythic Adventures releases this Thursday at GenCon! Here's the example mythic lich! (A mythic lich gains additional abilities at tier 8th, 9th, and 10th, such as the power to immediately counterspell hostile magic, cast 1st-level spells at will, healing every time it casts a spell, and dispel checks always rolling twice and using the result that's more favorable to the lich.)

Illustration by Eric Belisle

Mythic Lich CR 17/MR 7

XP 102,400
Human lich cleric of Asmodeus 13
LE Medium undead (augmented humanoid, human, mythic)
Init +13M; Senses darkvision 60 ft., spell perception; Perception +29
Aura fear (60 ft., DC 28)

DEFENSE

AC 36, touch 14, flat-footed 34 (+7 armor, +2 deflection, +2 Dex, +15 natural)
hp 209 (13d8+147)
Fort +16, Ref +9, Will +21
Defensive Abilities channel resistance +8, creeping paralysis; DR 15/bludgeoning and epic and magic; Immune cold, electricity, undead traits; SR 32

OFFENSE

Speed 30 ft.
Melee +1 heavy mace +9/+4 (1d8), touch +3 (1d8+6 plus paralyzing touch)
Special Attacks channel negative energy 10/day (DC 23, 7d6), hand of the acolyte (11/day), inspired spell, mythic power (7/day, surge +1d10), mythic spells 2/day, paralyzing touch (DC 28), scythe of evil (6 rounds, 2/day)
Domain Spell-Like Abilities (CL 13th; concentration +21)
 11/day—touch of evil (6 rounds)
 2/day—dispelling touch
Cleric Spells Prepared (CL 13th; concentration +21)
 7th—blasphemy^D (DC 25), destruction (DC 27), ethereal jaunt
 6th—antimagic field^D, blade barrier^M (DC 24), harm^M (2, DC 26)
 5th—dispel good^D, flame strike^M (DC 23), greater command (DC 23), slay living (2, DC 25)
 4th—chaos hammer^M (DC 22), freedom of movement, poison (DC 24), spell immunity, unholy blight^{D, M} (2, DC 22)
 3rd—bestow curse (2, DC 23), contagion (DC 23)M, dispel magic^D, invisibility purge, meld into stone, protection from energy
 2nd—align weapon^D (evil only), calm emotions (DC 20), darkness, desecrate, hold person (DC 20), resist energy, spiritual weapon^M
 1st—bane (DC 19), cause fear (DC 21), deathwatch, entropic shield, identify^D, obscuring mist (2)
 0 (at will)—bleed (DC 20), detect magic, purify food and drink, read magic

 D Domain spell; Domains Evil, Magic; M Mythic spell

STATISTICS

Str 8, Dex 14, Con —, Int 15, Wis 26, Cha 20
Base Atk +9; CMB +8; CMD 22
Feats Combat Casting, Craft Wondrous Item, Extra Channel, Improved Channel^M, Improved Initiative^M, Iron Will, Mythic Spell Lore^B, Spell Focus (necromancy)^M, Toughness^M
Skills Heal +16, Intimidate +18, Knowledge (arcana, religion) +18, Perception +29, Sense Motive +27, Spellcraft +26, Stealth +9; Racial Modifiers +8 Perception, +8 Sense Motive, +8 Spellcraft, +8 Stealth
Languages Abyssal, Common
SQ mythic phylactery, rejuvenation

ECOLOGY

Environment any
Organization solitary
Treasure NPC gear (potions of invisibility [2], +3 chain shirt, +1 heavy mace, amulet of natural armor +3, belt of incredible dexterity +2, cloak of resistance +3, headband of mental prowess +4 [Wis, Cha], ring of protection +2, other treasure)

SPECIAL ABILITIES

Creeping Paralysis (Su): A creature that strikes a mythic lich with a natural weapon, unarmed strike, or non-reach manufactured weapon, or otherwise touches the lich must save or be affected by the lich's paralyzing touch ability. This triggers only once per round per creature.

Mythic Phylactery (Su): A mythic lich's phylactery can't be harmed by non-mythic sources. At 8th rank, the phylactery becomes a minor artifact, and can be destroyed by only one specific method.

Mythic Potency (Su): A mythic lich adds its rank to the save DCs for its fear aura and paralyzing touch abilities.

Mythic Spells (Su): A mythic lich gains Mythic Spell Lore as a bonus feat. The lich has a pool of magical power it can draw upon for casting mythic spells. Up to twice per day, it can use this power to cast a mythic spell without expending any uses of mythic power.

Augmented Spellcasting (Su): At 7th rank, a mythic lich selects one of the following archmage or hierophant abilities: arcane surge (see page 14), inspired spell (see page 32), recalled blessing (see page 32), or wild arcana (see page 14). Once chosen, this selection can't be changed.

Spell Perception (Su): At 7th rank, a mythic lich automatically notices spellcasting within 60 feet. The lich automatically pinpoints the location of the caster, identifies the spell being cast, and knows the intended target or area of the spell.

A mythic lich is an undead spellcaster who gave up standard mythic path abilities in favor of abilities that preserve her existence and enhance her unnatural power.

Sean K Reynolds
Designer, Pathfinder RPG

Mythic Preview—Path Abilities

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Mythic Adventures releases this Thursday at GenCon! Here's a preview of some of the new mythic path abilities that you didn't see in the playtest!

Illustration by Eric Belisle

Archmage, 3rd Tier:

Many Forms (Su): You can alter your appearance at will as if using alter self. You can expend one use of mythic power to change shape as if using polymorph, with a duration of 1 minute per tier. Your caster level for this ability is a number equal to 10 + your tier. At 6th tier, the duration of the polymorph ability increases to 10 minutes per tier.

Champion, 3rd Tier:

Titan's Rage (Su): You can cause yourself to grow in size, becoming a terrifying sight to behold. As a standard action (or a free action if you have the rage class feature), you can expend one use of mythic power to increase your size to one size category larger. This grants you a +4 size bonus to Strength and Constitution, imposes a –2 penalty to Dexterity, grants you a +2 natural armor bonus, increases your natural reach by 5 feet, and increases your weapon damage based on the new size of your weapons. This size increase lasts a number of rounds equal to your tier, and doesn't stack with any other spell or ability that alters your size.

Guardian, 6th Tier:

Invincible Stand (Su): You can expend one use of mythic power as a swift action to make yourself nearly invincible for a short period of time. You gain DR 20/— for a number of rounds equal to your tier. If you choose to move or are moved by another creature during this time, this protection immediately ends.

Hierophant, 3rd Tier:

Abundant Healing (Su): When you use a spell or class ability to heal a creature's hit point damage, you can apply excess healing (over the target's full hit points) to one ally adjacent to you. You can continue to apply excess healing to other adjacent allies until no injured allies are adjacent or you run out of excess healing. For example, if you could cure 40 points of damage with your cure critical wounds spell and the target has taken only 20 points of damage, you can apply the remaining 20 points of healing to an adjacent ally; if that second ally has taken only 15 points of damage, you can apply the remaining 5 points of healing to another adjacent ally.

Marshal, 6th Tier:

Words of Valor (Su): With a mere speech, you empower your allies to take on any foe. As a standard action, you can expend two uses of mythic power to inspire all of your allies within a 30-foot radius, granting them the effects of the spell heroism and making them immune to fear for 1 round per tier. Each mythic creature that is affected by this ability can use its surge ability once during this duration without having to expend one use of mythic power.

Trickster, 6th Tier:

Class Mimic (Su): The abilities of your allies are available to you with a touch. As a standard action, you can expend one use of mythic power and touch a willing creature to copy one of that creature's class features. You gain the use of this class feature for 10 minutes per tier, using the level of the creature touched as your level for any effects based on level. You can't copy an ability that has a limited number of uses per day (such as rage, smite evil, or spellcasting) or an ability that involves a companion (such as eidolon, hunter's bond, or nature bond). You can have only one use of this ability in effect at one time. If you use this ability again, any previous use immediately ends. You can't copy the same ability more than once per day.

Sean K Reynolds
Designer, Pathfinder RPG

Demons Invade the Community!

Saturday, August 10, 2013

Paizo's Community Use Policy is a great tool for members of the community to use to share their passion for the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game and the Pathfinder campaign setting. Whether such projects take the form of fan fiction, a wiki cataloguing the continuity and canon of the setting, or a series of handouts or posters to advertise a local convention or game day, the CUP allows for non-commercial use of Paizo's intellectual property, including some pieces of art. Many of these art resources can be found in the Community Use Package here on paizo.com, but also on this very blog.

With the launch of the Wrath of the Righteous Adventure Path, we thought it would be helpful to the community to release some images of demons into the Community Use Package via the blog so that folks can use them legally to promote the adventure path and the Pathfinder Society's Year of the Demon metaplot. So take these images and use them in your Pathfinder community project. We can't wait to see what the creative minds who read this blog can come up with!

Click here For more information on the terms of the Community Use Policy and a registry of existing Community Use projects.

Illustrations by Eric Belisle, Eva Widermann, Andrew Hou, Tyler Walpole and Ben Wootten (Pathfinder Pawns: Bestiary Box, Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Inner Sea World Guide, Pathfinder Roleplaying Game: Bestiary, and Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Lords of Chaos)

Mark Moreland
Developer

The Wizard's Mask Sample Chapter

Wednesday, June 26th, 2013

In The Wizard's Mask, two unlikely heroes—an escaped halfling slave and a dangerous masked fugitive—are forced to join forces on a magical quest across the war-torn border between Nirmathas and Molthune. Yet can two scoundrels used to being on the wrong side of the law really learn to work together, even if the other alternative is a painful death?

Chapter One: Hard Times in Halidon

The Masked goes by many names.

The only man still alive in the room smiled behind his dark mask.

The warning was encrypted, but Molthuni codes had never risen above simple. Always the same pattern, always strict adherence to unimaginative authority, leaving many holes for a clever rat to slip through.

And although more than a few things had slipped away from him recently, he was still a clever rat.

He read the Molthuni intelligence report again. Bluntly flattering. No wonder Tarlmond had laid a trap for him.

The man Tarram Armistrade always wears masks, and so is most widely known as "The Masked." Nethran gives his name as "Armistrode," but this is now considered a misreading of a handwritten ledger entry. Has gone by several other names, including Bellowbar, Jalosker, and Markant.

Makes his living as a thief; successful, is wanted for many crimes in Cheliax. Many small thefts within our borders probable, but none proven. Suspected of involvement in the Five Dragons thefts.

Is swift to violence and must be considered dangerous.

Tall. Agile. Speaks courteously and in cultured sentences; can and has impersonated nobility, law-officers, priests, and officials. Observant, and remembers what he sees.

Some recent accounts report that his face has been damaged or altered in some manner.

Recently seen in Canorate and Braganza. Apprehend on sight for interrogation, but slay without hesitation if difficulties arise.

Ah, yes, those oft-arising difficulties. Annoying things.

It had been a nasty little trap. A needle tipped in soporific poison, thrusting up under the seat-cushion. If his long-ago preparations for getting past the defenses of the Five Dragons hadn't left him immune to that particular poison forever, he might be slumped helpless in that chair right now, lost in dreams, waiting to be awakened by the ungentle handling of cold-faced men in blood-red Molthuni tabards, eager to take out their frustrations on the dangerous fugitive known as The Masked.

If Tarlmond had been a better actor, if the man had been better able to leash his own anger and keep it off his face ...but he hadn't.

The Halidon merchant's fury at discovering just how badly he'd been hoodwinked had fairly bellowed across his cozy office at his arriving guest. The Masked would have had to be blind and deaf not to notice the blazing glare, the tight-lipped smile, the greetings curt even for Molthune.

Luckily, he wasn't either of those things. Yet.

His good mood turned bitter.

As if he needed to be punished. If he could have undone that theft—years ago, now—he might still have a face. He might be able to live a comfortable life without the constant threat of pursuit—and by those far more dangerous than any Molthuni investigator.

Who would have thought such danger lurked in masks? Masks!

Bejeweled, darkly elegant, one even sporting feathers. He should have known a wizard's mask would harbor magic.

He should have done so many things differently.

And if so, what then? He might have died years ago, drowned in boredom behind a desk in some ledger-cluttered shop cellar room, in one of the more crowded and noisome cities, keeping track of "chamber pots, black" or "false noses, flesh-hued."

False noses like those he no longer bothered to use, because there was nothing left to keep them from sliding down to plummet from the chin he no longer had.

It had been the easiest of mistakes. He'd needed to see in the dark in order to make his escape, and so had put on the one mask of his newfound loot whose magic was supposed to help with that.

He'd taken it off again soon enough, but "soon enough" had been too late.

The curse had begun. Slowly wiping away his face.

Someday, a dying sage had warned him, it would leave only eyes staring out of a blank, smooth sheet of flesh. Noseless, mouthless, and chinless. He'd go mute, reduced to breathing through his skin, with an endless, droning whistling. He'd be something people would recoil from, or else draw sword and hack at in terror and revulsion. A walking worm that would quickly starve to death.

He wasn't that far gone yet. He could still fare well enough far and wide across Golarion, in increasing desperation to find magic to halt and reverse his curse. Nothing he'd yet found even slowed what was happening to him.

"Yet I remain Tarram Armistrade," he told the dead man on the floor gently. "For now."

His once-handsome face was a ruin, nose gone and mouth a mere slit in a chinless slide of flesh. He covered it with masks that had no magic, because leaving the mask on hastened its foul work.

Yet he dared not leave the cursed mask hidden, for any harm done to it happened to his face, too. Usually he wore it like some sort of hidden codpiece, under his clothes, where it was least noticeable. Where he was wearing it right now.

"Though more truly," he added to the sprawled and forever silent Tarlmond, "I am now The Masked."

It was a matter of necessity. If he went around unmasked, he'd no doubt be mistaken for a monster and slain by the first warrior he passed. The laws of Molthune allowed citizens who perceived danger to slay "horrible monsters." Molthuni law was so clear-cut and brutally simple. Pity for everyone that most people weren't.

The Masked looked around the room and smiled, though he took little pleasure in it. Cozy rooms like this one, chambers of wealth that stank of power and ill-gotten gains, were where he flourished these days. While his victims fell.

Enough self-pity. He took up the poker and stirred the small fire in the grate to spitting, popping vigor. He dropped the intelligence report onto its flaring flames, pinned it there with the point of the poker, and watched it curl and blacken into ash.

When nothing recognizable was left, the tall masked man turned to survey the shelves behind the desk again, peering at the lowest-down tomes.

Ah. There.

Escolarr Tarlmond was as predictable as he was greedy. That particular fat volume. Sigh.

When purchasing a false book as a treasure-coffer, even a dolt should be aware that to buy one out of a shop window in Canorate, from a shop that made scores of identical volumes, meant that many would recognize your hiding place for what it was at a glance.

There'd be a removable floorboard somewhere in this room, too, and a rather better coffer beneath it. With another poisoned needle, no doubt. Best toyed with at leisure, elsewhere, so take the second and leave the first. Between the book coffer, Tarlmond's purse, and the gems that undoubtedly rode in a hollow boot heel, no one would notice the missing floorboard stash.

But first, there was still business to attend to.

Molthuni sword-tutors taught too many showy flourishes. Tarlmond had taken so much time singing his blade free of its scabbard, and needed so much room to do so, that it had been simplicity itself to step inside the man's reach, thrust the elbow of his sword arm away with one hand, and throttle the merchant with the other. A quiet and bloodless death, but it left The Masked needing to account for—or conceal—the congested purple of the dead man's face.

He caught up the decanter that held Tarlmond's best wine, splashed it generously over the corpse's face, front, and hands, then arranged the remains with that purple face in the fire, a goblet in one dead hand and a stool overturned where it would look as if the drunken merchant had tripped over it and ended up in the fire.

Finding the right floorboard, and its spring-dart trap—my, but Tarlmond had been a nasty, suspicious man, and Halidon was better off without him—took but a moment. The coffer thus gained was smaller and lighter than most, which was even better. Into the padded underarm sack it went.

The Masked shot a last, careful look around the room, and found nothing that could be linked to a tall masked visitor. Closing the door softly behind him, he strolled out and down the stairs, not hurrying.

The first faint wafts of burning flesh preceded him. It smelled like boar, reminding The Masked he was hungry—but the reek of Tarlmond's perfumed hair oil, rising to overtake it, was just horrible.

Yes, Halidon was much better off without him.

∗ ∗ ∗

Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra had run out of curses days ago. The abominable creaking of the ill-maintained wagon had long since half-deafened her and brought on a ringing headache that felt as if someone had put a metal bowl over her head and started tapping it with a hammer.

She could tell by the color of the road-mud passing slowly and lurchingly beneath her that the caravan was far west of Canorate now, up out of the low river-vale farms and close to the Backar Forest. The roadside was littered with twigs and withered leaves fallen from carts that would soon have been snatched up for hearth-kindling, back where she'd come from.

Come from? Hah! Escaped from.

She'd come from Nirmathas, too long ago. Canorate had only been where she'd lived—existed—as a slave.

A small, puny, but useful slave.

If she hadn't been short and gaunt, even for a halfling, she could never have fit between the rotten wagon floorboards and the ramp-boards slung under the decaying conveyance on open frames—recently repaired frames that were probably the stoutest, best-built part of this damnable, never-to-be-sufficiently-cursed wagon.

A turnip wagon, no less, its old sides and bottom too full of cracks to haul grain any more. Which at least made it unlikely anyone would soon be needing to haul forth the ramp-boards that were serving Tantaerra as a floor. Turnips got forked out of wagons, or clawed into sacks and the sacks tossed down.

She hated turnips.

Still, being wedged here like an opportunistic rat won out over being a Molthuni slave. Just about any situation would—and Tantaerra had been one of the luckier slaves. Her master, back in Canorate, had been a maker and seller of knives, specializing in throwing knives. She'd been his sharpener, errand-runner, and demonstrator of the art of hurling and catching razor-sharp knives. Which had made some Molthuni wary of kicking or throwing handy objects at a scuttling, skinny, two-and-a-half-foot-tall halfling.

Not that she'd spent most days doing much more than running the grinding wheel or scampering along the highest shelves, fetching down blades to save Hroalund the puffing work of moving his stockroom ladder. And happily eating the apples and wedges of cheese he literally tossed her way.

That had all ended, very suddenly and not long ago, the day someone had killed old Hroalund in a dispute over prices.

Tantaerra had taken his smallest, most exquisite throwing knives—the little adorned ones he sold to women of wealth, to wear hidden under their garments as sharp little surprises for those who offered unwanted attentions—strapped them all over herself, and gotten out, far and fast, seeking the caravan yards. Slaves were blamed for murders all too often, and she'd no desire for that painful a death.

So she'd left the grandest city in Molthune the way most vermin did, hiding under a turnip wagon and living like a rat, foraging by night when the wagon stopped. Whatever she could find—ground-grubs one night, and handfuls of grass too often. Sometimes she stole from the caravan as well—anything but turnips. Halfling slaves were always hungry, but she wanted food, not turnips.

Well, the sun was lowering; it would soon be foraging time again. The puddles passing under her were starting to stink of more than ox-dung and horse heaps, too, and her wagon was starting to rattle over larger rocks, the broken and half-buried remnants of flagstones. They were coming to some sort of settlement.

That meant more danger for her than the open road, yet it might be a good thing in the longer run. The wagon's groans were deepening, which meant she might soon have to find a different home—if something right beside her didn't break with sudden violence and maim her in an instant.

Oh, life was such an endless parade of amusements...

"Ho, Yarlin! Get that banner up! Halidon's garrisoned, and I'd rather not be wearing half a dozen bolts before nightfall!"

That gruff shout came from almost beside Tantaerra, as the head of the caravan guards rode past.

Halidon. She'd heard it mentioned once or twice during her years in Canorate. A small place—logging village, most likely, as it stood at the edge of the Backar Forest. A usual waystop because it was near mid-journey, when taking the most direct roads between Braganza and Canorate.

So they were that close to Halidon. Good. This gods-cursed wagon just might make it.

KeeEEERAKKh.

Or not.

The wheel that was thankfully farthest from Tantaerra rode up over a particularly sharp stone and then thumped down its far side—and the axle that had been spitting grease all over her for days shivered and split, from the hub of the wheel halfway to where a certain small and uncomfortably cramped halfling was grimly watching it from.

The wagon—and the caravan it was part of—lurched right on. No one had heard, of course. No surprise there. This lot saw and heard nothing that didn't jump up and dance for coin under their very noses.

The constant groaning of the wagon was different now, as the dying axle added its own protest to the general din. A sort of rising, wobbling, wandering shriek that—oh, how could they not hear it?

When someone stuck his head in and under for a look, a certain non-paying passenger would be discovered. Though there were halflings in Molthune who weren't slaves, Tantaerra had never known any personally—and stowaways of any height were rarely greeted with much kindness. Moreover, to a certain breed of merchant, a female slave—even a two-and-a-half-foot-tall halfling, well out of girlhood and approaching middle age—would be something to cage and make use of.

Neither the wagon in front of this one nor the one behind had ramp boards or anything else slung underneath. The wagon three back trailed a broken-off length of rusty chain and the dangling remains of a ramp-board frame, but she doubted they'd carry much more than the weight of a few spiders or flies before tearing free and falling to the road.

The light was failing, the sun sinking low, and by the rattling of slowing iron-shod wagon wheels and the clip-clop of hooves rising ahead of her now, there was less mud and more stone underfoot. Voices, too, and some excited shouts. Children.

The caravan had entered Halidon proper. Which meant, the gods being the gods, that it was just about time for this axle to—

SheeEEEEEREEAKH!

Tantaerra dropped and rolled even before the far wheel came off the separating axle and the wagon lurched and then sank down into a nightmare of splinters, amid a chorus of surprised and angry shouts.

She had a glimpse of the wheel wobbling away on its own, bouncing and swaying like a drunkard leaving a tavern late. Then her own hasty escape snatched her view of it away. Out and back, to scuttle like a crab under the next wagon and hope its oxen weren't fast enough when stamping at her to—

"Hoy! You! Crannor, what's that? It just went under your wagon! Like a halfling, but smaller!"

Like a halfling, but smaller.

Tantaerra growled silently at that and kept scuttling, running on hands and knees just as fast as she knew how, trying to—

"There! I saw it! Over there, under Derethrai's wagon, now!"

"What's all this?" Sharper voices, and unfamiliar, not from the caravan. She risked a look.

Molthuni soldiers. Big, clomping hobnailed boots, dark breeches, blood-red tunics, helmets too big to stay on without chinstraps, and spears. Led by an officer without a spear, who was instead carrying some sort of short battle-hammer with a wicked-looking spike where its pommel should be.

"Stowaway, or a thief, under the wagons. It broke yon turnip cart, somehow."

Oh, aye. Blame me for your born-of-neglect breakdowns, now!

"'It'?" the Molthuni officer snapped. "Some sort of beast?"

"Don't rightly know, yet. Small, and fast—and something's been stealing food from us, all the way from Canorate! If you'll look under that wagon!"

"Trail thefts are your problem, citizen, not the duty of the soldiers of Molthune to ..."

Boots, tramping closer, the sharp points of spear-heads dipping down into view, and Tantaerra had run out of wagons.

Cursing silently, she doubled back. The one place they'd not be so enthusiastic when thrusting spears would be in among the mud-spattered legs of the oxen at the front of each wagon. Oxen cost coin, good coin, and so did harness, and—

"Hah!" One of the soldiers, too dim-witted not to thrust his spear right into the snorting, stamping midst of the oxen. "I see it—a boy, a really small boy, a—no, a girl! Barefoot—"

"Croel, haven't you ever seen a halfling before? Slave Pits of Absalom, boy, but they're—mind! You'll have—"

Whatever else the older soldier might have been going to say was lost in a dozen shouts of alarm. An ox had felt the burning bite of a careless spear-slice, and tried to rear back and kick out at where the pain had come from. The wagon it and three fellow beasts were yoked to shuddered under its buffeting, and frightened and angry muffled shouts arose from within it.

Shouts that grew suddenly louder as doors banged, and the ox kicked again and soldiers leveled spears at the beast as if it were some sort of battlefield foe.

"What by the ponderous teats of Lamashtu are all you idiots doing? We just about got a dozen jars of Mereth's best honey-wine sauce in our laps! D'you have any idea how much that goes for in Braganza? Nearly lost a handful of Crysta's map-painted plattercloths, too! Stand back from my oxen, you spear-waving idiots, or I'll have your guts for my next batch of sausages, I will!"

"Citizen, have a care for how you speak to soldiers of Mol—"

"I am having a care, helm-for-brains! If I were treating these louts of yours like mere brigands, they'd be choking around my fists run far down their gullets right now! You in charge of this untrained, murderous rabble, then? Well, let me tell you a thing or two about how officers conducted themselves when I was wearing a uniform as ugly as yours, and going up against real foes of Molthune rather than handy oxen! Why, back in those days, we—"

Tantaerra grinned. Good old Bryhraun, and his Finest Sausages, too! He could keep this up right through the night, and would, if someone didn't put a spear through him to shut him up.

Bryhraun! Yes! His wagon was crammed with edibles, and it had those little light-windows up by the front that opened from within. If she scampered just right, she could snatch and be gone onto its roof before anyone could grab her.

Bryhraun was still spewing oaths and belligerence at the Molthuni officer, who was busy putting one of those sneeringly weary "I'm only going to put up with this for so long, old windbag, and my patience has just about run out" expressions on his face.

Tantaerra stuck out her tongue at him as she raced into view, caught hold of the trail-step of Bryhraun's wagon, and swung herself into a backflip and roll up and into the wagon—right between the merchant's legs, where she hoped they'd not be foolish enough to thrust spears at her, given the old merchant's temper.

Ah, but they were. She found her feet only to see Bryhraun's stout and hog-ugly wife and daughter converging on her, shrieking.

Tantaerra plucked up a fat "dragonsmoke" sausage as long as her arm, sprang to the high shelves beside the little window on her left, hauled on its dog-lever as hard as she knew how, and was out into the breeze and the gathering dusk before Bryhraun's wife could draw breath for her next scream.

And up onto the wagon roof, thanks to a hard swing on the frame of the window itself. Only long enough for a deep breath and a wild peer all around, before she took a firm grip on the sausage—sinking her fingers into it, that was the trick—then sprang into a wild leap for the roof of the next wagon. Dingy blue, which meant it housed Maraskho's Fine Garments.

She only just made it, landing hard and bruisingly, skidding along most of its dirty, warp-boarded length.

Behind her, Bryhraun's wagon rocked. Its oxen grunted and shrieked and tried to snarl as their hooves sliced into each other, and general mayhem erupted. She could hear falling goods crashing around in the merchant's wagon and his family's screams rising into wild and frightened incoherence, but was more intent on all the villagers converging to see what was happening.

No more soldiers yet, which was good, and some of the patrol that had gathered around Bryhraun's wagon were being jostled by arriving locals, spears waving wildly as they tried to follow her yet not gut someone. Even better.

It would be dark soon, but not soon enough. Everyone who cared to could see her, and it seemed Halidon bred or reared hardened folk. If any of them got a grip on her, she'd have to be fast and vicious with a knife to get free.

And her left hip was aching from that landing. Time to get gone. On her left, not much more than two streets away, the forest loomed up like a great dark wall. That's where she'd have to hide—and climb, because a village next to a forest meant skulking beasts with sharp teeth prowling by night.

Tantaerra dropped onto Maraskho's oxen, her landing and swift run along them setting them to snorting, bucking, and twisting, too. Perhaps she could get work as an ox-tamer, if—

Blast! More soldiers were coming, hurrying down those streets she had to get through to get to the woods, and they were alert and hard-eyed—and had spotted her already. Keeping in formation, carrying the same long spears, and led by an officer whose swift hand-signals were being heeded. No slouches, these soldiers. She'd not get past them alive, unless they wanted her taken for questioning.

And when they discovered the slave brand under her chin ...

Her escape must be the other way, using the halted wagons of the caravan as a barrier to these Molthuni reinforcements, and it must be now.

She sprang off an ox that seemed heartily glad to be rid of her, landed with a wince, and ran, ran as she'd never run before, keeping close to the line of wagons as she darted along it, a racing arrow more than a thing of stealth. She could tell by the thunder of boots and the waving spears that soldiers were running, too, on the other side of the wagons, which meant she'd have to time this just right ...

Here, and now! Where this knot of village women were standing hands on hips gossiping, obviously sourly amused at seeing soldiers having to run. She dug at the slits in her belt as she ran, her thumb finding the sharpened edges of the coins she kept as handy slicers and moving on to—yes, the gold piece that wasn't sharpened. Absalom minting. She could clearly recall the disbelieving face of the merchant she'd plucked it from, and she was going to miss it, but—

"Blessed coin," she called, pitching her voice as low and loud as she could, "lend me some of your luck now!"

Still running hard, she flung it past the heads of the staring women. It rang off the side of a wagon just beyond them, at about the time the meaning of her words sank home. Then in almost perfect unison they turned, in a swirling of skirts, and went after the coin.

In their wake, Tantaerra swerved out, straight away from the line of wagons, and sprinted down a handy street ahead. Past a few hanging signs and their shops, away from the caravan, away from the great forest. If she couldn't reach the trees now, she'd have to wait for deep night to try for them, and in the meantime she needed somewhere high enough that she could climb out of the reach of spears, somewhere that was hopefully also large enough for her to hope to hide in, on, or atop.

Which meant the watchtower she could see ahead, standing like a stubby lance against the setting sun, and the Molthuni military barracks attached to it.

As the old Nirmathi saying put it: When hunted by wolves, the best place to hide is among them.

Come to think of it, the "wolves" those words referred to were Molthuni soldiers like these. Fair enough. Like a wolf, then, she would be.

The street was full of older villagers strolling to see what was going on at the caravan. She got more than a few curious looks, but no hindrance or pursuit. And thankfully no dogs.

Which might well mean there was something in the forest that prowled Halidon by night, hunting such barking beasts.

Something to mull over later, when there weren't Molthuni soldiers pelting along after her, still far behind but waving their spears and yelling at her to stop.

Did that ever work? Did they really think someone running from them would be foolish enough to stop and give up? Or that common folk who increasingly resented the ever-increasing laws and little rules, and the heavy-booted zeal of the crimson-coated soldiers who enforced them, would leap to catch or hinder a fleeing fugitive?

No one was leaping in Halidon, that was for sure.

She ran past staring villager after staring villager, her hip really starting to ache, now. Ahead, the street ended in a muddy open space in front of a long row of empty paddocks, with the barracks looming up on her left. No palisade or gatehouse, and no door guards, just a tall, ugly stone building with a shake-shingled roof, various sections of it having different pitches, as the building had been expanded over the years by builders with their own ideas of what a barracks roof should look like. No gables, nor anything as fancy as a spire or a turret, except the lone, square watchtower, which was wrapped around with rotting wooden gutters sloping down from the surrounding roofs and jutting well out into the street. Evidently it rained hard in Halidon.

Good. If those gutters weren't too rotten, they'd be her climbing aids and help to hide her, once she was up and—

Light flared, at the far end of the barracks. Panting for breath, Tantaerra slowed to peer. A soldier on a ladder, his back to her, was swinging shut the shutter of a massive, rusty hanging metal lantern ...and starting back down to the ground.

He'd be heading this way to light the next one, and the next. Stout bars jutted out up there beside each lantern, the ladder hooking over them for stability. She had to get up onto the roof, and hide in the angle where it descended to meet the watchtower, before he—

No. Impossible.

She'd have to do this the other way.

She raced to the streetside wall of the barracks and flattened herself against it, just before he reached the base of the ladder.

Then she waited, shuddering to catch her breath and trying to ignore the pursuing soldiers getting nearer. It was dark enough now for not every idle glance to notice her, if she kept still.

This should have been about long enough ...

She went to the ground, crawled to the corner, and peered around it, chin almost in the dirt. The lamplighter was just settling the ladder into position by the next lantern. She waited, in case he was one of those sightseers who liked to take a look around every so often, but his attention was entirely on the tinderbox slung on a loose baldric at his hip, and positioning it to avoid banging it against himself as he climbed. He started up.

Like a small and silent wind, Tantaerra raced to the ladder and went up it behind him, moving only when he did, stretching with great care for silence, and keeping over on the left side, because the tinderbox was hanging down the soldier's right side.

She waited until he was right at the top and had swung the lantern-shutter open before climbing up on its far side, to hang right beside his head. He was intent on striking a striker, inside the box on a short-chain, against the box's row of flints so as to catch sparks on a taper—a fiddly task that really needed more hands than he had, and was consuming all of his attention save enough to mutter tunelessly, "She was only a shopgirl from Canorate, but she was a jewel to me ..."

Wrapping her legs around the bar that the ladder was hooked over, Tantaerra let herself dangle head-down beside his left shoulder and pushed against the lantern until she could murmur a provocative purr right into his ear.

"All the way from Canorate I've come, dreaming of your manly strength, and now at last, lover—"

The lamplighter stopped humming and stiffened.

Tantaerra licked her lips, then planted a wet kiss on his earlobe.

The resulting startled shriek and fumbling clatter were gratifying. The soldier's head snapped around to look, and slammed into the open lantern-shutter, setting the lantern to swinging and the startled man to falling back—

With a sudden, arm-flailing shout, the lamplighter was gone, and the abandoned ladder was swaying ...

The crash, below, was impressive.

Delicately, Tantaerra gave the top of the ladder the little push necessary to send it toppling slowly over and down, then swarmed along the bar onto the roof and clawed her way up it as hastily as she could, ending on the roof side of the watchtower. The gutter there was in deep gloom, and sturdily wedged between the wall just under the roof and the rising side of the watchtower. She made herself as small and slender as she could, and snuggled down into it, prepared to become a motionless part of the building until full night came.

The sausage was more than a little battered, but tasted delicious.

Purchase the whole novel here.

Coming Next Week: A new story of River Kingdoms justice in Ari Marmel's "Best Served Cold"!

As the creator of the Forgotten Realms, Ed Greenwood is one of the most famous RPG designers of all time, with a veritable dragon’s hoard of game setting products under his belt. In the Pathfinder universe, he’s the author of the new novel The Wizard's Mask and the short web fiction story “Guns of Alkenstar.” In addition, he’s written more than twenty Forgotten Realms novels (many dealing with his signature character, Elminster) and ten independent novels.

Art by Eric Belisle.

A Matter of Knives

by Ed Greenwood

Chapter One: In the House of Blades

"I do not waste time dealing with slaves," the citizen in the splendid red doublet informed her. "Go and fetch your master. Now."

"Come back tomorrow," the halfling said flatly, her eyes two flames of fury. She stood on the shop counter facing him, chin thrust forward and hands on hips, as if she owned the place.

Which she didn't, of course. She was indeed a slave—and a halfling of shorter stature than most halflings, to boot.

The citizen looked down his nose at her, dubiously. It was unusual in splendid and sprawling Canorate to see a slave openly armed, but this one had daggers that looked like they'd serve her as swords strapped to her arms and legs.

Yet this was Hroalund's House of Blades, a shop that sold knives and daggers. The problem was, this arrogant little above-herself slave looked ready, willing, and one angrily spitting moment away from using them.

"Yes," she hissed, as if reading his mind, her hands suddenly stroking dagger-pommels. "I hit what I throw these at. Every time." Her voice became a menacing purr. "Would sir care for a demonstration?"

The citizen opened his mouth to say something sneering and dismissive—and then thought better of it. "Tomorrow, then!" he snapped, then spun on one magnificently booted heel and stormed out.

Through the shop window, Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra watched the embroidered tail of the citizen's fine cloak swirl in his wake, and sighed.

The Master steps out on business for the afternoon, and half of Canorate comes in here to try to bully the shop slave into giving them things for a quarter their worth—and a sixth of the asked price. It was hardly surprising—she was, after all, an outlander and a little child of a creature, no doubt untutored and naïve.

Pah. Molthuni were such aggressively arrogant idiots.

That went double for rich Canorate citizens out adventuring beyond the walls of the gilded Sweet Orchard district, to where the lungs of Canorate breathed, the real daily business of Molthune was done, and shops that sold useful things crowded together along busy streets.

Tantaerra plucked one of the mirror-bright sample knives from an upright fan display of them atop the polished countertop, buffed it on her sleeve, then turned her back on the now-empty shop and strode right off the countertop, tossing the knife casually back over her shoulder as she started to fall.

Those who judge Tantaerra based on her size are fools indeed.

It thunked into the target even before her feet sank into the heap of soft mats the Master had accumulated behind the counter as his gout steadily worsened.

She did not have to look to know she'd struck the target dead center. She was, after all, better at demonstrating the throwing knives Argulk Hroalund was deservedly famous for than the Master was himself.

The shop guards watched her pad across the shop and leap up to retrieve the blade, their faces as impassive as ever, but when she sighed loudly and told the ceiling, "If one more overblown scion of Canorate's elite comes in here before we close..." she saw the ghost of a smile pluck at the lips of one of them, just for an instant.

As if her lament had been a cue, the singing clash of crossing swords rang out, courtesy of the enchantment on the shop door. Well, it was better than those annoying bells any day.

Tantaerra swallowed a sigh, fixed a professional smile on her face, and sprang atop the stool behind the counter once more. After all, if the Master didn't eat, neither would she, and Canorate wasn't the cheapest of places to—

Her smile became genuine. It was the Master.

Yet the grin faded as quickly as it came, and she found herself struggling to get the professional smile back into place. The Master was worried.

And it took a lot to worry Argulk Hroalund.

He was the best maker of throwing knives in five lands, probably more, and offered the best stock of knives of all sorts—from tiny hide-in-your-hair ladies' death-needles to joint-an-aurochs cleavers—in Molthune. And had been for fifty years, perhaps sixty. Which meant he'd dealt with a lot of Molthuni. And anyone who sold arms and armor had to be ready to defend themselves, as well as tough as mountain stone against intimidation, or...

"Braerand, Luthkul, Orrlehm—have my thanks; this day's shift is done. Be off home with you. The House is closing until the day after tomorrow. So tomorrow is yours, though I'll pay you for it as if you were here."

The guards were surprised, yet said not a word. They merely nodded and went.

As the Master shot the bolts in their wake and reached to swing the metal doorbar down into place, Tantaerra set the first trap, but he turned with a frown and held up a hand to stop her.

Surprised, Tantaerra stood on the counter and watched him shuffle back to her from the door and begin the routine of setting all the traps himself.

He was worried.

Most shops had traps against thieves, but the Master's were the best. Oh, a knife shop's traps almost had to be, but even the Orchard-dwellers in Canorate hired Argulk Hroalund to trap their homes.

He designed the most elaborate and best hidden mechanical traps, from half a dozen for a small shop to scores of silently waiting deadlinesses in a grand mansion; elaborate mechanical traps that could wound intruders with "knives or darts, launched or thrust." Tantaerra knew the Master's skill well; because she was deft, supple, and small even for a halfling, she was often set to work installing his creations in spaces too cramped for the Master himself.

The knives were the daily soup and cheese of the House of Blades, but the trapping was big coin.

"Anything I should know?" he growled at her as usual, as he checked the day's takings. Not too worried to entirely abandon routine.

"Two odd deliveries, both crates. The smaller from Garldrake and Sarpent, the larger from no one who wants to share his name, and who ships in crates that could double as coffins; it's labeled ‘To Be Opened By Master Hroalund Only.' So I left it. I opened the other, though. Forty-six gorgets, steel, all the same size—and utter slop. I bent some accidentally, between two fingers, lifting them out. You can't sell them. You're being insulted. Or set up for a fall, somehow."

The Master frowned and then sighed. He looked old and tired—but not surprised. "You left them in the back?"

At Tantaerra's nod, he set off for his private rooms, pinching the lamps dark as he went. Tantaerra scampered after him. His abrupt and early closing meant she hadn't even warmed the water atop the little stove, but she could rub oil into his gouty feet while supper was cooking, rather than after...

"I'd like that," the Master grunted, and she froze. She must have said her thoughts aloud.

Then he turned and proved again why he was the best Master any slave could have. "And we'll talk. My worries are bothering you, and I need someone to talk to. I trust you, Little Firebrand. You've more sense than any twenty Canorate shopkeepers—or any forty Sweet Orchard highcloaks—put together."

"Flatterer," she told him affectionately. "See if you can be as complimentary about my supper—and I'll try not to burn it."

∗ ∗ ∗

Tantaerra's stomach was both full and warm; she was finally getting the hang of hot savory pies. The Master belched and smiled, several times each, then stopped smiling and told her, "It seems Garldrake and Sarpent may turn out to be difficult trading partners. At best."

"Oh? Share?"

"Nothing to share but suspicions. Yet. Let's be looking at the larger crate."

A few shuffling moments later and they were standing over it, eyeing the crate that looked very like a coffin.

To Be Opened By Master Hroalund Only. That boldly lettered label was imperious enough.

The Master looked at her.

Tantaerra sighed. "You want me to open it, don't you?"

Hroalund nodded, looking a little ashamed and a little sad.

"Not here," she said crisply. "In the cellar. Back corner, next to the big stack."

The big stack was the one fixture in the cellar of the House of Blades. Hroalund's only deadwood; a six-crate-high tower almost brushing the ceiling beams. Bigger crates than most carters made these days, full of shields silently rusting away—shields the Master would never be able to unload, now that Molthune's armies used a new design. Not without scouring clean and reshaping every last one, and they just weren't worth the time and expense.

The Master nodded and went for his cart.

One of Tantaerra's tasks was keeping its side-ramp well greased, and she did tasks thoroughly. The Master only grunted twice as he shoved the coffin-crate up onto the cart; its journey was swift and easy.

Tantaerra had improved the winch on the pulley-lift so it rarely creaked, and gave off sighs rather than its former high, raw groans. A few pumps of the handle and cart and burden were down in the cellar.

The Master wheeled the cart to right beside the stack of crates and gave his slave a questioning look.

She nodded, and he stepped back. She pointed at the handle of the cart.

"Ah," he said, after a moment. "Take the cart away. Good thinking."

He did that, then stopped halfway across the cellar to watch. Tantaerra gave him an exasperated look, then used the prybar she'd fetched down with her to point at the ceiling, then at him, then at the ceiling again. Imperiously.

Hroalund nodded reluctantly and set off up the stairs. She made sure he wasn't halting to turn and come back down before she hastily downed breeches and emptied her bladder all over the polishing-rag she'd brought with her.

She tied the damp result over her nose. A feeble defense against poison gas, but better than nothing. She was still tightening its knot behind her ears when the Master reappeared. He had a long length of cord in his hands.

"What're you—?"

He tied it securely around her waist. "In case I need to drag you to safety."

He'd brought the long reaching-pole from the shop with him, and used its jaws to thrust the free end of the rope up through the open pulley-lift hatch in the ceiling. When he started for the stairs again, Tantaerra caught hold of the reaching-pole. "Leave it."

The Master looked surprised, but relinquished it readily enough.

Tantaerra positioned it against the wall behind the stack of crates. When she returned from behind them, Hroalund was upstairs and peering down at her through the hatch, the cord tied to her waist hanging from it.

She waved cheerily and set to work with her prybar.

The nails were few but secure. Tantaerra hauled and heaved, and it went swiftly enough; this was work she did every day. As she finished one side and started around the end of the crate—it did look like a coffin, to be sure—she caught sight of her master watching her. He looked anxious.

When every nail was out, she levered the lid up and hauled it back, keeping behind it as if it was a shield.

Silence. Stillness.

And then, as she'd expected, something erupted up out of the crate with a clatter and clang of ringing steel. The Master shouted in alarm.

The thing emerging looked like a man's skeleton sheathed in a metal cage-work—if, that is, human skeletons came with eight arms, each of them ending in wicked-looking sword blades.

It stepped out of the box and toward her, blades reaching...

Like Tantaerra the plucky halfling? Read more of her adventures in the new Pathfinder Tales novel The Wizard's Mask, coming soon!

Coming Next Week: Professional rivalry in the weapons business in Chapter Two of Ed Greenwood's "A Matter of Knives"!

As the creator of the Forgotten Realms, Ed Greenwood is one of the most famous RPG designers of all time, with a veritable dragon's hoard of game setting products under his belt. In the Pathfinder universe, he's the author of the new novel The Wizard's Mask (also featuring Tantaerra) and the short web fiction story "Guns of Alkenstar." In addition, he's written more than twenty Forgotten Realms novels (many dealing with his signature character, Elminster) and ten independent novels.

Illustration by Eric Belisle

Stargazer

by Chris A. Jackson

Chapter One: Venomous Friends

Black sails tore out of the moonless night, all but invisible as the corsair Stargazer swooped down on her prey. Even as the merchant galleon's crew recognized the danger, three ballistae cracked in perfect unison, and their steel heads bit into the planks of the ship's hull.

"Haul!" bellowed a voice, and Stargazer's capstan spun, hauling in the lines affixed to the ballistae bolts, pulling the two ships together.

The two hulls met with a crack, and thirty seasoned pirates leapt aboard the merchant ship in a wave of curses and flashing steel. One stout sailor swung a boathook, cracking a burly pirate across the face. The pirate responded with an anatomically impossible epithet and a sweeping blow of his heavy axe that clove the sailor's skull like an overripe melon. The captain and crew of the Golden Griffin dropped their weapons and backed against the windward rail, pleading for mercy, hands raised.

"Bosun Grogul!" The voice cut through the night like a knife, staying the burly pirate's hand as he raised his axe above the merchant captain's head. "Stand down! Secure their weapons and start your search!"

"Aye, Captain!" The half-orc pirate spat blood onto the deck. He glanced over his shoulder at his captain standing on Stargazer's rail, and the rage in his eyes dimmed. "Search party with me! You others, secure this rabble!"

Captain Torius Vin stepped onto the deck of the merchant galleon with the preternatural agility of a born seaman, one hand on the silver hilt of the cutlass at his hip. His confident swagger was that of a man walking across a street instead of a lurching deck as he stepped over the corpse of the dead sailor and confronted the captain of the Golden Griffin.

"Where is it, Captain Wayland?" He stroked his carefully groomed goatee, dark eyes narrowed.

"Where's what?" The merchant captain's voice sounded harsh with fear. "You're nothing but a damned pirate!"

Torius grinned—he expected fear from his conquests, but not defiance—and drew his cutlass. The flat of the blade slapped the captain's cheek, the edge coming to rest beneath the man's ear. "A pirate I am, Captain, and I may even be damned one day. But not today, and not by the likes of you! If you hand over the coffer you're delivering to Benrahi Ekhan of Azir, I'll spare the lives of you and your crew. If you lie to me again, I'll feed you to the adaro a piece at a time—your right ear first."

"Bugger yourself, pirate!" the captain spat. "You'll kill us all anyway. You vermin have no honor!"

Torius' wrist stiffened, and the razor edge of his cutlass drew a bead of blood from the captain's ear. "Have it your way," he said, but a soft voice from behind him stayed his hand.

"My captain!" There was a rustle of scales against wood. "I can help, if you'll allow me."

"Celeste!" Torius lowered his sword and glanced over his shoulder to see... nothing. "Is there time?"

"There's always time, Captain Vin. It's what we do with it that matters." The voice was as hauntingly beautiful as the night sky. "In this moment of it, I can find what you seek."

"Then by all means proceed, my dear." Torius stepped back.

Undulating coils of starlight flowed over the conjoined rails of the two ships as a huge serpent with the head of a woman materialized from invisibility. The white waves of her hair glowed in the starlight as she slithered to Torius's side, then smiled, her fangs glistening with venom. Torius stifled a chuckle at the gasps of horror from the Golden Griffin's captain and crew; where they saw a monster, he saw magnificence.

"Captain Wayland," she hissed as she bent close to the man's sweaty face. Torius heard the whisper of her quietly murmured spell. "If not to save your own life, then for the lives of your crew: tell me where you have hidden the coffer destined for Benrahi Ekhan."

The man paled nearly to the naga's alabaster hue, swallowed, then answered. "In a secret compartment under the chart table in my quarters. This is the key." He fumbled a heavy brass key from a pocket, and it floated out of his grasp and into Torius's hand.

"Mister Caliel!" Torius tossed the key to his first mate. "Get that coffer, double quick! Time is of the essence!"

Celeste is an exceptional woman—in many senses.

"Aye, sir!" The tall man, a half-elf by the gentle point of his ears, gathered two men and hurried aft.

"Celeste," Torius said more quietly, "best go below now. Thank you for your help."

"Who am I to argue with the stars, my captain?" Her lips curved in a knowing smile. "I await you in your cabin." She slithered away with astonishing alacrity, gone by the time Torius turned back to the captain of the Golden Griffin.

"Now, Captain, there are two possible outcomes to this night's events, and only one ends with you still breathing." He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a large, flat bottle. "Outcome one is that you and your crew each take a single draught from this bottle, and forget the last half-hour of your lives. Outcome two is that you all die, right now."

"That's a choice?" the captain scoffed, his defiance returning.

"Life or death? Yes, I do believe that is a choice, Captain." A door slammed, and Torius turned to see Caliel with a small metal coffer, while his two companions hefted much larger bundles of finery. He grinned. Pirates will be pirates, he thought, then turned back to the captain. "Choose now—live or die. Quickly! If you delay, your choices get cut in half." He tapped the side of the man's neck with his cutlass.

The captain cursed, but took the bottle, removed the cork and tilted it into his mouth, then passed it to the next man in line. Torius watched carefully, making sure each sailor took a mouthful of the precious potion and swallowed. It had cost him plenty, but he gauged it worth the lives of fifteen men, given that he'd already taken from them a prize fifty times the potion's value. When the last man in line drank, he took the bottle back and smiled; the captain's eyes were already glassy with forgetfulness.

"Bosun Grogul! Anyone else aboard?"

"No, sir! Searched from stem to stern."

"Good! We're leaving. Gather your men and get aboard Stargazer."

"Aye, Captain!" The boatswain and his men, burdened with more armfuls of carefully selected spoils, returned to the corsair.

"Farewell, Captain." Torius gave a fluid salute that ended with his cutlass snapping into the scabbard at his hip. He leapt to the rail of his ship and doffed his hat in a sweeping bow as his men cast off and the ships parted. "May we do business again soon!"

As Stargazer heeled away, black sails vanishing into the cloak of night, Torius strode through his grinning crew of pirates and shouted down the open main hatchway. "All secure below, Snick?"

"Secure as a half-orc's virginity, Captain!" a high-pitched feminine voice called back up.

The joke elicited a round of giddy laughter from the crew, and a growl from the bosun, which was probably what the gnome was aiming for. Others, however, seemed in a less humorous mood.

"Besmara's boots, Captain, that was close," Caliel grumbled. "You put a lot of faith in that wizard's concoction, expecting it to keep our identity a secret."

"Aye, we could'a took her like a cheap doxy, Captain," Grogul said as he wiped his gore-streaked axe with a rag. "Dead men don't talk, and it would'a saved the cost of that potion and gained us a hold full of fine Qadiran silk."

The bosun's boldness loosened the tongues of some of the other crew, and Torius heard a rush of dark muttering. He shook his head dismissively.

"The potion was crafted by a priest, actually, Caliel, and I tested it personally. Besides, this way we're free to plunder the Golden Griffin at a later date. Set course for Katapesh, and don't spare the canvas. I want twenty miles between us and the Golden Griffin before sunrise!" Torius pointed to the coffer. "Grogul, bring that to my cabin. Now. It's worth more than a dozen holds full of the finest silks in Golarion."

"Aye, sir!" The boatswain scooped up the coffer and followed.

In Torius's dimly lit cabin, they were greeted by the disconcerting sight of several navigational instruments, including an elaborate astrolabe, floating about the sinuous coils of Stargazer's navigator. She lay beneath the open skylight, but turned from her celestial observations as they entered, the tip of her tail twitching in delight.

"My Captain, I see that we're underway. I'll take my instruments up to the quarterdeck presently to get a proper fix and plot our course. Ah, Grogul, you bear the coffer of Gods' Tears." She cocked her head in concern. "And you're injured."

"Bah! Just a bloody lip, Miss Celeste." The half-orc put the box down and nodded. "I'll leave you to yer snake charmin', Captain." He ducked out of the cabin with a tusky grin.

"Pass the word for Snick to come by when she's through mothering the ballistae, Grogul. I'll need her to open this thing."

"Aye, sir." The door clicked closed.

"You take a great risk in this endeavor, Torius." Celeste turned to the astrolabe, rotating the discs more accurately with her magic than most could with two hands. "Such a valuable prize will not go unmissed."

"Not such a great risk, Celeste. The Sword of Man himself would thank me for keeping such a relic out of Rahadoum. The Gods' Tears will vanish in the markets of Katapesh, and there'll be no trail leading back to us." He unbuckled his sword and hung it on a peg near his bunk. "Which was another reason for the potion. Better to obliterate their memories than kill the crew of the Golden Griffin. Contrary to what Grogul thinks, dead men do occasionally talk."

He stepped to where Celeste lay coiled, her torso swaying easily with the roll of the ship as she gazed at a particularly bright star through her telescope. A stylus on the chart table scratched down a series of numbers. Beneath the charts lay several scrolls, mostly zodiacs of various cultures and lengthy scholars' notes of celestial observations. He stood next to her and stared up at the star-filled sky; this far from the lights of any city, they were so clear he felt as if he could reach out and touch them.

"It's a beautiful night." He brushed a hand through her silvery hair.

"Isn't it?" The tip of her tail shuddered as she turned to him. "And speaking of potions."

A thin drawer beneath the chart table opened and a small vial floated out. The stopper twisted free and she quaffed the contents in a single gulp. Her shape shifted with the potion's magic, her tail morphing into two long legs, two pale arms sprouting from supple shoulders. In the time it took him to draw a deep breath, she stood before him as a tall, willowy human woman with skin the luster of pearl and eyes of midnight, her face and hair unchanged. He reached for a cloak and draped it over her shoulders, though she was unabashed by her lack of raiment. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, unaccustomed as she was to having digits.

"Celeste, Snick will be coming by to open the coffer any minute."

"And the potion will only last a few minutes also." With a glance from her, the door's bolt clicked closed. "Time enough."

"Oh, hell," he murmured as her hands explored beneath his shirt.

"Besides," she breathed, nuzzling his neck, "it's been far too long since I've had arms to hold you."

He felt the prick of her fangs, then the familiar rush of weakness from her venom and the odd euphoria that accompanied it. He knew the weakness would fade quickly; he'd become accustomed to Celeste's venom. In fact, he'd become quite fond of it... and her.

"And legs," he reminded her. "Don't forget your legs..."

Neither of them noticed the soft click at the door, or the shadow that passed below the lintel.

Coming Next Week: Pirate problems in Chapter Two of Chris A. Jackson's "Stargazer."

Read more about Torius, Celeste, and the crew of the Stargazer in the new Pathfinder Tales novel Pirate's Honor, available now!

Chris A. Jackson is the author of the Scimitar Seas nautical fantasy series, which has won sequential gold medal awards for fantasy from ForeWord Reviews, as well as Weapon of Flesh, Deathmask, A Soul for Tsing, and the Cornerstones Trilogy. He lives with his wife on a sailboat in the Caribbean. For samples of his work, his blog, and his convention schedule, visit jaxbooks.com.

Illustration by Eric Belisle.

Ultimate Campaign Art Preview!

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

The release of Pathfinder Roleplaying Game: Ultimate Campaign is getting ever closer. Whether it's kingdom-building or leading an army, starting a business or crafting magic items, Ultimate Campaign is for all of the adventures that take place outside of the dungeon. The pages of the newest Pathfinder Roleplaying Game hardcover provide all kinds of useful information for your campaign, but many fantastic illustrations are contained within! Check some of them out!

Being a ruler has many responsibilities, but also many rewards.

Eidolons and other companion creatures are more fun when treated as a separate character rather than an obedient stat block.

Retraining rules allow you to replace a feat, change an ability score increase, or improve your hit points.

The quest to find a missing family member is a driving force for many heroes.

The section on marriage talks about how a spouse (or any relationship) can be an ally or an adversary.

Illustrations by Sam Burley, Eric Belisle, Lydia Schuchmann, and Maichol Quinto

Kingdom-building rules allow PCs to control their own country—or be the power behind the throne.

Followers, apprentices, and similar companions can be positive or negative plot hooks for a PC.

A character's lineage is a chain of characters linking a PC to the history of the campaign setting.

Illustrations by Denman Rooke, Jim Nelson, and Grafit Studio

Ultimate Campaign releases this May, preorder your copy today!

Sarah Robinson
Senior Art Director

New Pathfinder Society Rewards for Reading Pathfinder Tales!

Monday, May 6, 2013

Fans of Paizo's Pathfinder Tales line of fiction set in the Pathfinder campaign setting have likely noticed that it's been a few months since we released a Pathfinder Society Chronicle sheet for the novels released as part of this line. For those who have been holding their breath to get an in-character benefit for reading Liar's Blade or Pirate's Honor, the wait is finally over! With the release of today's Chronicle sheet, we're changing up the way Pathfinder Tales boons work.

Illustrations by Eric Belisle

This Chronicle sheet is actually a Chronicle sheet for four different Pathfinder Tales titles: Liar's Blade, Pirate's Honor, The Wizard's Mask, and King of Chaos. Now, back when we began sanctioning Pathfinder Tales novels for Pathfinder Society credit during Season 2, a player received a Chronicle sheet for each Pathfinder Tales book he brought to a Pathfinder Society game, which was subsequently signed by a GM and applied to one of the player's PCs. Now, a player needs print this Chronicle sheet only once, and bring it to a sanctioned Pathfinder Society event along with a printed or digital copy of one or more of the four novels included on the sheet (digital copies must be legally obtained and possess a watermark indicating such). The GM should initial the Chronicle sheet for the associated books, indicating that the player has access to the book, and hopefully that she has read it.

Any time thereafter, the player may use the initialed boon for any of her PCs. Once used, the box to the left of the boon should be checked to indicate such.

A player who collects GM initials for all four books on a given Chronicle sheet can select one of the four boons to become a permanent bonus for one of her PCs. At this time, only that PC can use the boon, though any unused one-time boons still on the sheet can still be used by other PCs.

You may note that this Chronicle sheet is called "Pathfinder Tales, Volume IV." That's because it contains the boons for the fourth distinct set of four Pathfinder Tales novels. In the coming months, we'll be replacing the existing Chronicle sheets for the entire Pathfinder Tales line to utilize this format, and anyone who's already received initialed versions of the Chronicle sheets for Queen of Thorns, The Worldwound Gambit, and Death's Heretic (all 12 of them, in fact), can get an initial in the associated box on the compiled Chronicle sheet.

As if that weren't enough, we also plan to tie in at least one scenario per season to each novel released during that season. It's too late in the process to do so for these four books, but starting with Stalking the Beast in October, we'll have a scenario set in the same region as every new Pathfinder Tales novel, or otherwise thematically linked to them if not set in the same geographical area. This will allow us to tailor the boons on the Chronicle sheets to directly apply to a situation one of the reader's PCs may be in around the time they're reading the book.

So download the Pathfinder Tales Chronicle sheet below and grab your copy of Liar's Blade or Pirate's Honor. In the coming months, you'll be able to "fill your BINGO card" with the release of The Wizard's Mask and King of Chaos. It's never too late to sign up for a Pathfinder Tales subscription so you never miss a volume of the exciting fiction line!

Let us know what you think of the new format for these tie-in Chronicle sheets and the prospect of directly-linked Pathfinder Society scenarios down the road. We're always looking for community feedback and for new ways to improve the campaign.

Download the Pathfinder Tales, Volume IV Chronicle sheet!

Mark Moreland
Developer

Ultimate Campaign: I Could Use Some Downtime

Thursday, May 2, 2013

In just about three weeks or so, you should be seeing Ultimate Campaign arrive in mailboxes and on store shelves. In anticipation of the release of this 256-page hardcover, each week we are offering up a preview of what you will find inside.

Last week, we took a look at Chapter 1, which includes a mountain of tables for helping you determine your character's backstory. This week, we are moving on to Chapter 2, which is focused entirely on downtime. Heroes don't spend every waking moment plundering tombs and fighting evils. (If they did, they would reach 20th level before their next birthday.) The downtime system helps you plan the time your character spends between adventures.

This versatile system allows a character to undertake a number of different tasks to improve himself or build his standing within the town he lives in. Need to swap out a feat? The downtime system lets you do that. Want to train up your hit points because you rolled poorly last time you gained a level? It's in there too. Have you always wanted to open up your own tavern, or thieves guild, or wizard academy? The downtime system has extensive rules for building a business or guild.

Using this system you can spend the time between adventures earning various types of currencies and spending those currencies to get the business, home, or fortress you've always wanted. Structures and organizations are built in pieces, buying each room and group individually so that you can get exactly what you want! Check out a few of the rooms you can build.

Illustration by Eric Belisle

Ballroom

Earnings gp or Influence +10
Benefit bonus on Perform checks
Create 19 Goods, 19 Labor (760 gp); Time 40 days
Size 40-60 squares
Upgrades To Auditorium; Upgrades From Common Room
This large open room is intended for dances, receptions, and other elaborate events. The superior acoustics and decor grant a +2 bonus on all Perform checks made in this room.

Bar

Earnings gp or Influence +10
Benefit bonus on Diplomacy checks to gather information
Create 6 Goods, 1 Influence, 5 Labor (250 gp); Time 16 days
Size 10-20 squares
A Bar stores a selection of drinks and includes a counter for preparing them. After spending an hour with local people in this room, for the next 24 hours you gain a +1 bonus on Diplomacy checks you make to gather information in the settlement.

Bath

Earnings gp or Influence +3
Benefit bonus on Fortitude saves against disease
Create 3 Goods, 1 Influence, 2 Labor (130 gp); Time 8 days
Size 3-6 squares
Upgrade From Sauna
A Bath contains a single large bathtub or multiple smaller basins, along with a stove for heating water. After spending 1 hour in this room, you gain a +2 bonus on your next ongoing Fortitude save against disease.

That's all for this week. Next week we will delve into the systems for GMs to add to their campaigns!

Jason Bulmahn
Lead Designer

Pirate's Honor Sample Chapter

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

In Pirate's Honor, notorious pirate captain Torius Vin makes a living raiding wealthy merchant ships with his crew of loyal buccaneers. Few things matter more to Captain Torius than ill-gotten gold—but one of those is Celeste, his beautiful lunar naga navigator. When a crafty courtesan offers the pirate crew a chance at the heist of a lifetime, it's time for both man and naga to hoist the black flag and lead the Stargazer's crew to fame and fortune. But will stealing the legendary Star of Thumen chart the corsairs a course to untold riches—or send them all to a watery grave?

Chapter One: Stars Never Lie

Scales rustled across the hardwood deck of the corsair Stargazer as she plied the moonlit waters of the Obari Ocean. The crew of the ship had heard the sound many times before, especially on nights when the sky hung overhead like a black silk tapestry strewn with diamonds. This was her time, and they knew better than to bother her when her attention was on the heavens.

Celeste squinted through her sextant at the bright planet Triaxus, also known as the Wanderer, which had just entered the constellation of the Sea Wraith. That boded well, and she manipulated the stylus to scratch down the planet's angle to the horizon. Glancing at the neat array of hour- and minute-glasses—calibrated that very evening at the precise moment of sunset—she noted the exact time. She took another sighting, this one of the rising moon, and the stylus scratched down another pair of numbers. Lowering the sextant, Celeste performed the calculations to determine the ship's latitude and longitude. With a flick of magic so familiar that she barely had to think of the spell, she floated her plotting tools out of their leather case, rolled out the chart of the Jalmeray coast, and meticulously plotted their position.

"Well?" a gravelly voice asked as the stylus scratched an "X" on the chart and wrote down the time.

Celeste's tail gave an involuntary flick of annoyance at the interruption, but she stifled her natural response to rise on her coils and hiss. Most of the crew members were more cautious about interrupting the lunar naga during her reading of the stars, but Stargazer's half-orc bosun was an incautious fellow. Besides, he was just doing his job. They were sailing in dangerous waters, and he needed to know their position.

"You may turn to zero-eight-zero degrees, Grogul, or as close to that heading as the wind will allow." Celeste put away her instruments and folded the case closed against the salt air. "We're beyond Jalmeray's southern reefs, and can begin our approach of Kaina Katakka's south coast."

"Good!" Grogul turned away without a word of thanks, as usual, and started barking orders to the crew.

Stargazer turned to windward, her sails trimmed smartly, and began the slow beat to the northeast. When they settled on their new heading, Celeste noted the set of the stars against the foremast and yards; if they started to drift off course, she would know.

Though she had two hours until she needed to take another celestial fix on their position, Celeste retrieved her sextant once again and recorded the elevations of several more planets. She then traded the sextant for a finely wrought telescope and observed the heavenly bodies more closely. She noted every detail—every angle, rotation, and position of every moon—and carefully scratched them into her logbook. These observations had nothing to do with celestial navigation, but with the science of astrology: the intricate song of the heavens and its interaction with the events and beings of this world.

Tonight, she was concerned with the stars' attitude regarding one particular being: Torius Vin, captain of the Stargazer.

With the harmonies of the planets and constellations singing in her mind, and all the numerical data she needed to interpret them, she consulted her astrological texts. This was the hard part; the stars never lied, but interpretation of their message was often fraught with uncertainty. She knew Torius's astrological signature—the position of every celestial body of significance at the moment of his birth—and she had just observed the current state of the cosmos. How these two interacted was the puzzle she had to solve.

Nothing of significance had changed since her previous reading: The planet Liavara, the Dreamer, still traversed the constellation of the Lantern Bearer, Torius's birth sign. The Wanderer would soon cross the constellation of the Key, the symbol of Abadar, the god of wealth. The planet Castrovel was ascending into the Lantern Bearer, denoting desire, lust, love, or life. The reading seemed straightforward; Torius's dreams, his desire for wealth, would be realized.

Celeste crooked a smile and bent to the chart. If the prophecy still held, then so did their course. Her readings of the other planets—Eox, the Dead, traversing the Wagon, beneath the constellation of the Throne—had pointed to the long-dead indigenous peoples of the island nation of Jalmeray. Those who had not perished or been enslaved when the great Vudrani maharajah Khiben-Sald introduced his foreign gods and elemental creatures to the island had fled to Kaina Katakka. There they had lived for a time, until the governance of Jalmeray fell into the hands of the Arclords. Wanting no potentially rebellious natives so near, the Arclords had exterminated the entire population, leaving Kaina Katakka a devastated ruin.

That was their destination.

Torius knows that a captain is only as good as his crew.

Destiny resides in the stars, she thought, closing her texts and stowing them. She gazed up into the endless tapestry of the cosmos and sighed with pleasure. Out here, far from land, the veil of the heavens shone so clearly that it seemed close enough to touch. Here under the stars—aboard a pirate ship, of all places—she had found her own dreams' desire: a home. These people trusted her, relied upon her expertise and appreciated her talent in reading the secrets of the firmament. She belonged. She was loved.

Celeste swayed with the easy motion of the ship, reveling in a peaceful night under the stars, her favorite place in the world. Her mind drifted, and she contemplated her other favorite place. A smile touched her pale lips, and her forked tongue flicked out to scent the night air. There it was, that heady fragrance of leather, spice, and human, as signature as his stellar harmonic.

Torius Vin ...

The ship's bell chimed, interrupting her thoughts. Eight notes in two-stroke pairs, which meant the watch change. As if her thoughts had conjured him from the air, she heard his approach, his soft leather boots brushing the deck with a faint whisk not unlike that of her own scales. She did not turn, but waited, knowing how he would greet her, longing for that familiar touch.

"Celeste," he said, his voice singing the song of the heavens in her mind as his hand ran through her alabaster hair.

"My captain." She turned and smiled at him, her coils shuddering in an involuntary shiver of delight.

"Are we on course?" He glanced at the chart on the deck.

She scanned the stars and nodded. "There's a slight northerly set to the current, but we're not far off the plot line. I'll take another fix to confirm my calculations, but we should reach Kaina Katakka's coast before dawn. We will reach the cove by late morning."

"Good." His fingers slipped from her hair and he left her to make his rounds of Stargazer's quarterdeck, checking the hundreds of details that kept the ship running smoothly. She neither knew nor cared much about these details. Her milieu was above, while his was here—his ship, his crew, canvas and wood, steel and rope, lives dependent on his every decision. She might chart their destiny, but he sailed it. He returned to her and asked quietly, "So, you're sure about this?"

She smiled at him again. In front of his crew, he was always decisive and confident; only with her did he let down his guard and expose his uncertainties. "The stars never lie, my captain."

"I know, but the truth they tell is often only clear in hindsight."

"Torius," she said, brushing against his shoulder, "the prophecy is clear; your dreams and desires for wealth will be realized here."

"Good, because I've been dreaming of gold a lot lately. A pirate's got to eat, after all. After our last little problem, money's been hard to come by." He turned away and began to pace the quarterdeck, his hands clenched firmly behind his back. She watched, admiring the preternatural grace that made his movements so fluid, almost serpentine, even on the rolling deck of a ship.

The problem he mentioned had cost them virtually their entire stake, including the profits of their last successful job. She slithered to his side and whispered, "Don't worry."

He laughed quietly, running his hand slowly through her hair again. "Telling the captain of a ship not to worry is like telling the desert not to be dry or the ocean not to be wet, Celeste. Until we get a solid stake again, enough to pay the crew and provision the ship properly, I'm going to worry."

"Very well, my captain," she said, leaning in to nuzzle his neck. That was another reason she loved him: he might be a pirate, but he truly cared about his people. He cared about her. She turned to her navigational instruments once again and floated the sextant up to her eye. "You worry, and I will consult the stars."

∗ ∗ ∗

Torius squinted into the glare as the island's barren coast coalesced from the thinning morning mists. As always, Celeste's navigation was flawless. She had already retired to his cabin for the day, so he would have to compliment her later. He just hoped her astrological prophecy was as accurate.

"This cove got a name, Captain?" Grogul asked, as the brigantine eased slowly nearer under reefed topsails alone.

Torius glanced up at the half-orc; he was taller by a wide hand and probably outweighed the captain by half, but Torius knew that he was more than the brute he appeared to be. Grogul was a fine bosun, a skilled sailor, and a good tactician, even if he did disdain the more esoteric points of seamanship. More than anything, Grogul was solid, dependable, and unfailingly loyal. The captain wouldn't trade him for a half-dozen fancy, rapier-wielding swashbucklers.

"Not on the chart." Torius scanned the rocky beach with his spyglass. There were no visible signs that the place had ever been inhabited. "Used to be a village or town or something here. Seems way back when Nex gave Jalmeray to the Vudrani, the indigenous population hightailed it and came here. Then the Arclords blasted the entire island to cinders." He wasn't about to tell Grogul the rumors that the island was haunted.

"And they brought their treasures with 'em?" Grogul squinted skeptically at Torius as he ran a thumbnail down the gleaming edge of his axe. "Just waitin' in a big pile for us to pick up?"

"That's what we're here to find out. More likely to find a smuggler's stash or some such."

"As long as it spends, I'm not picky, sir." Grogul knew as well as anyone the dire straits they were in when it came to ready cash.

Torius pointed to the northeast corner of the sheltered cove. "Drop a stern kedge and bring her in close there. The tide's on the rise, so drop the bow anchor when there's a fathom under her keel, and keep her hove short. Oh, and have Snick get her babies ready, just in case we have to dissuade any pursuit."

"Aye, Captain!" Grogul grinned. "You want me to tell her she's in command while we're ashore, since we're short a first mate?"

"Sure. It'll make her day." Torius smiled, knowing his gnome engineer would revel in her authority, short-lived though it might be, driving the crew crazy with all manner of inane orders. Snick was an invaluable member of the crew; she kept the ship functioning and her babies—the twelve beautifully crafted ballistae nestled below the deck—working perfectly. But she wasn't much of a sailor. "Launch the boats when we're anchored. I'll be in my cabin."

"Aye, sir."

Despite the daylight outside, Torius's cabin was as dark as midnight, with black curtains drawn tight over the transom windows and a shade pulled over the skylight. Celeste lay coiled on her collection of thick pillows and rugs, only the waves of her white hair visible in the gloom. He moved silently to his bunk and lit a lamp, keeping the flame low. His sword, a beautiful silver-hilted cutlass, hung from a peg. He lifted it down and clipped it to his belt, then pulled a brace of knives from a drawer. He clipped the long fighting dagger with a sword-catching crosspiece to the other side of his belt, and slid the heavy throwing knife into his boot. He retrieved a couple of his standard surprises, trinkets and potions that could distract an enemy or save a life if they ran into trouble, and tucked them away. One last adjustment of his belt and a glance in the mirror—just to make sure that his mustache and goatee were trimmed and combed properly and his hat had just the right rakish tilt—and he was ready.

"Be careful, my captain," Celeste said as he reached for the door's brass handle.

"Don't worry, my love." He gave her an easy smile. "This is the fun part."

Her tail twitched, but she settled back down without another word. He left her there in the dark and joined Grogul on deck. The longboats were bobbing beside the ship, the shore party armed and ready. He regarded them professionally and grinned his approval—all proven pirates, men and women he'd trust with his life, and who trusted him with theirs.

"Don't worry about the ship while you're gone, Captain!" a sprightly voice called from the quarterdeck. He looked up to see Snick standing with her slim legs splayed wide, her tiny hands on her narrow hips. She wore a brilliant red tricorne hat that clashed horribly with her sea-green hair, and a short cutlass at her belt. She snapped him an exaggerated salute. "I'll keep an eye on things for you!"

"Just keep your babies manned, Snick," he ordered, "and if anything that's not us tries to come aboard my ship, kill it."

"Consider said beastie killed, Captain!"

"Good!" He turned to Grogul. "Let's go."

"Man the boats, you scrags!" The crew leapt to comply, swarming down the boarding nets into the boats.

They rowed ashore in silence, stowing their oars when the boats' keels grated onto the rocky beach. Several sailors splashed into the surf to pull the boats higher. Torius, exerting his captain's prerogative, waited until he could vault ashore off the prow without getting his boots wet. The last thing he wanted was to squish when he walked if they were going to do much exploring. Grogul assigned four pirates with heavy crossbows to watch the boats, and joined his captain as the dozen others worked their way to higher ground.

"You sure about this, Captain?" He kept his voice low, his squinted eyes scanning the rocky, vine-strewn cliffs. "Don't look like much."

"As sure as I've ever been about one of Celeste's prophecies." Torius gave the half-orc a grin.

"And how sure is that?" Grogul's dubious gaze turned to him; he was never easily put off by Torius's assurances.

"We'll find something here, Grogul." He clapped the half-orc's meaty shoulder. "As for my dreams' desire for wealth ..." He looked around skeptically at the devastated landscape. "I don't think the Arclords left enough to satisfy all of my—"

A strange, musical trill split the sultry air, drawing everyone's attention. Swords rasped free of scabbards, and Torius found his hand on the hilt of his cutlass.

"Whassat?" asked one of the pirates, pointing to the foliage-covered cliff face. "It's comin' from up there!"

"This way!" another said, pointing to an overgrown path.

A number of the pirates started forward, eager to find the source of the call, but Torius called them back with a harsh, "Hold fast there! Nobody goes blundering off!"

Three of them stopped in their tracks at the command, but several others just kept climbing up the brush-strewn hillside, not even looking back at their captain.

That's not good, Torius thought. They're trained better than that.

"Grogul! Come on!" He drew his cutlass and hurried after them. "The rest of you, form up and follow. Quickly now!"

Luckily, Torius and Grogul were less hindered by the overgrowth than the pirates breaking trail. The captain's group scrambled up, dislodging dry vines, loose rocks, and a cascade of leaves, reaching the top just as the errant pirates hacked away a thick veil of foliage covering a gaping cave mouth. Grogul's huge hand closed on a shoulder and he jerked one woman back before she could venture inside. Torius and the others did likewise, pulling their friends away. All the while, the strange trilling call continued from within. One man twisted out of his mate's grasp and dashed into the darkness.

"Epok! No!" Torius shouted, too late.

The trilling call fell silent, and a sharp crack and a loud thump echoed from within. The pirates who had struggled to enter the cave stopped and looked at one another, their eyes wide with bewilderment. Torius shivered with an unknown fear. Something was wrong; none of his crew were so green that they would go charging into a dark cave like that.

"Don't like this, Captain." Grogul moved to the side of the cave entrance. Torius did likewise and motioned his pirates to split into two squads, one with Grogul and one with himself. He could see now that the arching mouth of the cavern had been fashioned with stonecutting tools, though it was so ancient and cracked that it had begun to look as rugged as a natural cave.

"Neither do I." Torius peered into the darkness. "Who's got the torches?"

Indistinct murmuring was the only answer he got. Grogul looked abashed—or as abashed as the half-orc ever looked, which wasn't much.

"Didn't know we'd be spelunking, Captain."

"Well, we'll probably have enough light from the cave mouth." Torius knew it was no good to chastise the bosun now, but later ...He had another means to light their way if it got too dark, but torches were good for more than light. "Can you see anything in there, Grogul?"

"Nope. Too much light out here." The half-orc shaded his eyes and shook his head. "Maybe once we're inside.

"Epok?" Torius called. He listened for a reply, for a hint that his man was still alive, for anything. He heard a faint scratch that might have been a foot on stone, then nothing. "This stinks like ..." Then he realized that he could detect something, but not with his ears. The distinct scent of rotten meat wafted out from within.

Torius snapped his fingers to get Grogul's attention and, with simple hand signals, outlined a cautious strategy; Grogul would proceed inside with his troop, their backs against one wall, while Torius did the same down the other. Both would keep a sharp eye out for traps or an ambush. Once inside, they would reassess the situation.

They moved slowly, checking every step as they were swallowed up by the cave's darkness. Grogul was the first to call a halt, his sharp eyes penetrating the gloom far easier than the humans'.

"Ssst! Captain!" he called in a stage whisper. "I think we found Epok."

"Gozreh's guts!" Torius swore as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Epok stood before them, one hand still clutching his cutlass, while the other gripped one of the wrist-thick bamboo spikes that had impaled him. A wide frame studded with sharpened stakes had swung down from above, propelled by a heavy stone counterweight. It spanned the entire tunnel, and would have killed or maimed several of his crew had they ventured inside with the unlucky Epok.

"There," Torius said, pointing to the thin trip cord that had released the deadly trap.

"Aye, and he wasn't the first." Grogul gestured with his axe at the skeletal remnants of several other unfortunate trespassers. There were at least half a dozen of them scattered along the sides of the corridor beyond the trap, still wearing the tatters of their long-decayed clothing and clutching rusted weapons.

"Well, we're not going to join the club. Come on, and everyone watch your step!" Torius advanced, cutlass thrust before him.

They edged past the trap, flattening themselves against the rough-hewn wall to pass. Grogul had to nudge the thing to fit his thick torso through the gap, causing Epok's gape-mouthed corpse to sag on the spikes. Torius swallowed hard. Epok had been a solid pirate. Passing the frame, he noticed the condition of the device; though not green, the bamboo was far from old. The island wasn't as deserted as he'd expected.

When the last of his squad had passed, they formed up again, advancing slowly. Enough light trickled in from the cave mouth to show that the tunnel widened ahead. Then their rear guard gave a startled gasp and cried out.

"Captain! Epok! He's not dead!"

"What?" Torius turned, his free hand reaching for the curative potion he'd brought from the ship. Torius knew death when he saw it, and Epok had looked as dead as dead gets. But true to the pirate's claim, Epok was moving, struggling to free himself of the murderous spikes thrust through his chest. Judri, the tall Mwangi woman who had called out, moved to help her comrade. "Wait!"

Epok's hand lashed out to grab her tunic, while his other lifted his cutlass to strike. Judri gaped in shock as the sword thrust through the bamboo frame, ill-aimed but accurate enough to pierce her shoulder. Her scream echoed around the cavern as Epok drew his weapon back for another strike.

Torius dashed back, sword raised, but Grogul beat him there. The bosun's heavy axe smashed through Epok's arm, the bamboo frame, and into the animated corpse's torso. Judri stumbled back, but the zombie—Torius could no longer think of it as Epok—wasn't through yet. It thrust clumsily at Grogul, the cutlass scoring a line on the half-orc's arm. Grogul growled a curse, snatched its wrist and bent the arm over the frame until the elbow joint popped and bent backward. He wrenched his axe free and severed the other arm with a chop. The zombie still fought to free itself, but literally disarmed, its struggles were futile.

Torius went to Judri. The wound was deep, and right in the shoulder joint. It was hardly mortal, but would ruin her sword arm for good if it wasn't tended properly. He flipped the stopper from the bottle and pressed it to her lips. "Drink!"

Judri complied and the wound in her shoulder closed immediately. Then her eyes widened and she pointed behind Torius. "Captain!"

"We got trouble, Captain," Grogul growled, reaching down to hoist the injured woman to her feet.

Not three feet away, the bony remnants of the trap's previous victims twitched and clawed their way to their feet, their rusted swords and axes clutched in fleshless fingers.

"Defensive formation! Now!" Torius flicked up Judri's fallen cutlass with the toe of his boot, caught it and put the hilt in her hand. "Everyone! And watch your backs!"

The veteran pirates formed a double row in close formation, half facing the scrabbling skeletons, the other half guarding against the darkness of the corridor behind them. This way, Torius figured, they could defeat the skeletons and then face whatever menace might await them farther down the corridor without worrying about a threat at their backs. At least, that was the theory.

At the first clash of blades, however, theory and practice diverged as the moaning wail of new assailants echoed in the dark behind them.

"Damn but this is a pretty trap!" Torius said between clenched teeth. "I'm going to have a few terse words for Celeste when we get back to the ship."

"If we get back, you mean." Grogul deflected a skeleton's axe, then smashed his attacker to shards with a powerful overhead chop. He glanced toward the dim corridor behind them, wrinkled his nose, and spat. "Zombies. Lots of 'em. Gods, I hate zombies."

"Gozreh's guts!" Torius parried a blade and gave a deft twist. The fine cutlass snicked through the skeleton's forearm like a piece of kindling, but the monster raked him with its free hand, leaving bloody trails down his forearm. The crewman to his left smashed a boarding axe down through its skull, and it toppled. At least they were fragile. He spared a glance over his shoulder and saw the crowd of zombies shambling out of the darkness. Some were armed and some weren't, but their eyes gleamed with the maniacal, hungry look shared by all undead. "This is not my dream's desire!"

"Unless you've been havin' some pretty weird dreams," Grogul agreed, hacking down another skeleton.

"Not even in my nightmares would I desire this!" Torius parried and slashed low, severing his opponent's spine just below the empty rib cage. The skeleton went down, but still managed to clutch at his legs. "Forward! Take down the skeletons before we have to fight on both sides!"

The pirates focused their attacks, smashing with a vengeance at their bony adversaries in an effort to beat them down before the shambling zombies arrived. Already Torius could hear the slow scuff of rotting feet against the stone floor and smell the rank stench of decaying flesh.

Finally, the last skeleton fell under a flurry of blades and the pirates turned to face their new foes. Aside from a few scratches and one shallow cut, they were all hale and ready. Torius and Grogul pushed through to stand in the front of their double line.

"Now we'll see what's what!" Grogul said with a tusky grin, swinging his axe from a center position where he could do the most damage.

"Watch our flanks!" Torius ordered. "And aim for their joints. Take them down, then finish them on the ground!"

He tensed, listening to the muttered curses of his crew. They knew there was no retreat. The trap grating was as effective as a portcullis; if they tried to squeeze past while being mauled by the zombies, people would die, and if Epok's sudden animation was any clue, each fallen pirate meant a new foe. Their only hope was to find whatever had animated the dead and destroy it.

"Ready!" he yelled, brandishing his cutlass.

"Aye, Captain!" his crew cried out, and Torius felt his heart lift.

"All right! On my word!" The undead shambled relentlessly forward. "Now!"

The pirates lunged as one, their blades cleaving the zombies with a predictably sickening result. Putrid flesh spattered the floor and walls of the corridor, and the stone underfoot quickly became slick with the foul suppuration that seeped from their wounds. Several of the undead went down, but others swung their rusted weapons or grappled and clawed at the pirates.

Torius slashed, aiming for their joints, trying to sever the limbs that reached for him. He had just downed one zombie and turned to the next when everything suddenly went black, as if someone had rolled a huge boulder across the cavern's mouth.

"Back!" Torius commanded, disengaging from his opponent and fighting to maintain his orientation. "Everyone step back!"

One step, then two, and he could see again. A wall of darkness so thick Torius doubted he could swing his blade through it loomed before them, but the zombies emerged unimpeded from the black, sloughing forward, their clawlike hands outstretched. Then, to Torius's horror, the darkness advanced with them.

"Gotta take out whatever's doin' that!" Grogul suggested, hefting his axe. "If they pin us against that grating, we're meat!"

"We'll have to run it." Torius looked at his crew, gauging their morale. By their dubious faces, he knew they couldn't do it, not with any hope of getting through. But someone had to. "You and me, Grogul! The rest of you, form a defensive line. If we don't win through, get back to the ship."

The pirates shouted, "Aye, sir!" in unison; they'd stand as long as they could.

"Now, Grogul!"

"Aye, Captain!"

They charged into the darkness.

Want more? Check out Pirate's Blade in paperback or ePub format!

Coming Next Week: A brand new, standalone prequel story featuring the piratical adventures of Torius, Celeste, and the rest of the Stargazer's crew!

Chris A. Jackson is the author of the Scimitar Seas nautical fantasy series, which has won sequential gold medal awards for fantasy from ForeWord Reviews, as well as Weapon of Flesh, Deathmask, A Soul for Tsing, and the Cornerstones Trilogy. He lives with his wife on a sailboat in the Caribbean. For samples of his work, his blog, and his convention schedule, visit jaxbooks.com.

Illustration by Eric Belisle.

Bastard, Sword

by Tim Pratt

Chapter One: Ill Met by Torchlight

Rodrick—pragmatist, opportunist, and occasional outright thief—groaned and tried to sit up, but only managed to half-lean against the wall of a lightless cavern. His head had felt like this many times before, but usually only after a night of drinking and wenching. His memories of the prior hours were fuzzy, but they didn't involve taverns and winsome (or buxom, or both; he wasn't picky) maids.

Images bobbed in his mind like rotting apples in a pond. A body, crushed in a trap. A man with a weaselly narrow face and a pack full of potions. A creature that looked like a beautiful woman from one side, and a gnarled, hollowed-out tree from the other. A room full of shattered treasure chests, and a suit of ancient black armor, and a distressingly large hole in the back wall—

Then he remembered. Sneaking into a barrow rumored to be full of treasure, accompanied by a fool named Simeon who'd gotten himself killed in a trap before they were even well begun. Disabling traps and killing a monster, assisted by a treacherous alchemist named Alaeron. They'd had a small disagreement about how to proceed, and so the alchemist had drugged Rodrick, knocking him unconscious and leaving him here to die.

Or, more accurately, to wake up with a headache.

Rodrick patted his pockets and discovered that all of his knives were gone, even the ones in his boots. No surprise, really, since his boots were also gone. The alchemist had stolen his shoes. That was nicer than stabbing Rodrick in the neck, admittedly, but still quite rude.

Now he sat slumped on a sloping hill, in a dark cavern that stank of something rank and reptilian, which Alaeron had claimed was a linnorm—a great slumbering beast that wasn't exactly the same as a dragon, but close enough. This barrow of treasures plundered from the North had included a linnorm egg, which had, at some point, hatched and grown to full size. The beast had smashed through the tomb wall into a system of caves and constructed a lair there, complete with a hoard made from the gold and gems and magical geegaws Rodrick had come to steal.

The linnorm had been the source of Rodrick's disagreement with the alchemist. Rodrick had advocated sneaking into the linnorm's cave and stealing everything, while Alaeron had favored running away and living to loot another day. Rodrick had insisted on his course of action, using a sword to advance his argument, and Alaeron had replied with a potion.

Rodrick began to crawl up the slope, quietly, toward the hole in the wall. There should have been torches lit in there. Either they'd burned out, or Alaeron had doused them when he left.

Having groped his way back into the mostly-empty treasure room, Rodrick crawled without success along the floor, looking for the lantern. No luck—the alchemist had taken it—but he did find an unlit torch, and he still had his flint and steel, at least. He got the torch lit and breathed a shaky sigh of relief as light blossomed in the dark.

After lighting the other torches on the walls, he sat in a carved wooden throne and considered his options. He was tempted to pursue Alaeron and exact revenge, but there was a more pressing concern: acquisition.

The most important thing was the sword. The alchemist had used a potion of darkvision to look over the sleeping linnorm and its hoard, and had claimed to see a sword, so that was promising. Rodrick had spun a tale for the alchemist about discovering the existence of this barrow and deciding to pillage it with his friend Simeon, but that was only partly true. Rodrick had actually been hired by a wealthy collector to break into this place and retrieve the sword, rumored to be an artifact of great power. Anything else he could steal was his to keep, in addition to a hefty payment in coinage.

Returning to Manius without the sword wasn't really an option if Rodrick wanted to keep his head. He could flee, with the collector's up-front payment in his pockets—but no, damn it, Alaeron had stolen his coin purse too—and probably escape any unpleasant consequences by changing his name again and heading south.

Escape was tempting. He was no dragon-slayer, even if linnorms weren't exactly dragons. But the treasure... the treasure was even more tempting.

He sighed, rose, lifted a torch from its sconce, and slowly approached the hole in the wall. He stepped through carefully, the torch held out in front of him.

The light immediately returned to him, shining from a shimmering lake of golden coins and glimmering jewels. As always, the sight of large quantities of wealth took his breath away. Alas, he could also see the pale scaled belly of something immense coiled atop the hoard. He'd hesitated to bring light into this chamber before, for fear of waking the beast, but then he'd had an alchemist on hand, with potions that would let them see in the dark. Circumstances had changed, and necessity demanded a certain amount of risk.

He crept down the slope, to the more-or-less level bottom of the chamber, just a few feet from the outlying spill of gold and gems. In this case, being barefoot was actually a boon—his footing was more sure, and he could move through the coins far less noisily. Rodrick mostly watched his feet, carefully sliding coins aside to find secure footing underneath, but occasionally he glanced up and saw more and more of the linnorm revealed. The thing was large enough that he couldn't apprehend it as a whole—it seemed serpentine, wrapped around and around itself. At least its head wasn't visible. Alaeron had said the creatures could hibernate for centuries, so Rodrick hoped a little torchlight wouldn't serve to wake it up.

His circle of light continued to advance. At last, it touched the hilt and first foot or so of a longsword's blade. Unfortunately, the remainder of the sword was firmly wedged beneath the linnorm itself, both resting atop a bed of coins. Perhaps if Rodrick undermined the coins—

"Do you mind?" The voice was deep, faintly annoyed, and slightly muffled, as if the speaker were wrapped in a blanket.

Rodrick froze. "I... beg your pardon?" he whispered.

The voice didn't bother to whisper. "As well you should. Do I come creeping into your bedchamber at night and shine a light in your face? Well?"

Rodrick is cunning, but that doesn't make him wise.

"Uh, who is this speaking?"

"Me," the voice replied unhelpfully. "What are you doing in here? In case you haven't noticed, there's a linnorm sleeping a few feet from your face. You wouldn't enjoy waking it up. If it even rolls over in its sleep you'll be crushed by its coils. The thing must be sixty feet long."

"I'd love to discuss my motivations, but I'd like to know who I'm talking to—"

"I'm the sword, idiot," the sword said. "Call me Hrym, if you must call me something."

"Ah." Rodrick closed his eyes, but only briefly. "The sword. Of course. I'd heard rumors that you could speak, but I didn't entirely believe them."

"I'm a rare breed," Hrym said. His voice was muffled—presumably because he was jammed beneath several tons of sleeping monster. "Who're you?"

"Rodrick. An adventurer."

"Stay here too long and you're sure to have an adventure, though it's likely to be your last. Why don't you have any shoes on?"

"I had a disagreement with a, ah, fellow adventurer, and he stole them."

"Mmm. There's a pair of boots there, about a foot to your right."

Rodrick turned his head slightly and moved the torch. A pair of pale blue boots were indeed jumbled in with the gold and gems. "Are they magical?"

"No," Hrym said, the sarcasm unmistakable. "They're perfectly ordinary boots, sealed up in a warlord's barrow with all his other treasures."

"Ah. Do you know how they're magical?"

"They let you walk on water, if I recall," Hrym said.

Rodrick sighed. "Hardly helpful in my current circumstances."

"They are also quite functional as ordinary boots."

"A fair point." Rodrick slid over the gold, wincing as a small cascade of coins tinkled and chimed together. He stuck the torch down in the heap of gold—a bit like shoving a stick into sand—to free his hands, tied the laces of the boots together, and hung them around his neck like an unwieldy scarf.

"Most people wear those on their feet," Hrym said. "But I'm sure your bold new fashion will soon be all the rage. Away with you, adventurer! I doubt the linnorm will notice the absence of the boots—they were just sort of swept along with the rest of the treasure. As long as you don't try to remove anything shiny from the hoard, you can probably escape."

Rodrick thought of the gems and rings he'd already dropped into his pockets along the way and decided to pretend he hadn't heard that last part. "The boots are nice, but I'd rather hoped to leave with a bit more."

"Don't be greedy," Hrym said. "It's unseemly in a human. Why, think of the money you could make ferrying people across rivers. You've got nice broad shoulders and strong arms—you could probably carry two, maybe three people at a time. If they didn't have any luggage."

"Sword—Hrym—I'm here to rescue you."

"Rescue," the sword said. "Rescue? Would you ask me to rescue you from a brothel or a barroom?"

Rodrick frowned. "I suppose it depends on the circumstances—"

"I love it here, human. Do you know my fondest aspiration in this world? It's to sleep on a bed of gold. And do you know what I'm doing just this very moment? Sleeping on a bed of gold! Or I was sleeping, until you shone a light in my face."

"You don't have a face."

"And you don't have a very good grasp of metaphor. Fine, then, you shone a light on my hilt—"

"Which I assume would be less akin to your face and more akin to your—"

"My point," the sword said, loudly, "is that I don't need to be rescued. What you really mean is 'stolen.' Now go away before I wake the linnorm."

Rodrick considered. Stealing a sword should have been a lot simpler than this. But the sword had a mind—of sorts—which meant that it could be manipulated. And Rodrick was far better at manipulation than he was a burglary.

"Suit yourself," he said. "My client will be disappointed."

"Oh, to know I caused the disappointment of some human I've never met or heard of, how will I stand the pain? Now, go. This beast is hibernating, but I have ways of stirring it into consciousness very quickly."

"All right, fine. You're missing out, though. I mean, you call this a pile of gold? Pfft."

"Pfft?" Hrym said. "These are the all the riches acquired by the warrior Brant, slayer of beasts and men, despoiler of vaults—"

"Oh, I mean, it's alright," Rodrick said. "I wouldn't mind having this lot in my house, certainly. But my employer doesn't pillage. He invests. He owns half of Andoran, including the banks, and he believes in keeping a ready supply of coin on hand. There's a basement in his house that's so full of gold and gems that he has ten clerks working full-time just to inventory it all, and they can't keep up with the fresh cartloads of coins that arrive every day. He loves money, but more than that, he's a collector of rare and precious magical items and relics. You, of course, are one of the most rare and precious in the world—"

"This is true," Hrym said.

"—and he desires greatly to add you to his collection. Why, he's paying me more gold than I see here just to deliver you to him! Hrym, you could rest in a place of pride atop a mound of treasure that makes this look like the dregs of a drunkard's coinpurse after a holiday. Or you can stay wedged under the ass of a monster, if you prefer."

"Hmmm," Hrym said. "If this is a trick, you'll regret it. I have powers beyond mere speech."

"I'm sure you do," Rodrick said. "Shall we?"

"Very well. Draw me forth. But slowly, so I don't slice the beast."

Rodrick moved toward the sword, grasped the hilt, and gently drew out the blade. The linnorm didn't so much as shift—it might have been carved of stone.

Hrym's blade was dazzling. It was made not of steel, but rather of some bluish-white crystal, gleaming like a faceted diamond in the torchlight. The substance resembled nothing so much as—

"Ice," Rodrick whispered. "I'd heard you were a blade of living ice, but I didn't know what that meant."

"You still don't," Hrym said. "Now go, quickly."

Rodrick held Hrym aloft and carefully worked his way down the slope, moving in a low crouch, away from the light of the torch. He paused halfway down, spying what looked like a silver bell as big as a man's head, half-buried in coins. "Is that—is that the bell that summons blizzards?" he whispered. "I heard there was such a thing here."

"Oh, probably," Hrym said.

"I can carry that too," Rodrick said, and moved carefully sideways.

"I wouldn't do that." Hrym said.

"In that respect, we differ." Rodrick reached for the bell, brushing away coins with his free hand, and grasped the ring at the top. He lifted the bell up, carefully, slowly—

And as it came free from the heap of gold, the clapper struck a deep, low note so loud it brought back Rodrick's headache in full force. An icy wind suddenly blew through the cavern, and the great coils of the linnorm began to move.

Coming Next Week: The perils of waking a linnorm in Chapter Two of Tim Pratt's "Bastard, Sword"!

Want more? Check out Liar's Blade in paperback or ePub format, or read the story leading up to this one for free in "A Tomb of Winter's Plunder"!

Tim Pratt is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Liar's Blade and City of the Fallen Sky, as well as the short story "A Tomb of Winter's Plunder." His writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. His non-Pathfinder novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and Rags & Bones with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.

Illustration by Eric Belisle.

Liar's Blade Sample Chapter

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

In Liar's Blade, Rodrick is handsome, charming, quick-witted—and totally devoid of morals. Fortunately for him, his best friend Hrym—a talking sword with a blade of living ice—is just as single-minded when it comes to acquiring gold. The pair prefer to win their money by tricking those less deserving of it—which is to say, everyone else—while expending as little effort as possible. Yet when a mysterious patron offers them a lucrative job far to the north, the dastardly duo may find themselves in over their heads (or hilts)....

Chapter One: Two Sought Employment

Why would anyone want to meet at a circle of standing stones?" Rodrick leaned against one of the mossy monoliths and gazed up at the darkening sky. "Who wants to talk business out in the woods? I prefer taverns for this sort of thing. Taverns are traditional. It's easy to get a drink in them. Also, I live above one. Very convenient."

"Our mysterious prospective employer obviously doesn't want to be seen in public with you," Hrym said from behind Rodrick, voice muffled. "I can't say I blame him."

"Possibly he doesn't want to be seen at all." Rodrick rubbed the faint scratches on his cheek where one of the tavern wenches had raked him with her fingernails yesterday. He'd only made a suggestion—and he'd even offered a fair price. How was he to know she was a newlywed who took her vows seriously? At least she was married to a milkwater shopkeeper and not one of Tymon's countless over-muscled gladiators, or Rodrick might have faced more serious injury. "Maybe he's a fugitive from justice or something. We do have some history of working with criminals."

"Besides one another, you mean?" Hrym said. "And anyway, what justice? We're in the River Kingdoms. In Tymon, no less, where most arguments are settled by the parties mutually agreeing to beat each other bloody. But suppose it is some rank villain. Would you turn down the job?"

"I might. I'm an honest man now, Hrym—at least on this side of the border. And at this point in time. As far as anyone knows. It's easier to make a profit off a dishonest man, true. But you have to admit, this is a suspicious way to organize things, luring me out here all alone. Present company excepted." Rodrick was relatively comfortable with his position, standing with his back against a great huge block of stone, with sightlines as clear as he could get in the forest. At least no one would be able to stab him in the kidneys. But there were still too many shadows gathering for his liking. "Picking the lock and leaving a note on my pillow. Telling me to come here at dusk if I'd like to make some money. And leaving me that little bag of gold as, what, an incentive? A deposit? A retainer?"

"Lovely gold," Hrym said dreamily. "Just pile it up and let me sleep on it, I'll be happy as happy can be."

"Yes, I know. You have such simple tastes. I still say we should have just taken the bag of coin and scampered off. I'm tired of Tymon. The only reason I stayed around after we lost all those bets at the arena was because we were too poor to travel in style. But we've got a bit of money now—"

"Yes, but if we leave, we'll miss out on making more gold," Hrym said, practical as always. "It's not like we have any other prospects for gainful or illicit employment at the moment, and that little purse won't last long. Not with the way you run through money. You spent the last of our savings on the second-prettiest wench in the tavern, you may recall."

"The first prettiest was unavailable," Rodrick said absently. "But, look, don't you think anyone stupid enough to give me a bag of money in advance is, by definition, too stupid to work for? Trusting my reliability doesn't say much for their judgment."

"Or they could be stupid enough for us to make a lot of money off them," Hrym said.

Rodrick pondered. "Fair point. "

A moment later, the underbrush rustled, and a figure stepped forward from the shadows. Not quite short enough to be a halfling or dwarf, but definitely on the small side for a human, draped in a bulky cloak that seemed to hint at some concealed deformity—a hump, perhaps, or an off-center surplus head. The cloak was made of good fabric, though, dark green and richly embroidered along the edges with peculiar spiral patterns in dark blue thread.

"I am Zaqen," the figure said, voice pitched high enough that Rodrick guessed the speaker was female, though it was hard to be sure. "You are Rodrick, of Andoran?"

"I'm from all over," Rodrick said. "And I'm pleased to meet you." He gave her one of his more roguish smiles, because it never hurts to be charming.

Zaqen giggled, and Rodrick's smile slipped a notch. People who giggled for no reason worried him.

"Is it true," she said, "that those who hire you also hire ...your sword?"

"A warrior isn't much good without his sword." In truth, despite the rumors he'd caused to be spread throughout the region, Rodrick wasn't much of a fighter. He preferred to stab people from concealment if stabbing was called for—but one had to keep up appearances.

Zaqen sidled closer. "Yes, but ...you have a special sword?"

"Special is a good word for me," Hrym said. "Also ‘amazing' and ‘wonderful' and ‘amazingly wonderful'—"

There must be more to Zaqen than meets the eye.

"The sword talks!" Zaqen said. "How marvelous. I'd assumed that was an exaggeration." She craned her head, trying to get a glimpse of the magical weapon sheathed on Rodrick's back.

"I am no it," Hrym said. "‘He' would be better, or any honorifics you choose."

"Apologies, O mighty blade," Zaqen said, her tone deeply amused.

Rodrick sighed. Of course she'd heard about the sword. The only people who wanted Rodrick for himself alone in recent years were magistrates, city guards, and the occasional irate spouse.

"May I see it—I mean, him?" Zaqen scuttled a few steps closer, almost obscenely eager.

"Yes, let me out of this sheath," Hrym demanded. "I can't see anything."

"Your senses are magical," Rodrick said. "It's not as if you have eyes. I don't understand how a leather scabbard can possibly impede your vision." But he stepped away from the standing stone, reached over his right shoulder, grasped the hilt of the longsword, and drew Hrym smoothly from his scabbard, holding him aloft to sparkle in the ...well, twilight. Noonday sun would have been more dramatic.

Hrym was looking especially radiant tonight, though: a blade of living ice nearly four feet long, transparently crystalline at the impossibly sharp edges shading to milky white inward, and on through to a shimmering blue at the center, with steam rising in smoky tendrils from all along his length in the humid air.

"There," Rodrick said. "Meet Hrym, my partner. If this was all some elaborate ruse to lure me out here to steal my sword, you might wish to reconsider. The last person who picked up Hrym without permission lost half his arm to frostbite."

"Though if you offered me sufficient coin, say enough to fill the empty hollow of a medium-sized drained lake—" Hrym said.

"Hush, you," Rodrick said.

"No." Zaqen was suddenly businesslike. "I am not here to steal your blade. I am here to invite you to join me, and my patron, on a sacred quest."

"A quest!" Hrym said. For a sentient sword of living ice with no tongue, mouth, or even vocal cords, his voice was remarkably human. Hrym sounded like an old man who'd spent several decades running a shop that never offered credit, smoking a clay pipe on a porch and pontificating, and teaching his nephews dirty jokes. "I love quests. A sacred one, no less."

"A quest," Rodrick repeated, and sighed. "Well. It's not as if anyone's ever died horribly on one of those. Where is this patron of yours?"

"My master is busy with devotional matters. He is a very holy man."

"A holy man?" Now Rodrick did frown. "What variety of holy? The kind who disapproves of gambling and drinking, or the kind who likes sacrificing innocent virgins on altars of black stone, or ...?"

"The very wealthy kind of holy," Zaqen said. "And he has no interest in your morality, or lack thereof. As long as you can protect and aid us on our journey, he will be pleased, and you will be generously rewarded."

"And as for the other thing, you're hardly a virgin," Hrym said. "So let your mind rest easy on that point."

"Let's have a few details," Rodrick said. "Or even broad outlines. Where are we going, why are we going there, who's trying to kill us along the way, and what are you offering to pay?"

"We are going to Brevoy." Zaqen lifted her face to look at Hrym, still shining in the dusk. Her face was entirely human, though not particularly pretty: snub nose, thin lips, eyes of two different colors, one blue and one green—and the eyes looking in just slightly different directions, lending her gaze a fishlike quality. "To the very edge of any map you're likely to have seen. We seek a sacred artifact of great power, locked away for millennia. No one in particular is trying to kill us, but the River Kingdoms are dangerous places, and parts of Brevoy are little better. And, of course, where there are great treasures, there are often powerful guards, and other interested parties seeking the same prize ...My master and I are not without resources, but neither of us is particularly skilled with weapons, and simply having a strong man with a long blade in our party will act as a deterrent against many common bandits—"

"He asked about payment," Hrym said. "That's the one part I actually care about, so don't forget to address it, please."

Zaqen cocked her head, doubtless wondering—as many had before—what a magical sword could possibly want with gold. "My master is traditional. We will pay all expenses, of course. If you help us reach our goal, Rodrick, we offer your weight in gold as reward." She paused. "Or an equivalent value in gems, treasure, property, or a promissory note drawn on a leading bank of Absalom."

"His current weight in gold, or his weight at the end of the journey?" Hrym said sharply.

Zaqen blinked. "Excellent question. Astute. Forward-thinking. Let's say ...at the end of the journey?"

"Hmm," Hrym said. "I don't like it. Long overland journeys tend to cause weight loss. But he's hardly stout now, so I think we can do better. You'd better start eating richer foods, Rodrick. I want you so fat you can't sit on a horse by the time we reach Brevoy."

"Those terms are acceptable," Rodrick said calmly. His weight in treasure? That would be enough to fill a nice chest for Hrym to use as a bed, with plenty left over for Rodrick to live in the manner to which he devoutly hoped to become accustomed. And then there was the artifact she'd mentioned—surely that would be worth a bit of coin to the right buyer.

"What's the artifact?" Hrym asked. Rodrick suppressed a wince. Hrym had a bad habit of tipping their hand.

"It is a holy relic," Zaqen said. "Of no intrinsic value, and worthless to anyone but my master's particular sect."

Rodrick nodded. "I understand." Maybe what she said was even true. But if this holy man's cult could pay a man's weight in gold just for a chaperone, what would they pay in ransom for the relic itself?

"When do we leave?" Hrym said.

"Meet us here tomorrow," Zaqen said. "Two hours before twilight."

Rodrick frowned. "You want to travel by night?"

She shrugged, one shoulder dipping lower than the other. "My master sets the schedule. I gather there is a place to camp some two hours from here, where he wishes to spend the night."

"Who pays the coin calls the tune." Rodrick bowed. "I'll see you then."

Zaqen disappeared back into the underbrush, walking with a strange, hitching gait, but with surprising speed.

"Well then," Rodrick said. "I suppose that's settled. Let's head back to the Bloodied Flail and spend our advance money."

"You'd better keep enough gold to scatter over the bottom of a drawer in our rooms," Hrym said. "I don't intend to sleep on bare wood again."

"Sleep! As if you sleep." Rodrick slipped away from the standing stones, working his way along the old footpath in the direction of Tymon. The woods right around the city weren't especially dangerous—because of the gladiatorial arena, Tymon had the highest concentration of heavily armed warriors in the River Kingdoms, and they were all obliged to provide a certain amount of civil defense—but there were always bandits with no sense of self-preservation and skulking agents from the neighboring country of Razmiran, which coveted the wealth of Tymon. The value of caution was a lesson Rodrick had learned long ago. Though the exact lesson was more like, "Be cautious when no one is watching; if you want to impress someone, be ostentatiously bold, if the odds favor success."

Rodrick wasn't a coward, but he found that getting in too many fights tended to make his muscles hurt, which detracted from his enjoyment of sex, sleep, and other sensual pleasures.

They made it back to the main road without encountering thieves, thugs, spies, or mad wild beasts. Alive and walking with coins jingling in his pocket—what a pleasant sensation. Hrym was back in his sheath, keeping quiet. People tended to notice talking swords made of living ice. They gaped, or plotted to steal said magical sword, or just asked far too many tedious questions, so Hrym seldom spoke in public. There was also the element of surprise to consider. Discovering that your enemy was armed with another enemy had given many an opponent pause over the years.

Rodrick stopped by the gates to greet Chumley, the night guard he'd befriended on his first day in the city. That was one of Rodrick's little rules: if at all possible, get on friendly terms with the fellows capable of opening a gate and letting you slip out unnoticed in the middle of the night. The guard helped him tie Hrym's hilt to the scabbard with a bit of rough twine. In Tymon, ordinary people had to bind up their weapons or leave them with the guards while they were inside the walls, while full-fledged gladiators could use bare daggers for jewelry if they liked.

Rodrick strolled through the gate, nodding at the few familiar faces he saw, especially the heavily scarred ones. These were not people you wanted to have for enemies.

Most of the wooden and stone shops along the central thoroughfare were still open, though soon only the bars and betting parlors would be doing business. Off in the distance, the roughly palatial Champion's Fortress loomed above almost all the other buildings, overshadowed only by the Arena of Aroden, by far the largest structure in town. Rodrick had gone to a couple of the fights there—the ones he'd bet on most heavily—but his seats were so terrible he'd barely been able to see anything except the head of his "sure thing" rolling off across the sand at the match's conclusion. Blood sports weren't really his preferred game. Give him a nice bit of back-alley gambling instead, especially if he could provide the dice.

"Aroden." Rodrick paused to gaze at the arena. "Some god he turned out to be. Greatest scam ever perpetrated, don't you think? He claimed he was going to come back from the heavens and deliver us all from evil, and when the time came, he was a no-show. How many times have I pulled the same trick at an inn? ‘Oh, I'll come back tonight and settle my bill.' Ha! Of course, they say Aroden died, which is a fairly good reason to miss an appointment, as these things go."

"I met Aroden once." Hrym voice was low and muffled.

Rodrick frowned. "What? The Aroden? Didn't he stroll away from our mortal plane ten thousand years ago?"

Hrym was silent for a moment. "Maybe I'm thinking of someone else," the sword mumbled. "You humans all start to look the same after a while."

Rodrick shook his head. "He was Azlanti—the last Azlanti. I doubt he looked much like the rest of us—"

"Bipedal. One head, with hair on it. Two arms. Close enough."

Rodrick snorted. It was often impossible to tell if Hrym was boasting, lying, deluded, or genuinely ancient. Even the sword himself often seemed unsure of his true history. But what mattered now was their future. If they were off on a long, harsh journey tomorrow, they'd better enjoy tonight.

Their current home was a room above the Bloodied Flail, close enough to the arena to hear the screams of the crowd if the wind was right. Despite the tavern's name, and the sign bearing an image of a multi-headed whip dripping crimson paint, the Flail wasn't a particularly violent or rough tavern. That was just the aesthetic in Tymon, the city of gladiators: blood, weapons, severed heads dangling by their hair, and so forth. For all that the place was founded on blood, it was one of the more polite places Rodrick had spent time. Something about the fact that every third person you met was a seasoned arena fighter bristling with weapons prompted people to mind their manners.

Rodrick kicked the mud off his boots before pushing through into the Flail's common room—the owner had given him the rough side of her tongue the first time he tracked in muck, and he believed in staying on good terms with one's landlady, at least until it came time to skip out on the final bill.

It was only just nightfall, so the place wasn't too full yet, and he got a spot next to the bar. The prettiest waitress, Sonya—the one he'd propositioned, getting a slap complete with fingernails for his trouble—narrowed her eyes at him and disappeared into the back, but Sweet Jill approached with a smile and poured him a mug of beer. He took a sip and smacked his lips. "Much obliged. Have I told you how your hair reminds me of the embers of—"

"Save it." She kept smiling, but he saw now that her eyes were serious. "Flirt with me tomorrow, if you're still alive."

Rodrick raised one eyebrow in what he knew to be a charming and suggestive way. "Unless you're planning to ride me to death—"

"It's Sonya," she said. "She didn't like the way you talked to her."

"I suppose I could apologize, though I can't imagine why her feelings should be hurt. I would hardly seek the company of a woman who wasn't beautiful and exceptional and amazing, present company most definitely included, so really it was a compliment when I asked—"

"You're from out of town." Jill sounded sad, which was worrisome. "You didn't know any better. I tried to tell her that, but she's still upset. Most of our patrons know better than to try and have it off with her."

"I didn't know she was married," Rodrick said. "Let alone newly married. I would have held my tongue if I'd realized." Not entirely true, but he would have approached things differently. "Why are we talking about such tedious things when I have a bag of gold and—"

"You should probably leave town." She tried to nudge him off his barstool with her hip.

"But why? Her husband is a fine man, I have no doubt, but he runs a shop, and it's not even something frightening like a weapon shop or a butcher shop. It's a general goods store. The man isn't likely going to challenge me to a—"

"No," said a voice from behind him, a deep bass rumble full of amusement. "But her brother might."

Want more? Check out Liar's Blade in paperback or ePub format!

Coming Next Week: Tim Pratt brings us an all-new prequel story unveiling how Rodrick and Hrym first met and joined forces!

Tim Pratt is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Liar's Blade and City of the Fallen Sky, as well as the short story "A Tomb of Winter's Plunder." His writing has won a Hugo Award, a Rhysling Award, and an Emperor Norton Award, as well as been nominated for Nebula, Mythopoeic, World Fantasy, and Stoker Awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Best American Short Stories and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as two short story collections of his own. His non-Pathfinder novels include the contemporary fantasies The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl and Briarpatch; the Forgotten Realms novel Venom in Her Veins; and seven books in the Marla Mason urban fantasy series (as T. A. Pratt). He edited the anthology Sympathy for the Devil, and Rags & Bones with Melissa Marr. His books and stories have been translated into French, Czech, Dutch, Russian, Greek, Korean, Spanish, German, and several other languages.

Illustration by Eric Belisle.

In Red Rune Canyon

by Richard Lee Byers

Chapter One: A Difference of Opinion

The wind blowing in Kagur's face smelled of rot. She started running, and the soft earth, boggy with the coming of summer, sucked at her feet. Her five companions ran as well.

Eovath soon pulled ahead of everyone else. Like her, the blue-skinned frost giant was still growing, but he was already taller than any human tribe member, with longer legs and a longer stride.

He slowed down, though, when the several bodies on the ground came into view. It was too late to help them, and prudent to advance with caution in case their killers were still lurking about.

They didn't seem to be, though, which left Kagur free to inspect the corpses. The shredded flesh, glazed eyes, and flies that buzzed up into the air at her approach forced her to swallow away the stinging taste of bile.

Her squeamishness made her scowl. Like any Kellid warrior, she'd seen violent death before, and only one of the dead folk here had been a Blacklion like Eovath and herself. But they'd all become friendly since setting forth to hunt from a gathering of half a dozen tribes.

Borog straightened up from his examination of one of the corpses. A member of the Eagleclaw tribe, he was the oldest surviving member of the hunting party, with deep lines etched in his sun-bronzed face, pouches under his dark eyes, and white hairs speckling a close-cropped black beard. "Like the others," he said.

They'd all heard tales of other hunters encountering the same grisly end. They just hadn't let it deter them from roaming the prairie themselves. No true Kellid allowed fear to rule her, and even had it been otherwise, a tribe that didn't hunt wouldn't eat.

"Not all the others," Eovath said. His adolescent voice broke on the second word, but even then it was as deep as most men's.

Borog frowned. "How so?"

"The way I heard it," the frost giant said, "the first band of hunters fell dead without a mark on them. It was the latter ones that were torn apart."

The Eagleclaw warrior snorted. "And what does that tell you? That the first incident was something different than the slaughters that have happened since."

"Maybe not," Kagur said. Turning, she counted the corpses. "Supposedly, every band, including that first one, had one member carried off. And one of our own is missing: Dron."

Those who try to protect Kagur would be
better off protecting themselves.

One of the other hunters hurriedly checked Kagur's body count with the aid of a jabbing finger. Another touched the beaten silver good-luck charm hanging around her neck.

"All right," Borog growled, "maybe the same thing did kill the first party. At this point, what does it matter?"

"It doesn't," Kagur said. "What matters is picking up the trail." Studying the ground, she prowled away from the corpses, and after a moment, her companions followed her lead.

She hoped it would be easy to find tracks in the mucky earth, and bent blades among the new grass, and in fact, it was only a short time before Eovath called out: "Here! The sign isn't clear enough to tell what the killers are. But they came from the northeast and headed back that way, too."

"Let's see," Borog said. He stalked to where Eovath was standing, squatted to study the sign, then grunted in a way that suggested he agreed with the giant's reading.

"Let's move out," Kagur said, striding closer to the other two.

"No," Borog replied. "Red Rune Canyon is northeast."

Kagur blinked. That particular fact had momentarily eluded her. And while she'd only heard rumors about strange deaths on the tundra since the start of summer, she'd listened to tales about Red Rune Canyon her whole life. Every Kellid knew the place was cursed.

But in the present circumstances, that didn't matter. "We have to rescue Dron."

"Dron's dead," said Zorek, a lanky Eagleclaw of about Kagur's age. Blood had trickled out of his sleeve to stain the back of his hand. Several days previously, a ground sloth had clawed his forearm, and he picked at the scabby gash when no one was watching to slow the healing and make an impressive scar.

"You don't know that," Kagur said. "If the attackers wanted him dead, they could have killed him on the spot like they did everybody else. You don't know they really came from Red Rune Canyon, either."

"They could just be orc raiders out of the Hold of Belkzen," Eovath rumbled.

Borog shook his head. "Smell the rot in the air. Our friends haven't lain dead long enough to stink like that. That's the smell of the unnatural things that killed them."

Kagur scowled. "Maybe, but it doesn't change anything. Dron still needs rescuing, and our dead need avenging."

Borog took a breath. "Look around. There are fewer of us than there were of those who lost their lives already, and you, Zorek, and the giant are young and green. How do you expect to win where a stronger band of warriors already lost?"

"We can make a plan when we know more."

"Here's the plan," Borog said. "We'll return to our tribes, and the chiefs will decide what to do next. Maybe they'll decide to hunt and fight the killers properly, and you can ask permission to join the war party."

"By then, Dron will likely be dead or tortured."

"But you'll be alive, and Jorn Blacklion won't start a feud with the Eagleclaws because I let his idiot daughter come to harm."

"It's not for you to decide what the 'idiot daughter' will do," Kagur said. "You're not my chief, and I'm going after Dron even if nobody else does."

"No," said Borog, "you aren't."

If his voice changed, his eyes shifted, or his hand gestured to give a signal, Kagur didn't notice in a conscious way. But the rest of the hunters had drifted up behind her to listen to the conversation, and suddenly instinct screamed that they were reaching for her.

She tried to spring forward, but hands grabbed her forearms and held her back. She stamped on a foot and snapped her head backward into someone's teeth and jaw. That loosened the grips restraining her, and she wrenched herself free and spun around.

Spreading out to flank her, her three assailants came after her. Backing away, she reflexively reached for her longsword, and they faltered, as well they might. Young as she was, she was skilled with a blade, and they knew it.

But, her anger notwithstanding, she knew drawing a weapon would be stupid. She didn't want to kill folk from friendly tribes, especially when, as they saw it, they were only trying to stop her from coming to harm.

She hitched her foot, faking another step backward, and when they advanced, she threw herself at them. She punched Zorek in the solar plexus and made the breath whoosh out of him, but then her other two opponents grabbed her. One kicked her left foot out from underneath her, and they dumped her onto the ground.

Kagur thrashed but couldn't break their holds. Panting, Zorek came up behind them with a length of rawhide in his hands.

A big blue hand caught him by the shoulder and flung him aside. Then Eovath bashed the other hunters away from her with two sweeps of his fist.

Grateful as she was for the help, Kagur winced. Eovath was stronger than any human, and he hadn't held back.

Fortunately, her assailants weren't seriously hurt, as they demonstrated by scrambling back to their feet. Unfortunately, they too deemed that the confrontation had escalated from a scuffle to a deadly serious fight, and they snatched for the weapons slung from their belts.

Eovath lunged, caught Zorek before he could ready his axe, and heaved him into the air by his throat and arm. The lanky Eagleclaw's face turned red, and he made gurgling sounds.

Borog hefted a javelin. The upper edge of the leaf-shaped steel point glinted in the morning sunlight. "Let him go."

"You might kill me," Eovath said, his yellow eyes gleaming like the spear point, "but not fast enough to keep me from killing your kinsman. One shake snaps his spine. One squeeze crushes his windpipe."

"No!" cried Kagur, leaping to her feet. "I mean, no to both of you! Borog, what's the sense of killing us to keep us from risking our lives?"

"I never threatened to kill you," Borog replied without taking his eyes off Eovath. "Only the slave."

She put her hand on her sword hilt. "Eovath is my brother, and if you hurt him, you'd better kill me."

Borog's jaw tightened. "Fine. Go. Your father must know what a stubborn fool you are. Maybe he won't blame me."

Eovath sneered and tossed Zorek away.

Once Kagur and the giant were on the trail and sure their erstwhile companions weren't following, she asked, "What were you going to do if they called your bluff?"

The giant smiled a crooked smile. "What makes you think I was bluffing?"

"You wouldn't really kill friends of the Blacklions."

"They didn't seem much like friends when they jumped you."

Still, she doubted their father would have approved. But if Kagur and Eovath had offended the Eagleclaws, Jorn Blacklion would make amends with gracious words and gifts. Meanwhile, his daughter and foster son had a hunt to complete. She paused to inspect the ground before them, then pointed at the clearest track she'd found so far: the unmistakable impression of a boot.

Eovath nodded. "You were right. Dron isn't dead. In fact, he's fit enough for his captors to march him along."

For a moment, Kagur was certain that was the way of it. Then she noticed additional tracks a couple paces farther along. "I hope so. But look here. The 'captors' were wearing boots, too."

Eovath grunted. "Then maybe they are orc raiders, despite the putrid smell. Or Kellids turned bandit."

Kagur looked up at him. "You sound disappointed."

"Haven't you ever been curious to see a ghost or a demon?"

"I suppose. Is that why you agreed we should come after Dron?"

"I agreed because no one should be dragged off into slavery."

Kagur frowned. "You're not a slave, despite what Borog said. No Blacklion thinks of you that way. Not anymore. Not for a long while."

The frost giant shrugged his massive shoulders. "We should keep moving."

They did, loping across windswept tundra and past ponds surrounded by patches of yellow-green moss and stunted diamond-leaf willows. When the trail led near ripe red bearberries, they gobbled some and picked more for later. Gray-white hawks with crimson beaks floated in the sky, and wild mammoths trumpeted in the west.

Animals grew scarcer, though, as the terrain became hillier and the trackers drew near to Red Rune Canyon. By the time the sun was sinking toward the western horizon, and the notch between two stony walls came into view, Eovath and Kagur were the only moving, breathing things in sight.

"It's nearly dark," Eovath said. "We could camp here and head in come morning."

Kagur shook her head. "Let's cover as much ground as we can."

Unfortunately, that wasn't a great deal more, for when, peering about for lurking orcs and other dangers, they prowled into the mouth of the canyon, they found it was already twilight inside. They had to stop not long thereafter lest they risk losing the trail.

They camped beside the creek that ran down the center of the gorge and supped on more bearberries and bison jerky. Kagur had swamp tealeaves in her pack as well, but it would be foolish to build a fire to brew a beverage. Someone or something might spot the light. So far, however, Red Rune Canyon had done nothing to justify its sinister reputation.

Later, when Eovath was on watch and sleep continued to evade her despite the day's exertions, Kagur came to a decision. "It's just orcs. Orcs bold and cunning enough to hole up where humans are afraid to go."

"What about the rotten smell?" Eovath replied.

"How many clean orcs have you fought?"

"What about the first hunting party, slain without a mark on them?"

"I don't know, but—"

Eovath suddenly peered farther down the canyon. "Something's there."

Coming Next Week: The dark secrets of Red Rune Canyon in Chapter Two!

Enjoying this story? Check out the further adventures of Kagur and Eovath in Called to Darkness, available now!

Richard Lee Byers is the author of more than thirty novels, including the Pathfinder Tales novel Called to Darkness (also starring Kagur and Eovath) and the first book in R. A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen series. In addition, he's also the co-creator of the critically acclaimed young adult series The Nightmare Club, and the author of a new urban fantasy series beginning with the novel Blind God's Bluff. He's written one previous Pathfinder Tales web fiction story, "Lord of Penance".

Illustration by Eric Belisle.

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

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 Society in France

Monday, September 24, 2012

Illustration by Eric Belisle

Usually, I try to spread out international Pathfinder Society blogs to every 3–4 weeks. However, with one sitting in my inbox, I didn’t want to just hold onto it for a month. I had the pleasure of meeting Venture-Captain Karim Majeri at PaizoCon UK in July. Not only did I meet him, but I was able to GM a game for him and several other international Venture-Captains and Venture-Lieutenants. I will just say that it was a very entertaining session of #3–25: Storming the Diamond Gate. The Pathfinder Society organization in France is lucky in that they are one of the three international regions that have Pathfinder RPG books translated into their native language. This allows us to provide convention prize support with French Pathfinder books. Karim was also kind enough to bring me several French Pathfinder books, and the French Core Rulebook sits in my collection as one of my favorite pieces.

Karim also is supported by Venture-Lieutenant Benoit Gros in Geneva, Switzerland. I also met Benoit at PaizoCon UK, and between them, I suspect we will see significant growth in France in the coming year.

Without further ado, I present to you Karim’s report on Pathfinder France.

I’m Karim Majeri, the Venture-Captain for France and surrounding French-speaking countries. I started to play Pathfinder RPG with the Beta version, while at the same time running a Rise of the Runelord Adventure Path campaign. Besides serving as a Venture-Captain for Pathfinder Society Organized Play, I am also president of the Ligue Ludique, an association that promotes RPGs, in particular D&D and Pathfinder. The organization is based in Paris. We are currently coordinating more than 150 events per year, including large conventions that include Comic Con Paris, Monde du Jeu, Paris est Ludique, MayCon, and LudikXPerience (our own convention).

The first Pathfinder Society event hosted in France was several years ago. Past Pathfinder Society Campaign Coordinator Joshua Frost attended an event in Lyon in the summer of 2010. Since that game day, we have hosted numerous full Saturdays with many players in Lyon and in Paris.

We are currently running many demos and campaigns in different shops in Paris, including my own shop, La Carte Chance, located in the northern district of Paris. I have taken the lead and recruited and trained quite a few new GMs on how to run Pathfinder Society games. I’ve also created a dedicated webpage in French for French players who want to start playing Pathfinder Society.

Here in France, we have a strong community of fans and you can find out much information from different sources. Of course, we have the Ligue Ludique website mentioned above, but we also have Pathfinder-FR (with a wiki, a forum and a lot of other information); PSOP, a website that collects your sessions and characters’ info; and finally the Black-Book Editions website, which is the French editor for Pathfinder RPG books.

The largest events in France and French-speaking countries to play Pathfinder Society are Comic Con in Paris the first week of July, Octogones in October in Lyon, Festival en Jeu in Belgium, and Imaginaire at the end of November in Paris. There are also other conventions and you can stay updated on future dates and information at the French PFS website or on the Paizo event page here at paizo.com.

The next step for growing Pathfinder Society in France is to find some Venture-Lieutenants throughout different regions in France. My hope is they will help promote the game and find new GMs for Pathfinder Society. I have found quite a few players and GMs that are very motivated, including my new Venture-Lieutenant, Benoit Gros, in Switzerland. I’m currently recruiting for Venture-Lieutenants in or around Lyon, Rennes, Lille, Bordeaux, Marseille, and Strasbourg. If you live in or around any of those regions, please contact me at webmaster@ligueludique.fr.

Last, but not the least, after Paizo Con UK (organized by UK Venture-Captain Dave Harrison and Venture-Lieutenant Rob Silk), I have been highly motivated to organize a PaizoCon France in Paris. The idea is to gather and welcome all the players in Europe together in Paris. That’s my new project and I am working with BBE to plan it for the end of August or beginning of September 2013. Thanks again to Dave and Rob for the great time had at PaizoCon UK and the inspiration for a PaizoCon France.

Thank you to Karim and Benoit for kickstarting an awesome Pathfinder Society organization in France. I look forward to the additions of new Venture-Captains and Venture-Lieutenants in other regions of France and watching Pathfinder Society spread like wildfire. Keep up the awesome work!

Mike Brock
Pathfinder Society Campaign Coordinator

In the Event of My Untimely Demise

by Robin D. Laws

Chapter One: The Dead Client

"No," said the wizard Iskola, pointing a polished fingernail toward her half-sister, Luma. "Not you."

Luma sank further into her characteristic shoulder-slump. Though older than Iskola, she looked younger. She owed her callow appearance, at least in part, to the elven blood which her five siblings, children of her father and stepmother, did not share. Together, her lithe frame, wide eyes, and boyish figure conspired to hang about her neck an unshakable air of adolescence. Her siblings, who were also her teammates, had learned—or perhaps been taught, by her unkempt red hair, her shrinking posture, her downcast gaze—to treat her not as a woman, but as the runt of the litter. It was her own damn fault, but that realization had so far not helped her one whit in altering the way they regarded her.

Iskola, her black-clad body a thin and twisted reed, towered over Luma. Her headpiece, a complex of lacquered, intertwining loops constructed from her own raven hair, magnified the imperious effect. A stiff laced collar and dark fingerless gloves, also of lace, completed the outre look the city of Magnimar relished in its highborn magicians.

Luma forced herself into a rigid posture. "We're to guard a gem from thieves, and you want to leave behind the mind-reader?"

Iskola sighed. "No one wants a mind-reader, and you'd be best to stop describing yourself as such. Go back to calling yourself a streetseer if you must. Or citywalker. Or cobblestone druid. Those are all strange enough."

"I wasn't proposing to introduce myself, period."

Iskola's hand flitted out, as if tempted to seize one of Luma's stray hanks of hair and tuck it back into place. She aborted the gesture, locking hands behind her narrow waist. "When Lord Vetillus hires Magnimar's most expensive city warriors to stand sentry at his soiree, we are as much a signal of his prestige as is the Bandu Emerald. Were any of his guests to so much as infer that one of us was busy trawling their innermost mental wanderings, we would be failing our duty."

"And giving cause for a refund." Arrus, the squad's swordsman and Iskola's twin, squared his broad shoulders and jutted his blocky chin.

"Honestly, Luma." Iskola bustled in her whickering skirt toward the squad room door. "When people learn you perform the magic of the streets, they assume you were born on them. Until you learn to present yourself as a scion of a founding house, simple wisdom forces us to exclude you from certain missions."

Luma scanned the others for flickers of sympathy. Eibadon, the family ecclesiast, settled his jowly features into an imperturbable dullness. Ulisa, robed master of the unarmed fighting arts, held fast to her serenity, even as a yellow moth flitted around her shaved head. Only Ontor—top-knotted, leather-clad—let a glimmer of feeling hint across his long and hawkish face.

"Mouse," he said, "Think of it as being excused from an evening of apocalyptic boredom."

"Read one of your books," Arrus said, and departed, carrying the others in his wake.

Luma followed him into the manor hallway, hung with portraits of each Lord Derexhi, from its legendary founding warrior Aitin to her father, Randred. Next to the painting of a heroic, virile Randred stood the real man, his brow creased, his beard now gray and wild.

"Let them go," he said, voice feather-soft. Father and daughter watched the rest of the squad troop down the stuccoed hallway. "Ontor may have been right. About the boredom of that assignment."

"Listening in, I see."

Dimples broke across the old warrior's face. "The successful man of arms pays close heed to his forces. Doubly so when they're his children." He patted her shoulder. "What say we show them up, and give you a juicy task?"

Luma rarely gets the respect she deserves.

Randred guided her to the library, where he poured her a goblet of Riverspire red and topped up his own to match.

Luma sipped. The wine was subtle and deep, with a caky finish. "Juicy, you say?"

"Well..." Randred eased into his favorite chair. "No doubt I exaggerate. But you'll be working for a dead man. That's a novelty, at least."

Luma perched on the arm of his chair. "Who's the dead man, and what am I to do for him?"

Randred reached over to a side table for a contract inscribed on a sheet of vellum. "The client's name is—or was—Aruhal. A retired explorer of some kind. One with enemies, apparently. Several years ago, he placed a standing order for us to perform an investigation for him, to be triggered in, quote, "the event of my untimely demise," unquote. We are to ascertain if his death was natural or not. Further instructions apply if we find he was in fact murdered."

"Which are?"

"An agent of House Derexhi is to secure the funerary urn containing his ashes and place it in front of his killer."

∗∗∗

As Luma stepped out onto the Derexhi House portico, the citysong came to her, its manifold voices rushing to fill her mystic awareness. Its harmonies manifested not only sounds, transmitted through magical connection to her mind's ear, but accompanying sensations as well. The dominant notes were those of her own neighborhood and present location, the Marble District. Among them she sensed the whispering tread of servants' slippers, steam rising from laundry kettles, the barbed laughter of wits and gossips, and the old-fashioned spiced perfumes of its wealthy matrons.

Underneath these rang distant melodies from other quarters of her beloved city. Clanking counting-house coins in Naos percussed against the scratching quills of Capital District scribes. Waves lapped against Dockway piers, dueting with the tapping chisels of the Golemworks. Soldiers drilled in Arvensoar Plaza, their grunts and footfalls joining the wafting strains of cornets and tambourines from raucous Lowcleft. The hunger of Rag's End wretches crashed against the excess of Alabaster's gourmands. Priests doubted, thieves shared their takes with beggars, and whores fell in love. Below all of these thrummed the ancient bass drone of the Irespan, the great and ruined stone bridge said to house a legion of monsters within its hollow depths.

Together the contradictions somehow made a whole—the city Luma loved, and which loved her in turn. Periodically, it proved its affections with a gift, a new trick it would teach her. A polyglot town of foreign traders, it showed her the key to understanding any language. It had taught her to borrow the jumpings of its spiders, to mantle herself in morning fog, and to always find her way.

Luma needed no such magic to reach her destination. She strode the Boulevard of Messengers, passing gilded carriages and brocaded bravos atop high-strung white steeds. On the Way of Arches, an honor guard of bleached statues loomed, dwarfing her and the city functionaries in their ink-stained tunics. Buyers and sellers choked the Avenue of Honors, and then she was turning down smaller streets, weaving through alleys with no markers to proclaim their names, led only by her flawless recollection of the city. At last the map in her head told her that she'd reached Barrel Way—Aruhal's address as of five years ago, when he'd paid for the services she would now render.

It was a common enough scene. Here huddled residences of Magnimar's striving class—the merchants, burghers, and brokers who fattened the city treasury and sought approval from old families like the Vetilluses, the Scarnettis, and indeed, the Derexhi. Built tall and thin, the buildings adjoined, as if uniting for support. Small plots of land in front of each served as battlegrounds for a competition of decoration. Tiny gardens overflowing with tangled, exotic flowers encroached on sparer arrangements of rocks and statues.

Luma was about to stop a hustling fat-purse in an ermine-trimmed cloak to ask where Aruhal lived when she spotted windows draped with black mourning bunting. The house that went with them hunkered like a poor relation next to its well-kept neighbors. Paint peeled from the trim. Oilskin stood in for several windowpanes. Instead of a garden or collection of stone figures, its front yard boasted only broken paving stones.

Unlatching and swinging open the rust-kissed iron gate, Luma made her way to the door. Its knocker twigged her curiosity. A metallic ring about a foot and a half in diameter, it was formed with an unusual precision. Beveled outer edges had been dulled with a file, scratching the ring's smooth surface, and Luma guessed that they had once been razor-sharp. Clearly, knocking on doors had not been the object's original purpose. Luma used it anyway.

After some shuffling from inside the house, the door opened a crack. Luma saw a fraction of a pale face peering out at her. The eye, like hers, was enlarged compared to a full-blooded human, but still showed a white sclera, as a full elf's would not.

Its owner spoke in a husky rasp. "What is it?"

Luma adopted her most authoritative posture, aped from her brother Arrus. "I am Luma, of House Derexhi. May I come in?"

The Derexhi and their retainers were not official lawkeepers, but because Magnimar employed few of these, citizens sometimes treated them as such. If Luma were lucky, this woman would take the cue, overlooking the ‘quasi' in their quasi-official status.

She didn't. "What for?"

"Your husband hired us for a job."

"My husband's dead."

"That's why I'm here. If you let me in, I'll explain."

"I don't know." The woman, Luma saw, wasn't so much looking at her as past her, into the street.

"You appear anxious."

"My husband had enemies."

"That's what I'm here for. To protect you." This was not so much a lie, Luma consoled herself, as something that might turn out to be true, depending.

The door swung open; Luma slipped inside.

The house smelled of yeast and cinnamon. Flour spotted an apron slung around the woman's waist. Sweat glistened on her brow, sticking loose strains of white-blond hair to her prominent forehead. Her lips joined together in a worried bow, exposing a slight overbite. Though scarcely a judge of feminine allure, Luma reckoned that these were the sorts of imperfections that would attract rather than repel male assessment. Her beauty had a wildness about it, but it was beauty all the same.

The widow gestured Luma toward a sitting room. Luma rejected a scuffed chair in favor of a divan, tufts of batting poking through tears in its upholstery. "I know your husband's name, but not yours," she started.

"Seriza." The woman stood wavering in the middle of the room, feet planted on a worn boarskin rug. "You said Aruhal hired you?"

Luma nodded. "Five years ago. You said he had enemies. Apparently he worried that one of them would do him in. So he paid us to investigate his death."

She parted the black bunting to peer out a window. "Then you're not here to protect me at all."

"Why is that?"

"He wasn't done in. It was pleurisy."

Luma craned to try to see what Seriza was looking at, but the angle was wrong. "If he died of natural causes, why are you so fearful?"

Seriza ducked down behind a cabinet.

A loud report came from the hallway, followed by the splintering of wood and then a louder thump. Luma leapt from the divan, fingers plunging into the soft leather pouch she wore at her hip—her trickbag, containing the objects she needed to work her street magic.

A florid-cheeked dwarf clad in heavy battle gear stood in the ruins of the shattered door. He stepped into the sitting room, brandishing a jagged war-axe.

"Where is it?" he demanded.

Coming Next Week: Old friends and enemies in Magnimar in Chapter Two of Robin Laws' "In the Event of My Untimely Demise."

If you like this story, consider picking up the further adventures of Luma and her family in Robin D. Laws' Blood of the City!

Robin D. Laws is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Blood of the City and The Worldwound Gambit, as well as the Pathfinder's Journals for the Serpent's Skull Adventure Path and the Skull & Shackles Adventure Path. In addition, he's written six other novels; various short stories, web serials, and comic books; and a long list of roleplaying game products. His novels include Pierced Heart, The Rough and the Smooth, and the Angelika Fleischer series for the Black Library. Robin created the classic RPG Feng Shui and such recent titles as Mutant City Blues, Skulduggery, and the newly redesigned HeroQuest 2. Those interested in learning more about Robin are advised to check out his blog.

Illustration by Eric Belisle

Blood of the City Sample Chapter

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

by Robin D. Laws

In Blood of the City, Luma Derexhi is a cobblestone druid, a spellcaster who fights alongside her siblings as Magnimar's most infamous and wealthy mercenary company. Yet despite being the oldest child, Luma gets little respect—perhaps due to her half-elven heritage. When a job gone wrong lands Luma in the fearsome prison called the Hells, everything she knows to be true begins to fall apart, leaving her to unravel a bloody web of lies and politics if she wants to survive...

Chapter Ten: Triodea

Arrus had been sitting on the grand staircase's lower steps, and jumped to his feet as Bhax and another of the servants hauled open the foyer doors. For a moment, Luma thought he might come down to wrap his arms around her. When he reached her, stopped short, and put his hands on hips, she saw the absurdity of her assumption.

"What are you smiling at?" he asked.

"I'm not," Luma answered, realizing that she was, a little. Trying not to smirk made it worse.

Iskola tried to steer her around him. "Let it rest, Arrus ..."

"Rest? We can hash this out here, or in the squad room, but we have to— Luma, what did you tell him?"

"Nothing."

"Did you genuinely say nothing, or did you banter with him and trip yourself up?"

"There was nothing to say. He thinks one of you ordered me to murder Khonderian, and that I did so, on behest of a client."

"So you didn't do as I told you."

"When we got there," said Iskola, "we found Grobaras on the verge of apoplexy. From that, I judge Luma's performance more than adequate. Now let her wash up."

Arrus paced. "So did you succeed in drawing him out?"

"Someone saw me following Khonderian," said Luma. "That's all he has."

"And how did you let yourself be seen?"

"Can't say," Luma shrugged. "It's tough enough doing a one-person tail and not having your target see you. I don't recall being made, but then I wouldn't, would I?"

"You're awfully impertinent, given the cost of this failure."

"Maybe compared to the threat of a golem sawing my limbs off, being second-guessed by you isn't so terrifying."

Arrus stopped pacing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"The mouse has a point," Iskola said.

Arrus wheeled on her. "You're her defender now?"

"Arrus, calm yourself."

"I don't need to be defended," Luma blurted. "I didn't fail. An operation threw a wheel. Happens all the time. To each and every one of us. It's how you recover that counts. And I recovered fine."

"Don't shriek at us, Luma," Arrus said.

"No, I'm going to say this and you're going to listen. I resign as family scapegoat. No longer will I accept this."

"Accept what?"

"You know very well. I comported myself perfectly in there. Same as you would have. I even have a lead."

"A lead?" Arrus asked.

"This thing, it has something to do with golems."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know yet, I sense it ...the lord-mayor has a golem bodyguard, there's a golem uprising in Bridgeward ...it hasn't come together yet in my head, but it's all part of the same complex melody ..."

Arrus threw up his hands. "I'm sure that will hold up at the Justice Court. You hear the city sing to you ..."

Luma pointed at Iskola. "My magic is as real as hers. That's exactly what I mean. You're constantly denigrating me. All of you, but you more than everyone, Arrus. Because I let you. Well, this is my notice to the lot of you. Starting today, it stops."

Arrus turned to Iskola. "And I'm the one who has to calm himself?"

"Let's all of us pause for breath," Iskola responded. "This is what Grobaras wants. For us to turn on each other."

"Who hired us to track Khonderian?" Luma asked her.

Iskola passed her outer cloak to Bhax, who bore it away to the garderobe. "As soon as it's possible, I'll tell you. You have my word."

Luma pursued her out of the foyer and into the ballroom. The floor squeaked under her feet. "That's not good enough."

"It will have to be," Iskola answered.

Luma grabbed her and pulled her around. "I'm the one they're fixing to stick up on the gibbet!"

Iskola pulled her arm away. "I'll talk to the client. It will take some persuading."

"I don't care what you tell the client."

"Certain of our patrons find you an uneasy presence."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're spooky. You lurk. You think the city talks to you."

"It does."

"And nobody likes a girl who can steal their thoughts."

Luma stormed up the steps, headed for her father's room. This time, Yandine was nowhere in sight. Silently she turned the latch and peeked in. Her father sat propped against the head of his bed, a ledger in his lap. With a jittering finger he followed its entries. If he'd heard the argument through his chamber's thick walls, he betrayed no sign of it.

She slipped inside. "Father," she said.

Randred's features lit up. "You're back," he said. His expression clouded. "They mistreated you."

Shaking her head, Luma sat on the mattress' edge and wrapped her arms around him. He smelled of camphor. "Iskola showed up with political reinforcements before that could happen."

"Then that unpaid mission I upbraided Iskola for has more than justified itself," he said. "I owe her an apology."

"I am grateful for it," Luma said.

Before she could go on, Randred insisted on knowing all that had happened: in the coach, at the prison, before Grobaras. Luma's efforts to quickly summarize events fell before his frequent interjections. She gave him every detail.

"We've won the merest respite," he said, when he had wrung it all from her. "Grobaras believes he has you. He has always disliked us, as he does any force in the city outside of his control. Only the true killer, delivered to him on a platter, will move him from his assumption. No one will do this for us."

"Indeed," Luma said.

"But you must confine yourself here and let the others take point. Anything you do might be construed as cause to seize you again. And then all the Urtilia Scarnettis in Magnimar won't save you from the torturer's slab."

"Father, Grobaras doesn't just want me. It's all of us. He kept asking whether it was you who ordered Khonderian's murder, or Iskola. Whichever of us goes out will be exposed."

"But you most of all, Mouse."

"We need someone who can sneak, who can pry open loose lips. Ontor can't do it alone."

"Then I'll pull in dirt-sorters from other squads." He clutched his side.

"You're unwell," she said.

"It's nothing."

She considered telling him that she knew. And she would, soon. One battle at a time, she told herself. "I would never question your authority, Father."

He gave her a wan smile. "Which means you're about to."

Luma clutched his hand. It was cold. "I've come to a decision. If I'm belittled around here, it's my doing. I'm a Derexhi, and an adult. Older than them. As capable as any of them. The only way to earn their respect is by standing up to them. Starting now."

"Starting with what?"

"Iskola wants me off the streets, too. I'll be defying that order. If it means defying yours, too ..."

Randred dropped the ledger to the floor and held her. "Belay what I just said. I was talking nonsense. I've been suffering a touch of the rheum and it's fuddled my head. Of course you must act. Whatever the others say. This is Magnimar. No one here will give you respect if you fear to seize it."

Luma broke the embrace. "It is also Derexhi House. Where the same maxim applies."

Informing no one, Luma left early in the morning for the Triodea. She walked along the Avenue of Hours, where the warm winds of early spring came out to greet her. Gulls circled overhead; she felt their hunger and greed. Thinning clouds skidded through the sky, transforming it from gray to blue. In these signs—well, except for the gulls, gulls were a constant and didn't mean anything—she chose to find an omen. Her standing up for herself, and behaving like a woman instead of a girl, would be good for all. They would kick and complain; to adjust one's thinking is never pleasant or easy. When all the fuss was over, they would see the advantage in adding a full, equal partner to the squad. They would trust her better, and she, them. To fight without trust is to invite defeat.

As she trekked on, the sun rose higher. Traffic trickled on the avenue, then grew thicker. She passed ox-sellers, laborers, gilded carriages, bird-catchers, chimney sweeps, and a flag-draped cart carrying a troupe of traveling players. She ducked a wandering fortune-teller, warned a carter that a wheel was coming off, and stole a pickpocket's purse when he tried to take hers. Its contents she doled out to child beggars and blind men.

By the time the Avenue of Hours opened into the plaza housing the Triodea, the citysong had reached a peak, high and clear. Nowhere to Luma's senses was its sublimity purer than here. Mid-morning sun shone on the tripartite structure. It intensified on the long, white hangar of the Grand Stage and dulled on the gray surface of the adjoining concert hall. Bright-breasted birds gathered atop the reaching awning of the rooftop stage. The plaza, called the Starsilver, glittered beneath Luma's feet. In place of cobblestones, it was surfaced by tiles inlaid with pieces of reflective abalone shell. A well-scrubbed work crew took its unhurried time searching out broken tiles. When they found one in need of replacement, they gathered around in murmured colloquy. After prolonged contemplation, the crew leader nodded to an aide, who dipped a brush into a pot of soluble red paint, hunched down, and encircled the offending tile.

She strode over to them, greeting the crew captain by name: "Mordh!"

"Luma," he answered.

Luma passed around the last of the coins she'd taken from the pickpocket, which the tilemen pocketed without comment.

"Aren't you s'posed to be in the Hells?" Mordh asked.

"I like to think otherwise." She kept up with the crew as it resumed its hunt for faulty tiles. Luma spotted a cracked one before they did. They gathered around to peer at it. "You know a gnome named Noole? He frequents the performance halls. Fancies himself a poet."

"I never asked him his name," said Mordh, "but a fellow matching that description comes 'round now and again, to practice his quatrains on us."

"And cadge coins," added another of the tilemen, a tall man who wore his thinning hair close to the scalp.

"That too," said Mordh. "I prefer that to the verses."

"No," argued a gaunt third tileman, "the poems is good."

"Seen him lately?"

Mordh pointed across the plaza, to the doorway of one of the taverns installed in the Grand Stage's right flank. "Went in there an hour ago, thereabouts."

Luma left them with a wave of thanks. The gaunt tileman squatted to paint a red circle around the tile she'd pointed out. She wended her unobtrusive way through the plaza's sprawling foot traffic. At the tavern entrance, she held herself so that she seemed to be gazing up at the rooftop stage. In fact, she spotted Noole at a corner table, a flagon at his left elbow and a piece of vellum stretched out before him. He held his pen at an abstracted angle. She eased into the tavern.

The gnome spotted her and bolted. His table toppled, taking tankard, inkwell, pen, and poem with it. He dashed for the kitchen entrance. Luma followed. As she passed through the swinging doors, a jar hurtled at her head. She ducked; it hit the wall behind her, shattering. A cloud of flour puffed out from it. Now coated in white powder, Luma sprinted for Noole, who dove out a service door into the Grand Hall. The tavern's cook, swearing in the dwarven language, hurtled at her, waving his butcher's knife. She drew her sickle and smacked it out of his hand. The knife flew end over end before splashing into a pot of hot oil. Scalding droplets rained on the cook; Luma was already through the door.

Noole fled with surprising speed through the concert hall's plush lobby. He'd knocked a lantern from its sconce; panicked servants rushed to douse its flames before they spread. Luma sped past them. Her hand thrust into her pouch of spell objects, now replenished. Each of the vial tops had its own distinct texture, allowing her to quickly find the one with the cricket leg. She reached into the citysong for the sound of the chirping, jumping bugs, and pilfered a touch of their magic.

Luma jumped, and the city propelled her into the air. She grazed the dripping crystals of the great hall's chandeliers, leaving them rocking and tinkling. Breathing deep, she braced for the coming landing.

Her outstretched feet struck Noole in the back. She rolled, hitting the pedestal of a statue to a long-dead contralto. She made her way up, watching Noole as he rose and drew a rapier. Her own weapon lay on the rug a few feet away; she'd dropped it to avoid cutting herself as she landed. Feigning dismay, she let him come at her midsection. The thin sword jabbed skillfully at her. With equal aplomb, she evaded the thrust. Continuing the motion, she snatched up her sickle and dove at her opponent. He kept her at bay with a feint of his blade. They circled one another, Luma leaving ghostings of flour wherever she stepped.

"I can't guess what you want with me," the gnome said, "but I want nothing to do with you."

"Drop your weapon and I'll explain," Luma answered.

He held it out as if ready to let it go, then lunged. The blade caught Luma on the side of the neck. It hurt, but she could tell the wound was only superficial. She swiped at his legs with her sickle; he hopped back with flamboyant ease. Adopting a perfect fencing stance, he waited for her to come at him.

His moves so far revealed one fighting style disguised as another. Noole added flourishes to what was, at its core, a cautious waiting game of precisely timed blows. He was waiting for Luma to make a mistake he could capitalize on. In this, and in his general deftness and quick reactions, he favored an approach to combat that was also Luma's. One patient, calculating scrapper faced another.

This could go on all day.

"What was your business with Khonderian?" Luma asked.

"That name is naught but a distant wisp of fading recollection."

She faked a strike; he didn't fall for it. "Set aside your perfumed words, poet."

"It reflects ill on you, to say ‘poet' like it's an insult." He faked a strike; she didn't fall for it.

"I saw him pay you off in Bridgeward, on the street of taverns. What for?"

"Surely you've mistaken me for another gnome of equal handsomeness."

White light filled the lobby. Luma glanced back to see what had changed, at the same time anticipating and deflecting an expected blow. She caught the gnome's rapier in the crook of her sickle and twisted it from his hand.

Workmen had opened one of the large entry doors to toss out the still-smoking rug. Luma decided on a stratagem. She shouted with inarticulate, feigned bloodlust and came at the gnome with apparent recklessness. Noole sidestepped her; she pretended to trip and fall into the wall, her sickle lodging in its flocked surface.

If the gnome turned out to be more interested in finishing her than in escaping, this would prove a terrible error.

But Luma was right: he took the opportunity not to strike at her, but to scoop up his rapier and sprint for the open doors.

This gave her the time and distance she needed to call on another of the city's boons. She attuned herself to the crunch of pebbles and grains of sand underfoot. She called to bits of gravel strewn on rooftops and trapped in their eaves. Through the citysong she plucked stones from the soles of boots. All of these she gathered together in an enfolding, spiraling wind.

Noole is always the center of attention.

As Noole reached the threshold, a thick hail of stone and gravel did too. It struck him in the chest and face, sending him back on his heels. Stunned, he tottered and fell. Luma, who was already running, jumped on him, a foot on his emptied sword-hand and the curve of her sickle around his throat.

"I can kill you, or buy you a drink," she said. "Which will it be?"

He twitched his mustache at her. "It's not yet noon. So I'll stick to ale."

The daytime house manager, kitted in a uniform of rich green and velvet, hovered warily nearby. Luma handed him Noole's sword, daggers, and throwing knives. "You're going to hold on to these while the gentleman and I repair for private conversation," she told the manager, who gulped in frightened assent. She removed Noole's ensorceled rings, which substituted for armor, and handed those over, too.

To her surprise, she found no burglar's kit on his person. From his way of fighting, she'd pegged him as a footpad. Judging from his accoutrements, the gnome was instead a swordsman—plain, though hardly simple.

"We'll return for these shortly," she told the manager. "If all goes well." Later she'd return to the tavern where her chase had wreaked havoc and arrange for payment of damages. For the moment, she escorted Noole across the plaza to a rival establishment, the Sock and Buskin. Around a central table, actors half-heartedly recited lines, committing them to memory.

Noole winced. "Not The Inconstant Nymph again! What a chestnut!" He cupped his hand theatrically to the side of his mouth and shouted, "Stage something new for once!"

The eldest of the actors, who held himself with an impresario's authority, stood up. "Cleave to your sonnets, hack!"

Noole wandered toward their table. "You're not playing Donatio, surely. That part is thirty years too young for you."

The impresario threw Noole the tines. Luma took Noole by the arm and led him to a corner table.

Luma took the bench, leaving Noole the chair, where his back would be exposed to the room. The gnome settled in. "A hail of stones. Never seen that one before."

"Need I repeat the question?"

"You're not the one they say murdered old Khonderian, are you?"

Luma felt herself bridle.

Noole's eyes glittered. "You are, you are. Well, I daresay you don't seem the murdering type. Else you'd have opened my throat too."

The barmaid, whose blasé demeanor and overly painted face led Luma to think of her as a disappointed ex-actress, ambled to their table.

"I'll have a pint of Old Asmodeus, and so will she," said Noole. "And your cured meat plate, and your cheese plate, and shall we say the pickle assortment?" He cracked his fingers together.

"No drink for me," said Luma.

"Have you had the Old Asmodeus?" Noole asked.

"No."

"Then she'll take the half-pint and at least taste it," Noole told the barmaid, who shuffled off.

Luma leaned in. "I suppose I should ask if you killed Khonderian."

"Me? Why would I?"

"What was he paying you for?"

Noole sighed. "The life of a versifier can be at times a chancy one. Yet for all its material deprivations, I am blessed with the chance to ascend and descend the social ladder. Oft times in the same afternoon. Along the way, one picks up scraps—sometimes a fine duck rillette, sometimes a pregnant rumor. "

"You were his informant."

"I prefer gossip. The other sounds impersonal."

"And what intelligence earned you that clinking purse the other night?"

The barmaid made her way over, carrying the first of the food plates. Noole rubbed his hands together. "I am no gentleman poet. To keep a roof over my head, I must at times resort to the unconventional."

"You were squatting in a Qadiran trader's house in Grand Arch."

He popped a chunk of blue cheese into his mouth. "If only I had a critic who followed me as avidly as you, my peach." He frowned. "Don't blush, child. I mean nothing by it."

"Don't call me child."

"At Grand Arch, did you happen to notice any skulky characters about?"

"Across the way from you."

"Yes. A small troop of highly armed men and women, their every furtive glance broadcasting ill intent. I crept over there one night, as I am wont to do. They spoke with Korvosan accents. Alas, I heard little of their discourse. They did have a map of the city up on the wall. Stuck there with a dagger. A breach of squatter's etiquette, I must say."

Luma nibbled absently on a piece of cured boar. "And that's all you told Khonderian?"

"He wanted me to do some more creeping about. I left that open as a possibility."

"But never followed through?"

"The muse led me elsewhere." He shoved the tankard, which she hadn't touched, toward her. "Try it. Strongly hopped, with a hint of persimmon."

She took a grudging sip. "Why go to the head of the lord-mayor's bodyguard? Why not the lord justice?"

"My tittle-tattle is of a political nature, chiefly, and of little interest to the law." He drained the last of his ale. "Also, Khonderian paid well. The city guard can scarcely afford blade polish."

"And you have no guess as to why Khonderian was killed?"

He gestured to the barmaid for another Old Asmodeus. "It can't have anything to do with me. Speaking of which, his departure leaves a gaping void in my future earnings. Surely you Derexhi could stand to enlarge your network of informants."

"We cultivate unpaid sources."

"Then I venture to say you're missing a trick." With one swipe he cleared the meat plate of its olives. "Let's talk advance."

Luma stood. "Let's go get your weapons back to you."

"My second tankard hasn't arrived. Listen, I hate to argue from need. I can impose on dear old Lady Khedre for a week or so in her servant's quarters, but do so hesitantly. Ours is an association that wilts under the heat of prolonged proximity. Khonderian's payment was not so generous as you may have assumed ..."

Luma paid the barmaid. "Drink up, gnome. I'll tell the manager he's free to give you your sword when you come to ask for it."

Purchase the whole novel here!

Coming Next Week: A brand new, standalone story featuring Luma and her family!

Robin D. Laws is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Blood of the City and The Worldwound Gambit, as well as the Pathfinder's Journals for the Serpent's Skull Adventure Path and the Skull & Shackles Adventure Path. In addition, he's written six other novels; various short stories, web serials, and comic books; and a long list of roleplaying game products. His novels include Pierced Heart, The Rough and the Smooth, and the Angelika Fleischer series for the Black Library. Robin created the classic RPG Feng Shui and such recent titles as Mutant City Blues, Skulduggery, and the newly redesigned HeroQuest 2. Those interested in learning more about Robin are advised to check out his blog.

Illustration by Eric Belisle.