Brimstone Angels (29 page)

“Are you going to tell me why you wanted the bounty form at least?”

He shrugged. “I just wanted to see it again. It’s funny, I started thinking maybe I imagined it. Maybe it’s not really Constancia.”

“Maybe. It’s a common name, is it?”

Brin shrugged again. “I don’t really know. She’s the only one
I’ve
met, but I … I haven’t met all that many people.” He stared glumly at the ground between his feet. “How much are you getting for her?”

“A thousand, I think. Pretty good, but then, no one really offers a bounty until they’re desperate enough to offer something worthwhile. It
is
a bit odd that they don’t specify her crimes. What did she do?”

Brin sighed. “Nothing.”

“Real nothing or you-don’t-want-to-say nothing?”

“She … she was supposed to be keeping an eye on me,” he said. “And we had an agreement—she wouldn’t accompany me everywhere if I’d report in at regular intervals and not avoid my tutors. It was just between us. And … I took advantage of that.”

Havilar wrinkled her nose. “I don’t blame you. Why’s she got a bounty then?”

“Our family’s probably angry. I suppose we both betrayed our oaths.” He paused. “She took care of me. She’s always taken care of me, in her own way. She’s not … Constancia’s not like a mother. She’s rule-bound, obsessively focused, bossy, ill-tempered, and she never listened when I told her.… Well, she might have been difficult, but I never wanted to get her into trouble.”

“She sounds like Farideh,” Havilar said, and then wished she hadn’t. “How come you don’t have a bounty?” Brin turned scarlet, and Havilar giggled. “Don’t worry. I won’t hunt you down.”

“It’s complicated,” he said after a moment. “It’s my family.”

Havilar thought of Farideh, her pact and her snotty attitude and the fight with Mehen. “Say no more.”

Brin chuckled. “You make it sound as if you have things so rough. But you three stick together. Mehen’s never told you … I don’t know, that you
had
to be a milkmaid. That you’d be a disappointment if you weren’t a milkmaid. That your whole reason to be on this plane was to be a milkmaid and you were flouting the gods themselves if you didn’t want to be a milkmaid.”

Havilar thought of the way Mehen had pressed her to take up the glaive—it had been everything she wanted, and she’d never questioned it. But she’d also never
thought
about being a milkmaid or a merchant or a traveling bard.

Maybe you can find some other daughter who isn’t such a disappointment
. That was just Farideh’s fit of temper, but suddenly Havilar wondered if Brin and Farideh had more in common than they realized. A sick feeling of nerves crept across her lower back, and her tail started lashing.

Brin flushed again. “I suppose that’s just how it works. You sacrifice things for your family even when they drive you mad, because they’re your family and you couldn’t bear to see them get hurt.”

“Yes,” Havilar said quietly.

“Thank you for the water.”

“You’re welcome.” She grinned at him, though she didn’t feel cheerful just then. “No whiskey in the kitchens.”

He chuckled, but he didn’t sound like he meant it either. “Havi?” he said after a moment of unbearable silence. “Do you know anything about Selûne?”

“She lives in the moon?”

Brin shook his head, as if she’d gotten the answers wrong. “Sorry. I know you.… It’s just I saw Tam yesterday, before you came, and he has this statue—”

“Oh,” a new voice said, “pardon me.”

Havilar reluctantly looked back over her shoulder at the robed half-elf standing in the entryway. The priest smiled hesitantly at them and came a little closer.

“I didn’t know we had any ‘new recruits’ working out here,” he said. “You’re doing a fine job.” He gave them a little bow. “I’m Brother Vartan, the head of the researchers here.”

Havilar and Brin introduced themselves and answered Brother Vartan’s questions about what had brought them there, where they were from, and such. They kept coming. This was
not
how Havilar had expected things to go. But then he started in on their religious educations.

“I’m Tymantheran,” Havilar said flatly, knowing it tended to end such discussions quickly. It did not.

“Ah, a fragment of Abeir,” Brother Vartan said. “My work is largely focused on the Spellplague, you know, and the deaths of the gods. I don’t suppose you were ever near to the Plaguewrought Land?”

Havilar shifted. “I don’t know where that is.”

“Are you familiar with the Order of Blue Fire? You really ought—”

“I was brought up in service to Torm,” Brin interrupted. “And … Helm and Tyr, of course, were frequent subjects of … study … with their mantles being … er …” He turned to Havilar. “Havi, why don’t you go find Farideh. I’ll stay and chat with Brother Vartan. You can come get me later and we’ll all have supper.”

Havilar drew back, as startled as if he’d shoved her off the block. Brother Vartan was already excitedly yammering about dead Helm and dead Tyr and other bloody planes, and Brin was nodding along as if the lecture were worlds more interesting than she was.

“All right,” she said, her tail still lashing furiously. She slid off the block and went back into the temple.

Worse, he wanted her to find Farideh. She might not know anything about dead gods or other realms, devils or even boys—but she knew enough to know that was a terrible sign.

Farideh pulled the last of the glass retorts from the scalding rinse water and set them, ends up, on the drying cloth to steam themselves dry. She wiped her hands on the cloth she’d wrapped around her waist like an apron, then tossed the cloth beside the glass. Her hands and arms were dry and flushed from the hot water and soap. For all Havilar had whined about sweeping, Farideh would have gladly traded her.

“Havi?” she called out as she walked into the adjacent wardroom. It was empty but for a few acolytes packing small crates of supplies—a dark-skinned boy, a half-elf girl with a bright red braid, and a young dwarf with a spiky beard. They stopped talking when she called out. Farideh stopped in her tracks. “Oh. I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought … I was looking for …”

“Sorry?” the girl said with a chuckle. “Watching gods, you’re polite. Nothing to be sorry for.” She looked at Farideh’s scalded hands and clucked her tongue. “Oh, you were on wash duty. Laundry or laboratory?”

“Laboratory,” Farideh said, pulling down her sleeves to hide the brand marks.

“I’ll bet Rohini didn’t even tell you about the salve. Josse? Would you?”

The boy pulled a small tin off one of the high shelves. The girl popped it open and scooped out a daub, beckoning Farideh closer. She grabbed hold of Farideh’s hands and smeared the greasy yellow paste into them. It smelled of beeswax, lavender, and sulfur.

“Stinks a bit,” the girl said with a smile, “but your hands will be glad for it. I’m Anda, this is Josse, and that’s Eberk. You’re not ‘Havi,’ so you’re … Feria?”

“Farideh,” she said, rubbing the salve into her chapped hands. “Thank you. Well met.”

“Did the Order send you?” Josse asked. “Or one of the other temples?”

Farideh shook her head. “We’re not acolytes. Rohini offered us work. We’re only in Neverwinter for the moment.”

“Good,” Eberk said with a scowl. “Enough to do around here. Temple’s falling down around our ears, Helm’s Hold’s taken on the interestin’ casualties, and Brother Vartan’s got a mind to close the Chasm, replace all the windows, and bring dead Mystra back for the rededication asides.”

“We’re going to Helm’s Hold now,” Anda said. “Supply trade. If you’re done with your chores, you’re welcome to come along.”

“Oh!” Farideh flushed, pleased and embarrassed. “No, I’m afraid I have … other things to attend to. But thank you. Another time.”

Anda shrugged, oblivious to how rare and special the offer had been. “Suit yourself.” They set the lids on the packed crates and filed out of the room.

Another time she would have gone with them, Farideh thought, poking her head out into the corridor and searching for signs of Rohini or Havilar. But not now—she had more important things to do.

For the first time since she’d reached Neverwinter, Farideh was alone.

She didn’t bother to stop by her room, to grab her cloak or her rod or her sword. If she had, she might have run into Havilar or Brin or Mehen and they would want to know where she was going and why. They’d all have reasons for why she shouldn’t go, for why she should do things differently.

None of that matters, she told herself, not for the first time. She was going back to speak to the shopkeeper, to find a way to get control over her own pact. She didn’t need others weighing in on that.

The day was still young and fiercely bright. The newly plastered buildings glowed with the summer sun and the clouds overhead sped by as if they didn’t want to block the sun too long. People crowded the streets, heading to and from shops, construction, and the woods beyond with baskets, tools, and braces of game. Farideh plunged into their midst.

Farideh still wasn’t used to walking in Neverwinter, to passing in the streets as if there were nothing odd about that. Perhaps it was that way in all large cities, perhaps it was only Neverwinter. Regardless, people’s attentions—if they ever settled on her—seemed to take her in and then let her go. She was as inconsequential as anyone else, and it made her a little giddy.

With so many people around, Lorcan ought to continue leaving her be. She slid a hand up her sleeve and ran her fingers over the raised shapes of her brand. Nothing. He hadn’t so much as needled her in two days.

She ought to be glad, to have the space to seek out other warlocks, to think about changing her pact without Lorcan pressuring her. But she was worried. He’d never gone so long without making himself known.

Maybe Mehen is right—the thought flitted through her head before she could stop it, and she pursed her lips. Mehen was right about some things: Lorcan was dangerous. Lorcan was less predictable than she’d like. Her life would be simpler if she weren’t a warlock.

Mehen still wasn’t speaking to her, and it left a heavy, twisted feeling in her stomach. They’d fought before, he’d cursed her stubbornness before—but never like this. She’d run into him that morning, as she carried dirty linens to the laundry.

“Good morning,” she’d said quietly. “How did you sleep?”

Mehen had looked at her blankly, as if he weren’t certain she was actually there at all. As if he didn’t care what she had to say.

She forged ahead anyway. “I’m sorry. About the other night. We should have told you Brin did the healing. It seems silly now, but at the time … I didn’t want you to be angry at him. And you were already angry at me, so … that seemed easier.”

Mehen stared at her, cold and silent. He rocked slightly on his feet.

“Are you all right, Mehen?” she asked.

“No,” he said in hard tones. She stepped back.

“Oh.” She took another step back. “I suppose you’re busy. Helping Rohini?”

“Orcs,” he said. “In the wood.” He glared at her with such intensity, that she flushed. He was still angry. He still blamed her.

She’d excused herself and bumped into Rohini, who’d smiled at Farideh in her cold, syrupy way and sent her off to wash the researchers’ glass … and all the while stood in the next room and glowered and stared and made Farideh feel as if she were under a glass herself, before storming off for no apparent reason. There was something about Rohini that didn’t sit well. Never mind, Farideh thought. Not your concern. Concentrate on fixing the pact. Concentrate on proving Mehen wrong.

Perhaps
Lorcan
was right—of course he was, he was always right. Mehen did think she was a fool and naïve. He saw the pact as akin to her handling a blade too heavy and sharp for her clumsy skills.
But if she learned the spells to control it, if she leashed Lorcan a little better …

This isn’t for Mehen’s sake, she told herself. It’s for mine.

As if there were anything she could do to change anyone’s opinion of her anyway. Mehen was still furious. Havilar was still sulking and snapping at her for some slight Farideh hadn’t figured out yet. Lorcan was ignoring her.

Which is what you want, she thought. Except it wasn’t really.

Pulled in two directions, her only hope was to find a path down the middle. Her only hope lay in the shop before her, with the yellow door and the sign that read “Claven’s Armory and General Goods.”

Farideh looked at her hand on the door handle.

You can still change your mind, she told herself. Lorcan’s wicked smile overwhelmed her thoughts.

The bells on the door jingled as she passed into the shop.

The shopkeeper looked up from measuring out a length of rope for a customer and smiled at her. “Ah! You came back. I’ll be with you in just a moment. Kalam!” he called toward the back of the shop. A young man with a scruffy beard stuck his head out between the curtains, a book in his hand. “Would you mind setting a kettle on the fire for tea? And then why don’t you take a break, walk about in the fresh air and get something to eat.”

The young man glanced at Farideh and raised his eyebrows. “Of course.” He ducked back behind the curtain, and Farideh kept herself busy and her thoughts calmer admiring the potions on the shelves. The sunlight bouncing off the polished floors caught in the potion of vitality she’d picked up before like a slice of the summer sky. Beside it, bottles of a thinner red liquid shimmered through each other, deep as rubies.