Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [20]
He raised his mug, heavy with sloshing fluid, and said, “To finding out who took your wrap!”
Demascus clinked his mug with Chant’s.
Chant drank. The ale was yeasty and sharp, and cooler than the surrounding air. It tasted slightly of cinnamon. As far as Chant was concerned, it was the best in Airspur. By the approving look on his companion’s face, Demascus agreed.
“Better?” said Chant. “Good.” Chant felt better too. It was easier to push his own plight aside. The familiarity of his hand curled around the handle of the mug, and the kindling warmth in his stomach provided its own special comfort, if not taken too far.
When the barkeep reappeared with two heaping plates of food, the feeling of well-being doubled, and Chant smiled, feeling almost merry.
They set to. The squid was coated with slivered almonds, garlic, and red pepper. Chant fancied himself something of a gourmand, and knew that this same dish commanded triple the cost in some of the more fashionable neighborhoods. He knew it because he was the one who’d managed to finagle the recipe from those famous houses through his fledgling informant’s network, and pass it on to the Lantern’s proprietor.
When Chant recovered from his food trance, on account of there being nothing left on his plate, he realized Demascus was already finished with his portion.
Chant laughed and said, “Not many can beat me through a serving of food.”
Demascus grinned ruefully. The man’s features and posture were noticeably more relaxed.
Demascus said, “What kind of coin are we talking for identifying the thief?”
Chant brushed crumbs from his vest and said, “Give me a tenday, and I’ll have her identity nailed. I’m thinking twenty coins ought to cover my expenses, plus leave me a fair sum for my trouble.”
“A tenday!” Chant had expected the man to try to bargain him down on the amount, not the time.
“These things take time. I’m no wizard; I can’t summon helpful spirits that know too much, and if I could, you’d be on the hook for more than ten times that.”
“All right. Better than nothing.” Demascus allowed his chin to drop slightly.
Time to change the subject; Chant didn’t like morose dinner companions.
He gestured with his fork, pointing at Demascus’s jacket. He said, “So, you run with the Firestorm Cabal these days? You didn’t wear the red four years ago.”
“The Cabal? That’s what that drunk accused me of. Because of this jacket I’m wearing?”
“Yeah, what else? Or, what, you’re just wearing their colors for a lark?”
Demascus examined his jacket cuffs, his eyes narrowing as if he was remembering something unpleasant.
Then he looked up and blurted, “Tell me about the Firestorm Cabal.”
Chant felt his eyes widen as he said, “What do you mean, tell you about them?”
“Chant, pretend for a moment that I don’t know anything about red jackets or the significance of the one I’m wearing; just tell me what the Hells the Firestorm Cabal is!”
“All right, sure. Don’t burst a vein.”
Chant took a drink of his beer. Then he said, “All right, here’s the deal. Lots of folks believe the Cabal is pledged to the protection of Akanûl and genasi interests. And they do sporadically guard the nation from threats on sea, land, and in the air. They are especially vigilant whenever dragonborn out of Tymanther are seen near the borders. Most people see the Firestorm Cabal as champions of the people.”
“ ‘Most people’?”
“Well, I’m in a position to know better. The truth is they’re an organization of mercenaries and freebooters. Many who wear the red act more like villains than heroes. To my mind, all the good they do can be put down to calculated self-interest. Folks living on the higher motes are more likely to buy the Cabal’s line, but down here, most think of ’em as privateers, and they’re not welcome.”
“That explains a lot …” He ran a hand down one sleeve of his jacket, shaking his head with disdain.
“You’re not a Firestorm Cabal member, are