Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [21]
“Ah … something like that.”
Chant didn’t know if he should believe Demascus’s statment. Who didn’t know about the Cabal? Demascus was obviously no genasi, so he probably wasn’t a native of Airspur. His lack of knowledge suddenly struck Chant as dangerously naive.
Chant settled on saying only, “You, my friend, have some issues.”
“More than you know.”
Demascus took a long swallow of ale, then set his mug down carefully before him. He continued, “I’ve got a confession to make.”
Sharkbite, Chant thought. He really is a Cabal sellsword with a contract on me!
Chant reached for the hand crossbow hanging from his belt. “You’re working for Raneger,” he accused, his voice tight.
“Whoa, hold on!” Demascus said. “I want your help, not your blood. Here’s the simple truth; I don’t know what the Hells is going on. I woke this morning lying in the middle of some old shrine west of the city. I woke with … no memory of how I got there, or memory of, of even my own name! A few bits have since come back; I remember owning that scarf, for instance, and someone who called me by the name Demascus, but …” He shrugged.
Chant blinked. “You seem pretty functional for someone with no memory.”
“Only because I managed to fool you. Some unconscious thread obviously guided my feet to your shop, though it seems I could have just as easily missed it. I didn’t know you had my property until you told me.”
“Incredible.” Chant decided to act, for the moment, as if he were buying Demascus’s claim. He’d heard stories of people who’d been cursed or fumbled the casting of a spell, and even of spellplague victims who’d had their minds jumbled. He let his hand fall from his weapon stock and grabbed his ale tankard.
Chant sipped, then said, “And how is it you’re wearing the red?”
“When I woke up, I wasn’t wearing any clothing. Dead men lay all around me, though, and they all had coats like this one. I helped myself to what I could find.”
“You woke up in the middle of some sort of Firestorm Cabal massacre? Just this morning?” Chant hadn’t heard about recent Cabal losses. If Demascus was telling him the truth, he might just have a scoop on his hands. Which was as good as coin in his pocket if he could parley that information to the right client …
Demascus lowered his voice and said, “Besides the genasi, there were a few … demons, I think. I think it was a summoning ritual that went wrong. Way wrong! And I think I was intended to be the sacrifice. Whatever they did wiped my memory. I’m just lucky they didn’t finish what they’d set out to do.”
Chant frowned. He said, “Do you think they cursed you before the sacrifice, so if someone found and interrogated your body with necromancy afterward, your corpse wouldn’t be able to finger them?”
“I … Wow, that’s morbid. But yes, I guess that’s possible. I don’t remember enough to know.”
“Well, you remembered something when Garth attacked you out in the plaza. That light show was impressive.”
Demascus gave a half nod. “When they all started coming at me, I remembered standing on a sort of battlefield, fighting undead. A lot of undead. It was just a fragment though. I called some kind of storm of light to engulf the deathless …” He shook his head. “And I had my scarf! Plus a few other things, including an ancient sword that pretty much screamed Power.”
“Mmm-hmm. And that’s it? You don’t know why you were facing down an undead horde? Seems like an odd time to remember such a thing, in the middle of a glorified bar fight.”
Demascus shrugged.
“On the other hand, probably a good thing you remembered it; it was flashy. The way you put down Garth probably saved you from having to fight a whole lot more idiots.”
Demascus said, “I suppose that’s true.”
The pawnbroker fingered where Garth had punched him. It would probably leave an ugly bruise. He sighed. “Well, if you remembered your name, and your scarf, and now that bit about all the undead, it seems like your memories are returning. Maybe if you give it enough time, they’ll all come