Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [40]
It was entirely possible Chant would learn the stranger really was only a dockworker who’d managed to survive being sacrificed by some wizard’s first and last demon summoning. Well, that was interesting. It would mean Demascus was a lucky sod.
But, no. The way he’d seen Demascus handle himself against the mage, even with no memory of who he really was … well, he was obviously not a commoner.
Chant tucked the “closed” sign into the front window, then padded to the other side of his shop.
Demascus had stripped to his smallclothes. He slept on his stomach, one arm a pillow for his head. The man’s tattoos ran down each arm and continued all the way to the end of his two longest fingers. But the design that ran along Demascus’s arms was just an outlier of the main tattoo on his back, which seemed to be some sort of intricate pattern of jagged filaments that suggested the shape of a sword. It was incredibly elaborate.
Chant had considered tattoos for himself on a couple occasions, but had never made the committment. Tattoos containing magic were too expensive. And nothing of enough positive consequence in his life had occurred that he wanted to set it down with such permanence.
Sometimes, forgetting was a kind of absolution … though Demascus obviously didn’t see it that way.
What would it be like to have no memory of himself and his deeds? Might it be the ultimate exoneration? A blessing indeed, for some; to forget your past, and move forward with a fresh start. Chant’s lips twisted.
He would give much to leave behind his problems. Most notably the series of astoundingly poor decisions he’d made some two years earlier at Master Raneger’s Den of Games. Being rash had always served Chant well. But taking “bold” chances was something only novices did when it came to gambling. He should have known that the eladrin’s games were fixed. Indeed, he had known; but he’d trusted more in a pair of pawned dice than Raneger’s ability to swindle his customers. Ebony dice that their owner assured Chant would bring him luck. Why hadn’t he been more canny? Any dice with actual power to bring their owner lasting luck surely wouldn’t have shown up in a pawnshop.
Chant had tested the dice countless times, and found them astoundingly reliable … until the one time it counted. At the Den of Games, the dice turned on him.
It was ironic. All the people who showed up in his shop to pawn their valuables to pay off debts—their liabilities were nothing to what Chant owed Master Raneger’s house.
Of course, even if he managed to forget what he owed, regular reminders would be served, thanks to the bruisers who showed up each tenday to shake him down for a repayment, plus interest. Chant’s network of sniffers and spies was a trembling sapling compared to Raneger’s mature tree. No matter how Chant wriggled, he was unable to free himself from the end of the hook Raneger had set for him.
If it wasn’t for Jaul, he would have fled Airspur, and started fresh somewhere else. Maybe Calimshan, where genasi were also said to be common, but perhaps Cormyr, or Aglarond, or High Imaskar …
But Jaul made that impossible.
He recalled his last contact with his son, sliding down memory’s well-worn and rutted path. It had been in this very shop, and Chant had been angry.
“You run with those toughs long enough,” he shouted at Jaul, “and sooner or later you’ll end up doing something you’ll never be able to live down!”
“What, like stealing?” said Jaul, his jaw set. “Like spying? Like lying to almost everyone you meet? Like what you do, Father, every day of your life?”
Cold fury crested over Chant’s composure, washing away his calm words and reasonable answers on how everything in life falls along a continuum. About how shades of gray were only gray if you didn’t take the time to fully consider their repercussions. And how if you moved too far to the far end of that spectrum, gray turned to darkness, and there was no coming back.
Instead he yelled, “Get out my shop! No son of mine talks to me that way!”
Jaul stormed out that day, and never returned.