Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [37]
The man nodded avidly. "Oh yes, I remember that stone well. Flat on the top, sharp point on the bottom. A bloody caltrop, it was."
"You remember it," Gorlist repeated. "Where is the stone now?"
"I sold it," the man said hastily. "The same day, or the one after. I don't recall which."
"Let us hope, for your sake, that you recall the buyer."
Despite his situation, a feeling of wonder suffused him. "Never will I forget! The buyer was a woman, taller than most men and slender as a willow. Her face was like music, and her hair held the silver of moonlight on a quiet sea."
"A poet," the deathsinger observed, lifting one white brow into a supercilious arc. "I've heard it said that poets generally find acclaim only after their deaths. Tell me, Stalker Lemming, do you hear the siren call of immortality?"
Terror returned in waves. "No! I don't hear a thing. Really! I don't seek immortality-I want to live!" he babbled frantically, if not logically.
"Easily done. Tell us more about this vision of female perfection," Brindlor suggested.
"I don't know her name, but I kept every coin she gave me, and the bag they came in! I'll give 'em to you! All! You could find a wizard to trace her."
Stalker looked hopefully at Gorlist. The drow nodded, and the official scurried to his safe. He took out a small bag fashioned from pale blue silk and handed it to Gorlist.
The drow glanced at the coin bag and tossed it to his death-singer companion. Brindlor traced one finger over the rune worked in silver thread. Stalker knew what he felt-a faint crackle of power.
After a moment, the deathsinger looked to Gorlist and smiled like a hungry dragon. The warrior's sword hissed free of his scabbard and slashed toward Stalker.
Time seemed to slow, and the sword's leisurely arch seemed to gather and hold the strange purple light. Stalker remembered the bright clouds of his homeland, and his foolish notion that a glimpse of one last purple sunset would allow him to die happy.
Not gonna happen, he realized. A man can't die happy who never learned how to live that way.
Gorlist cleaned his sword on the dead man's tunic and turned his attention to the blue coin bag. "That's a sigil, isn't it?" he demanded, naming the unique magical symbol that wizards adopted as signature and talisman.
"Indeed. Wasn't it kind of this lovely wizard to leave so clear a trail?"
His irony was lost on the warrior. Gorlist sniffed derisively. "Wizards are arrogant. Either she's warning us off or daring us to track her down. Can you do do it?"
"Me?" Brindlor shook his head. "I can do minor magic, but spells of seeking are beyond my sphere."
Gorlist claimed and pocketed the bag. "No matter. Merdrith will see to that," he said as he strode toward the back door.
The deathsinger grimaced and fell into step. "Are you sure this is wise? The others dislike this alliance with a human wizard."
"They will become accustomed to it in time," Gorlist replied tersely.
"Perhaps, but time is not your ally."
This was, in Brindlor's opinion, a masterly understatement. Time was in fact running out for the warrior. The Dragon's Hoard mercenaries were growing impatient with their leader's obsessive quest for Liriel Baenre.
For months now, Gorlist had been stymied by her sea voyage. His own ships had been destroyed, his seagoing minions slain in battle with the Promenade priestesses. After several attempts to replace his ships, Gorlist turned his efforts to spinning a web of informants, and waiting, spiderlike, for the female's return.
In Brindlor's opinion, while Gorlist's mercenaries might have many fine qualities, patience was not foremost among them. They had gone without the catharsis of battle for far too long. They could not endure in this state much longer.
The deathsinger followed Gorlist into the street. "The merce-
naries grow restless," he pressed. "This long period of inactivity is dangerous."
"Inactivity?" Gorlist snapped. "The hunt should keep them fully occupied. If it does not, they are not working hard enough. See that they