Clayton Emery - Lost Empires 03 - Star of Cursrah

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Star of Cursrah

Book 3 of Lost Empires series

A Forgotten Realms Novel

by Clayton Emery

A Proofpack release

Proofed and formatted by BW-SciFi

Ebook version 1.0

Release Date: January, 5th, 2005

Her companions were mad, Amber realized, paralyzed with insanity, reduced by terror to gibbering

idiots. Spittle flew from their lips as they beat the floor and themselves, crawling in no direction

except away from the mummy. Too scared to stand and run, they fetched up against the wooden legs

of the blockading statues and squealed like rabbits. Their dropped torches burned on the polished

floor, the light half extinguished but doubled by reflection to cast an evil red glow over the shrouded

room.

Amber could scarcely breathe for fright, but her literate mind wondered why she was spared the

mummy's terror inducing spell. Then she saw the mummy advance—toward her.

STAR OF CURSRAH

Lost Empires

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely

coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or

unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission

of TSR, Inc.

Distributed to the book trade in the United States by Random House, Inc. and in Canada by Random House of

Canada, Ltd.

Distributed to the hobby, toy, and comic trade in the United States and Canada by regional distributors.

Distributed worldwide by Wizards of the Coast, Inc. and regional distributors.

FORGOTTEN REALMS and the TSR logo are registered trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.

All TSR characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.

TSR, Inc., a subsidiary of Wizards of the Coast, Inc.

Cover art by Paul Jaquays

Map by Deanna Robb

First Printing: February 1999

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-85780

987654321

ISBN: 0-7869-1322-3

21322XXX1501

U.S., CANADA, EUROPEAN HEADQUARTERS

ASIA, PACIFIC, & LATIN AMERICA Wizards of the Coast, Belgium

Wizards of the Coast. Inc. P.B. 34

P.O. Box 707 2300 Turnhout

Renton, WA 98057-0707 Belgium

+1-800-324-6496 +32-14-44-30-44

Visit our web site at www.tsr.com

Dedicated to

the All-Seeing and Ever-Unwavering Sages of the Publican's Library in the Rye

The Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)

"Here he comes."

"Reiver .. . what's—hey!"

Amber and Hakiim jumped back as their friend dashed by. Bony elbows and knees jutted from

Reiver's ragged clothes, and bare feet slapped the tar-dappled, salt-streaked planks of the wharf.

Pouches on his belt flopped, and a bundle tied with cod line thumped against his back. Red-faced,

short of breath, he nevertheless grinned as he passed his two friends.

"Things to do . . ." he said. "Meet me back here."

"Hoy, you lot," bellowed someone down the docks. "Stop that thief!"

Amber and Hakiim hopped onto a pyramid of cotton bales to see over the sailors, dockhands, and

porters' mules that crowded the wharf. "He's done it again," Hakiim laughed. "Come on, let's catch

him."

Laughing, Amber held the jeweled jambiya in her crimson sash and streaked after Hakiim. She

flicked her kaffiyeh aside. To catch Reiver, she'd need breath to run, and the headscarf was blowing in

her face.

Memnon, also called the Gateway to the Desert, the Scarlet City, and the City of Soldiers, was a

jumble of contrasts. Squat buildings of brilliant glazed bricks were surmounted by tall, thin towers

with domes of gold leaf. Walls were thick, gates high and solid, streets narrow and crowded, yet

everywhere stretched arches and fluted pillars and stone-cut fretwork that gave an airy effect, as if the

city might take wing. Every flat surface was decorated with a painting or mosaic, and every pocket

that could hold dirt sprouted roses or sunflowers or honeysuckle vines coiling toward a sky of molten

gold.

The city was a living tribute to its creator, the Great Pasha Memnon, a monstrous, fire-breathing

genie hunter. Memnon's efreet armies had burned down forests so Shanatar's dwarves might build a

city in his name, and in that city, genies were painted and etched everywhere. Efreet statues supported

iron braziers where crabs boiled and peppers sizzled, oathbinder genies frowned from building-

spanning mosaics overlooking the market's transactions, marids clung to high corners as gargoyle

waterspouts, harim servant genies glared from doorknockers, even noble djinn swung as string puppets

from the kiosks of toymakers.

Memnon was busy and crowded, but Reiver was as tall as he was skinny, and his kaffiyeh a twist

of rags every color of the rainbow, so Amber and Hakiim could spot him bobbing amidst the market

day crowd. Accustomed to pursuit, Reiver cut into the first cross street and dashed into the maze of the

city bazaar, the Khanduq of the Coin-mother, that sprawled for five blocks and twisted upward two

and three stories. Zigzagging nimbly as a goat on a mountainside, the thief cut around a rug merchant

and ducked into an alley.

Hakiim gasped, "We'll never catch him now. He knows the alleys better than any cat."

"No, look," laughed Amber. "He's flying!"

Their ragged friend suddenly stumbled backward from an alley and upset a lampseller's stall. Brass

oil lamps pinged and ponged as they scattered. Charging from the alley like a bull rushed a huge man

with a barrel chest and arms like smoked hams. He was a professional bodyguard to judge by the

family crest embroidered on his blue vest, and the brute's furious face was dappled with lip paint.

Behind him fluttered the beribboned houri who'd so adorned him.

"He must've banged right into them," Hakiim hooted with laughter. "Let's see him duck this bloke!"

Reiver might have dodged the angry bodyguard, but the lampseller, an old woman surprisingly

spry, thrust her malacca cane between the thief's legs. Reiver's foot rolled on a lamp and he sprawled

in a tangle of pipestem arms and dirty legs. The bodyguard pounced with great hairy paws and

snagged Reiver by one leg, hoisting him like a chicken. The elder hauled back her knobby cane to

knock Reiver's inverted head off.

Hakiim yelled, jumped, and caught the bodyguard's brawny arm, which drooped so Reiver's head

thumped on the cobblestones. Amber thrust herself between her friend and the old lampseller's cane.

Baggy trousers and embroidered vest whipping, Amber blocked the old woman's cane.

"Grandmother," she said breathlessly, "spare him, please!"

"You hussy!" The woman's crooked hand jabbed at Amber's face and she said, "Ras'lma!"

Amber saw a magic flash, like a tiny sun, explode in midair, and the world turned blue-black. "My

eyes!" she cried.

Blinded, Amber rubbed her eyes frantically—a mistake, for she heard the cane whistle for her head.

Helpless, she ducked, felt it whiff across her kaffiyeh—and smack Reiver's rump. The thief yelped.

"Amber, help!" Hakiim said as he tugged on the bodyguard's arm, still trying to shake Reiver loose.

The bodyguard planted his huge hand over Hakiim's face to shove him away, but the houri behind

jabbered, "Watch out!"

As the giant turned, Hakiim saw a blur and dropped to earth. The old woman's cane whistled over

Hakiim's head and smacked the giant square between the eyes. Howling, the bodyguard dropped

Reiver and clutched his bloody nose. Reiver spun in midair like a cat, touched the ground, and

scrambled up to run. The giant roared, the houri shrilled, the old woman cursed, and Amber rubbed her

streaming eyes.

Hakiim caught his friend's sleeve and said, "Let's go!"

"I can't see!" Amber shrieked.

"Here ... I'll lead you!"

Hakiim spun Amber on her heels to run and slammed her straight into a pole supporting the

lampseller's awning. A cloud of dusty, sun-faded canvas flopped while slippery lamps rolled

underfoot. Sprawled under billowing canvas, Amber and Hakiim crawled toward sunlight, for Amber

was gradually able to see around the big blue spot in her vision. Cursing, she rammed her head free of

canvas into sunlight and market noise and hissed as someone yanked her hair.

The painted houri, reeking of stale wine and cheap perfume, wrenched Amber's dark, glossy locks.

"You broke Maryn's nose!" she said. "His looks are ruined...." A hand with long blue fingernails made

to slap Amber.

"Get—off!" Amber shot her left arm up, then hooked down viciously. The wrestling move broke

the houri's hold, though Amber lost a hank of hair. Bowling the houri backward to tumble on more

spilled lamps, Amber looked for Hakiim but saw only his headscarf and sandals. The rest was

obscured by flickering blue spots.

"We've lost Reiver!" Hakiim wailed.

"Never mind him," Amber carped. "We must—"

A roar like a volcano stopped her. At the top edge of her limited vision she saw the bodyguard's

face charging. Lipstick smeared his chin, blood painted his mouth and teeth, and his eyes threatened

murder. Amber squeaked.

A fat, wall-eyed trifin fish banged the giant's brow. Another fish, a flapping flatfish this time,

whizzed over their heads. It struck the giant's chest and hung a moment before flopping to the ground.

Amber wondered if this was some Calishite miracle, like the rains of frogs and blood she'd read about

in Mulak's Tales to Be Remembered.

Hakiim knew better and screamed, "Reiver!"

Vision clearing, Amber saw her bony friend teetering atop a wagon piled with baskets of wet, shiny

fish. With two hands the thief snatched up fish big and small and chucked them at the giant

bodyguard. Amber laughed with glee—until a bewhiskered talam smacked her ear.

"Hey," she complained, "watch it!"

"Make way," bellowed a voice commanding authority. "Make way for the Nallojal."

"Sword of Starlight!" yelped Hakiim. "We forgot the sailors."

A dozen sailors and marines shouted and shoved through the marketplace. All wore the caleph's

bright pinks and yellows. Sailors wore fork-tailed fish badges pinned to their headscarves, while the

marines bore fierce waxed mustaches and turban-wrapped helmets of white cork with brass bills.

Urging them on was a red-faced rysal, a naval officer with a plumed turban.

"All citizens stand fast," the captain bawled as if into a gale off the Singing Rocks. "We come to

arrest that thief and his cronies."

Every head in the marketplace turned, a meadow of bright headscarves and the polled heads of

slaves, to see Reiver stick slimy thumbs in his ears and waggle his fingers at the navy. Laughter and

cheers burst from the crowd, then applause as the young thief back flipped off the cart and hit the

ground running.

Slithering through the crowd, with Amber and Hakiim hot at his heels, Reiver hopped up a side

street. Abruptly he whirled into another alley. Amber pattered around the corner and blinked. High

walls and miles of laundry strung overhead made the space dark after the blazing street. Still, she

could see well enough to know that they had run into a dead end.

"Look at our gutter rat," Hakiim said, shoving her to keep going.

Reiver was halfway up a wall. As Amber reached his bare feet, she saw that the bricks in the rear

wall of the alley were irregular, once badly patched. With toes strong and supple as fingers, Reiver

scaled jutting edges and grabbed an iron balcony. Like a blond spider, he swung over the railing and

smirked down at his friends. Amber, used to hard work, scrambled up the corner, though she had to

kick to find the nearly invisible cracks with her soft boots.

Left below, Hakiim wailed, "I can't climb that!"

As Amber grabbed the iron fretwork, a ragged rainbow unfurled past her. Gaining the balcony,

Reiver handed her a length of multicolored cloth. It was the thief's kaffiyeh, untwined.

"Grab hold, Amber," he said, then called to the alley, "Hak, latch on!"

"It'll tear," the young woman objected.

"No, it's got cod line woven into the fabric," Reiver told her. "Old thief's trick!"

Amber seized a hank of headscarf. Despite the flimsy look, four stout fishing lines ran its length.

Cloth might tear in spots, but the headscarf would easily bear a man's weight. Reiver was certainly full

of surprises.

In the alley below, Hakiim wrapped folds of tattered cloth around his wrists, then grunted as Amber

and Reiver yanked him off his feet. The dark youth's feet windmilled as he dangled, then kicked harder

as a dozen burly sailors thundered into the alley.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Haul faster!"

Reiver almost dropped his burden for laughing, so Amber had to snag Hakiim's wrist and drag him

belly-down over the railing. Never graceful, the late arrival tumbled onto his shoulder.

Below, sailors and marines milled in their war party. The puffing captain mopped his face with a

linen handkerchief, his plume bobbing, and shouted, "Come down here—puff!—in the name of the

Caleph!"

"In the name of Reiver, Son of No One, I send my regrets!" crowed the thief.

Amber blinked as a knife winked in Reiver's hand. Whisking the keen blade left and right, he

severed taut lines strung from the walls. With a shudder like a flock of birds taking flight, scads of

damp laundry flopped and fluttered onto the Caleph's Navy. Reiver's raucous laugh made them curse

as they were nearly smothered.

Bundling his kaffiyeh in his hands, Reiver disappeared under an arched doorway. Amber and

Hakiim trotted into dimness, then bumped smack into the thief. Rewrapping his headscarf, he warned,

"Stroll. Running attracts attention." Despite the urge to get far away, Amber and Hakiim obeyed and

caught their breath, then began to walk slowly alongside their friend.

Memnon's marketplace sprawled outward and upward into the second and even third stories of

some buildings, mingling with apartments, shops, and cafes. Iron walkways and cool tunnels

connected buildings, and spiral stairways and ramps wended up and down. Shoppers bustled and

argued as the friends walked by. Reiver tossed a notched argendey to a blind beggar, who blessed him,

saying," 'One is never poor who gives to charity.' "

Wending on to keep ahead of the pursuing sailors, or El Amlakkar, the drudache's police force, the

three pretended to shop. Bazaar goods proved that Calimshan truly was the land of sand and silks,

jewels and genies, slaves and slain rivals. The companions strolled past watermelons, parrots on

perches, flowers and herbs dried and fresh, fragrant leather wallets and purses and saddles, burning

samples of incense, billowing fabric, fluttering kites of paper and silk, stacked amphoras of wines,

wicker cages of squawking chickens, fish strung by the gills on poles, and pastries soaked in honey

and twisted into gazelle's horns and serpents and trumpets. With practiced ease, Reiver palmed an

orange from a fruit stall and offered slices to his friends

"I think we're safe." Amber's modest bosom still fluttered as she continued, "Whew! Do you do this

every day, Reive?"

"Oh, no. I'm just celebrating," Reiver answered. "Today is my birthday."

"I thought you didn't know when you were born," Hakiim said, straightening his sash.

Reiver turned and grinned, teeth white in his tanned face. "Then any day could be my birthday,

couldn't it?"

Hakiim chuckled, then asked Amber, "You wear fish scales in your hair?"

"Wh-what?" she stuttered. "Yuck! Ugh! Reiver, I need a fountain."

"This way."

A citizen of the streets, the thief sauntered with the ease of a pasha.

For the most part, the three were dressed identically. Hot weather and dry winds dictated an

informal uniform throughout the Empire of the Shining Sea. Men and women alike wore blousy shirts,

baggy trousers, and fancy vests with pockets. Wrapped around every citizen's head ran a kaffiyeh, and

around his middle a bright sash. The only differences were in quality and ornamentation.

Hakiim, from a well-to-do family, wore a shirt of lime green silk, and his sandals were sturdy

camel hide. His vest was not the usual embroidered felt but a hand-woven mosaic, a walking

advertisement for his family's rug factory.

Amber's clothes were pilfered from her brother's closets and were made for hard and messy work—

work she was currently shirking. A rough-woven shirt of bleached fustian, a plain sheep-leather vest,

trousers patched at both knees, and half-boots of goat hide. Only her sleeves looked incongruous, for

instead of being cuffed they hung halfway over her hands. Yet her family's pride was reflected in her

sash and kaffiyeh. Both were flaming crimson with a bold yellow stripe down the center, pirate colors

and royal colors, granted by the caleph's permission to Amber's ancestors.

Reiver wore tatters of every color and cut, most stolen from laundry lines.

Tripping down stairs, the friends came to a courtyard and public fountain overshadowed by tall

date palms. Amber and Hakiim sloshed off the fishy slime. Reiver, meanwhile, unrolled his blanket

bundle, then rolled his ratty kaffiyeh and thin vest inside. Bare-headed, he suggested a slave, since

citizens always went covered.

"Why are those sailors after you, Reive?" asked Amber.

"Yeah," added Hakiim. "What happened to going to sea? Didn't the drudache's druzir make you a

cabin hand or cook in the caleph's navy?"

"Yes, but I didn't care for it," Reiver said as he tied knots in the cod line around his bundle, "and

the proper name for the Caleph's navy is Nallojal."

"You had a choice of apprenticing or not?" Amber asked.

"Not quite," Reiver smirked. "I'm on leave."

Hakiim grinned. "After only three days at sea?"

"That equals ten years in prison, to my mind." Reiver rolled his eyes and said, "Do you know how

high ocean waves peak once you pass Primus's Point? Did you know that even seasoned sailors lose

their lunches the first three days on the Trackless Sea? Riding whitecaps like wild sea horses while

sailors puke and groan in the scuppers is not my idea of a career. If you hang over the side, you'll be

snatched by a scrag or a sahuagin. Or the whole ship might be dragged under by a kraken! I'll stay

ashore, where I'll at least die dry."

Amber shook her head. All three of them, she thought, were so different yet so alike. Hakiim's

family were Djens, descendants of the original servants to the genies who ruled Calimshan. His skin

was dark as oiled mahogany, his teeth flashing white, and below his kaffiyeh peeked tight brown curls.

Amber was ruddy-brown as a copper weather vane, her hair black, thick, and wavy. By contrast,

Reiver's hair was lank blond, his skin fair where the sun hadn't bronzed it, and his eyes blue, which

was considered lucky at the tip of the Sword Coast.

Reiver needed all the luck he could get. Born of northern foreigners or mercenaries, or perhaps

even Shaarani part-elves, and abandoned at birth, he had no real name except "Reiver," an old-

fashioned word for "thief." The orphan lived in gutters and alleys and survived by pilfering where the

Pasha's Laws punished thievery with branding, whipping, severing a hand, or worse. As it was, the

urchin ate when he could and stayed bony as a water-starved camel.

As he talked, Reiver improved his slave disguise. He fluffed his bundle and slung it high on his

shoulders, then stooped as if under a heavy burden. He lowered his eyes to avoid eye contact with

"betters" and even altered his accent to a gargle, like a half-orc's. "Rea'y? 'Et's go."

Watching the ground, Reiver waddled into the marketplace. Amber and Hakiim burst out laughing,

then swallowed grins and waded in behind him. They passed blacksmiths hammering latches, cooks

frying pastries, seers recounting fortunes, snake charmers tootling on reed pipes, water sellers rattling

brass cups, and hawkers offering dates and oysters and peppers and dolls and slave whips and more

than the eye could take in. The three friends steered wide of two monks of Ilmater, fearing their curses

but nodding politely.

"So you jumped ship," Hakiim said, grinning at his friend's audacity. "Why do they want you back?

Why send sailors and marines after one scruffy sewer rat?"

"Hold." Reiver dropped his bundle by a juice stall and said, "Buy your servant a drink before you're

reported to the Pasha's slave inspectors."

"The Pasha doesn't have any 'slave inspectors.'" Amber said. "I should know."

She fished from her vest pocket a copper aanth, or "hatchling." The juice-vendor maintained that

her price was three aanths, but Amber tossed the one and refused to haggle. The day grew warm and

the stall busy, so the woman slid over three mugs of guava juice.

The three crowded under the stall's awning for shade, sipped juice, and sucked a lime slice. Hakiim

squinted across the marketplace, trying to gauge how the cheaper rug dealers fared in sales. A grin

crooked his mouth.

"Wait, now," he said. "Since when do navy ships go out for only three days? Why bother?"

"It started as a six-month cruise," Reiver talked with eyes on the ground as befit his low station,

"but the captain lost his compass and couldn't navigate."

"They only had one compass aboard the whole ship?" Amber asked. She rubbed her nose, for

hundreds of feet shuffled up red dust. The spring rains were late this year. "Foolish to put to sea that

unprepared."

"Oh, the navigator and steersmen had a big brass compass that swings on gimbals—a binnacle they

call it—and a tall hourglass to steer by, but someone pried the binnacle out of its frame and threw it

overboard during the night."

"Someone?" Both friends scoffed.

"You don't suspect me, do you?" Reiver asked, clutching his freckled forehead in mock horror.

Something golden snaked out of a rent in his shirt and plopped on a cobblestone. Amber scooted and

grabbed it before Reiver could.

"My, my," Amber said, bobbing a compass with a gold case and jeweled arrow. "Only three days at

sea and here's booty any pirate would admire."

"Gimme." Quick as a cobra, Reiver snatched the compass away from her and secreted it in his shirt.

He sniffed haughtily and said, "This belongs to our captain, if you don't mind. He must've dropped it

down my shirt when he was screaming at me."

"Why was he screaming at you?" Hakiim chuckled.

"He didn't like the way I folded his bunk. The blankets kept coming up short. Tongue of Talos, the

man was a slob! He could lose his eyeteeth eating oysters."

Reiver called the god of storms "Talos" and not the local "Bhaelros," another sign of northern

ancestry. Too, his accent was tinged by Alzhedo, the antiquated, fluting language of the royal court.

Drilled at school, Amber and Hakiim could barely half-sing a few phrases. Reiver had picked up the

high-born language in the lowest streets.

"Maybe he screamed because you look like a ragpicker and not a cabin steward," Hakiim offered,

waggling a finger at his friend's scarecrow clothes.

"Oh, I have a proper uniform. They gave it to me but deducted the cost of it from my wages."

Refreshment done, Reiver hoisted his bundle and squeezed down an alley for the waterfront. His

friends trailed in single file, "But I reckoned that to go ashore," he continued, "I should dress like a

townsman. Of course, I packed in a hurry and may've grabbed the captain's uniform instead of my

own."

"I hope they don't catch you," Amber said seriously, shaking her head. "No one's been publicly

boiled in oil for a month, and some hardnoses think it's time."

"In the Land of the Pashas, justice weighs heaviest on the innocent, and no one's more innocent

than us independent traders and small businessmen." Reiver threaded rubbish and ship's supplies

stacked between warehouses. Half-orc laborers dozed in the shade. Peeking around a corner, Reiver

studied the stone-laid wharves sparkling in the bright sunshine. "Still, it might be best to holiday

elsewhere, somewhere not fronting on water."

"How about the desert?" Hakiim joked. "You don't even find water on your tongue there."

"Good idea!" Reiver agreed and saluted with a bony hand. "Let's borrow a boat, sail up the Agis,

and see the desert. I know how to sail now."

"Who's got a boat?" Hakiim waved at Memnon's packed harbor, where masts of all sizes sprouted

like naked trees in a forest. "Not me, or Amber's family either."

"There are so many, one little boat certainly won't be missed," the young thief suggested, then set

off with his long-legged stride. "Let's borrow . . . that one."

"But that's—" Amber began. "Reiver!"

"Catch him!" Hakiim hissed. "He's being crazy again."

Reiver walked toward a trio of sailors guarding a gig, a small upturned sailboat with three banks of

oars. Painted pink with yellow stripes, it was obviously one of the caleph's boats. In fact, the

companions realized, it was the captain's gig from the ship Reiver had just deserted.

The three sailors lolled against bollards and watched girls, so Amber caught their attention. Head

down, Reiver mumbled, "The cap'in order'd me ab'rd fetch his bes un'form." The bundle slid off his

shoulder as if he was about to drop it.

Pulling his eyes off Amber's frown, the sailor drawled, "Orders are—Hey! You're the scoundrel we

were—"

"That's me!" Reiver piped cheerfully and slung his bundle. Before the sailor could hop off the

bollard, the bundle bowled him off the wharf. A spectacular splash spouted water over the dock.

A second sailor clamped Amber's wrist. "Here, dolly!" he said. "You stay still—"

"Let go," Amber growled, her eyes dark and dangerous.

"You'll bide!" the sailor retorted. "The captain'll—"

Amber had been manhandled enough today. The sailor grunted with surprise as the young woman

nimbly cocked her wrist against his thumb to break his grip. Cursing, the sailor grabbed her vest—and

never saw what hit him.

Stepping back for room, Amber snapped her left arm. Out of her blousy sleeve flicked a short club

made of teak. A leather thong snagged it to her wrist. She slung hard, and the cudgel spanked off the

sailor's head with a thud like a boat bumping a dock. Stunned, the man staggered. Amber swept her

foot behind his knee, and he flopped on his back.

Reiver vaulted and slid halfway down the ladder to the gig. The third sailor cursed and grabbed

while Reiver paused, grinning. His smile prompted Hakiim to boost the sailor's butt with both hands.

Howling, the sailor tumbled tail-over-teacup and vanished into the bay with a splash.

"Come on!" Laughing, Reiver flipped off painters fore and aft. The tide immediately tugged the

boat from the dock. Hakiim slid down the ladder and thumped in the bottom.

"Wait for me," chirped Amber. Hopping to the ladder, she hollered, "Catch!"

Hakiim and Reiver threw up their arms as Amber leaped the gap of green water and sprawled into

them.

The boat rocked crazily, in danger of capsizing, then settled. Untangling arms and legs, the

laughing trio scrambled onto seats and clumsily hoisted the lateen sail.

"Anchors ahoy! Hoist the battens! Reef the top hatches and splice the sprit sail yard! Whoops!"

Bellowing in imitation of a sailing master, Reiver narrowly missed ramming an incoming fishing

smack. The friends laughed so hard they held their sides.

Yanking lines, shoving at the boom, and slapping the water with oars, they gradually eased the gig

deep into the forest of masts. * * * * *

Alone, Amber stepped onto a stone bench, climbed a eucalyptus tree, hopped down to a wall, and

jumped onto the elevated walkway spanning a cemetery—her favorite shortcut home. Smiling at the

thought of adventure, she steered the twists and turns of the wall-maze between markhouts,

commoners' tombs, and the filigreed khamarkhas of the rich. Hungry cats vaulted to the walkway only

to be bowled off by others, perpetually squabbling.

"Sorry," Amber told them, "no handouts today."

The cemetery ended behind a temple dedicated to Umberlee, the great Bitch Queen of the sea,

who'd once flooded Memnon and half of Calimshan to inspire greater devotion, Umberlee's temple

sparkled as workers ceaselessly polished the brilliant tiles.

Crossing the Plaza of Divine Truth, sliding between apartment buildings and tripping across the

Street of Old Night, Amber paused before skittering through the portal of her family compound. On

tiptoes, Amber climbed the back stairs, hoping her servants napped in the afternoon heat.

Slipping into her room, Amber flung open the doors of a tall lindenwood armoire. While the room

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StarofCursrahBook3ofLostEmpiresseriesAForgottenRealmsNovelbyClaytonEmeryAProofpackreleaseProofedandformattedbyBW-SciFiEbookversion1.0ReleaseDate:January,5th,2005Hercompanionsweremad,Amberrealized,paralyzedwithinsanity,reducedbyterrortogibberingidiots.Spittleflewfromtheirlipsastheybeatthefloorandthem...

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Clayton Emery - Lost Empires 03 - Star of Cursrah.pdf

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Clayton Emery - Lost Empires 03 - Star of Cursrah

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