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  "Prodigal Sons" © 2011 by Paizo Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

  Paizo Publishing, LLC, the Paizo golem logo, and Pathfinder are registered trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC; Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, Pathfinder Campaign Setting, and Pathfinder Tales are trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by James L. Sutter.

  Story by J. C. Hay, Kevin Andrew Murphy, Richard Pett, Steven E. Schend, James L. Sutter, and Jay Thompson.

  Art by Sarah Otterstätter.

  Cover design by Crystal Frasier.

  Paizo Publishing, LLC

  7120 185th Ave NE, Ste 120

  Redmond, WA 98052

  paizo.com

  ISBN 978-1-60125-397-2

  PZOTEB0017

  Originally published in serialized form in Pathfinder Adventure Path #31–36.

  Chapter One: Death at the Swaddled Otter

  James L. Sutter

  I opened my eyes on a world turned sideways. Raindrops thundered across my vision with the percussion of a blacksmith’s hammer, only to flow upward in swirling rivulets. I closed my eyes against the onslaught, hiding from the sight if not the sound, and dug my fingers into the mud, taking a careful grip lest I should slide off in this new orientation. For several moments I hung there, considering my options, and then extended my arms, carefully pushing myself upright.

  It was not my brightest idea, but it did succeed in turning the world right-side up again. A good thing, too, because if it hadn’t, there was no way Phargas could have maintained his grip at that angle, sprawled in the ditch like some no-account drunkard. But I get ahead of myself.

  My name is Ollix Kaddar, and I am likely better than you.

  It’s nothing personal, you understand. It’s just in my blood—literally. My full name is Ollix Thareus Lucitrex Kaddar, and I am the only living son of Lord Kaddar of Kadria, finest holding in all of the River Kingdoms. Not that you’d know it to look at me now, of course, or to talk to my father—he’s a tough old goat, and hardly the forgiving sort. But let’s not dwell on the past.

  Across the way, Phargas was waking up, moaning and holding his head. Spying the empty jug in his hand, he made to throw it away, then thought again and checked to see if it was empty before tossing it into the bushes in disgust.

  “The gods are not kind,” I said, scraping dung-scented mud from the side of my face.

  “To the contrary,” he replied. “They were entirely too kind last night.” Phargas crawled out into the road and began scooping up handfuls of water from the wagon ruts and splashing it on his face, sluicing the dirt from his shaved pate and muttering prayers that sounded like curses. His ablutions finished, he stood unsteadily and gathered up his pack and walking stick. The latter he used to poke at the bits of bread and bone at our feet, swirling them around in the muck.

  “Well, young master, I’d ask which way, but I somehow doubt they’d welcome us back in town just now.”

  “Psht.” I kicked sludge over the top of our leavings, burying the evidence. “In my father’s court, I wouldn’t even have had to ask—they would have given us the best from their table, and been honored by the privilege.”

  “Ah,” said Phargas. “But you didn’t ask this time, either, did you?” He turned and began walking away from the squalid little hamlet still visible on the horizon. “Come on. This storm won’t last forever, and I’d rather not be here when it lets up.”

  He had a point. Hoisting my own too-light pack, I followed.

  Many young men dream of seeing the world. I was never one of them. And now that I’d seen it, I knew I was right all along—that the world outside the court was cold, dirty, and filled with stupidity. I would have been perfectly content to remain in Kadria, serving my people as a benevolent aristocrat, making the big decisions so that they didn’t have to strain their meager faculties. It was what I was bred for.

  But my father—he was a different sort. Having built the fiefdom himself with steel and silver, he understood neither the sport nor the occasional unfortunate mishaps that go hand in hand with rightful rulership. You bed a few peasant girls, spend a few tax coffers, punish a few upstarts—the citizenry expects it. After all, if not for the aristocracy, what would they have to talk about? No, the peasantry need us, and if a few feet get trod upon, it’s nothing to get upset about. Certainly nothing worth exiling a son over.

  I was saying something to that effect to Phargas, not for the first time, when he suddenly threw out the hand holding his staff, blocking my path and cutting me off mid-sentence. Silently, he pointed.

  Ahead, just visible through the drizzle, the path forked, running to either side of a wide-branched tree. And from one of those branches hung a dark shape, swinging ponderously in the wind.

  Cautiously, we approached. The shape, for its part, ignored us, slowly resolving into the drenched and crow-eaten corpse of a man. While hanging lawbreakers at crossroads wasn’t an uncommon practice—my father had certainly done it more than once—it was my first time witnessing it in person, and I marveled at the protruding eyes, the black of his tongue. I whistled.

  “What do you think he did?” I asked.

  Phargas stepped closer and inspected the body.

  “Judging by this,” he offered, “I’d wager adultery.” I followed his gaze downward, then quickly looked away. Suddenly I was quite interested in finding a dry spot closer to the tree’s bole.

  “Well,” Phargas said, reaching up to undo the man’s cloak. “At least we can take turns staying out of the—hey!”

  I turned. He had the corpse’s ratty cloak draped over one arm, and was examining its clasp.

  “What?”

  “This,” he said, holding it out to me. In the palm of his hand rested a dented pin of decorative iron, worked into a crude representation of a star over a road.

  “Ever seen one of these before?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “This, boy, is the Glyph of the Open Road.” Phargas looked up at the corpse and patted it in admiration. “Seems our friend here was a Pathfinder. Or at least stole one’s cloak.” He looked over at me and frowned. “Wh
at?”

  I was still staring at the corpse, mouth hanging open at the depth of my sudden epiphany.

  Every child had heard the stories. To be a Pathfinder brought more than just fame or power—it brought respect. A Pathfinder who published his adventures could live forever in history, go boldly in any court, with his status unquestioned by anyone.

  Even Lord Kaddar.

  “That’s it,” I whispered.

  “What’s it?” Phargas demanded.

  “This,” I said, returning to the corpse with new fervor, “is our ticket back to Kadria.” I began digging through the body’s rain-soaked clothes, ignoring the touch of clammy flesh. My hand closed over circular metal, and I whooped, withdrawing my prize and letting its light shine full in Phargas’s face.

  “A wayfinder!” He put out a hand to touch the softly glowing compass. “Whoever strung him up must have been too superstitious to take it.”

  “Indeed,” I said, placing its thong over my head and letting the artifact settle against my chest. “And their reluctance is my reward. Phargas, I’d like to introduce you to Ollix Kaddar—Pathfinder. You may kneel, if you wish.”

  “Pathfinder!” he gaped. “You can’t mean you’re planning to impersonate one—and a dead one, at that?”

  “Who’s impersonating anyone?” I asked, unruffled. “I’m just following Lord Kaddar’s orders.”

  Phargas snorted. “As I recall, he told you to get out, and not come back until you’d made something of yourself—or died trying.”

  “Exactly! And what could be better than a Pathfinder? As of this moment, I hereby accept my new calling, with all its duties and privileges.”

  My companion still looked dubious.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” he said. “You can’t just declare yourself a Pathfinder.”

  I waved away his womanly quibbling.

  “Please, Phargas. Maybe in your monastery the world is black and white, but out here, we deal in shades of gray. Besides, I’m sure any ceremonies are just a formality, one they’ll happily overlook when I publish my adventures.”

  Phargas said nothing, clearly jealous of my good fortune.

  “Fear not, old man. Serve me well, and I’ll make sure to mention you favorably in the Chronicles. Now what say we get moving out of this storm, eh?”

  Phargas still didn’t say a word, just shook his head, gave the corpse one last pat-down, and followed me onward down the path.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “Phargas is such a bore—but then, beggars can’t be choosers.”

  The town, when we came to it, was hardly worth the name: two lines of wooden buildings faced off across a sad little street, barely wide enough for two wheelbarrows to pass abreast. The folk who inhabited it were no better—drab, horse-faced, and lumpy-limbed, they stared at us with the glazed eyes of cattle as we made our entrance. At least the storm had ended, so the streets were dry save for the slick of filth that ran sluggishly down the center, remnants of last night’s thundermugs.

  “So where first?” Phargas asked. “This place is too small for a brothel, so I can’t say I care.”

  “You’re a strange priest, Phargas,” I said, “but I like how you think. Unfortunately, we have business to attend to. First we find the Pathfinder lodge.”

  For the hundredth time, my companion gave me that wall-eyed look of his.

  “And what makes you think there’s one here?”

  “Simple,” I said, counting it off on my fingers. “One: that Pathfinder had to come from somewhere, and this is the town he was closest to. Two: the locals clearly knew about the Pathfinders, or they wouldn’t have taken his money but left his wayfinder to identify him. And three...”

  “Yes?”

  “Three is that two reasons are plenty.” Back straight, chin up, I led the way, doing my best to look kindly and beneficent for the peasants. With only one street to search, it didn’t take long to find our destination.

  “This is it,” I said, setting down my bag.

  “This?” Phargas asked, looking up at the inn. A sign out front proclaimed it the Swaddled Otter, and bore a crude drawing of a rodent wrapped in ladies’ scarves. Three stories tall, the inn towered over the buildings to either side, and beyond its rearmost outbuildings ran a burbling creek.

  “Of course,” I said. “This is clearly the most impressive structure within ten miles. Pathfinders are important, Phargas—even in disguise, you don’t think they’d settle for some dank little hovel, do you?”

  Phargas grunted.

  “Exactly. Now come on, before they see us.” I picked up my bag and moved back the way we came.

  He opened his mouth, but I cut him off.

  “You can’t think we’d let them see us like this, can you?” I reached out and flicked a clod of muck from his robes, leaving a thumb-sized chink in his armor of filth.

  Just outside of town we found the same stream that ran behind the inn and ate the last of our stolen bread. Shivering at the thought of the water, which couldn’t have melted earlier than yesterday, I stripped down and began scrubbing my clothes. Phargas stuck in one finger and quickly withdrew it. Still fully clothed, he muttered a prayer that dissolved as it hit my ears, ending with a straight-armed clap. The air around him sizzled, and suddenly every speck of mud flung itself straight out from his body, leaving him clean and smiling like he’d just stepped out of the nunnery.

  “Desna understands the tribulations of travelers.”

  “Not bad,” I said, eyeing the ice-blue water. “Got one of those for me?”

  Sorry.” He grinned. “Only enough piety for one today, I’m afraid.”

  Cursing, I jumped into the stream.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  An hour later we were standing before the inn once more, this time looking like the lords we were—or I was, anyway.

  “Once we get in, let me do the talking,” I said, as if it needed to be mentioned.

  “Are you sure this is wise?” Phargas asked. “You saw what they did to the last Pathfinder.”

  “So I’ll be discreet,” I said. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “If you’ll recall, lord, that’s my sole vocation at present.”

  His faux humility grated, but I gritted my teeth.

  “So either be a good nanny and fetch me some warm milk, or else get out of the way and let me handle things.” I walked up to the door and stopped.

  “And don’t call me ‘lord,’” I growled. “Not here.”

  I knocked.

  The door swung open, and an exceedingly plain girl who was no doubt every farmhand’s dream in this town showed us in before hurrying on to draw ales for several rough soldier types seated at the scattered tables of the common room. I followed and laid a hand on her arm.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “but I was hoping I could talk to the innkeeper.”

  “Oy,” she said, thrusting a most unladylike thumb over her shoulder. “You’ll be wanting Milikin, then.” Shaking off my hand, she continued about her rounds.

  I followed her gesture. In that corner of the room stood a long, tall bar, on top of which sat a strange display: a poorly stuffed river otter, wrapped in yellowed linens clearly meant to approximate the funeral garb of the legendary Osirian pharaohs. Aside from that curio, the bar was empty.

  I looked back to the girl, who was attempting to deposit drinks without bringing her cleavage within groping range of the soldiers. She saw me staring and gestured emphatically toward the otter with her chin.

  So be it. “Um... Milikin?” I asked the otter.

  “Whozzat?”

  I jumped at the voice. The otter hadn’t moved, just continued to stare at me with its dead onyx eyes.

  “I... uh... was hoping...”

  There was a scrabbling sound, and suddenly a tuft of black hair appeared above the bar, shortly growing into a wizened gnome who planted his hands on the counter and regarded me with suspicion.

  “Yes?”

  “Oh! Hell
o, sir. I thought...” My eyes flickered briefly to the otter. Milikin followed them and smiled.

  “He was the king of weasels, he was.” He turned back to me. “And what might you lords be seeking at the Swaddled Otter this fine evening? What rooms I have are fuller than a milkmaid in a barracks at present.”

  “Actually, sir,” I said, lowering my voice. “I’m here about... a job.”

  His eyes widened in recognition, and I knew I’d chosen correctly. He glanced subtly toward the thugs at the table, and we both leaned in on the bar, so that any words might be heard by us alone.

  “A job, you say.”

  I reached into my shirt to produce the wayfinder, but he stopped me.

  “No, no—no need for that. Best not do anything that might draw attention. What about him?” He nodded toward Phargas, who had stepped up behind me.

  “He’s with me. Not one of us, but a faithful servant.”

  “And a servant of faith,” interjected Phargas, making a little bow. “Father Phargas, at your disposal. May Desna light your path.”

  “You may call me Ollix,” I said, unwilling to let the priest hijack the conversation. “I’ve traveled long to be here, and I’m ready to begin immediately.”

  “Good, good!” Milikin chortled, rubbing his hands together. He scrambled down off the crate that let him see over the bar and scurried around it. Taking us both by the hand, he led us through a swinging door and back into the kitchens, where he shooed out the fat woman who sat fanning herself next to the fire.

  “This should do nicely,” he said. “Perfect cover—no one should suspect a thing, and you’ll be able to do your real work... but of course I wouldn’t presume to tell you your business, masters. Only...” He looked at us thoughtfully for a moment, then scooped up two handfuls of flour from the counter and flung them point-blank at our chests.

  “There!” he said, with obvious satisfaction. “Ilda will pretend to be in charge, but don’t worry—she knows who you really are. We all do.” He winked. “So just keep your heads down, don’t look sideways at the soldiers, and do what you do, eh?” With that, he turned on his heels and charged from the room, giggling and calling for the stable boy to begin drawing water for supper.