Ashes of the Tyrant

by Erin M. Evans

  “She wants to know where the Master’s Library is,” he said, “because a Zhentarim agent named Sessaca Peredur was the last to see it, sixty years ago. And if there were another explanation in the planes above and below, I’d like to hear it. But it was you, wasn’t it? You were the agent. You probably never left. That’s how we always get the best prices on the rye crop, why the burgher’s collectors would miss Grandda in lean years. You’re the same Sessaca Peredur, agent of the Black Network.”

  “Sodden Hells,” Thost said.

  Sessaca folded her bony hands together, looking irritated. For a long moment, she said nothing, and Dahl found himself hoping beyond hope that he was wrong.

  Bodhar’s eyes looked as though they might pop out of his head. “Granny?”

  “Is it so hard to believe?” she asked. “I was someone before I ever came to this dale, after all, before I ever met your grandfather, gods care for his soul. Why would I throw all that away when he needed it, when we needed it? Don’t paint me a blackguard though, lambkin. I haven’t earned that.” She turned to Mira. “You, on the other hand, I still don’t like the look of. The Master’s Library is nothing but an empty tomb. What do you want there?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course, it matters. It’s something serious if you’ve managed to track me down all the way out here. If your superiors are willing to kill for the answer.”

  Mira hesitated and Sessaca nodded sagely. “They’re not telling you everything, are they? Typical. But if you won’t tell me, then I’ve no way to decide if you need it.”

  “Old mother, please,” Mira said. “I’m no killer, but my employers are dangerous souls. They won’t ask you nicely or bargain with tea. They’ll—”

  A crash from downstairs, a startled cry. The sound of booted feet.

  “Piss and hrast,” Mira said. “They caught up.”

  3

  17 Nightal, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR)

  Djerad Thymar, Tymanther

  HAVILAR LOOKED UP AT THE CORE OF DJERAD THYMAR, BATHED IN A light that seemed to come from nowhere at all. The four walls, slanting into a peak so impossibly far off they seemed to be midcollapse, somehow looked more solid than a mountain too. Balconies dripping with plants protruded from every side, the space between crisscrossed by walkways as the sides neared one another. It was like something out of a chapbook story, she thought, an alien palace from a far-off world, and she grinned.

  She’d dreamed of Djerad Thymar for so many years, the nearest city to the village she and Farideh had grown up in, the source of most luxuries, gossip, stories. This was the result of Khorsaya and the thighbone sword, of Nala and the ten thousand shadows, of the battles of Arambar Gulch and the Crippled Mountain.

  This, she thought, is where you’ll belong.

  “Watching Gods,” Brin breathed beside her. “It goes up forever.”

  Her arm wanted to reach for him, her hand to take his, but Havilar kept her eyes on the pyramid’s peak. They weren’t doing that anymore. Not for a while at least. Not until she’d figured things out. She made a fist of that hand. “It’s like a mountain,” she said. “Do you think it was a mountain? Maybe they hollowed it out.”

  Brin reached across her, pointed at the nearest wall. “There’s seams,” he said. “Tight ones, but it was built of blocks. Somehow.” He grinned at her. “It’s like something out of a chapbook isn’t it?”

  Havilar smiled at him despite herself. “Exactly.”

  He cleared his throat awkwardly and looked back up. “What’s at the top?” Brin asked. “Do you know?”

  Together they squinted up at the dark square that marred the granite near the peak. “Maybe that’s how you get up to the top?” Havilar said. “Or … it’s a window?”

  “They don’t need a window with this light.” He shook his head. “They always say dragonborn don’t like magic, but this is all pretty glim.” He gave Havilar a worried look. “Can I say ‘dragonborn’ here, or is that rude?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve never met anyone who was bothered by it. They think it’s stupid, but it’s not like it’s an insult.”

  “You’re hardly going to talk to anyone,” Farideh said beside them. She gave Havilar a dark look. “And it’s not about disliking magic, just preferring using your own two hands. Come on. The teahouse is this way.”

  Havilar bit her tongue and shot a look at Brin. Ever since they’d left Suzail, Farideh had been distant, prickly. Pining for Dahl probably, Havilar thought. Henish. Bastard.

  “There’s no harm in looking. It’s not like we’re expected.”

  Farideh looped her arm through Havilar’s, pulling her near. “If we could predict harm, we’d be a lot better off.”

  “Worrywart.” As they entered the edge of the market square, spoken Draconic rattled across her ears—too fast for her to catch every word. It made her feel slow. Havilar dropped her voice as they walked. “Are you doing all right? That was enough, the fire thing on the road?”

  “I’ll be all right for another few days,” Farideh said. “The imps?”

  “I haven’t needed anything to make them come,” Havilar said. If there was one thing to be grateful about, it was the fact that the meager powers Asmodeus had bestowed on her didn’t need any attending to—aside from making sure Zoonie had a chance to run a bit, which wasn’t the same. “I’ll just keep not needing anything.”

  Farideh snorted. “Why didn’t we think of that before?” Then she added, “We’re not staying long. Here and gone.”

  Havilar rolled her eyes, but only nodded. None of it was all that important—they were safe, they were together, she knew what mattered, and she was someplace interesting and new. She admired a display of bright colored cloths, shot through with silver and gold thread, and a stall of glass bottles in as many colors as the dragonborn milling through the market. The scents of spices she couldn’t name mixed together into something new and different. She wondered what they’d have to eat at the Shield of Shasphur and whether Brin would like it.

  Beside her, Farideh kept sweeping her gaze over the crowd, as if she were watching for an ambush. “What are you doing?” Havilar whispered. “You look like a lunatic. What are you looking for?”

  “Nothing,” Farideh murmured. Havilar looked past her, along the row of stalls to where a tiefling man slouched against a column. He was handsome in a weathered kind of way, his eyes the pale blue of a cold, clear sky. He smiled at Havilar, looked her over in an appreciative way, and she smiled back. She could, after all, she thought. Brin’d had romances while she was gone. She could make up for lost time, if she wanted.

  “There’s a lot more tieflings here than I would have thought,” she said in a careless way, gazing up at the pyramid’s peak again.

  Something unfolded from the high-up passage, gray and enormous. It dropped like a stone, and Havilar picked out the greenish dragonborn riding on its back before wings unfolded and the creature swooped down through the pyramid and out of sight. Havilar jumped, releasing Farideh.

  “That was a bat!” she said. “That was a giant karshoji bat! Gods.” She turned to Brin, elated. “What do you think you have to do to ride a bat? Do you think it costs?”

  “You already have a hellhound,” Farideh said. “Is that not terrifying enough?”

  “She doesn’t fly.”

  “She does jump from awful high,” Brin said, in a worried sort of way. “The rider had a badge of some kind on. You think it’s their army?”

  “Lance Defenders.” Havilar looked back to the dark passage, stories whirling in her thoughts. Farideh grabbed her arm again and hugged her close.

  “Here and gone,” she reminded Havilar gently. “Come on. I’ll bet we can get an ale.”

  That’s what she’s looking for, Havilar realized. Arjhani. And the idea that something so far away and faded would chase her from this chance at making a life for herself made Havilar’s chest tight, her cheeks hot. “Don’t treat me like a littl
e girl,” she said to Farideh. “Not you.”

  “We just have plenty to worry about,” Farideh said. “Chosen, clans, the ghost.”

  “We haven’t seen her for ages.” The ghost of their ancestor, Bryseis Kakistos, had tracked Havilar down, possessing a pair of sellswords and then Brin, before being turned. All that bloodshed, all that danger, and they had no idea what she was after. You have something I need, locked deep inside you.

  Havilar stole a glance back at Brin. He never spoke of those moments when the ghost of the Brimstone Angel had ridden him, breaking his fingers to try and motivate Havilar to do her bidding. She wondered if she ought to ask him.

  Leave him be, she thought. You’re not sweethearts anymore. She hugged Farideh’s arm closer.

  “I still think we should tell Lorcan,” Havilar said. “We already know as much as we’re going to know without someone from the Nine Hells helping,” Havilar went on. “And it’s not going to be Sairché.” Lorcan’s sister was more trouble even than he was.

  “It’s not going to be Lorcan either,” Farideh said. “Not now.”

  Havilar spat a little curse. “I’d say you shouldn’t have slept with him, but that was never going to happen. And I’d say you shouldn’t have broken off with him, but that was bound to happen too.”

  Farideh flushed. “Oh, so I had no say in any of it?”

  “Be reasonable—I’ve seen what Lorcan looks like. Dahl,” Havilar went on. “You could have not slept with Dahl. I imagine that only riled Lorcan up worse.” And then stupid Dahl had vanished and left her sister with just enough to make her hope he was coming back—but not enough to be sure.

  “And you could have had done with Brin a lot sooner,” Farideh said testily, dropping into Draconic so Brin wouldn’t hear. “Decided not to be in love with him, and then we wouldn’t have been in Suzail.”

  Havilar glanced back at Brin again, trailing them and watching as if gauging the sisters’ conversation. Since Suzail, since they’d set aside their relationship, he did that a lot. She wanted to protest that it wasn’t the same, that Farideh wasn’t being fair—to her or to Brin. But she only sighed. “Romance is the worst.”

  Farideh squeezed her arm. “Devils are the worst.”

  “Fair,” Havilar agreed as they arrived.

  The Shield of Shasphur was much like a tavern, but open on one side to the market, and half the tables were just boards of polished wood upon the ground, surrounded by cushions. A mix of people, mostly dragonborn, drank from glass flagons and clay cups, nibbling at platters of grilled breads. A dragonborn woman with the same pearly piercings Dumuzi wore greeted them and showed them to a table. She poured them each a small cup of steaming liquid, fragrant with spices and faintly gold. It tasted of apples and anise and strange perfume.

  “Sukriya,” Farideh and Havilar said over each other. Brin smiled nervously.

  “Sookree-ah.” The dragonborn woman gave him a patient smile. “Um, thank you.”

  “You are welcome,” she said to him with care. To the twins she said in Draconic, “You speak very well.”

  “Our father’s Thymari,” Havilar said. “More or less.”

  The woman’s smile froze, as though she were no longer certain Havilar wasn’t mad. “How nice.”

  “Can we just get three ales?” Farideh asked quickly. She handed over a small pile of coins, and the woman left.

  Brin frowned. “Sookree-ah.”

  “Sook-ree-yah,” Havilar said. “Three sounds.”

  “Sook-ree-yuh.”

  “If you just say ‘thank you,’ you’ll probably be fine,” Farideh pointed out. “I think just about everyone speaks Common too.”

  “I’d like to know anyway,” Brin said. “I wouldn’t mind learning to speak it. Especially if everyone here speaks it. You all speak it. How do you sasy ‘Do you speak the common tongue?’ in Draconic?”

  “You don’t have to ask that,” Farideh said. “They all speak it.”

  “Wux renthish Munthrarechi,” Havilar said.

  “Wooks rent-theesh mun-thrar-etch-ee,” Brin repeated carefully. Havilar smiled, his accent was adorable. “Mun-thrar-etch-ee.”

  “We’re not staying that long,” Farideh reminded him as the woman returned with their ales. “Sukriya.”

  “Nar viraka,” the woman said.

  “If you say so,” Brin said once she’d left, and Havilar felt a little flutter of triumph. “I mean …” He gestured out at the marketplace. “Everyone looks like Mehen. Even if he thinks he doesn’t want to be here, isn’t that a comfort of sorts? I can see him wanting to stay longer. And I wouldn’t mind. I’m curious.”

  “Me too,” Havilar said.

  Farideh drank a little of her ale. “He doesn’t like his clan. There’s nothing for him here.”

  “Who even knows what’s here?” Havilar said. “Aside from dragonborn and giant bats.”

  “You’re not going to ride a bat,” Farideh said. “Are you even considering—”

  Before she could finish her thought, Havilar spotted Mehen beyond Brin’s head, striding after a dragonborn woman with reddish scales and black plumes, a gauzy wrap floating around her like a pair of wings. He looked faintly gray, and Havilar stood without thinking. “Karshoj. Look.”

  “Come on,” Farideh said, but Havilar was already up and heading for Mehen. Something was wrong, very wrong—and all at once she found herself picturing Mehen coming face-to-face with Arjhani again and then—

  No. Calm down, she told herself.

  “Mehen?” she called. “Mehen, are you all right?”

  He stopped as if startled by her voice. All around him, dragonborn had slowed, staring back at Mehen and now Havilar approaching. “Go back to the Shield,” he said. “Something’s happened, and … I’ll be a little longer. Go back.”

  “What happened?” Havilar demanded as Farideh and Brin caught up to them. She looked toward the dragonborn woman. “Is that her? Anala?”

  The woman glanced back over her shoulder, slowing as she spotted Mehen still beside the twins and Brin. Beyond her, Havilar saw another man stop and look back, as if waiting for them to follow.

  “A moment, Anala,” Mehen called. To the twins, he said, “Just go to the Shield. I will be back in an hour, no more.”

  “Are these your assistants?” Anala asked, coming over. Beneath her gauzy wraps she wore proper armor, Havilar noticed. She wondered briefly if there were a shop you could buy the wraps at.

  “I would hire them too,” Anala said.

  Havilar’s attention came back to the moment. “What for?”

  Mehen’s tongue tapped the roof of his mouth. “Go back to the Shield.”

  Like Hells, Havilar thought. She wasn’t leaving a chance to stay longer on the table, and she wasn’t leaving Mehen on his own when he looked so upset. “I thought we had to earn our own coin? I’d like to earn some more coin.”

  “Havi,” Farideh warned. “Maybe we should—”

  “Come with us then,” Anala said. “But quickly.”

  “Of course,” Havilar said, feeling maybe a little more pleased with herself than necessary. The gauze would look amazing on bat-back, she thought. “What’s the job?”

  “They’re not my assistants.” Mehen hesitated. “These are my daughters.”

  Anala’s golden eyes darted from one horned woman to the other, her hands pressed together as if she needed something to occupy them. “Well,” she said after a moment. “I see what you mean by insurmountable.”

  “Leave it there,” Mehen said. “I’m not a catch, and I don’t care to be.”

  “Don’t underestimate me,” Anala said. She squared her shoulders and gave the girls a little bow. “Good afternoon,” she said in perfect Common. “I’m Verthisathurgiesh Anala, daughter of Gharizani.” The briefest hesitation. “Verthisathurgiesh’s matriarch and Mehen’s aunt. Your … grandaunt, I suppose.” Havilar looked to Farideh, but her twin looked just as uncertain.

  “This is Farideh and Havilar,�
�� Mehen said.

  “Very pretty,” Anala said. “I’ve always been fond of the old names. And this?” She gestured at Brin. “A son too?”

  “This is Brin. Just a friend.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, saer,” Brin said with a bow that would have been quite proper in Cormyr. Anala gave him a curious look.

  “Matriarch Anala?” the young man who’d been leading them called. “Please, the others will have gotten there already.”

  “Shall we?” Anala said. “Or do you need to discuss terms?”

  “No,” Mehen said. “We’ll settle it later.”

  Havilar hurried to keep up with Mehen as they wound back down the pyramid’s stairways and passages, following Matriarch Anala, a thousand questions dancing on her tongue, but she knew better than to ask them now. Now there was a job. Now was the time to make sure she looked seasoned.

  Behind a forge, a door opened into the pyramid’s wall, a dark portal into the depths below. Mehen stopped dead before it and drew a deep, labored breath.

  “Mehen?” Farideh said softly. “Did someone die?”

  “Several someones,” he said a moment later. “Anala’s son is one. Baruz. He’s … He was just a hatchling, a baby, when I left.” He cleared his throat. “He could hardly walk. And now he’s dead. In the catacombs. I said we’d find the killer.”

  Havilar’s stomach dropped. They’d tracked killers before. She’d seen the dead, and added to the number. But the story of a baby Mehen knew being dead made her heart hurt—even if he was grown by now. And poor Anala—

  Though she didn’t seem too overtaken, Havilar had to say. Anala disappeared down into the base of the pyramid, and with another sigh, Mehen followed. Farideh watched with a troubled expression, the faint flags of shadow wafting off her. Havilar brushed her arms as if she could dust them off, as if she could soothe her sister’s worries.

  “I feel like he’s not telling us something,” Farideh said.

  “Probably,” Havilar sighed. Brin caught up to them and gave her a questioning look—she didn’t feel like explaining it all just then, so she just said, “Come on.” They entered the dark mouth of the catacombs of Djerad Thymar.