“Well, well, well,” the paelyrion rumbled as Lorcan entered its cavern. A mountain of pallid flesh encased in leather armor, Shetai shifted like a landslide, turning its great head to face the cambion. Lorcan fought back a shiver—the paelyrion’s eyes were limned in garish purple, its razor-bladed mouth ringed with fuchsia paint. The mask of humanity worn like a mockery of its softness, its ineffectiveness. Humans wore paint, not devils. Not creatures that could spit you on a single fingernail and eat your heart out before you managed to die. Even if Lorcan expected the sight, it was unsettling.
“Lorcan, Invadiah’s son.” Shetai grinned, its mouth a slice of atrocity. “Let me guess: You want to reestablish your collection? I have a few spares I might be willing to trade for a Kakistos heir.”
“When did the price of a Kakistos heir drop so dramatically?” Lorcan asked, shoving all his fear down deep. “Has someone discovered some unknown harem of tiefling mothers?” Shetai turned back to the shelf beside it, to a crystal bowl of bloody, twitching, skinless creatures, as if Lorcan bored it. “It’s more about how I might help you,” Lorcan went on. “How we might help each other.”
Shetai laughed. “Is the cambion playing the hierarchy’s game? Well, well. Where is the Lorcan we all loathe and mock?”
“It’s never been all that in my interest,” Lorcan pointed out. “Now it is.”
“I don’t purchase information of the sort a lazy cambion comes by, sweetling. Go play in the birthing pits.”
“Even this lazy cambion?” Lorcan asked. “You know perfectly well what they’re saying about me.”
“And what happened to Taroth?” Shetai speared a struggling morsel with one long blood-black nail. “I’m sure you’re terribly important, but I also know how to play the hierarchy. Digging up Asmodeus’s buried secrets is hardly the safest way to stay ahead.”
“High risk, high reward.”
“High possibility that I wind up demoted back down to a spinagon,” Shetai finished. “I have not risen to this state by being a fool.”
“You’re rather special in that regard, I think.” Shetai’s violet-trimmed eyes slid down to the cambion, full of suspicion. “Taroth?” Lorcan asked. “That was the bone devil? He let it slip that Fierna’s eyeing the succubi as traitors.”
“Who isn’t?” Shetai said. “They make easy scapegoats.”
“Asmodeus, to begin with,” Lorcan said. “You see, a great many devils have come to me with their secrets, hoping to receive Asmodeus’s by trade. Taroth was only one.”
Shetai waved one saber-nailed hand. “The ‘secrets’ of the Fourth Layer are for lesser devils and pornographers.”
“What about the Sixth?”
Shetai paused and Lorcan’s guts felt as though they yawned with that eternity, before the paelyrion stabbed another morsel. “You think no one knows Her Highness has rebellion in her heart?” it scoffed.
“Even Asmodeus knows that,” Lorcan said. “But I have had a very interesting discussion with my mother lately about Her Highness’s desires, about the succubi. About Lady Malcanthet.”
Shetai’s inked eyebrows raised. “So Taroth is right.”
“Not precisely. Though Invadiah would spin it that way.”
Shetai sighed. “Little boy, if you want to trade for information that amounts to talking in circles, you ought to name your price, so I can decide how much of this is enough and stab you.”
“I want information about the Brimstone Angel, Bryseis Kakistos.”
Shetai laughed. “Go find a storybook then. Any imp knows the tale of the Brimstone Angel.”
“I don’t need the tale that’s written down. I want to know the things we aren’t told. The truth. You were here when the Ascension occurred. You have always collected warlocks.”
“So long as they’ve been available.”
“Someone held her pact before Asmodeus,” Lorcan said. “If it’s not you, you knew who. You knew, I’m sure, how to snatch that pact—any pact—if you’d wanted. So you know what the Brimstone Angel wanted. Why she came to him. What he didn’t give her?” What does she want with Farideh? Lorcan thought.
Shetai tilted its mammoth head. “And what do you think the answer is?”
Lorcan faltered. There was no knowing, and so he’d not bothered guessing. “Power.”
“Wrong. Power without purpose is a waste of time and resources. You want power, you go dance for the demons, you don’t make deals with devils.”
Lorcan didn’t have time for this. “Wealth.”
“An idiot’s reason.”
“Vengeance.”
“Come now, you make pacts. Is that really the reason the best come to you? A moment of revenge?” Shetai considered him. “Perhaps, though, you’ve never had a warlock one could consider among the best.”
Lorcan had had nearly a score of warlocks over the years and in that moment he couldn’t remember a single one’s true reason. Except Farideh. “Fear.”
“Closer …” Shetai chuckled. “Truly, Lorcan, if you of all devils cannot guess it, then there is no hope.”
Lorcan frowned at the paelyrion. What in the name of the shitting Nine was that supposed to mean?
Shetai’s stubby wings flicked, and it resumed its languid pose. “Tell me about the succubi.”
“There are succubi from Malbolge who used the attack on the Fifth Layer as a cover to destroy Levistus’s holdings and rob him blind. There will surely be retaliation from the Fifth Layer, and if my mother remains in control, I will guarantee that the succubi will relish it, if not instigate the battle itself.”
“Does Her Highness know?”
“She knows enough. But given Her Highness’s wisdom, I would say she knows a very cautious portion of the truth.”
“That could end Invadiah, quite neatly. Why not use it yourself?”
Lorcan smiled. “I don’t play the hierarchy, remember? I doubt I could use that information as it should best be used.”
“Do you have proof?”
“I have the Scepter of Alzrius that was given to a devil of the Fifth Layer called Magros, in exchange for betraying Asmodeus to Szass Tam, the Thayan lich. You use that properly, and you could make yourself ruler of the Fifth Layer, if you liked.”
“Who says I want any such thing?” Shetai said with a laugh that echoed through the cavern. “Where is it?”
“Hidden,” Lorcan said. “Give me the answer to my question now.”
Shetai smiled. “Have you heard the name Alyona spoken?”
“No. Who’s that?”
“We are all someone before we become ourselves,” Shetai went on as though Lorcan had said nothing. “Find Alyona, and I guarantee you’ll find everything you’re looking for.”
“You’re giving me riddles?”
Shetai shrugged. “They’re very good riddles. Assuming you solve them. Besides, you’ve given me rumors and an artifact that’s still not in my hands. I’d say you’re getting an excellent bargain.”
Lorcan fought back a sneer. As if he’d not seen—not made—such “bargains” before. If Shetai still thought him worthy of pity and mockery, then there were other devils, other sources. There were other ways to find out what the ghost wanted. Other ways to make certain Farideh was safe. He turned to leave. “I won’t take more of your time then. If you want to bargain further, I may still be interested.”
“Come back when you can prove you’re worth my time,” Shetai said.
Bastard paelyrion. Godsbedamned collector devils. Calling his warlocks all second-rate.
Lorcan stopped before the cavern doors, another answer occurring to him. “Love.”
“Very good,” Shetai crooned. “Love is indeed what drove the Brimstone Angel to her destruction. This is the problem with mortals,” it went on. “They think of love as a boon, a strength. They don’t dare acknowledge it for what it is: weakness of the deepest, most unexorcisable order. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Lorcan risked a look back at Shetai’s blood-and-daggers
smile. “You’re right,” it said. “I know how to snatch any pact I want. Keep that in mind.”
IN THE BOW of Nilofer, Farideh sipped a cup of watered apple brandy while Kallan tried his hardest to coax the gnome wizard to their side. Wick didn’t touch her own drink, standing on a stool so that she was level with the table.
“Abso-stlarning-lutely not.”
“We got paid for a job,” Kallan reminded her. “So we finish the job.”
“We got paid by a lunatic who’s now in dragonborn prison,” Wick said. “Finish whatever you like, I’m out.”
“We need a wizard,” Kallan started.
“Then tell your clan to buy another one,” Wick said. She nodded at Farideh. “Hells, you going to tell me you’re running with a devil-child in robes, and she’s not a caster? Anyway, don’t give me this ‘we’ business, this stick-together nonsense when you ran off without so much as a backward glance. Where’ve you been?”
“Got locked up for a bit,” Kallan said. “And the wizard—Ilstan—he doesn’t like Farideh. He needs you.”
“The crazy man I met a few tendays ago needs me?” Wick said. “That’s rich. You are too stlarning nice for your own good.”
The accusation made Farideh’s tail flick, but Kallan didn’t so much as blink. She’d left the enclave uncertain as she’d ever been about the sellsword, agitated by the edge of nervousness that trimmed Kallan’s words. The intense politeness in the tumult of observations, of pointless questions that flowed out of him. She had no idea how much he knew about her, and the little she knew about him—specifically about him and Mehen—made her tense.
Then, at the top of a staircase, he’d stopped her.
“Look, I have to come clean with you,” he’d said, with an uneasy chuckle. “Else I think I might just trip over my own tongue. I get a bit nervous around you.”
“Why?” Farideh said dryly. “The tiefling part or the warlock part or something else?”
He laughed, and a little of his agitation fell away in that sound. “The Mehen’s-daughter part. I told your father I was doing it for the fee, but … that’s not altogether true. I liked his company, and I know he said you two girls were in the middle of too many things for him to start something up, but like they say, ‘Hope is like a shadow and you can’t outrun it.’ ”
Farideh frowned. “That’s why Mehen broke it off with you?”
“You don’t think it’s true?”
Farideh looked away, thinking of Havilar’s insistence that Mehen could have his romances, that they were grown enough to manage it. That had been before he and Kallan had started carrying on, though. She’d been sure Havilar had eased his mind. “I don’t know. That’s his business. And yours, I guess.” The tip of her tail slashed once before she got it under control. “Did you think we told him to do that?”
Kallan laughed. “No. And if you did, it’s no scales off my back—you’re his daughters. I’m a month-old brightbird who never even got to hear his clan name.”
“He doesn’t tell anybody that,” Farideh said quickly. “I didn’t know it until I was twelve.”
“He likes his privacy,” Kallan agreed. “And he loves you two. I’m not going to deny I’d like your good opinion—even if Mehen’s well and truly sick of me. I know enough to know you’re someone I’d like on my side.” Farideh blushed a little and looked away. “But it’s not in my nature to dance around trying to keep someone from seeing something they don’t like. So, blades on the table. I’ll stop asking you pothach questions and you … be straight with me about whether I’m wasting my time?”
In the Bow of Nilofer, Farideh leaned toward the gnome. “You don’t care if some henish is summoning up demons?” Farideh asked, giving the gnome a level stare.
“Some ‘henish’ is always summoning up demons. Where’ve you been? Come to think of it, how do you owe them anything?” she said to Kallan. “You said it yourself, you’re not from here. You want to put your neck on the line, there’s a lot better battles to do it in.”
“Every battle matters,” Farideh said, “when there are innocent lives on the line.”
The wizard snorted. “Where’d you get her? Out of a melodrama? I’m out.” She tossed a few coppers on the table. “There, we’re even enough. You want to catch up and find another job, I’ll ride with you. Otherwise, enjoy your life and keep out of the way of stlarning demons.” She leaped down from the stool and pulled her haversack over one tiny shoulder. A moment later she was gone, vanished into the crowds of Djerad Thymar.
“Well, karshoj,” Kallan sighed, sliding down in his seat. “That wasn’t how I was hoping that would go.”
“It’s all right,” Farideh said. “We can think of something else. I could do it,” she added. “He … pushed the spells into me before.”
One brow ridge shifted. “Does Mehen know about that?”
“He doesn’t know I’d do it again,” Farideh admitted. “But … You can probably guess Mehen worries more than he needs to.”
Kallan snorted. “I can also guess part of the reason is you take more risks than you strictly need to.”
“That depends on who’s deciding what’s too much risk, doesn’t it?” Farideh said. She set a stack of coins on the table. “Should we go?”
He laughed again, and stood. “Planes, you’re the double of your father.”
Farideh stopped as she followed Kallan from the inn. “No, I’m not.” But he only laughed again.
So far as Farideh could tell, there wasn’t a soul on Toril who would have said she took after Mehen in any fashion. Not only because she was adopted, but when there was Havilar with her quick blade and her warrior’s mind, how could anyone think Farideh was Mehen’s double? Havilar was the one who took after Mehen. Everyone knew that.
He’s trying to get your good opinion, she thought. He said as much.
Shestandeliath Ravar’s blood had been scrubbed from the stones of the crypt, the woken bodies of his clan’s bravest warriors returned to their ossuaries, but Farideh could not help imagining each of them, long-dead and recently alive, lying upon the floor. A visible shiver went through Kallan.
“Not gonna lie,” he said. “Don’t want to be here.”
“We’ll make it quick,” Farideh said. “You came in the way we did?”
“Same. Ilstan took off running for it while we were up by the inn. I caught up to him around the edge of Shestandeliath’s tombs—or, I assume that’s the edge. I wasn’t reading all the inscriptions, obviously.”
Farideh moved to stand before the door again. “And Ravar was already here? Fighting the demon?”
“ ’Bout there.” Kallan positioned himself in the middle of the room. He fought back another shudder. “Sorry. It wasn’t pretty.”
Farideh considered the room, the exits. The room wasn’t large and there weren’t many places to hide. “How big was it?”
“Bigger than me. Maybe a head and a half more?”
Nowhere to hide, Farideh amended. She considered the passages. “Do you know anything about demons?”
“Don’t pick a fight with one unless you mean it? No. Do you?”
Farideh shook her head. The closest she’d ever come was the succubus Rohini in Neverwinter—and succubi were devils now, according to Lorcan, even if they were still mad as demons. “Not enough. Ilstan attacked it?”
“Through Ravar,” Kallan said. He walked her through the rest of the fight—the thing’s preternatural quickness, the clattering bones it raised. “Then you and the others came down. The thing heard you coming, though, and took off that way.” He pointed at the third passage, a door that led deeper into the catacombs. “Only other person who could have seen it was that Kepeshkmolik guard Ilstan hit.”
Farideh moved to stand beside Kallan where she could see the door. The corridor stretched on for some distance, unbroken by other passageways, other tombs. There was nowhere to hide, not for quite a ways. “How did he miss the demon?”
Kallan shifted his scabbar
d. “Come on.” He took off running down the passage, Farideh hurrying after him. The hall was narrow and dimly lit, ending perpendicular to another wider passage. To the left, another long corridor, broken by other passageways to other tombs. To the right, a niche with a shrine to three Shestandeliath warriors, their ossuaries arranged around a carving of a dragonborn standing on a dragon’s skull made of agate.
“Count of twenty to the end,” Kallan said. “Maybe he could have missed it, but it would have been cutting things close.” He readjusted his scabbard. “Up for a little exploring?”
“Of course,” Farideh said. They continued down the passage. “If he’d seen something, wouldn’t he have gone after the demon? I can’t imagine just pretending it wasn’t there.” She peered into a small, unlit ossuary. “Maybe the demon can turn invisible.”
Kallan shook his head. “Invisible still takes up space. Maybe it’s faster than we think.”
“I don’t know that it would have to be much faster,” Farideh said. “There’s not a lot of places to hide, but there’s more than none. We’re going to have to find that guard.”
“I guess your father will have that answer. What’s with him and Kepeshkmolik, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“He wouldn’t marry their scion. Uadjit. She’s Dumuzi’s mother.”
“Oh—that’s her?” Kallan clucked his tongue. “He must have been pretty well-to-do back in the day.”
“It seems like.” Farideh looked around the tomb again. She’d always known that Mehen’s childhood had been different than hers, that the world he came from wasn’t the world they lived in. But sinking into it made her uncomfortable—it was hard to reconcile her father with the polish of Verthisathurgiesh, the half-told stories of a proud and angry young man. Especially when Mehen wouldn’t tell them any of it.
Someone shouted, a frantic, scrabbling panic. A commotion of voices came around it, ahead and to the right. Neither Farideh nor Kallan said a word, but both ran toward the noise.
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