by Mel Odom
“You know me, Serpentil,” Iakhovas offered, “and it will be your mistake if you do not. I scheduled this meeting with you at this time.” He walked closer to the table.
The silhouette sat silent and dark for a moment. Laaqueel noted the thin-fingered hand that rested lightly on a slim black volume closest to the man, then the man pointed at the glowing globes behind him. Obediently, the globes floated higher and forward, shedding more light over the table and the man sitting there.
He was dark complexioned and long faced like a sea horse. Hooded eyes halfway concealed a burning gaze. His long black hair hung to his shoulders and his chin sported an aggressive tuft of beard. His clothing was simple and unadorned. He indicated the chairs across from him.
“You may sit.”
Iakhovas ignored the chairs and remained standing. “I’ve not time to be taken liberties with. If you’re Jannaxil Serpentil then we should conclude our business with haste.”
“I’m Jannaxil,” the man said. He kept the slim black volume in his hand, stoking it absently. “What business is that?”
“I’ve never found coyness becoming,” Iakhovas warned.
“And I’ve never found admitting guilt to someone who could be with the Waterdhavian Watch to be especially profitable,” Jannaxil stated. His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know you.”
Iakhovas reached into his magical cloak and brought out two heavy books. “Then let your greed recognize these and provide me all the introduction I require for this transaction.” He laid them on the table. Jannaxil immediately reached for them, larceny in his darting eyes.
Laaqueel recognized the books. She had been wondering about them for the last month. Three months ago, she’d succeeded in attacking a surface dweller cargo ship and taking the ship’s scribe prisoner. It had been at Iakhovas’s request. Back in the sahuagin village where Iakhovas ruled as a prince, the wizard had put the scribe to work copying two of the ancient texts they had found in different places over the years at his direction. The malenti hadn’t seen the use in any of them because she couldn’t read them, much less in duplicating their contents. A month ago, Iakhovas had killed the scribe and fed him to the sharks that had been charmed into watching over the village.
Jannaxil flipped through the texts with a practiced eye. “These are not the originals.”
“No,” Iakhovas agreed. “You don’t have the price for the originals.”
“If these copies exist, there could be others,” the book dealer replied shrewdly.
“After I deliver these to you,” Iakhovas agreed, “even more copies could be made, each of which you could sell. Do not make the mistake of trifling with me.”
Jannaxil closed the books and leaned back in his chair. His eyes flicked to Laaqueel and she felt him evaluating her. She was aware of the way he held his right hand protectively, and of the old knife scar that showed there. He cut his gaze back to Iakhovas. “Tell me something of the nature of the thing I’m trading you for these.”
“The nature?” Iakhovas repeated. “What you have is mine. I’ve come to claim it. Be glad that I’m willing to give you anything for it instead of just taking it and your life.”
“Perhaps taking it wouldn’t be as easy as you believe,” Jannaxil said. “It may look like I’m here alone, but trust me when I say this place is safeguarded.”
“Not against me,” Iakhovas whispered in his cold, malevolent voice, getting closer, threatening the other man by his sheer size. “Never against me and all that I could bring to bear on you, human. The war that’s going on in the harbor I delivered it unto Waterdeep’s door. I control forces and powers that you’ve yet to see in your shallow life. Give me the talisman while you still have a bargain laid before you.”
The book dealer looked ready to argue more, then grew deathly quiet as he stared at Iakhovas.
Though Laaqueel didn’t see the wizard change, she noticed that Iakhovas’s shadows on the wall of shelves behind them suddenly swelled to gigantic proportions. There was a symmetry to the new shadow, but it possessed harsh angles as well. The overall shape seemed familiar, but it was gone again before the malenti could figure out the pattern.
“I’ll not trouble myself to ask for it again,” Iakhovas warned.
Pale and contrite, Jannaxil said, “Of course.” The book dealer tapped a section of his desk three times with a forefinger. In response, a drawer opened up in the table top, looking much deeper than the table was thick. The book dealer called out a name. “Wonvorl.” A triangular talisman of diamond and pink coral floated up from the magical drawer. He took it from the air and tossed it to Iakhovas.
The wizard caught the talisman easily. He rolled his left sleeve back, revealing a gold-worked band that encircled his arm above his bicep. In the weak light of the floating globes, Laaqueel couldn’t make out the details of the scrollwork cut into the band. There appeared to be a number of slots cut for different items. Some of them had been filled, but nearly all were empty. The triangular talisman fit into its appointed slot easily. A bright spark flashed against Iakhovas’s palm, then quickly died away. He rolled his sleeve back down.
“What is that?” Jannaxil asked hoarsely. “That talisman was without a doubt one of the oldest things I’ve ever seen. And that band, I’ve never seen workmanship like that.”
“Nor will you ever see its like again,” Iakhovas stated. He turned and walked from the book shop. Laaqueel fell into step behind him.
Outside, Iakhovas headed back down Book Street, retracing their path to the docks. The wererats formed a loose perimeter around them. The streets were filled with Waterdhavian citizens with weapons, all running frantically in the direction of the harbor.
“We came here for that?” Laaqueel asked after a short time.
“Yes.” The wizard glanced at her, a cruel smile on his face mocking her. “Don’t be mislead by the talisman’s size, my little malenti. Even small keys are known to open big doors.”
Laaqueel’s anger ignited within her. “What is it?”
“Perhaps, someday, I’ll let you know, if it amuses me to do so.”
She spoke again without pausing to think. “My people have fought and died this night for that thing. We should at least know—”
Iakhovas wheeled on her, using his size to tower above her. “You think perhaps you should at least be allowed to know what they’ve fought and died for? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
Laaqueel felt her face tighten even further under the rampant emotions that surged through her. She tried to speak but couldn’t.
“You have to learn your place, little malenti,” Iakhovas grated in his harsh whisper. “I am giving you and your people the means to wipe the surface dwellers from the seas of Toril, and even drive them back into the interior that the sahuagin can claim the coastal lands as well. I’ll even protect you from whatever enemies would try to take this empire from you.”
“For what?” Laaqueel demanded.
He shook his head. “Once, my little malenti, I ruled the seas of this world, and I choose to do so again.”
“Sacrilege!” Laaqueel said. “Sekolah—”
“—Has more pressing matters than paying attention to one puny world out of all those open to him,” Iakhovas finished for her. “Why else have the sahuagin had to rely more on themselves than on their god?”
“Sekolah teaches us to be unmerciful, trains us to be strong through hardship. Self-sufficiency is valued above all things.”
“If your people were truly self-sufficient,” Iakhovas said, “they wouldn’t need me now, would they? They would have already dealt with the hated surface dwellers, but they haven’t. The success we’ve had here tonight will only lead to more successes in the future.”
Laaqueel searched for a reply, but none came readily. Her attention shifted to a Waterdhavian Watch group that raced down the walk across the street. Two of the men wore wizard’s robes showing the watch’s colors of black, gold and green that were apparent even in the moo
nlight. She watched their heads turn as they came across from Iakhovas.
“Hold there!” one of the watch wizards ordered. He pulled a red glowing wand from his robes. The other guardsmen came around like a school of fish, turning as one.
Laaqueel appreciated their training but knew it made them dangerous if they saw through the illusion Iakhovas had cast.
“Who are you people?” the watch wizard demanded. Citizens trapped between the two groups on the street quickly thinned around them, leaving them facing each other.
“We have a ship out in the harbor,” Laaqueel replied after realizing Iakhovas wasn’t going to answer.
“I want to see your papers,” the wizard said, gesturing to one of the men around him. Several of the other watch members had drawn heavy crossbows.
“They have the sense that something is wrong,” Iakhovas said. “They smell the sewer scent of the wererats. Even I couldn’t disguise that from those who are magically adept. Stand ready.”
Laaqueel wished they were closer to the harbor. There she would be at least near her element.
“Slay the man who approaches us,” Iakhovas commanded quietly, “as soon as he’s near enough to make sure of the kill.”
Laaqueel stretched her empty hand down, hiding it behind her leg. She flipped her retractable claws out and waited. When the man stood across from her and reached out for her papers, she struck. Her claws flashed across his throat, opening his jugular in a crimson rush. He fell to the street clutching at his torn throat.
The watch wizard pointed his wand. A bright flare shot from the end of it, wriggling like an eel and the color of fire coral. The mystic bolt streaked at Laaqueel’s face. Before it could reach her, Iakhovas stretched out a hand. Tattoos along his arm glowed. In the next instant, the bright flare disintegrated into a shower of purple sparks, like a candle that had been snuffed out.
“Attack!” Iakhovas ordered. He dropped a hand in front of Laaqueel. “Not you, little malenti. The wererats possess a resistance to any weapons that aren’t silver or have magical properties. You will remain with me.”
The wererats shrugged forward, chittering in a semi-human language mixed with high, piercing squeaks. They brandished their swords, shapeshifting into their hybrid forms. The watch members held their ground, immediately moving shield men forward while the heavy crossbowmen fired at Laaqueel and Iakhovas. All of the arrows struck an invisible barrier and shattered, the pieces dropping into the street.
Iakhovas gestured at the wizard in an intricate pattern and spoke only a few words.
The human screamed in fear and pain as the spell took him. His arm holding the wand changed into limestone and the transformation kept moving, petrifying the whole man in seconds. He lost his voice in mid-yell.
The crossbow quarrels pierced the flesh of the wererats but didn’t slow them in any way. They hacked into the guards, killing a few at first, then barely held their ground as the superior swordsmanship of the watch members ground them to a standstill.
The second watch wizard flung an arm forward. When it was out in front of him, a roiling mass of flames leaped from his hand and streaked toward Iakhovas and Laaqueel.
Instinctively, the malenti cowered away from the fireball. The basic fear of fire ingrained in her people proved too strong to resist. Iakhovas turned his hand out again and the tattoos glowed once more. Before the fireball could gather power and explode, it was snuffed out.
Wind rose around her, gathering strength quickly, then pressed outward across the street, picking up dust and loose debris and hurling it into the tangled knot of wererats and Waterdhavian Watch members. Small stones gathered up and flung by the wind broke the windows of the buildings behind the combatants.
Iakhovas stepped forward, drawing an imaginary bow as he spoke a lyrical incantation. When he released the make-believe string, a gossamer arrow that looked like glazed white pearl with a foul reddish undercast streaked across the street and pierced the second wizard’s stomach.
The watch wizard shrieked in pain and fell to his knees. His hands gripped the shaft protruding from his belly, and smoke curled up from his flesh. Just as the other watch members started to beat the wererats back, dozens of black and gray furry bodies charged from nearby alleys. The rat horde responding to the calls of the wererats swarmed over the watch members, penetrating the weak spots in their armor, getting underfoot, and dropping from the eaves overhead.
Threatening yells grew louder from the surrounding citizens, and Laaqueel recognized that the danger their party was in was far from over. A man came at her. She beat his sword aside, then ripped the side of his face open and kicked him back into the street.
“Let us take our leave,” Iakhovas said. “They will attempt to shut the harbor down soon, and I’ve no wish to be here when they do. We’ve little time left to effect our escape.” He turned and fled into the shadows of the nearest alley.
Panic vibrated in Laaqueel as she realized if she lost sight of Iakhovas she wouldn’t be able to find her way back to the harbor. She ran after him, followed by the wererats.
After a moment, the surface dwellers took up the pursuit, staying well back of the party of invaders. Still, Laaqueel knew their courage would grow as their numbers did.
XIII
12 Mirtul, the Year of the Gauntlet
“This is going to hurt.”
Jherek looked up into Madame Iitaar’s watery brown gaze and wanted to tell her that nothing could hurt more than finding his belongings packed when he returned home. He said nothing, though why he should respect her feelings at the moment was something he didn’t understand. What was really confusing was the way Madame Iitaar seemed so concerned about him now, after she’d packed him out of her house.
“I know,” he said instead. He had trouble speaking around the tightness in his chest, caused from the blood-filled lung and his own inner turmoil.
“You’re going to be all right, though, Jherek,” the old woman promised.
Once, Jherek had been told, Madame Iitaar had been the most beautiful woman in all of Velen. Vestiges of that beauty still showed in the square lines of her face, in the broad forehead revealed by the way she wore her gray hair pulled back in a long braid. Her half-elven heritage showed in her pointed ears and the lines of her face. She didn’t wear any of her accustomed jewelry due to the lateness of the hour. The cerulean blue bodice and long leather skirt she had on looked fresh, as if she’d dressed only a short time ago. She was usually early to bed, but tonight she’d been up waiting.
The young sailor sat on the porch as she’d directed, his legs splayed straight ahead of him. She’d cut his shirt from him in order not to jostle the quarrel embedded in his chest any further. Dried blood smeared his chest and stomach and stained his breeches. Streaks of it turned the hardwood floor of the porch brown in places. He regretted that; he knew how Madame Iitaar treasured a clean porch for her guests.
“Aye, ma’am,” he gasped.
The pain in his chest had died away to a dull throb, but the increased pressure in his wounded lung was frightening. Even when everything around him had been out of his control, he’d always been able to control himself, his body. Now, not even that existed.
“Before I can give you a healing potion to cure your wounds,” Madame Iitaar said, “I’ve got to get that quarrel out of you.”
“Aye, ma’am.”
She touched the feathered shaft carefully. Despite her advanced years, her hands remained steady. “I can’t pull that quarrel out.”
Jherek tried to talk, but his voice seemed caught for a moment. “I know.”
She held his face in her work-roughened hands. “I could give you a sleep draught, Jherek, but I wouldn’t be able to rouse you before dawn.” She hesitated. “There’s a ship you must catch tonight.”
Jherek stared into her eyes, not knowing what to say. Madame Iitaar wasn’t just kicking him out of her house, she was banishing him from the city.
“She’s called Breezeru
nner,” Madame Iitaar said. “Do you know her?”
“Aye, ma’am. She runs north, along Sword Coast.” Jherek broke into a coughing fit and fresh blood bubbled up from his injured lung.
“She leaves port in only a few hours,” the woman said. “I’ve paid for passage for you under another name. They won’t know you. Do you understand?”
“Aye, ma’am.”
Questions filled Jherek’s mind, pricking at the hurt her words caused him. Before he could utter any of them, Madame Iitaar shoved an open hand at the quarrel, stopping less than an inch short of actually touching it. The young sailor thought he saw blue sparks flare from her fingertips, but he couldn’t be sure because in the next moment pain ripped through his chest. He tried to scream but couldn’t.
The arrow jerked inside him as if it had been shot yet again. He felt it pierce his back and come out the other side, propelled by Madame Iitaar’s magic. He jerked, trying to escape the agony, but Madame Iitaar wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him to her until it passed. He made himself be still, not wanting to accidentally hurt her. Shudders quivered through his body like he was a tuning fork. Perspiration broke out along his brow and upper lip. Fresh blood spilled down his chest and back.
He tried to speak, but blood gurgled up from the wounded lung, a new torrent unleashed. He started drowning then as the other lung filled as well and couldn’t find the heart to break free of Madame Iitaar’s grip. He’d always feared he’d be alone when he died, and no one would care. At least here, in her arms, he could hold onto the illusion of family.
XIV
30 Ches, the Year of the Gauntlet
“Oghma grant us mercy.”
Pacys hung onto the wagon seat as Hroman prayed and steered the pulling team along Dock Street beside him. The intersection to Ship Street lay just ahead, but the bard knew there’d be no passing along it. The sahuagin had risen from the waters of the harbor and taken their battle into the Mermaid’s Arms festhall and to the shipbuilding shed of Arnagus the Shipwright, filling the streets there. Men ran with torches, but the light from the fires spreading uncontrolled across the harbor lit the area up. The storm out on the water lashed high waves over the docks, well above the normal waterline.