Temple Hill

by Karpyshyn, Drew

  Lhasha took a quick glance around at the empty tables and chairs. “And which customers would those be?”

  “I ain’t takin’ no lip form you, ye little tart!” the waitress snapped back. “Order somethin’ or get out!”

  Stunned at the harshness of their server, Lhasha stammered, “A … a glass of wine, please. Red.”

  The waitress stuck out her hand and held it there until Lhasha fished out a silver coin and placed it in her palm.

  “Keep the change,” she said, hoping to win the bitter woman over.

  The waitress humphed once, cast a disapproving look at the both of them, and stomped off.

  “We’re lucky,” Corin said after she left, “the friendly one’s working tonight.”

  Lhasha smiled, then realized it wasn’t a joke. She looked around in a slightly bemused state of mild revulsion.

  “This place is a dump,” she finally whispered. “Why would anyone ever come here?”

  “It’s cheap and nobody bothers you,” Corin explained.

  The waitress returned and slammed a goblet down on the table in front of Lhasha then limped off without a word.

  The half-elf took a dubious sniff of the cup, then cautiously raised it up to her mouth. She paused, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Corin, there’s a bug in my wine!”

  “Just one?”

  Lhasha set the goblet down and pushed it away without taking a sip. “Suddenly I don’t think I need that drink anymore.”

  Corin shrugged, but otherwise had no comment.

  Lhasha drummed her fingers on the table. “So what do we do next?” she wondered aloud.

  Once she realized there wasn’t going to be a reply from the other end of the table, the half-elf continued, talking the problem out loud to herself, more than anything.

  “We didn’t get the package, so we won’t get paid,” she said with a frown. “And we left Fendel’s ladder and bar spreader behind. Those weren’t cheap. Worst job I’ve ever done, bar none. I’ll probably even have to give back the down payment when I go to rendezvous with the contact.”

  “He won’t be there,” Corin said simply. “We weren’t supposed to survive.”

  “You still think this was all an elaborate set-up?” Lhasha asked incredulously. “That doesn’t make any sense. If someone wanted me dead, why go to all this trouble?”

  “This wasn’t about you. You were expendable, a pawn. This was cult business.”

  Lhasha laughed. “Cult business? You missed your calling, Corin. With an imagination like that you should have been a bard, spinning stories for kings and emperors.”

  “But,” she added after a moment’s thought, “that snake thing—naga, you called it? It seems like the kind of creature that would be working for the Cult of the Dragon.

  “And the cult is heavily involved in illegal smuggling,” Lhasha continued, not even bothering to wait for Corin to jump into the conversation. “Everyone knows they secretly own several of the warehouses in the Caravan district. Plus, my contact said one of the reasons he hired me was my lack of cult affiliation.”

  She shook her head emphatically, rejecting her own arguments. “No, I’m still not convinced. Why even bother sending me in there if he expected me to fail?”

  “He’s trying to flush them out,” Corin answered.

  Lhasha nodded enthusiastically. “Of course. Forcing their hand, smoking them out. That’s possible. Even a failed burglary could spook them. Make them move their precious package. Take it to a new location, maybe move it right out of the city.

  “But who was he working for?” the half-elf mused.

  “And what about all the money he paid me up front?”

  “The cult has lots of enemies. Powerful enemies.”

  “That’s true,” Lhasha admitted. “There’s a lot of groups that would be willing to throw away a bag of gems if it meant causing trouble for the Cult of the Dragon.” She chewed thoughtfully on her lip. “Yanseldara’s been trying to drive the dragon worshipers out of her city once and for all. I hear she has Harper connections. The Harpers are working to bring down the cult.”

  “This isn’t the Harpers’ style.”

  “Yeah, you’ve got a point there. Fendel’s run across them a few times, and from what he’s told me the Harpers wouldn’t send someone in to be an unsuspecting sacrifice. It goes against everything they stand for.”

  “The Masks?” Corin suggested.

  “They’ve been warring with the cult for control of Elversult’s underground for years,” Lhasha conceded, “but I doubt the Purple Masks were involved. My contact made a point of telling me I was hired because I wasn’t connected with the Masks, either. Given my current relationship with the local guild, the last thing they’d want is to give me a job.”

  After a moment, the half-elf reconsidered. “Unless they tried to kill two birds with one stone. Cause trouble for the cult by sending in a stubborn thief who refused to join their guild. Either I get the package and the cult suffers, or I get killed in the process. It’s a win-win situation for the Masks.”

  Before Corin could register his opinion on her latest theory, Lhasha tossed it away herself.

  “No, I just don’t buy it. You didn’t see this guy, Corin. No way he was working for the Masks.”

  “You sound confident.”

  “Believe me, I’m sure. I was dealing with the Masks long before I met you,” Lhasha explained with a rueful smile. “I remember when they first started recruiting members. They knew they were in for a tough road. The cult controlled everything in Elversult back then—smuggling, slavery, assassinations, stolen goods. Any territory the Purple Masks moved into would have to be taken away from the Cult of the Dragon.

  “They needed to drive the cult back bit by bit. It was all out war, Corin. Still is. The Masks knew the only way they’d stand a chance was if their members could beat the cult followers whenever their paths crossed. The Masks wanted every advantage they could get.

  “They insisted that all their members be in great physical shape. A small edge, but one they needed. It became part of the guild’s culture; fitness is a basic Mask philosophy. You never see an overweight Purple Mask, it just doesn’t happen. They don’t let it happen. Its bad form. They consider it to be a sign of weak will and laziness. They’d never trust a fat man with something like this.

  “But my contact—he had to weigh three hundred stone, easy.”

  Corin shrugged. “Not the Masks. Not the Harpers. So who?”

  “Elversult’s always attracted more than its share of the criminal element,” Lhasha mused. “Could be a new organization, trying to make a name for themselves by going up against the cult. No way to know who, unless we find my contact again. Not much chance of that, I’ll wager.”

  They sat in silence, neither one certain of their next step. Lhasha smiled as a mental image popped unbidden into her head. “I wish you could meet this guy,” she said to Corin. “You’d get that pompous ass to spill his ample guts. You’d just wrap one of those fancy silk scarves around his neck, and squeeze until all those gaudy gold rings popped right off his fat little fingers. God, those things were hideous.”

  “What?” Corin seized Lhasha by the shoulder from across the table. “What did you just say?”

  “S-Sorry,” the half-elf said, taken aback by the sudden intensity in the warrior’s eyes. “It just seemed like a funny thought to me, for a second. I didn’t mean anything by it.” She squirmed beneath the bruising force of the mighty hand gripping her shoulder.

  Suddenly aware of what he was doing, Corin dropped his hand and mumbled an apology. Lhasha rubbed her shoulder gingerly, trying to make sense of Corin’s violent reaction. Across from her, the warrior clenched his fist and slammed it on the table, never taking his burning eyes off his amputated stump.

  “Hey, its all right,” Lhasha reassured him. “Nothing to get worked up over. Just a little bruise.” In an effort to break the tension she jokingly added, “I’ll just dock your pay.”


  Suddenly Corin stood up. “I can’t work for you any longer,” he declared.

  “What? Hey, c’mon big guy. I was just kidding. I’m fine, really.”

  Corin shook his head. “You don’t need me. You’ve got enough gold to get to Cormyr on your own. You can hire a small army of guards once those gems are sold.”

  Lhasha carefully studied her friend. He stood stiffly, almost at attention. What she had come to know as his professional stance. She knew he was serious.

  “Corin, what’s going on here?”

  “I failed you. I knew this was a set-up. I should never have let you take this job. Then I led you right into the monster’s grasp.”

  “Listen,” she said urgently, “those things weren’t your fault. You saved me from the Maces at the Fair. You saved me from the assassins in my room. And look at me, I’m still alive. I’m fine, just a little nick on the leg is all.”

  She stood up and took a step toward Corin, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not a failure.”

  He shrugged it off and stepped away. His eyes were hostile and threatening. “I didn’t want to say this, but you leave me no choice. It’s because of you that I’m leaving.”

  Lhasha recoiled as if she’d been slapped. “Wh … what are you talking about?”

  Through clenched teeth Corin spat his words at her. “You’ve made this partnership impossible. You wouldn’t listen to me on what inn to stay at. You wouldn’t listen to me when I said this job was a trap.”

  “But Corin, that was just—”

  He continued on as if he hadn’t heard her. “I told you to stay back if there was any fighting, but you still managed to get yourself poisoned by the naga.”

  “I tried to—”

  “You’re irresponsible, reckless, and foolish. You don’t think ahead. You’re a menace. A threat to yourself and anyone around you. When you wind up dead, my reputation can’t afford to take the blame.”

  “Your reputation?” Lhasha shot back angrily. “Until you met me you didn’t have any reputation left! You were a drunk brawling in the streets, remember? I gave you a chance. I helped you get your reputation back!”

  Corin sneered. “And what a grand reputation I have now—working for a second rate thief who dresses like a whore!”

  Lhasha grabbed her drink and threw it at Corin. He didn’t flinch, but the cup missed him by at least a foot and smashed against the back wall.

  “Hey!” the waitress shrieked from across the tavern, “yer gonna pay fer that or I’m gettin’ the Maces!”

  “Here!” Lhasha shouted back, throwing a handful of coins on the table so hard they ricocheted off and scattered across the floor. “Now shut up, you withered old hag!”

  Bottling up her rage, Lhasha turned back to Corin, who hadn’t moved since his abrupt severing of their relationship. In a quiet voice she said, “Go see Fendel when you want your back wages. I’ll be in Cormyr.”

  She spun on her heel and walked out, head held high. She kept her composure until she was safely beyond the door, then succumbed to emotion. Sobbing with anger and shaking with adrenaline from the confrontation she stumbled down the street, wiping bitter tears of betrayal from her eyes.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Over and over, Graal paced the length of the small subterranean meeting chamber. Four long, loping strides would bring him to one of the stone walls. He would punch the hard rock with his fist before changing direction and resuming the pattern.

  Fhazail was late. It was bad enough the fat steward had sent word virtually demanding this meeting. Graal hated to be at anyone’s beck and call. Then to keep him waiting …

  The orog struggled to rein his fury in, lest he do something foolish and incur Xiliath’s wrath.

  This insult was just another in a long list justifying Graal’s hatred for Fhazail. Add it to the appalling sight of yellow and orange silk shirts clinging to mounds of rolling fat, or the repugnant scent of perfumes and powders that embraced Fhazail like a desperate lover. It took days for Graal to purge their lavender stench from his nostrils.

  It was more than just a physical revulsion that fueled Graal’s hatred. Fhazail’s attitude was galling to the orog. Graal inspired terror in lesser creatures, and he reveled in it. But in Fhazail’s case there was no pleasure in the fear. Fhazail was brazenly craven, he kowtowed and groveled and whimpered and whined too easily. It was second nature to him. Fhazail felt no shame, no humiliation, no debasement when he cowered at one’s feet, and Graal felt no power from intimidating such a fawning sycophant.

  It even went deeper, Graal suspected. Graal could kill Fhazail on a whim, the steward knew that. Yet Graal sensed that somehow Fhazail was always in control of the situation. The corpulent coward always knew exactly how far he could go, and beneath his trembling exterior Graal suspected Fhazail was toying with him, laughing at him.

  Despite the urge, Graal knew he mustn’t kill Fhazail. Not yet. Xiliath was very specific about that. Fhazail was his master’s most important spy within the Cult of the Dragon, the key to getting the package for Xiliath’s own use. Once the package was delivered and Yanseldara’s doom assured, Graal hoped, Fhazail’s usefulness would be served. Then there would come a reckoning.

  Graal heard wheezing coming from far down one of the darkened tunnels branching off from the small smuggler’s den. Soon he could see flickering points of light tracing their way across the walls, floor, and ceiling of the rough hewn passage, the flame from the torch reflected and refracted by the garish gemstones set into Fhazail’s audacious rings. The orog cared little for such baubles and trinkets. Wealth was only useful for the power it could buy. Fhazail was obsessed with such ostentatious displays. One more reason to lust after the steward’s death.

  Fhazail jogged into the room, his flab shaking and quivering with each labored stride. He gasped out an apology, but his words were all but lost in the roaring bloodlust that exploded in Graal’s head at his sight. The orog struggled to suppress the rage, but the world became a vision of red.

  Prostrating himself at Graal’s mighty boots, Fhazail begged for his life. Words the enraged monster before him could no longer even understand. He was deaf to pleas, and devoid of mercy. Graal slowly raised his blade, savoring this long awaited moment.

  A single word from his victim pierced the veil of his fury, halting his blade.

  “… Xiliath …”

  The name momentarily stayed Graal’s hand. The orog knew little of fear, yet he was ever conscious of his master’s awesome wrath. He took a deep, growling breath and held it. His pounding heart, eager for the slaughter to come, began to slow. The fog of berserker fury receded.

  “Repeat what you said,” Graal snarled, “and I may let you live.”

  Without question or hesitation, Fhazail reiterated his pleas. “Forgive me, Graal, but I bring Xiliath news of the Dragon Cult’s package.” His begging sounded humble and sincere, his voice a near shriek filled with fear and terror.

  Yet in the steward’s eyes Graal could see something else. Fhazail knew he would not die tonight. He had pushed Graal to the very brink of a mindless wrath that would bring on swift and brutal death, but with a single word the steward had averted a bloody fate yet again.

  “I don’t know whether to kill you for demanding this meeting, or for making me wait,” Graal threatened. But he knew it was an empty threat, and Fhazail knew it, too.

  “When you hear my news you will understand,” Fhazail explained. “The cult is moving the package, tonight. My plan worked.”

  “You never did explain your plan,” Graal noted. “Xiliath might want to know where the gems he gave you went.”

  “I gave them to a thief,” Fhazail said. “A down payment for the job. I hired her to break into the cult’s warehouse. When Azlar heard about the attempted burglary, he panicked. He fears the package is not safe in Elversult. They are taking it out of the city tonight, as soon as it gets dark.”

  Graal raised his fist in anger
, and Fhazail scuttled out of range. “Fool!” Graal spat at him. “The Masks cannot know anything of this! They have been infiltrated by Yanseldara’s spies! If she learns of the package the plan is ruined!”

  “Spare me, wrathful Graal!” Fhazail squealed, pitifully raising his pudgy hands over his head to shield the expected blow. “I have not betrayed Xiliath to the Masks! I found a young woman who was freelancing her talents. She has no connection to the guild.”

  “And what became of her?” Graal asked, slowly lowering his hand. “Is she dead?”

  “Much to my surprise, she escaped with her life, though I doubt she had even a glimpse of the package. Somehow she killed the guardian. A naga. The door to the room where the package was kept was still locked. She knows nothing.”

  Graal scratched at his jutting lower jaw with his grimy, discolored nails. “One less snake-beast in the world to serve the dragon worshipers. Xiliath will be pleased at that. Continue your report.”

  Emboldened by the orog’s reaction, Fhazail stood up and brushed the dust of the small cave’s floor from his knees.

  “Azlar wants to move the package to a cult stronghold hidden a few miles outside the city. Right now they are scrambling to clean up the mess in the warehouse. He wants to leave no trace of the cult’s presence behind, nothing that might tip Yanseldara off to their plot. He ordered me to oversee the operation. I couldn’t get away. That was why I was so late in coming here.”

  “And the workers? They are being silenced, I presume?”

  Fhazail nodded. “Of course, most fearsome Graal. Azlar used his magic to alter their memories, for the most part. A few ran off in terror when the naga’s body was discovered. They know better than to speak of what goes on in the warehouse, but I convinced Azlar of the need to send me out after them just in case they let slip a rumor of what they have seen. That’s how I managed to get away to meet you.”

  “And when you find them?” Graal asked with a malevolent grin.

  Fhazail shrugged. “I was given money to entice them to come back to the warehouse. If I can convince them to return, Azlar will erase their memories as well. If not, I will notify the cult assassins. They will deal with the workers and anyone they might have spoken to. I hope it does not come to that.”