Aoth smiled and shook his head. It was astonishing that a cleric in an insignificant outpost like Thazar Keep could exert so much power. Maybe the Banite had been hoarding a talisman of extraordinary potency, or perhaps he had in desperation called out to his deity, and the Black Hand had seen fit to answer with a miracle.
Trembling, his features taut with a mixture of concentration and exultation, the priest stretched his fist even higher. Aoth inferred that he was about to attempt a feat even more difficult than he’d accomplished already. He meant to scour the entire undead horde from existence.
Then his eyes and most of his features shredded into tattered flesh and gore. One of his foes, perhaps the same spellcasting specter or ghoul that had injured Brightwing, had somehow resisted his god-granted power and struck back. The Banite reeled, screamed, and the light of the gauntlet guttered out. The undead hurled themselves forward once more.
At least the priest hurt them, thought Aoth. Maybe I can finish what he started. He started to shout an incantation, and darkness swirled around him like smoke from some filthy conflagration. Crimson eyes shone toward the top of the thing amid a protrusion of vapor that might conceivably serve it as a head.
He tried to threaten it with his spear and complete his recitation simultaneously, but even though he was a battle wizard and had trained himself to articulate his spells with the necessary precision even in adverse circumstances, he stumbled over the next syllables, botching and wasting the magic. Suddenly, he had no air to articulate anything. The spirit had somehow leeched it from the space around him and even his very lungs.
His chest burning, an unaccustomed panic yammering through his mind, he endeavored to hold his breath, or what little he had left of it, and thrust repeatedly with his spear. If the jabs were hurting his attacker—an undead air elemental, did such entities exist?—he couldn’t tell. Darkness seethed at the edges of his vision, and he lost his balance and fell to his knees.
Pinions spread for balance, rearing on her hind legs, Brightwing raked the spirit with her claws and tore at it with her beak. The entity whirled to face her, a movement mainly perceptible by virtue of the rotation of the gleaming eyes in the all but shapeless cloud that was its body, but before it could try stealing her breath, it broke apart into harmless fumes.
Aoth’s one desire was to lie where he’d fallen and gasp in breath after breath of air, but his comrades needed the few spells he had left for the casting, so he struggled to his feet and peered around, trying to determine how to exert his powers to their best effect.
To his dismay, he couldn’t tell. It didn’t appear there was anything anyone could do to turn the tide. There were more undead than live soldiers on the battlements. The diggers had finished their tunnel under the wall, and ghouls and skeletons were streaming though. Everywhere he looked, shriveled, fungus-spotted jaws tore flesh and guzzled spurting blood, and the gossamer-soft but poisonous touch of shadows and ghosts withered all who suffered it. The air was icy cold and stank of rot and gore.
“Go,” someone croaked.
Aoth turned then winced to see the castellan swaying and tottering in place. Moments before, the officer had been an aged man but still vital and hardy. Now he looked as senescent and infirm as anyone Aoth had ever seen. His face had dissolved into countless sagging wrinkles, and a milky cataract sealed one eye. His muscles had wasted away, and his clothes and armor hung loose on his spindly frame. His targe was gone, perhaps because he was no longer strong enough to carry it. Aoth could only assume that one of the ghosts had blighted the poor wretch with a strike or grab.
“Go,” the captain repeated. “We’ve lost here. You have to warn the tharchion.”
“Yes, sir. Brightwing! We’re flying!”
The griffon hissed. Like her master, she didn’t relish the idea of running from a fight, even a hopeless one. Still, she crouched, making it easier for him to scramble onto her back, and as soon as he had, she sprang into the air.
As her wings hammered, carrying them higher, another flyer glided in on their flank. With its outstretched bat wings, talons, and curling horns, it somewhat resembled a gargoyle, but it had a whipping serpentine tail and looked as if its body were formed of the same shadowstuff as the night itself. It had no face as such, just a flat triangular space set with a pair of pale eyes blank and round as pearls.
After all that he’d experienced already, Aoth might have believed himself inured to fear, but when he looked into the entity’s eyes, his mouth went dry as sand.
He swallowed and drew breath to recite the most potent attack spell he had left, but the apparition waved a contemptuous hand, signaling that he was free to go, then beat its wings and wheeled away.
chapter three
12 Mirtul, the Year of Risen Elfkin
Dmitra believed she possessed a larger and more effective network of spies than anyone else in Thay. Still, she’d found that when one wished to gauge the mood of the mob—and every person of consequence, even a zulkir, was well-advised to keep track of it if he or she wished to remain in power—there was no substitute for doing some spying oneself.
Happily, for a Red Wizard of Illusion, the task was simple. She merely cloaked herself in the appearance of a commoner, slipped out of the palace via one of the secret exits, and wandered the taverns and markets of Eltabbar eavesdropping.
She generally wore the guise of a pretty Rashemi lass. It was less complicated to maintain an effective disguise if appearance didn’t differ too radically from the underlying reality. It was easier to carry oneself as the semblance ought to move and speak as it ought to speak. The illusion had an additional advantage as well. When she cared to join a conversation, most men were happy to allow it.
But by the same token, a comely girl roaming around unescorted sometimes attracted male attention of a type she didn’t want. It was happening now, as she stood jammed in with the rest of the crowd. A hand brushed her bottom—it could have been inadvertent, so she waited—then returned to give her a pinch.
She didn’t jerk or whirl around. She turned without haste. It gave her time to whisper a charm.
The leer would have made it easy to identify the lout who’d touched her even if he hadn’t been standing directly behind her. He was tall for a commoner, and his overshot chin and protruding lower canines betrayed orcish blood. She stared into his eyes and breathed the final word of her incantation.
The half-orc screamed and blundered backward, flailing at the illusion of nightmarish assailants she’d planted in his mind. The press was such that he inevitably collided with other rough characters, who took exception to the jostling. A burly man carrying a wooden box of carpenter’s tools booted the half-orc’s legs out from under him then went on kicking and stamping when the oaf hit the ground. Other men clustered around and joined in.
Smiling, hoping they’d cripple or kill the half-orc, Dmitra turned back around to watch the play unfolding atop a stage built of crates at the center of the plaza. The theme was Thay’s recent triumph in the Gorge of Gauros. A clash of armies seemed a difficult subject for a dozen ragtag actors to address, but changing their rudimentary costumes quickly and repeatedly as they assumed various roles, they managed to limn the story in broad strokes.
It was no surprise that a troupe of players had turned the battle into a melodrama. Such folk often mined contemporary events for story material, sometimes risking arrest when the results mocked or criticized their betters. What impressed Dmitra was the enthusiasm this particular play engendered. The audience cheered on the heroic tharchions and legionnaires, booed and hissed the bestial Rashemi, and groaned whenever the latter seemed to gain the upper hand.
Dmitra supposed it was understandable. Thayans had craved a victory over Rashemen for a long time, and perhaps Druxus Rhym’s murder made them appreciate it all the more. Even folk who claimed to loathe the zulkirs—and the Black Lord knew, there were many—might secretly welcome a sign that the established order was still strong and unlikely to dis
solve into anarchy anytime soon.
Still, something about the mob’s reaction troubled her, even if she couldn’t say why.
One of the lead actors ducked behind a curtain. He sprang back out just a moment later, but that had been enough time to doff the bear-claw necklace and long, tangled wig that had marked him as a Rashemi chieftain and don a pink—he couldn’t dress in actual red under penalty of law—skull-emblazoned tabard in their place. He flourished his hands as if casting a spell, and the audience cheered even louder than before to see Szass Tam magically materialize on the scene just when it seemed the day was lost.
Dmitra knew the reaction ought to please her, for after all, the lich was her patron. If the rabble loved him, it could only strengthen her own position. Still, her nagging disquiet persisted.
She decided not to linger until the end of the play. She’d assimilated what it had to teach her, and to say the least, the quality of the performance was insufficient to detain her. She made her way through Eltabbar’s tangled streets to what appeared to be a derelict cobbler’s shop, glanced around to make sure no one was watching, unlocked the door with a word of command, and slipped inside. A concealed trapdoor at the rear of the shop granted access to the tunnels below.
Dmitra reflected that she’d traversed the maze so often, she could probably do it blind. It might even be amusing to try sometime, but not today. Too many matters demanded her attention. She conjured a floating orb of silvery glow to light her way then climbed down the ladder.
In no time at all, she was back in her study, a cozy, unassuming room enlivened by fragrant, fresh-cut tulips and lilies and the preserved heads of two of her old rivals gazing morosely down from the wall. She dissolved her disguise with a thought, cleaned the muck from her shoes and the hem of her gown with a murmured charm, then waved her hand. The sonorous note of a gong shivered through the air, and a page scurried in to find out what she wanted.
“Get me Malark Springhill,” she said.
By marriage, Dmitra was the princess of Mulmaster, even if she didn’t spend much time there, or in the company of her husband, for that matter, and she’d imported some of her most useful servants from that distant city-state. Her hope was that their lack of ties to anyone else in Thay would help ensure their loyalty. Despite the fact that he now shaved his head and sported tattoos like a Mulan born, Malark was one of these expatriates. Compactly built with a small wine red birthmark on his chin, he didn’t look particularly impressive, certainly not unusually dangerous, until one noticed the deft economy of his movements or the cool calculation in his pale green eyes.
“Tharchion,” he said, kneeling.
“Rise,” she said, “and tell me how you’re getting along.”
“We’re making progress. One of Samas Kul’s opponents has withdrawn from the election. Another is being made to appear petty and inept.”
“So Kul will be the next zulkir of Transmutation.” Malark hesitated. “I’m not prepared to promise that as yet. It’s not easy manipulating a brotherhood of wizards. Something could still go wrong.”
She sighed. “I would have preferred a guarantee. Still, we’ll have to trust your agents to complete the work successfully. I have another task for you, one you must undertake unassisted.” She told him what it was.
Her orders brought a frown to his face. “May I speak candidly?”
“If you must,” she said, her tone grudging.
Actually, she valued his counsel. It had spared her a costly misstep, or provided the solution to a thorny problem, on more than one occasion, but it wouldn’t do to permit him or any of her servants to develop an inflated sense of his importance.
“This could be dangerous, not just for me but for both of us.”
“I’m sending you because I trust you not to get caught.”
“The tharchion knows I’m willing to take risks in pursuit of sensible ends—”
She laughed. “Are you saying I’ve lost my sense?”
He peered at her as if trying to gauge whether he had in fact given offense. Good. Let him wonder.
“Of course not, High Lady,” he said at length, “but I don’t understand what you’re trying to achieve. Whatever I learn, what will it gain you?”
“I can’t say, but knowledge is strength. I became ‘First Princess of Thay’ by understanding all sorts of things, and I mean to comprehend this as well.”
“Then, if I have your leave to withdraw, I’ll go and pack my saddlebags.”
Bareris doggedly jerked the rope, and the brass bell mounted beside the door clanged over and over again. Eventually the door opened partway, revealing a stout man with a coiled whip and a ring of iron keys hanging from his belt. For a moment, his expression seemed welcoming enough, but when he saw who was seeking admittance, it hardened into a glare.
“Go away,” he growled, “we’re closed.”
“I’m sorry to disturb the household,” Bareris answered, “but my business can’t wait.”
It was less than two hundred miles from Bezantur to the city of Tyraturos, but the road snaked up the First Escarpment, an ascending series of sheer cliffs dividing the Thayan lowlands from the central plateau. Bareris had nearly killed a fine horse making as good a time as he had then spent a long, frustrating day trying to locate one particular slave trader in a teeming commercial center he’d never visited before. Having reached his destination at last, he had no intention of meekly going away and returning in the morning. He’d shove his way in if he had to.
But perhaps softer methods would suffice. “How would you like to earn a gold piece?”
“Doing what?”
“The same thing you do during the day. Show me the slaves.”
The watchman hesitated. “That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“Give me the coin.”
Bareris handed over the coin. The guard bit it, pocketed it, then led him into the barracoon, a shadowy, echoing place that smelled of unwashed bodies. The bard felt as if he were all but vibrating with impatience. It took an effort to keep from demanding that his guide quicken the pace.
In fact, they reached the long open room where the slaves slept soon enough. The wan yellow light of a single lantern just barely alleviated the gloom. The watchman called for his charges to wake and stand, kicking those who were slow to obey. Confident of his ability to recognize Tammith even after six years, even in the dark, Bareris scrutinized the women.
Then his guts twisted, because she wasn’t here. Tracking her, he’d discovered that since becoming a slave, she’d passed in and out of the custody of multiple owners. The merchant who’d bought her originally had passed her on to a caravan master, a middleman who made his living moving goods inland from the port. He then handed her off to one of the many slave traders of Tyraturos.
Who had obviously sold her in his turn, with Bareris once again arriving too late to buy her out of bondage. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and reminded himself he hadn’t failed. He simply had to follow the trail a little farther.
He turned toward the watchman. “I’m looking for a particular woman. Her name is Tammith Iltazyarra, and I know you had her here within the past several days, maybe even earlier today. She’s young, small, and slim, with bright blue eyes. She hasn’t been a slave for very long: Her black hair is still short, and she doesn’t have old whip scars on her back. You almost certainly sold her to a buyer who wanted a skilled potter. Or … or to someone looking to purchase an uncommonly pretty girl.”
The watchman sneered. Maybe he discerned how frantic Bareris was to find Tammith, and as was often the case with bullies, another person’s need stirred his contempt.
“Sorry, friend. The wench was never here. I wish she had been. Sounds like I could have had a good time with her before we moved her out.”
Bareris felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of icy water over his head. “This is the house of Kanithar Chergoba?”
“Yes,” said the guard, “and now that you see your
trollop isn’t here, I’ll show you the way out of it.”
Indeed, Bareris could see no reason to linger. He’d evidently deviated from Tammith’s trail at some point, though he didn’t understand how that was possible. Had someone lied to him along the way, and if so, why? What possible reason could there be?
All he knew was his only option was to backtrack. Too sick at heart to speak, he waved his hand, signaling his willingness for the watchman to conduct him to the exit, and then a realization struck him.
“Wait,” he said.
“Why? You’ve had your look.”
“I paid gold for your time. You can spare me a few more moments. I’ve heard your master is one of the busiest slave traders in the city, and it must be true. This room can house hundreds of slaves, yet I only see a handful.”
The watchman shrugged. “Sometimes we sell them off faster than they come in.”
“I believe you,” Bareris said, “and I suspect your stock is depleted because someone bought a great many slaves at once. That could be why you don’t remember Tammith. You never had a reason or a chance to give her any individual attention.”
The watchman shook his head. “You’re wrong. It’s been months since we sold more than two or three at a time.”
Bareris studied his face and was somehow certain he was lying, but what did he have to gain by dissembling? By the silver harp, had they sold Tammith to a festhall or into some other circumstance so foul that he feared to admit it to a man who obviously cared about her?
The bard struggled to erase any trace of rancor from his features. “Friend, I know I don’t look it in these worn, dusty clothes with my hair grown out like an outlander’s, but I’m a wealthy man. I have plenty more gold to exchange for the truth, and I give you my word that however much it upsets me, I won’t take my anger out on you.”
The guard screwed up his features in an almost comical expression of deliberation, then said, “Sorry. The girl wasn’t here. We didn’t sell off a bunch of slaves all at once. You’re just wrong about everything.”
Unclean: The Haunted Lands Page 5