Tharra gave him a thin smile. “You spend a lot of time with tieflings?”
“No,” Dahl said, rubbing his eyes “That’s . . . new. Temporary.”
“Hm. Seems slippery,” she said. “A pity we don’t have more resources.”
“Do you have agents coming?” Dahl said.
Tharra chuckled. “No. We’re not all wizards like you lot, hauling around scrolls, casting sendings like they were stones into the sea.”
“That’s not . . .” Dahl shook his head and winced when it started spinning. “Look, I’ll defer to you here. Clearly, you know what’s going on better than I do. But for the love of every watching god, you have to tell me what’s happening.”
Tharra shook her head, as if all the words in every tongue on Faerûn couldn’t sum up what was happening in the camp. “Something strange and something wonderful and something far more dangerous than we can comprehend. The gods are stirring, mark my words, and in a way we’ve never seen before. The wars? The way powers who were content to bide their time have all leaped at each others’ throats?—if that isn’t the hand of the gods moving things, I don’t know what it is.”
“Politics,” Dahl said. “Tensions past their breaking point. Wars happen, then people think ‘Why not us too? Why not our problem?’ It spills over.”
“And the earthmotes? The plaguepockets fading? The world is getting ready for something,” Tharra said. “These people, all of them, were stolen out of their lands, their homes. Gods above know what makes him choose them exactly, but he’s not grabbing at random. Sometimes he takes a whole village. Sometimes he takes a single child.” Tharra dropped her voice. “But the ones he takes, some of them, when the time is right, gain powers by the grace of the gods. Right out of the blue. Strange powers.”
“Like the boy trailing flowers.”
Tharra nodded. “Samayan? Chosen of Chauntea, near as we can figure.”
Dahl eyed Tharra. “Funny way for the Earthmother to spread her influence.”
“Depends on what it is She’s trying to do.”
A god grants a mortal powers, but not the powers that can save them, Dahl thought. “It doesn’t sound like any Chosen I’ve heard of.”
Tharra shrugged. “They call it what they call it. A lot of the ones we find are like Samayan—their gifts are modest, but you can’t deny they’re something rare. No use against the shadar-kai, but the wizard gathers them up as if they’re precious things—the ones they catch. Those powers usually come on quiet, and the wizard doesn’t always notice it’s happening. We can keep them away, shifting them around the camp ahead of the guards’ sweeps. They haven’t caught on yet. Others you get are like Oota—can’t put your finger to it, but you know something’s strange. Your thoughts just go a little crooked, a little changed. If we weren’t noticing daisies and such, we might not realize it was something unique. They can usually blend in.
“A few gain much more impressive powers. The sort of thing you expect when you hear ‘Chosen.’ They don’t tend to be quiet. The guards come for them much quicker, catch them as they manifest.” Her expression darkened. “Not all of them survive for the wizard’s use.”
“And you? Or do you Dales Harpers get that odd influence with your pins?”
Tharra flushed and shrugged, and Dahl realized there must be an etiquette here he didn’t know. “Not all of us get a clear message. And the majority of us are just ordinary. Or ordinary for now. We’ve found signs the powers are coming—a persistent ill-feeling, or sometimes a euphoria no one can explain, vertigo or dreams about the gods. It’s not perfect, but everyone knows to look out for strangeness.”
People touched by the powers of the gods. People disappearing—whole villages disappearing. Was that what had happened to Vescaras’s farmstead? Or any of the missing Harpers? Were Vescaras’s lost agents, or Dahl’s Sembian handler, among the dead Chosen?
“If you’re all touched by the gods,” Dahl asked, “why are you still here?”
“Because the wizard is very prepared.” Tharra scooped another dipper of water for Dahl. “Drink it and get some rest. You can sleep off the vision’s side effects, but your head’s going to feel like it’s the Chosen of Tempus’s Warhammer tomorrow.”
Glasya’s words echoed in Lorcan’s thoughts as he flew low over a dense forest, searching for the devil Sairché was meant to meet with that evening, according to her imps.
“Your sister understood my particular needs,” she’d said. “Asmodeus’s particular needs. I cannot say I was pleased with her results thus far. But I had my hopes.” She had smiled, and Lorcan had been too terrified to breathe for a moment. “You have her tools. Prove to me the children of Fallen Invadiah don’t repeat their mother’s weaknesses.”
Lorcan searched the ground below. Whatever Sairché had been planning, she had been careful not to leave the details lying around. The erinyes only knew about scattered schemes involving cultists who largely ran on their own. The imps told him about a devil named Magros who sent an avalanche of scrolls. And he’d found the empty case that had held the original orders, passed down from the god of evil himself, buried in a box of useless rods, tucked beneath a settee and behind a rolled up skin-rug.
This wasn’t just about Sairché’s revenge on him.
Lorcan spotted the violet-and-white flash of a portal in the trees below, and dropped straight down, catching the air again to hang near to the clearing, out of the portal’s lingering light.
There was the devil, Magros, decked in heavy furs . . . and there was a cluster of strange creatures besides. Leashed ghouls. A boneclaw, towering over its companions with fingers like scimitars dragging in the litterfall. A handful of robed humans. A woman in red robes with a pale line of hair down the center of her skull. A palanquin besides, hauled by a pair of massive zombies too degraded for him to be sure what exactly they had once been.
“You are no more than four days from the site,” the devil said. “I trust you can find it.”
“Of course,” the woman said. “As much as I trust you’ll be there to see the ritual through and claim your prize.”
“A prize for all the Hells,” he corrected gently. Unctuously, Lorcan thought. Oh, this one would be trouble. The necromancer said something else that Lorcan couldn’t hear, then she and her macabre retinue disappeared into the ancient wood, their way lit by globes of floating light.
Magros turned, and before he could wake the portal once more, Lorcan dropped to the ground in front of him, earning a gratifying cry of surprise.
Lorcan sketched a little bow, marking the hooves, the small horns, the oily expression—a misfortune devil. Smug bastards, he thought. “You’re Magros, I presume,” he said.
“You have the advantage of me.” The misfortune devil’s eyes flicked over Lorcan, resting a moment on the flail-shaped pendent he wore. “A Malbolgian?” He narrowed his eyes. “Did Sairché send you?”
Lorcan smirked. “In a sense.”
“Ah—you’re the brother, aren’t you? The resemblance is uncanny.”
“I doubt that,” Lorcan said. He was supposed to ask, supposed to wonder why it was uncanny. But he didn’t.
“Word was Sairché made short work of you some time ago,” Magros said. “I take it I shouldn’t be expecting her to keep our appointment.”
“She’s indisposed,” Lorcan agreed. “So I have the pleasure of taking her place.”
“Is it a pleasure?”
“It could be.”
“I doubt that if you’ve seen what a mess your sister left behind.”
Lorcan smiled—Magros must have driven Sairché mad. He was hardly trying to provoke Lorcan into defending his position, revealing what he knew. “Is it a mess?” he said. “The site looks quite . . . sharp.”
“Do you have a better leash on the wizard, then?” Magros asked. “Or the armies?”
Lorcan gave him a pitying look. “Did she tell you there were armies involved? How adorable.”
Magros considered L
orcan a long moment—likely Sairché had said no such thing. Likely Magros was simply trying to trick Lorcan as much as Lorcan was trying to trick him. But there would be no chance his erinyes half sisters would not have had plenty to say about Sairché’s handling of an army. The wizard who wouldn’t behave was a better bit of information.
The out-of-place Thayans better still.
“I can tell from her notes that she doesn’t care for you,” Lorcan said. “So we should get along very well.”
“She does have quite the little temper. Takes after your storied mother?”
Lorcan smirked. “You’ve obviously never met Invadiah.”
“I have little reason to travel to Malbolge.” Magros sat on a boulder at the edge of the clearing and crossed his hoofed legs. “If you’re here in Sairché’s place, I assume you have some information. Have you gotten things back on track?” He gave Lorcan a wicked smile. “Or are you the one who’s going to fall in your sister’s place?”
“Please,” Lorcan said witheringly. “Unlike my sister, I know where I stand. If you decide to step on my neck to advance, you’ll have to clamber down the hierarchy to do it. I’ve long since realized there’s nothing to gain by rising above my station—if I could escape this honor, believe me, I would. If there’s any devil in the Hells you can trust—for the moment—it’s me.”
Magros smiled politely, and the effect made Lorcan want to shudder. “You’ll forgive me. I wasn’t promoted yesterday.”
Lorcan shrugged. “And I wasn’t born a fool. There’s a great deal more going on here than it seems. More than even our archlords would ever say—more than my sister was ever going to be foolish enough to leave written. Why would I try and overtake you, Magros? I have enough to do trying to make sure this looks like it was all Sairché’s fault.”
“Will blaming a corpse catch your mistress’s eye?”
“Corpse?” Lorcan said. “I said indisposed. Not dead. Why would I waste a perfectly good piece?” He took a risk and sat on the ground near to Magros. “And why would I care about catching the eye of a mad witch who dragged me right out of my comfortable life?”
Magros raised his eyebrows. “Your words.”
“Indeed.”
“So you’re looking to cross layers?”
“If you threw in the furs, perhaps I’d consider it,” Lorcan said. “But at the moment, all I want is room to make sure whatever collapses lands in Sairché’s hands and not mine.”
Magros tilted his head. “His Highness can offer many perquisites for a little assistance.”
And all the same dangers, Lorcan thought. Stygia might be as far from Malbolge as a mind could imagine—a frigid sea, encased in perpetual ice, the waters below stirring only for hungry, mindless beasts. Its master, Prince Levistus—leagues from beautiful, terrible Glasya with her voice in every devil’s ears—present only in mind, his body sealed in a massive iceberg.
But there was no layer of the Hells where Lorcan’s situation would truly be improved.
“In exchange for your indulgence, I could consider it. What is it he wants?”
“A trifle,” Magros said. “I need someone who can get past the wall your sister’s wizard has around that fortress and take care of my own agent.” He stood once more and gathered up his furs. “Do it right and we shall neatly entrap Sairché. All I need is for you to use this.” Magros suddenly held a gleaming knife, the length of a long bone in one hand. “Shadar-kai make. Run my little traitor through and leave it near. Or better still, run that troublesome wizard through as well and put the weapon in her warlock’s hands. Sairché hasn’t prepared her nearly enough—Lords of the Nine know . . . she might snap.”
The blade’s hilt didn’t warm in Lorcan’s hand, but the center of his chest burned hot. “So that’s where her warlock is,” he murmured, hoping it would cover anything else his face showed. He would have to go there next. He would have to face her. And a wizard who wouldn’t behave.
“What’s the wizard’s name?” he asked idly. “She didn’t mark that down, I’m afraid, and I’ll have to go sort him soon.” Magros gave him an oily smile, and for a heartbeat Lorcan thought he might be wrong, the wizard might be some other nuisance. Sairché might have been lying.
“Rhand,” Magros said. “Although Sairché doesn’t know I know that.”
Even though Lorcan had been expecting to hear the name, his temper threatened to make Invadiah blush.
“Well,” he said. “That should help.”
Draped once more in fur robes, Magros gave him the sort of smile that shone politeness but oozed condescension.
“At least you don’t need to recall it long. Here.” He pulled a bundle of cloth from a pocket hidden in the robes and held it out, peeling back the cloth to reveal an iron cube, its sides etched with frost. “When you’ve taken care of things, let me know. Just squeeze the cube tight.” He dumped it into Lorcan’s hand, and the cambion bit back a cry of pain at the sudden, intense cold. Magros chuckled and dropped the cloth on top. “You’ll have to get used to that.”
The portal gaped and exhaled a frigid breath that made Lorcan fight not to shiver. The misfortune devil vanished, along with the obvious markers of the portal.
He hadn’t mentioned what his agent was doing, Lorcan thought. He hadn’t mentioned why he wanted that one dead. He hadn’t explained about the Thayans. Worse, Magros clearly thought he was an idiot if he was going to go around murdering his pieces and taking the blame.
Lorcan pieced through the details he knew of Sairché’s plan, of Glasya’s. Of Asmodeus’s. There was nothing that would suggest the best course of action lay in allying with the followers of Szass Tam. If rumors were true, the calculating lich was keen to repeat Asmodeus’s feat of snatching the divine spark away from a god and canny enough to manage it. Not the sort of being to hitch your fortunes to, if you were concerned with hanging on to your own ill-gotten gains.
Lorcan wondered whose mistake that was, and if they even knew, before reopening his own portal and stepping back into Malbolge to prepare for his next meeting.
His feet had no more than touched the bone-tiled floor when his mind registered that something was very, very wrong on the other side of the portal. His knees buckled, slamming his body down into a supplicant’s bow. His vision turned black, as if someone had plucked his eyes entirely from his skull. The air burned hot enough Lorcan imagined it would burst into flames if he exhaled too hard. There was only the sound of his frightened breath against the floor.
And then Asmodeus spoke.
The ancient wood swallowed Mehen and the Harpers, the sun lost behind a canopy of emerald leaves. Even in the heart of Ches, the forest felt mild, the air brisk but nothing compared to Everlund’s chill. A carpet of feathermoss and brittle bracken muffled their footsteps, but the sharp, grassy scent of broken plants marked their path wherever they trod.
Daranna checked Mehen’s pace often, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of being the slow, ungainly creature she expected. He knew how to move through the wood, quickly and stealthily. They made camp late and broke early the first night, and by the time they stopped on a high hilltop for the second night, Mehen had to admit at least that the Harpers weren’t the worst folks to be traveling with.
Not as good as his girls, he thought sadly, digging an acorn cap out from beneath one of his foot-claws. He rubbed his sore foot.
“I may owe you a boon,” Khochen said, dropping down beside him. “Daranna swore it would take eight days with you along. I wagered a gold piece we could do it in five. I think you’ll win me my gold yet, goodman. Many thanks.”
“Thank me when you’ve won it,” Mehen said. “Don’t tempt the gods into your business.”
“But they are so easy to tempt, goodman.” Khochen tilted her head. “You must tell me what to call you, at least. ‘Goodman’ is terribly stiff, ‘Mehen’ is too familiar, and no one can tell me your clan or family name—”
“Mehen is fine. And don’t pretend you
don’t know perfectly well I have no clan name.” He scratched the empty piercings along his jaw frill. “You know the difference between clan and family, you know what this means.”
“A hit!” she said clasping a hand to her chest. She considered him silently, that twitchy smile mocking him. “I have guesses,” she said. “The size of the holes, the placement. I’m no scholar of Tymanther, but I think you were somebody once.”
Mehen glared down his snout at her. “I’m still somebody: I am Clanless Mehen, Son of No One, Father of Farideh and Havilar.”
Khochen’s smile softened. “But you were Verthisathurgiesh Mehen. Once.”
All these years, and the sound of those words spoken aloud still sent a shock of shame and anger through Mehen. “Don’t you dare say that name,” he said, his voice a hiss. “I am clanless, and that means forever.”
“Indeed,” Khochen said. “I know that well enough too. But someone is looking for your old self.”
Mehen sighed and folded his arms, and all that sudden shock turned back to annoyance. “Let me guess: a dragonborn, clanless, but freshly enough to tell you that they, too, were Verthisathurgiesh once. Wears a symbol of the Platinum Dragon big enough to stop an axe. Tracked me out of Tymanther, but then the trail runs cold. They start asking, you think of Lord Crownsilver’s bodyguard.”
Khochen smiled. “An excellent guess, goodman.”
“I get one every five or seven years. They get themselves expelled from the clan for swearing too loudly to Bahamut. They’re lost and lonely. They’ve heard the tale of the favored son who called Old Pandjed’s bluff and took exile over obedience and they assume—every karshoji one—that it was the same ‘sin’ as theirs. That I will know their hearts and be their mentor, and turn them into the sort of warrior Verthisathurgiesh will be so proud of, that they will make an exception and bring them back into the fold.” Mehen fixed Khochen with a hard stare. “They are wrong on every count. Don’t encourage this one.” Khochen’s eyebrows raised. “Your clan doesn’t talk about what you did?” Mehen snorted. “Doesn’t sound like it.”
The Adversary Page 24