He took hold of Iolanthe’s wrists, his grip hard, bruising, and with a sudden jerk, he dragged her off her feet and threw her down on the desk in front of him. He bent over her, pinning her arms.
“You do good work for me, Iolanthe.”
She gazed limpidly at him, smiling, her lips parted. He pressed himself against her, his hands fumbling beneath her skirt.
“It is my pleasure, my lord,” sighed Iolanthe.
Once she had finished her business with Ariakas, Iolanthe rearranged her robes and wrapped a shapeless black cloak around her shoulders, pulling the hood over her head. Runes stitched with golden thread on the cloak proclaimed her a magic-user and were meant to serve as a warning to any who might try to molest her. The streets of Neraka were narrow, vile, filthy, and dangerous. The Dark Queen’s soldiers ran the city, feeling free to take anything or anyone they wanted, and because Ariakas promoted rivalry between the various commanders, the troops were constantly getting into fights. Their commanders might or might not decide to break it up.
In addition, the devoted followers of Hiddukel, the God of Thieves, were always on hand to welcome visitors and pilgrims to the Dark Queen’s temple, piously relieving them of any burdens, such as their purses. Criminals of all sorts could find safe haven in Neraka, at least until bounty hunters tracked them down.
Still, despite its lawless nature, Neraka was prosperous and thriving. The war was going well and her people were on the winning side. Spoils of victory poured into the city. The pawn shops were filled with gold and jewels, silverware and crystal, paintings and furniture looted from the conquered lands of Silvanesti, Qualinesti, Abanasinia, and eastern Solamnia. Human and elf slaves filled the slave markets and such was their quality that buyers came from as far away as Flotsam on the other side of the continent.
One entire street in Neraka was given over to shops trafficking in stolen magical artifacts, books and scrolls and potions. Many of these were fake, so one had to know what one was doing when shopping. A potion sold with the guarantee of a good night’s sleep might mean one would never wake up. Holy artifacts were more difficult to come by. A person in the market for those had to go to the Dark Queen’s Temple, and entrance into the walled Inner City was limited to those who had business there and could prove it. Since the Temple was a forbidding place and the dark priests, Takhisis’s servants, were not disposed to welcome visitors, the traffic in holy artifacts was not a brisk one.
Iolanthe made her home in Wizard’s Row, a street of shops and dwellings located outside the Temple walls. A relative newcomer to Neraka, Iolanthe had taken a small apartment above a mageware shop. Housing was difficult to find in Neraka, and she paid an extravagant amount for three small rooms. Still, she did not complain. She considered she was lucky to have a home at all. The city was so crowded that many were forced to sleep in the streets or cram together six to a room in squalid tenements.
The daughter of a well-to-do family in Khur, the fifteen-year-old Iolanthe had disgraced the family by refusing to marry the forty-year-old man they had chosen for her. When they sought to force her into the marriage, she stole the money and jewels that were to have been her dowry and ran away to the capital city of Khuri-Khan. Needing some way to make a living, she paid an itinerant wizard to teach her magic.
Eventually, her betrothed tracked her down and tried to force her to marry him by raping her. Iolanthe killed the man, but unfortunately she neglected to kill his servant, who ran back to tell the family, who vowed revenge. Iolanthe was now embroiled in a blood feud. Her life in Khur was worth nothing.
Her wizard teacher sought permission for her to find safe haven in the Tower of Wayreth, and she was accepted as a pupil by the famous wizardess, Ladonna. Iolanthe proved herself an apt student.
Iolanthe took the dread Test in the Tower of High Sorcery at the age of twenty-six, emerging shaken but unscarred to be confirmed as a Black Robe. Finding life studying magic in the Tower to be unprofitable and boring, Iolanthe searched about for a place where she could plant the seed of her ambition. The filth and squalor of Neraka provided fertile ground.
Wizards were not welcomed with loving arms by the clerics of the Dark Queen, and thus, upon first arriving in Neraka, Iolanthe found herself on the verge of starving. She made money dancing the exotic dances of her people in one of the taverns, and there she was fortunate enough to attract the attention of Lord Ariakas. He took her to his bed that same night, and when he found out she was a mage, he employed her as his own personal witch. Iolanthe’s seed was planted and where once she would have been pleased with only a small tree, she now envisioned a veritable forest.
As she left the Blue Quarter behind her, walking toward Wizard Row, a hobgoblin soldier, whose intake of rot-gut liquor had apparently impaired his vision, grabbed hold of her, breathed his foul breath on her, and tried to kiss her. Iolanthe spoke a word of magic and she had the satisfaction of seeing all his hair stand straight up, his eyeballs bulge, and his big body vibrate from the jolt. The hobgoblin’s companions hooted with laughter as he collapsed, twitching, into the mud.
Iolanthe reached her door without further incident. Removing the wizard lock, she entered her small quarters and went immediately to the library. She searched through her books until she found the one she needed: Spells of Scrying and Far Sight with Particular Emphasis on the Proper Use of Spell Components. Sitting down at her desk, she began to flip through the pages, searching for a spell. Those she found were far too difficult for her to cast or required rare components that she would not be able to acquire in time. She was starting to grow discouraged, but then, at last, she found one that would suit. There was some risk involved, but Iolanthe decided the ability to gain ascendancy over Kitiara uth Matar would be worth a little danger to herself.
Iolanthe descended the dark and narrow staircase that led from her apartment to the mageware shop below. She found the wizened old man who was the owner perched upon his stool behind his counter, drinking tarbean tea and watching the people passing in the street outside his window.
The old man’s name was Snaggle and he was a half-breed, though he was so dried-up and wrinkled that it was impossible to tell what the two halves were. He claimed he was not a wizard, though he was so knowledgeable in the arcane arts that Iolanthe privately doubted this. He was known for the quality of his merchandise. No need to be concerned about purchasing lamb’s blood that had been sitting on the shelf for three months, or crow feathers masquerading as raven quills. Snaggle had a knack for acquiring rare and precious artifacts, and the emperor himself made frequent visits to the mageware shop to see what new items might have come in.
Snaggle was Iolanthe’s friend and also her landlord, since she rented her apartment from him. He greeted her with a toothless grin and an offer of tarbean tea, something he did only for favored clients.
“Thank you, my friend,” Iolanthe said with a smile. She truly liked the old man and the feeling was mutual. She accepted the tea, sipping it daintily.
“I am looking for a knife,” she said.
The mageware shop was very neat and tidy, unusual in the business. Most such shops tended to resemble magpie nests. All Snaggle’s wares were stored in labeled bins and boxes stacked neatly one atop the other on shelves that went floor to ceiling. Nothing was on display or out in plain sight. The boxes were kept behind the long counter that ran the length of the shop. No customer was allowed behind the counter. The old man enforced this rule with a strange-looking staff said to possess lethal powers.
A customer would tell Snaggle what he or she needed. Snaggle would leave his stool and his tea and fetch the appropriate box, each labeled by a code known only to Snaggle.
“What sort of knife?” the old man asked Iolanthe. “Knife for protection, knife for dicing and chopping components, knife for conducting ritual sacrifices—”
“A knife for scrying,” she said, and she explained the use.
Snaggle thought a moment, his brow furrowed, then, leaving his
stool, he took hold of a ladder that ran on wheels along the floor, rolled it over to the correct shelf, and climbed nimbly about halfway up. He pulled out a box, brought it down to the counter, and opened the lid.
An array of knives were neatly arranged inside. Some of the knives were silver, some gold, some steel. Some were large, some small. Some had jeweled handles; some were plain. All had runes inscribed on the blades.
“This one is very nice,” said Snaggle. He plucked out a gold knife adorned with diamonds and emeralds on the hilt.
“But very much out of my price range,” said Iolanthe, “and it is too big and clumsy and made of gold. I have an affinity for silver.”
“True,” the old man said. “I had forgotten.” He saw her gaze go to one slender blade near the back and he was quick to respond. “Ah, you have the eye, Iolanthe. This one is like yourself—delicate in appearance, but quite powerful.”
He drew out the knife and placed it in Iolanthe’s hand. The hilt was silver and simply made, banded with mother-of-pearl in a crisscross design. The blade was sharp. The runes etched on it were intricate as spider web. She hefted the knife. It was lightweight and fitted her hand.
“Easily concealed,” said Snaggle. “How much?” Iolanthe asked.
He named a price and she accepted. The two never haggled. She knew that he would offer her his lowest price at the outset, and he knew that she was an astute buyer who would not pay a copper more than what an object was worth.
“You will need cedar to burn,” he said, as she tucked the knife up her tight-fitting sleeve.
“I will?” Iolanthe glanced up at him, surprised. “The instructions to the spell didn’t say so.”
“Trust me,” said Snaggle. “Cedar works best. Half a moment while I put this away.”
He shut the lid on the box of knives, climbed up the ladder, replaced the box, then propelled himself on the ladder across the floor to another shelf. He opened a box, drew out some sticks of wood as long as his index finger, and hopped back down.
“And add a pinch of sea salt,” he added, as he tied the sticks together with a bit of string into a neat bundle.
“Thank you, my friend.” Iolanthe was about to take her leave when a baaz draconian wearing the emblem of Lord Ariakas entered the shop.
“Can I help you, sir?” Snaggle asked.
“I seek the witch, Iolanthe. I am told she lives in the apartment above the store,” said the baaz. “I come in the name of Lord Ariakas.”
Snaggle glanced at Iolanthe, letting her know he would either acknowledge her or deny that he’d ever heard of her, depending on the sign she gave him.
Iolanthe spared him the trouble. “I am Iolanthe.”
The baaz bowed. “I have the information you seek, Mistress. Broken Shield Inn. Room number sixteen.”
“Thank you,” said Iolanthe.
The baaz saluted, fist to heart, and turned on his scaly heel and left.
“Another cup of tea?” Snaggle asked.
“No, thank you, my friend. I have an errand I must run before darkness falls.”
Iolanthe took her leave. Though confident of her ability to protect herself by day, she knew better than to walk the streets of Neraka alone after dark, and she had to pay a visit to the Broken Shield.
The Inn of the Broken Shield, as it was properly known, was located in the White Quarters district and was one of the oldest and largest buildings in Neraka. It looked very much like it had been built by a child playing with blocks stacked up one atop another. The inn had started as a one-room shack offering drink and food to those early dark pilgrims come to worship at the Temple. As its popularity grew, the shack added on a room and called itself a tavern. The tavern added on several blocks of rooms and named itself an inn. The inn sent out an entire wing of rooms and was now proud to call itself tavern, inn, and boarding house.
The Broken Shield was a favorite with the mercenaries, pilgrims, and clerics in Neraka, mainly due to the fact that it was “human only”. Other races, most notably draconians, goblins and hobgoblins, were not allowed. The patrons themselves policed this policy and saw to it that “dracos” and “hobs and gobs” did their drinking at the Hairy Troll.
The inn was crowded tonight, filled with hungry soldiers just coming off guard duty. Iolanthe had exchanged her silken robes for the plain black robes of a dark pilgrim. Her face heavily veiled, she waited outside until she saw a group of dark pilgrims file into the inn. She joined up with them and they all entered the inn together.
She immediately spotted Kitiara. The Dragon Highlord sat alone, eating her meal with rapid efficiency and drinking a mug of ale. The pilgrims separated, seating themselves at various tables in groups of twos or threes. Iolanthe slid into a chair at a table close to the others, but kept herself apart. No one took any special notice of her.
She watched Kitiara shove back her empty plate and sit back in her chair, her mug in her hands. Kit was somber, lost in thought. One sellsword, a comely young man, with long blonde hair and sporting a jagged scar down one cheek, came over to her table. She did not seem to notice him. He started to pull out a chair.
Kitiara put her booted foot in the seat. “Not tonight, Trampas,” she said. She shook her head. “You would not find me good company.”
“Come now, Kit,” the young man said persuasively, “let me buy you a mug of ale, at least.”
She did not move her foot and there was no other chair.
Trampas shrugged and went on his way. Kitiara drank the ale in a long swallow. The barkeep brought her another and set it down before her, taking the empty mug away. Kit drank that one too, continuing to brood. Iolanthe tried to guess her thoughts. Kit did not look irate or angry, therefore she was not worrying about her rebuff from Ariakas. She looked introspective. Her eyes stared at the ale mug, but she was not seeing it. Occasionally she would smile to herself.
She looked like someone reminiscing, thinking over past times, remembering happy moments.
“How very interesting,” Iolanthe murmured to herself. She thought back to the conversation she had overheard between Kit and Ariakas. They had discussed past times—Kit’s days in Solace. They had talked about her brother the mage, but judging by the warmth of her smile and the flash of her dark eyes, Kitiara was not thinking about sickly baby brothers.
“My lord was right. You do have secrets,” Iolanthe said softly. “Dangerous ones.”
Kitiara took a long pull from the mug and, settling back more comfortably in her chair, she put both her feet in the chair opposite, letting everyone in the tavern know that she wanted to be alone this night.
“Good,” said Iolanthe. The presence of a lover would have been a serious inconvenience.
Iolanthe left her table and walked up to a bar crowded with soldiers demanding ale or dwarf spirits, wine or mead or a combination of several. The bartenders, red-faced and sweating, bustled here and there, trying to keep up. The soldiers were loud and raucous, shouting insults at the bartenders and groping the barmaids, who were accustomed to the rough crowd and gave as good as they got. Iolanthe pushed her way forward. Seeing a dark pilgrim, the soldiers hastily drew back, making respectful, if grumbling, way for her. A man would have to be very drunk indeed to dare insult a priestess of Her Dark Majesty.
“Yes, Revered One?” said a harried bartender, who clutched three foaming mugs in each hand.
“I want my room key, please,” said Iolanthe. “Number sixteen.”
The bartender thrust the mugs into the hands of various patrons, then turned around to where the room keys hung on various hooks, each with a number attached. The soldiers cursed him for his slowness. He cursed back and shook his fist at them. Finding “16,” he snagged the key and tossed it across the bar. Iolanthe caught the key deftly as it came sliding past her. Key in hand, she climbed the stairs that led to the upper chambers.
She paused in a dark hallway to look over the balcony down into the bar area. Kitiara still sat there, still staring into a half-filled
mug of ale. Iolanthe continued down the hall, glancing at the room numbers on the doors. Finding the room she sought, she inserted the key into the door and walked inside.
The horned blue helm of a Dragon Highlord lay in one corner where Kit had tossed it, along with various other pieces of a dragon rider’s habiliment. The armor was specially designed and had been blessed by the Dark Queen. It protected the rider not only from the buffeting winds of travel by dragonback but also from the weapons of an enemy. Other than her armor and a bed, the room was empty. Kitiara traveled light, it seemed.
Iolanthe paid no attention to any of the objects in the room. She stared about the room itself, committing it to memory. Certain that she could visualize it at need, she shut the door and locked it. She took the key back to the barkeep, and seeing he was busy, she left it lying on the bar and departed.
A glance over her shoulder showed her Kitiara, still sitting by herself, draining yet another mug of ale. Apparently she planned to drown herself in her memories.
Iolanthe sat in her small sitting room, studying the spell by the light of the fire. Beside her, a candle with the hours marked in increments on the wax burned steadily, the hours melting away one by one. When six hours had passed, Iolanthe deemed the time was right. She shut her spellbook, picked up another book and took that to her laboratory. She was dressed in her robes of magic, thick black robes with no decoration, to blend in with the night.
Iolanthe placed the second book on the table. This book had nothing to do with magic, being titled A History of Ansalon from the Age of Dreams to the Age of Might with Annotations by the Author, a Learned Aesthetic of the Esteemed Library of Palanthas. A more boring book one could not hope to find, likely to gather dust on any shelf. No one would ever pick up such a book, which was just what the maker intended, for it wasn’t a book at all. It was a box. Iolanthe touched the letter “A” in Aesthetic and the cover that was the lid of the box popped gently open.
A glass jar sealed with a stopper covered with wax and trimmed with golden filigree nestled inside a hole cut in the “pages”. Alongside the jar in another small pocket was a paintbrush, the tip made with hair from a lion’s mane.
Dragons of the Highlord Skies Page 5