"I'm not judging you-not entirely-but do not think you are the only one with less-than-scrupulous allies," she said and turned back on her path, her dagger growing brighter. "Tallus can wait, as can your angel, but I need to know more about the murders and how to stop them if I am to be of any help to you."
"And how do you propose to find this out?" he asked, reluctantly following her, the stench of the sewer fading with every breath he took.
"By speaking to someone who was here three hundred years ago when the murders first started," she answered as their footsteps echoed through the winding tunnels.
Gorrick stood in the shadows of a well-tended garden, fantastical topiaries populating the inner walls of the estate as he watched silhouettes dance and laugh within tall, decorative windows. Casually he straightened his robes and fixed his short, golden hair, smiling as he pictured the effect his presence would have on the lady of the house, his arrival meaning nothing less than a direct order from Archmage Tallus.
He strode along the garden path confidently, nodding knowingly at nervous guards as he approached the grand double doors. Few of the older families had survived the Spellplague, but the one that resided there was one, old name and wealth stretching back centuries, waiting upon his call. It was a bloodline prepared at his word to lay down gold and status to answer the summons he bore.
The doors opened without a sound, a doorman averting his gaze as Gorrick entered the front hallway lined with ancient paintings of ancestors above a white marble floor. The house seneschal arrived to conduct the affairs of the family and see to the initial needs and comfort of their expected guests. At sight of Gorrick, the tall, thin man sneered, stopping in his tracks and folding his white-gloved hands before turning to summon the lady of the house.
Gorrick returned the sneer, though only to the arrogant seneschal's back. He had no time for rebuking the staff; Tallus's business took precedent over such petty concerns. A side door opened, and a burst of music and conversation rushed into the entrance hall. Lady Lhaerra Loethe swept through the door, her voluptuous curves wrapped in crimson, lace, and jewels, a Winterfirst mask dangling casually from her hand as she turned, smiling, to meet her guest.
The door closed behind her, and her smile faded, her jubilant demeanor and self-importance slipping away at the sight of the apprentice wizard. Gorrick smiled at her discomfort.
"It is too early," she said sharply, regarding him with a half-lidded gaze.
Gorrick scowled in disappointment. "Things are moving swiftly, Lhaerra," he said, eyeing her finery in disgust. "The archmage has little time to spare for your… festivities."
Lhaerra drew closer, the powerful scent of her perfume burning his nose as she gracefully crossed her arms, gesturing to the secret door that hid behind a large painting on the southern wall. Gorrick imagined he could smell the blood and sweat emanating from the secret chamber if not for Lhaerra's overzealous attempt to smell like an entire rose garden.
"Tell your master that all is prepared for the rite," she said, "and that we shall be ready within a bell."
"I shall," Gorrick replied. He turned to leave. "Make sure to have the entire family present for the ritual."
"Truly?" Lhaerra asked, a sudden lilt of hope in her voice.
"As I said, things are moving swiftly."
"And the other families?" she pressed, laying a soft-gloved hand on his shoulder.
"The other families have their parts to play as well," he replied, glancing sidelong at her and enjoying the desperate excitement in her eyes. "And at least one shall have their final rewards."
He removed her hand and left her speechless on the doorstep, striding confidently through the garden on his way back to Tallus's tower. His errands finished, he quietly wished good hunting to the circle of skulls and looked forward to a long and bloody night.
NINE
NIGHTAL 21, THE YEAR OF DEEP WATER DRIFTING (1480 DR)
What little sense of direction Jinn had, he quickly lost as Quessahn wound their path through the sewers of Waterdeep, a dank and cold road that stretched for miles beneath the city's wards. They kept quiet and wary, though Quessahn occasionally whispered curses when a path seemed unsuitable for one reason or another, making their trek ever more labyrinthine. Several times Jinn eyed patches of light where hidden accesses to the surface called for him to abandon the eladrin's wild chase, but every time, he passed them by, holding on a bit longer.
He had heard rumors of the things that slithered in the lower tunnels, had seen one or two in the final days of his hunting of the Vigilant Order, but
Quessahn seemed to know what signs to look for. Most often she took the faintly glowing paths of the muckers, those people considered among the lowest castes of society, sifting through the refuse of the sewers for lost treasures; trinkets; old clothing; or, for the worst off, food. They held crude candles in broken pots or mugs, continually hunched over the edges of the sewage flow, raking the muck with their bare hands, searching for the glint of something worth keeping. The muckers would barely glance at Quessahn and him as they passed, their blank, deathly stares beyond caring who visited the city's stinking underworld.
At one time Jinn would not have thought such an existence possible, a torment more fit for the Nine Hells or the Abyss, but enough time among mortals had shown him otherwise. Any degradation imaginable existed somewhere in the world, staining all else that might have seemed brighter to him, like the barest shadow on a blooming flower. Considering the plight of the muckers only made his impatience grow and the oft-seen exits shining down side tunnels more inviting.
At length Quessahn's step slowed, and a soft rumble echoed through the tunnels like crashing thunder. The walls vibrated with the noise, and he drew his sword. The eladrin turned at the sound, her eyes shining in the glow of her dagger.
"It's the ocean," she explained in a whisper. "Still far away but the sound of the tide reaches through to these tunnels."
Jinn relaxed only slightly, something else teasing at his senses that had naught to do with tides. The realization that something stank in the sewers struck him as odd, but a new scent slowly began to change the aroma to which he had grown accustomed. Death wafted toward them on the air and clung to their skin as it rode with the steamy mist. Quessahn raised a hand behind her, the light of her dagger fading to less than a candle's worth of glow as she stopped and crouched, resting a moment and placing a finger to her lips.
Though Jinn said nothing, something else spoke, a sibilant, echoing sound that sent chills down his spine.
It came and went like the distant sighing of the tide, an unintelligible whispering that seemed to border on true speech, the sounds approaching something like words before disappearing again. He caught Quessahn's eye, gesturing to his sword questioningly, curious as to whether or not a threat lingered nearby. She gently pressed his blade down, shaking her head even as the whispers grew louder.
There is a place without truth, where the bodies lie…
Jinn stiffened at the ghostly voice's words, searching for their source and finding nothing. Despite the eladrin's protestations, he kept his sword on guard as the spectral susurrus surrounded them, washing through the tunnel with biting cold, speaking nonsense in womanly voices.
Hold the blade firmly, else the bone may not break…
The mask he wears is for the children, and your laughter shall make them sicker…
Nine times folded upon nine is the sum, for the path is long and treacherous…
Jinn spun in slow circles, staring into the dark as the whispers rose in a crescendo of crowded words then descended into the barest hint of distant voices, joining the deep background noise of the ceaseless tide.
"The whisperers of Seawind Alley," Quessahn said at length and pointed to the ceiling. "A more recent haunt than the circle of skulls, but no less mysterious."
"What does it mean?" Jinn asked, turning the last few phrases over in his mind but finding no specific relevance in them.
; "Usually nothing," she answered as a shuffling sound reached them from the far end of the tunnel. "But this time it means that we've arrived."
The faint scent of death rose, and a dry sliding noise, like bare feet on a sandy floor, turned them both toward a glimmer of tiny lights. They appeared in pairs, moving little but seeming fixed on the glow of Quessahn's dagger. Jinn eased forward, trying to make out details of the watchers, but the eladrin laid a hand on his arm and leaned close to his ear.
"Say nothing," she whispered. "Sheathe your sword and walk very slowly."
Jinn eyed her warily, hesitating. For all the sound he could hear in the tunnel, it was the lack of a sound, of breathing, that concerned him the most. Reluctantly he complied, sliding the stolen blade in its scabbard as he followed at Quessahn's side. The dim glow of her dagger reached the nearest pairs of eyes lining the side of the tunnel, illuminating slack-jawed faces eaten away with damp rot and the ravages of death. Old scars marked skin stretched taut over bones and compacted flesh. Strange tissue damage affected their arms and legs, indicating precise, clean slices as if cuts of flesh had been excised after their deaths.
Roughly a dozen of the standing corpses lined either side of the passage, their dull eyes registering nothing as he and Quessahn walked between them. A faint shaft of light revealed yet another surface exit, but the undead stood well away from the light.
"Why aren't they attacking?" Jinn asked quietly.
All at once the zombies twitched to life, shuffling toward him with blind, grim purpose. Sharp bones protruded from the thin, clawlike hands that reached for him as he drew his sword, cursing and pressing his back to that of the eladrin.
"I told you to be quiet!" she growled at him, her dagger brightening like a shard of starlight. "Briar!"
Her voice echoed but still the undead came, shuffling to within a sword's reach. Jinn raised his blade, ready to sever the hands that sought his throat, when the zombies suddenly stopped. Their heads shook, tilting as if confused, before they each turned away, returning to their places along the wall as if nothing had happened.
Quess? Is that you I hear?
A voice quite unlike the whisperers spoke in Jinn's mind, the words resonating deeply and thrumming with power. Something squished through the darkness to Jinn's left, and Quessahn strode toward it, her dagger dimming again as tiny, candlelike lights flared to life in a semicircle at the tunnel's end. Beyond them, in an archway of darkness, he caught a glimpse of yellow, membranous flesh glistening in the light, a form little more than a silhouette twisting beyond the orange glow of a dry chamber. Through the archway came a yellow, multifaceted eye, turning slowly on a pale ochre stalk like a tentacle. It regarded them for a breath before retreating, the twisting figure collapsing in on itself and becoming lost in the shadows.
"I apologize, my dear," the voice said, changed and out of Jinn's mind, followed by the appearance of a bald, tottering old man with spotted hands clasped before him. Wide, almost manic eyes blinked in the light above a curving, white-toothed smile. "The whisperers were quite loud just then. Did you hear? Very interesting indeed! I feel I am close to discovering some sort of pattern in their-why, dear Quess! You look absolutely horrid! And who is your friend here?"
"Jinnaoth, this is Briar-," she began, but the old man raised a quick, long finger.
"Mister," he prompted.
"Mister Briarbones," she finished, but Jinn held back, suspicious, sword still in the hand he might have offered to shake in any other circumstance, but the old man did not offer either, a detail Jinn dismissed as his mind was still torn between the well-lit chamber and the undead sentinels in the dark at his back. "When I felt there was no more I could learn from the masters at the House of Wonder, I found old Briar here. He has been… supplementing… my studies for a few years now."
"Indeed, and an astute student she has been," Briarbones said with a wink as he turned to a tall cabinet and brew pot by the west wall.
"This is all very well and good," Jinn said, uncertain as to where to keep the point of his blade and still unsure if it shouldn't be kept on Quessahn. "But we are in a bit of-"
"Care for tea?" Briarbones said, ignoring him. "I, for one, can only barely tolerate the stuff, but for guests I do make exceptions."
"I am no guest," Jinn said, his patience drawing to an end as he glared at Quessahn. "And this is no time for idle chatter or cups of tea!"
"Jinn, please, we should make some time-," Quessahn replied but was cut off by the old man.
"Very well," Briarbones said. His voice changed again, becoming stronger, deeper, and far younger. His eyes danced with a strange light, shining slightly as he continued. "Jinnaoth Ir'Gadohn, an odd surname, not of this world and, unless my studies are mistaken, not of any natural world known, but of places between worlds, realms closer to that of raw creation than those of rock and water. But you keep the name anyway. Through each life and death, those gold eyes, the symbols on your skin, and that strange last name never change, do they? Yes, deva, I know of you." Briarbones edged closer, the veins in his eyes squirming beneath the clear, soft layer of lens over his light gray irises. "Now have I proven that I may be worth your time and patience? That is, should I choose to assist you at all."
"Briar, I'm sorry," Quessahn said, shooting Jinn an angry glance. "I've come about the recent murders that we spoke of some time ago, but Jinn has come for-"
"Sathariel," Briarbones finished, still staring at the deva. "The Devourer, the Winged Pit, the Hunger of Asmodeus, oh yes, the deva's vendetta is known to me, as are those of his previous incarnations. The whispering souls you hear in the angel's presence, deva? Some of them are your vengeful predecessors, a few of them having wielded the very same blade you choose to rudely bare in my home."
Jinn gave no indication of his interest in the old man's words, though his heart raced at the mention of Sathariel. He maintained the stare for several breaths, still as a stone and wondering what other secrets lay buried in the mind of Quessahn's strange friend. At length, he lowered his golden eyes and the point of his sword.
"I have misjudged the value of your time, sir," he said, sheathing his blade reluctantly. "I am sorry for my impatience."
"No need. In my experience, patience is often the first victim of passion, and it is nothing to apologize for, though it can make one very sorry in the end," the old man said, his voice returning to what one might expect from the frail frame and wizened eyes. "Now let us begin again. Would you care for some tea?"
Though the night had turned bitterly cold, Karras's blood was warm with wine and stronger spirits, such that he protested only a little as Lhaerra and her house guards had abruptly ended the Winterfirst celebration at Loethe Manor. He'd had his fill of drink and pursued much softer distractions to fill out the evening's remainder.
Rilyana's hips swayed rhythmically ahead of him, her elbow in the firm grip of her brother, Callak. She managed to keep an eye on Karras, a seductive, half-lidded gaze that forced him to keep a careful step lest his boots walk out from under him and leave him slumbering in the street until dawn. Her lascivious smile made promises that kept him all the warmer, though Callak's cold glare sought to extinguish the dim light of hope that kept Karras moving in the siblings' wake, a drunken promise to see them home.
Despite Callak's protective posturing, even he could not take away the stolen moments in Karras's mind. He still felt Rilyana's lips brushing next to his ear, her panting hot breath on his neck. His hands bore a memory of her body that her brother, his childhood friend, could never erase.
He rounded a comer, and the high walls of the Saerfynn Manor came into view, the mansion itself surrounded by a dark garden only barely held in check. Karras frowned at the sight of it, fearing Callak would have his way and keep him from Rilyana's attentions. He eyed the large mansion, the tall windows of more rooms than seemed necessary for two people, but he supposed wealth in Sea Ward was meant for little else than shows of grand excess.
At the gates
the trio stopped, Karras stumbling forward then swaying back before righting himself, his eyes immediately meeting Callak's.
"We'll take our leave of you now, Karras," Callak growled, a strained smile on his square-jawed face as he pulled Rilyana behind him. "I'll see you tomorrow perhaps?"
"Of course, my friend!" Karras replied, dipping into a comic, sweeping bow. "I bid you the best of evenings!" He clapped Callak's broad shoulder but swiftly swept his other hand around to grasp Rilyana's delicate, gloved hand, planting a gentle kiss upon it. "An excellent evening to you and your fair sister."
Karras had time to see his breath steam upon Rilyana's jeweled bracelet and catch a last, lustful smile to send him home to bed before Callak opened the gate and pulled his sister along after him toward the mansion. Guards stood waiting to open the front doors, and the siblings disappeared inside. Karras leaned against the gate, drowsy and for the first time considering his long walk home. Squeezing the cold iron, he steeled himself to begin the journey as a window inside the Saerfynn house was lit by candlelight.
The silhouette of Rilyana came into view, and Karras lingered, admiring her curves, but was distracted as the shouting voice of Callak reached him from within the house. He could not make out the words, though he guessed it was none other than the eldest Saerfynn's usual tirade over his sister's wantonness. The argument did not last long, however, and soon Callak joined Rilyana at the window, leaning close to her, their silhouettes merging in an embrace that seemed beyond that of siblings. Karras's smile faded, his eyes narrowing as hands slid from shoulders to hips, faces pressed close together, turning in the window and obscuring the details that Karras could only imagine.
He pushed away from the gate, sliding toward the wall, wide eyed and suddenly feeling the effects of his long night of drinking. His breath caught in his throat, stomach turning at what he'd seen pass between brother and sister. The fine foods and wines that the Lady Lhaerra had provided for her guests quickly became a steaming stain at Karras's boots, his stomach emptying until he was left wheezing and teary eyed. Old rumors about the pair came back to him, haunting him as he stumbled away from the estate, shaking his head in disbelief and disgust.
Circle of Skulls w-6 Page 11