“Give up!” he told her. The red-nailed woman hadn’t moved. Demascus imagined he detected concern lining her brow. But she wasn’t stupid; she must realize that without her army of minion bloodsuckers, she was unlikely to beat the four of them fresh from rest.
“What?” said Jaul. “You’re going to let her survive? We should take her down. She’s all alone!” The young man brandished one of his scarlet knives, making slashing motions in the air.
The woman said, “Come try me, child,” and stared across the intervening space at Chant’s son with naked appetite.
Jaul blanched, then looked at Demascus, as if the deva would side with him. Demascus suppressed a sigh. If Jaul didn’t learn to temper his emotions, he’d not live to see his twentieth year.
“No,” said Demascus. “I’d prefer House Norjah as an ally, not a foe. This is not our fight. And I want to see what Norjah knows about a friend of mine who lured Riltana there …”
“But-”
“Jaul, stow your sails. It’s up to this harpy whether she wants to survive or make a deal with us.” The windsoul swung around to regard their foe across the room.
The vampire’s snarl gradually smoothed away. “You think you could stop me from leaving if I wished? I can become smoke, or mist, or a flock of bats.” Though she no longer displayed her teeth, her eyes still flashed death.
“Maybe you could,” said Demascus. “But listen. You’ve been hunting down this painting for a while. If you flee now, you’ll have failed for a second time. You have a chance to come away from this with some measure of success-we’ll give back the painting we have, if you intercede for us with your house.”
The woman sneered. “I don’t make decisions for House Norjah. Lord Kasdrian does … for now. And he is unlikely to deal fairly with those who’ve thieved from him. But …” The woman rubbed her chin. “Perhaps I could put in a good word for you. He’s oath-bound to listen to me. I am Lady Ascension, of the Rune Court.”
“Rune Court?” said Chant. “What’s that? Wait, is that something to do with the Twisted Rune?”
Demascus had never heard of either. But he didn’t much care what they were, unless they could sway Kasdrian. The vampire gave the pawnbroker only a leering smile in answer. He shoved his swords into his belt. “Very well, Lady Ascension, let’s …”
A sound he realized he’d been hearing for a little while finally vaulted into his consciousness. A sort of low, thrumming noise. “Anyone hear that?” he said.
Lady Ascension glanced at the tunnel floor.
“I do. The webs are vibrating. The Demonweb has noticed we are not drow …”
Everyone looked down. The interweaving fibers in the passage were moving! Distorting, sliding, and swelling, as if many things were pushing through the layers into the tunnel.
“Retreat!” she yelled. “To the entrance.” Jaul needed no prompting-he’d started moving while everyone else looked down. Chant and Riltana jumped, but wasted no breath asking for explanations. Demascus followed, glancing over his shoulder.
Lady Ascension thrashed in place, as if caught in a spider web. The flooring around her feet bubbled up, disgorging hundreds of many legged ebony spiders that swarmed the vampire to her waist. Ascension’s form pulsed between pale skin and formless smoke. Each time her body lost definition, it was hauled back to solidity by some unseen force. A force, Demascus suddenly recognized at the core of his being, which was divine. It was the unconscious regard of Lolth herself, reacting to a transgression in her world web!
Lady Ascension was lost. As they soon would be, too.
The deva didn’t cry warning to the others already sprinting to the portal. Yelling would only draw attention and guarantee their doom. They were farther ahead and might make it to the exit, because they hadn’t been delayed by watching a vampire be destroyed with poisonous spiders. It was he who was most in danger of being caught next by the arachnid tide. The sourceless light of the Demonweb offered no shadows to accelerate through, bypassing the space in between. It was all down to a final sprint. But the sticky flooring grasped at him more implacably with every step. The woven mouth of the tunnel itself was constricting like a throat trying to swallow down a pesky bit of supper.
Then web walls split open on either side, disgorging a fresh flood of eight-limbed horror.
He sprinted through it. A forest of lofting web strands glittered in the corners of his eye. Lords of light! Ignore the contracting tunnel. Forget the spiders. Just go. You’re a stone cast from a catapult, tearing through sheet after sheet of gauzy sails, to finally crash through-
Demascus shot out of the orange haze of the exit portal into a dim courtyard filled with dusty debris. A discontinuity he hadn’t noticed on entering the Demonweb momentarily staggered his footing. Instead of skidding to a graceful stop, his toes caught on a piece of flooring jutting through the dust. He fell on his face. His palms and cheek stung with abrasion from the slide. His legs quivered with dull exhaustion. But no webs had caught him, nor had he been bitten. Lying face down on the floor with just some scrapes and aches, he counted himself lucky beyond words. He turned his head to the side and saw a familiar pair of boots.
Riltana’s cheerful voice said, “See, Chant? I don’t make this stuff up. Can you imagine a worse time for some shuteye?”
House Norjah was rooted in Airspur’s steep, south-facing cliffs. It enjoyed an unobstructed view of the Throne of Majesty and, beyond that, the northern cliff line. The structure’s noble veneer gave nothing away; Demascus doubted the neighbors suspected the place hosted a nest of vampires. A nest somewhat depleted, of course; he wondered what portion of Norjah’s strength was represented by the horde trapped in the shadow tower dimension?
Demascus tugged the bell pull, a chain ending in a brass wolf-head sculpture. A sound distinctly unlike a bell thudded through the structure of the manor. The storm had lessened its fury, but rain still drizzled down from the sky. If they were forced to flee back outside, would the clouds give vampire pursuers enough shade to hunt their quarry without fear of burning up?
“We can still turn around and leave, you know,” said Riltana, eyeing the closed door. “The storm’s almost spent. With the Demonweb roused against intruders, we can’t follow the drow and oni to their destination; shouldn’t we head out to the island where Queen Arathane told us to go? I mean, really, this is just a sideline-”
“A sideline trying to kill us!” said Chant.
“Not trying to kill you, idiot,” she snapped. “Me. And, well, probably Demascus now, too …”
“Exactly,” said Demascus. “This situation needs to be dealt with. I don’t want to be ambushed again while I’m investigating a secret drow incursion of Akanul.” And, he didn’t say, find out how Madri is mixed up with House Norjah. Why’d Madri send Riltana here? How did Madri even know enough about Riltana’s love life to send her after the painting of Queen Cyndra? And just what was Madri, a ghost? Someone pretending to be her? He suspected she was indeed the real deal, if reduced to a vengeful spirit bent on stalking him. And pulling strings behind the scenes to yank the rug out from under him so he would fall and never get back up. Just like I did when I killed her, he thought.
“Last time I was here,” said Riltana, “I entered through the servant’s quarters.”
“We’re not here to sneak in,” he said. He tugged the bell pull again.
After a span of several moments, something clicked and the door opened.
Behind it stood a genasi hardly older than Jaul.
“Greetings. I am Ethred Norjah. What’s your business?” The genasi was dressed in the livery of a manservant, but introduced himself as a family member.
How does that work? wondered Demascus. Normally noble sons and daughters weren’t pressed into service in their own residences.
Then again, Demascus supposed, normally noble houses were not shot through with vampires. The bylaws and traditions of a secret vampire house probably had more than a few oddities, beyond the
obvious bits about nightlife and grave dirt. And anyway, Ethred apparently hadn’t yet been brought into the fold; the cloudy light wasn’t bothering him in the least. Instead of burning to a crisp, he only squinted when a shaft of sunlight broke through the overcast and fell into his eyes.
“We’re here to see Kasdrian,” Demascus announced.
“Impossible,” snapped Ethred. “Lord Kasdrian is indisposed. You’ll have to make an appointment. And maybe not even then. I don’t recognize you. Come back in a tenday.”
“Not going to happen, blister,” said Riltana.
Ethred glanced at the windsoul. His eyes widened. “You’re the one who took the paintings!”
“Listen,” said Demascus, “We’re not on your stoop selling sugar cakes. We’re here because we just witnessed Lady Ascension fall. We have one of your stolen Whispering Children; we’d like to return it. So go tell Kasdrian or whoever you need to that he damn well better get indisposed!”
Ethred wiped his brow. Maybe he’s younger than Jaul after all, Demascus thought. The Norjah genasi looked behind him into the darkened foyer, swallowed, and said, “Come in. Wait here. I’ll … um, I’ll get someone.”
They entered a paneled room fitted with a single lantern burning on the side wall. Strawberries, apples, and pomegranates dripped in languid profusion from a smorgasbord of platters on a long table. Demascus breathed in the heady aroma.
Ethred shut the door and drew the bolt. Then he tugged three times on a leather cord dangling from the ceiling. Demascus strained to hear a distant bell or some other kind of reaction, but sensed nothing. And he saw no obvious exits. Apparently, Ethred disliked the lack of response. He tugged three more times on the pull, faster this time, as if he was desperate.
“I don’t like this,” said Chant.
Demascus agreed. He rounded on Ethred. “Explain to me exactly what’s going on, because otherwise we might jump to conclusions.”
“I summoned a … senior member of the family, as you asked. If I’d tugged just once, or cried out, or remained silent, this room would now be flooded with … countermeasures.”
The charm in Demascus’s hair, the one his prior incarnation had been given by Oghma, gave a tiny shiver. Ethred was lying.
“What’s he mean by countermeasures?” said Jaul.
“He means,” the pawnbroker said, “poison gas, a pit beneath our feet, maybe a volley of arrows from hidden archers. Something like that. You probably saw similar in Raneger’s private rooms.”
Demascus interrupted, “A senior family member, Ethred? Somehow, I don’t believe you.”
The genasi licked his lips and his eyes darted. “The countermeasures-you’d already know if I’d activated them. They’re a torrent of flesh-eating scarabs that pour in from those high vents. They eat anything alive or dead. Except they’ve been conditioned to avoid anything that smells of the Norjah bloodline.”
“Don’t overestimate the beetles’ discretion,” a new voice said.
Ethred jerked his gaze to the ceiling, and he gasped.
The formless voice continued, “We’ve lost more than a few of the family to scarab frenzy. Bear that in mind next time you signal for their deployment, young one. Lucky for our guests, and maybe lucky for you, I was awake and monitoring the entrance. The beetles will go hungry for a little while longer.”
“You little rat-snuggler!” Riltana yelled at Ethred.
Ethred ignored the windsoul. His wide-eyed regard was riveted on the empty ceiling. “Forgive me, Lord Kasdrian!”
With a whisper, the cramped ceiling swung sideways to reveal a vast, arch-supported chamber. Candles in the thousands twinkled in niches that climbed the chamber’s curving walls. Bats chased fluttering shadows high above the windowless expanse. The entrance foyer in which they stood was revealed to be a lowly pit. A figure in porcelain-white robes lounged on a prodigious stone chair-as much sarcophagus as furnishing-that was perched on the pit’s edge.
“Lord Kasdrian?” said Demascus. He stilled his instinct to reach for his weapons, his Veil, or a sliver of shadow.
“That’s me,” said the figure. His features were hidden beneath a white hood, but faint red glimmers marked his eyes. “And you’re Demascus, newcomer to Airspur and friend to Riltana the windsoul. Perhaps you should pick better friends. Have you come to collect the reward I posted on her and spare your own life?”
“I’ve come to return what I took,” Riltana called up. “None of this is his fault.”
The white-robed figure focused his eyes on Riltana. “Demascus defended you. And between you, you killed several Norjah enforcers beyond the recall of even their graves. Lady Ascension witnessed it. The deva will share your punishment.”
“Lord,” said Ethred, his voice small. “They say Lady Ascension fell.” The figure stiffened.
Oh great, thought Demascus. Maybe I shouldn’t have let that detail slip. “Lord Kasdrian, we’re not your foes. We’re here to return what was taken, and to offer apologies. It was not Riltana’s intention to bring strife to your home. But I’m afraid it’s true; Lady Ascension is no more, though it was not through our doing.”
The figure slumped. But not in grief, as Demascus first thought. Kasdrian threw off his hood, and the pale genasi features, overly developed canines and all, were writ large with relief. “That’s the first good news I’ve heard in months,” he said, then laughed. The echoes chased the bats around the high columns.
“I don’t understand. Isn’t she your agent?” said Demascus.
“Lady Ascension was thrust upon me. She was a conniver, an agent of another power. I’d have slain her myself if I could’ve gotten away with it cleanly, without her peers being the wiser.”
“The Rune Court,” said Chant. ‘Who’re they?’ I asked the lady, and she as much as confirmed the court is part of the Twisted Rune. Which I’ve heard of, even though they’re supposed to be secret …”
Kasdrian let his regard fall on the pawnbroker. Chant blanched.
Demascus raised his hands. “We don’t really care, do we, Chant? No, we don’t. Good enough that we haven’t further hurt our relationship with House Norjah. Right?”
Chant nodded. The pawnbroker’s insatiable thirst for secrets made him a good ally, but right now he was antagonizing a stranger with his incessant questions.
Kasdrian studied Chant with narrowed eyes a moment longer. “If you don’t know, I’ll not be the one to enlighten you. Let’s just say that with Ascension’s death, and your return of the paintings, perhaps we can come to an accord.”
Riltana said, “I only-”
“Show the nice noble the painting, won’t you, Riltana?” said Demascus. If Kasdrian saw one, he might take the news better that they didn’t have both.
The windsoul nodded. She made a wide gesture, and suddenly clutched the ornately framed painting she’d shown Demascus in the shadow tower. She angled it up so the lord of House Norjah could see the figure illustrated on the canvas.
“The Thief,” said Kasdrian, “Always the one most likely to be stolen. Because it wants to be.” He sighed. “But I’m glad to see it back where it belongs.”
Riltana leaned the painting down by the wall, face toward the wall. Ethred shuffled over to protect it.
Kasdrian appeared in the foyer pit, between Riltana and Demascus. If not for the breath of dank air that blew Demascus’s hair back, the deva would have thought Kasdrian had stepped between shadows instantaneously. But no-the vampire was just fast. Faster than Lady Ascension. Too fast to see. Faster even than me?
“And the other missing Whispering Child?” said the noble, his red eyes on Riltana.
“Interesting story, that,” said the windsoul, sidling away, but finding her back against a paneled wall. “I didn’t take it.”
“Which is interesting,” continued Demascus. This close, he appreciated that Kasdrian was tall. At least six and a half feet. “Because Riltana was lured here, having been told she’d find something in House Norjah’s gallery s
he’s been hunting. Lured here by someone called Madri. Do you know her?”
“Never heard of her. Who’s she?”
The charm hanging from his single braid didn’t so much as quiver. The vampire lord was telling the truth. Damn. Swallowing disappointment, Demascus continued, “She’s an old acquaintance of mine, someone I haven’t seen in … decades. But she or someone impersonating her sent Riltana to look for a mundane painting of Akanul’s last regent. Which I assume you don’t have?”
“Cyndra? No. That old hag was nothing but trouble. Besides, my gallery is for a very special set of paintings. You say this Madri lured you,” he returned his attention to the windsoul, “here?”
She nodded.
“And you found your way to the gallery and took the Thief. How convenient.”
“Which I’ve just returned.”
Kasdrian waved that off. “But you claim you didn’t take the Necromancer. Now, tell me true, no evasions.” Kasdrian’s eyes fastened on Riltana’s.
The windsoul stiffened. She said in a strained voice, “I said I didn’t take it!”
“I believe you,” said Kasdrian, and shuttered the fire of his gaze. Without the red light burning there, Kasdrian’s eyes were green.
The thief took a relieved breath.
“But someone took the Necromancer the same night as this piece went on walkabout. Perhaps the person who stole it was, who’d you say, Madri? Maybe she lured this poor suggestible windsoul to my home as a distraction. While my hunters and Lady Ascension left to give chase, your long-absent friend helped herself to the Whispering Child specializing in all things undead.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE CITY OF AIRSPUR, AKANUL
19 LEAFFALL, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
" All things undead?” repeated Demascus.
“Just so,” said Kasdrian. “The Necromancer. One of the most dangerous of the Whispering Children. This one,” he pointed to the painting Riltana had produced, “knows nearly all there is about thieving. But the Necromancer knows a dangerous sum about reanimating flesh and spirit. Moreover, the Necromancer is somewhat … temperamental.”
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