Spinner of Lies frotg-1

by Bruce R Cordell

  Oh great, thought Demascus. Madri’s vengeful ghost is going to empower itself using the Necromancer. Was that what she was planning?

  As if reading his mind, Kasdrian said, “Why would your acquaintance want such a thing?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” said Demascus. Which was true-despite his speculation, what did he really know for certain? Damn little. “Besides, it’s only your guess that Madri was the one who took it.”

  Kasdrian spread his hands and said, “It’s the simplest answer that fits the facts.”

  “What are the Whispering Children?” said Chant. “Who painted them and imbued them with such power?”

  Kasdrian shimmered and was gone. Demascus followed the direction of his whipping hair and saw the vampire back in the high chair, grinning. The portrait of the Thief leaned against the chair’s side. This time, instead of seeming impressively scary, the noble’s antics struck Demascus as just this side of childish. But how much more childish was his own urge to lean into a shadow and show Kasdrian he wasn’t the only one able to move with such alacrity? He shook his head; the lord of House Norjah was probably only going easy on them because he thought they were too far beneath him. He didn’t want to disabuse the vampire of that attitude. Or, mused Damascus, it could be that the noble was still riding high on the news of Lady Ascension’s fall, and in that glow, was willing to entertain even thieves in his home.

  When Kasdrian saw everyone had located him again, he pointed at Chant and said, “The paintings are really none of your business, are they?”

  “True enough, Lord,” said Chant. “But perhaps we can barter. I am a keeper of secrets, and perhaps I know things, especially regarding current events, that you would be interested in.”

  Kasdrian lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve heard of you and your network, Morven. I think we could come to some arrangement. What I know about the paintings isn’t widely known. If I tell you, you must agree to discover a secret for me. What that secret is and when I’ll demand it-next month or next year-is not subject to debate. I’ll show up on your doorstep to claim it. Is that agreeable?”

  Chant gave a curt nod. “It’s the way I prefer to work.”

  Kasdrian clapped his hand. “Good. Because I’m feeling magnanimous. And really, what’s the use of an exclusive collection if no one knows its significance? Very well, Morven, I’ll tell you. But be warned; if I learn a single word of this has filtered into the ears of anyone outside this chamber, I’ll find you and suck you dry.”

  “Ah, yes, of course,” said Chant. Demascus wondered if the pawnbroker took Kasdrian’s threat seriously. Hopefully. They were here to remove House Norjah from their list of foes, not gather kindling for further animosity.

  “Oghma the God of Knowledge,” began Kasdrian, “had many children not long after claiming godhead.”

  Demascus started upon hearing Oghma’s name on the vampire’s lips. The god of knowledge was the deva’s patron; at least, the patron of his last incarnation.

  “Each child of the Binder,” continued Kasdrian, “was a demigod in its own right, and as each gained power, a handful chose to specialize their knowledge. They each pledged to learn all they could on a single topic and to master that subject. Some studied healing, some abjuring, some alchemy, some games of chance, and so on.”

  Demascus reached for the charm in his hair. It was payment from the Binder of Knowledge for accepting a contract that ultimately led to Demascus’s discovery of Kalkan. In the name of all the lords of light and shadow … If the Whispering Children were Oghma’s, the situation was more than mere coincidence.

  More like connivance! The deva wondered if Kasdrian knew of his connection to Oghma. Was that Kasdrian’s game? Was all of this an elaborate trap? Demascus rested a hand on the Veil, still wrapped innocently around his neck like a simple scarf. If Kasdrian tried anything, he wouldn’t find Demascus unprepared …

  The vampire lord was still talking, making elaborate hand gestures illustrating his story. Demascus tried to catch up …

  “The god Cyric, father of lies, was jealous of Oghma’s brood. Worse, he despised the God of Knowledge’s pride in his demigod children. So he devised a plan to lure those children away from Oghma, and so to himself. Being young and overconfident in their power, many listened when Cyric promised to deliver to each child a piece of understanding that would crown their expertise.”

  “Who’d be stupid enough to believe Cyric?” said Riltana. “He’s the gods damned God of Lies!” Jaul snickered.

  Kasdrian said, his voice somewhat sour, “This was long ago.”

  “Go on,” urged Demascus and Chant almost in the same voice.

  “Back then, Cyric’s full turpitude wasn’t universally appreciated, especially by the brash godlings. Twenty-two fell to Cyric’s deceit, and so were bound by him. Cyric forged their souls into artifacts of wonder, whose knowledge could be used against even the gods. But especially against Oghma. These were the Whispering Children. However, before he could display his creation, he was deprived of every last painting by the late Mystra, Goddess of Magic. Few deities could stand against the one who could deprive them of their access to the Weave. But when Mystra tried to revert the Whispering Children to their proper guise, the paintings were scattered far and wide, thanks to a last spiteful trick of Cyric’s.”

  “Not so scattered anymore; you’ve got several,” said Riltana.

  Kasdrian’s mouth stretched into a pointy-toothed predator’s grin. “Many have sought to reunite the paintings, for their own reasons. Oghma wishes to release his captured offspring. Others merely desire to learn the lore held by each Whispering Child. I … well, I am a mere art aficionado.” He laughed as if at the absurdity of his own claim.

  “Yeah, I doubt you’ve ever questioned any of these for your own benefit,” said Chant, sounding jealous.

  The vampire winked. “In my sixty years of collecting, I’ve hung seven of the paintings in my gallery. Because of Riltana’s break-in a few nights ago, I was down to just five. But since you’ve taken Ascension off my hands and you’ve repatriated the Thief, I’m feeling more positive about things. Despite the fact that I can no longer count the Necromancer as part of my collection.”

  “Sorry about that,” said Riltana.

  “Which brings me to my last point. Recover my stolen Whispering Child. Do me this favor, and House Norjah will count you as friends, not prey.”

  They agreed, of course. They even gave Kasdrian the impression that finding the Necromancer would be their number one priority. Which wasn’t even entirely a lie. If Madri’s spirit was involved, Demascus wanted to know. Moreover, if a vengeful Madri had a painting whose subject was a talkative demigod of death, it was probably in his best interest to deprive her of it, the sooner the better. And … he wanted to see this woman he only remembered in storm-cloud glimpses. A woman so extraordinary that a previous version of himself had loved her. Then betrayed her.

  Queen Arathane’s task remained undone, too. Unless she received actionable intelligence to argue against it, the Four Stewards would plunge Akanul into a moronic war with Tymanther, which would only further mask a drow plot that already connected a Demonweb entrance beneath Airspur. He should probably report the portal’s existence to Queen Arathane.

  But even before all of those things …

  Back at his place, Demascus sniffed his bedroom. Sandalwood, mint, and orange blossom odors curled through the air, though not quite as overwhelmingly strong as he’d been going for. So he added another spoon of incense to the coal pot. The pot sat in the center of a circle he’d created by arranging his scarf on the floor and stretching it out to its full length.

  The circle matched a few cryptic instructions from the Veil itself. He’d done something like this in a previous life. That time, he’d been trying to contact a god whose holy symbol was a stylized eye and whose name he could no longer recall.

  It didn’t matter. The important thing was, he needed answers from Oghma. Something was ve
ry fishy. The god of knowledge hadn’t been entirely honest with the previous version of himself. Oghma had commissioned the deva’s last incarnation to heal the discord in the Binder’s church-a fancy way of requesting the assassination of the leader of a troublesome Oghmanite faction. Demascus hadn’t found the faction leader he was supposed to slay-instead, he’d been led to Kalkan, the “Swordbreaker,” the one who’d been killing each of Demascus’s previous incarnations, one after another down through the decades. Kalkan had managed to remain unnoticed by the Whorl of Ioun, the artifact upon which the deva depended to keep his continuity of ability and identity intact between lives. So Demascus never even realized he was the victim of serial murder.

  Except the last time the Swordbreaker ambushed him. Thanks to what the deva had assumed was Oghma’s benevolent eye, Kalkan was finally revealed. Demascus remembered Kalkan despite losing the Whorl … or maybe because he lost it; he wasn’t clear on that point. He sometimes speculated that not finding the Whorl was the best thing that’d ever happened to him. However, he could not recover the bulk of his abilities and identity as the Sword of the Gods, except for brief moments when he could trigger an echo of the Sword’s fantastic but terrifying persona in himself.

  Demascus regarded the circle. He breathed in the incense. Oghma hadn’t told him the entire truth. The god was troubled by something at least as bad as a fractious church-the god’s children were trapped in canvas prisons and being exploited by whoever could claim them. Is that really why the Binder of Knowledge had taken Demascus under his wing? To involve him, and by extension Madri, in a self-serving quest to find his Whispering Children? If so, why hadn’t Oghma merely asked the Sword of the Gods to take on that task directly? Maybe because it wasn’t a straightforward assassination … He had to know. And the cagey Veil wouldn’t answer him on the topic.

  Demascus laid the bifurcated blades of Exorcessum on the floor so the points of each sword aimed at the incense pot.

  And last, but most important … He unwound Oghma’s charm from his hair. He touched it to his forehead, his lips, and then clapped it between his facing palms.

  “I invoke thee, by the power of Exorcessum, by the power of the Veil of Wrath and Knowledge, by the promise native to the payment you vouchsafed me. Oghma, Binder of Knowledge, I call thee! Answer!”

  The daylight through the drawn blinds flickered out. A roseate glow replaced it, emanating from every surface, even his normally milky skin. The house lurched. One corner of the room seemed to drop five feet. Demascus staggered as his boots lost contact with the floor. He dropped to his hands and knees, accidentally losing the charm as he scrambled for a stable surface.

  The golden scroll fell like a hammer. It splintered the floor. He slapped his palms onto the hardwood planks and dug his toes into the seams. He paid for it with splinters, but avoided pitching out of the circle and into the slewed wall. The coal pot, swords, and scarf didn’t so much as shiver, as if only he was affected by the skewed orientation of reality. The pinkish light in the chamber died away until the only illumination pulsed from the scroll charm, alternating between white and red, fast as a heartbeat.

  Demascus focused on the glow. Despite his suddenly rapid breathing, he was elated. All this drama and effect-his plan must be working. The light danced quicker, brighter. He squinted, as if trying to stare down the sunrise. Gradually, it occurred to him that it was more akin to peering through the keyhole into a brilliantly lit chamber. A space with pillars, grand banners, and stirring music.

  Then a flutter of metallic wings obscured his image of the divine audience hall, as if something just on the other side of his tiny window had purposefully moved to obscure his view. Annoyance jabbed him.

  “I seek an audience with Oghma,” he said.

  The reflective feathers fluttered but continued to obstruct his view. A melodic voice echoed off the walls of his bedroom, saying, “What arrogance, world-bound creature, that you demand an audience with a god.”

  Surprised tinged Demascus’s response. “I have the right! I have-”

  The voice interrupted, “I admit you have a few of the implements and a scatter of memories of the Sword of the Gods. But you are not he. You are the merest shade of your previous selves. Your continuity is broken, perhaps never to be reforged.”

  Demascus’s throat tightened as anger kindled. “No, that’s not true. I’m the Sword, or will be again soon. Who are you, angel, to gainsay me? I’m Demascus! And I determine my own fate!” He stopped talking because the charm had ceased glowing. It lay like a piece of faux jewelry on a floor which no longer seemed to tilt and upon which the ordinary light of day now lay in thin slats of dust motes. He blinked a couple of times as realization washed over him. The ritual had failed. Oghma, or an angelic minion, had terminated it before he could ask his questions.

  “Burning dominions!” yelled Demascus. “What is this? Have I been denied?”

  Yes, he had. His bid to find answers had been unceremoniously nixed.

  It … it wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair! When the gods needed something, usually something terrible and secret, they contacted him, no matter the issue. Plucking him from wherever he was and whatever he was doing, no matter its importance. To help them. But when he needed help, nothing. A tremor sifted through him.

  It wasn’t just. Why did people worship, if not for hope of aid in a time of need? By all that was holy and sovereign, this was his time of need! Damn it all, he couldn’t even figure out how to recharge the dimmed runes on Exorcessum!

  Then it came to him why Oghma hadn’t answered his plea.

  The god of knowledge-like all the others-considered him a mere tool. Powerful and potent once, but a tool all the same, easy to discard once dulled or broken. And lacking the Whorl of Ioun, this was probably an apt description of his current state.

  “I’m more than the Sword,” he whispered, “I’m me. And I’m not a contrivance or a pawn.” The golden scroll in the floor appeared dull and common. He leaned over it. “I’m not a plaything!” he yelled, directing his fury at the trinket. “I’m Demascus!”

  He picked it up from the floor with unsteady hands. He should lock it away, throw it into the Sea of Fallen Stars … Or maybe feed it to a drake.

  “It might be time to renounce my service to the gods,” he told it. The scroll shivered, ever so slightly, in his grip-

  Someone knocked on the door. “You all right in there, Demascus?” came Riltana’s muffled voice. “We heard yelling.”

  Demascus went to the door and jerked it open. Riltana was there, and Chant. Down the hall in his living room he saw only Jaul’s dusty boots, propped up on his battered coffee table.

  “I’m fine,” he said, trying to modulate emotions that stretched him tight as a lute string.

  “That’s good,” said Riltana, “Because we have a visitor. And she’s furious.”

  “Who is it? Is it … Madri? Has she-”

  “No, it’s the queen. She can’t believe it’s been almost three days and we haven’t visited the mine yet. You’re in the shit, my friend.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE CITY OF AIRSPUR, AKANUL

  19 LEAFFALL, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  Madri danced with the thunder on flickering steps, following the storm north. Out where the lightning split the sea, she watched the coast. Golden sun rays broke upon the cliffs like hope. But on the face of the wine-dark water, the stabbing light mirrored her fury. If she could’ve directed the jagged brightness into Fossil’s smooth facade instead, she wouldn’t have hesitated.

  Fossil! She despised the gods-abandoned thing. Ordering her around like a slave, threatening her with a return to nothingness should she fail to enact its least dictum … As if she wouldn’t have alerted the Norjah vampires to Demascus’s location anyway! Anything to trouble the deva, trip him up, and inflict him with loss. It galled her. If not for Fossil, she wouldn’t have any existence at all. If not for Kalkan’s slowly reanimating shell, she’d ha
ve no purpose. If not for …

  Wait. Hold on. The angel was a servant of Cyric. How could she believe anything it said? In fact … Her snarling grimace faded. Fossil, in trying to confuse her with half truths and battling lies, had once implied she was a ghost it raised. Then later it said she was formed by Demascus’s memories of her; that she was just a “figment.” Which sounded implausible, except for one salient point-she’d felt the twist in the core of her being when Demascus’s sword had split. Which suggested she didn’t owe her existence to Fossil or to Kalkan. Her spirit would have returned regardless, drawn across the years by her psychic residue released by Exorcessum. The only thing Kalkan had accomplished was to foresee her appearance, then guide her vengeance.

  A vengeance she would’ve pursued without any direction. Thus her alliance with Kalkan’s will and the all-too-active Fossil seemed perfect. On paper. In reality, though, she was done. Done working with the angel, done following the Swordbreaker’s plan. Her resolution brought a new pang; if she went her own way now, how would she make Demascus pay?

  The last salvo of the receding storm shivered the water like the echo of some unimaginable weapon. “I wish I had such a weapon,” she said. Then she smiled. Because, by all the spells of Halruaa, she did.

  Flicker.

  The secret crypt was silent. The mask was gone again, or hiding. If the latter, her plan would fail before it was begun. After all, maybe Kalkan had foreseen her eventual rebellion, too, in which case her actions were already calculated into Fossil and the Swordbreaker’s plan. She froze with indecision, one hand reaching for the Necromancer’s covering shroud. Madri remembered her last conversation with the mask. What had it said? Something about Kalkan’s prophecy being uncertain whether Exorcessum would split or not? Normally, divinations of the future blurred only a few hours forward, because nothing can anticipate all outcomes. Random acts cause event ripples, and ripples beget more ripples. Eventually, even a god’s ability to model possible outcomes failed.