Nightblade Page 4

  Isiem arched an eyebrow. "So you want to venture into the Umbral Basin in search of something that could make a host of demons shriek a ‘hymn to ruin.' That strikes you as prudent?"

  Ena shrugged. The stubbly headed dwarf leaned back far enough to prop her hobnailed boots up on the table, angling her legs so that her feet were nearly in the short thug's face. "A thing like that, it could be useful."

  "It could be profitable," the Aspis agent said. He rubbed a thumb over the golden snake on his cloak clasp. "Think of the buyers. Crusaders in Mendev. Freedom fighters in Cheliax and all their devil-cursed colonies. Governments mopping up after demoniacs or Lamashtan cultists. The demand across the world market would be incalculable. That's why we bankrolled Teglias." He nodded his chin in the direction of the yellow-robed cleric. "Piety is well and good, but it's results we want."

  "Profit?" Isiem regarded Kyril with open surprise. "That seems beneath a paladin of Iomedae."

  The half-elven woman flushed. "We may not share the same reasons, but we do share the same goal. The Aspis Consortium is financing our expedition in return for information and, possibly, a specimen nightblade. Their money affords us a chance to strike a real blow for the liberation of Cheliax. I believe that's worthy."

  Ena lifted her head, studying Isiem over her crossed boots. "It's not like you to be squeamish about allies. I figured they'd be the ones to hesitate about you. Glad Kyril wouldn't take my bet after all."

  "Explorations are expensive," Teglias said. If he shared any of Kyril's hesitations, he did not show them. The bearded cleric's demeanor was smoothly matter-of-fact. "Without Aspis sponsorship, I should never have been able to expand my search beyond the temple library. Ganoven and his men are here only to ensure that our patrons' generosity receives its fair reward. They are not to influence the course of our investigations or interfere with our work. I assure you, they will stay out of your way."

  "Absolutely," Ganoven agreed with a smirk, drawing Abadar's scales across his chest to mimic a piously sworn oath. "You won't even know we're here."

  Isiem ignored the Aspis agent. He directed his questions to Teglias. "What do you need me for?"

  "I am a historian," the priest replied, smoothing the front of his yellow robes with a palm, "and I've made a particular study of the lore surrounding Mesandroth Fiendlorn. Reading about magic, however, is a poor substitute for living it. We need a wizard. In particular, we need a Nidalese wizard. The traditions of Pangolais have changed very little in the millennia since Mesandroth tasked his apprentices with unlocking the secrets of immortality. The arts they used may be similar to those you've studied."

  "Why should I help you?" Isiem asked.

  Ena snorted. She dropped her boots off the table, thudding them to the ground one after the other, and thrust a stubby finger at Isiem. "Don't play coy. You want freedom for Cheliax as much as any of us does." She shot a meaningful glance at the Aspis toughs. "More than some, I'd wager. You've spent a year risking your life to keep the strix free. Your life. And for what? We've been thinking too small. We intercept boxes of bones in Pezzack while the devilers field armies to bring whole nations under the black and red. We'll never get ahead that way. The rebellion needs something big. This could be it."

  "I can't promise our journey will be entirely safe," Teglias added, "but we've taken all reasonable precautions. Ganoven has arranged for us to travel with a caravan for part of our route. Once we split off, we'll be on our own, but Ena and Kyril are quite capable of handling most hazards we might encounter on the road. Ganoven will bring Pulcher and Copple"—he nodded to the tall and short heavies, respectively—"and so we should be well equipped for swords."

  "Prefer my hammer, if it's all the same to you," Pulcher said. "Or the knife." He held up the big, sawtooth blade he'd been using to pare his nails, then grinned and went back to work. A small pile of dirty yellow nail shavings had already accumulated on the table in front of him. He pushed his unlit cigar from side to side in his mouth as he trimmed.

  Ena stared at him, her face a study in fascinated disgust. After a moment she shook her head and gave Isiem a shrug. "There you have it, then. Swords and hammers and a knife only slightly dulled by peeling thumbnails. You'll be safe as a babe in its cradle."

  "A well-paid babe," Isiem said. "So I was told."

  "So you were," Teglias agreed. He rose, gesturing to the others. Isiem didn't move. "That is best discussed privately, however."

  The others filed out. Pulcher left his pile of nail trimmings on the table, and spat his chewed cigar onto the floor as he left. Ganoven stopped abruptly, clicked his tongue, and pointed to the soggy thing as if correcting a dog who had dropped a retrieved fowl too soon. With a heavy, theatrical sigh, Pulcher stooped and picked up his cigar, carrying it gingerly between his fingers as they departed. Copple's malevolent chuckles trailed them out of the room.

  When they were all out of sight, and Ena had closed the secret door behind them, Teglias sat again. "I have more than a location for the library," he said, holding Isiem's gaze steadily with his clear blue eyes. "I have a key. It's damaged, and very old, but I believe it's authentic and still functional. Would you like to see it?"

  It was plain that the cleric wanted to show it to him, so Isiem inclined his head in a slow nod. He was curious. "Do the others not know about this?"

  "They know it exists. I haven't shown it to the Aspis agents. Ganoven insists he should be permitted to study it, but I see no reason to indulge him. If he had any real arcane expertise, it would be another matter, but—well, you've met him. His pompousness is rivaled only by his ignorance. Such is the price we pay for Aspis money.

  "Kyril advised me against showing it to you, either ...but I want you to know how much we are in earnest." Teglias unlatched his satchel and withdrew a long, scabbardlike case of hardened leather. It had a curious latch: brass and red copper worked into the winged angel-ankh emblem of Sarenrae.

  The priest flicked it open and withdrew a corroded black key, as long as Isiem's arm from elbow to wrist. The metal was melted and misshapen in places, and there was a toothy gap in its handle where a jewel or some other piece seemed to be missing.

  Isiem took the key from Teglias's outstretched hand. "What happened to its bearer? Its condition doesn't suggest anything pleasant."

  "You need not be concerned about that," the Sarenite said, crossing his arms and watching Isiem intently. "The key wasn't damaged until long after Eledwyn's stronghold fell. Someone tried to prevent the place from ever being reopened."

  "I'm sure they had good reasons," Isiem said.

  "They had reasons, yes. Good ones? Maybe, maybe not. But tell me: what do you make of the artifact?"

  Isiem turned it over. The light was not good, and he lacked most of his tools, but he did have a glass with him. He took it from its padded pocket and held it to the key.

  Under its tarnish and the corrosion of ages, the metal was silver. Its intricate piercework and the care with which it had been crafted spoke of Nidalese work. For thousands of years, the silversmiths of Pangolais had applied the Kuthite expertise with small blades to work metal into airy, intricately carved forms. No one else could match them in the art.

  A few of the diamonds in the key's shank had survived. From the shallowness of their crowns and their large culets, he could see that they were of an antique cut popular in Pangolais nearly a millennium ago. That cut had been occasionally revived by later fashions, though, and was not indicative of the piece's age.

  The slight reddish cloudiness to the stones suggested they originated from the Menador Mountains near Ridwan, however, and that did confirm the key's antiquity. Diamonds had not been found in that desolate land for centuries. The handful of gems that its mines had ever produced were prized by Zon-Kuthon's faithful, who said they were stained by the blood of their god. Such diamonds were said to possess extraordinary magical resonances.

  Isiem had never had the opportunity to confirm those rumors for himself, but in that
moment, holding that ruined key, he believed them. In the few minutes he'd spent studying the piece, he had become aware of an uncomfortable aura pervading the key. A simple cantrip confirmed it: the key was heavily enchanted, and that enchantment was soaked in evil.

  "It appears to be authentic," he said neutrally, returning it to Teglias.

  The Sarenite accepted the key with no sign of discomfort and returned it to its locked case. "Then you'll join us? There is real knowledge to be found in this place. Real magic."

  "And real danger." Isiem didn't care much about money, in truth, but he did care about having leverage within the expedition. Having held that key, and sensed the malice embedded in its metal, he wanted a fuller say in their decisions. Particularly if some of them were likely to be fools. "I don't intend to risk myself cheaply."

  "How much do you want?"

  "The Aspis agents are, I presume, partners in your venture?"

  "Yes."

  "Then I'll take a partnership stake. Equal to theirs."

  "That's an ambitious demand." The cleric coughed out an unconvincing laugh. "They've claimed a sixty percent share. I can't give you an equal stake."

  "Renegotiate with them. Or find another wizard." Isiem stood, starting for the door, but the older man waved him back down.

  "I'll try," he said tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I make no promises. Why is it so important that your stake be equal to theirs? Why not ours?"

  "You're idealists. They're mercenaries."

  That earned a weary chuckle. "As are you, I suppose. Fair enough that you should want to let them do your bargaining for you. But the Aspis Consortium has already put a considerable investment into our endeavor. They'll argue that you haven't done the same."

  "True. I haven't. But their contribution was in the past, and mine is what you need to move forward. I think I have rather better leverage." Isiem folded his hands calmly. It wasn't a show: he felt a great serenity within, as if he'd rolled the dice of fate and was waiting for the multiverse to give him an answer. Whichever way they fell, he'd be content.

  "There is that." Teglias rested his chin on the heel of his hand, regarding the Nidalese wizard across the table. The candles flickered between them, stirred by the cleric's sigh. "I'll put it before them. Again: I make no promises. But Ganoven needs a success to rise in the ranks, and he was the one who first suggested recruiting you."

  Isiem blinked. He'd assumed it was Ena who'd brought him in. "Ganoven?"

  "It's almost impossible to find a renegade Nidalese wizard," Teglias said. "You, of all people, know how difficult it is to escape the Umbral Court. Those who survive as apostates do so by lying low enough to evade notice and hiding in remote corners of the world." He waved at the tavern around them. "Such as Pezzack."

  "How did Ganoven know I was here?" Isiem asked. He'd never met the man in his life, and although he considered himself a wizard of no small skill, he wasn't remotely powerful enough for his reputation to have spread so widely.

  "The Aspis Consortium sought out your former mistress in Egorian. Her connections to Nidal are well known. She suggested that you might be amenable to our proposal."

  That, too, surprised him, but not for long. True, Velenne had no love for the Aspis Consortium, but she'd always been open to bribery—especially if the bribe was delivered in private by a handsome young man. "And so you came to Pezzack."

  "So we came to Pezzack," Teglias agreed. "Kyril knew Ena from their work together in the rebellion, and Ena vouched for you. Events in the warehouse confirmed you were someone we could use. Your study of the key is another proof of your ability. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

  "For now."

  "Good. Then let me ask some questions in turn: What do you know about the Umbral Basin? Were you taught anything about Mesandroth during your time in Pangolais? Anything that might have escaped the notice of outside historians?"

  "I've never been to the Umbral Basin," Isiem said, "although everyone knows its reputation. It has fallen under Nidal's shadow, but because it is not truly a part of our nation, we don't control it, and the darkness runs wild there. Shadows poison the land and warp its inhabitants. Masterless magic bends the rules of the ordinary world without purpose or reason. It is not a place we go."

  "Can you control the forces there?" Teglias asked.

  "Perhaps. Some of them. No one wizard can hold back the full force of a shadowstorm, nor turn aside an army of night ghouls. But I should be able to influence the smaller things, and hide us from the larger."

  The cleric nodded. "And Mesandroth?"

  "I know very little." Isiem hesitated. "I may have a source who knows more."

  That made the priest's gaze sharpen. "Might this source be willing to help us?"

  "Perhaps. For a price. It's been a while since we spoke."

  "Then I suggest you make contact and find out." Teglias stood. "Meanwhile, I'll break the news to Ganoven. I imagine there'll be wailing."

  "Good," Isiem said.

  He didn't go back to the chandler's shop. The bare spot by his bed where Honey's pillow had lain was too hard to look at. Isiem had abandoned the place in favor of a dockside tavern, where he rented a tiny room on the second floor, alongside stevedores and foul-smelling whalers. The common room was a constant tumult of off-key singing, drunken arguments, and the occasional brief brawl. Now and then a tittering prostitute would tiptoe past his door with a client, or a group of inebriated friends would drag up a fellow insensible with drink.

  The noise of so many people living their lives outside his door only accentuated Isiem's sense of solitude. He had never been part of their world. Under a mask of illusions, he could pretend otherwise for a while ...but he never really belonged, and he was acutely aware of the chasm between them.

  Few friends had graced his life, and none had stayed. Kirii, the strix, whose obligations to her people had consumed her from the moment she inherited her mother's position as rokoa. Velenne, his teacher and first lover, who had pushed him to find his own freedom outside Nidal. Honey, his dog, held back by age and frailty.

  And going back further, back to his earliest memories of childhood at the edge of the Uskwood, there had been Ascaros. Inseparable as children, loyal to each other even as students in the Dusk Hall, they'd finally broken in the bleak, rain-swept city of Nisroch.

  In Nisroch, Ascaros had learned the full measure of what it meant, exactly, to be one of Mesandroth's descendants. From birth, the young sorcerer had been cursed with a gift of magic that ruined his body with every spell and would, eventually, kill him. In Nisroch he learned that his ancestor had deliberately seeded that poisoned magic into his blood, intending for him to suffer that fate—unless he managed to follow the twisting, torturous path Mesandroth had laid out for his children to prove their worth and escape their doom.

  The key to that path, however, was a living creature: a captive shae, nearly as old and evil as the archmage who had bound him.

  Isiem had wanted nothing to do with Silence, as the shae called himself. Embittered by his servitude, the creature had worked for centuries to destroy every one of Mesandroth's descendants who called upon him for aid. He promised to do the same to Ascaros.

  Yet Ascaros had thought it worth the risk, and the cruelty, of prolonging Silence's slavery. Just for a time, he'd said. Just until the shae taught him how to evade his ancestor's curse.

  It had ended their friendship. Not in a fight, not in anger or recrimination, but in the quiet slow distance of disillusionment. They grew apart, and after they left the Dusk Hall to pursue their separate assignments, they never spoke again.

  Isiem didn't even know if his friend was still alive. Nevertheless, he plucked a strand of fine copper wire from his pouch of spell components and held it stretched between his fingers. The tavern was not solidly built, and the delicate wire trembled with the vibrations of other people laughing and dancing and quarreling in the common room beneath him.

  He closed his eyes, drew a ca
lming breath, and focused a thread of magic into the wire. Ascaros, he sent, then paused. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he feared to ask. But the magic was limited, and fading already. I am following the trail of Mesandroth's work. Can you help? Will you?

  Chapter Four

  Terms

  Ascaros's answer came immediately. The sending blunted emotion, stripping away all but the barest hints of the sentiments that accompanied the words, but even so the spell carried a sense of surprise and, close after it, a flash of malicious mirth. Isiem! How delightfully unexpected. I might help. I am in Ridwan, binding beasts. Come. Let us talk terms.

  The spell evaporated before Isiem could reply. He had not prepared another casting, and so he sat back on his heels, letting the copper wire fall from his nerveless fingers.

  After a while, he picked the strand of wire up, coiled it into a neat loop, and replaced it in its pouch compartment. He did it mechanically, fingers moving without thought.

  It was so strange to hear from Ascaros again. Ten years and more had passed since last they spoke. There was still an echo of the boy he'd known in his friend's voice, but the man had become harder, crueler, more assured. He sounded like a master sorcerer—and if he was in Ridwan, binding shadowbeasts for the glory of Zon-Kuthon, he had to be.

  And not just a sorcerer, Isiem reminded himself. As much as Isiem might like to pretend otherwise, Ascaros was very much still a shadowcaller, blending arcane magic with the divine power of the Midnight Lord. Unlike Isiem, Ascaros had not abandoned that part of the Dusk Hall's training. Forgetting that could be deadly.

  Isiem sat alone in the dark, thoughts in turmoil, for the better part of an hour. Then he unfolded his stiff legs, collected his cloak, and left the boarding house to wander Pezzack.