Sword of the Gods Page 5

  The hooded man said, “And the Veil; let me see it. I wouldn’t want to be swindled.”

  The tiefling chortled. Something was definitely not right with her.

  Riltana ignored the woman and produced the scarf from glovespace with a hedge-wizard’s flourish. “See?”

  The man hunched over the hole to stare at the length of fabric, then nodded.

  Riltana hid the scarf away again with a snap. She said, “It’s yours once that satchel purse is slung over my shoulder. Until then, I’ve banished the … what’d you call it, the veil? I’ve put it in a place only I can access.”

  The man said, “Clever. But ultimately irrelevant. You see, Riltana, I don’t really want the wrap; my aim was only to deprive Demascus of it at the appointed time.”

  “Uh … What? I don’t understand.”

  “Your understanding isn’t required. What is required is your eternal silence.”

  Son of a piss-pickled leech. The deal had gone bad.

  Riltana flipped up and backward, spinning over the head of the third orc she’d guessed was probably closing in on her. She swept out her short sword even as she landed and stuck the orc in the kidney. It gurgled and collapsed.

  A fourth orc she hadn’t anticipated emerged from behind a boulder and shoved her. She stumbled back toward the cavern’s center, tripping on the feebly moving body of the creature she’d just dispatched. She landed on her side. Impact slapped through her and made her lose her breath.

  The tiefling woman crowed, and tried to kick Riltana in the face.

  She grabbed the foot, twisted and pushed. The tiefling hopped backward, directly into her advancing earthsoul ally, causing a minor pileup.

  Riltana spun off the ground and into her element. The air bore her up over the heads of her foes. Time to go!

  She arrowed toward the aperture in the ceiling where Kalkan watched the proceedings, short sword straight over her head. Why deal with the hired help if she didn’t have to? She’d toss the double-crossing bastard down that stinking spy hole—

  Kalkan said, “I think not,” as he raised a gloved hand. The world seemed to twist. Fire woke behind Riltana’s brow, and the wind let her go.

  She spiraled back toward the cave floor, toward the waiting swords, axes, and daggers of her client’s goons.

  “You quailing coward!” she screamed, the pain in her head fueling a red anger that competed with the fear burrowing in her gut.

  Riltana ducked an orc axe that nearly intersected her downward trajectory. Then she touched down, using the earthsoul’s head as a step, and bounded over and away from the group in a high arc.

  She landed near the far cave wall, her breath coming quick. In her haste to put some distance between herself and the massed might of the mercenaries, she’d jumped away from the exit. Her foes lay directly between her and easy escape.

  An orc’s axe toss drew sparks from the stone next to her head. She returned the favor; in a single practiced motion she drew one of the daggers sheathed in her clothing and threw. Her aim proved more accurate. Another orc went down, that one grasping vainly at a dagger protruding from his eye.

  Riltana tested the air, and found it unwilling to bear her again so soon. “Bugger!” The temperamental nature of the wind really pissed her off sometimes.

  The sellswords rushed her, spreading out in a rough curved line to prevent her from slipping around them.

  She braced herself, knees bent and sword tip weaving, ready to slip past a loose defense and stab whoever proved stupid enough to reach her first.

  Predictably, it was the tiefling.

  Riltana caught the angled cut of the woman’s long sword on her blade, shuffling away from the angle of attack as she did so. Then she spun in place, kicking out with the back of her left foot, and smashed the idiot grin from her foe’s face with her lashing heel. The tiefling collapsed on the floor like a sack of potatoes. That was three down.

  “Hold!” thundered a voice from above.

  The earthsoul and remaining orcs paused to look up at their employer.

  Had her client lied when he said he didn’t really want the scarf? Maybe he was having second thoughts about trying to take it instead of paying her. She’d been lucky so far, and maybe he worried her luck would hold long enough for her to dispatch the remaining three.

  Her gut urged her to run while the others were distracted, but the promise of that fat coin purse made her linger.

  “You’re a poor substitute for real muscle,” the hooded man said, even as he backed out of sight.

  “We’re just warming up!” the earthsoul yelled up at the gap.

  “I doubt it,” came the reply, muffled by the intervening rock lip. “At this rate, she’ll kill you before I reveal my surprise.”

  Surprise? That was enough for Riltana. She bolted, trying to dash past the largest gap in the skirmish line her enemies formed, between the earthsoul and a remaining orc.

  But the orc stepped into her path, forcing her to pause to defend against a whistling axe strike.

  The sound of metal on metal screeched from above.

  The rumble of the Akanawater suddenly redoubled.

  The earthsoul’s eyes went wide. He screamed, “Run!” He dropped his hammer as he dashed full out toward the far wall. The orcs looked confused but chased after their leader.

  Riltana gasped, “Shit, shit, shit …” as she dashed after the earthsoul in turn.

  A moist wind preceded the foaming wave that smashed into the chamber from one of the other openings. It caught the earthsoul and orcs in a twinkling, knocking them from their feet, and dragging them down a circular hole in the floor. Their screams were lost in the water’s roar.

  Riltana hurdled the wave front, and this time the wind suffered to catch her before she dropped back into the surge. “Yes!”

  She glided higher, and the flood’s white-water face followed; the room was swiftly filling.

  She made for her client’s spy hole, which was empty. Maybe she could flash up and through before he realized she had escaped the initial surge, and before the air’s brief attention and grip faded.

  Her client’s silhouette lurched into view. Riltana saw the hint of sharp white teeth flashing in the concealing darkness of his hood, just before an iron cover slammed down over the hole. The sound of a steel rod sliding into place scratched at her ears.

  She would have screamed, but the rising water caught her feet. She sucked in a breath, a heartbeat before a violent current yanked her into the water.

  Riltana was pulled under and flushed down the drowned cavity in the floor.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  AIRSPUR

  THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  THE SPECTACLE OF DEMASCUS’S STOLEN SCARF DREW THE attention of nearby eyes only for a moment before people drifted back to their own concerns. As some shops shuttered, others opened for the night crowd, including a few smaller eateries and theaters. Their windows were haloed with vapor and candlelight.

  Chant Morven watched the pale man, curious to see what he’d do. Demascus stood staring at the point in the sky where the the aerial thief had slipped over the rim of a higher earthmote, his mouth slightly open in shock.

  “Well, isn’t that something?” said Chant, and frowned. He wondered if he had any liability in what he’d just witnessed. It’d been his job to see the scarf safe for the last four years. Seeing it stolen right before his eyes, despite that he’d handed it and his responsibility over to its rightful owner … well, he needed to think about it.

  Demascus slowly turned and gazed at Chant. The expression on the man’s face was one of shock. His mouth worked, but no sounds emerged.

  “Hey, are you all right?” Chant had seen that look before, but usually only on people who’d just been stabbed in a lung.

  “I’m not all right. I need … that scarf.”

  “Was it a memento?”

  “I’d … hoped it would prove so.”

  What’s that supposed to
mean? Chant studied Demascus, but the man seemed out of words, lost at sea. He noticed again, as he had four years earlier, the odd designs that marked the back of Demascus’s hands, like the gray roots of something far bigger concealed beneath his clothes. He suddenly wondered if they were not tattoos at all, as he’d supposed all along, but markings more integral to the man’s body.

  Chant shifted his weight. He should walk away. He’d already been punched in the face for trying to break up the rabble in front of his shop. He had enough troubles of his own to deal with. His next payment to Raneger was overdue again, and the question about what he was going to do about his son Jaul was never far from him.

  But Demascus looked as if he was being pushed under water by his situation. It was a feeling the pawnbroker could relate to. And that lingering feeling of responsibility toward the wrap he’d held for so long was an unfamiliar barb that kept poking him.

  The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could call them back. He said, “Remember I told you I have a sideline in finding secrets around the city? I can find out who that thief was, maybe even find out what neighborhood she normally works; I’d have recognized her if she was based around here.”

  An expression of gratitude gradually warmed Demascus’s features.

  “That … Yes. I need that scarf.”

  “So I gather. And I need interesting distractions to keep boredom at bay. Still interested in heading over to the Lantern?” Chant gestured toward the tavern. At the thought of food, his expansive gut rumbled.

  Demascus’s chest swelled as if in preparation for a scream. But then he let it out and nodded. He said, “Yes, let’s do that. I can’t remember the last time I ate.”

  Chant led Demascus into the boisterous establishment.

  The aroma of garlic and seared squid settled over him. Suddenly, he knew that despite everything else, coming to the Lantern had been the right choice.

  They sat near the wall. Chant asked the barkeep to bring them each a plate of bluestream squid and spiced rolls. And ale.

  He let his gaze wander the establishment. He was very happy to note that Garth was nowhere to be seen. His cronies had dragged him out of the plaza, but apparently not back to the Lantern. Then he saw Mielka.

  “Excuse me a moment, will you?” he said.

  “Of course,” replied Demascus, who seemed in better spirits already.

  The pawnbroker motioned to a short woman wearing a dull green stormcloak. She came over and leaned close. He explained in a loud whisper what he wanted. At one point she glanced disinterestedly at Demascus as Chant continued whispering. Finally she nodded, and he passed the woman a couple coins. She made a beeline for the exit.

  Chant returned his attention to Demascus. Just in time to see the man cover his face with his hands.

  “Hey, none of that now, we’ve got beer coming.”

  Demascus sighed, but let his hands drop.

  “That was Meilka,” Chant explained. “She does odd jobs for me. I gave her a description of the thief who took your wrap. With any luck, we’ll know something in a day or two.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  Before Demascus could offer his opinion one way or another, two pints of bitter ale landed on their table, courtesy of the returning barkeep. Chant slid one over to Demascus.

  He raised his mug, heavy with sloshing fluid, and said, “To finding out who took your wrap!”

  Demascus clinked his mug with Chant’s.

  Chant drank. The ale was yeasty and sharp, and cooler than the surrounding air. It tasted slightly of cinnamon. As far as Chant was concerned, it was the best in Airspur. By the approving look on his companion’s face, Demascus agreed.

  “Better?” said Chant. “Good.” Chant felt better too. It was easier to push his own plight aside. The familiarity of his hand curled around the handle of the mug, and the kindling warmth in his stomach provided its own special comfort, if not taken too far.

  When the barkeep reappeared with two heaping plates of food, the feeling of well-being doubled, and Chant smiled, feeling almost merry.

  They set to. The squid was coated with slivered almonds, garlic, and red pepper. Chant fancied himself something of a gourmand, and knew that this same dish commanded triple the cost in some of the more fashionable neighborhoods. He knew it because he was the one who’d managed to finagle the recipe from those famous houses through his fledgling informant’s network, and pass it on to the Lantern’s proprietor.

  When Chant recovered from his food trance, on account of there being nothing left on his plate, he realized Demascus was already finished with his portion.

  Chant laughed and said, “Not many can beat me through a serving of food.”

  Demascus grinned ruefully. The man’s features and posture were noticeably more relaxed.

  Demascus said, “What kind of coin are we talking for identifying the thief?”

  Chant brushed crumbs from his vest and said, “Give me a tenday, and I’ll have her identity nailed. I’m thinking twenty coins ought to cover my expenses, plus leave me a fair sum for my trouble.”

  “A tenday!” Chant had expected the man to try to bargain him down on the amount, not the time.

  “These things take time. I’m no wizard; I can’t summon helpful spirits that know too much, and if I could, you’d be on the hook for more than ten times that.”

  “All right. Better than nothing.” Demascus allowed his chin to drop slightly.

  Time to change the subject; Chant didn’t like morose dinner companions.

  He gestured with his fork, pointing at Demascus’s jacket. He said, “So, you run with the Firestorm Cabal these days? You didn’t wear the red four years ago.”

  “The Cabal? That’s what that drunk accused me of. Because of this jacket I’m wearing?”

  “Yeah, what else? Or, what, you’re just wearing their colors for a lark?”

  Demascus examined his jacket cuffs, his eyes narrowing as if he was remembering something unpleasant.

  Then he looked up and blurted, “Tell me about the Firestorm Cabal.”

  Chant felt his eyes widen as he said, “What do you mean, tell you about them?”

  “Chant, pretend for a moment that I don’t know anything about red jackets or the significance of the one I’m wearing; just tell me what the Hells the Firestorm Cabal is!”

  “All right, sure. Don’t burst a vein.”

  Chant took a drink of his beer. Then he said, “All right, here’s the deal. Lots of folks believe the Cabal is pledged to the protection of Akanûl and genasi interests. And they do sporadically guard the nation from threats on sea, land, and in the air. They are especially vigilant whenever dragonborn out of Tymanther are seen near the borders. Most people see the Firestorm Cabal as champions of the people.”

  “ ‘Most people’?”

  “Well, I’m in a position to know better. The truth is they’re an organization of mercenaries and freebooters. Many who wear the red act more like villains than heroes. To my mind, all the good they do can be put down to calculated self-interest. Folks living on the higher motes are more likely to buy the Cabal’s line, but down here, most think of ’em as privateers, and they’re not welcome.”

  “That explains a lot …” He ran a hand down one sleeve of his jacket, shaking his head with disdain.

  “You’re not a Firestorm Cabal member, are you?” said Chant. “And you expect me to believe you’ve never heard of the Cabal?”

  “Ah … something like that.”

  Chant didn’t know if he should believe Demascus’s statment. Who didn’t know about the Cabal? Demascus was obviously no genasi, so he probably wasn’t a native of Airspur. His lack of knowledge suddenly struck Chant as dangerously naive.

  Chant settled on saying only, “You, my friend, have some issues.”

  “More than you know.”

  Demascus took a long swallow of ale, then set his mug down carefully before him. He continued, “I’
ve got a confession to make.”

  Sharkbite, Chant thought. He really is a Cabal sellsword with a contract on me!

  Chant reached for the hand crossbow hanging from his belt. “You’re working for Raneger,” he accused, his voice tight.

  “Whoa, hold on!” Demascus said. “I want your help, not your blood. Here’s the simple truth; I don’t know what the Hells is going on. I woke this morning lying in the middle of some old shrine west of the city. I woke with … no memory of how I got there, or memory of, of even my own name! A few bits have since come back; I remember owning that scarf, for instance, and someone who called me by the name Demascus, but …” He shrugged.

  Chant blinked. “You seem pretty functional for someone with no memory.”

  “Only because I managed to fool you. Some unconscious thread obviously guided my feet to your shop, though it seems I could have just as easily missed it. I didn’t know you had my property until you told me.”

  “Incredible.” Chant decided to act, for the moment, as if he were buying Demascus’s claim. He’d heard stories of people who’d been cursed or fumbled the casting of a spell, and even of spellplague victims who’d had their minds jumbled. He let his hand fall from his weapon stock and grabbed his ale tankard.

  Chant sipped, then said, “And how is it you’re wearing the red?”

  “When I woke up, I wasn’t wearing any clothing. Dead men lay all around me, though, and they all had coats like this one. I helped myself to what I could find.”

  “You woke up in the middle of some sort of Firestorm Cabal massacre? Just this morning?” Chant hadn’t heard about recent Cabal losses. If Demascus was telling him the truth, he might just have a scoop on his hands. Which was as good as coin in his pocket if he could parley that information to the right client …

  Demascus lowered his voice and said, “Besides the genasi, there were a few … demons, I think. I think it was a summoning ritual that went wrong. Way wrong! And I think I was intended to be the sacrifice. Whatever they did wiped my memory. I’m just lucky they didn’t finish what they’d set out to do.”