Demascus accosted a genasi at the edge of the crowd. “What happened to the Motherhouse?”
The genasi shrugged and said, “No one knows. Sometime in the night, it must have caught fire.”
Demascus turned to Chant, his expression stricken.
The pawnbroker could only shake his head. His aches had aches, and he felt a powerful need to sit down. He backed away from the press, then slumped onto a street bench. He sighed. If Demascus failed to recover his memories, then any hope Chant had of riding the stranger’s coattails was gone. His debt to Raneger would continue crushing him beneath its merciless weight.
He gave a halfhearted chuckle. It had been a stupid plan anyway.
Demascus followed him to the bench, but the man’s attention remained riveted on the destroyed structure.
Chant rubbed at his eyes so hard that tiny lights flashed behind his lids. When he blinked away the tears, he noticed someone with white leather boots had joined them.
Chant looked up into the dark eyes of a woman somewhere in her second or third decade of life. She clutched a mace in one hand so tightly her fingertips were white. Her long-sleeved, floor-length court dress was unadorned save for a scattering of gold stars around each sleeve. Her hood was pushed back, revealing traceries of gold running through coffee skin; she was an earthsoul. She wore an emblem of a silver disk, with seven stars around a pair of eyes.
“Hey,” said Chant. “Who’re you?”
The woman said, “My name’s Carmenere. Word is, you’re looking for Rilta. Why?”
Murmur blinked the eyes of its fleshy costume. It experimentally opened and closed the mouth, clacking the teeth. The body Murmur inhabited had again succumbed to sleep, allowing Murmur to wake in turn.
Murmur picked itself up, still awkward in the fragile form. The body was beginning to show signs of the approaching molting; the flesh was becoming slightly tougher than mortal bones and skin. But until the day when Murmur could take complete control of the vessel, it must be careful to keep its ill-fitting flesh suit in one piece.
If being careful was the only price it had to pay, Murmur was happy to do so, considering how it had spent the previous centuries distilled to its essential self and trapped in a fused globule of once-molten stone.
Murmur regarded the small chamber. Why had its borrowed body chosen this place to sleep? The room wasn’t where Murmur was accustomed to coming to itself. Unfamiliar fixtures and devices adorned the chamber. Murmur didn’t recognize their purpose.
The garment the body adorned itself in was also different than what it was used to. Murmur ran its flesh hands along the hem of the opposite jacket sleeve, feeling the smooth texture of a leather garment. Why was its host attired as if going out for the day? Usually Murmur’s host was wearing light nightclothes when the demon dream took control.
If Murmur wanted, it could have plucked the secret meanings of everything that lay around it from the depths of its host’s mind. But such a direct intrusion would be like using a knife to peel back its host brain one layer at time. Though Murmur would learn much in the process, afterward the mind would be a dissected, ruined mess. Host bodies tended to curl up and die after that. Murmur knew that from firsthand experience.
The price of such immediate gratification would force Murmur to find a new host and begin the process of embodiment all over again. Though hunting the dreams of mortals was a pleasure Murmur quite enjoyed, doing so would set back the date of molting even further. Plus this particular flesh was nearly ideal for Murmur’s needs.
Better to merely skim the surface for meaning. To its sleeping host, Murmur’s presence and control of the body was hidden, except as memories of a recurring nightmare. A nightmare that was growing more and more terrifying each time its host slept. Eventually the dream would become the only reality, when the molting finally gave Murmur complete control and a real anchor in the new world. Then its host mind would be consumed utterly, and Murmur’s patience would finally pay off.
“My lord?” said a voice.
Murmur swiveled its head around on its neck. It regarded a creature whose form was not dissimilar from the one Murmur wore. But the intruder was native to this world. He was one of the few who knew of Murmur’s presence. But like the others who knew, he had sworn himself to Murmur’s cause.
The servitor had been especially helpful in providing aid, resources, and information as requested. Murmur had heard the man’s name, but hadn’t made a special effort to fix it in its mind. Or even taken the trouble to ask the man to remove the hood he constantly wore. Murmur didn’t need to see the man’s features to recognize him—his vomitous breath made him unique in any crowd.
“I rise. Tell me, servitor. Where are we? Why are we not below?”
“An accident, my lord.” The figure pointed to one wall, where daylight came through shuttered doors.
Murmur threw open the shutters, then walked with its stiff-legged gait out onto the balcony.
The city of Airspur was spread out beneath it, but Murmur’s eye was immediately drawn to a tower of smoke climbing into the sky and the tumbled ruins beneath it.
“The Motherhouse,” said Murmur.
“One of the cadre got loose, my lord. With you absent, your host thought it best to bring the entire safehouse down on its head to trap it.”
“You couldn’t stop it?” Murmur suppressed the flame of wrath that urged it to try and bite off its servitor’s face.
“It wasn’t necessary.”
“I’ll decide what is or is not necessary. The Cabal—”
“Will rebuild. They have the resources.”
Murmur glared at the servitor, twitching with its effort not to yank a nightmare loose from the man’s mind and set it upon him like a tumor.
“And in the meantime,” continued the servitor, oblivious to how close he was to the end, “we go about your work below, without the necessity of keeping your activities secret from the Cabal members not yet sworn to the Elemental Eye. After all, the vault remains, beneath all the rubble.”
“… it seems this is not the unmitigated disaster I first imagined.”
The man bowed so low his hood scraped the floor. He must have realized how he’d overstepped his place. Then the servitor backed out of the chamber. Murmur watched him go.
Once the molting was over, the demon dream promised itself the first heart and mind it would feast upon would be that one’s. Nothing tasted so sweet as betrayal.
Murmur returned its attention to the scene beneath the balcony. Dozens of people had gathered to watch the final embers gutter out.
Murmur wondered which nightmare among those it had solidified had gotten loose. Probably the one Murmur had given the name “Screamripper.” Of all those Murmur had so far fashioned, Screamripper had proved least amenable to being held in thrall, despite being born and fleshed with Murmur’s power, and despite having taken the pledge to the Elder Elemental Eye. Of them all, Screamripper seemed to sense the pledge that Murmur administered to each new member of the cadre was a sham.
Such was the power of its strongest children—they knew something of Murmur’s secret mind. And Screamripper suspected that Murmur’s devotion to the Elder Elemental Eye was merely expedient.
As with so many other things, that wouldn’t matter once the molting was complete. Screamripper would come to heel. And then they could concentrate fully on Murmur’s real purpose. The collection of Scour’s scattered pieces was almost—
Its attention jerked back to the scene out on the street. Three people lingered on the edge of the crowd. One was …
One was familiar. A man with white hair. Had Murmur marked the man as a servitor, or drawn a nightmare from him?
No.
Murmur’s flesh costume involuntarily sucked in a breath through its teeth. Murmur knew that man.
It was Demascus.
A cold wind seemed to blow across all Murmur’s plans and dreams, threatening to knock them down like a house of cards.
; The demon dream recalled the last time it had seen that white hair and those ashy tattoos. In a place between worlds, where Demascus and his allies had brought all the dreams of Murmur and its siblings to nothing.
Demascus could only be present, here and now, if he intended to finish what he’d started so long ago.
But it didn’t make any sense; how had the man come to be here? The demon dream’s last interaction with the man had occurred so far away that miles couldn’t be used as a measure.
Murmur heaved its puppet flesh away from the balcony’s edge. Disconcerting sensations screamed through the body of its host, and in turn, through Murmur. It felt sick, as if a creature of cold sea water and hate burrowed at its intestines. Should it flee this body altogether, and find some new dream to infect? Or just physically run, and hope the molting occurred before Demascus caught up with it? Or …?
Murmur forced itself to pause in the shadow of the door.
No.
It had invested too much energy here to abandon its effort without at least learning how Demascus had tracked it down. If it ran without discovering more, Demascus would probably just find it again. Murmur braced itself, and glanced back.
The three figures remained on the street. Demascus hadn’t glanced up at the balcony. The man didn’t seem especially wary. His weapons were not even in evidence.
Was the man playing with the demon dream? Or did he really not know what looked down upon him?
Demascus was talking to companions. What was he saying? Murmur’s hearing was keen; the demon knew how to extend the senses of its flesh shell to the bleeding edge. Literally.
But the noise from all the onlookers drowned out the conversation of its ancient foe.
The question remained: If Demascus had traveled to the world called Toril, and had ventured specifically to Airspur, why hadn’t he already confronted Murmur? The demon dream was so much weaker than the last time they’d met. It had failed to regain contact with any of its siblings save Scour, it had enrobed in flesh only a handful of nightmares, and it hadn’t even gone through its first molting yet …
Maybe Demascus hadn’t yet figured out whose dream the demon possessed?
During the day, the flesh shell Murmur wore went about life normally, having no idea what slumbered inside.
And what if Demascus was also weakened? The two people Demascus spoke with were not of the avenging company that had broken the first circle of cultists that called Murmur and its siblings from their fossil dimension. Perhaps that group was scattered and weakened too?
Murmur noted further that Demascus was attired plainly, compared to the elaborate ensemble he’d sported before. What had become of his keening sword, his undulating veil, his blazing ring, and the god-given icons braided into his hair? Apparently he’d traded it all in for a secondhand noble’s coat and a mercenary’s long sword.
Lips stretched spastically across Murmur’s lower face; a smile.
Maybe, just maybe, Murmur had the upper hand this time around.
The demon dream reached out with its talent. A low trembling shook the floor. Shadows swelled up out of the corners and dim areas of the room like a rising tide of encroaching water. The light around Murmur fell by half, as if night approached. The dimness expanded, and washed over the side of the balcony. It trickled across the cobbles toward the Motherhouse ruins.
None of the onlookers noticed; the shadows were only a side manifestation of Murmur’s talent, and as such, the effect was only visible to itself, and perhaps those with special sensitivity.
Murmur reached into the ruins of the Motherhouse through the conduit of lassitude, and dug beneath the detritus with fingers of immaterial coercion.
It found the creatures it sought. A few that it had already lured from terrified minds, given ectoplasmic flesh, and pledged to the Elder Elemental Eye.
Murmur caressed their minds, pulling their attention from dreams of mayhem and annihilation. Murmur impressed upon one a psychic image of Demascus, and for good measure, an image of the two people Demascus talked with.
“Follow them,” ordered Murmur. It considered asking the monster to bring them back, so it could feed them to the pit.
But no. That would be a complication.
Murmur continued, “When they are alone, kill them. Bring their skins to me; their fluids and organ meat are yours.”
CHAPTER TEN
AIRSPUR
THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
DEMASCUS GAPED. THE MOTHERHOUSE WAS A SHELL OF smoking cinders. Gone, like his expectation that his questions would be answered. The black vapors meandering up into the sky might as well be flags flown at the funeral for his hopes.
Who was responsible for this travesty?
Anger, hot and bitter like a slug of coffee fresh from the pot, kindled. He did not like being denied. Those who crossed him learned the error of their ways, or they died. Died in a—
He blinked, and the anger collapsed before his surprise at his own reaction. Where the Hells had that come from? Demascus pulled at the hem of his coat and swallowed. The intractable fury of a moment earlier was like a residual taste of iron in his mouth. For a moment, he’d been so furious, he could have throttled someone …
Merciful gods, he thought. Is my temper the reason I killed a priest?
A woman interrupted his reverie. He only half heard what she said, but he gratefully seized on the interruption of his own fruitless reverie. Something about …
“Rilta?” he blurted. “Who’s that?”
The genasi glanced at him, looked him up and down, then replied, “It’s Riltana. I used to call her Rilta for short. Why’re you looking for her?” She returned her regard to the pawnbroker.
Chant shook his head. “I don’t know anyone named Riltana,” he said in a weary voice.
The woman—she’d claimed her name was Carmenere—frowned. She said, “You’re Chant Morven? The one asking around about someone answering to Rilta’s description, right?”
Understanding dawned. “The scarf thief!” Demascus said. “You know her?”
Carmenere gave a diffident shrug. “Maybe.”
“Is Riltana a windsoul genasi with a black mask and formfitting leather armor?” Chant asked.
“She’s been known to wear a getup like that,” said Carmenere. “You called her a scarf thief. Did she take—?”
“Yes! My scarf! She yanked it right out of my hands. That scarf was very important to me!”
Demascus glared at the woman. He knew his manner was accusatory. He knew that he should take care not to scare her off. But he couldn’t muster the control to soften his stance.
The lines around Carmenere’s mouth deepened into a frown. She murmured in a voice stripped of emotion, “Rilta has been known to take things that don’t belong to her. Usually things that aren’t of so much value that their absence would be missed too much. Usually.”
“Value?” yelled Demascus. A few people from the crowd of onlookers glanced at him. He didn’t care. “What does that matter? She’s a thief, and—”
Chant heaved himself to his feet and put a hand on Demascus’s shoulder.
Demascus glared at the pawnbroker, but shut up.
The human cleared his throat and said, “Pardon my friend, Demascus; that wrap has significant sentimental value to him. Maybe you could tell your friend Riltana we’d like it back? That we’d even be willing to pay to have it returned?” Chant’s voice was a model of friendly sincerity.
Demascus finally managed to leash his outrage, but he didn’t trust himself to speak. It was all he could do to stop frowning.
Carmenere said, “I would tell her but … she’s missing. And I’m worried.”
“What do you mean, she’s missing?” said Chant.
“I went by her place yesterday when I heard you were looking for her,” said Carmenere. Her expression wavered, as if much lay behind that simple statement.
“And?” Demascus said.
The woman pulled out a
ragged piece of parchment. “I found this message.”
Chant took the scrap and squinted at it. Then he pulled a pair of reading lenses from his pocket and perched them on his nose, and perused the paper.
“What’s it say?” asked Demascus.
“It’s addressed to Carmenere; Riltana says she’s going to meet a client in the Sepulcher to receive payment for services rendered. So?”
Carmenere said, “Rilta should have been back already! She never returned last night, or this morning. I’m afraid something’s happened to her in the Sepulcher.”
“What’s the Sepulcher?” said Demascus.
“A place where crooked deals are made,” said Chant thoughtfully.
Carmenere looked at the ground.
Demascus said, “Let’s go. I need that scarf to help me remember—”
Chant elbowed him, and moved his head slightly in Carmenere’s direction.
Right, Demascus thought. Probably better not to announce his incapacity to every single person in Airspur.
“Carmenere,” said Chant. “We’re heading to the Sepulcher. Will you accompany us to look for your friend?”
“I don’t want …” The woman shook her head. She looked up from studying the ground. “No, I’m out of her life. If you find her, and she’s all right, please don’t tell her I’m the one who sent you after her.”
“Um. Sure,” said Chant, obviously nonplussed.
It’s probably not politic, thought Demascus, to tell the genasi what he intended to do if they found Riltana. Instead he said, “Where do we need to go?”
The pawnbroker pointed west, toward the crevice where the two cliff faces of Airspur came together beneath a veil of roiling white water.
“Did you hear that?” said Chant.
All Demascus could hear was a crashing roar. The rumble of the nearby falls had found its perfect resonance in the tunnel, and the sound was trying to vibrate its way to the center of his skull.
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