Sword of the Gods: Spinner of Lies

by Bruce R Cordell

  “House Norjah?”

  “Kasdrian Norjah is a merchant lord who bought his noble title years ago. Word is he and his house deals mostly in old books and scrolls. And they make out damn well supplying parchment and inks to the Crown, the Bibliotheca, and to a few wizardly guilds that go through that kind of stuff like nobody’s business.”

  “So—you broke into House Norjah. Did you find the painting?”

  “No. Just a bunch of sheep-straddling vampires! Whom I had the misfortune to disturb. I fled, but they followed. And they were fast! All of them, even the ones who didn’t used to be windsouls before they … um …”

  Demascus nodded, and finally let loose with a prodigious yawn of his own. “Well, we beat them for at least a day, assuming they can make it back to the grave dirt that spawned them before sunup.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He nodded, “Just one of the few fragments I do remember.” He shrugged.

  “Good. Let’s hope they lose their way home, then,” she said. “Anyway, it’s time for me to go. I’m sorry—”

  “If they recognized you, they probably sent someone to your loft. No, safer if you stay here tonight. I have a guest room that’s not smashed up, unless you were here earlier and I didn’t notice.” He smiled. “Plus, I want your help cleaning up this mess tomorrow.”

  She almost told him everything then. But she was tired. And after all, that could wait until morning, too.

  “All right,” she said, “And thanks.”

  “Sure,” he said. His gaze fell to the shoulder he was still massaging, where he’d been wounded. “I’m sort of worried about this bite—do you think I’ll wake up a vampire?”

  Demascus, a vampire? A scary thought! “You’re the vampire expert,” she said.

  “Hmm, right.” He thought for a bit, then said, “Well, I’m probably all right. I expect you’d have to be fairly weak-minded to fall under a vampire’s sway with just a single wound.”

  “Couldn’t hurt to put some ointment on the bite,” Riltana said, “or take some healing elixir, if you’ve got any.”

  He nodded. “Good idea.” Then his shoulders slumped. He let out a long breath. “And before I forget, tomorrow I have something I want to … ask you about. Something unpleasant I remembered right before you and your new friends showed up.”

  Morning shrugged off night’s dim embrace. Airspur disgorged a colorful populace across suspended streets and floating plazas. The hooded figure crossing Sapphire Bridge was just one of the many early risers in Airspur. Her stride was confident but not swaggering, determined but not hurried. It wouldn’t do to draw attention, so her hood hid her distinctive features. Her leather armor, scuffed and scarred, looked ordinary enough on casual inspection. She’d furled her cloak and coerced her crystalline spear to the opacity of dull wood. She’d taken one additional step to protect her anonymity. The circle she’d scribed on her forehead with spellbound chalk was enchanted. While it lasted, most simply ignored her, or if they saw her, they soon forgot about it, unless she spoke to them.

  No one who saw her would have any reason to suspect she was their ruler.

  The hardest part had been getting out of the palace without her royal bodyguard. It wasn’t a trick she could pull often, lest it be discovered. The elite detachment of peacemakers assigned as her protectors took their duties seriously. If they discovered she was out and about without them, the individuals stationed outside her door would be punished by their superiors, no matter her royal decree. As long as she was back in her palace rooms before anyone gathered the temerity to check on Queen Arathane, it would be all right. She had some time.

  The home she sought was in a neighborhood high along the cliffs, which meant it was upscale by most standards. It even had a small, attached courtyard shielded from the street by a stone wall and a gate. The gate was not latched. She pushed through and walked the short flagstone path to the front door. The courtyard was littered with pots containing all manner of plants, only a few of which seemed distressed. Someone had a green thumb.

  “Who’re you?” came a soft voice.

  Arathane whirled. The courtyard had been vacant when she entered. Yet a human woman stood there in swirling green finery with eyes as stormy as any genasi’s. She gave off a scent akin to citrus and cedar.

  Arathane said, “I apologize; I hope I haven’t mistaken the address. I’d heard a man named Demascus had taken residence here. I need to speak with him. Are you the householder?”

  The stranger looked Arathane up and down, suggesting with a curl of her lip that she didn’t much care for what she saw. Arathane was unused to such insolent behavior. She was halftempted to pull her hood down to see what this odd woman thought of her then. Of course, compromising her anonymity to put the woman in her place wouldn’t be wise.

  Instead she said, “It doesn’t matter whether you’re the householder or the gardener. If he’s here, please let Demascus know that an envoy of the Crown has a message for him.”

  The woman laughed, and shook her head as if in wonderment. She said, “I’m not a messenger—or anything—any longer, and certainly not for the likes of you.”

  Arathane frowned, wondering if the woman had pierced her disguise, and if so, what the woman hoped to gain by provoking her. The queen decided not to give the stranger the satisfaction of a response. She turned back to the door, grabbing the brass knocker, and rapped on the plate. When she glanced back to see the woman’s reaction, the stranger was gone.

  Demascus finished sweeping up the last shards of skylight glass. With the broken furniture removed, the living room only looked halfwrecked. The wood floor was still damp, and only two chairs and a coffee table remained intact. Not to mention the gaping hole in the ceiling. He’d have to get someone to fix that before the next storm. Much as he’d enjoyed the extra light from the skylight, maybe the fixture was the wrong choice, given Riltana’s proclivities. He studied the windsoul, the artist of his misfortune. She was wringing towels into a bucket. Riltana’s high-flying style was usually something Demascus appreciated without remorse. But she’d never let vampires into his home before.

  “Riltana, we need to deal with this. Maybe we should visit House Norjah and try to make nice,” he said. “I’d rather not find surprise visitors with fangs in my home again.”

  She nodded glumly and gave her cloth another twist, forcing out a last trickle of water. “Yeah. I just wish they’d had the damn painting I was looking for.”

  His mouth quirked. That was the only apology he was likely to get. Ah, well. He said, “Did they have any paintings?”

  “Yeah. Interesting ones, too …” She glanced at him sidelong, as if she was hiding something. Before he could tell her to spill it, she said, “Listen. What’d you want to tell me last night? You said you’d remembered something?Something you wanted to ask me about?”

  Oh, right. He wished he hadn’t said anything at all. He’d awoken that morning resolved to put the horrendous vision out of his mind. The best thing he could do was to treat the image as just one more of a thousand crazy memory fragments with no bearing on his new life in Akanûl. Plus, the windsoul had tried to change the topic.

  “I’ll tell you about it after we get this mess straightened out. Let’s concentrate on House Norjah. Starting with who gave you this hot lead about a painting?”

  Riltana looked at him with a stubborn set to her jaw. She recognized the brush-off. But he didn’t feel like explaining to Riltana how one of his former selves had taken out a contract on his lover. It was too appalling.

  Riltana said, “All right. Awhile ago I asked Chant to put out the word I was looking to purchase the painting of Cyndra, no questions asked, of any art collector who’d lately ‘happened’ upon the canvas. A couple of days ago, a human showed up with a tip.”

  “A human? There’re only so many in Airspur. What was your contact’s name?”

  Someone knocked on the door before she could answer. Demascus yelled, “Who is it
?”

  “An envoy of the Crown, here to speak with Demascus on royal business,” came the muffled reply.

  “The Crown?”

  “Yes—the queendom has an appeal.”

  “Open the door!” hissed Riltana. “Remember how much we got paid last time?”

  He hushed the windsoul and went to the entrance. Chant’s cat Fable had appeared at the knock and now loitered near the exit. She pretended no interest in the situation. Demascus wasn’t fooled. Fable was boarding while Chant’s pawnshop was closed. Though the cat had proved a reasonable houseguest, she usually tried to bolt outside at the least opportunity. Lucky for Fable she hadn’t gotten underfoot last night.

  Demascus opened the door. A tall woman in a hood stood in the opening. She gazed around the room, then looked up. “What’s wrong with your roof?”

  Without the door to muffle it, Demascus was struck by how familiar the voice was. “Do I know—”

  The figure drew her hood back. Demascus’s jaw dropped. The person outlined in the golden light of the rising sun was Queen Arathane. He’d recalled their first meeting more than once. The queen’s magnificent white gown had left her lavender-hued arms and shoulders bare and showed off the silvery lines that traced her arms and throat and spiraled her cheeks. She’d worn her hair as a bundle of crystalline braids on which rested a white circlet of rulership. The memory was indelibly inked into his brain.

  That morning Arathane was dressed the same as when they’d cleaned the last vestiges of the abyssal plague from beneath the Firestorm Cabal’s motherhouse. Her stiff hair was pulled back in a simple braid. She wore no crown. And yet … to Demascus she was as stunning as she’d been in that first encounter.

  Her gaze locked on his, holding him in place. She coughed and said, “Are you going to ask me in, or just stand staring?”

  Merciful lords, get hold of yourself, he thought. “By all means, welcome. You caught me off guard. Sorry about the mess. I’m in the middle of … redecorating.” Apparently he hadn’t stifled his infatuation with Arathane as well as he’d hoped. Damn it!

  The queen entered, but paused just inside the doorway. She glanced again at the damp floor and piled furniture with a lift of an eyebrow, then nodded at Riltana.

  Demascus wondered if he was dreaming. The queen of Akanûl? In his home? Looking at her made him feel breathless, which was a surprise. He hadn’t seen her in months. Seeing her now, he realized something was familiar about her. She reminded him of someone. Someone he’d just seen, actually … By all the gods of light and shadow, Arathane was as tall as the woman of his vision last evening! And she had the same stormy eyes …

  “Have you heard anything I’ve said?” Arathane inquired. Demascus realized the monarch had been talking. For how long, while he’d stood like an idiot? He closed his open mouth.

  “Snap out of it, Demascus,” Riltana said. “You can moon over her anytime.”

  Damn the windsoul for putting such an embarrassing face on his discomfiture. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night. Riltana showed up late with unexpected guests, and I’m afraid things got a little unruly.”

  The queen chuckled. “Sounds fun. Though I sense you’re not telling me everything. I’m sorry I disturbed you with no forewarning. And it is good to see you again.”

  He felt his mouth stretch into a goofy smile. His body didn’t give a shadow’s scream about his resolve to eradicate the queen from his thoughts. “What were you saying? I promise I’ll pay attention this time.”

  “I was wondering about your gardener, or maybe your householder, whom I met outside?”

  “I don’t have a gardener,” Demascus said dumbly. “But I got this lease from a dwarf who smells like fried onions. Is he out there?”

  “No dwarf. A human woman. It’s not really important, but she was quite rude.”

  He glanced into the courtyard. Empty.

  Fable made a try for freedom. He slammed the door before the cat could slip out. Fable sniffed as if to say, “I didn’t really want out,” and sauntered away, tail straight up.

  “She’s gone now,” Demascus said. “I hope it wasn’t one of our, um, unexpected guests from last night come back to check on things.”

  Riltana gave him a skeptical expression and said, “They’re not really known as early risers.”

  Oh, right. He glanced at the queen. The monarch had no doubt run into streets filled with strangers on her way to his house. Her identity hidden, he doubted anyone had called her Your Majesty or made allowances a ruler might be used to. Except the queen didn’t strike him as someone who’d remark on a passing commoner’s inability to pierce her disguise. Which meant someone particularly noteworthy really had been loitering—

  Arathane waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter; I was only trying to make small talk. I came here for a more serious reason.”

  “Would you like some tea or coffee?” Demascus blurted. He realized he was falling woefully short of being a good host. He was used to Riltana’s and Chant’s visits, and of course Fable’s extended stay. The thief was unimpressed with social niceties and had never once gotten her nose out of joint over not being offered a place to sit or a refreshment. The cat cared only that she was fed on a regular schedule. But a queen! She was probably—

  “Don’t bother; I have to get back before the bells strike the next hour.”

  “At least have a seat,” Demascus said, and gestured to one of the two chairs that hadn’t been smashed. “Then I’m guessing you’ll explain the serious reason that brought you here without a royal escort.”

  Arathane sat with a dancer’s ease on the edge of the chair. Demascus pulled up the other chair, and Riltana brought a stool from the kitchen. The queen glanced at Riltana and said, “I’m sorry things didn’t work out between you and my niece. With Carmenere’s new diplomatic position in Tymanther, I expect you don’t get to see much of each other.”

  Riltana colored, and said, “No, we don’t.” The topic was a sore one for Riltana. Demascus had learned not to mention the silverstar. The thief had driven her friend away by exploiting Carmenere’s link with the queen, and, through that link, access to the palace and a certain painting.

  “I’m sorry,” said Arathane with complete sincerity.

  Riltana nodded, managing a smile. “But that’s also not the reason I’m here,” the Queen said. “And to answer your question, Demascus, if my regular escort was with me, I wouldn’t have come to you. It’s not seemly that I openly hire ‘outside contractors’ to deal with issues of state. But the trundling wheels of bureaucracy sometimes fail to keep up with a rapidly evolving situation. And the Firestorm Cabal still has a way to go to earn my trust …” She shook her head.

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t trust a Firestormer as far as I could fling a dead rat,” said Riltana.

  The queen nodded. “Essentially. So, in the meantime—”

  “You want to hire us for something dangerous,” Demascus suggested. “Great. I’m in.”

  Riltana smacked him on the shoulder. “Some bargainer you are.”

  “I’m sure Her Majesty will pay us a fair commission for whatever she has in mind,” he replied, grinning. “Go on, Your Highness.”

  She returned his smile, and it was like the sun had come out. “Something’s happened to Akanûl’s arambarium mine. All contact was severed six days ago. We’ve dispatched two separate teams of elite peacemakers; neither has returned. Reports about possible causes are sparse, conflicted, and seem almost designed to panic the Stewards. I’m afraid, based on essentially no real intelligence that the Stewards are going to do something incredibly foolish, like blockade the Bay of Airspur and then declare war on Tymanther!”

  “Hold on. What’s arambarium?”

  “Arambarium is—”

  “And why would the Stewards—and you, presumably—declare war on another sovereign nation over it?”

  “Because,” said the queen, “Tymanther and Akanûl have never been—”

  “And
what’s Tymanther’s connection to arambarium?”

  Arathane held up her hands. “Stop! I’ll answer your questions. But only if you stop interrupting me.”

  “Sorry,” said Demascus. He put his finger to his lips and gave Riltana a look. The windsoul rolled her eyes, but nodded.

  Arathane took a deep breath and settled farther back into her chair. She said, “Arambarium is an extraordinarily rare mineral. It looks like polished silver in its natural state. Those with an interest in such things have long recognized the mineral as inherently magical and as a possible component in a variety of rituals. However, a few decades ago Akanûl war wizards secretly discovered that the power locked within even a single grain of arambarium was far greater than anyone previously realized. More than that—arambarium is uniquely tuned to elemental and primordial magic. Used as a component, arambarium could enable spells of air, earth, fire, and water and other violent energies to be stepped up by orders of magnitude! A warship with an arambarium-alloyed keel can cut through the sea much more quickly. A staff of fire wrapped in arambarium thread could rain down destruction on an entire neighborhood. And a genasi soldier outfitted with an arambarium-laced harness is one few would dare to cross swords with.”

  “Well backstab me and call me a rat’s aunt,” said Riltana in a reasonable tone. Demascus shushed her.

  “But as I said,” continued Arathane, “arambarium is rarer even than the most exotic spice. We know of only a single deposit in all Faerûn—the mine my mother secretly established just off Akanûl’s coast. In the decades since we’ve been extracting the mineral, only a few precious pounds have been dug out from tiny, meandering veins. Then, a few months ago, we found the mother lode.”

  Demascus lifted an eyebrow.

  “The arambarium we’d been mining up to this point is nothing compared to what the miners stumbled upon in a deep cavern. The Stewards were making plans to exploit the new find when … everything went dark.”

  “What’s the Tymanther connection?” said Riltana. “What would the dragonborn care, even if they knew about it?”