Liar's Bargain: A Novel

by Tim Pratt

  “Are they some kind of demon?” Rodrick said. He had a particular antipathy toward demons.

  The Specialist shook his shaggy gray head. “No, no. Prinn used to be human, and now he’s undead. Particularly sinful mortals, those dedicated to the pleasures of the flesh, sometimes return to life as totenmaskes, driven by all the same appetites they had in life, only more twisted and perverse. Of course, their rotting bodies, their monstrous mouths, their terrible claws—these things make it difficult for them to acquire such pleasures. They use their powers to shape and steal flesh to take on the identities of others, infiltrating the lives of the living—and using those lives to gratify their corrupt desires.” He sipped his drink. “Sometimes totenmaskes just happen, and sometimes very powerful clerics of dark gods make them, from the corpses of evil mortals.”

  “You’re saying Merihim was some kind of … evil high priest?” Rodrick had encountered an evil god once—she’d even touched him—and had no desire to get close to any sort of divinity ever again.

  “I doubt it. She didn’t exhibit any priestly powers. I think she was more of a treasure hunter. Somehow she gained the power to command the undead—she clearly had a fondness for magical items, and I suspect she found something that allowed her to enslave Prinn.” He sighed. “Alas, we have no such item—the solders must have taken her jewelry wherever they took Hrym, and I didn’t get to search her body before Hrym chased us away.”

  Eldra drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “So we … we’ll hire a priest, and—”

  The Specialist shook his head. “Gaining access to Temple—and remember, Prinn now is Temple, as far as the Bastion knows—won’t be that easy. We escaped without much trouble, but gaining entrance to a fortress is usually much harder than getting out. Moreover, with all the resources of the Bastion at his disposal, I’m sure Prinn will ward himself against being controlled in the same way again.”

  “Is Temple still alive?” Rodrick said. “The real Temple, I mean?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard tales of totenmaskes keeping their victims alive for years, taking more flesh from them to renew their disguises periodically, but who knows? Prinn is hardly short of other identities to steal. We know Temple sometimes meets with at least one high-ranking crusader leader, Andraste, the one who came to inspect us—maybe Prinn will move on to bigger and better things the next time they’re alone together.”

  “We need to do something,” Eldra said. “If we don’t rescue Temple before morning, she can’t say the words that will keep us from dying.”

  “Why didn’t the gem kill Prinn?” Rodrick demanded. “We know they work—one of them certainly turned Merihim’s chest into wreckage—but Prinn’s didn’t seem to harm him at all.”

  The Specialist nodded. “The gems work by releasing bursts of negative energy. Death energy. That energy is a terrible force, inimical to life.”

  “But we saw Prinn heal— Wait.” Rodrick slumped. “It’s because he’s undead, isn’t it?”

  Eldra said something in the Vudrani tongue that was probably a curse. “Of course. Healing magic harms the undead, so this death magic, it heals them. Right?”

  The Specialist nodded. “Totenmaskes are not creatures of illusion, but of transformation. When Prinn wore his human disguise, he was human—his body was human, his heart beat in his chest, his flesh was like our flesh, and as such, he was vulnerable to the gem. But once he transformed himself back into his true form, he could remove the gem without fear. And you’re right—by activating the gem, Temple actually healed the wounds Prinn had inflicted on himself.”

  Rodrick rubbed his chest. The gem lurked inside him, waiting to burst. “So … what do we do?”

  Eldra sighed. “I suppose we stage a desperate suicide attack on the Bastion of Justice to try to kill Prinn and rescue Temple before morning. Or else we make peace with our gods. I can’t think of any other options.”

  “I know one other,” the Specialist said.

  22

  THE NECKLACE

  The Specialist blinked as they stared at him, seemingly taken aback by the sharpness of their focused attention. “When we met—or, rather, were presented to—General Andraste, did you notice the necklace she was wearing?”

  Rodrick frowned. He’d mostly noticed her very large sword and her dyspeptic expression, but, yes, there’d been a glimmer at her throat he’d thought seemed out of place. “I think so.”

  Eldra nodded. “I did, but just a glimpse—most of the necklace was hidden under her clothes. I thought it was a peculiar choice considering that the rest of her ensemble was mail and leather.”

  “That necklace is the key to our freedom … and we won’t have to face a totenmaske to get it.”

  “Please explain,” Eldra said.

  “As I believe I mentioned right after the rat incident, I was researching the Whispering Tyrant’s reign before I came here,” the Specialist said. “In a forgotten codex, I came across a reference to a ‘necklace of terrible gems,’ also called ‘the Tyrant’s Collar.’ The Whispering Tyrant’s lieutenants used the necklace to compel the loyalty of nobles and aristocrats, forcing them to betray their people at the Tyrant’s command. ‘The gems burrow like insects and nestle next to the heart, to rend the flesh of those who disobey. So long as the necklace is clasped, the gems pulse with dreadful light and the promise of death, but unclasp the necklace, and the gems return harmlessly home.’” He shrugged. “It seems clear that Temple got her hands on one such monstrous artifact and decided to use it to compel our service. It would be dangerous to keep the necklace on her own person, where we might get our hands on it, so Temple gave it to her patron to wear instead. I don’t know if deactivating the gems is really just a matter of undoing a clasp, but if we get our hands on the necklace, I suspect I can figure out how to use its powers.”

  “So all we have to do,” Eldra said, “is steal a piece of jewelry from around the neck of one of the leading generals of Lastwall.”

  “Before morning,” Rodrick said.

  “We could just go to Andraste and tell her what’s happened,” Eldra said. “That Prinn was a totenmaske, that he’s taken over Temple’s identity, that the Bastion has been corrupted from the inside…” She sighed. “Of course, we’re notorious liars and thieves and confidence tricksters, and judging by the way she looked at us when she met us, I can’t imagine she would believe us.”

  “Totenmaskes are adept at deception,” the Specialist said. “They have magical abilities designed to let them step seamlessly into the lives of their victims, and they can be very convincing. I don’t think the direct approach would do us much good. Besides, putting ourselves in Andraste’s hands wouldn’t free us from our predicament—even if she believed us and moved against Prinn, we would still be prisoners. I was willing to endure my year of service in the Volunteers, as it seemed there were some interesting learning opportunities involved, but at this point … I would rather gain my freedom.”

  “It’s a shame we don’t have Merihim here to plan something for us,” Eldra said.

  Rodrick scowled. “We don’t need her. We’ve got me.”

  * * *

  The Specialist didn’t have the book about the necklace anymore, of course, but he claimed to have a memory so perfect he could recall every page of every volume he’d ever perused, and it didn’t take him long to duplicate the drawing he’d seen of the “necklace of terrible gems”: a doubled strand of gold, with a dozen dangling fittings that held the teardrop-shaped red gems. Rodrick sent the Specialist with almost the entirety of their combined funds to find a goldsmith. The sword would not be pleased by that … but the alternative was never seeing the sword again, so the opportunity to face Hrym’s displeasure was actually a fairly rosy prospect.

  Rodrick sent Eldra on a mission to gather intelligence. If Andraste was off at the front, or attending high-level meetings, or otherwise surrounded by her highly armed compatriots and subordinates, they would have a hard time pulling this off. Fo
rtunately, Eldra returned to the tavern beaming.

  She slipped into the chair beside him. “We’re in luck. General Andraste has just returned from the front. Everyone’s talking about it. She won a great victory against some formidable orc chieftain, and her deeds are on everyone’s lips. In a few days she’s being honored with a great feast, to be attended by various high-ranking figures, including the Precentor Martial for Cavalry—I even heard rumors Andraste is being groomed to take over that position herself in time.”

  “Knowing where she’ll be in the future doesn’t do us much good,” Rodrick said. “Because of the fact that we’ll be shredded corpses by then.”

  Eldra tapped him on the end of the nose with her forefinger. “Patience, Rodrick. I just enjoy gossip. Overhearing one such conversation, I wondered aloud why they didn’t honor her right away, and was told that Andraste is very devout, and prefers to spend the days immediately following a battle alone at home, observing private devotions in the chapel to Iomedae in the center of her house. Rededicating herself to her goddess, thanking her for the opportunity to serve, and so on. Doubtless she scourges her flesh and harrows her soul and cleanses the soles of her feet and so forth, too. Religious people always find interesting ways to pass the time. The point is that even the servants leave Andraste alone during these rituals, so the general should be home alone, and deep in contemplation. I’m beginning to think our luck is changing for the better.”

  “I should hope,” Rodrick said. “It doesn’t really have much room to get worse.”

  * * *

  The Specialist returned after nightfall, as Eldra and Rodrick were picking at the last remnants of a roasted chicken at their table, and beginning to worry.

  “This was very expensive, because of the rush, but it looks right.” The Specialist unfolded a black cloth on the table and revealed a necklace just like the one he’d sketched. Rodrick suppressed a shudder at the sight of a full dozen duplicates of the red gem in his chest, each one dangling from the necklace like a blood-filled tick. “I wasn’t sure how many gems are missing from the necklace,” the Specialist said. “At least five, but possibly more, since Temple had one on hand to demonstrate on the rat. These false ones are easy enough to pop out, so we can make the fake necklace match when the time comes. Assuming this wasn’t a waste of time and gold?”

  “Not at all,” Rodrick said. “We’re going to wait until it’s properly dark, and then we’re paying a visit to the general’s estate.”

  “I wish I had access to an alchemy lab.” The Specialist sighed. “If everything goes perfectly, I’ve got what we need in my pack. But I prefer having more options.”

  “Options are in short supply all around,” Rodrick said. “But look on the bright side: if we’re captured, what’s the worst that can happen?”

  “They can torture us,” Eldra said.

  “Ah, but not for long,” Rodrick said. “Since we’ll die at dawn regardless.”

  “When you put it that way,” Eldra agreed.

  * * *

  Rodrick had expected an ostentatious estate, but he’d forgotten the essentially pious nature of the crusaders. The house was nice, certainly befitting Andraste’s rank, but it was no palace: just a big house in the locally popular Chelish Old White style, all gleaming pale stone walls and immense arched windows, many filled with stained-glass windows depicting various triumphs by paladins. The big windows on the higher floors were particularly lovely from a burglar’s point of view, as they were large enough to walk through upright. The whole house was surrounded by a wall of white stone, but the wall wasn’t topped with spikes or shards of glass or anything. There probably weren’t a lot of burglars eager to rob the home of a highly ranked crusader. Rodrick wasn’t too keen on the idea himself, but their circumstances were dire.

  The house was on a large lot with a lot of privacy, on a hill overlooking the harbor, so they didn’t have to worry much about passing traffic or overly observant neighbors. There was one soldier ambling in a desultory way around the perimeter of the wall, occasionally poking his pike into bushes and sighing a lot: this was probably a low-status punishment detail. He clearly wasn’t expecting any trouble, and the remaining Volunteers had no desire to give him any.

  The Specialist counted quietly as the soldier made two slow circuits of the wall, then nodded. “Plenty of time.” They waited until he vanished out sight around the near corner and then started after him, keeping their distance. Eldra peered around the corner, and after a moment beckoned to them. “He’s rounded the other corner.”

  Now they were on the deepest-shadowed side of the house, where several tall trees blocked the moonlight, though none grew close enough to the wall to provide a handy branch to climb across—the security wasn’t that sloppy. Rodrick boosted Eldra up to the top of the ten-foot wall, and she scurried over. A moment later a rope, with fat knots tied every foot or so, flew over the wall toward them. The Specialist skimmed up the line quick as a spider, and Rodrick clambered up after him and descended to the interior, pulling the rope after him and coiling it up to stow in his pack. They were all dressed in blacks and grays to blend in with the dark, and they moved low and quietly across the expanse of lawn, avoiding puddles of moonlight. They were alert for guard dogs or other security, but encountered nothing. Andraste probably didn’t have any real enemies apart from the orcs of Belkzen, and Vellumis was a long way from the front, probably the safest city in Lastwall.

  The windows on the first floor were all stained glass, but they climbed up a pillar—helpfully carved with ornamental hand- and footholds—to reach a ledge on the second floor. From there they moved, backs pressed against the wall—Rodrick, at least, wishing he was wearing white for this part—until they reached a window that actually opened. The Specialist slipped a bit of wire through the crack in the window to lift the inner latch, and just like that, they were inside.

  The room beyond the window was a library, with some uncomfortable-looking chairs and high wooden shelves full of books and scrolls. The Specialist looked in danger of losing himself entirely, squinting in the darkness at the spines of the books until Eldra kicked him in the ankle and he remembered himself. He sighed, almost too softly to be heard, and continued on his way. The doors here had nice big keyholes, the kind servants and spies could peer through, so Eldra took a look out and then signaled the all-clear. They eased open the door and went into a dark hallway.

  The house was sparsely decorated, with no carpets on the stone floors and empty niches that held no bits of ornamental statuary or war trophies. They hadn’t been able to find floor plans of the house—there were ways to do so, but not in such a short amount of time—but they’d heard the chapel was in the center of the house, so they made their way down a wide staircase, testing each step carefully to make sure it wouldn’t creak.

  Downstairs, there was almost no furniture, which was good, since it was so dim they would have endlessly cracked their ankles and barked their shins against tables and chairs. They found the kitchen, with a cold store and a wood stove and a well-stocked pantry, along with a wooden table and straight-backed wooden chairs. The only thing of interest at all was a jug of wine on the counter, which Rodrick wanted to sample but didn’t. This was a stealth mission, and they were meant to leave no sign of their presence.

  Rodrick had never been a great fan of sneak-thieving. He preferred to be loud and charming, because why rob someone when it was possible to convince them to just hand you whatever you wanted? Still, he’d crept through his share of dark houses, and he’d never liked it. The only thing worse than the oppressive silence was the possibility of hearing a noise—or making one.

  They finally found a door that led to a central room, and he knelt to look through the keyhole. A flame burned in a bowl, illuminating a tall statue of Iomedae, resplendent with a silver shield and golden-hilted sword, surrounded by stone benches … but there was no one inside. They eased the door open anyway and looked around, in case there was some alcove wher
e Andraste might be abasing herself, but the place was deserted.

  “Maybe she went to the privy,” Eldra whispered. “Even the most rigorous religious devotions have to be put on hold when nature demands.”

  The Specialist shook his head. “That flame is fed by alchemical fuel, and will burn for ages without being replenished. Look at the benches. They’re covered in dust. There’s dust all over the floor, too, apart from our footsteps.” He sighed. “We’ll have to scrub those away, or risk being noticed. Andraste hasn’t been here in a long time.”

  They walked backward through the dust, sweeping at the mess with the hem of the Specialist’s cloak to quite literally cover their tracks. Back in the hallway, they stopped to consider their next move. “If she’s not devoting herself to her god, then what is she doing?” Rodrick said.

  “Indulging some other impulse, I would imagine,” the Specialist said. “Perhaps one that isn’t seen as befitting the dignity of a holy crusader of Lastwall. Perhaps even something Temple could use to blackmail her into supporting her plan with the Volunteers?”

  “Aha,” Eldra said. “Now we’re into my territory.”

  23

  A DESPERATE OFFER

  They went back upstairs, this time taking a different hallway, in search of a bedchamber—and they found one, at the end of the hall, the door standing slightly ajar, light spilling out. There were voices beyond the door, too: gasping in pain, or pleasure, or, Rodrick supposed, in both at once.

  Eldra crept forward and risked glancing into the room—and then looked for a long moment before returning. She beckoned them through the open door of another room halfway down the hall, some sort of study with a meticulously neat desk and a map of the area around Lake Encarthan tacked up on the wall. “Well. We were right. Andraste’s in there with three healthy-looking young people, two men and a woman—if any of them is older than twenty I’d be very surprised. We were right about there being some scourging, but I don’t think it’s for religious purposes, and everyone seems to be having a good time.” She shook her head. “I don’t think Andraste is devoting herself to a god. There are some Vudrani gods who look kindly on such activities, but I’ve always found your Inner Sea deities to be a bit more prudish. Even Cayden Cailean might disapprove, what with all the people being tied up.”