She seats herself on a twin of the chair they broke, arranging it so that her table separates them. "Evasion is admission."
Gad returns his demeanor to its unruffled state. "You told him about us?"
She plucks up a silver fork from the table and stabs it distractedly into the tablecloth. "Don't be a fool."
A smile. "You told him about me."
"I merely mentioned your name."
"In what context?"
"I said that it was nagging at me."
"What was?"
"The name Gad."
"And he turned red and asked you where you'd heard it, exactly."
"No. He turned white."
"That I consider a compliment. How did you recover?"
"Recover?"
"When you gave yourself away like that."
"Who says I gave myself away?"
"He asked where you'd heard the name. And let me guess. You said that's what I'm asking you. Your face shining with gorgeous rage. Just as it is now."
Contradictory emotions chase each other across Isilda's face. "I did say that."
"And you do scare him—though he won't admit it, not even to himself—and so you backed him off. And he told you that Gad was the name of someone he despised."
"Detested."
"Yes, right. Despised gives me too much credit. And you pressed him for details."
"And he confirmed the tale you told of yourself. More or less. That you are a thief and a swindler and an enemy to common morality."
Gad tries another flashing smile. "And you said, he sounds like our kind of people."
She frowns. "No such words crossed my lips."
"And he told you why, even after turning to Yath, he hunted thieves and sinners. Like me."
"If you can guess our conversation so well, what was that explanation?"
Gad runs a hand over his close-cropped hair. "Truth told? That's the one part I can't work out. Eliminating the competition?"
She turns his grin back on him. This time, it reminds him more of a cat's than a snake's. "You're not entirely clever, then."
"No one is entirely clever."
"He said you and your confederates were more dangerous to our aims than all of the paladins and crusaders of Mendev."
"And you told him not to worry, that we are allies after all."
"I did not."
"His belief is insane, of course."
"Is it?"
"Even if I hadn't turned to Yath, what threat could I pose to the assembled hordes of demonkind?"
"Fraton said that the forces of law cannot defeat us. They are blinkered, naive. They think they can stop us by virtue and courage alone. It is those who live by guile and trickery, who have no respect for the law yet still oppose the forces of evil, who stand the greatest chance of halting our victory."
"So that's why he feared and hunted us."
"That was his claim."
"And then you changed the subject, and allayed his suspicions."
Her cheeks color. "Yes."
"Because when you wish to distract a man's thoughts, you cannot be denied."
"And you'll not distract me from my question."
"Which is?"
"Assure me, Gad, that your presence here is not one of guile and trickery."
Jerisa presses herself to the passageway wall, dagger in hand, ready to plunge it into the fly-demon's eye, should it buzz her way. She'll hope for a quick kill—this is unlikely but possible, given the enchantments on her ancestral blade—then launch in on its human bodyguards. If human they are, under all that armor.
She isn't here looking for an exit.
If the fly-demon does come her way, and she gets herself killed as a result, it will be her own idiotic fault.
If it doesn't, and Gad catches her, the mortification will be unbearable. Worse, in many ways, than being killed by a demonic fly-creature.
Death, even torture, would mean only physical pain.
She's been so right until now. Except for the foolish protective moment when the crusaders stabbed Gad, back at the border.
But that wasn't as humiliating as this.
She understands full well that Gad's dalliance with the priestess is a gambit. An essential part of the game.
She's succeeded in keeping her upset over this below the surface. Well, almost succeeded.
Okay, not succeeded at all, but at least kept it securely within the realm of verbal complaint ...until now. And here she is.
It's all so stupid. She doesn't even know what she'll do if she gets there. What she can do that will possibly help. She's the moth, he's the flame.
This can't be helped. Her heart commands it. Her absurd, self-damaging traitor of a heart.
The buzzing grows fainter. The demon and its retainers are heading the other way after all.
Jerisa steps back and resumes her study of the fissure in the corridor wall. She's never infiltrated a living fortress before, but in her day-and-some of looking for Gad's fabled second exit, she's begun to reach certain conclusions. The creature needs air to breathe. Or something in the air. Later she might ask Calliard for the fine details, if by that point she still cares.
At any rate, this seems true: Yath draws this air not through one set of nostrils, as people do, but from thousands, scattered throughout the structure. They have one such orifice inside their barrack, wheezing in air almost unnoticeably. And here is another one. For air to reach its destination, whatever that might be, it must be drawn along a duct of some variety. Or so she reckons.
Time to put theory into practice, Jerisa decides.
She reaches up to the breathing apparatus, gently separating its feathery air-gills. She pries apart the rubbery lips. Walks herself up the wall. Places her feet in, and, against a wet slurp of resistance, slides herself in.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Discovery
Gad laughs. "You can't ask a man to prove he isn't a liar," he tells Isilda.
"I am doing exactly that."
"Whatever I say will seem like a deception."
"Nonetheless, I demand that you assure me."
"I can't."
"No?"
"I am a liar, Isilda. Absolutely I am. A cheat and a deceiver and a mountebank. In any situation, unequivocally, I pursue the main chance. Which is why I'm here, in your parlor. I live for luxury and pleasure. And power. That's why I burn to have you, because you are all of those. And why you burn for me—the pleasure part, at least. Put me to work for you, and I'll enhance your power and wealth. You are going to win, aren't you?"
"Of course we are."
"I'm not talking about we, I mean you and you alone. Yes, the demon hordes are going to win. Anybody can see that. Which is why I'm throwing in with them, as would any cheat, thief, and so on. But you're going to win against your rivals, here in the tower, and become Yath's ranking mortal servant."
"Which rivals would those be?"
"Fraton, for one. And Xaggalm."
"You know of Xaggalm?"
"I've been waiting for you to ask me this. To prove my usefulness. We've been keeping our ears open, my confederates and I."
She stands and comes to him. "What have you learned?"
"The shadow demon runs a sloppy ship. His guards come and go through the tower at will, raiding for food when they should be at their posts."
"We might leverage that against him, but it would be difficult. Demons abhor discipline."
"They hate failure more."
"Yes."
"To get back to Fraton. No doubt you've gleaned much to use against him. As the man he detests more than any other, I can catalog for you his flaws and vulnerabilities. Time and again I've used them to over
come him."
"And what is the secret to that?"
"No secret at all. It is the oldest trick, from which all other tricks spring. Find what your mark already wants to believe, and suggest that is true."
She moves behind him. Lightly, she touches his scalp. "There is more to it than that."
"There is brazenness. That is hard to teach."
Isilda purrs. "You may be of use, but do not worry yourself about him," she says. "Until I decree otherwise."
"Command received and understood."
She climbs onto his lap. "This is where we were before a previous interruption," she says.
Jerisa wriggles on hands and knees through the duct. Rings of muscle rib its pallid inner surface. They constrict around her, resisting her progress. Gobbets of phlegm form wherever she touches it. They flow together to form larger globs. The gobbets scrape at her flesh. They seek her eyes, her mouth, her ears. She kicks, using the increasing moisture lent by the phlegm coating to propel her farther in.
She reaches a branch in the duct. Her sense of space tells her which one will take her into what ought to be Isilda's inner chamber. If she has calculated it right, that is.
Jerisa picks up speed as the tube slopes down. Unable to resist her slide, she pops out head-first. She catches herself on the way out, grabbing onto the orifice's engorged outer rim. It contracts, gathering force to spit her out. If she lets it, she'll fly headfirst into the stony floor, breaking her neck. She squishes around, disrupting its hold. Mustering all her strength, she pulls her legs up under her. She makes herself into a ball. Then she lets go, allowing the duct to spit her out. She lands feet first. The goop coating her soles sends her sliding onto the mattress of Isilda's four-poster bed. She lands on its heap of silk sheets, clipping her elbow on a post as she goes. Biting down hard, she suppresses the urge to cry out.
She rolls over, stands up, and lets herself adjust to the dimmer light of the priestess's bedchamber.
Locked drawers on a row of chests cry out for investigation. Mucus dripping from her sopping body, she slides to them. The coating on her fingers dulls the sound as she jimmies the first of the locks.
She opens the drawer. Gems and jewels jam it to the brim.
A curtained archway beckons. Jerisa flattens herself beside it, ready to hear the worst.
"Wouldn't you like to go in there?" His wrists held fast, Gad has to gesture toward the bedroom with a turn of his head.
"Don't tell me what I'd like." The priestess bites his neck and ears. She kisses him on the lips. He returns it, meeting force with force.
Isilda stands, pulling him up next to her. She tears at his tunic, pulls it up over his head. She pauses to run sharp-nailed hands up and down the tautness of his back. He tries to get the tunic the rest of the way off. She laughs cruelly and yanks on it. It pulls on his throat, choking him. He ducks down, letting the tunic come off in her hands. Surprised by the sudden loss of tension, she falls back. She hits the table, sending an antique plate crashing onto the floor. A wild expression comes upon her. She bounds back to him, seizes his leggings by the waist, and pulls them down. She nips and scratches at his muscular legs. He groans, only partly in pain.
In the bedchamber, Jerisa draws her dagger.
Gad pulls at the knot in Isilda's hair. It falls as a spray of golden silk. She snaps her head back and forth, letting it flow crazily around her head. He yanks the cape from her back. Tears the lace from her throat. He turns her around and bites the back of her neck, as she has bitten his. He seizes her wrists.
"I didn't ask you to do that," she says.
"Yes, you did," he says.
"Well argued," she concedes.
He takes her wrists and places them on the back of the iron chair. As he bites at the flesh between her hard-edged shoulder blades, he slowly unlaces her corset.
"Tell me you worship me," she demands.
"I worship you," he repeats.
"Tell me your life meant nothing till you saw me."
"My life meant nothing till I saw you."
"I am your queen, and you are my worm."
"You are my queen, and I am your worm."
"Tell me what you love about me."
"Your power."
"Yessss," she breathes.
He tosses the corset aside and reaches into her skirts.
"Not here," Isilda commands.
"The bedroom now?" he asks.
"No, the wall."
She turns around and directs a punch at his gut. He pivots, deflecting the blow's full force. Even so, he wheezes, stunned. He shakes it off, his hand forming an involuntary fist.
"A worm does not punch a queen," she says.
"Well argued," he says. He picks her up and carries her to the archway. He pushes her against the wall beside it.
Jerisa stops breathing.
"Take me," Isilda orders.
Gad obeys.
He is relieved to discover that one of his fears is unwarranted. No demonic surprises await him between her legs.
He pushes into her with all of his anger.
His contempt.
His loathing.
Isilda gasps, exultant.
Jerisa's knuckles, wrapped around her dagger hilt, whiten and shake. One of the lengths of curtain has parted slightly from the others, caught between the bitch-priestess and the wall. Through the gap, Jerisa can see her throat.
She sees Gad, too—his shoulder, part of his chest—but looks away.
It is only the throat that matters, the snowy, terrible throat. In her mind, she choreographs the blow. She will sweep the curtain aside with her off-hand and, in the same motion, step through it, then stab out in a wide, circular arc. The dagger will punch through into the base of her neck, where the arteries branch. The priestess will pitch over, a hand clasped to her throat, fruitlessly trying to staunch the gouting flow. She'll have no time to call down the magic of her demonic masters. Instead she'll collapse and die at Gad's feet.
Jerisa imagines Gad, doused thickly by the dying woman's blood. On his face, shock, then disapproval. The image is too humiliating to bear. Jerisa banishes it from her consciousness, but too late. The old feelings flood in again. It is shameful enough that she is even here. She must withdraw, slink away, never let Gad discover that she was here. It is a sickness in her that drives her to these lengths. Deep in her heart, the fibers are somehow tangled, and have been since the day she first saw him. If only she could reach into her chest and tear out the diseased bit. Maybe then she could see him as a comrade, like he sees her.
The priestess wails her pleasure. The sound pierces Jerisa, dirty and cruel.
It triggers a thought. Perhaps that is what this is about. If she were to do this, to murder the priestess in the act of coupling with him—perhaps the rashness and extremity of the act would once and for all exorcise this madness in her. Bring it to the surface and release it, as a hot needle lances a boil.
She catches herself in mid-spring. Forces herself to back away. Heedlessly she rushes back until she smacks into a piece of furniture. It responds to her blow with a wooden thunk. Jerisa freezes, ready for the sound to attract the lovers' attention.
Instead the demon-worshiper screams her ecstasy.
Jerisa has bumped into a wardrobe. Jostled, its doors swing open. A frame of green light marks the join where its hidden back panel is loosened.
From the other room, the priestess lets fly a crescendo of animal yelps.
Desperate to escape her exclamations, Jerisa pulls away the panel and steps through into the hidden room beyond.
Calliard wanders through the tower. He weaves across the bridge of tar. A halfling-sized demon scuttles out onto it, sniffing out his confusion. The creature is a demonic parody of a cherub. Matted curls stick to its round, disproportionately lolling h
ead. Scarlet eyes puff out below a ridged, overhanging brow. Dragonfly wings buzz from its pale, fleshy back. Fangs descend from its blackened gums. Needlelike claws bloodily break the surface of its ill-developed fingertips. It launches itself at Calliard, stubby legs pounding below it.
He pulls his sword from his scabbard, hacking at the hissing child-demon as it comes his way. It growls peevishly as the blade opens a red fissure on its back. Its claws rake through Calliard's robe. The bard feels the stinging pain of a superficial wound. The creature hugs his leg, biting through the robe. With the hilt of his sword, Calliard strikes the crown of its head. The pommel sinks deep into a soft part between shifting plates of skull. The Abyssal cherub rears back. Calliard kicks it from the bridge. It plummets out of sight and is swallowed by the black river below.
Mouths open on the walls of the surrounding flesh-cavern, chattering in what might be appreciation.
Calliard drops into a fight-ready stance in case the cherub has allies to avenge him. Aside from the chattering teeth, the cavern remains silent.
He inspects his wounds: mere grazes. He looks for signs of poison at their edges. The cherub-demon, he recalls, is documented in the seventh folio of Praligeus's Abyssal Synoptic. He dredges the reference from long-buried memory. The entry lists no toxic after-effects of their attacks.
The bard presses on, focusing on his destination. At the center of the tower, Yath itself blazes like a headache. At its base, there is the orb, the next strongest of the sources of Abyssal presence. Without the experience needed to perceive past them, the bright darkness of these two sources would obscure the locations of other places and entities. Gathering himself inward, he focuses through them, parts their veil, and peers beyond.
He feels where he must go.
A dim green light illuminates nearly a dozen immobile figures, each on a black marble pedestal. Each is a human or half-human male, naked, a dull face staring out in open-jawed rigor. The hideous blankness of their expressions notwithstanding, each is in his own way an appealing specimen. One is a burly mass of muscle, the next possessed of a callow, androgynous beauty. There are blonds, brunettes, redheads. One is definitely half-elven, another possibly so. The tallest of the set is a half-orc, his proud features favoring the human side of his lineage. Their bodies bear the signs of lives lived ruggedly: scars, burns, broken and reknitted bones. Puffs of dust gather in their folds and crannies.
The Worldwound Gambit Page 24
