Spinner of Lies frotg-1

by Bruce R Cordell

  “Look,” Riltana said. She pointed down into an open drawer.

  “What?” He leaned over.

  “False bottom.”

  Then he saw it-faint seams outlined the shape of a rectangle.

  The windsoul reached into the cavity and pressed along one side. The panel popped out. Inside the narrow space rested a thin leather ledger and a tiny chest.

  “Pashra, Pashra, Pashra,” said the windsoul as she retrieved the curio chest. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to hide your valuables in false-bottom drawers? It’s the first place any good thief looks!”

  Demascus grabbed the ledger. It was a record of cargo originating from an island just off the coast referred to as “the burial site.” He was disappointed to find no mention of the name of the ship responsible for providing transport. Odd. He doubted the cargo was just floating down from the sky into the warehouse. He paged forward. The cargo started appearing only a tenday ago. Which was about how long ago communication with the mine had ceased. According to the ledger, the cargo had been routed through this warehouse, a stopover on its way to “the new nexus.” No address for the nexus, either. But it was someplace in Akanul, if not Airspur itself.

  “I bet this is the real deal,” Riltana said, interrupting his perusal. She held the palm-sized chest in her hand, and the lid gaped open. It was mostly empty, except for a sprinkle of iron-hued grains.

  “Arambarium?” he said.

  “Gotta be.” She removed a glove, wet a finger, and carefully pressed down on a grain.

  “Careful,” he said.

  “Yeah, yeah.” She retracted her hand and held out her finger so they could both inspect the silvery grain adhered there.

  “Doesn’t look particularly special,” he said.

  “It … I can’t tell what temperature it is. One moment it’s warm, the next it’s cool as ice.” Her eyes were wide as she stared with rapt attention at the arambarium chip.

  “Maybe you should research the effects of raw arambarium contamination before you hold that too much longer.”

  She said, “This is research, Demascus. Why don’t you get back to the ledger?”

  He snorted, but did as she suggested.

  Paging forward, he discovered that the arambarium routing through the warehouse had stopped the day before. Apparently, new arrangements were going to be made for “the final excavation.” No clues were forthcoming on what that might mean. The document disgorged two final pieces of information. A name, penned into the margin of the first page, read “Master Raneger.” With the name was the note, “May prove amenable.” Another note, written in a different hand, said, “The Gatekeeper has been enticed to guard the new nexus.”

  He didn’t know who the Gatekeeper was. But Raneger … he was the criminal who Chant had once described as the most successful malefactor in all of Airspur and owner of the infamous Den of Games. His power lay in the fact that the peacemakers had never traced anything back to him. And perhaps he’d made an ally of one of the Stewards, though which one was debatable. Chant once owed a debt to Raneger so steep that the pawnbroker’s life had been forfeit. But that was water under the bridge. Despite at least one serious attempt on his life by Raneger, Chant had paid off his debt. Then, in what seemed like a feat of idiocy, Chant had taken a position with his former enemy at the Den of Games. Working for Raneger. Demascus still couldn’t figure out how that had come about. Chant’s shop was only open now by special appointment, which was why Fable, the finicky cat, was Demascus’s house guest.

  The deva snapped the ledger shut. Riltana flicked the arambarium grain from her finger into the chest, closed it, and replaced her glove. She closed her hand over the chest, and it vanished from her palm. “A down payment for services rendered,” she decreed.

  Demascus doubted there was anything the woman wouldn’t steal. Part of her appeal, he supposed, was that brashness. Besides, it might be handy to have some arambarium of their own. He’d ask her not to dispose of the material in the chest to the highest bidder-maybe they could find a use for it. A discussion for later, though.

  “Let’s get out here,” he said. “We’ve got an appointment.”

  “Did you charter a ship?”

  “Yeah. But the storm’s got them all stuck in the harbor. But that doesn’t mean we’ve got nothing to do.”

  “What?”

  He pointed to the ledger that contained Raneger’s name. “What say we pay a little visit to the Den of Games?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE CITY OF AIRSPUR, AKANUL

  17 LEAFFALL, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  It amazed her every time. and terrified her, because of what her new ability probably meant. Nothing natural could do what she could. Simply … appearing where she wanted to go. Or else, almost as often, in some random market or water pipe lounge around Airspur. Sometimes, she’d find herself standing on an earthmote high over Akanul or on the lip of the North Wall gazing into the wasteland of Halruaa.

  Halruaa had once been a vibrant land of high magic. Back when …

  Back when I was still alive, she thought. Admit it, Madri. You’re a gods-abandoned ghost. Stop lying to yourself. You’re nothing more than a haunt with delusions of carrying on.

  She shook her head. The rain made her hair a sodden tangle that wrapped her neck like seaweed. She shivered. A dead person couldn’t feel cold, could she? A dead person couldn’t feel at all!

  When Madri had watched Demascus board the ship, the familiar rage shook her, but with it came a nugget of hope. No shell of life could feel such a pure rage, surely! Please, Kelemvor, Lord of the Dead, grant that I’m not a wraith just going through the motions, looking for peace denied me by an untimely death. Unfortunately, other clues also suggested she’d left the realm of the living. Usually she didn’t dwell on them. But with Demascus now out of sight in the shadow of the ship’s forecastle, and the relentless rain coming down like a shroud, her mind wandered.

  The signs perched on her shoulders like crows. She never seemed hungry. Or thirsty. Gone were the headaches that once assailed her if she didn’t indulge with a bowl of exotically blended tabac each day, even though she hadn’t smoked in months. But the most damning evidence of all was that sometimes hours or even days would pass in a dark dream of nothingness, as if she was simply gone from the world, without form, or substance, or mind. If that wasn’t the affliction suffered by a disembodied spirit-and she was going to hold fiercely to the opposite of that proposition-then what was she, exactly?

  A different answer had occurred to Madri a few days ago, when she’d lured Demascus’s windsoul friend to the Norjah manor. The items of power in the vampires’ secret gallery were exceptionally potent examples of divine craftsmanship, and she needed one. As she’d waited for the windsoul to create the distraction Madri counted on, her mind flashed to an image of Exorcessum. The sword possessed as much divine power as any one of the paintings, though that strength slumbered. Was it possible that damned assassin’s tool had … What? Plucked a guilty image from the memory scraps still blowing through Demascus’s mind of Madri and … breathed life into it? Well, pseudo-life, anyway.

  Exorcessum was the very first thing she could recall after her death. He’d just found the sword, after misplacing it in some mausoleum called Khalusk. Her first recent memory was of standing there, glaring at Demascus, who’d stared dumbly back as if he’d never seen her before.

  She radiated anger. Her wet hair steamed with the heat of it. Which was more infuriating? she wondered. To meditate on the treacherous lunatic who’d snapped your neck while you were gazing at him like a love-struck idiot? Or to wonder if your entire current existence was nothing more than a part of someone’s fragmented memory? Am I a recollection given a sham existence by an errant pulse of divine energy from a mishandled magical artifact?

  It was her new fear. When she wasn’t nervous that she might be an unquiet spirit, she worried she was something even less real. At least if she was a ghost, sh
e possessed a splinter of her former life. But if she was only a memory inflated like a festival balloon and let go over the city, then she couldn’t trust anything in her own head. It was all just borrowed; it was all just her as he had thought of her.

  Madness lay down that path. She knew it. If she continued on, trying to learn her exact status, she would probably be sorry. Just drop it, Madri!

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t in her nature to let questions remain unanswered. As a plenipotentiary of Halruaa, the hand-selected emissary-and spy-of Zalathorm himself, the eldest of the Council of Elders who ruled Halruaa, it had been her job to find information … And she’d been shattered to discover Halruaa had dissolved in the Spellplague, not long after her own death. Decades upon decades earlier. She’d been gone from the world for close to a hundred years …

  Madri gritted her teeth. She couldn’t let herself get distracted by the minutia of the past. She tried to focus on any interesting activity aboard the ship with the siren-decorated prow. Keeping an eye on Demascus was the most important thing now. She had to wait for her chance to collect the last ingredient for the ritual. The ritual that would ensure her revenge, and more.

  An accomplished eavesdropper, Madri was fully cognizant of Demascus’s commission from the queen of Akanul. She’d seen the whole meeting that morning in the deva’s home. Demascus would likely find himself in a dangerous spot if the queen’s story about losing contact with her secret mine was accurate. And it would give Madri an opportunity to grab what she needed much sooner than she’d expected.

  The weather, however, had other plans. Demascus wouldn’t be going to sea today, she judged. The storm was too fierce. No ship captain would risk a vessel in such waters. So why keep watching? Foolish to remain out in the worsening downpour like a jilted stalker. After all, she could be-

  Flicker.

  She was standing in a shadowed corner of the Copperhead, an Airspur water pipe lounge she’d appeared in several times this month. As usual, when she made such transitions, no one noticed. The patrons continued to lounge about the comfortable chamber, drawing in water-cooled smoke and releasing it with the grandeur of exhaling dragons. The Copperhead reminded her of a place she’d frequented in her old life. The odor of a dozen special blends of tabac, the sound of bubbling smoke through water, and the relaxed demeanor of the customers were so familiar. If she closed her eyes, she might well be in that other place and time. Closing her eyes also helped because, in Halruaa, there’d been no genasi.

  She’d become used to the elemental people of Akanul the last few months. All except for that queen who’d given Demascus his commission. Arathane. Her mouth tightened. Even though the woman had probably handed Madri the opportunity she required to advance her own plan, she’d taken an instant dislike to the monarch. The genasi was too familiar with Demascus.

  What, are you jealous? Of someone competing for the affections of your killer? She smirked at her own foolishness. The mind is a tangled thing. Did the queen truly have an interest in Demascus? It was improbable, though not impossible. Madri recalled how she herself had been intrigued by him, despite her lofty responsibilities. Queen Arathane, regardless of her station, might be similarly impressed with the deva, even though he seemed only an echo of what he’d been.

  She didn’t like to consider it. She should return to the crypt and see if any new instructions were forthcoming from the single entity that knew she walked in the world. Instead, she lingered in her corner, watching patrons drift in and out of the rain.

  Madri and Demascus had met in a water pipe lounge. Zalathorm had arranged for her to meet the visiting “champion” of epic repute, the mysterious deva who’d rid Halruaa of a secret menace, to see what she might learn. No one knew the details, not even Zalathorm. It had been enough that Mystra, the patron goddess of Halruaa, had let it be known through her servitors that Demascus had done Zalathorm a great service. Madri’s job was to learn more in the guise of genteel companionship.

  Madri viewed her meeting with Demascus as one more state function. Certainly the stakes were potentially high, but she was used to that. Zalathorm worried that Damascus might turn out to be a secret agent for Estagund, who’d somehow fooled even divine beings. It had happened before.

  They’d met under an umbrella, one midday. Demascus, who she’d thought of then as a pale-skinned human, acted like he’d rather be anywhere else. He refused to so much as look at her, talking only of politics, of temples and gods and their clergy, and other meaningless jabber. He wouldn’t speak about Mystra, the “great favor” he’d supposedly done the people of Halruaa, or anything of real substance. He disdained even trying a single draw on the water pipe. And he’d caught her glance only once-she saw that his eyes were the color of ancient glaciers-then he quickly looked away.

  If it hadn’t been for that one passing glance, Madri would have thought him one of the biggest bores she’d ever had the misfortune to meet. And that would have been that.

  Zalathorm was disappointed with her report, but sometimes even someone with her skills in finding out the obscure and hidden comes up dry. She’d done background on Demascus, using a mix of her mundane and arcane resources, and found so little that she’d become sure that, at the very least, he was an expert in obscuring his past. Hells, he could even throw her off the trail. It made her curious, but she had other issues to fill her mind.

  A letter came for her two months later from Demascus, asking that they meet again at the same place. She penned a reply and gave it to the messenger. And instantly regretted it. She wasn’t looking for another opportunity to learn what Zalathorm wanted; she wanted to see the stranger’s startling eyes again. What a fool you are, Madri! This is no assignment. Remember what an ass he was?

  In his message Demascus had said, “I hope you’ll accept my apology for acting the hound. I wasn’t ready for a social engagement. Sorry I subjected you to my worst self, still tired from my previous task. But if you’re available, I’d like to see you again and apologize in person. You’re one of the few people I know in the city.”

  When she met him the second time, it was a cool evening. They sat at the same table as before, this time with candles flickering between them. The smells of smoke, body heat over crushed roses, and violets mingled in the air. He looked right at her. His eyes were wells, leading down to depths of experience she could hardly imagine. They talked for hours.

  Later, when the evening had drawn to a close, they kissed goodnight. Her chest, the hollows behind her knees, every part of her body seemed to fill with light. Her hands clutched briefly across the small of his back, pulling him into an embrace. What was she doing?

  She’d been struck insane, obviously.

  When they drew apart, she suggested they meet for a third time. And so their romance began.

  A glum-looking watersoul banged into the Copperhead, and Madri’s reminisces went up with the smoke of a dozen exhalations.

  Damn me, what’s past is past, she thought. I’ve got to focus on the present. Halruaa is gone, and I’m in Akanul. Thanks to … Demascus himself, perhaps.

  She remembered when he’d last gazed at her in Halruaa, with sorrow scribing his face like talons. As if he was sorry for what he was doing, even as his hands tightened on her head, for the final sharp twist …

  Darkness seemed to stretch forever.

  Until she was somewhere else, a mausoleum. Demascus, the Sword of the Gods, was there, too. Except that he was clutching his blade like a child just out of weapons training. He gaped at her with wide, ice-blue eyes. If Madri hadn’t immediately lapsed into another fit of timeless nonexistence, she would have gone for his throat.

  “Madam, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there,” a voice said. She shook her head, clearing the memory and returning to the moment. The proprietor of the Copperhead was wiping down a table, scant feet from her. He was hardly more than a kid, pierced with flashing jewelry, and staring with a question in his eyes. “Follow me. I’ll set you up with a pipe.”
>
  “No, no, I’m fine,” she replied. “I came in to get out of the rain.”

  “Ah. I suppose that’s all right. If you change your mind, just head up to the counter there.” The kid gave her a curious stare.

  She sometimes forgot that, though she could appear and disappear without drawing attention to herself, as if people in the vicinity had just edited her into or out of their consciousness, it didn’t mean she was invisible.

  Time to leave. She concentrated, hoping that if she fixed carefully in her mind the image of where she wanted to go, she could avoid too many more random hops …

  Flicker.

  Earthmotes drifting through piles of lightning-lit clouds.

  Flicker.

  A cliff face on which the Sea of Fallen Stars lashed its rage.

  Flicker.

  A floating obelisk, cratered and crusted like a fossil dug from the living rock of Toril and set adrift in the sky. Tentacles hundreds of yards long slithered down its sides. What? Was she even in Akanul any-

  Flicker.

  Darkness and the smell of loose earth. The odor, despite its sour tang, was a welcome one. She was back. Madri mumbled a charm. A light caught in the lantern mantle. The glow revealed a small side table and chair. A silvery mask, blank but for two shadowed eye openings, lay next to the lantern on the table.

  She dropped into the chair. It was the one comfortable piece of furniture down here. She eyed the mask, wondering if it had a comment or instruction for her. When the mask remained quiescent, she turned to look at the stone wall opposite her. The surface possessed a couple of notable features-a narrow flight of stairs leading up to a secret door and a painting.

  Red velvet draped the painting, hiding the visage scowling beneath it. The first time she’d locked eyes with the entity called the Necromancer, illustrated on the canvas, it had spoken words of horror to her. She’d fallen to the floor as her body spasmed out of control. Afterward she’d retched, but nothing came up. The image she’d seen, a face composed of broken pieces of reality, screaming in frozen unending agony at its splintered flesh and mind … Gods!