Spinner of Lies frotg-1

by Bruce R Cordell

  That event further sustained her hope that she wasn’t a ghost. Ghosts didn’t have fits, did they? Or try to puke up their guts?

  After she’d collected herself, Madri had procured a drape for the painting. She had a feeling that, no matter her status, too much undirected exposure to the Necromancer could permanently damage her.

  She glanced away. There were two more interesting features in the room. The first was a fissure across the floor that dropped into darkness. She’d made no attempt to plumb it, other than throwing a single pebble into the cavity and failing to hear it strike bottom.

  The second was a heaped pile of grave dirt. Madri pushed herself out of the chair and approached the black mound. Close up, the sour odor was mixed with the reek of a rotting carcass. Beneath the dirt lay the shell of Kalkan Swordbreaker. Kalkan who, one day soon-far sooner than Demascus could hope to be ready for-would be reborn. When this self-styled nemesis of the Sword of the Gods woke, he’d help Madri exact vengeance against Demascus. So the mask promised, at any rate.

  Her nose wrinkled with the odor. But she patted the waist-high pile of soil like it was a pet. “You’d better actually be in there, Kalkan, slouching back to the world to live again. Because sometimes I worry I’m imagining all this as I spin in my own grave …”

  “Kalkan is real enough,” said the mask on the table.

  She turned. “You’re awake?”

  “Evidently.”

  Madri hated the mask. It had found her flickering around Airspur, afraid and alone. It gave her purpose and promised revenge on the one who had killed her. But it also toyed with her, sometimes telling her minor falsehoods as if it enjoyed tripping her up. As if it couldn’t help but weave falsehood with truth, despite her allegiance to it.

  “Fossil,” she said, for that’s what she sometimes called the mask for lack of any better name, “is your master any nearer to waking on his own?”

  “What makes you believe I serve Kalkan?” came the cold, androgynous voice.

  Her lips thinned. “You told me Kalkan Swordbreaker was divinely appointed to keep Demascus in check-”

  “Correct, lest he grow too powerful on Toril,” the mask interrupted, only to fall silent again.

  She waited for the mask to continue. Of course, it did not. It was just like Fossil to speak in riddles, when it wasn’t making outright fabrications. So be it, she thought, I’m a champion riddle solver.

  “You once described how Kalkan, like Demascus, was doomed to return to the world again and again.”

  The mask lifted off the table to hang in the air, facing her. She had piqued its interest. “You also referred to yourself as a reanimated angel remnant who once served a god of Toril who had been wronged by all others,” she continued. “You made it sound like that was in the past, that the deity was dead or imprisoned … But now I think it’s possible you still serve that one and not Kalkan at all. Which is it?”

  The mask didn’t speak for so long that she was readying herself to shout at the obstinate thing when it said, “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that our purposes are aligned. You seek to punish Demascus. Kalkan is the vehicle by which that shall be accomplished. Be glad you’ve been brought into this at all, figment.”

  Figment? That was a new one. She stored that away for later reflection. “You still haven’t described how it’s going to work. Punishing the deva as he deserves will be tricky, since he’s guaranteed to return from the dead.”

  “The Swordbreaker has pursued Demascus down through the centuries. He has a plan.”

  “Of course,” Madri said. “In fact, I saw him again today. He seeks to charter a ship.”

  “As Kalkan predicted,” the mask stated.

  Everything she did was predicated on some sort of scheme devised by Kalkan. A scheme so tangled that it could’ve been drawn up only by someone with impossibly precise foreknowledge of the future. As a plenipotentiary, she had some experience with the divinatory school of magic. She’d always found divination imprecise at best, and useful for only a few hours of forward-gazing. Whatever magic Kalkan possessed, it was something that defied all the theory and teaching she’d received in Halruaa.

  Then again, Kalkan was a rakshasa, a creature with access to secrets few others knew. Upon its death, a rakshasa was guaranteed eventual reincarnation. When it did reappear, it retained all the memories and knowledge of each and every one of its former selves. A rakshasa had lifetimes to learn from its mistakes, and each rakshasa had the cumulative wisdom of a thousand lives, giving it firsthand knowledge of history and the experience from tens of thousands of schemes. During his existence, Kalkan had apparently gathered many powerful secrets.

  The sooner she and Fossil could move forward with the ritual, the sooner Kalkan would return to the world and take up after the deva once more. She’d once asked why just she and Fossil couldn’t go after Demascus themselves. The mask simply refused to answer. Which told her it was more concerned with Kalkan’s return than her own vengeance. She was just another tool, one that would gain satisfaction when Kalkan’s plan finally saw the deva to the end he deserved.

  “Demascus can’t go the island immediately,” she said. “Not today, probably not for several days. A storm has all the ships held in port.”

  “A storm? I don’t recall that being part of …” The mask trailed off.

  “So, what other ingredients does the ritual require? I’ve gotten you the whispering painting, the one called the Necromancer. And you said the last ingredient could be gathered when Demascus visits this mysterious island. What must I do when that happens?” She waited for the thing to continue.

  Silence.

  She approached it and tapped a fingernail on its smooth face. “Anyone home?”

  The mask settled back down next to the lamp. It’d lapsed back to sleep, or whatever it did when it wouldn’t talk. If it was a spirit bound to an object, perhaps it ceased continuity for a while. Like when she experienced her own episodes of time loss-

  She waved the thought away like an annoying gnat. Anyway, Fossil had called her “figment.” Though it probably only did so to make her wonder-she’d made the mistake of mentioning her latest fear about her status to the mask.

  Just to be sure, she tapped Fossil again. Nothing. She was tempted to pick it up and toss it down the chasm, just to see if anything would happen. No. She had a more pressing need to take care of while Fossil was “out.”

  She faced the draped picture. If Necromancer could provide instructions to Fossil on how to resurrect Kalkan early … it could damn well do something for her, too.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE CITY OF AIRSPUR, AKANUL

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

  Peanut shells covered the floor and crunched underfoot. The mouth-watering aroma of sizzling bacon filled the air. And a trio of musicians dressed in garish scarlet robes performed a raunchy melody to an audience that included a raft of empty tables, a slumped-over man in a green jacket, two squabbling women wearing too much makeup … and Chant Morven.

  Chant had expected more people in Digger’s Bar, since the private lounge was connected to the Den of Games. He’d been down here a few times when it was shoulder to shoulder.

  He crunched toward the back of the lounge. People said if you drank down three full draws of Digger’s Ale, you wouldn’t ask for a fourth. Instead, your friends would be carrying you home. Better hope you have friends, or instead you’d wake to the tender mercies of a press gang assembling a crew for some distant harbor.

  The rear of the lounge was one continuous bar. And there sat Jaul. Chant’s son was leaning over the counter-top to whisper a confidence to Digger. Jaul shared none of his father’s stoutness; the young man took after his mother that way. The trio of daggers Jaul was so proud of rode on the young man’s belt in identical scarlet sheaths.

  Digger was a black-bearded dwarf who smelled of hops and pork. He’d been Jaul’s friend from the time the boy was eleven years old. Ch
ant blamed Digger for introducing Jaul to the Den of Games and to Raneger. If not for Digger’s constant encouragement, Jaul wouldn’t be taking coin from Raneger. It still rankled …

  Chant sat down next his son. “I’ll have what he’s having,” Chant said to Digger. “And some of that bacon.”

  The dwarf said, “Sure, sure.” He gave a contemptuous sneer.

  “Well?” said Chant, glancing at the tapped keg.

  Digger chuckled and finally moved to fill a tankard.

  Jaul studiously ignored his father. He rubbed at a tattoo visible on his left wrist. It was the tattoo Raneger had given him, a crystal dagger inside a crashing wave. Chant hated it. It was a sign of allegiance to the crime lord that many of Raneger’s people displayed.

  Chant forced a smile and said, “Jaul, glad you’re here. How … How’re you doing?”

  “Fine,” snapped Jaul. His eyes went to the playing cards scattered across the bar. He began to sort through them. Silence stretched.

  Chant knew the young man resented him. He had for years. Growing up human in a city predominantly populated with genasi had been hard. Too many bullies, and later, too many scuffles where the onus was always on Jaul to show he, as the human, could fit in or prove himself. Then Jaul started hanging out with a dissolute rabble of nobles with nothing better to do than make pests of themselves. The peacemakers were fair enough, but they had no tolerance for pranks. Childish shenanigans could easily transform into something worse. And as the lone human among his new “friends,” Jaul was always the one the peacemakers noticed.

  After Chant’s wife died, it would’ve been easy enough to leave Akanul. And he probably should have. But his pawnshop business was just beginning to turn a profit, and his nascent network of secret gatherers was becoming something more than a mere idea. He’d had coin on his mind; it was how he’d coped with the disintegration of his marriage.

  Jaul had fallen through the cracks. He’d paid too little mind to the boy. Digger had probably saved Jaul’s life when he ran afoul of some toughs. According to the story Chant heard, Digger had charged into a melee that pitted Jaul against five others with nothing more than an improvised club. Since then, everything Digger said was law to Jaul. So when Digger told the young man there was a job for him at the Den of Games, nothing Chant could do or say made any difference. Well, he had made one difference-he’d managed to completely alienate his son and give Raneger the hook he required to make sure Chant wouldn’t flee his debt.

  “Why’re you still here, anyway?” Jaul said suddenly.

  “I’m waiting for my ale-”

  “No, Pa, you know what I mean. Why’re you still working at the Den? Digger says you paid your debt to the house. You can go back to your pawnshop anytime.”

  “Ah. Yeah, I’ve paid my debt. Raneger isn’t sending goons after me anymore to threaten my life-”

  “That never happened!” said Jaul.

  “It did. Open your eyes.”

  Jaul looked disgusted. But he said, “All right, maybe. Probably just to scare you. But if Raneger sent you reminders, then I really don’t understand why you’ve taken on here. You must hate it.” Jaul gestured with his mug at the room. Ale sloshed over the rim.

  Chant sighed. He knew Jaul was right. But he also knew his son drank too much for so early in the day. However, pointing that sort of thing out to his son was the best way to end a conversation. He decided to be honest.

  “Couple reasons I’m here,” Chant finally said. “First, it’s the only way I can see you. You’re still my blood, and I want to look out for you.”

  Jaul rolled his eyes. “Just like you used to?”

  Sharkbite! Chant clamped down on the anger that was his automatic response. His son knew all the right triggers. “Second … well, the job I took, the one that paid me so well I was able to pay off Raneger’s crazy claim, well, it was dangerous. I got on the wrong side of Chevesh. He’s a fire mage that-”

  “The crazy wizard?” Jaul turned in his seat to face his father. His eyes had gone wide with interest. Jaul hadn’t looked at him like that in more than a year. Maybe several years.

  “Yeah, he’s crazy all right,” said Chant, warming to the topic. “A human trying to graft himself with genasi firesoul heritage. But the only thing he’s managed to accomplish is to bake his own brain.”

  “What’d you do? Why’s Chevesh after you?”

  “I asked him if he was responsible for some bad stuff going down around the city a few months ago. Nightmares coming to life, demons appearing and killing people. We had to sneak into his tower-”

  “Damn, Pa! You snuck into Chevesh’s? What’d you find?”

  Chant took his beer from Digger. He sipped and then said, “Chevesh had nothing to do with the abyssal plague we were hunting down, turns out. But he was mighty put out when he found me and Demascus in his sanctum. We managed to get away with just a few burns. But he recognized me, and he swore vengeance.”

  Jaul shook his head, but not in disgust or fear. In admiration!

  Chant continued, “I’d hoped that since he was soft in the head, Chevesh would forget. But, oh, how wrong I was. He hired assassins.”

  Jaul swallowed his beer wrong. When the coughing subsided, he said, “Mystra’s Corpse! And you fought them off?”

  “No. I should say, he tried to hire assassins-he thought he had. Chevesh contracted with someone on Raneger’s payroll. Raneger, who’d just collected my debt, had his proxy pretend to accept. Then Raneger summoned me to the Den and revealed the signed contract. Said that he’d be willing to permanently lose the thing if I’d put my secret-gathering network at his disposal for one year. That was six months ago.”

  “Wait, wait. Master Raneger did that for you? Because … because he wanted to use your network?”

  “Close your mouth, son, you look soft in the head. Is it so unbelievable that your old man built something that Raneger might value?”

  “I guess not.” Jaul’s mouth twitched; an incipient grin.

  Score one for the old man, Chant thought. He sipped his beer, hiding his own smile. Then he frowned. Impressing his son by revealing how a master criminal was exploiting the pawnbroker’s network wasn’t exactly how he wanted to mend fences with Jaul. He wanted to pull him out of this situation, not make it seem like something reasonable. Chant suspected he was a terrible role model. It was no wonder his boy-

  “Hey, Pa, I’m heading over to the Plaza of Dancing Dolphins tonight. They got good music there, a better grade than this rat piss.” He waved at the musicians in the corner. “It might be all right, if you wanted to come?”

  On the other hand, Chant thought, he couldn’t argue with results. “Sure, I’d like that.”

  Digger came to check on Jaul. The dwarf frowned to see the pawnbroker still there. That’s right, thought Chant, eyeing the greasy dwarf. Jaul and I are family, and I’m not letting you or this organization turn us against each other again.

  A tug on Chant’s sleeve turned out to be one of the musicians. “What?”

  “Someone’s looking for you.” The musician pointed at a pale man with tattoos the color of ash.

  “Waukeen’s empty purse!” Chant said.

  Jaul glanced at the stranger. “Who’s that?”

  “Demascus!” Chant called, and waved the deva over. Behind him came Riltana. The pawnbroker grinned. Both were dripping wet. The storm must still be howling outside. “A reunion,” he said. “Digger, ale for my friends.”

  He opened his mouth to ask Riltana how Carmenere was, then closed it. Sometimes he could manage tact.

  Jaul eyed the damp strangers.

  “Jaul, meet Demascus and Riltana. And this is Jaul, the apple of my eye.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Demascus, and offered a hand. Jaul didn’t react for only a moment, just long enough to be rude, then shook.

  Riltana nodded and said, “Hey kid, nice to meet you.”

  “Chant,” said the deva, “It’s great to see you again. It’s
been too long.”

  The pawnbroker smiled. “Decide to try your hand at some games? I can steer you to a couple of tables that aren’t fixed. And how’s my cat?”

  “No games today,” said Demascus. “And Fable is settled in well. A little too well. I think she believes she’s the master and I’m her servant.” Chant and Jaul both chuckled

  “Actually, I have something I want to talk to you about,” Demascus said. “Fairly serious … is there anywhere we can talk?”

  Riltana let her gaze rest on Jaul for a couple of heartbeats, just long enough to imply his son’s presence was an annoyance.

  Jaul stiffened as he realized he’d suddenly become the odd man out. Sharkbite! Not when he’d just made so much headway!

  Chant raised his hand and said, “Demascus, I have no secrets from my son. What’s on your mind?”

  Demascus frowned. “Chant. This is sensitive material. I trust you and your son can keep it confidential?”

  Chant glanced at Jaul, who licked his lips and nodded. Chant was already regretting his words. Of course the boy couldn’t keep a secret. Why, just-

  “Great.” Demascus leaned in, and Riltana followed his lead. “There’s been a mining disruption,” said the deva, “and the Throne of Majesty is concerned it’s actually a covert attack by a foreign power. Queen Arathane is desperate for some actual intelligence at the mine site before the Four Stewards force some sort of military action based on fear, not facts.”

  “News to me,” said Chant. His mind automatically started a list of people who’d pay good coin to hear it … He pinched off that line of thought. Demascus was his friend, and this particular secret was not his to sell. Old habits were hard to break.

  “What kind of mine?” said Jaul.

  Demascus raised a finger to acknowledge the question, but continued on his original tack. “Here’s the thing. We found documents that suggest Raneger is somehow connected to the mining disruption. Know anything about it?”