"I don't understand," Salim said, walking over to where Hezechor waited, his draped contracts spilling down to touch the floor. "If you knew the Fastness had a copy of the document, why didn't you tell me?"
"As it happens, we don't." Hezechor reached up and stroked his pointed beard, unintentionally striking the same pose as the painted Asmodeus above—or perhaps not so unintentionally. "We would be happy to hold on to it for you when you find it, of course. Our defenses are much stronger than those of the angels' little archive. But that's rather beside the point. How goes your investigation?"
"Slowly," Salim admitted. "Freewoman Caramine's description turned out to be a false lead, but the Great Library's security indeed showed a breach, suggesting either an inside job or an extremely skilled infiltrator. When I learned of the Lower Collection, I came to see what I could learn." He frowned. "Which doesn't explain why you're here, or why Apulminas brought us to you instead of the archives. If you want to aid the investigation, I suggest..."
Salim trailed off. The devil was watching him, a little half-smile on his narrow face. Seeing that smug confidence, Salim was seized by a sudden, undeniable hunch. "You already know who did it, don't you?"
Hezechor laughed, revealing rows of tiny shark teeth lined up like soldiers behind his perfect human ones. His laughter was a friendly sound, as if he'd told a joke and Salim was just now grasping the punch line.
"Of course we know." He winked at Salim. "And you do, too, don't you? Why else would you have kept them with you the whole time?"
"Us?" Roshad and Bors stepped backward, hands raised. "We don't know anything about this stupid book!" the sorcerer snapped. "We killed those bastards with the machine! We didn't even know they existed until they took Bors!" The big warrior nodded and reached back over his shoulder to put a hand on his sword hilt.
But Salim wasn't looking at them; he wasn't looking at anything. Inside his head, things were unfolding and coming together. "Nemeniah and Malchion."
Hezechor began to clap, the slow slaps of his hands echoing in the grandiose chamber. His satyr's grin grew broader. "Come on—don't tell me you really didn't know."
Salim shook his head, less in answer than to try and clear it. "It's too much of a coincidence." Yet the words rang hollow in his mouth. He was an indentured servant of the goddess of death, birth, and fate—he knew as well as anyone that the fabric of history was built on coincidences, seemingly implausible occurrences that would get a bard or storyteller booed out of town.
"The devil's messing with your mind." Roshad gripped Salim's arm. "He's trying to turn you against your allies."
"Oh really?" Hezechor asked. "And I have what to gain from that, exactly? Remember, I was the one who brought him into this. Pharasma may be Salim's paymaster, but Hell's the client here." He looked to Salim. "They were waiting for you, or someone like you. It wasn't a coincidence. It was a plan."
Salim's mind raced, sifting through facts, trying to line them up and see which ones fit together.
The angels had worked in the Vault of Correction—they'd said that much themselves. If there were two of them—two angels bound closely by sibling love, or whatever passed for it between angels—then perhaps they were allowed to work together in the stacks, as a two-person team. And maybe if one of them got corrupted by the book, that loyalty would prevent the other from reporting it long enough for both of them to be infected.
The angels had met them at the gates—but if you were afraid that someone was going to come snooping, wouldn't you want to be the one to meet them? To guide their investigation and keep an eye on it, so you wouldn't be surprised? And how hard was it to predict where Salim would arrive? After all, the soul-harvesting operation—at least the one Salim knew about—was on Golarion, and Salim had arrived by way of the gate for souls from that world.
But then, there was more to their guidance than just wanting to watch what he did, wasn't there? When Salim had asked about the chained angel, the pair had recognized the description instantly, and taken him to an archon who would recognize it as well. Rare as Arathuziel's kind was, Heaven was still infinite, or close enough to it—statistically speaking, there must be dozens of other redeemed devils whose physical forms mirrored Arathuziel's. The fact that the same angel had jumped to mind for all of them was another significant coincidence—unless they'd planned to frame him the whole time, and were just waiting for someone to ask. Who better to pin a crime on than someone who was already mistrusted by the community? Hadn't Arathuziel already known and resented the siblings for their prejudice toward him?
And more importantly—hadn't the angels seemed happy to lead Salim to Arathuziel's dome, but edgy and anxious ever since he'd let the chained angel go?
You seem awfully sure he's responsible. His own words, spoken to Nemeniah and Malchion. How had he missed it?
But even as the question rose, Salim knew the truth. His investigation had been piss-poor at every step of the way, and not because he wasn't capable of better. The old Salim—the priest-hunter, or the man who'd tracked down souls and undead for close on a century at this point—would never have been gulled this easily. But he'd been preoccupied—too caught up in guilt over his increasing reliance on the goddess's magic, and too eager to put a thumb in Maedora's eye. If he'd been thinking straight, he would have...
"You staked them out." It wasn't a question. "You hid someone near the gate and waited until you saw one of your evil souls—maybe even someone you'd sent to Kaer Maga as bait—show up in the line. And then you watched what happened to them." Salim felt a flood of anger, directed primarily at himself. "They'd be waiting at the gate anyway—not just for me, but to collect any ‘converted' souls who showed up there and whisk them away before they had a chance to mingle and raise suspicions. They gave you the whole thing right there."
"Yes." Hezechor's eyes were curious, penetrating. "The question is why you didn't do the same."
Salim shook his head once, hard. "No. The question is why you got me involved at all. You already had the answer. Why didn't you take care of it?"
Hezechor laughed again. "Because it's not my job, Salim! If somebody steals from you—well, okay, maybe not you, but a shopkeeper, say—do you take matters into your own hands, or do you call the city watch? The Lady of Graves is the Outer Sphere's constable, and you're her deputy. Hell is the victim here. We can't be expected to exert ourselves righting the wrong."
Salim narrowed his eyes. "And you couldn't tell us who was responsible because...?"
Hezechor spread his hands. "Would you have believed us? We're devils. If we accused some angels, you'd expect a trick. Besides, your kind always wants to figure everything out for yourselves."
"Plus, you thought it would be fun to watch us dance like puppets on your behalf."
"That, too." Hezechor winked. "Give a devil his due, Salim. I spend eternity negotiating contracts with mortals who always want the same things: money, power, a chance to bugger their neighbor's spouse. Entertainment is in short supply."
"So let's say I believe you." In truth, though Salim would never be stupid enough to take a devil's words at face value, the facts were lining up surprisingly well. And more importantly, his gut said it was right. "I go back to Heaven and find proof of your claim. We locate your lost souls and give them back. What then? Hell uses it as an excuse to invade part of Heaven? Just cause, and all that?"
"Goodness, no!" Hezechor's face was a mask of shock—a mask that cracked as he winked again. "Why would we? I suspect your employer will be plenty furious on our behalf. Why would we risk our own troops when we can sit back and throw peanuts from the bleachers while your goddess passes judgment on Heaven's incompetent government? No, I don't think you'll be seeing any further action from Hell—or Abaddon or the Abyss, for that matter. This is solely a ‘watch your enemies tear each other apart' sort of satisfaction." Another smile. "It's a personal favorite of mine. Well worth the admission price of a few inconsequential souls."
"I see."
It made sense—but then, devils always did. That was what made them so much more dangerous than demons or daemons. "Seems like this all works out rather well for you after all. I don't suppose you were the one who drew up the schematics in the first place? Designed the machine that makes it all possible, then planted it in their archives?"
"Ha! If only!" Hezechor shook his head. "As much as I'd love to take credit, Salim, there's no trap so great as that which the righteous man lays for himself. I have no idea where the design came from originally, though I'm sure our scholars would love to find out. As I said, I think the angels have proven they can't be trusted with such a dangerous document, and that the Gray Lady should give it to our librarians rather than those idiot Censors. Hell understands security. But to answer your question: no, the angels did this one all on their own."
"Thank you." Salim considered what he'd learned—or rather, what he suspected. He turned to Roshad and Bors. "I think we have what we need here."
"Actually..." Hezechor drew the word out. "While you're here, Salim, I was hoping we could talk about something else."
"Oh?" Salim raised an eyebrow, but only one—he'd been half-expecting such a response. With devils, there was always a catch. "And that would be...?"
"You." The devil's eyes grew no larger, but now they seemed like dark pools, luminous in the sickly torchlight. "I've been watching you for a while, you know. I requested you specifically."
"What a comforting thought. And your interest in me is what, exactly?"
Hezechor chuckled. "Come now, Salim—why is anyone interested in you? Because you're interesting! An atheist—a Rahadoumi priest-hunter, at that—who works for one of the deities he hates. How is that not fascinating?"
"I'm flattered, I'm sure. What's your point?"
Hezechor spread his hands. "No point. Nothing so crass as that. I was just curious why you continue to serve Pharasma. Have you come to worship her after all?"
"No." Salim almost spat. "The Grave Bitch may command my obedience, but she doesn't own my thoughts."
"But why give her even that much? Surely breaking your oath is a small enough sin, compared to some of the other things you've done. And haven't you paid your debt?"
"It's not that simple," Salim growled. "My honor is all I've got left at this point."
"But was it honorable for Ceyanan to target you in the first place?" Hezechor's voice was soft, penetrating. "Put a sword to a man's throat, and he'll promise you anything in the world—but can you really expect him to hold to it, once he's out of danger?"
"Isn't that what your kind does?"
Hezechor looked offended. "Only the weakest devils make contracts under duress. Once you've been around a few millennia, you realize that the true challenge—and true reward—comes from contracts made completely of free will. I let my clients come to me."
"It doesn't matter," Salim said. "It was free will. My wife was dying. I asked for someone—a god, anything—to step in and save her. I brought it on myself."
"Did you?" Hezechor gave him a flat stare. "And has it never occurred to you that perhaps the goddess put you in that position? That Pharasma—the goddess of fate and death—might have set up that situation, knowing what you'd do, just to earn your fealty? That, in all probability, it was Pharasma who killed your wife?"
"Of course it has!" Except that it hadn't. Not really. Salim's mind spun, his stomach rebelling.
He'd hated Pharasma for enabling his weakness. That was why he served her: not fear for what she might do to him—a laughable thought, after what he'd been through—but as penance for what he'd done, the covenant he'd broken with himself and his wife when he'd bargained away their ideals to save her. Yet that was the thing about being Rahadoumi—you got used to thinking of the gods as other people's problems. When bad things happened, you blamed random chance. Gods were like vampires—unable to enter your home unless you invited them in.
Except that Salim knew better, now. As the Lady of Graves, Pharasma was everywhere.
Death and fate. Pharasma was the spider at the center of existence's web. But how much of her fate and death aspects involved watching and arbitrating, and how much was under her control? He knew she could take an interest in individuals when she wanted to, twisting those strands.
Had Pharasma murdered his wife?
Salim clamped down hard on that thought. Now was not the time. "What's it to you?"
Hezechor shrugged. "Nothing, really. I just hate to see someone tricked into tossing away their free will. It's all you mortals have, really."
"That's not a sentiment I'd expect to hear from a contract devil."
Hezechor grinned. "No, I suppose it isn't, is it?"
And he changed.
There was a rippling in the air, like a rock dropped in a pond, the wavelets spreading out only as far as the edges of the contract devil's body. Where they passed, the flesh shifted and melted, puffing away to nothingness or turning hard and dark. The overly familiar smile disappeared.
In Hezechor's place stood a creature a full head taller than Salim, formed from overlapping plates of dark, stylized armor. Hands like fans of blades flexed and curled, while the spiked edges of a high, ornate collar and pauldrons waved like living things, anemone fronds of glistening steel. Where Hezechor's neck had been, there was now only empty space. Unsupported by any head, a thin, skull-like mask of metal floated in the air, its humanoid features stretching below the nostrils to become two long fangs. As Salim watched, the mask's surface shifted and merged, flowing into new configurations like oil in water. Points of light glowed in its empty eye sockets.
Salim's grip on his sword tightened. "Who are you?"
"I'm Hezechor," the apparition said—and indeed, it was the contract devil's voice that emerged from that jawless half-mask. "Though I'm afraid I'm not actually a phistophilus, as I've lead you to believe."
"Then what are you?" Roshad shot back. The sorcerer and Bors had spread out to Salim's left, chain loose between them, the big man's sword drawn and a curl of flame winding around Roshad's clenched fist.
"A deimavigga," Salim said slowly. "An apostate devil, like Arathuziel used to be."
The mask swiveled to look at Roshad, then back at Salim, its movements sharp and precise. "Ah, Arathuziel. How appropriate that he'd be tied up in all this. Of course, I'm sure his new friends gave him every benefit of the doubt." One mess of blades turned upward, its palm a rough sea of razors. "Did he explain the deimaviggas' mission to you? Surely at least you, Salim, can see the value we provide. Isn't a world better off when more people throw off the shackles of religion?"
But Salim wasn't interested in talking philosophy. "What do you want, Hezechor?"
"To give you back your freedom."
Salim laughed. "So I can be a true Rahadoumi again? Spread the good word and argue people out of their cages?"
"You're a powerful man, with a powerful story." The devil's voice rose, smooth and confident, filling the gloomy chamber. "A man who defied the gods, was captured by them, and broke free again. You could do much to serve the cause."
"With ‘serve' being the operative word." Salim shook his head. "You may have all the arguments memorized, Hezechor, and I've no doubt you're one hell of a debater—no pun intended. But you can't help but think in terms of service and contracts. You're just trading people one set of shackles for another."
"Then show me up," the devil crooned. "Show people the true meaning of atheism. Teach them to make their own decisions. Defy the gods! We can keep you safe from Pharasma's retribution."
"You think you're the first one to make me that offer?" Salim turned to Roshad and Bors. "We're leaving."
"So you'll go back to her." Hezechor's voice turned withering. Underlying it was a new sound: the scrape of a blade on a whetstone. "For all your talk of defiance, all your posturing and resentment, you've indeed become her servant. When offered freedom, you still go running back to the goddess who killed your wife, who robbed you of your ideals, who won't
even let you die, as is every mortal's birthright."
This time Salim didn't laugh. "There you go again. The freedom I want can't be given, Hezechor. Not by you. Not by anyone." He took Bors and Roshad's hands.
"So you'll lock yourself back inside your prison." The devil's voice lost any pretense of humanity. In its dark recesses lived the scream of shearing metal.
Salim looked back over his shoulder. The tiny points of light in Hezechor's mask blazed an angry red.
"Sorry, Hezechor. Better the devil you know..."
Then he squeezed the amulet and let Hell fall away behind him.
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Twenty-Four
Showdowns
They arrived back in Heaven with the mists curling around their feet, the trees of the forest a green blanket behind them and the pearlescent walls of the Prime Vallation already in sight. The line of petitioners snaking through the grass nearest them appeared to once more be from Golarion. Salim put a hand over his eyes and massaged his temples.
"You really like doing that, don't you?"
He turned to look at Roshad. "What?"
The sorcerer pointed at Salim's amulet. "What just happened. Finding a good taunt or exit line, then jumping away with your amulet before anyone can spoil it."
Salim frowned and touched the spiraled stone. "I got the information I needed and left."
"Uh huh. Just like you did with Maedora in the bar, or the angels in the Vault."
Salim stiffened. "If you have a problem with the way I work, I'll be happy to drop you off back on the Material Plane."
Roshad shook his head. "Not going to happen. Like we said before, we're with you until our debt is paid. Just thought I'd point it out."
"Thanks. In the future, feel free to keep your notes to yourself."
Bors's bass rumble broke in. "Why are you so important, anyway?"
"Pardon?"
"The devil. Hezechor." The big man hooked a thumb over his shoulder, as if pointing back into the past. "He went to a lot of effort to win you over, and you implied that he wasn't the first. Why?"
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