Lesser Evils

CHAPTER TWO

WATERDEEP

28 KYTHORN, THE YEAR OF THE DARK CIRCLE (1478 DR)

These are the stories, Tam thought as he stared up at the sooty ceiling, that no one bothers telling.

Down in the market square of Waterdeep, he knew, at least a dozen vendors sold chapbooks filled with the stories of ancient warriors and clever rogues. Of wily adventurers who outsmarted greater evils and freed their true loves, as well as a great deal of treasure. Of the glory and greatness that awaited the hero when the deed was done.

None of those heroes, he was sure, was ever described as having been made to sit for an hour in a windowless hallway, waiting to turn in a report to his superiors who had hurried him back as if the city were on fire.

“Every stlarning time,” he muttered.

The Harpers of Waterdeep were certainly not unique in their formalities-a spymaster with no sense of what happened in his or her organization was no one Tam wanted to work for. But they stood out for the sheer inefficiency of all their rules and regulations. It was clearer by the day that they’d once been little more than loosely allied adventurers.

Written reports-which would be read and then destroyed-face-to-face meetings with his handler-who was running late again-and to top it off, no system for the dull realities of spies needing to have coin to run around the continent on and safe places to hole up in.

A far cry, he thought, from chapbooks.

Not that he blamed them, not entirely. A hundred years ago, the Harpers had spanned the continent. From the highest houses of Waterdeep to the docksides of fallen Halruaa to the ranks of the gods’ own Chosen, they said, the organization had power enough to run itself and keep in check such threats as Shade, the nefarious Red Wizards, and the Black Network, the Zhentarim.

But a hundred years was a long time, and since then the Harpers had fractured, crumbled, collapsed under the weight of a world recovering from the catastrophes of the Spellplague, the return of Abeir, and the loss of whole nations. The Harpers had scattered and the organization had retreated and retreated and what was left curled itself away in the city of Everlund, forgotten by most everyone, except a few chapbook purveyors, who embellished the legendary Harpers into something more akin to mythical heroes.

Those who were left had banded against Netheril’s advancement-the worst of the threats facing Faerun these days. There hadn’t been enough of them to do more.

Until recently. The Harpers of Everlund weren’t the only ones set against the Empire of Shade, and recent years had brought greater numbers of agents to their cause. That had been what convinced Tam. He’d seen firsthand what the Shadovar were capable of in the name of Shar, the goddess of loss.

But with more agents, it seemed the Harpers were getting overeager. It couldn’t just be about Shade and Netheril anymore. And how could any of them refuse to stand against the Hells or the Abolethic Sovereignty, or worse things?

Tam skimmed the carefully inked report he’d laid on the bench beside him without really reading it.

… Shadovar scouts …

The blank-faced man all in black buying supplies, eyeing Tam and-no doubt-the blessings of Selune that marked him, just as Tam eyed the sliver of shadow that marked Shar’s own. Both aware of what they stood for-a battle more ancient than the gods-and both aware that neither was ready to take that field, not there, not yet. A promise of something worse, he thought. Something he would have liked to chase down. If he’d had the chance.

… nest of wererats, curse appears localized …

The night he’d gotten too close to what he was looking for and found himself fighting off half a dozen wererats near the dockside, coming away soaked in blood and fearful he’d been bitten. The blessings had worked, or perhaps he’d avoided their teeth, but the wounds were still raw under the bindings and he’d not found the purpose of the nest. Only that it was prepared for attempts to infiltrate it, and well-armed.

… worshipers of Asmodeus, possibly those of other devils, attacked the House of Knowledge …

He’d left Farideh and Havilar out of that part of the report, written it around the warlock’s role in the fight and her wilder assertions. But something fiendish lurked in Neverwinter, no doubt. He’d seen its mark on Havilar the night he returned from the wererats’ attack. He’d been close enough to see the remains of the creatures the twins insisted had been called up from the Chasm by a succubus. He’d seen Farideh’s single-minded determination bear this out.

… taint of Far Realm magic and suggestions of aboleths near river and Chasm …

Worse and worse and worse. And here were only the bare facts and not the fleshed out dangers of a world that had lost its way and was only starting to come back to it. A world that needed people like the Harpers-people like Tam-to stand against such hidden horrors.

If they would just sort out their bloody payroll, he thought.

The door finally opened, and a man about Tam’s age with a sharp beard and a comfortable belly opened the door. Tam’s handler smiled cheerily and waved Tam in.

“Shepherd!” Aron Vishter said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Tam frowned. “You don’t have to call me that.”

“Ah, but I want to. A reminder of old times, better times.” He took the report from Tam. “Well, more exciting times for me, more comfortable times for you, eh? Viridi never ran you ragged, did she?”

Tam sat in the chair opposite Aron. He’d known the spy as the Fisher when he’d worked for another spymaster, a Turmishan woman called Viridi. In those days, “the Shepherd” had been the cleric in Viridi’s house, responsible for healing and occasional resurrections, and “the Fisher” had been a field agent sent specifically into well-to-do merchants’ circles. From the look of him, the Fisher still enjoyed the same sort of lifestyle he had in those days-his shirt was made of a linen finer than Tam could have imagined affording, and the brace of rings he wore on his thick fingers all glittered gold.

The Fisher sat behind the desk and perched a pair of spectacles on his nose. He read the report with as much focus as Tam had in the hallway.

“It’s a bit of a mire up there, isn’t it?” he muttered. “You still advocating we pull out entirely?”

Tam hesitated. “The team you have in the city’s not enough. They need reinforcements-double, maybe triple. The Shadovar at least ought to be-”

“Who exactly do you think I have to spare?”

“If you can’t reinforce them, then pull out,” Tam said. “Recall all of them before they’re killed. Neverwinter can’t be saved by a half-dozen Harpers.”

“We’ll leave it to Cymril,” the Fisher said. “What about the lycanthropes? Wasn’t that what you were sent for?”

Tam sat back in his chair. Not worth it, he thought. Not worth the argument. The Fisher would do as he pleased. “Definitely there. Wererats for certain. Well-organized too. It goes deeper than just some wildlings down from Luskan-”

“Watching Gods,” the Fisher swore at the report. He looked at Tam over his spectacles. “You fought them? Has someone seen to you?”

“It was over a tenday ago. I’m fine. No symptoms.”

“Well, I’m quite sure no one told you to go brawling with wererats. Don’t want to see any reimbursement requests for lycanthropy blessings.” The Fisher smiled blandly at Tam and set the report to the side. “Seems in order. I’ll see what our people in Neverwinter can do about the rest. They won’t be happy you didn’t sort out those wererats though.”

Tam gritted his teeth. “Your coordinator in Neverwinter wasn’t too helpful.”

“Cymril? Yes, well, she’s got her hands full, doesn’t she? ’Specially now.”

Every stlarning time, Tam thought. He might as well have given his reports to a bare wall. Aron Vishter would do as he pleased and all the better if he could ignore Tam’s advice. Better just to get out of the Fisher’s offices. Figure something out later. Find a way around the Fisher and Cymril when neither was so angry at him-or wiser still, accept the truth, that the city was doomed, whether the Harpers listened to Tam or not.

Save what you can, he thought. There’s too much world at stake.

“Where am I next?”

“Oh, here,” the Fisher said, nodding at the chair Tam sat in. Tam frowned.

“Is there something particular happening in Waterdeep?”

“Yes,” the Fisher said. “You’re having a rest.”

Tam waited for the handler to elaborate, to explain the cover. The Fisher said nothing. “You can’t be serious,” Tam said. “You must need me somewhere.”

The Fisher leaned back in his chair. “How many missions have you been on of late?”

Tam shrugged. “Enough.”

“A pretty answer,” the Fisher said. “The correct answer is that you’ve been sent to deal with fifteen different threats and concerns in the last year.”

“You’re short of agents,” Tam said. “It was necessary. And it was fine-I didn’t botch any of them, did I? I didn’t fail?”

“One could argue Neverwinter was not a success.”

Tam gripped the arms of the chair. “One could argue you sent me in there without the faintest idea of what I might find.”

“We sent you to assess the city, and ferret out some wererats.”

“And it doesn’t matter if the place is crawling with Shadovar and aboleths and devils and worse, on top of the lycanthropes-you still don’t have the agents to deal with any one of those things. And don’t tell me Cymril can handle it.”

The Fisher smiled at him in a tolerant sort of way that made Tam’s knuckles itch. “I certainly don’t have the agents to let you run yourself into the ground pretending you’re still a strapping lad of twenty. We’ve gotten old, Shepherd. There’s no denying it.”

Tam leaned back in his chair, still clutching the arms. “I know when to cool my heels.”

“Do you? Before or after you get yourself tangled up in …” The Fisher lifted the top sheet of the report. “A border battle between devils and aboleths? And right after you tangled with those wererats, I see.” The Fisher clucked his tongue. “You’re really going to tell me that’s all fact and argue you don’t need some time to … gather yourself?”

“You don’t have agents to spare,” Tam said. “Half efforts will just get people killed.”

“Half efforts are better than no efforts.”

“Not like this! Pull your agents back. Focus on what they can do.”

“Don’t tell me what my agents can do,” the Fisher retorted. He pulled a bottle down from the shelf beside his desk. “And don’t take that tone with me. It’s not like the old days.” The Fisher poured a half inch of amber liquor into a pair of glasses and pushed one across the desk to Tam. “We don’t have patrons like Old Viridi to keep our coffers full and the wheels of the world greased.”

“You’re the bloody Harpers,” Tam cried. “Find some patrons.”

“And what would they patronize? Hmm?” the Fisher said. “A hundred years ago, the Harpers were the peak of it-courageous, clever, brave as they came. Now what do I get, but a half-dozen young peacocks and preening lasses who’ve read too many godsbedamned chapbooks about Saer Danilo Thann and his magic what-have-you-this-tenday-none of which do the man a damned bit of justice.” He swigged the liquor. “They show up becloaked and picking off-key tunes on bloody lyres with swords fit for nothing but show and want only a bloody pin that says they, too, are the true article. And those are the ones we’ve vetted. I shudder to think what would happen if we recruited openly.” He studied the dregs at the bottom of his glass a moment, then drained it. “Even I wouldn’t send those poor young fools into Neverwinter, assuming you have the right of it.”

Tam scowled at his own glass. “So they need training. Train them.”

“And who can train them?” the Fisher demanded. “All my veterans are out, ridding the plane of evil-because who could possibly stop at Netheril alone? — or here, resting.”

“I don’t need a rest,” Tam protested.

“Fine,” the Fisher said, with an unpleasant grin. He shuffled through a stack of parchments beside him. “Then you can train up one of my greenlings. Boy’s called Dahl. Studied with the Oghmanytes but doesn’t seem to have taken to the priesthood. Don’t know why. Don’t suggest you ask-it seems a sore point. I’ve had him scouring the city for antiquities the last two tendays, so-”

“Antiquities? You’re sending me out shopping?”

“The Harpers have a proud tradition of preserving lore,” the Fisher said. “Besides, it gave him something to do-find out if he has an eye for it or not. Make sure he’s not spending any coin on useless things.”

“All of it is useless,” Tam said. “What do you think to find in the Waterdhavian market? The Simbul’s spellbook? The last of the Nether Scrolls?”

“Then train him at spycraft,” the Fisher said. “I don’t care. History, skulking, thievery, the bloody lyre-I don’t care. Do what you can to make him a proper Harper.”

“I’m not a wizard.”

“You’re also not a proper Harper,” the Fisher said sharply. “So give him what you can and make me the sort of agent I can send to Neverwinter.” He smiled again, and again Tam wished he could knock the grin off his face. “After all, neither of us is going to live forever, Shepherd.”

Farideh had not been in many temples, but if the hall that housed the portal to Cormyr had not previously been one, the keepers were doing a fine job replicating the spirit of such a place. A long marble pathway guided travelers in between painted columns of warm wood, like supplicants toward an altar. The portal stood behind an ornately carved screen, and flashes of iridescent light threw stars through the cutouts. The high ceiling had been painted with frescos of bucolic countrysides, and throughout there was a cozy sense of peace that it was hard not to settle into, even for Farideh.

Despite the seething anger that all but poured off of Constancia. The knight of Torm had never been a cheerful bounty, but since they reached the portalkeeper-since Brin had left them, Farideh thought-Constancia had grown surlier by the moment. It made Farideh’s nerves itch, and the tip of her tail traced an arc over the marble.

Just past the chained woman, Havilar took no notice of Constancia’s state, looking past her sister, past the other travelers, at the door leading out to the street.

Farideh frowned, and-holding tightly to Constancia’s shackles-followed Havilar’s gaze over her shoulder and back to the door. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Havilar said, not breaking her vigil.

They might have been twins, but a lifetime of looking at her sister’s face only drew the differences into sharp focus for Farideh. Havilar might have the same cheekbones, the same swell over her brow where her horns budded and swept back in graceful curves. The same tawny skin and the same dark hair. She might have the same jawline and the same nose and the same mouth, but Havilar, with her easy grin and golden eyes, looked only like Havilar.

“Wrong blasted day to be traveling,” Mehen said as they edged closer to the portal. Its shimmering light bounced off the polished wood and stone as another traveler passed through.

“Could be worse,” Farideh said. “We could be trying to bring that horse through.” Constancia gave her an even darker look.

We’ll be in Cormyr soon, Farideh reminded herself. And she’ll be someone else’s problem. Still, she pulled her right hand into her sleeve to hold the etched rod that channeled her powers.

Mehen put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a half embrace, rubbing his jaw ridge over her head affectionately. She rested her head against her father’s chest a moment, uncomfortably aware of the knight’s disgusted expression.

“When we get the bounty settled,” Mehen said, releasing her and mussing her dark hair with one massive hand, “first thing, we get you a new cloak.”

That caught Havilar’s attention. “What? That’s not fair!” she said. “If I’d known setting my cloak on fire meant I could have a new one-”

“It’s still warm,” Farideh said. “I don’t need a cloak.” I don’t want a cloak, she thought. I don’t want to hide.

I don’t want to want to hide, she amended.

Mehen looked down his snout at her, puzzled. “You need a cloak,” he said a little sternly. He reached over and tugged on Havilar’s long braid. “And you need a haircut. Getting to be a damned axe man’s handle.”

Havilar swatted him away. “I’d rather have a new cloak. And Fari’s hair’s just as long.”

Mehen’s expression closed a little more. “Fari stays out of range of axes. At the moment.” He cleared his throat. “Here we are.”

The group of men ahead of them stepped behind the screen and into the portal, and Mehen stepped up to buy their passage. Havilar bit her lip, her eyes darting once more to the door.

“Truly,” Farideh said, “what are you watching for?”

“Nothing!” Havilar insisted.

“He’s not coming,” Constancia interjected. Her gray eyes flicked over Havilar and she sneered. “Not for me and not for you, you silly slut.”

Havilar could not have looked more surprised if Constancia had bashed her square in the chest with her shield-which was much how Farideh herself felt. The powers of the Hells shot through Farideh, twining around the knot of embarrassment her chest had contracted into. But seeing her twin’s blanched, shamed expression, that embarrassment lit into a white-hot fury.

In one quick motion, she pulled the heavy rod out of her sleeve and pressed the quartz tip of it to the soft underside of Constancia’s jaw. Hellish energy burned up through her veins, and they stood out black across the backs of her hands. The knight tensed.

“You hold your tongue,” she said, her voice shaking with nerves and anger.

“Fari!” Havilar hissed. “Gods, don’t be dramatic. Put it away!”

Constancia chuckled nervously. “Yes, put away your toy, warlock. No one here believes you’ll use it. Not where you’ll be found out.”

She could. She might. A quick spell and she could shatter Constancia’s prized armor, just to prove she could. She could burn her. She could make a lot of trouble.

We’ll be in Cormyr soon, Farideh thought, replacing the rod in its pocket.

“You utter anything like that again,” Farideh said, quietly, “and I won’t care who sees.”

Havilar gave the door one last, gloomy look before turning back toward the portal and their bounty. “Gods,” she sighed. “I hate Cormyr already.”

“How much?” Mehen roared from the head of the line.

Farideh and Havilar traded glances.

The man standing between them and the arcane circle that led to the city of Suzail, several thousand miles to the east, didn’t so much as flinch. His eyes flicked over Farideh, the shackled Constancia, and Havilar, sullenly leaning against her glaive.

“Eighty-five,” he repeated, “for the lot of you. Or twenty-five apiece. Gold, please.”

“I spoke to your woman two days ago,” Mehen said. “She said forty for all of us.”

“Big fellow like you? Plus the knight and her armor and those two tall-trees? I can’t move you all that cheaply. Maybe if you were halflings, I could do forty.”

“You’re not carrying us,” Mehen snarled. “I’ve been through portals. The size doesn’t matter.”

“Maybe you’re used to plague-battered portals,” the man said. “Cheaper ’cause you don’t always come through. This one’s new and as solid as they come. Verified by the Blackstaff himself.”

“You still quoted forty!”

The man shrugged. “Take it up in Suzail.”

Mehen let loose another string of invective in his native tongue. Farideh grabbed Mehen by the arm and pulled him away from the man.

“That henish!” Mehen started. “He knows well and good-”

“And he’s never going to admit it,” Farideh said. “You’ve gotten all the advance on the bounty?”

Mehen glared at Constancia. “Spent what she was carrying on getting here. We’ve got sixty-five and the purse will be empty after that.”

“Then there has to be another portal?”

“It’s a portal, not a blacksmith’s. If there’s another they’re keeping it private.” He bared his yellowed teeth and tapped his tongue against the roof of his mouth, tasting the air for trouble. “We can’t afford eighty-five. We’ll have to take the overland route.”

The overland route to Cormyr’s capital would take tendays-months if the weather didn’t hold. They might be able to fund their passage by hiring on with a caravan-assuming they could find a caravan willing to take on tieflings and a dragonborn with a shining knight of Torm as a bounty-but even if everything worked out, it meant tendays in Constancia’s company. Farideh traded another look with her sister, who clutched her glaive until her knuckles were white-Havilar might be taking her turn as the good sister, but it wouldn’t last long with Brin’s awful cousin provoking her.

Farideh bit her lip and studied the portal, the stubborn portalkeeper and his guards all waiting for an answer. “What about fifty?” she said.

“Fifty wouldn’t be as good as forty, but it would do.”

“So buy passage for yourself and Constancia-that’s fifty. Leave Havi and me here.”

Mehen looked down his snout at her, as appalled as if she’d suggested they pay the portal fee with his ancestor’s eggshells. “Out of the question,” he said. “We’ll find another way.”

“What other way? Overland will take months and cost just as much, maybe more. This way it will be finished in a few days at most.” She shrugged. “What can happen in a few days?”

Mehen narrowed his eyes. “Where should I start?”

It would take a shift in the planes, Farideh thought, for Mehen to stop treating her and Havilar like children. She could lead an army across the continent and he’d still try to make her drill with Havilar and then send her to bed. If he wasn’t there to watch over them-

“What … what if we stay with Tam?” she asked. “We’ll keep to the inn he mentioned, make sure he knows where we are, and you’ll be back soon enough. Tomorrow, right?” she added. “That’s not enough time to get into trouble.”

Mehen growled low in his throat, the scaly ridges of his face shifting with annoyance as he warred with reason and fear. The growl cut off abruptly and Mehen stormed across the room to the portalkeeper. “Paper and a quill,” he snapped. The portalkeeper demanded a few coins for the favor, and soon Mehen was scribbling a lengthy, hurried note.

“You take this directly to Tam,” he said when he was finished and the ink had mostly dried. “You’re not to go out without each other or without your cloaks-which means Fari, get a cloak. Go to sleep at a reasonable hour and, Tiamat pass you by, you keep that boy away from Havilar, understand?”

“Who? Brin?” Farideh said, taking the folded note and the small pouch of coins he offered her.

“Fari,” he said in a warning tone. “I mean it.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about Havi and Brin.”

“I hope so,” he said, half to himself. He glared down his snout at her, in that fierce way she knew meant he was angry not at his daughters, but at the world they lived in. “Whatever blossoming romance you think is happening, at your age, it’s doomed, no matter the sweetness.”

Farideh flushed. “I’ll keep that in mind should I ever have a ‘blossoming romance.’ ”

Mehen narrowed his eyes. “That devil shows up, your sister will tell me. You’re better off without him around.”

Farideh doubted that. She wasn’t Havilar, after all, who took to the glaive like she’d been born with one in her hands. The sword she carried had become mostly for show since she’d taken the pact-a state that was safer, really, for everyone involved. She couldn’t lose her grip on a burst of magic.

But without the pact, she had no magic. And without Lorcan, she had no pact.

“What did you say?” Havilar marveled after they’d watched Mehen and Constancia pass through the portal, and started heading toward the inn.

“Just the right reasons at the right time.”

“Well you’d better tell me the reasons. For future reference.” Havilar considered her sister for a moment. “Would you have done it?” She jabbed two fingers toward the underside of her jaw in pantomime.

“No,” Farideh said, embarrassed. “Though I wished it had scared her just a bit.” They turned and headed out of the hall. “She’s horrible, isn’t she?”

Havilar shrugged. “I’m sure she has good points. She raised Brin after all.”

“Mehen thinks he ought to worry about you and Brin. Isn’t that funny?”

“Mehen worries about everything,” Havilar said. “What’s the note say?” She snatched the note from her sister and unfolded it.

“Gods, he wants Tam to keep us on a short lead. Meal times, bed times-is he mad? We aren’t twelve-suggestions for sparring to keep us busy. What does he think we’re going to do in a day?”

Farideh looked askance at her sister. In the previous year, Farideh had taken on an infernal pact with Lorcan, gotten them ejected from the village, been accosted by numerous priests and bystanders, and accidentally run afoul of a cult of devil worshipers. And Mehen thought of her as “the quiet one.”

“ ‘No whiskey,’ ” Havilar read. “Calls that out specifically. Nothing happened the last time I drank whiskey. ‘No boys’ is on here too.” She scowled and folded the note up.

Farideh watched Havilar a moment. “Mehen’s not right, is he?”

“Of course he’s not right,” Havilar said. “Don’t be stupid. You need to buy a cloak, right? Let’s do that. Go back to the inn later.”

“Do you think Brin’s gone there?”

“I don’t care,” she said, firmly taking Farideh by the arm and steering her toward the market in the middle of the city. “I think you should get one with ribbons. Or velvet. Something in a nicer color than brown.”

“I don’t know why everyone’s so fussed about you two,” Farideh said. “You’re just friends.”

“Friends keep their promises,” Havilar replied. “He said he’d come with us.”

“He said he might. And he meant ‘no.’ ”

“Then he should have said ‘no.’ ”

They walked in silence until they reached the market. Stalls and tents overflowed with bright apples and crinkled, emerald greens, nuts piled up like treasure, bolts of fabric and smooth pots and all manner of other things-all in the shade of a striking black tower.

Farideh eyed a cart of chickens with jewel-red eyes, all strung together and clucking. “You know he gave me trouble about Lorcan too. It’s not just you.”

Havilar snorted. “It was for show, then. Mehen doesn’t think you can call Lorcan anymore. He just doesn’t want you to try.”

“I might be able to,” Farideh said defensively.

“Well, you haven’t,” Havilar said. “And that says something.” She sighed. “I almost wish you would get Lorcan back. Then Mehen would stop bothering me about boys. Come on.”

Havilar marched her toward a likely looking storefront. The shopkeeper didn’t greet them as they entered, only eyed them with a puzzled stare.

“Well met,” Havilar said. “D’you sell cloaks?”

The man blinked at her. “Sell the fabric,” he said slowly. “Got a few readymade. Used, all of them.” He jerked his head toward the far end of the shop. “Over there.”

Havilar dragged her sister over to the shelves of colorful cloth, the rack of shabby clothing. “How long do you think it takes to make a cloak?” she asked.

Farideh looked back over her shoulder at the shopkeeper, who’d moved around his counter to keep a better watch on them. “Awhile, I suspect. We’d need a tailor. And more coin. Just look at the worn ones.”

Havilar wrinkled her nose. “These are hideous. Better you wear your burned-up one than this.” She pulled out a roughspun cloak large enough to cover Mehen.

“Add some ribbons,” Farideh said, turning back to the store.

Havilar chuckled. “Not enough on the plane to make it pretty.”

The rest of the shop held a jumble of items peculiar to the sorts of wares adventurers and wayfarers sought out. Cheap, sturdy goods alongside the sort of flashy items a person who’d fallen into sudden coin might splurge on. Weapons. Jewelry. Magical implements.

And a shelf of thick, beautifully bound books that shimmered with the suggestion of waiting magic. Ritual books.

Farideh ran a light touch over the buttery leather spines. They were far finer than the book Tam carried. She wondered if the spells were finer, too-the far-speaking one instead shouting to the heavens; the temporary chapel erecting a splendid temple; the binding circle blocking out the very Hells-

She stopped, eyes locked on her tawny fingers pressed to a cream-colored book. “Havi?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you remember the spell you did?” Farideh asked. “The one that called Lorcan from the Hells originally? How did you do that?”

“A scroll,” Havilar said. “A ritual thingy. Garago had it shoved behind some books.”

Farideh’s pulse sped up. “Do you recall what it looked like?”

“Bunch of runes and lists of things to use. A drawing of the circle you were supposed to do alongside it. I didn’t get to read it too much. It burned up when I did the spell.” Havilar came to stand beside her. “Why?”

“Curious,” Farideh said, taking her hand back.

Havilar peered at her. “I was only joking,” she said. “You should leave Lorcan be. He’s probably dead and if he’s still alive, he’s still trouble.”

“He was more help than trouble in Neverwinter,” Farideh said. “Do you really expect me to leave him for dead?”

“It would be smarter,” Havilar said. “He might have been a help, but he’s still a henish.”

But not the worst. Farideh thought of Lorcan’s wicked, clever sister, of the promise Sairche had left her with in the ruins of Neverwinter. “You will come back eventually,” she’d said. “You will accept my offer. It’s just best if you decide to do so on your own.”

It was Sairche who’d told Farideh that Lorcan had made the pact with her because she was descended from one of the first true, infernally pacted warlocks in Faerun, Bryseis Kakistos. The heirs of that coven of warlocks were rare, Sairche had said, but none so rare as the heirs of the Brimstone Angel, Bryseis Kakistos. There were only four, she’d told Farideh. Four in all the known world, including her.

Five, Farideh had realized, if you included Havilar.

Lorcan had assured her no one knew about Havilar at the time. Since then, who knew what had changed, what had happened? There might be a veritable auction house of devils vying for the right to corrupt her impulsive, eager sister. Vying for the right to claim Farideh, too. And the only devil in the Hells who would tell her what was going on was Lorcan himself. He might dissemble. He might twist her words around to trap her with a false understanding. But Lorcan, she knew, never lied to her.

If I leave him be, Farideh thought, then I don’t know what comes next.

Havilar stood, braced as if for an argument, and for a moment, Farideh thought of telling her everything: Bryseis Kakistos and collector devils, Sairche and Lorcan’s promise, and what might be on the horizon. She’d have to tell Havilar eventually, she knew.

“I said I was just curious,” Farideh told her. “Lorcan can handle himself.”

“Go ask the shopkeeper how long a cloak takes,” Havilar said. “I don’t want to borrow any of these from you.”

Normally, Farideh would have begged off. Normally she would have protested she didn’t want a cloak anyway, so who cared if it was nice or not. Normally, she would have done everything she could to avoid talking to the unfriendly shopkeeper.

But suddenly, there was a chance she might rescue Lorcan and keep Havilar safe. Heart in her throat Farideh walked straight up to the wary shopkeeper. “How much are the ritual books?” she said quietly.

Again, the man said nothing, his eyes flicking from her horns to her tail to the faint tatters of shadows along her arms.

“It’s a simple question,” she said, calm and measured as she could. A little haughty maybe. A little sharp. The way Lorcan might have said things. “How much?”

The shopkeeper looked past Farideh, at Havilar holding up a blood-red cloak whose mud-stained hem came only to her calves. She looked up at the two of them. “Can you make this longer, do you think?” she called.

The man looked back at Farideh. “I can’t sell you that. You’re not of age.”

“Of age for what?”

“For magic. You’ll not get me into trouble with the Lords. Buy a cloak or go.”

Farideh glowered at him. She could feel the powers of the Hells pulsing up through her feet, the curl of shadow blurring her form. Stop it, she thought. Relax.

“My, my,” a man’s voice said behind her, “you are giving this young lady a lot of trouble, Amael.” Farideh hadn’t heard the man come in, and by the shopkeeper’s jolt of surprise, neither had he. The stranger smiled at her through a trim, dark beard studded with jet beads. His tousled hair bore more of the ornaments, and the rich, heavy robes he wore were a rainbow of shadows, making his blue eyes stand out like beacons. His gaze pierced her for a breath, then slid to the startled merchant.

“Master Rhand,” the merchant said, and if it were possible, he sounded even warier than when he’d spoken to Farideh. “Didn’t see you there. This a friend of yours?”

“Not yet,” the man said, and the hairs on Farideh’s arms stood on end. “Tell me,” Master Rhand continued. “When did the Lords pass a law that placed an age barrier on purchasing ritual books?”

The merchant shifted. “Just seems proper. Ought to be a law, anyhow.”

“Show her your wares, Amael.”

To Farideh’s surprise, after a moment of staring at the man, the shopkeeper snorted and reached under the counting table. He hauled out a thick book bound in rusty-colored cloth and dropped it on the table. The yellow, wrinkled pages exhaled a breath of dust and aging ink.

“Fari!” Havilar called. “Come try this one on. See if it fits over your horns.”

“You can have this one,” he said. “Came in earlier this morning and I haven’t had time to get a wizard to look at it. Sixty-five and you and your double get out of my shop.”

Farideh swallowed. “Thirty.”

The shopkeeper peered at her again. “It’s a proper ritual book,” he said in half puzzlement, half protest. “Might look a bit shabby, but that’s what you get for such a good price.”

Behind her Master Rhand chuckled. “Thirty,” she said again.

“You want to spend thirty, I’ll sell you a cloak and a pound of sweetmeats,” the shopkeeper said. “Fifty and not a nib less, devil-child.”

She shook her head. Fifty might as well have been five thousand. She had thirty and not a copper piece more-and Mehen was already going to be furious she was spending what she had on a book and not a cloak. “Thirty or not at all.”

The shopkeeper sighed and tucked the book back under the counting table. “Well, for thirty you’re not going to get much. Not these days. You are mad if you think otherwise.” He squinted at the man behind her. “Can I help you, Master Rhand?” he said a little sharply.

“We’ll see, won’t we?” the man said. “Has my piece come in yet?”

The merchant’s expression drew tighter. “Aye. I’ll …” He eyed Farideh for the barest moment. “I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into his storerooms.

“I do hope,” the man said, “you’ve come to Waterdeep for more than a cut-rate ritual book. You’ll never get Amael down to thirty.”

“Yes, well. I suppose I’ll try somewhere else.” She stepped back, enough to put a more comfortable amount of space between them. It didn’t quiet the sense of unease he gave her, as if he might suddenly lunge at her like a snake.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the man said, taking her hand and bowing low over it. “Adolican Rhand.”

“Farideh,” she said, uncertain of what she was supposed to do in return. Adolican Rhand smiled and held her hand a little too long, before she pulled it away.

“Enchanted,” he said. Havilar hurried over. He took her hand too, much to Havilar’s puzzlement, but his unsettling gaze stayed on Farideh. It made her wish for a cloak after all.

“If you want a ritual book for a better rate,” he said, still eyeing her, “I do know a fellow in Dock Ward who can give you the best deal out there. Goodman Florren, on Dust Alley. Stop by there tomorrow.”

It had all the air of an order, and Farideh bristled. “We’ll see.”

“We’re looking for a cloak,” Havilar said, glaring at Farideh.

“We’re looking for both,” Farideh said quietly.

“Indeed,” Adolican Rhand said. “In the City of Splendors, you can look for anything and find most of it. Such splendid oddities.” Farideh’s back tightened and her tail flicked, which only made her temper surge. Who was this henish to make her nervous?

The shopkeeper returned with a large bundle of canvas, clearly heavier than it looked. He set it on the counter and slid it forward, pushing one side then the other. “Here,” he said. “Still owe-”

“Yes, yes,” Adolican Rhand said, waving him off. “Send the bill around and my man will pay you the coin.” He looked back at the twins. “Would you like to see?”

Not waiting for an answer, Adolican Rhand pulled loose the canvas to reveal a strange and alien sculpture. In the middle, a nude woman twisted, her rib cage stretched and her breasts taut as she reached up toward the monstrous maw above her. The formless creature, a nightmare of teeth and hands and shapeless ooze, surrounded her. Bled into her. Farideh peered a little closer and saw the woman’s mouth was full of tiny, sharp teeth of its own, rendered in shell.

“ ‘Jhaeranna Saelhawk and the Spellplague,’ ” Adolican Rhand said. “What do you think?”

“It’s … fascinating,” Farideh said. Unsettling was a better word-she’d rather have looked at Adolican Rhand than the strange statue another moment.

Fortunately, he only had eyes for his acquisition. “A wizard at the cusp of her true power. They say she was plaguechanged, but the change took her from the inside. Her body looked as perfect as Mystra’s last day. Almost-the back”-he turned the statue to reveal a writhing garden of tentacles sprouting from the woman’s shapely back, grasping at the air-“revealed her true nature. The horrors lay within.” His blue eyes pierced Farideh, and he gave her a wry smile. “The distortion makes it more beautiful, if you ask my opinion.”

“We need to go,” Havilar said, grabbing hold of Farideh’s arm. “Now.” They hurried from the shop.

“What do you do to draw all these … creepers?” Havilar demanded. She shuddered visibly. “Gods, it’s like your pact is a lodestone for shady codloose winkers. Please tell me you’ve already forgotten that merchant’s name?”

Goodman Florren, she thought, of Dust Alley. “I don’t do anything,” Farideh said. “One random rake in a shop isn’t my fault. And there are hundreds of merchants in this city. I don’t need his help.”

Havilar fumed. “Because you don’t need a pothac book,” she said. “You don’t need Lorcan.”

“You’ve had your say about that,” Farideh said.

“If you run off and go looking again on our one night in Waterdeep, I will never forgive you. And,” Havilar added after a moment, “you are not the pretty one just because some letchy creeper likes your weird eye!”

Farideh sighed. This would go on forever if she didn’t stop it, as flustered as Havilar was getting. “No one said that.” She slipped her arm through Havilar’s. “And I won’t run off tonight or any night. We’ll stick together. We’ll look for a cloak. Maybe some sweetmeats and chapbooks if we’ve got enough. Sound good?”

Havilar hugged Farideh’s arm close. “Do you think Brin likes you better, too?” she murmured after a few moments.

“Of course not,” Farideh said, almost laughing. “He likes us both well enough. Why would you …” She trailed off as she realized that wasn’t what Havilar had meant. She felt a blush creep up her neck-really? How had she missed such a thing? “Oh.”

“Don’t say ‘oh’ like that. I’m just curious.” Havilar sighed. “If Mehen’s going to act like I have to be corralled from him, and his stupid cousin’s going to call me names, I’d like to know he at least preferred me to you a little.”

“Right,” Farideh said, but she was turning over every little interaction she’d seen between her sister and the runaway lordling. How much of that was true and how much was Havilar saving face? And why-why-hadn’t Havilar said anything sooner? Gods above, she hoped Brin was far gone …

Farideh squeezed her sister’s arm, as they turned up Sul Street. “Forget Brin and forget Mehen,” she said. And forget Lorcan and Bryseis Kakistos, she added silently. “We’ll have whiskey tonight.”