Lesser Evils

CHAPTER FIVE

WATERDEEP

1 FLAMERULE, THE YEAR OF THE DARK CIRCLE (1478 DR)

The small Wyrm Inn, though less grand and less capacious than its cousin, the Greatwyrm, had gotten a reputation among Waterdeep’s moderately well-heeled as an excellent place for a meal, a draft, and perhaps a few stronger substances. It was pleasant enough that the merchant, his guards, and the treasure they guarded had taken rooms on the third floor.

You are too old for this, Tam thought as he slipped through the packed taproom toward the entrance to the inn. You have been too old for this for well on fifteen years.

But what else could he do? Send Dahl in to steal the page? Send Farideh? Beg the Fisher for the thousands upon thousands of gold pieces it was likely go for?

No, he’d have to take care of matters himself.

There was a guard at the door to the guests’ rooms, the burly fellow who’d been beside the stone at the auction viewing. Tam watched him from the corner of his eye as he eased past. The guard’s eyes never left Tam. No slipping by that one.

He kept walking. Fortunately, inns were notably insecure. There would be another way to the treasure of Tarchamus.

The merchant running the auction, a man called Artur Chansom, wasn’t that way. Chansom had held out, despite-Tam had discovered-already receiving multiple offers to buy the piece. There was too much coin to be made. Far too much to hope that his sense of duty could overwhelm his sense of profit. Even if it could mean leaving a path to the sort of powers that Netheril spent ages acquiring.

Even without knowing what the page and stone had once belonged to, even without being sure what the arcanist’s works of power entailed, Tam knew enough about the heights of power that ancient Netheril had reached to know the artifacts couldn’t just be left to fall into anyone’s hands. Works of magic like none the world had seen, yes, but Netheril’s arcanists had also destroyed or decimated the surrounding civilizations in their quest for an empire, flouted the gods themselves, and reached for powers that ended in the First Death of the goddess of magic and the ultimate collapse of ancient Netheril. Not treasures, he thought, one left for the taking.

Tam passed through the side door and in through the kitchen entrance, his thoughts echoing back to the night when he and his comrades had run afoul of the Shadovar scouting party. It was before he had gone into Viridi’s service, before he had even taken vows as one of Selune’s silverstar, when he was just a headstrong lad with no sense at all of what he could lose. And then they’d died-dear Ariya, brave Seris, wide-eyed Myk, that blessed bastard Payel-and the Lady of Loss had made it clear how much could be taken away.

Slipping into the Smallwyrm’s stairwell, he shuddered. He’d pledged himself to the Moonmaiden, the eternal enemy of Shar, shortly after. If what he’d seen were the predations of a minor scouting party, Faerun would need all the help it could get to stand against the city that sent them, and he’d been young, idealistic, full of spleen and holy fire.

Which is exactly how Viridi had caught him and brought him into her service.

A far more orderly one than he served now. He settled down in front of the keyhole to the second floor with a grunt for his achy knee. Did Dahl even know how to pick a lock if pressed? he wondered. Or what to say if someone caught him at it? How to disarm a pressure plate or a trip wire? How to pass as a wealthy merchant or a copperless beggar? How to get up off the floor and bring down an attacker in one swift movement? Tam couldn’t have said, and what’s worse, he doubted the Fisher could have either.

His lockpick snapped with a sudden ping, and Tam cursed. The metal spine protruded hardly a hairsbreadth from the edge of the keyhole. He pulled his head back to see better, scraped at it with his fingernails. The damned thing slipped deeper.

Beyond the door, he heard footsteps.

Tam leaped to his feet and hurried up to the next landing just in time to see one of the potjacks come through the door laden with chamberpots. The boy trundled down the stairs, and did not notice Tam catch the door just as it started to close and duck inside. He bent and rubbed his knee.

After this, he thought, catching his breath, I need to do a healing on that stlarning knee. It wouldn’t last long-it never did-but it would take the edge away, keep him flexible.

He peered down the hallway of the inn, remembering that night twenty-seven years ago, when he-an overeager silverstar-had stumbled on a representative of Netheril, rooming in an inn in Athkatla, and killed him. He was damned lucky-he knew it now and he knew it then. He was doubly lucky that when Viridi’s assassins had broken in and found him there-unsure of how to escape while covered in another man’s blood-they’d nabbed him and returned him to Viridi instead of leaving him to take the blame.

He’d come to in a lavish study, bound with bent knees and lying on a plush Amnian rug, a roaring fire behind him, and an enormous wooden desk in front of him. The dark-skinned woman behind the desk, her crinkled hair the color of tarnished silver, marked the balance of a pair of brass scales, made a note in her ledger, and said nothing as Tam pulled himself onto his knees.

“I find it interesting,” she said, “that what took two months of planning on my people’s part apparently took you an afternoon and a bottle’s worth of courage.”

Tam didn’t reply. “You bound my wounds,” he said.

“What did you think?” Viridi said. “That I’d leave you bleeding on my silk rug? Come now, priest.” A trickle of gold coins fell from her fist into the scale’s tray, bringing it nearer to level. “My people say you’re a mercenary as well. That’s an odd combination, Brother Nightingale.” She clucked her tongue and turned to face him. “A bit melodramatic for a cryptonym, don’t you think?”

“What do you want?” he asked. “Vengeance for your man?”

“Not my man. It so happens,” Viridi said, “that we’re on the same side.” She peered at the scales and wrote something. “More or less. I’ll take coin from a lot of people, but I don’t want Shade owing me any favors. But you,” she said thoughtfully, “we could owe each other quite a few favors, I think.”

For more than a decade, Tam had been her Shepherd, her cleric in the house-healing and resurrecting her spies-and her field agent among the faithful. And here and there, she put him on teams set against Shade. She kept his secrets and he kept hers, more loyal than he would have ever imagined, as a headstrong lad. For more than a decade, the Shepherd had been his purpose and his focus.

And then Viridi had died, and it all came unraveled.

He knew a handful of her agents who’d been killed for the mistake of seeking employment with Viridi’s prior clients. He knew half a dozen more who’d died because they ran afoul of her prior targets. And one who died to save Viridi, the agent known to her only as the Shepherd, and his dearest secret. And he hadn’t been able to stop any of it.

The Harpers needed a Viridi. Several Viridis, he thought, coming to the merchant’s chambers. People who could keep things together and running smoothly, who could gather the sort of patrons that made field work possible and the sort of agents that made it sensible. He listened for a moment, then slipped the lockpicks into the keyhole.

But the Fisher was right-it was a different world. Even if there had been spymasters on every corner, there were a thousand other, smaller organizations ready to claim them. He picked the lock more smoothly this time and eased the door open without leaving any of the pick behind.

The room wasn’t empty. The locked chest that held the page and stone sat on a table pushed against one wall, and a woman-a guard, by her look-leaned against the table. Dressed in leather armor with her dark hair bound loosely off her neck, she seemed far more interested in the book she held open in one hand than the fact that she was being robbed.

She looked up, her dark eyes momentarily surprised, and Tam felt as if the world had shifted to one side and left him behind as the one secret he kept above all others lay bare to the world.

“Good evening,” she said. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Da.”

“Mira?” He stepped into the room and closed the door. It was still his daughter standing there in front of the chest. Still his little girl, armed and armored and bristling. “What … Why aren’t you in Baldur’s Gate?” he asked dumbly.

“My employer wouldn’t appreciate that,” she said. “And it’s lovely to see you, too.”

He shook his head. “I … Apologies, Mira. I just didn’t expect … Well, you understand. How could I expect?” His only daughter regarded him coolly.

Selune and her tears, why was he always startled to see she wasn’t eight years old anymore? He crossed the room and pulled his daughter into a stiff embrace. “It’s lovely to see you. What are you doing in Waterdeep?”

“Guarding Master Chansom’s treasures,” she said, stepping back. “From you, apparently.”

He chuckled. “Yes. Well. It’s rather complicated.”

“Try me,” she said.

“I need what’s in that chest.”

She smiled. “You and half of Waterdeep.”

“Half of Waterdeep isn’t your father,” he said, and her smile faltered. She folded her arms across her chest like a barrier.

“What?” she said. “Are you planning to have Mother restrict my sweets if I don’t stand aside?”

“Mira, that’s not what I meant,” he chided. “Listen to me. If you knew what you were guarding-”

“I know what I’m guarding.”

“No. That writing isn’t Draconic,” he said. “It’s-”

“It’s Loross,” she interrupted. “It’s Silver Age, well older than Chansom thinks it is. Chansom bought both from a farmer in the Silver Marches who found the page wrapped up in the bottom of a trunk his great-grandfather carted home after adventuring-he retired after his comrades didn’t make it back. Judging by the stone type, I’d say he found it somewhere in the Nether Mountains, and I’d wager well it wasn’t all he found. I know it’s speaking. Chansom doesn’t, and none of the wizards who want to buy the thing have mentioned it to him, but I’m pretty sure they’ve heard it. too. I know both pieces claim to be the property of ‘Tarchamus,’ the same name as an arcanist of Netheril who disappeared two thousand years ago, so far as anyone knows. It’s not a map to a hoard. In fact I’m willing to bet no dragon has come within leagues of these things.” She looked away, as if the outburst of knowledge embarrassed her. “So, yes,” she added. “I do know what I’m guarding.”

Ah, Lady, he thought, what a terrible time to have this argument. She’d always had a head for history, an eye for details, and he ought to have remembered that. She’d gone off to Baldur’s Gate when she was seventeen to apprentice to antiquarians hunting in the Werewoods for ruins. By now, she likely knew far better than he did what was a Netherese artifact and what was a forgery.

“My apologies,” Tam said after a moment. “I suppose, I’d forgotten-”

“How long have you been in Waterdeep?” she interrupted.

“A few days,” he said. The window rattled against its latch-Tam’s attention jumped to it. Just a breeze, he thought. Pay attention to her.

“I didn’t know to look for you,” he said. “Or that you were working as a guard. What happened to your studies?”

Mira’s mouth quirked in a sad, little smile. “There’s little enough coin in ancient history,” she said. “At least this way I can eat while I examine other people’s artifacts.”

Tam wanted to speak, to tell her this was not the life she wanted-trust him, he knew. “What does your mother think of all this?” he asked, rubbing his aching eyes. The window latch clattered with the breeze, tapping out an alarm he forced himself to ignore.

Mira shrugged. “She doesn’t much mind. Sends letters regularly. I’m to visit for …” Mira narrowed her eyes at the door. The soft click of a lockpick against a loose tumbler.

Tam stiffened. “Hrast.”

“We have company,” she said calmly.

As if they’d heard her, the intruders burst into the room: a Turmishan man by the window, sleek as a shadow and carrying two hooked scythes; a pale-skinned woman by the door, her face a mess of scars around bright black eyes. She reached back and drew her sword.

“Get out of here!” he shouted to Mira, as he moved between them and the chest, pulling at the chain he wore wrapped around his waist from the center. The spiked links unhooked and fell loose. He whispered to Selune and felt her blessing pour over his skin and light every link of the chain.

He’d expected Shadovar. He’d been waiting for echoes of the shadar-kai he’d seen in his youth. But no-a gray skull on a background of brown rays, displayed as the woman drew her sword and turned her shoulder toward him. Zhentarim. Mercenaries of the Black Network.

They might not have expected him, but that gave the thieves no pause-the pair moved at him so quickly, he only saw blades. The chain lashed out, tangling the man’s wrists and scythes together. Tam pulled, and the assassin tripped forward, crashing to his knees.

The woman with the sword took the chance to slash Tam’s forearm, leaving behind a sudden line of red. Sharp, stinging-not enough to stop him from directing a burst of holy fire at her midsection, shoving her back. The sword screamed past him once more, close enough to tear the fabric of his shirt. Tam yanked his chain back from the prone man and slung it toward his companion, the light of the moon goddess building along the links until it burst out the end with a low whoosh.

The man was on his feet again, one scythe slicing toward Tam’s throat. He threw an elbow up into the man’s forearm, pushing the blade, up, away. It nicked his cheek. The assassin’s arm shifted, hooked up under Tam’s arm, as if to pull the priest into the other scythe.

The man jerked back. Tam broke away.

There was Mira, one knife sunk in the Turmishan man’s side. The other up, high, drawing across the assassin’s throat in a sharp, swift cut. Blood poured out of the wound, blood bubbling with the assassin’s desperate breaths, and still Mira held him up on her knife’s blade.

Get her out of here! a voice shouted in Tam’s thoughts, over and over. Get her out of here! Threatening to overwhelm the focus of the Moonmaiden’s powers, threatening to take his thoughts away from the battle at hand. Mira dropped the body as the man stopped trying to breathe through the wound in his neck.

Dead, he thought forcefully. He didn’t need to save Mira from the dark-skinned man. The man was dead.

He faced the woman, back on her feet, despite the blood that poured from her wounds and between her teeth, and slashing at him with that black-bladed sword. He jerked the chain up and caught the blade between its spiked links. Too quick, she slipped it free and struck a glancing blow off the heavy leather covering his left shoulder, hard enough to bruise and he cried out with the shock of it and loosed his grip on the chain.

Mira moved toward the assassin, knives ready and he fought to speak, to tell her to get out of the way, to run from the room. His heart turned inside out as the assassin’s attention shifted, took in Mira-little Mira.

The sword sliced through the air, carving a path toward Mira’s shoulder. Tam raised a hand, the force of the moon swelling through him like a tide on his blood. Powerful, but not powerful enough-time slowed as the assassin went after his daughter.

“Lady aid me,” he cried, the prayer taking hold, rage chasing the fear.

Mira dropped, straight down, as if her legs had given out, and landed flat on her back, well out of the sword’s attack. But now an easy mark for the bleeding assassin. The assassin raised her blade.

Holy fire, bright as a full moon, streamed from Tam’s open palm and crashed over the assassin, throwing her into the far wall. The wave caught her, then she hit the wall and lay silent, dancing with the residual magic of the silverstar.

What remnants of Selune’s peace he’d held tight to now fled. Tam was on the Zhentarim woman in an instant, his chain dropped and a dagger drawn. He cut the assassin’s throat, savage and quick-make certain she’s dead, he thought, the image of her standing over Mira’s prone body hammering at his thoughts.

Panting, Tam turned a slow circle, scanning the darkened corners of the room. Nothing. Mira came to her feet, her knives still gripped in both hands. He jumped at the sudden movement.

“Are you all right?” he all but shouted, his pulse in his ears. He reached for her, to comfort her, perhaps, but also to comfort himself, to be certain she was all right and not cut to ribbons for merely being in the way of one of his missions.

Mira stiffened and sheathed her knives. “Fine,” she said, though she was pale-faced and out of breath. She looked down at the bodies, her eyes distant. “Fine for the moment.”

“You’re not hurt,” he said, looking her over. All the blood was the Zhents,’ but still, she was splattered with it. Like his worst nightmares given flesh. “You’re not hurt,” he said again. “Gods.” He looked around at the carnage. “Gods, if I weren’t here, you could have been killed.”

Mira’s mouth went small. “Possibly. But if you weren’t here, then this fellow wouldn’t have come so close to stabbing you in the ribs.”

He ran a hand over his beard. Never, he’d sworn the last time his duties brought danger so close to his daughter, never again. But now, here Mira stood, looking down at the bodies, calm as the waters of a sacred pool. She always was a calm one, he thought. Even as a babe in the cradle.

Not a babe anymore, he thought. A woman with very sharp knives.

“We still have time,” Mira said. “Though not much. Word’s traveled fast, but not accurately.” She looked up at him. “How much coin can you get together?”

Tam shook his head. “You can’t imagine your patron will go ahead with his bidding. These are Zhentarim assassins.”

“And they only sent two,” she pointed out. “Which means they haven’t figured out what the page and stone point to. They might still think they’re clues to a hoard. They don’t know about Tarchamus.”

Tam started to protest-if they didn’t know, they wouldn’t have sent any assassins, and now that they’d sent two, they would send more. And Shade was still a die unthrown. Now wasn’t the time to be complacent.

But Mira’s expression didn’t suggest she was relieved. She chewed her upper lip, and stared at the body of the male assassin, as if she were trying to spy the fragments of clues scattered over his skin. There was more here.

Stop thinking like a worried parent, he told himself. Think like a Harper.

“You said you know where it came from,” he said. “Where? Or rather, where do you think Shade and the Zhentarim think it came from?”

She looked up at him and blinked. “Getting artifacts from ancient Netheril isn’t easy. What exists is largely in Shade’s hands and they’re particular about what they share. But there are two references to the arcanist Tarchamus. Both are fragmented. Both are widely considered to be apocryphal, or at least exaggerated. But both make it clear that Tarchamus was a formidable arcanist, an expert at tapping into the powers of other planes without traveling to them, capable of crafting weapons that could level cities and mythallars that could stop the stars in their courses.”

Tam raised an eyebrow and she rolled her eyes. “I told you. They exaggerate. But even as such, it’s clear he was no dabbler.”

“If he existed,” Tam added.

“Someone made the book the page was torn from.” She laid a hand on the chest. “It’s possible his spells or the artifacts imbued with his magic still exist somewhere-wherever this came from. And I think the stone is a piece of the door that sealed it. If Shade knew this page might be a clue to the location of Tarchamus’s lost enclave, they would have sent an army by now.”

“And the Zhentarim?”

She cast a skeptical eye down at the dead mercenaries. “They know it’s valuable. I doubt these two’s masters have worked out how valuable. As it stands?” She shrugged. “The Netherese probably know Chansom’s selling something Netherese and would rather it remained in the princes’ treasury. And the Zhentarim probably know Shade wants it.”

“For now,” Tam said. “If word of the page traveled that quickly, word of its secrets can’t be far behind.” He shook his head. “We need to destroy both pieces.”

Mira didn’t move. “If you destroy them,” she said, “then you destroy the key to finding the source. But the lost enclave will still be out there. The stockpile of magic weapons might still exist. The secrets of Tarchamus haven’t been destroyed-they’re waiting for Shade to come and excavate them.

“We have to get there first,” she said.

Before Tam could respond, the door opened, admitting the stout and slightly tipsy Artur Chansom, and another man, a lean fellow all dressed in dark velvets.

At the sight of Tam, Artur Chansom startled. At the sight of the two dead mercenaries slowly soaking the rug with blood, he threw himself back against the wall.

“Waukeen rob me blind!” he cried. “What happened?”

Mira looked down at the dead Zhentarim. “It seems someone wanted to circumvent his competitors.”

“Indeed,” the other man said. He looked up at Tam, curiously, with piercing blue eyes. The hairs on the back of Tam’s neck stood on end. “Artur, I must commend your guards.”

“Beshaba spit on the day I took this on,” the merchant muttered. He ran his fingers through his forked beard and glared at Tam. “That one’s not mine. Who in the Hells are you?”

“Ah, yes,” Tam said, reaching for the merchant’s hand. “I’m Mira’s father-”

The merchant squinted at him. “Who?”

“Pet name,” Mira supplied. “Means ‘little dove’ in Old Calishite.” She squeezed Tam’s arm. “You’ll have to forgive him. Can’t help embarrassing me.”

“My apologies,” Tam said, catching on. She’d used another name? Why? He smiled at the merchant. “They grow up so fast, don’t they? One day she’s my mira, the next she’s … well, killing robbers for you, it seems.”

“Yes,” Chansom said, pointedly not looking at the corpses. “Unacceptable-not you, my dear, nor your father. You’ve done plenty well. I’ll reflect it in your pay. Although I would rather have had them alive.”

“Wasn’t an option,” Mira supplied.

“But this”-he waved his hands at the room-“this won’t do. Clearly these walls might as well be spidersilk for all they keep out thieves. No, it won’t suit.” He combed his fingers through his beard again. “Going to kill me in my sleep. Run off with all the gold.”

“I’d be happy to accommodate you,” the other man said. “I have plenty of room for you and your employees.” He smiled, and Tam could not shake the sense that something was decidedly off about the man. “You can bring your things along with the chest.”

“That’s kind of you indeed, Saer Rhand,” Chansom said. “But I’ve got appearances to see to. You and I know your bid’s far better than what the rest of them will offer-but I have agreements to keep. Another showing-an exclusive one. Even if they can’t own it, plenty have paid coin to clap eyes on it. You understand?”

Saer Rhand’s smile had a brittle, vicious quality, as if it were shielding something furious and fearsome. “And the street was not good enough for them?”

Chansom gave the man a skeptical look. “It’s Waterdeep. There’s folks enough with more coin than sense, and I’d be a poor man if I told them how to spend it. They want a revel around the thing-to gawk at it and gawk at one another-and I want the coin for tickets-nay, at this point, I don’t want to give the coin back!”

“Of course,” Rhand said. He hesitated for the barest moment. “Perhaps, though, you could indulge me: I’m very eager to lay hands on my treasure. Let me hold the revel. The day after tomorrow, let’s say. All your former bidders, your … gawking nobles, are welcome to attend, and I promise it will be well worth the coin they’ve given over.” He looked up at Tam and Mira. “And do let me lend you some of my guards. I’m sure this lovely lady would like to be spelled.”

Mira regarded him mildly. “This is my livelihood, goodsir. I’m fresh for the rest of my shift.”

“Well, fresh or not,” Chansom said, “I’m not staying here. Pack it up and let’s head for Cloudcroft’s manor. At least then he’ll stop prattling on about me refusing his hospitality. Late wife’s cousin,” he explained to Rhand. “Better beds than this tick-and-roughcloth nonsense at least, and he doesn’t want the battered thing. Send your guards over there at first light. But be discreet, would you? I don’t need any more attention than we’ve already got.”

Mira’s dark eyes flicked to her father’s. “It will be a happy day when you take this thing off our hands,” she said to Rhand.

“Sooner than you think,” Rhand said lightly.

Chansom excused himself and his guest to gather Dankon, presumably the half-orc guard from before, and call the Watch to come deal with the bodies. Rhand’s piercing eyes watched Tam the whole while. He nodded back, pleasantly, while inside he cursed-he didn’t need another mystery.

“Give it to me,” Tam said once the door closed. “If half of what you say is true, at the very least they need to be locked away.”

Mira didn’t budge. “Chansom knows who you are,” she said. “You or I run off with those artifacts now, he’ll know how to track us down.” She chewed her upper lip, staring at the chest. “You have to steal them from their new owner. If they’re stolen before the transfer, you’re the first person Chansom will finger-certainly he’s stunned now, not thinking straight. But he’s a shrewd one; he’ll work out that you shouldn’t have been here. What’s he going to find when he tracks you down?” Tam didn’t answer.

“But after,” she went on, “well, our Master Rhand seems like the sort of man to have a lot of enemies. Wouldn’t you say so?”

There were worse places in Malbolge than the little room at the tip of the farthest fingerbone tower, but at the moment, Lorcan was hard-pressed to think of any. He sat with his back to the curved and oozing wall, watching the membrane over the lacuna of the door and waiting.

Sairche’s healing potion had been enough to mend his bones and restore his lost blood, but there hadn’t been power left to resolve the bruises that mottled his red skin, nor repair the scars that now marred his chest and hands. He dreaded what he’d see in the mirror. But as the days passed and no more erinyes came to torment him, the pain had started to fade and he merely ached. And wondered.

“What are you playing at?” he whispered to the door, to his sister beyond it, somewhere in the plane of Malbolge. He was not such a fool to think the potion was a peace offering, a sign that Sairche was through with him. If she were through, she would have killed him. Something had changed. Something had complicated Sairche’s plans.

And it remained to be seen how it would affect him.

He had not untangled the puzzle before the door unsealed to admit Sairche and two erinyes carrying a bundled rectangle nearly two-thirds their enormous heights.

“Against the wall,” Sairche directed, not taking her eyes off of Lorcan while their half sisters settled the mysterious package beside the door. “I’ve brought you a gift,” she said.

“It’s not a gift if you want something in return.”

“Then we shouldn’t call your continued existence a gift either? What would you prefer?”

“That we be plain,” Lorcan said. “You’re holding me prisoner like I’m some sort of prize to lord over the Hells, but the longer you go without killing me, the more that everyone is going to wonder if you’ve lost your wits. The more they’re going to notice that you’re not Invadiah-because we both know Mother would have killed me the moment we left Glasya’s sight-and think they might be able to bring you down: Why?”

Sairche scowled and flexed her wings again. She waved the erinyes out. “If you want to die so badly, there’s the window. Or if you can’t manage it yourself, I’m sure Bibracte would be delighted to assist.”

“Of course she would,” Lorcan said. “That’s hardly worth mentioning.” He squinted. “You can’t find her.”

Sairche matched his false and feral smile. “Why are you protecting her?”

“For one thing, it amuses me to keep you from getting your way.”

“Enough to die for it?”

“Are you going to pretend you aren’t going to kill me anyway?” He clucked his tongue. “Don’t be tedious, Sairche.”

“You’re hiding something.”

Lorcan kept his smile, but his thoughts went to Glasya, to the terrible voice whispering in his ear as he was led from the palace to be lost in the little room. It amused him much more not to cross the archduchess.

“Aren’t we all?” he said instead. “For instance … why is it you want my Brimstone Angel so badly? You don’t collect warlocks. So you must have a buyer in mind. But I can say with fair certainty that there are no devils in Malbolge who want her and would be willing to deal with you. So you’re crossing the layers.”

Sairche shrugged. “Simple enough to figure out. I never hid it. I’m more interested to know why you’re being so coy. So careful. I thought you might do better to have a little more … slack in your lead.” She pulled the drape of linen aside to reveal a heavy iron-framed mirror leaning against the curved wall. Its surface stirred gently, as if a sheen of oil marred the glass. A scrying mirror, for viewing the plane of Toril, the world of Faerun.

Lorcan smiled to himself, though his stomach started to churn. “You really do think I’m a fool.”

Sairche ran a finger across the surface of the mirror, swirling the sickly colors and distorting the reflection. “Twelve of your pacts have very distinct signatures. I found the five whose souls you’d laid claim to almost before I started looking. Tracing the lines of power from the Hells to the rest was bothersome, but not difficult.”

“Yes, yes,” Lorcan said, dismissively. “You’re very clever.”

“The thirteenth … well, you know perfectly well there is no such signature for her, no line of power-at least, not one I can find. It’s as if it dissolves into nothing.” She stared at her brother’s reflection in the mirror, her golden eyes burning. “It’s as if she doesn’t exist.”

“And yet she does,” he said. “Sounds like you’re not as clever as you think.” He watched her reflection beside his, searching for some sign of her intentions in the shared shape of their eyes, the shared curve of their smirk.

“Who’s got you trapped?” he asked again.

“I’m not discussing my business with you.”

“I don’t know that you have to,” Lorcan said. There was nothing she could have said that would have taken away the clear desperation in Sairche’s actions. She didn’t want Farideh. She needed her. Someone thought Sairche could get them a Brimstone Angel, and the price for failure was too high.

But then … why was Lorcan not writhing in a dungeon bleeding out of his eyes?

“Is it Glasya?” he asked.

Sairche smirked back. “Wouldn’t you like to know. Enjoy the mirror.”

“And distract myself from my window?” he asked. “I might miss another succubus scuffle.”

She crossed to the door, chuckling to herself. “You think you know me? I know you, too, Lorcan. I know it’s taking everything you have not to push me aside and check on your warlocks-I’d lay good coin on my being no more than ten steps out the door before you’re checking up on her in particular.” Her gaze flicked over him. “Five, if the erinyes broke you as much as it looks. Good day.”

He’d prove her wrong. Lorcan waited until she’d left, until the door had shut and merged back into the still-living marrow of the walls, until he glimpsed the troop of erinyes passing into the distance, before dropping to his knees in front of the scrying mirror.

It would be swaddled in protections and magic to trace its use-even if he couldn’t sense the spells’ presence, he knew Sairche wouldn’t forget such a simple precaution. He called up the mark of his Phrenike heir. The reflection shivered and blurred and changed to reflect a young man with horns, bloodless skin, and a tail that lashed the frame of the bed he lay snoring in. Lorcan sneered. Even to thwart her brother, Sairche wouldn’t take that one.

He called, again and again, each of the heirs of the Toril Thirteen, the circle of warlocks who’d aided Asmodeus in his ascension. The Nicodemus heir shimmered with the mark of a rival from another layer. So did the heir of Caisys the Vicelord. The Elyria heir lay dead in a puddle of her own viscera. Lorcan scowled. He’d been fond of that one.

Four were lost altogether-stolen by other collectors of warlocks or dead of refusing them. The other eight might well have never known he was gone, as little as their routines had changed. None seemed to be focusing on the sorts of rituals that might rescue Lorcan from his captivity.

Bastards, he thought. Couldn’t count on a one of them.

Lorcan held the pendant he wore, a piece of leather shaped in the form of Glasya’s copper scourge-the one piece of ornament he’d been left, since it was the only one without a clear enchantment-and worried it with one thumb.

He drew a steady finger down the center of the mirror-pointedly did not think of Farideh, the heir of Bryseis Kakistos, the Brimstone Angel, rarest of the Toril Thirteen-and pretended it wasn’t such a hard thing to do.