29 Eleasias

"For the sake of the girl herself, if not her mother," Sauriram had agreed, sending Sorrel as a Flaming Fist to retrieve Shar-Teel's daughter from her grandfather's estate; we'd only seen her briefly, but she'd been saved from Angelo.

"If I were Viconia, I've thought out now where a good place to hide would be, or at least it's a good place to start," I said to Ajantis. "You just have to say the words without stopping, stuttering, or blushing."

Imoen giggled; Faldorn looked confused.

"I..." Ajantis began. "want a...drow courte...I can't..." he gasped. "By Helm! Am I to portray a recklessly depraved, carnally immoral, dishonourable dilettante?"

"You're the only one of us who can pretend to have a convincing reason for asking."

Imoen snorted in laughter again. "Well, not necessarily, 'ccording to some things I've heard...but it's not like we've got Shar-Teel..." But women don't ask about that sort of thing; why would they?

"It is ridiculous, conspired, and morally degenerate to try to belabour me into such an offensive inquiry," Ajantis thundered. "The temples of Helm in the city ought to join forces to stamp out such vile dens of profligacy and obscenity!"

I'd already been there by Coran's instruction; the dying woman in her small stone room. Should have asked then. It wasn't that bad. "You're going to ask for a drow courtesan from their vile den of profligacy and obscenity, Lord Ilvastarr." Aquerna placed a paw across her mouth, shaking her head in suppressed amusement.

The Undercellars are hidden in the centre of the city, below the back alleys of the marketplace and Ilmater's temple. Worn in stone, there's a certain dampness to them, with occasional moss growing on the lower parts of the walls, where there aren't tapestries hung. We descended stairs to reach its lowest point.

"Is this that far from where we walked last night?" Imoen said below her breath, looking up at an ornately embroidered tapestry that featured two of Sune's handmaidens taking a bath together, or so I guessed might be the mythological symbolism.

"Interesting. Possibly, but why bother?" I returned. Stone walls; built higher than the sewers, which are in turn for obvious reasons considerably younger than the city before Balduran. Ajantis fiddled nervously with his gloved hands; always he seemed uneasy without armour, as if he'd sleep in it if he could. On his face he wore a dark grey mask that covered more of his features than that most other male nobles here affected, though he'd worried if the very wearing of it crossed Helm's dictates. Imoen and I hung on one of his arms apiece, surrounding him in skirts and masks of our own.

He donated gold drawn from our own dangerously low-dipping funds; Imoen winked at me at the sight of a nobleman with the strings of a purse visible from his robes, perhaps one of the Bevins below his brief red mask.

"Good evening, sir." The amount had been sufficient to draw perfunctory attention from one of the Undercellar's facilitators; a slightly plump man, wearing dark robes with a pale silk lining, dead white paint upon his face. "Might I offer you direction?"

Imoen leaned against Ajantis' broad shoulder and gave an artificially high giggle. Ajantis whispered his line while looking at the floor; there was scorn lettered on the administrator's face.

"Forgive me, I'm afraid I heard it not," he said; in sophisticated tones, like those of an advanced bard. "From which of the endless pleasures of the Undercellar do you wish to draw tonight?"

"I search for a drow courtesan!" Ajantis said. He'd always been good at battlecries. There might have been some people on the very far end of the place who hadn't heard him clearly. Eyes turned to his indelicately raised voice; a beautiful woman dressed in a shimmering dark cloak, carrying a tray of wine-glasses; the Bevin noble; a group of five scantily clad people, two masked, smoking a scent that wafted over to us as Black Lotus; armed female guards with outlandishly coloured armour and long spears. Ajantis' face turned to the ground once more. "...ifyoudon'tmind..."

There was a wanted drow criminal; a drow courtesan would, I thought, be Viconia's way of hiding a needle in a pincushion crafted for it.

"Ah. The...lady in question...is known to be of a somewhat capricious nature," drawled the Undercity's man. "Shall I give her your calling card?"

Ajantis gave a ring we had found in Durlag's tower, that she would recognise as dwarven craftwork; and a note that simply scribed banal praises of her beauty quoted directly from the standard bardic pieces, signed by the name Sky Tev'nie. Others had rescued the girl, Flaming Fist passing through to Dosan's estate on Sauriram's orders.

"I must return with the verdict. Please, feel free to indulge yourself in what refreshments you desire." Wine; dancing women; Black Lotus; even one or two dancing men. We sat by ourselves on a brocaded divan; we couldn't afford to lose our senses. At least some nobles here must surely serve Sarevok, innocently or no. Smiling, I reached up to Ajantis' neck and whispered in his ear, to tell him to get them to bring wine for the appearance of vivacity. Imoen and I feigned light chatter around him; the woman in the fine cloak offered us some really rather charming Berduskan red vintage. A red-and-yellow fire crackled not far from us.

"...never so humiliated...Helm..." Ajantis muttered, his shoulders slumped. Briefly his glance fell upwards upon a woman with near-bared breasts shimmying to music played by a lutenist, and he quickly stared down at the carpet once more. Imoen unobtrusively kicked him; I tugged at the neckline of my dress as a woman of easy virtue. A drunken man staggered toward us: Eldran Jhasso, below a canary-yellow mask that didn't conceal enough of his jowls. We'd met. I hid my face in Ajantis' shoulders.

"Evenin'!" he talked to us. "Haven't seen yer masks before!" Imoen raised her flame-red vizard to him. "But your face...your face, something, m'lady." He had intended address to me; Imoen took over.

"Let's see," she said, "I know you know how to party, m'lord! Reckon I'd know you—but no names here, naughty man!"

He peered bleary-eyed at her. "Not you. Notyou. Redheads, Yknowwhattheysayboutredheads—I'd like to know you—"

"The young lady is accompanied and desires none of your presence," Ajantis said. It worked, forceful enough; Eldran simply staggered a few steps away, leaning on the arm of a dark-haired woman. This was too risky. I could feel Ajantis' tension and discomfort lodged in his muscles.

"Oh, brave Star!" Imoen giggled, flapping a large ornamental fan she'd transmuted out of a small stick. I joined her laughter, kicking below my skirts.

At last the man returned; we'd sipped only the beginning of our wine. "The lady...wishes to see you," he said. "Permit me to escort you to her private room whilst her patience lasts. All of our quarters in this section, I assure you, are sealed in case of unfortunate accident."

An outer chamber, somewhat ornamented by plaster busts and walls somewhat crudely painted in the Calishite style; a blue door was closed for an inner sanctum. I stepped to open it, and they were in the bedroom.

Viconia hadn't troubled to put on more than some slightly dishevelled lacy underclothing, sitting on the wide bed and—feigning to?—read a book; Shar-Teel was upright pacing the navy-cream Cormyrian carpet, carrying her sword, sweating as if she'd been practising recently. Ajantis closed the door behind himself and folded his arms, as if trying to recapture some of his lost dignity.

"Sarevok was the one who owned Tazok. Who do you want to kill next?" I said. Shar-Teel's pawn was behind the castle on our side; on the chessboard she was king.

"Angelo," she said.

—

"I suppose one might say I have suffered from boredom of late," Viconia said. A veil covered her face as if she were some wealthy widow, stricken ill; we'd escaped into the alleyways of the less legitimate marketplaces, where once Eldoth had taken me. "Remove me from the sun and I suppose I may...offer the services of Shar in your pitiful problems." She almost began one of those disorienting poses directed at Ajantis, but reconsidered.

"We know you're all heart, Viccy," Imoen said. "Rrrah! Skie'n me are bigger 'n badder than you'll know 'till we reach headquarters!"

The Imoen is my sister thought was far better than related to Sarevok or related to that murderous entity. Sauriram hadn't told others; who knew how Ajantis would react to bad blood? There seemed no people about on this street. It was very quiet; I almost congratulated myself for leading them here.

"Bigger? No," Shar-Teel said, looking down on all four of us. Viconia raised her head to stand by her shoulders, admittedly at least three inches above Imoen for all she was elvish.

"Beware!" Viconia whispered. I blinked, and there was a black-clad man standing behind her wreathed in shadow. He held a pale sword. I shouted out; and then she lay on the streets bleeding through her stomach. The man turned and ran, and then a cloud of yellow vapours erupted around us to steal our breath. It burned skin and seared through lungs in instants. Ajantis was on his knees and falling; and a series of intangible Imoens raced past me. The cobblestones and Viconia's blood flew toward me.

Too many times we'd been attacked.

Then the air smelled clean. Imoen had cast Dynaheir's spell for that and a set of mirror images protected her. A thing of black tentacles lashed one by one at the pictures of her. There were gas-tears in my eyes, my vision half gone; I bent over Viconia and tried to stop the flow of blood.

"Crude, wael," she snapped viciously, laying hands over herself; Ajantis was flat on the ground, Shar-Teel turning to fight the summoned creature. The man—he'd come to us again, if I were he I'd try for the caster first targeted, Imoen was occupied, I knew how a murderer thought—

Balduran's sword came from below my skirts; it arrested the pale blade. I could see the man. He was ill-shaped, muscular, a damaged and nigh-monstrous face. He walked in night-grey armour as if the shadows were part of him, and his short sword held against Balduran's magic. He brought it down in a low spring, and while I rolled to my feet tried to push me out of the way by his bulk. Viconia chanted as softly as she could and Imoen's voice was raised.

"Wasn't very smart to go there, missy," he said; he'd eaten onions lately, the wild thought came from the smell almost as pungent as the casting. I fought through tearstains; path of his sword, path of his body in the shadows— I stepped into the streetlights. "There's a sweet girl, m' wife Krystin; making mincemeat of your mage-caster; all invisible so's I don't be jealous of her—"

He talked because he was winning. He fought as if he wanted something from me, some interest. Balduran's sword had range, but the man was strong enough to force it far aside, at least as good as Ajantis.

"Stupid to flee to our haunt," he said. "Odd—y' ain't as good's I were coming to expect. Probably scream like them Dukes in their time."

A slashing cut sliced past shoulder to waist; shallow, painful. It didn't stop bleeding. I won't scream for you.

Parry; sidestep; try not to fall on the cobblestones. Imoen's voice was still raised, I thought by the sounds of it the spell of grease—

She hadn't spoken aloud to cast the mirror images. As she could cast that fire spell; sorcery. Imoen had the cleverness and courage and strength; reflections for me and nothing of you. I knew what dream-Imoen had meant: the assassin's sword went through my stomach and up at the right angle to find the heart. I stepped through him, untouchable.

He moved; he stepped away quickly. I had lost where the ground was, boots below stone. That was obvious trap and consequence. I lunged with the intangible sword and it became material in his neck. The blade tore down his skin as my stance dropped an inch or so from above the ground, and I turned it into a stab that perhaps Shar-Teel would have at last approved. There was a woman's shriek.

The black monster was dead; Shar-Teel used her sword against a mage-shield that covered a form I could barely see. She stood on grease; marking an invisible position, I realised quickly; Imoen was amazingly clever.

"Slythie! Ye slew my—"

A bright-glowing orb from Imoen's hands bounced from the shield, weakening it. Shar-Teel struck coldly again. Viconia had sat up, raising her hands:

"Why, yes. Your male is slain, iblith."

And then in the gesture of Viconia's hands the mage's husband rose and walked to attack his wife on command. The grease had me slow; at last I reached the mage's blue sphere. She was still a blur inside it, protected by other spells of obscuring. But it was unlikely that she would escape alive. Her husband's dead feet slid across the smooth black grease.

The woman screamed again. "Slythie! Slythie-baby! You can't attack me, it's not right, it's not right, don't'cha know your Krystin?" The zombie's sword seemed quite effective against the shield; with Shar-Teel it raised cracks in its blue. "Gotta save you! Gotta save all—!" Then the mage turned her high scream to a shrieked spell, her hands flying. A pale glow too bright to look at was between her fingers like a small sun—

"—That's a Fireball," Imoen cried, "too strong—Viccy you idiot!—Get the shield down—"

At last there was a small crack in the sphere. Imoen spoke quickly, like a chipmunk's high voice. Shar-Teel and I both left a clear line of sight for her for that gap. An acid arrow flew from her hand and toward Krystin's throat. The mage tried several further times for her spell, but Imoen's casting continued to burn her. Then she was dead in the streets.

We rifled their pockets; had Viconia bring Ajantis to consciousness; escaped quickly. The mage had kept one or two spellbooks, and old correspondence crumpled into the depths of her materials.

—Krystin, dear, Sarevok advises that you and your husband are to be quite credited in the disposal of the Grand Dukes, and by my judgment I concur. Shall we agree to meet for tea down in that little Kara-Turan place in the Twin Songs on the eighth or so, when perhaps things shall be a little calmer?

Most sincerely,

Cythandria.

—