Chemosh irritably rubbed a smudge of dust off the sleeve of his coat. He was thinking over what to do, whether it would be worth his while to institute a search.
A quiet voice, soft with threat and malice, broke the silence. “What are you doing in my Tower, Lord of Death?”
A gibbous head, pale as corpse light, hung disembodied in the darkness. Lidless eyes were darker than the dark; thick full lips pushed in and out.
“Nuitari,” said Chemosh. “I guessed I might find you hanging about here somewhere. I haven’t seen much of you lately. Now I know why. You’ve been busy.”
Nuitari glided silently forward. His pallid hands slipped from out the folds of the sleeves of his velvet black robes. The long, delicate fingers were in constant motion, rippling, grasping like the tentacles of a jelly fish.
“I asked a question—what are you doing here, Lord of Death?” Nuitari repeated.
“I was out for a stroll—”
“At the bottom of the Blood Sea?”
,`—and I happened to pass by. I couldn’t help but notice the improvements you’ve made to the neighborhood.” Chemosh glanced languidly about. “Nice place you’ve got here. Mind if I take a look around?”
“Yes, I mind,” said Nuitari. The lidless eyes never blinked. “I think you had better leave.”
“I will,” said Chemosh, pleasantly, “as soon as you return my artifacts.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Then let me refresh your memory. I am here to recover the artifacts that were stolen from me by the Kingpriest and secreted in this Tower.”
“Ah, those artifacts. I fear that you must go home empty-handed. They were all most regrettably destroyed, burned to ashes in the fire that consumed the Tower.”
“Why is it I don’t believe you?” Chemosh asked. “Perhaps because you are a consummate liar.”
“Those artifacts were destroyed,” repeated Nuitari. He slid his restless hands inside the sleeves of his robes.
“I wonder”—Chemosh eyed Nuitari intently—“do your cousins, Solinari and Lunitari, know about this little construction project of yours? Two Towers of High Sorcery remain in the world—the Tower at Wayreth and the Tower of Palanthas that is hidden in Nightlund. The three of you share custody of those Towers. My guess is you’re not sharing custody of this one. Taking advantage of the confusion when we returned to the world, you decided to strike out on your own. Your cousins will find out eventually, but only after you’ve moved in your Black Robes and all their spellbooks and paraphernalia so that it would be difficult for anyone to dislodge you. I doubt your cousins will be very happy.”
Nuitari remained silent, the lidless eyes dark and impassive.
“And what about the other gods?” Chemosh continued, expanding on his subject. “Kiri-Jolith? Gilean? Mishakal? And your father, Sargonnas? Now, there’s a god who will be very interested in hearing about your new Tower—especially since it’s located underneath the sea route his ships take to Ansalon. Why, I’ll bet the horned god sleeps easier at night, secure in the knowledge that a bunch of Black-Robe wizards who have always despised him are working their dark arts beneath the keels of his ships. Then there’s Zeboim, your dear sister? Should I go on?”
Nuitari’s thick, full lips curled in a sneer. Although Zeboim and Nuitari were twins, sister and brother despised each other as they despised the parent gods who had given them life.
“None of the other gods knows, do they?” Chemosh concluded. “You’ve kept this a secret from us all.”
“I do not see that it is any of your business,” Nuitari responded, the lidless eyes narrowing.
Chemosh shrugged. “Personally, I don’t care what you do, Nuitari. Build Towers to your heart’s content. Build them in every ocean from here to Taladas. Build them on the dark moon, if you’ve a mind. Oops, bad joke.” He grinned. “I won’t say a word to anyone if you give me back my artifacts.
“After all,” Chemosh added with a deprecating gesture, “they are holy artifacts, sacred relicts, blessed by my touch. They’re of no use to you or your wizards. They could, in fact, be quite deadly if any of your Black Robes was so foolish as to try to mess with them. You might as well hand them over.”
“Ah, but they are useful to me,” Nuitari said coolly. “Their purchasing power alone is worth something, as you have just proven by making an offer for them.”
Nuitari raised a thin, pale finger, emphasizing a point. “Always provided that such artifacts exist, which, so far as I know, they do not.”
“So far as you know?” It was Chemosh’s turn to sneer and Nuitari’s turn to shrug.
“I have been extremely busy. I haven’t time to look about. Now, my lord, much as I’ve enjoyed our conversation, you really should leave.”
“Oh, I intend to,” said Chemosh. “My first stop will be heaven, where the other gods will be fascinated to hear about what a busy boy you’ve been. First, though, since I’ve come all this way, I’ll have a look around.”
“Some other time, perhaps,” Nuitari returned, “when I am at leisure to entertain you.”
“No need to put yourself out, God of the Dark Moon.” Chemosh made a graceful gesture. “I’ll just stroll around on my own. Who knows? I might happen to stumble across my holy relics. If so, I’ll just take them along with me. Get them out of your way.”
“You waste your time,” said Nuitari.
He motioned to a large wooden chest that stood on the floor. The chest was oblong, about as long as a human is tall, and made of rough-hewn oak planks. The chest had two silver handles, one on either end, and a golden latch in front to facilitate raising the lid. No lock, no key. Runes were burned into the wood on the sides.
“Try to open it,” suggested Nuitari.
Chemosh, playing along, put his hand to the handle in front. The chest began to glow with a faint reddish radiance. The lid would not budge. Nuitari flicked his pallid hand at one of the closed doors. It, too, began to give off the same reddish glow.
“Wizard-locked,” said Nuitari.
“God-opened,” Chemosh returned.
He struck the chest with his hand. The oak planks split apart. The silver handles clanged onto the floor, burying the golden latch in a pile of oak kindling. The books inside the chest spilled out onto the floor at the feet of the Lord of Death.
“So much for your wizard locks. Shall I kick in the door next? I warn you, Nuitari, I will find my artifacts if I have to break apart all the boxes and doors in this Tower, so be reasonable. It will be far less work for your carpenters if you just hand over my artifacts—”
“Your mortal is dying,” said Nuitari.
Chemosh paused in what he was saying, realizing, in the instant of pausing, that he had made a mistake. He should have said immediately and impatiently, “What mortal?” as if he had no idea what Nuitari was talking about and could care less.
He did say those words, but it was too late. He’d given himself away.
Nuitari smiled. “This mortal,” he said and he held out his hand.
Something lay wriggling on his palm. The image was blurry and Chemosh thought at first it was some sort of sea creature, for it was wet and flopped about inside a net like a new-caught fish. Then he saw that it was Mina.
Her eyes bulged in her head. Her mouth gaped, gasping. She writhed in agony, trying desperately to find air. Her blue-tinged lips formed a word.
“Chemosh…”
He was ready with his response and he spoke it calmly enough, though he could not wrench his gaze from her.
“I have so many mortals in my service and all of them dying—for such is the lot of mortals—that I have no idea who she is.” “She prays to you. Do you not hear her?”
“I am a god,” said Chemosh carelessly. “Countless pray to me.”
“Yet her prayers are special to you, I think,” Nuitari said, cocking his head.
Mina’s voice echoed from the darkness.