“I might be,” he said. “It would be risky.”
“It would indeed,” said Saestra. “But then, a promising investment is worth some risk, as we both know.”
Saestra turned her head toward the shadows behind her. “Come,” she commanded.
There was another pale glimmer in the darkness, and a tall figure drifted toward her. It was a woman, with the pale mien of a vampire and clothing that would not look out of place aboard a ship. She wore her hair braided tightly at the back of her neck and a terrible scar twisted her face out of true, a slash that started at the corner of her left eye and ended at her lip. On a human, the scar would have been a vivid pink. On her, it was white as a salamander’s underbelly.
She turned her burning eyes on Sanwar, and now he knew true fear. He wanted to run even though every fiber of him knew he had no chance of escaping a predator like this.
But then those disembodied hands touched his shoulders, very lightly, and he managed to face her without flinching back.
“Helgre has little love for the Jadarens,” said Saestra. “And she possesses a certain familiarity with the woods around the Hold.” Her mouth quirked, as if she had remembered an old joke.
Looking at those eyes, rimed with frozen flame, Sanwar thought perhaps Helgre had little love for the Beguines as well.
The interview over, Saestra waited until her preternatural instincts told her the merchant was halfway back to his ship. The human fighter who had tried to discipline Sanwar still lay on his back, blinking stupidly at the rafters. Followed by her three ladies, who seemed to move without taking a step, Saestra drifted to him and looked down.
“What is your name?” she said gently.
He struggled to answer, and the halfling answered for him. “Holba, my lady.”
Saestra nodded. “Well, Holba,” she said, “I don’t allow my men to attack my guests unless I order it. I would teach you this lesson myself, but I haven’t the time, so I’m afraid you will not be able to use this knowledge at a later date. Ladies, if you would oblige?”
She made another elegant gesture and floated away, accompanied by Ponta and Helgre. Shrieks rang out behind her, heralding the short-lived education of Master Holba.
Just short of the relative safety of the ship, Sanwar heard the screams and shuddered.
Shapter Twelve
JADAREN HOLD
1600 DR-THE YEAR OF UNSEEN ENEMIES
Lakini wondered if Lusk would pine after Shadrun-of-the-Snows, but he seemed to be as comfortable at Jadaren Hold as anywhere. She did notice he always seemed to be watching and waiting for something to happen-an impatient edginess she had never before associated with him.
The mountain in which the Hold was rooted was covered in primal forests, and the devas returned to their old habit of patrolling together. Lakini reflected upon the sanctuary’s red-haired messenger and her determination to track Lakini down, and discovered that all in all she was content.
Her peace was shattered the day a delegation from a halfling merchant family from Waterdeep arrived to negotiate an exclusive contract for the silk trade to High Imaskar.
Lakini and Lusk were returning from patrol at dusk. They entered through the common passages at the base of the Hold that opened into enormous storage chambers, stables, and public gathering areas. The members of the newly arrived Waterdeep delegation were grouped together loosely, unpacking their animals and checking their goods. Lakini caught a glimpse of folds of deep, smoky blue silk, and greens shot with threads of gold-gifts to encourage the Jadarens’ permission to use long-established routes. There was a bustle of stable hands converging on the delegation to unbridle and tend their animals, and a braying of donkeys and shouting of orders. Through careful maneuvering, Lakini and Lusk made it through the crowd without incident.
Toward the rear of the caverns, a halfling richly dressed in crimson silk was speaking to the stable master. As they approached, the halfling made an elaborate bow and hurried back to his delegation. As he passed them, nodding distractedly and politely, the close quarters made the hem of his silk robe lap over Lusk’s boot.
Lusk snarled and spun around to face him, half drawing his dagger. Folk sometimes joked about Lusk’s facial markings looking like a jungle cat’s, just as they said Lakini’s looked like a mask, but at that moment he looked truly tigerish.
The folk around them quieted and stared, and Lakini stared herself, too startled to react at first. The halfling looked puzzled, then, as it became clear the deva’s wrath was directed at him, alarmed. He muttered an apology and bowed low to the ground. Lusk looked at his defenseless back as if he’d like to smash the hapless halfling’s spine into the ground.
Truly alarmed, Lakini reached for Lusk’s arm. He jerked under her touch and turned on her, his teeth bared. Still she pulled him away, toward the back passages and away from the harmless creature that had somehow offended him so deeply.
With a snarl of disgust, he sheathed the dagger, shrugged her hand off, and walked away. She trotted after him as a murmur swelled to fill the silence of his wake. The halfling, no doubt thinking he’d had a narrow escape from retribution for some fancied offense, scurried off to rejoin his party.
Halfway up the slope of the corridor, Lusk slowed his pace to let Lakini catch up. Still flushed with anger, he gave her a sheepish look.
“I probably shouldn’t have done that, but the filthy thing touched me. I don’t like halflings overly much.”
He said it as if it were natural to treat the race like toadfolk, defiling all they touched, and as if she’d understand and agree.
She wondered if she would have been able to react in time to stop him if he had tried to kill the halfling. In that first red moment, that had certainly been his intent. If he’d been alone, she suspected, he probably would have done it.
If he’d been alone …
Pieces fell together like a puzzle: the halflings murdered in the woods near Shadrun, and Lusk’s indifference; the gutted body of a halfling thief outside an inn in Cormyr; a dozen, a hundred tiny things Lusk had said over the years, mildly disconcerting in themselves but taken together and considered impartially, deeply disturbing.
“It was you.” Lakini’s voice caught in her throat like a physical thing. She halted in the dark corridor, and Lusk turned back to her. “The halflings in the forest outside Shadrun. The little thief butchered in the alley. It was you the whole time.”
She wanted him to frown at her, to deny it, to call her ridiculous, deluded, even traitorous to make such an accusation. But instead he shifted, leaned against the wall, and folded his arms, smiling at her.
She was horrified. “You’re a deva. We abjure evil and fight for the good. How could you do such things?” Her voice felt ragged, torn by the sharp lump in her throat.
“What good do we fight for?” Lusk retorted. He pointed down the corridor, where the sound of commerce mumbled through the stone walls. “Down there they buy and sell the same goods and lands, back and forth, back and forth. All a hopeless, unrelenting cycle. It doesn’t mean anything. Such as you and I are born, over and again, into this world of petty bickering and squabbling after gold, land, and power. Nothing changes and nothing will. Where’s the good in that?”
His raw anger seemed as deadly as his half-drawn dagger a few minutes before, ready to plunge into the hapless merchant.
“You’re arguing against our nature,” she retorted. “And why hate the halfling? Enough to do what you did in the forest at Shadrun, so near a holy place …” Suddenly her knees felt like water. She felt as if she was going to be sick.
“Halflings are filthy vermin,” said Lusk. “You don’t know, Lakini. You don’t know what they are. Not a one of them is worth saving. Listen, Cserhelm-”