“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?”