"Morthan?" Mirabeta asked, mentioning the name-or at least the alias-of the merchant who served as her sometime contact with the Cult of the Dragon.
"Morthan is otherwise occupied. You have me instead."
Mirabeta absorbed that. She disliked surprises. "You are authorized to speak for the Cult?"
The woman nodded. "I am. And here is what I say: My mistress, Aurgloroasa, is mildly intrigued by the overmistress's offer."
The minstrel's playing ceased, so Mirabeta lowered her voice so that she would not be overheard.
"The offer will expire soon. 'Mildly intrigued' is not a commitment. My mistress, the Overmistress of Sembia, requires a firm promise of assistance with the problem of Selgaunt."
An adolescent serving boy approached the table with a tray of crystal goblets and a decanter of wine.
"Wine, milady? Goodsir?" he asked.
Mirabeta declined but the young woman said, "Please."
The boy poured a glass, bowed, and stepped away. The young woman did not drink, but moved the glass before the empty chair to Mirabeta's left.
The minstrel appeared, abruptly pulled back the chair, and sat.
"What is this?" Mirabeta said, pushing her chair back and beginning to stand.
"Please stay seated," the young woman said softly. "Please."
Mirabeta lowered herself back into her chair, eyeing the minstrel. None of the Cheek's patrons seemed to have noticed, or they did not care.
The young woman said, "Vendem is my associate."
Vendem drank the goblet of wine in a single gulp and smiled a mouthful of overlarge teeth. As Mirabeta watched, his brown eyes turned green, with vertical reptilian slits, then back again.
"Well met," he said, in a baritone as rough as gravel.
Mirabeta knew instantly what he was. She steadied her breath and controlled her heartbeat. She was not fearful for her safety. Rynon maintained a contingency spell on her person that would whisk her instantly to the chambers in her tallhouse if she were attacked. No, it was not fear she felt, but awe. She was sitting in a festhall beside a force of nature. She had seen the destruction a dragon could wreak during the Dracorage.
"I hear your heart… milady," the dragon said.
Mirabeta started to protest but the dragon held up a calloused hand with fingernails like claws. He leaned in her direction, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.
"Your appearance is a fraud. You are female, over forty winters in age, and last bathed two, perhaps three days ago. The smell of sex is still on you from about as many-"
"Enough," Mirabeta snapped.
The dragon chuckled.
"More wine," he called loudly, and the pretty boy scrambled over to refill his cup. "Leave the decanter," the dragon said, and the boy did.
After the boy had departed, the masked woman said, "Intriguing. You are actually a woman. You show little fear at the presence of a dragon and give orders as one accustomed to obedience." She looked across the table at the dragon and cocked her head. Mirabeta could imagine her smiling behind the mask. "Vendem, I warrant we are in the presence of the overmistress herself."
Mirabeta saw no point in denying the claim. She said, "We were discussing the offer. My offer."
The dragon chuckled and a thin stream of acrid green smoke floated from his nostrils. The smell burned Mirabeta's nose and made her eyes water. She waved her hand in the air to disperse it.
The dragon was a green, his breath a burning, deadly gas.
The woman, seemingly unbothered by the gas, said, "Respectfully, Overmistress, you have made only a request, not an offer."
Mirabeta understood the point. She said, "The Shadovar are allied with Selgaunt. Should my armies lose this war, the Shadovar will have established themselves in Sembia. Not far from Daerlun."
The dragon growled.
Mirabeta had learned that the Cult of the Dragon regarded the Shadovar with hostility. She did not know why and did not need to know. She also knew that the Cult had a strong presence in Daerlun. A Shadovar presence in Selgaunt would pose a threat to their continued operations.
"As I said," the young woman continued, trying to appear casual, "Aurgloroasa is intrigued."
Mirabeta eyed the woman. "My time is limited. Make your demands known."
"Very well. Free rein entirely in Daerlun and Urlamspyr."
Mirabeta scoffed and countered. "Daerlun only. It is as much Cormyrean as Sembian. And the Cult is to be entirely out of Ordulin."
The young woman leaned back in her chair and regarded Mirabeta through the eyeholes of her mask. "Saerloon, Urlamspyr, and Selgaunt remain as ever they were?"
Mirabeta nodded. "If your agents are caught there, they will be punished."
The young woman considered, and said, "Done, Overmistress. Be assured that Aurgloroasa will hold you to your bargain."
"And I to hers," Mirabeta answered. "Now, where is my assistance?"
The current state of affairs flashed through the overmistress's mind. Forrin and his forces were already marching on Saerb. She had received word from Lady Merelith that the muster in Saerloon was almost complete. Merelith's mages had perfected a stratagem to bring the battle to Selgaunt quickly, and Mirabeta wanted to capitalize on it. But the Selgauntan alliance with the Shadovar concerned her. She could not afford a prolonged siege. If she could put a dragon at Saerloon's disposal, the siege of Selgaunt would be short indeed.
The young woman gestured at Vendem. "You have met your assistance. Overmistress Mirabeta Selkirk, meet Vendemniharan, birthed of Venomindhar and sired by Venominhandar. He will remain in service to you for one month."
Mirabeta stifled a gasp at the mention of Venomindhar and Venominhandar. The destruction the two greens had wreaked in Sembia generations earlier was legend. She controlled her shock and reminded herself that she wielded power in Sembia. She spoke to the dragon as she would any underling.
"You will journey to Saerloon. There, you will answer to Lady Merelith and her commanders as they lay siege to Selgaunt. She will report back to me."
The dragon hefted the decanter of wine and drained it all in one long gulp. He wiped his mouth and said, "Saerloon is a long journey from here even in my natural form, woman."
"Overmistress," Mirabeta corrected him. "And I will arrange for your transport."
The howl of the wind and the screams of the damned fell away. Long moments passed in darkness. Cale felt a sensation of rapid motion, then a sudden stop. The biting cold vanished, replaced by fetid warmth. The darkness of the archfiend's breath dispersed and Cale, Magadon, and Riven materialized in shadow, standing in stagnant, knee-deep water and stinking mud.
Broad-leafed trees and twisted shrubs poked out of the mire to claw their way into a shadowy sky. Malformed creatures, startled at the trio's sudden appearance, shrieked and hissed at them from the dimness of their dens. High above, ungraceful forms wheeled about on awkward wings in the black, starless sky. Periodic flashes of dim, vermillion light backlit the clouds and cast the sky in leering contrast. A thin brownish fog floated around them, ghostly and full of secrets. The moist air, rife with the stink of decay, sank into their clothes. So, too, did the shadows.
Cale recognized the location-his adopted home, the Plane of Shadow. The familiar darkness, unique to the Plane, strengthened him, and he tried to pass that strength through his arms to Magadon.
"Mags?"
"I am all right," Magadon said, and disentangled himself from Cale. The mindmage looked haggard and his clothes hung from him in tatters. Blood, his own, slicked him. The memory of horror haunted his colorless eyes. Cale remembered how the mindmage had looked moments earlier-a pile of gore steaming on Cania's ice.