Soon afterward, Fallarond’s company spurred back to Shae Thoridor.
Sfarrag put aside the empty goblet, wiped his greasy beard on the back of his hand, and rose. Here, in the shadowed confines of the backroom behind the main bar of the drinking hall, secreted by friends who had been seduced by his gold, the dwarf had remained at bay, knowing that the Deathguard of Shae Thoridor were hunting him. Since the debacle above the city when he had been party to the cleric’s abduction plan, the dwarf had kept a very low profile, waiting for the opportunity to rejoin Vortermars. Until then, Sfarrag was spending his nights in an old, abandoned courtyard, tucked away like a fox in its den, away from the long reach of the hunters. He possessed enough magic and skill to trick the eyes of many and had survived in this foreign land for longer than most.
Cautiously he slipped out of the building and into a narrow side alley, blending with the darkness. The moons were partly hidden by cloud, and the dwarf picked his moments to scuttle for cover. Only the most observant of watchers would have seen him. He reached the leaning gates of the old courtyard, paused for a final look about, then went inside. Around him the partly ruined storehouse rose up, obscured by creepers and ivy, ignored by the busier folks of the city. He yawned, eager to curl up in his makeshift bed of straw, and made for the rotting door to the cellar where he was holing up.
As he came to its overgrown portal, something soft dropped over his head and shoulders, light as a spider’s webbing. He swung round at once, reaching for his axe, but the more he moved, the more the webbing clung to him. Seconds later he was jerked from his feet, netted like a fish. He squirmed and writhed, but the net tightened, squeezing him into a tighter ball, like a moth wrapped up in a giant spider’s cocoon. He knew it was no giant spider, for he had checked this place scrupulously before using it.
He was swung up off the ground, dangled like a pendulum, washed now by moonlight as three golden orbs slipped from cloud cover and mocked him. By their glow he could see the sparkling shards of the Rings of Siberys high overhead. It was the last thing he saw for a while. A sudden darkness smothered him as the net fell to the ground and he was dragged off. Somewhere along that unpleasant journey he lost consciousness.
When he regained it, he was again hanging upside down, though no longer in the net. Both his ankles were tied tight with a wire-like cord and he was suspended from a beam high overhead. Below him he could feel the heat rising from a brazier. He kept very still. The elves had him.
“You are Sfarrag,” said a voice somewhere nearby. In the gloom of the chamber he could see nothing. By its tone, it was an elf and one used to giving commands.
“What if I am?” he said. “I’ve the protection of the city. I’m a legitimate trader.”
“I know what you are, dwarf. Don’t waste my time. Do as I ask and you’ll be spared. Otherwise I’ll have you lowered into the fire.”
The dwarf grunted but knew his situation was impossible. “What you want?”
“Who is your master?”
“I’m my own master.”
“I said, don’t waste my time,” came the voice, and the dwarf felt himself being lowered another foot or two. The heat threatened to singe his thick mop of hair. “You were part of the abduction attempt.”
“Yes, yes. But I only had a small part in it. The cleric paid well.”
“Cellester?”
“Aye, that was his name.”
“You also serve Vortermars.”
“When it suits me.”
“You await his return?”
“Aye.”
“When?”
“Sometime before dawn, though he’ll not dock in Shae Thoridor.”
“Will you earn your freedom?”
Sfarrag fell silent for a moment. This must be a trap. They had him and knew him for an enemy. They could kill him at a stroke, but they must want something.
“I’ll not betray Vortermars. You may spare me for it, but he wouldn’t. Better that you kill me now.”
“There is no need for betrayals. All I want from you is for you to arrange a meeting with Vortermars. We wish to secure his services ourselves.”
“He wouldn’t trust you.”
“Perhaps not. But you will arrange a meeting.”
“If that’s the price of freedom.”
“If you fail us in this or seek to betray us, we will find you again, and it will not be a simple death by fire.”
The dwarf was lowered again, but firm hands gripped him and swung him away from the brazier. He was upended and released from his bonds. He massaged his ankles, aware that he was missing his axe. Two elf blades hovered inches from his hide. A number of Deathguards observed him, their skull-like faces made more garish by the scarlet glow of the fire.
From out of the shadows, another figure emerged. The dwarf knew him at once. He shrank back, knowing now that his cause was indeed hopeless.
“Greetings, wily dwarf,” said Nyam Hordath.
Sfarrag said nothing.
“I have been abroad in Aerenal since our recent meeting,” said the peddler. “You would not believe the things I have seen. Have you visited the Madwood?”
The dwarf scowled. “Only fools go there.”
“Then count me a fool,” Nyam grinned. “Let me show you something.”
He lifted from a table a smalt earthenware jar, out of which a solitary plant grew. Even in this hot light it had a sickly pallor, like a thick, bloated tongue, drained of blood. As the dwarf stared at it, the thing wriggled this way and that, like a finger seeking a grip.
“What is it?” whispered Sfarrag.
Nyam held it up close to Sfarrag’s face. The writhing plant swung toward the wide eyes of the dwarf.
“I brought back some seeds from the Madwood. This is what they produce. The plant grows very rapidly—the more so when it has affixed itself to a victim, taking it over, digesting it and transforming it. We don’t know for sure. We haven’t tried it out yet. Revolting, isn’t it?”
Sfarrag shrank back, but two swords pricked his back. “Keep it away from me!”
“Of course,” said Nyam, casually tossing the plant out of the pot and on to the brazier. To Sfarrag’s horror, the thing shrieked and tried to writhe from the coals, but their intense heat enveloped it and it exploded in a green cloud. The stench that it exuded was vile, and the dwarf put his hand to his mouth, gagging.
Nyam held out his palm to reveal a number of spiky seeds. “I brought quite a few more of them. Once planted, you’d be amazed how soon they grow.”
“Yes, yes!” Sfarrag snarled. “I take your point. There’s no need for this. I’m always prepared to bargain. You know that.”
“Indeed. Then we can rely on you now.” Nyam slipped the offending seeds away in a pocket.
“You want to meet Vortermars?”
“I do,” said Nyam. “I am sure he wouldn’t dream of coming ashore to speak to me—especially after recent events. I propose that you take me to his ship, the Sea Harlot. Just me.”
“Why?”
“I want to commission him. He will no doubt laugh and suspect foul play. He has known me for a long time. We have done business before. He has earned the displeasure of the Deathguard by aiding the cleric, and I believe he may have had dealings with the Emerald Claw.”
“Don’t know about that.”
“Don’t be coy, Sfarrag. The Deathguard have long ears, and there is little that transpires on Aerenal they don’t know about. Vortermars has forfeited his right to trade in these waters, Fallarond here will alert the authorities, unless Vortermars deals with us.”
“What you want from him?”
“His ship. Her cover. In exchange for turning a blind eye to recent events. The abduction attempt.”
“You put a high price on your importance.”
Nyam smiled. “Not at all. I am merely a spokesman, but that is the deal. You arrange a meeting, and Vortermars has asylum for as long as he wants. And you, most fortunate of underlings, get to remain a dwarf, though you may find the climate in Khorvaire healthier than Aerenal hereafter.”