Morik laughed, paused and considered the possibility, then shook his head at the absurdity of the thought and remembered why he was there. “I can undo any trap ever made,” he boasted. “Except those of trickster wizards. Those traps, I leave alone.”
“Well, every door has one,” Bellany teased, and she poked Morik hard in the chest. “Ones that would freeze you, ones that would melt you…”
“Ah, so if I just open two doors simultaneously….”
“Ones that would jolt you so forcefully you would bite out that feisty tongue!” Bellany was quick to add.
In response, Morik leaned over, nibbled her ear and gave her a little lick, drawing a soft moan.
“Then do tell me all the knowledge that I need to keep it,” he whispered.
Bellany laughed and pulled away. “This is not about you at all,” she replied. “This is about that smelly dwarf. Everything seems to be about him of late.”
Morik rested back on his elbows. “He is insistent,” he admitted.
“Then kill him.”
Morik’s laugh was one of incredulity.
“Then I will kill him—or get one of the overwizards to do it. Valindra…Yes, she hates ugly things and hates dwarves most of all. She will kill the little fellow.”
Morik’s expression grew deadly serious, so much so that Bellany didn’t chuckle at her own clever remark and instead quieted and looked back at him in all seriousness.
“The dwarf is not the problem,” Morik explained, “though I’ve heard he’s devastating in battle.”
“More boast than display, I wager,” said Bellany. “Has he even fought anyone since his arrival in Luskan?”
Again Morik stopped her with a serious frown. “I know who it is he serves,” he said. “And know that he wouldn’t serve them if his exploits and proficiency were anything less than his reputation. I warn you because I care for you. The dwarf and his masters are not to be taken lightly, not to be threatened, and not to be ignored.”
“It sounds as if I should indeed inform Valindra,” said Bellany.
“If you do, I will be dead in short order. And so will you.”
“And so will Valindra, I suppose, if you’re correct in your terror-filled assessment. Do you really believe the high captains, any or all together, are of more than a pittance of concern to the Hosttower?”
“This has nothing to do with the high captains,” Morik assured her.
“The dwarf has been seen with the son of Rethnor.”
Morik shook his head.
“Then who?” she demanded. “Who are these mysterious ringleaders who seek information about the Hosttower? And if they are a threat, then why should I answer any of your questions?”
“Enemies of some within the tower, I would guess,” Morik calmly answered. “Though not necessarily enemies of the tower, if you can see the distinction.”
“Enemies of mine, perhaps.”
“No,” Morik answered. “Be glad you have my ear, and I yours.” As he said it, Morik leaned in and bit Bellany on the ear softly. “I will warn you if anything is to come of this.”
“Enemies of my friends,” the woman said, pulling away forcefully, and for the first time, there seemed no playfulness in her tone.
“You have few friends in the Hosttower,” Morik reminded her. “That’s why you come down here so often.”
“Perhaps down here, I simply feel superior.”
“To me?” Morik asked with feigned pain. “Am I just an object of lust for you?”
“In your prayers.”
Morik nodded and smiled lewdly.
“But you still haven’t given me any reason to help you,” Bellany replied. “Other than to forestall your own impending death, I mean.”
“You wound me with every word.”
“It’s a talent. Now answer.”
“Because the Hosttower does not recruit from outside the Hosttower, other than acolytes,” said Morik. “Think about it. You have spent the better part of a decade in the Hosttower, and yet you are very low in the hierarchy.”
“Wizards tend to stay for many, many years. We’re a patient lot, else we would not be wizards.”
“True, and those who come in with some heritage of power behind their name—Dornegal of Baldur’s Gate, Raurym of Mirabar—tend to fill all the vacancies that arise higher up the chain of power. But were the Hosttower to suffer many losses all at once….”
Bellany smirked at him, but her sour expression couldn’t hide the sparkle of intrigue in her dark eyes.
“Besides, you’ll help me because I know the truth of Montague Gale, who didn’t die in an accident of alchemy.”
Bellany narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps I should have eliminated the only witness,” she said, but there was no real threat in her voice. She and Morik competed on many levels—in their lovemaking most of all—but try as either might to deny the truth of their relationship, they both knew they were more than lovers; they were in love.
“And in so doing eliminate the finest lover you’ve ever known?” Morik asked. “I think not.”
Bellany had no immediate answer, but after a pause, she said in all seriousness, “I don’t like that dwarf.”
“You would like his masters even less, I assure you.”
“Who are they?”
“I care too much about you to tell you. Just get what I need and get far out of the way when I tell you to.”
After another pause, Bellany nodded.
They called him “the general” because among all the mid-level battle-mages at the Hosttower, Dondom Maealik was considered the finest. His repertoire was dominated by evocations, of course, and he could throw lightning bolts and fireballs more intense than any but the overwizards and the Archmage Arcane Arklem Greeth himself. And Dondom sprinkled in just enough defensive spells—transmutations that could blink him away to safety, an abjuration to make his skin like stone, various protection auras and misdirection dweomers—so that on a battlefield, he always seemed one step ahead of any adversary. Some of his maneuvers were the stuff of growing legend at the Hosttower, like the time he executed a dimensional retreat at the last second to escape a mob of orc warriors, who were left swinging at empty air before Dondom engulfed them in a conflagration that melted them to a one.
This night, though, because of information passed through a pair of petite, dark-haired lovers, Dondom’s adversaries knew exactly what spells he had remaining in his daily repertoire, and had already put in place a plethora of countermeasures.
He came out of a tavern that dark night, after having tipped a few too many to end off a day of hard work at the Hosttower—a day when he had exhausted all but a few of his available spells.
The dwarf came out of an alleyway two doors down and fell into cadence with the walking wizard. He made no attempt to cover his heavy footsteps, and Dondom glanced back, though still he tried to hide the fact that he knew he was being followed. The wizard picked up his pace and the dwarf did likewise.
“Idiot,” Dondom muttered under his breath, for he knew that it was the same dwarf who’d been heckling him inside the tavern earlier that night. The unpleasant fellow had professed vengeance when he’d been escorted out, but Dondom was surprised—pleasantly so! — to learn that there was more than bluster to the ugly little fellow.
Dondom considered his remaining spells and nodded to himself. As he neared the next alleyway, he broke into a run, propelling himself around the corner where he pulled up fast and traced a line on the ground. He had only a few heartbeats, and his head buzzed from too much liquor, but Dondom knew the incantation well, for most of his research occurred on distant planes.
The line on the ground glowed in the darkness. Both ends of it rolled into the center, then climbed into the air, drawing a column taller than Dondom by well over a foot. That vertical slice of energy cut through the planar continuum, splitting to two and moving out from each other. In between loomed a darkness more profound than the already black shadows.
But the dwarf wouldn’t notice, Dondom knew.