Not quite perfect. Not yet. Soon, though. A little more here, and here. . . .
He had every reason to feel pleased. The last game he’d run for his “hosts” had been very satisfactory, particularly since they had consulted him before they told him what they wanted done. In fact, they had asked him for descriptions of some of the more interesting spells that dear old Ma’ar had used on his foes.
It’s a pity I was never a mage. I’d know more about spells of destruction. Still, Hadanelith had a very good memory, and as a youngster he had always been very attentive when bodies were brought in from the front lines. No one ever paid any attention to him then; he’d been quite an unremarkable child, and since the concern of the Healers was for the living, he’d often been able to examine the dead quite closely. He remembered quite precisely what some of the most amusing effects Ma’ar had produced looked like. Well enough to counterfeit them, in fact, and that was what he had assured Noyoki and Kanshin.
His hosts had particularly liked the description of the flaying-spell, the one Ma’ar had preferred to use on gryphons. “Copy that,” they’d told him, leaving the ways and means up to him. That rather clever thief, Kanshin, had smuggled him into his target’s rooms by way of a ventilation shaft, and had taken pains to assure him of a relatively satisfactory length of time alone with her.
Skandranon certainly recognized the result, although I doubt he guessed the method. What Ma’ar had accomplished with profligate use of magic and an exquisitely trained and honed talent, Hadanelith had duplicated with nothing more than determination and precise surgical skill. He’d taken care to leave nothing behind to betray that fact. Poor Skandranon. By now he must be sure there’s another Ma’ar around.
Hadanelith giggled at the thought; he had thought that the role of a kestra’chern would give him ample scope for his fantasies, but what he had accomplished then was a pale shadow of the pleasures he had now. This situation had so much to recommend it! A free hand with his targets—even if they weren’t of his choosing—was worth any amount of interference from his hosts, and, in fact, they actually gave him very little interference. The delicious moment when his targets realized that they were completely in his power and there was no help coming—that was better than all the tame slaves in the world!
Add to that the chance to terrify the so-powerful Skandranon and a way to undo everything that those presumptuous prigs from White Gryphon were trying to accomplish, and he had pleasure and revenge all in one tidy little packet.
All of these were equally delightful reasons to pursue his current course. But beyond those was the most delightful of all.
Personal revenge. Revenge on Amberdrake, who had dared to sit in judgment on him. Revenge on Skandranon, who had given Amberdrake the authority to throw Hadanelith to the wolves. Revenge on all of those fools of White Gryphon, who agreed with Amberdrake and Skandranon and who tamely went along with anything those two wanted.
Hadanelith would prove that he was cleverer, craftier, superior to all of them. Wasn’t he proving it now? His hosts thought that they were the ones in control of the situation, that they held Hadanelith’s leash. They didn’t know he was the one using them.
Once the news of the Kaled’a’in settlement reached the Haighlei, Noyoki had scryed the area around White Gryphon during one of the few times that his magic worked properly. He was nobly educated; he knew several northern languages, and he had probably done his scrying in the vague hope of discovering a malcontent among the Kaled’a’in that he could make use of. He found Hadanelith, skulking around the guarded periphery, stealing from the gardens—and he’d scryed out people who knew something of Hadanelith’s so-called “crimes.”
He’d sent swift hunters and a small, fast vessel of his own to find Hadanelith and bring him back. That much, Noyoki had conveyed to him in his own language, obviously hoping to get some sort of gratitude in return.
Hadanelith kept his own counsel and simply looked agreeable. After he’d used his own rudimentary powers of mind-magic to pluck their own language out of then-heads, he had made one small error out of sheer pique. He’d been so annoyed with Noyoki’s callous remarks about how he planned to exploit Hadanelith’s “madness” that he’d revealed his own knowledge of their tongue before he’d taken thought to what that slip might cost him.
Still, that sudden expertise in their tongue had impressed them no end. And he’d discovered with that slight mistake just how horrifying they found the bare concept of mind-magic. Forewarned, he’d managed to pass his sudden proficiency off as simple intelligence, and perhaps a side-effect of his “madness,” rather than the use of anything forbidden.
So now he had a double advantage over them; he knew their language much better than they had any notion that he did, and he could occasionally read their thoughts. He knew that while they were aware he was of the same general race as Amberdrake, they did not know that he actually knew Amberdrake. They had no idea that he had his own little vendetta to pursue, and that they were helping him to do so.
So much the better. The less they realized that he wanted to do what he was doing for more reasons than just the obvious, the more power over them he held.
He shaved another sliver of wood from a curve of the sculpture and ran his finger over it to assure himself that there were no splinters or rough spots there. That would not do at all.
It was interesting that his “partners” were not at all horrified by the various acts he perpetrated on their chosen targets. In fact, so far as Noyoki was concerned, the more—artistic—the better. Noyoki apparently had more reasons than one himself for choosing these women; Hadanelith had sensed a deep and abiding resentment, even hatred, for each of them. That was interesting, too. Hadanelith intended to continue watching Noyoki’s thoughts for more such information. Information was power, and one could never have too much power.
As for Kanshin, he was indifferent to the fate or plight of anyone except himself. Hadanelith found that attitude laudable as well as practical—and the exact opposite of those idiots from White Gryphon, who concerned themselves over the fate of every little social butterfly, slave, and useless leech.
Together the two of them fit very neatly into his plan. Noyoki obviously wanted the envoys from White Gryphon discredited and disgraced at the very least, and possibly destroyed at the most. Kanshin wouldn’t care what Hadanelith did as long as he continued to get paid.
So now that some shadows had been cast over the reputations of the newcomers, Hadanelith would pour a little more fuel over the fire.
Before Amberdrake died—and he would die, in disgrace and despair—Hadanelith would see that he suffered all the agonies that only so sensitive a person was capable of suffering.
He had arranged via Kanshin to have some of Amberdrake’s distinctive finery filched from the Palace laundry. Not enough of it to be missed, at least not immediately, but just enough to leave a few incriminating clues at the site of the next little exercise. Amberdrake’s combination of Kaled’a’in styles and kestra’chern construction and luxury, with the specially woven fabrics and elaborate bead-fringes, were absolutely unique to him and him alone.