The god laughed, like silk cloth rustling. “The Slime King? No. Really, rather … no. I’d be offended at the suggestion if my people weren’t whisperers and keepers of secrets. It’s only right you don’t know my name. You don’t need to. I’m here-or not here, but briefly projecting a fragment of my consciousness here-to tell you where to find your wayward child.”
“Zaltys? And Julen?” Krailash said.
“Zaltys, anyway. The other doesn’t interest me. Do you see this serpent?” A long, pale snake slithered out of the god’s sleeve and coiled around Krailash’s feet. “Follow it, and it will lead you where you need to go.”
Krailash frowned. “The last time I followed the directions of a stranger, I was nearly killed by a hive of swordwings. Why should I believe this time will be any different?”
The god shrugged, one shoulder moving higher than the other, as if he were hunchbacked. Was he deformed under those robes? Which gods appeared in crippled forms? Krailash had never spent enough time listening to clerics. “Stumble in the dark and die, then. I don’t mind. Zaltys may succeed without you, but your assistance would certainly help, if you can reach her before something down here kills you. Providing a guide for a while is about as much help as I’m willing to exend to you. And that’s mostly because fostering desperate hope amuses me.”
“Forgive me,” Krailash said, bowing his head, on the theory that gods appreciated signs of respect. “But with your powers, surely you can make sure Zaltys does succeed?”
“Of course I could. But this is the realm of the bloody god Ghaunadaur, and where he doesn’t rule, Lolth the spider-goddess does. Neither of those are friends of mine, and even making myself known here to this extent risks drawing their attention, and bringing … unwanted consequences.”
Just like Quelamia and … someone else, Krailash thought. Afraid to venture into the dark for fear of calling the attention of foes deadlier than the derro. I’ve never been so glad to be small and unimportant, even if it does mean doing all the work myself.
The god’s robe rustled strangely. “It is more my nature to act indirectly. Biding time until the moment is right, then sending a servant to offer a poisoned cup or slip in a venomous dagger, never …” The god sniffed. “A frontal assault with an axe.” The god rose to his feet-assuming he had feet. “Follow my serpent, or don’t. Either way you’re unlikely to see the sun again, though Zaltys might.”
“But, why do you want to help Zaltys?” Krailash said. “Why would something like you be interested in her?”
“You really don’t remember, do you? What Zaltys truly is? That psion has torn some impressive holes in your mind. But I don’t tell secrets, so I won’t help you recover your abused memories. I have an interest in Zaltys-in her mission and in the woman herself. If you help her, you may not earn my gratitude, but at least you won’t incur my wrath.” The god waved one gloved hand, and the robe collapsed in a heap, dozens of snakes streaming out of the pile and slithering off in all directions. Krailash prodded the cloak with the shaft of his axe-thinking the garment of a god might be useful to Quelamia-but it just deteriorated into clumps of gray cobwebs. The god hadn’t really been there, then, not exactly-it had fashioned a body of serpents and spider webs to deliver its message.
And its guide. The pale snake remained, slithering around and around Krailash’s boots like a housecat nuzzling its owner’s ankles.
“I am not bound by contract or duty to take orders from a god,” Krailash told the snake. “I’ll tell Alaia and let her decide.”
Chapter Sixteen
"Yes, all right,” Zaltyssaid. “I know it’s probably not technically morning, but we woke up, and we had breakfast, so we might as well call it morning.”
“I think it must be closer to midafternoon,” Julen said, peering up at the ceiling of the tunnel as if he might see the sun if he squinted hard enough. “I know it doesn’t matter, but I’ve got a pretty good body clock, and-”
Zaltys suddenly pressed her body against him, flattening him against the tunnel wall. She was a bit taller than he was, so her neck was pressed right against his face, and the scent of her, even sweaty and streaked with cavern dust, was intoxicating and somehow exotic. Her body was pushed against his, and though he couldn’t really feel anything-she was in snakeskin armor, after all, with padding under that, and clothes under that-the proximity made it easier to imagine feeling her body against his more vividly than had ever been possible before.
Mustn’t kiss her neck, he thought. For one thing, she would slap him, or be quietly horrified, or be amused, and any of those outcomes was worse than the consequences of inaction.
Plus, he knew they were probably quite close to dying at the moment, since the only reason she’d flatten him against the wall with her own body was to hide him in her shadowy aura, and the only reason to do that was to avoid being seen by something horrible, probably a monstrous enemy armed with weapons that had far more barbs than necessity dictated. He did his best to peer over her shoulder, noting that although he could see just fine through the cloak’s shadow of concealment, the world was drained of color and rendered in the stark blacks and smudged grays of a charcoal drawing. He could see the derro coming down the tunnel well enough-shock of white hair, enormous white eyes, armed with … a fishing pole?
Admittedly, it appeared that the pole was fashioned from the thighbones of humanoids and baited with a chunk of bleeding organ meat. But still, it was just a fishing pole. He went past them, muttering to himself in Deep Speech, and once he followed a curve and disappeared out of sight, Zaltys slid her body away from his, and color-what color there was down there, where the only light came from clumps of glowing crystal-returned to the world.
“If people are just wandering around going on fishing trips, we must be close to their settlement,” Zaltys said, voice in a low whisper.
“Can you imagine fishing in the pools down here? Or eating what you caught?” Julen mimed gagging.
“I’ve only had trail rations two meals in a row, and already raw cave fish don’t sound bad to me,” Zaltys said. “We’ll have to go carefully now.” She uncased her bow and strung it in a few quick, practiced movements that Julen couldn’t entirely follow-she bent at the waist, hooked one end of the bow on the outside of her ankle, trapped that end with her other foot, bent the whole bow practically inside-out with her hands, and somehow slipped the string over the top end. The result was a relatively compact bow with graceful and sinuous curves his eye couldn’t entirely follow. That was probably because it was a magical bow imbued with mystic geometries, though he was willing to admit it might simply be his ignorance regarding the tools of archery.
“Why don’t you leave it strung all the time? More useful that way.”
She shook her head. “Ruins it. Leave a bow strung, and it starts to hold that bent shape, and doesn’t try to stretch back the way it used to be anymore. You lose all the tension that makes the string tight, and without that tension, there’s no power in the draw, no strength behind the bowshot. Eventually the whole bow would go as slack as an out-of-tune harp, and you’d just have a bent stick with a bit of string tied to it, not a deadly weapon.”
“Yes, all right, but that’s a magic bow, right? I mean, it’s probably immune to normal sorts of stresses.”
Zaltys looked at him with a combination of exasperation and patience he’d grown accustomed to in the days she’d spent trying to teach him the ways of the jungle. “You may be right. But if it were your magical bow, would you risk ruining it? Besides, if you don’t have time to string your bow before the enemy’s upon you, the bow is no good to you anyway. It’s a weapon to use at a distance. If the enemy’s close by, you’re better off with a knife-or even a pointy stick.”