The panel on the door slid open again. The guard inside murmured to a guard outside, and he took a step forward. “The Slime King will see you. And consents to be seen.”
“This is outrageous,” the savant said, froth forming at the corners of her mouth, her whole body vibrating-except for the long needle, which she held perfectly still and steady. “I’ve never been allowed to see the Slime King, and I’m the Minister of Seeing Things, I’ve never even gotten through the door, and now these humans from the surface world think they can-”
“The Slime King has spoken,” the guard said, and clouted the savant on the side of the head. The smaller derro dropped her needle and then followed it, falling to the floor. All the eyes on her robe closed too. Zaltys couldn’t tell if she was unconscious or dead. A thin trickle of blood ran from the fallen savant’s ear.
“Enter,” the guard said, and the door swung open.
Zaltys looked at Julen, who shrugged. They went through the doorway, followed by their little snake companion, into another huge chamber, one dominated by a giant, almost perfectly round pool of water. Torches on long poles around the pool made reflections on the water and filled the room with shadows. On the far side of the pool, looking quite incongruous in that vast open expanse of stone, were the furnishings of a house: a bed, a desk with a chair, a low couch, a long dining table, a wooden wardrobe, and other pieces of furniture. A humanoid figure sat at the desk, back to the door, head bent, apparently working.
“Go on, then,” said one of the two guards inside the door. “The king awaits.”
Zaltys and Julen stepped tentatively forward. The ceiling there was high, and every footstep on the neatly-swept stone floor rang and echoed. They skirted wide around the pool-Zaltys noted that it was easily large enough to hold an aboleth, and wondered if the Slime King lurked below. Perhaps the more human figure on the far side was merely a secretary or translator.
But nothing broke the surface of the pool, so they continued around it, to the little pocket of normality formed by the arrangement of tables and lamps and chairs. They went around to the other side of the desk, and faced the person working there.
It was a small human woman wearing a simple housedress, peering at a sheet of parchment with her nose very close to the paper. The woman was quite old, the dark skin of her hands thin and wrinkled, her hair as white as a derro’s but much more fine, pulled back in a bun on top of her head. After a moment she looked up from the paper. “Ah. The emissaries from the surface world. I’ve been following your progress. It’s remarkable you made it this-” She broke off abruptly and stared at Zaltys. “Extraordinary,” she murmured, and tilted her head, gazing at Zaltys’s face as if checking her own appearance in a mirror.
Zaltys wasn’t sure what to say. Of all the things she’d expected to find when she entered the chamber of the Slime King, a rather grandmotherly old woman was not one of them.
“Are you … the Slime King?” Julen said.
The woman glanced at him, inclined her head, then went back to staring at Zaltys.
“It’s only that … forgive me,” Julen stammered. “From the name, I supposed …”
With obvious effort, she tore her gaze from Zaltys and looked at Julen. “You expected something different. Fair enough. It’s just a title, really. I’m sure the original Slime King was both male and slimy, but not all of them have been. There was an aboleth once … and a mind flayer-that didn’t end well, he’s displayed upstairs. In fact, they both are. And for a while, I understand, the Slime King was actually just the corpse of a grell philosopher. That king is generally ranked as one of the four or five best in the clan’s history. He was supposed to have been very contemplative. Anyway, it hardly made anything worse. But I’ve been the Slime King for some time now.” She looked back at Zaltys. “Tell me, young lady. Where are you from?”
“Delzimmer.”
The Slime King shook her head. “Not originally. Not with that coloring. The Delzimmer folk are paler by far, and the shape of your face … Where do your people hail from?”
“That’s kind of why we’re here-” Julen began. “Silence, human,” the Slime King hissed. Then she looked back at Zaltys and said sweetly, “Do you know, dear? Where your people come from?”
“The jungle,” Zaltys said. “My village was taken by slavers when I was a baby. I was the only one left behind.”
The Slime King sat back in her chair and laced her hands across her stomach. “I thought so,” she said. “Your face-it looks almost like mine did, when I was your age. It’s lovely to see you, child. Family is so important.”
“What are you talking about?” Zaltys said.
“My name is Iraska,” the Slime King said. “And I’m either your great-great-grandmother or your great-great-aunt.” She smiled, showing her teeth for the first time, and her canines were long and curved, like the fangs of a serpent.
Things in camp were going badly. Having the big boss, her daughter, the head of security, and half a dozen of the most dedicated guards leave unexpectedly tended to lead to a certain amount of shirking, lollygagging, malingering, and-even for those who weren’t actively lazy-general confusion and delay.
Worst of all, Glory had to let people see her, and remember her, and try to convince them that she was, in fact, qualified to give them orders. The morning after everyone else went underground, she stood in the center of camp on an improvised platform made of stacked crates and cleared her throat. The workers having their breakfast didn’t pay her any mind, and she realized she was still-automatically-blurring herself out of their mental vision. So she’d made herself visible, startling a few people nearby, and cleared her throat again. “Hello. Everyone. My name is Glory. I’m, ah, part of the camp leadership. Alaia and Krailash are off on an important errand, so they’ve put me in charge, and-”
“We’ve never seen you before!” one of the cooks shouted, the outburst followed by general muttering, including some, unfortunately, from armed men eating their breakfasts alongside the laborers.
“I keep to myself,” Glory said. “But I’m here now, so if there are any problems, you can bring them to me. Otherwise things should just proceed as-”
“She’s a tiefling,” a guard said. “You can’t trust them. She’s practically a devil. Probably sent from some cult of Asmodeus out in the jungle to seduce us all to destruction.” He sounded somewhat hopeful on that last point, and Glory wished she’d worn something a little less revealing. She wasn’t used to worrying about that sort of thing. She could sense the mood of the crowd, and while they weren’t about to attack her with pikes and torches, they also weren’t taking her leadership seriously. Not that she wanted to be a leader anyway.
Then Quelamia mounted the platform next to her, resplendent in her gold and green robes, holding a staff of living wood, her otherworldly eyes seeming to look at every face in the crowd at once. “You all know me,” she said, her voice loud and clear and carrying, though she didn’t particularly seem to be raising her voice. “I am the senior wizard of the Traveling Serrats, and I have sheltered you from storms, slain your enemies, and punished your transgressions, as your leader Alaia variously willed. I say to you now: this tiefling has been granted the authority to rule the caravan during Alaia’s absence. Her voice is the voice of the family, and to disobey her is to disobey the family, with all the dire consequences that implies. Do you all understand?”
The crowd shouted affirmation, and Quelamia nodded to those assembled, nodded rather more curtly to Glory, and descended the platform again, going about her business.
“Okay then,” Glory said. “As I was saying, if you have any concerns, you can come to me, otherwise just go about your jobs. You all know what to do.”