Alias did, though. She remembered the laugh in concert with Cassana’s, for this thing had also been present when Alias had been “born.” It had laughed at the swordswoman’s nakedness and helplessness—the same laugh that had emanated from the maw of the crystal elemental summoned by the undead thing.
“Zrie Prakis,” Alias whispered.
“Yes. I believe introductions are called for,” Cassana said, her tone as proper as a society matron’s. “I am Cassana. This male child is called Phalse.” The halfling looked up, and his too-wide smile grew even wider. “And this, as you have guessed, is Zrie Prakis, formerly a mage, now a lich. You’ve already heard, so I understand, of the grand passion he and I shared that nearly ended in a fiery blaze. But I never let go of things that are mine.” She grasped the blue wand tightly to emphasize her point.
“Gentlemen,” she addressed Phalse and Zrie Prakis, “you already know our dear Puppet and the thing on the floor. The handsome mage,” and with that description her eyes seized on the Turmishman like the talons of a hawk about a hare, “is Akabar Bel Akash, powerful in both magic and cooking. Your peppered lamb is notorious even here, Akabar.”
Akabar furrowed his brow in puzzlement.
For a third time Cassana laughed. “Come now, mageling,” she mocked. “Surely you did not expect us all to be as out-of-date and foolish as the moldy old god you so amusingly destroyed? We have followed your journey, at first in bits and pieces, but more steadily since Shadowdale.
“We decided to let you continue on to Yulash and free Moander. Once the Abomination was loosed, it was only a matter of time before the old fool met its fate—humankind has grown much in power since that garbage pile last reigned here. The sooner we got it out of the way, the better. And with its demise we need no longer worry about the bizarre schemes its followers had for you, Puppet.”
Alias wondered if Cassana had any inkling that Moander had planned the same double-cross for her.
“Once Moander dropped you off in our back yard, it was child’s play to track you down and pick you up.”
“You can track me,” Alias said in a flat, emotionless tone.
“Well, to be honest, no. We were too clever by half. You see, your very being is impregnated with a powerful spell of misdirection. You cannot be detected by scrying, nor can anyone who travels with you. Since we did not expect you to slip from our grasp, we never thought the misdirection spell would pose any problem for us. A serious miscalculation on our part. One of many, I’m afraid. But you can’t create art without a few mistakes. The best we can do is correct them in the future.
“Fortunately for us you were intelligent enough to wonder about your brands. Whenever magic is detected on your arm it acts as a beacon to locate you. We relied on our black-leathered allies to capture you in Suzail. Their failure was almost our undoing. But by some stroke of luck you stumbled upon an old haunt of Zrie’s and revealed yourself to us again by displaying the magic content of your brand. But, alas, you were also more than a match for the heavy-handed methods of my love here.”
At this, Zrie Prakis bowed deeply, and Alias could hear the skin stretching and popping over his bones.
“And then, even more luckily, my kalmari spotted you coming through Shadow Gap. It could be no coincidence that you continually alerted us of your whereabouts. I knew you wished to come home to us, Puppet. So we made it easier to keep an eye on you. We contacted one of your followers and planted a tracking device on her. And, as I said before, once you came to Westgate, finding you and defeating you was easy. A halfling’s trick.”
Alias felt as though the chilling fist of a frost giant had closed about her heart. “No,” she whispered.
Phalse motioned to a hidden figure, who edged cautiously into view. She was decked out with the finest robes, glittering imitations of those worn by Cassana. She looked like a little princess, a child-bride from the east. She smiled sheepishly at Akabar and Alias.
Olive Ruskettle.
“Hullo, everyone,” Olive said, nervous sweat beading beneath her headband. “If I’d known you were in trouble—”
“Hush, child,” Cassana interrupted. “You jumped at the opportunity to help us, as any good halfling would.” Cassana smiled at the prisoners. “Gold coins weigh more than friendships. Now, mageling, I’ll give you the same chance that we gave the child here. You’ve been misled by the false charm of this puppet. Forsake the slave and join its masters. I’m sure we can find a use for you.” Prakis put a possessive skeletal hand on Cassana’s bare shoulder, and the sorceress squeezed it affectionately to underscore her point.
The fury building in Akabar’s gut spilled out. “I’d rather roast in the lowest hell—”
Cassana, with an angry frown, muttered something and motioned with her wand. Alias backhanded Akabar in the jaw. Backhanded him hard with all her warrior’s strength.
The mage toppled backward, staring at the swordswoman. Her legs were rigid; her fists clenched and unclenched in sharp, fast spasms. The remaining runes on her arm writhed and glowed. Cassana’s insect-squiggle shone the brightest of all.
“Alias?” Akabar gasped as he rose to his feet.
“One chance is all you get,” Cassana said, “for now. Hit him until he is unconscious, Puppet.” She motioned with the wand again.
Alias spun in place like a sentry and caught Akabar in the belly with her foot. The air rushed from his lungs, and he collapsed. He tried to rise again, but the woman warrior brought both fists down on the back of his neck, knocking him from his knees so he sprawled out on the floor. The mage rolled on his back, trying to ward off the rain of blows and kicks with his chains.
He froze when he caught sight of Alias’s face. Her eyes burned with a wild anger, and tears ran freely down her cheeks.
Gods! Akabar thought, Cassana is doing to her what Moander did to me. She has no control of her actions, and she is even more aware of the evil she does than I was. Pity for the swordswoman overwhelmed him, and he dropped his guard completely.
A kick to his jaw plunged him into a spiraling blackness.
Cassana laughed as her puppet stood poised over the helpless body of the Turmishman. “Look, Zrie,” the sorceress said, “she’s crying. I bet I know who taught her that trick.” With a second wave of the wand, the sorceress returned Alias to unconsciousness. The swordswoman collapsed on top of Akabar.
With a lazy wave of her free hand, Cassana signaled the lich. Zrie Prakis let his spell elapse, and the transparent wall turned back into stone and mortar.
Cassana applauded her little play. Olive sat in shock. Every hair on the back of her neck, no, every hair on her body, had stiffened as she watched the beating. The sorceress slid out of her throne and, beckoning the lich, headed down the hallway. Phalse and Ruskettle fell in behind them, but dropped back to confer in private.
“Did she have to …” Olive let the question dangle.
“She’s a human,” Phalse replied. “Humans tend to be cruel, as we both know.” He paused for several paces, then added, “You know she did that for your benefit, as well as his.”
“Oh?” The bard was certain that beating up mages had never been on her list of entertaining events.
“Sure. She wanted to point out how lucky you are to be joining our little family. Eventually, the mage will get the same message.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Sorceress Cassana is loath to use magic to get her way with a man,” Phalse explained. “But she will use it rather than damage this Akash fellow beyond repair. I think she likes him.”