Olive shuddered inwardly at the thought of what Cassana might have done to Akabar if she hated him.
“She could have made the One kill Akash,” Phalse pointed out, as if reading the halfling’s mind. “But she didn’t.”
Olive felt the return of the nervous sweat beneath her headband. She forced the idea of money, lots of it, to the forward part of her mind. “You all have different names for … for her.”
“The One? Yes, I suppose we do. Another mistake to be corrected. Cassana calls her Puppet. Moander’s priest called her The Servant. The Fire Knives called her Weapon. The lich calls her Little One, as if he were her grandfather or something.”
“Who called her Alias?”
“Not important,” Phalse replied sharply. “Come, there’s much to done.”
They were in a simple, two-story merchant’s house just inside the city wall. The cellar led to underground passages that delved under the wall and surfaced in an abandoned ruin beyond. Upstairs and down were long hallways with rooms jutting off them. The prisoners were being held in one of the upstairs rooms.
Nearing the top of the steps leading down to the first floor, Phalse and Olive heard Cassana’s voice below. She spoke in Thieves’ Cant, which Olive had no trouble translating.
“Grandfather, has the task been carried out?”
“All are cared for, milady,” replied a thick, guttural voice.
“And you will take their place?”
“Aye.”
“Morning, then, we’ll complete the pact.”
The sound of Cassana’s gown swished off in one direction, while the cat-foot patter of the one called “Grandfather” faded away in another. Olive wondered where Prakis had got to. The undead magic-user could move more silently than the most graceful halfling.
Phalse flashed Olive an impish grin. “You understand the Argot?” He took the halfling’s shrug as an admission of ignorance and explained, “He was the leader of the Fire Knives, reporting the death of Moander’s surviving followers—all the ones that did not hurl themselves from tall places at the death of their god. The Fire Knives will take the place of Moander’s minions at dawn when we seal the pact.”
“When you make that final correction to the human woman,” Olive said.
“And when you receive final payment,” Phalse added.
Yes, the halfling thought to herself. Try to keep your mind on the money Olive-girl.
In Olive Ruskettle’s estimation, the midnight dinner she was presently sitting through was one of the most frightening events in her life. For sheer terror, Olive thought, it rated somewhat above being discovered and accused by that pig paladin in the Living City, but just below being swept off a wagontop by Mist’s dewclaw.
The dining room, a solemn, musty hall, was dominated by a huge oak table. The windows were covered with heavy, black velvet drapes. Hundreds of candles burned in candelabras, but the room was still dim.
Cassana, draped in scarlet satin that seemed to flame with brilliance, dominated one end of the table. Rubies dripped from the sorceress’s throat, ears, and fingers. Prakis sat unmoving at the far end of the long table. He was dressed in yellow robes of equal finery. Before him had been placed the mounted bones of a goose, a haunting joke about his undead status.
Olive was seated midway down the table at Phalse’s side. The halfling bard kept a firm grip on her mind, trying to channel her thoughts away from abstract ideas like cruelty, sadism, and perversion, and tried to focus on real objects, like the food laid out before her.
In the food department Phalse put even the most gluttonous of Ruskettle’s race to shame. He wolfed down vast quantities of dark-roasted venison ringed with stuffed mushrooms and the pickled vegetables carved into the shapes of skulls. He also downed mug after mug of mead, motioning for refills by swaying his goblet. Table was waited by silent men and women in dark tabards. Fire Knives, was Olive’s guess. Apprentice murderers.
Though Olive was quite hungry and the repast was delicious, the food sat like a brick in her stomach. As out of place as the bard had felt among her former companions-Alias with her perfect voice, Akabar with his learning, Dragonbait with his virtue—here she knew she was the proverbial fifth wheel.
There’s something else at this table, the bard thought, something that outranks me. Power. That’s why they’ve seated me beside Phalse instead of opposite him. Olive imagined she could see the power rippling between her three hosts—Cassana, the lich, and Phalse. The Fire Knives are servants, Olive realized, nothing more. Phalse has his aura of charisma, an almost tangible swirl of attraction. Prakis exudes all the authority of dry, dusty, ancient tomes, and Cassana sits like a spider in the center of her web, aware of every movement within her realm—Mistress of Life and Death. If these three ever get into a disagreement, the bard decided, I don’t want to be around to get caught in the middle. I don’t even want to be close enough to watch.
“So, what do you think of our little group, small bard?” the sorceress asked.
Olive almost choked on her meat, unable to resist the idea that her new allies could read her mind. “Well,” she held up a finger as she chewed and swallowed and gulped mead down to give herself time to phrase a suitable reply. “To tell the truth, I was unaware of how successful your alliance already was when Phalse offered me the chance to join. I understand you were subduing my … traveling companions even as I was speaking with him.” She chose her words carefully, picking her way through the conversation as delicately as she would pick the lock of a cleric’s trunk.
“Yes, we broke into two groups,” Cassana explained. “One to check out The Rising Raven, the other to follow the lure of your ring. Prakis or I would likely have relied on clumsy, human means to keep track of Puppet, but Phalse, smart, wise Phalse knew that a halfling would easily topple to the lure of power and gold. And how better to reward your faithful service.”
Olive’s mouth was dry, and she took another gulp of mead before she nodded.
“And so we have another member of our band,” concluded the sorceress. “A good thing, too, because our numbers are rapidly dwindling. Moander is dead, the crafter useless to us, the Fire Knives thinned in rank. We could use young blood.” She emphasized the last word just a little too much, leaving Olive with memories of the legends of vampires.
The silence hanging over the table was oppressive. Struggling to lift it, the bard began to ask, “Crafter? Who’s—” but before she could finish Phalse gave her thigh a sharp squeeze. Olive almost jumped from her chair. She turned to glare at him for an explanation, but he was busy draining his goblet. Holding out his glass for a refill, he bestowed her with a wink from one of his peculiarly blue eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Cassana prompted. “You were saying?”
“Nothing. I was too wrapped up in your tale.”
“Of course,” Cassana replied. She began nodding and murmuring to herself, and Olive wondered if Cassana had channeled too much of her power into keeping up her good looks and let her mind go a little mushy. The sorceress’s head snapped up and she announced, “Now, the three of us will be very busy for the next few hours, preparing for the ceremony to be held at dawn. But you, Olive, were up very early this morning, before dawn. And since then you’ve been a very, very busy little girl. You must be exhausted. Take a nap, and Phalse will send for you.”
Whether it was the suggestion, the food, or the long hours and miles between Yulash and Westgate, Olive suddenly felt very weary. She swayed in her chair, trying to shake the cobwebs from her brain. Phalse put a hand out to steady her, his grip like iron.
“Now that you mention it,” the bard said, not bothering to stifle a yawn, “I’m dead on my feet.”