And, too, it might be worse. She wouldn’t be so foolish as to say Lorcan was good, but she was not worried that he might force her to do anything unspeakable. Yet. All else aside, she knew Lorcan.
“Is it possible … Do you think there’s a way to keep the same devil, but … tighten its reins?”
Yvon smiled and sipped his tea. “No. As far as the devils are concerned, they hold the reins. And in a sense, they do. If you try to reason them out of that mindset, at best you’re only arming them with ways to needle you. The key, it seems, is not to hand the reins over too easily.” He gestured for her to drink her tea and put another biscuit on her plate.
She sipped reluctantly. The tea was bitter and earthy under the sugar, and it burned her tongue a little. Kill Lorcan, take on a different devil’s pact, or continue as she was. They were not the choices she’d hoped for.
“It isn’t easy,” Yvon said. “And to think you’ve been going at it all alone.” He clucked his tongue. “At least you have a little power, yes? It’s not as if you’re stuck with Lector’s imp.”
“A little, yes,” she said. She broke a piece off the biscuit and pressed it nervously to crumbs between her fingers. “I know most people would say it’s foolish of me, but … most days, I’m glad of the pact.”
Yvon leaned forward and gave her a very solemn look over the rims of his spectacles. “I wouldn’t say you’re foolish for that. After all, without the pact, you wouldn’t have seen the truth of the wider world, the path to true power.”
It was a strange way to say it, but Farideh supposed he was right. If she hadn’t taken Lorcan’s pact, she would still be in Arush Vayem, she would never have seen a Neverwinter full of tieflings, she would not know she was capable of protecting a caravan or trapping a bounty.
“And I would guess this Lorcan is the one who introduced you to the Raging Fiend?”
Farideh set her cup down and frowned. “I’m sorry?”
“Asmodeus. The king of the Hells. We often prefer his epithet.”
“Oh.” The king of the Hells’ own blood runs in your veins. “Yes. I mean, I knew some things. Before.”
The bells over the door jingled as a customer came in. Yvon shook his head with a weary smile. “Business intruding on pleasure. I’ll be just a moment.” He stood and passed through the curtained door.
We often prefer his epithet. Farideh sighed. There was so much she didn’t know about warlocks. A whole way of speaking of devils, for one. She wondered if Lorcan’s lady had such an epithet. She took a bite of teacake.
When she heard the rasping voice from the front room, her mouth dried up, threatening to choke her on her mouthful. “I’m looking for people. Not things. A boy, a dragonborn, and a pair of tieflings.”
“Oh?” Yvon said. “Friends of yours?”
Farideh stood too quickly, scraping the chair against the floor, her heart in her throat. The voice continued, “One of the tieflings wields a glaive. The other has a silver eye. Have you seen them?”
“Perhaps. I believe I saw two tieflings of that description just the other day. Young ladies?”
“Yes. Where are they?”
“I must admit I don’t know,” Yvon said. “Are they friends of yours?”
Farideh crept to the curtained door, angled her head so she could see through the sliver of a gap between the pieces of fabric. She pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out.
The orc from the forest, the one who had shot Havilar, the one who returned in her nightmares, stood in Yvon’s shop, a naked axe in his hand. Yvon listened to him as politely as he had anyone who came into his shop, giving no clue that he might have noticed things weren’t quite right.
The orc curled his lip. “Good friends. You tell me where they are.”
“As I said, I don’t know.” Farideh felt her shoulders drop. At least Yvon knew that much. “But I believe I can be of some assistance to you. You see, they were looking for someone I am acquainted with. If you’d like, I could bring you to our mutual friend right now, and he might be able to shed some light on where your friends lie.”
The orc peered at Yvon, as if he didn’t quite believe his luck. He turned the axe over in his hand several times. “Now?”
“As soon as I get my things.”
The orc snorted. “I’ll be outside.” The bells jangled again, and Farideh stepped back from the curtain just as Yvon came through. The kindly expression had grown tight.
“I don’t need to ask if you know him,” he said.
“He tried to kill me,” she whispered, shaking her head. “He almost killed my sister. I don’t know why he’s hunting us.”
Yvon squeezed her arm. “It will be all right. We’ll take care of him, don’t you worry. I had hoped to invite you to our gathering this afternoon, Farideh, but under the circumstances, I think that is a poor plan. Come along.” He ushered her through the closed door, down a set of stairs, and through a dark cellar room that felt as if it were much larger than the building upstairs. Yvon led her through the dark without hesitation, and aided her up another flight of stairs. He unlocked a second door and held it wide as she exited into a small yard with a quartet of chickens and a dozy donkey.
“Wait here a bit until I’ve led him away.”
“You must be careful-”
Yvon held up a hand. “You’re not to worry, remember? We can handle him. Now, later on, after nightfall, if you’d like to come back, we’ll have a more informal meeting right here. You can meet Lector and the others. And I’ll let you know that your little problem is taken care of, all right? We protect our own.” Farideh nodded and stepped back.
“Keep clear of the wood for a few hours,” he added, and he shut the door tight.
“Why?” she asked, but the door was closed and Yvon was gone. Why should she stay out of the wood? Why should she even think of going into the wood? Perhaps he was going to get the garrison and they would sweep the forest for more orc assassins. Perhaps Yvon’s friends didn’t want to worry about her seeing them kill the orc. Perhaps they were worried she was too new to use her powers. She remembered the orc’s cruel eyes and shuddered.
Yvon had told her not to worry, but she had a very bad feeling that things were going to turn out differently than he’d expected.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Malbolge, the Hells the Palace of Osseia
Lorcan opened the portal to the Needle of the Crossroads and stepped from the courts of Amn to his mother’s treasure room in the Hells. Bloody djinn, he thought. What a mess. At least he’d managed to convince his Phrenike heir to get out of Calimport. There might be a half-dozen others like him, but Lorcan had better things to do than hunt down another one and convince him to take up the pact. A day or so of reminding the Phrenike heir what he stood to lose, what his foremother would have done, what Lorcan was going to do if he didn’t start packing his things before the bloody genasi realized they very much wanted the Phrenike heir dead-well, it had been time better spent.
And it had kept him busy and away from the scrying mirror.
He stood before the iron mirror and scowled at his reflection. As crowded as Calimport and Amn were, he’d had no choice but to alter his appearance. The face that looked back at him was built on the same bones as Lorcan’s, but he didn’t look like himself. His skin was no longer red, but a middling tone that was acceptable most everywhere on Toril. His hair a dark, murky blond. His eyes were still black, but the whites that surrounded them made him look as if he were goggling like an idiot. No horns, no wings, no pointed teeth-everything devilish stripped out of him, and only the human left behind.