Neverwinter, she thought. Interesting. She hoped the warlock Rohini was so furious about and Lorcan was still swearing at was the same one she wanted. Neverwinter made an excellent smoke screen.
The only trouble was that Lorcan wasn’t leaving. She waited longer than she liked for him to step away from the mirror, before she dropped her invisibility. “Do you need some assistance?”
Lorcan looked up, scowled, and hurled a bolt of magic at her. Sairche ducked and it hit the living wall with a faint squeal. “Stay out of it,” he snapped.
“Mother’s coming,” she said cheerfully. “Looking for something. I passed her on my way. You may want to consider scarpering off.”
Lorcan’s scowl didn’t shift. Only when the thunder of Invadiah’s hooves approached, did he reach for the charm on his shoulder. With a ripple of magic, her brother vanished.
Inelegant, Sairche thought, resuming her own invisibility. But more interesting.
Invadiah burst through the door a moment later. The still-active scrying mirror caught her attention, and she froze, scanning the room in a slow sweep. As her gaze passed Sairche, the cambion plucked one of the gold coins from the pile beside her and flung it at her brother.
The coin hit Lorcan right across the knuckles. He cried out and let go of the charm. Invadiah whirled on him.
“What,” she growled, “are you doing in my treasure room?”
Lorcan shook his wounded hand. “Looking for you?”
“Get out.”
“Of course, Mother. But before I do, you might want-”
Invadiah seized him by one arm and hurled him bodily from the chamber. Sairche covered her mouth to keep from laughing. Too perfect indeed. Invadiah pulled a great urn of some sort out of one of the larger piles and stormed from the room.
She had hardly passed the threshold, but Sairche was up and dragging a heavy battle-axe from the corner. As the door shut behind Invadiah, Sairche threw the latch and felt the handle move beneath her hand as Lorcan tried to turn it.
Sairche heaved the battle-axe up and jammed the upper edge of one blade into the soft floor, so that it lay across the door, its haft wedged against the bony corner of the entry. The handle shook as Lorcan tried to open the door, but the axe and the lock held.
“I’ll only be a moment,” she called.
In the mirror, the tiefling warlock sat beside a fountain, looking around as if she were waiting for something. People swarmed all around her, but Sairche was ready for that. She’d pulled her wings down around her shoulders and draped her cloak over them, tying it shut. With the hood up, she’d pass well enough as a tiefling, as long as no one looked closely.
And if anyone looked closely, it was no skin off Sairche’s nose to vanish right then and there.
The Needle dropped her in an alleyway, half blocked by stacks of cut stone tiles, out of sight but not too far from the wyvern fountain. She crossed the street with a determination she knew would keep people from looking to closely, and planted herself in front of the tiefling girl.
“Well met,” she said. The girl looked up with those odd eyes, startled. She searched Sairche’s face and seemed to recognize her. The cambion grinned.
“I’m Sairche,” she said, “although I’m certain Lorcan’s already told you all about me.”
The girl regarded her with a stoniness that Sairche had to admire. She was wise enough to be afraid, and wiser still to hide it. Skilled too-if Sairche had been a mortal, she might have thought the girl wasn’t cowed.
“It’s polite,” Sairche said, sitting down beside her on the edge of the fountain, “to give your name as well.”
“Is it?” she said.
“Yes. Especially”-Sairche gestured at the people around them, particularly at a knot of tiefling children racing back and forth trying to grab at the leader’s tail-“when in unfamiliar company?” She drew a bead of magic, the beginnings of a spell, to her fingertips. “You don’t want to insult me, do you?”
The girl hesitated. “Farideh.”
“Well met, Farideh,” Sairche said. “Waiting for Lorcan?”
“Something like that.”
“Do you like being his warlock? I imagine he’s rather tiresome. All flash and temper.”
“I don’t know. I’ve no one to compare to. Why are you here?”
“To get to know you better, of course.” Maybe give you someone to compare to.” Sairche leaned in closer as if sharing a secret. “He’s never mentioned,” she asked, “why you?”
Farideh shook her head. “I said yes?”
Sairche smirked. Such a foolish answer. “Anyone can say yes. But a warlock is a bit of a burden, isn’t it? You don’t want just anyone.”
Farideh watched the street and didn’t respond.
“There are essentially two kinds of devils who pact with warlocks,” Sairche said. “Harvesters and collectors.”
“Those sound the same.”
“Only because you don’t know what they mean. Harvesters are after souls. That’s the price of the pact, or sometimes they spend their efforts corrupting their charges.” She shrugged. “They find it amusing. But the result is that their warlocks are not meant to be in the world long, especially if they’re not corrupting anyone new. Collectors”-and she gave Farideh a long, appraising look-“are after sets. They want warlocks that match. Certain traits. Certain bloodlines. Certain circumstances. Gets them a little prestige in certain circles.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Lorcan has what’s called a Toril Thirteen. Thirteen warlocks descended from the original thirteen tieflings who made the Pact Infernal with Asmodeus himself. It’s a tricky set, as you can imagine.”
Farideh plucked at her cloak. “He has twelve other warlocks?”
Sairche grinned. Poor little lamb. “Indeed. But he seems to spend an awful lot of time around you. I wonder why that is? I’m not an idiot,” she said gently. “You’re not his paramour. The fact that he thought I’d believe that means either he’s an idiot … or he’s desperate.” She leaned in closer to Farideh. “I have a guess,” she whispered.
“Oh?”
“I think he’s desperate to hide you,” Sairche said. “There’s a very rare heir among a Toril Thirteen. The descendent of Bryseis Kakistos, the Brimstone Angel herself. Only three other devils have collected Kakistos heirs. Lorcan must have one. I think it’s you.”
“And?”
Sairche chuckled. “And if that’s you, you have quite a little bargaining chip my brother’s been keeping from you. There are collectors scattered across the Nine Hells who would do … well, anything you wanted to be sure, to gain an heir of Bryseis Kakistos. Lorcan is no one. Whatever he can give you, he’s already done-and that was begged, borrowed, or stolen.”
The girl searched Sairche’s face, as if she were trying to decide whether to believe her or not. Oh, Lorcan had her good-but he had counted on her never finding out about Bryseis Kakistos, Sairche wagered. On no one ever offering Farideh something better.
Farideh pursed her lips and looked away, off toward the north. “Four,” she finally said. “There are four of … us?”
Another good reason not to keep warlocks, Sairche thought. Mortals focused on the damnedest things. “Three and yourself. You have some long-lost cousins out there, I suppose. Is that it?”
Farideh shook her head. “It’s not as many as I would have thought. There must be lots of devils looking out for … that sort of heir. A Brimstone Angel.”
“Loads,” Sairche promised.
“Is there any way to block their eyes?” She swallowed. “I mean, if you didn’t want to be overwhelmed by collectors.”
“Possibly,” Sairche said. “But I don’t see why you should. There are plenty more suitable options for you. Why not consider them all?”