Fortunately, it didn't matter. The animate darkness had skulked too close to its prey for anything to balk it. It solidified a twisting strand of itself and slapped the table over, sending the whip flying. At the same time it darted, stretching, to pounce on Quenthel. Her slanted eyes opened but of course saw only blackness. She opened her mouth to speak or shout, and the demon shoved a tendril inside.
SEVEN
For an instant, the world blazed bright and hot, searing Pharaun's skin. However, when the flame was gone it left little more than a tactile memory of pain. Gasping, the wizard took stock of himself. Except for a blister or two, he was all right. Some combination of the protective enchantments woven into both his vest and piwafwi, his innate drow resistance to hostile magic, and the silver ring he wore bearing the insignia of Sorcere, had saved him from fatal burns.
Ryld had drawn Splitter. An arrow whizzed down from a rooftop across the street, and the burly swordsman batted it out of the air. A huge flying mount wheeled overhead, vanishing from view before Pharaun could get a good look at it. «Are you all right?» Ryld asked. «Just singed a little,» Pharaun replied. «Here are your rogues, not so canny after all. We'll either have to rise into the air after them or pull them down to the street.» «We'll do neither. Follow me.» «Run?» the weapons master asked, swatting away another arrow. «I thought we wanted to catch one of them.» «Just follow.» Pharaun began moving down the street, meanwhile peering upward, looking for his attackers. Ryld scowled but trailed along behind him. The Master of Sorcere glimpsed a swirling motion from the corner of his eye. He pivoted. Crouched on the edge of a roof, a spellcaster spun his hands in fluid mystic passes. Gesturing, speaking rapidly, Pharaun rattled off his own incantation. He was racing the other mage, and he finished his magic first. Five darts of azure light leaped from his fingertips, shot at the spellcaster, and plunged into his chest. From that distance, he couldn't tell how badly he'd hurt his colleague, but at the least his foe flailed his arms m pain. The Academician's attack had disrupted his spell. Ryld knocked another arrow away, and only then did Pharaun realize that this time, the shaft had been hurtling at him. An instant later, a studded mace seemingly made of shadow flew out of nowhere and swung itself at his head. Splitter flicked over and tapped that manifestation. As conjured objects often did, the war club vanished at the greatsword's touch. «In here,» Pharaun said. The two masters ran to the arched sandstone door of one of the modest houses on the street. Pharaun suspected that the tenants had locked it at the first sign of trouble, and evidently Ryld agreed, because he didn't bother trying the handle. He simply booted the door and broke the latch. The weapons master scrambled inside. The front room of the home was crowded. Pharaun might have expected that. The population of the city had grown considerably since its founding but the number of stalagmite buildings was of necessity fixed. The poor had to squeeze in wherever they could. Thus, an abundance of paupers lived in the hovel, and a goodly number of them had gathered in this common space, either to relax or to dip rothй stew from the iron caldron on the trestle table. Surprisingly, the simple meal actually smelled appetizing. The aroma made Pharaun's mouth water and reminded him that he hadn't dined in several hours. Ryld brandished Splitter at the occupants of the house with a flashy facility calculated to quell aggressive impulses. «We apologize for the intrusion,» Pharaun said. The weapons master glowered at him. «Why are we running?» «That pillar of fire was divine magic, not arcane.» Pharaun lifted his hand, displaying the silver Sorcere ring and reminding his friend of its power to identify, not just protect him from, magic. «It's priestesses attacking us.
Killing them would call attention to us, make the Council even more eager to put a stop to our inquiry. It might even make them want to kill us irrespective of how our mission turns out or of what Gromph decides.»
Pharaun grinned and added, «I know I promised you glorious mayhem, but that will have to wait.» Ryld replied, «It's a difficult thing to sneak away from foes who hold the high ground.» «I'm an inexhaustible font of tricks, haven't you noticed?» Pharaun beamed at the assembled paupers and said, «How would you all like to assist two masters of the Academy engaged in a mission of vital importance? I assure you, Archmage Baenre himself will wax giddy with gratitude when I inform him of your aid.»
His audience stared back at him, fear in their eyes. One of the female commoners produced a bone-handled, granite-headed mallet and threw it. Ryld caught it and hurled it back. The makeshift weapon thudded into the center of the laborer's forehead, and she collapsed.
«Would anyone else care to express a reservation of any sort?» Pharaun asked. He waited a beat. «Splendid, then just stand still. I assure you, this won't hurt.»
The Master of Sorcere pulled a wisp of fleece from a pocket and recited an incantation. With a soft hissing, a wave of magical force shimmered through the room. When it touched the paupers, they changed, each into a facsimile of Ryld or Pharaun himself. Only a single child remained unaffected. «Excellent,» said Pharaun. «Now all you have to do is go outside, at which point, I recommend you scatter. With luck, many, if not all of you, will survive.» «No!» cried one of Ryld's doubles in a high, agitated voice. «You can't make us—» «But we can,» said Pharaun. «I can fill the house with a poisonous vapor, my friend can start chopping you to pieces. … So please, be sensible, go now. If the enemy breaks in here, your chances will be significantly worse.» They looked sullenly back at him. He smiled and shrugged, and Ryld hefted Splitter. The commoners began to scurry toward the door. The two masters fell in at the back of the crowd, prepared to chivvy folk along as necessary. «Shadows of the Pit,» murmured Pharaun, «I wasn't at all sure they would actually do it. I am a persuasive devil, aren't I? It must be my honest face.»
«Decoys aren't a bad idea,» said Ryld, «but now that I think of it, why not just turn us invisible?» Pharaun snorted. «Do I tell you which end of the sword to grip? Invisibility's too common a trick. I'm sure our foes are prepared to counter it. Whereas the illusion may work. It's one of my personal, private spells, and we Mizzrym are famously deft with phantasmata. Now, when we get outside, don't lose track of me. You don't want to go skipping off with the wrong Pharaun.» Most of the commoners had vacated the house. Pharaun drew a deep breath, steadying himself, and he and Ryld plunged out into the open. The commoners were scattering as directed. As far as Pharaun could tell, no one had attacked any of them. Perhaps, as he'd hoped, the enemy was entirely flummoxed. The masters, fleeing like the rest, turned one corner and another. Pharaun was beginning to feel the smugness that comes from outwitting an adversary when something rattled and rustled above his head. He looked up in time for it to slam him in the face and knock him down. Dropped from a fair height, the thick, coarse strands of rope comprising the net struck with the force of a club.
Also trapped, Ryld cursed, the language vulgar enough to make the Braeryn proud.
Pharaun needed a second to shake off the shock of the impact, and he realized his current situation was even more unfortunate than he'd initially thought. The net, woven in a spiderweb pattern, was animate. Scraping his skin, striving to render him completely immobile, the heavy mesh shifted and tightened around him.
A foulwing landed on the street. In the saddle sat an otherwise handsome priestess with a scarred face—a Mizzrym face, lean, intelligent, and sardonic. Strangely, she wore a domino mask, and Pharaun suspected he knew why. Grinning, the female said, «I knew you'd try to trick me with illusions, Pharaun. That's why I brought a talisman of true seeing.» Though he wasn't sure she could see it from outside the net, Pharaun made it a point to smile back when he said, «And you were correct. Hello, Greyanna.»
Quenthel was immune to fear. She did not, could not, panic. Or so she had always believed, and in fact, she wasn't panicking, but she was as desperate and bewildered as any ill-wisher could desire. She wasn't certain, but she believed the vipers' hissing and a bump and clatter had roused her from her trancelike state of repose. She'd opened her eyes and seen nothing. Evidently someone had conjured a patch of darkness around her, or worse, cursed her with a blindness spell. She opened her mouth to speak to the whip snakes, and something cold and thick jammed itself inside. Her throat clogged, she was suffocating. Meanwhile, something else, something that felt like the cool, dexterous tip of a demon's tentacle, slid around her wrist. She yanked her hand away just before the unseen member could lock around it and thrashed to keep her limbs free of the other tendrils that began to grope after them. None of it helped her breathe.
She battered furiously at the space around her. Logic told her that her attacker had to be there, but her fists merely swept through empty space. Her chest ached with the need for air, and she felt unconsciousness nibbling at her mind. She did the only thing left. She bit down. At first, she couldn't penetrate the mass, but she strained, snarled in her throat with effort, and her teeth sank into something leathery and oily. In an instant, it vanished. It didn't yank itself free, it just melted away. Quenthel's teeth snapped together with a clack. Scrambling to her knees, she sucked in a couple deep breaths, then called, «Whip!»