Scorio considered the Blood Baroness. “So you want me to challenge his prized Dread Blaze, whoever that is, and then throw in with Plassus so as to convince him in private counsel.”
“It’s a long shot, but you’re uniquely positioned for that tactic.” She counted off her fingers. “Plassus is impressed by your accomplishments thus far, and making Dread Blaze will only cement his impression of you. You’re a Red Lister with a reputation for independent action, which will make your counsel sound more sincere. You wish to aid us in the fight against the Blood Ox, and this is an opportunity unique to your station. Finally, you’re sympathetic to the blazeborn; crushing Bravurn’s position will force him to depart the Fury Spires, giving the fiends room to be freed.”
“I’ve heard Bravurn will kill the last queen before he leaves.”
“If left to his own devices, possibly.” Aezryna’s eyes narrowed. “I certainly wouldn’t put it past him. But we can intercede, both to prevent something criminal from being done, and also as a gesture of thanks to you for your efforts.”
“I see.” Scorio took up his water and sipped. “You all are meeting today, correct? When would this fight have to take place?”
“I can delay the meeting by a day or two. But yes, you’d have to duel Plassus’ Dread Blaze soon.”
“Not much time for thought.”
“There rarely is. Obviously you don’t need to agree, and though I must admit I’d be disappointed, I’d still welcome your help in the battle itself. Take the rest of the morning to consider, and let me know what you decide either way.”
Scorio stood. “I’ll do that.”
Aezryna rose as well. “It was good to meet you, Scorio. I have a feeling that one day we’ll look back at this moment as the start of something quite extraordinary.”
Scorio inclined his head politely and departed the cluster.
Ravenna was waiting outside, arms crossed and leaning against the tunnel wall. She pushed off at the sight of him and raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
Scorio grimaced. “I think I’m going to need some time to think.”
“Sure. Aezryna has that effect on people.”
“No kidding. I’ll search you out later.”
“Want to walk back together?”
“I’m going to get lost for a bit, think things over. Thanks.”
Ravenna hesitated, clearly reluctant, then shrugged. “See you around, then.”
Scorio went in the opposite direction, and true to his word soon found himself lost. This spire’s upper levels were identical to the lower clusters; just endlessly branching tunnels with cluster quarters every so often. Only the walls were slightly different, betraying more complex patterns with more elegant-looking materials.
But he found a broad tunnel that speared out to a neighboring spire, and after descending a level of two found himself truly alone in the darkness.
Sinking into a crouch against the wall, he frowned out at nothing and tried to parse his thoughts.
Aezryna had been disarmingly intense. Her clear gaze had seemed to see right through him, and her frank manner had made it hard to dissemble or act cagey. Even now he could feel her presence lingering close to him, like the afterimage of a bright light. Her manner had elevated her requests almost to the point of logic; why wouldn’t he just agree with her?
And yet.
Perhaps he’d spent too much time around Naomi. As reasonable and rational as Aezryna had been, he refused to simply agree.
But why not? She was promising to help Queen Xandera, to help save upper hell, to unite the Great Souls against the Blood Ox and execute Jova’s plan of stealing the True Fiend’s support.
All good things, right?
Sure. But something in his core balked at simply going along with the Blood Baroness’ plan. What was it Alain had said? The longer he waited before committing, the more valuable his support became? But beyond that, Dameon’s specter lurked over this whole proceeding. A charismatic, more powerful figure who offered reasonable courses of action with a smile even as he played his own game.
He’d never allow a Manticore situation to take place again.
Which meant taking his time to understand the entirety of the situation before agreeing to a course of action.
“Fuck,” he whispered. Pressing his head back, he closed his eyes and focused on Nox. His strange new sense reached out and found his friend. The weight had pulled away, gone both deeper and toward the west. Maybe a mile?
Scorio remained focused on the pull, and gradually sensed that it was still slowly moving.
“Happy hunting,” whispered Scorio, and sighed. Alone in the dark corridor, the fiend seemed suddenly to be his sole true friend. The one being without complications, reservations, and ambitions of his own beyond simply dying in a blaze of orgiastic glory.
Moira would be wanting to circle around and cement Scorio’s loyalty. Ravenna had shown flickers of independence, but was clearly still in Moira’s camp. Aezryna would want an answer soon. Which meant Scorio didn’t have time to waste.
He stood.
Which meant… what?
He needed to reach a decision. Which meant learning the lay of the land. The Iron Tyrant he could easily believe to be a bastard in search of his own personal glory.
Which left one last player on the board he’d not sounded out.
Charnel Duke Plassus.
Chapter 23
The Charnel Duke had taken up quarters just one level shy of the Iron Tyrant. The floor was extravagantly decorated, putting Scorio in mind of the queen’s own suite, the tunnels broad and high-ceilinged, the walls decorated with virtuoso patterns that verged on mesmerizing complexity. Scorio ran his palm over the weaving bands of iron and obsidian, white marble and glass. Entire tracts had been torn out - precious metals no doubt - and those gaps revealed that the other substances were truly interwoven, coursing through the wall and visible in the gaps.
Two men stood guard down-hallway from the Charnel Duke’s main quarters. One was a knife-blade of a man, sharp nose and sharper gaze, his black hair slicked back so that it gleamed, his body looking to be little more than wiry scaffolding for his robes. The other was a placid young man made all of curves; cheeks, bald head, round ears, rounded shoulders, sagging belly. His smile caused his eyes to close.
Upon learning Scorio’s identity, knife-blade gestured for Scorio to follow, and led him into what proved to be an armed camp. Scores of Great Souls were in evidence, most of them with the look of veterans about them. Old wounds and scars, fresher wounds and tightly wrapped linen bandages.
All marked Scorio’s passage, but none moved to stop them. Kinch, his guide, took Scorio right to the heart of the cluster complex and into a grand suite. Larger even than Aezryna’s, it was comparable to the queen’s suite above, a series of half-merged caverns partitioned by stalactite formations, the floor strewn with layered carpeting, dozens of braziers and lanterns adding to the sweltering heat of the spire, a dozen Great Souls standing around and either engaged in earnest conversation or listening intently.
Plassus sat upon a chair so massive it verged on being a throne; he listed over to one side, stubbled jaw resting on the palm of his hand, his expressive brows drawn into a perpetual frown. His graying mane was thick and loose about his ears, and his face was deeply carved with lines that framed his mouth and corrugated his forehead.
“My Duke,” called Kinch, voice cutting through the hubbub. “Here’s one of notable note. The man himself, Chancellor-slayer and perpetual rebeclass="underline" Scorio the Scourer.”
Scorio glanced askance at Kinch, but there wasn’t time to remonstrate. Plassus sat up, roused from his pensive stupor, and smiled caustically.
“Scorio! I wondered when you would darken my door. Have you come to slay me?”