“Not yet,” Sairché said, though the cold bothered her too. “Too many ears down there. Magros’s end was to put an agent in the camp-someone for the prisoners to rally around, someone to keep them from doing anything too drastic until arrangements could be made. And then to perform the harvesting.”
“But?”
Sairché smiled despite herself. “But he decided to use the Chosen he was allotted to build up His Highness Prince Levistus’s interests in the North.
Around the time that Many-Arrows decided to give up on being civilized. A pity Asmodeus didn’t grant the fellow an ability to deflect war clubs to the head. He had to find a new agent, and get that one into the camp. I have no idea what he told them or who they are. But if we were dealing with a Red Wizard, I would know.”
“He seems intrigued by them outside the camp. Is he doing anything else?”
“He’s not supposed to be.”
“Then I don’t see other possibilities here,” Lorcan said. “What is it Glasya is having us do?”
“Follow the edicts of Asmodeus,” Sairché said quickly.
“To what end?”
In the Nine Hells, there were none who didn’t know exactly where they stood in the hierarchy of the devils, from the lowest soul to the archlords ruling the layers to Asmodeus, the god of evil standing over all of them.
To fall required only the displeasure of one’s betters. To rise required their pleasure. . which came chiefly from their own advancement. There was an art to pleasing one’s betters, while not angering their betters.
And when one answered to an archlord. . that art was very rare indeed. “This world has been in turmoil for the last hundred and fifty years,”
Sairché said carefully. “The strain of chaos makes people hunger for answers, and the coffers of the Hells have swelled. We are powerful, more powerful by the day, because mortals ache for simple answers. Asmodeus is more powerful by the day,” she added.
“Powerful and mad,” Lorcan spat.
“For the moment,” Sairché said, still careful. “The end of that chaos is coming. The crescendo. Asmodeus might have claimed the spark of Azuth, may have armored himself with impressive powers by claiming the succubi, the tieflings, uncountable souls, and more. But what comes next. . even the gods are afraid of what it might mean. That something more powerful may take their divinity from them, or even wipe away the world. Everything will change soon, and who is as vulnerable, in the eyes of the gods, as the last to gain the spark of the divine?”
Lorcan watched the clouds. “If anyone could cling to the spark, it is His Majesty. But I fail to see how you’re helping him do that.”
“I am doing what is asked of me,” Sairché said significantly. In each of these Chosen is a fragment of the gods’ divine power, infusing their souls. “The wizard thinks he’s gathering Chosen for his goddess’s use, but he will soon find out we have other plans. When it’s done, Asmodeus will have found a way to steal those sparks and thereby the powers of the gods themselves, and leave the blame on the goddess who thought she was gaining all the power. If it should fail. .” She let the pause hang, filling with all the words she wasn’t saying. “. . then Asmodeus would not claim that power, our plans would be revealed, and the goddess in question might be very upset with him. Do you see what I mean?”
Lorcan’s brows rose. “That is,” he said, just as carefully, “a lot of pressure on such a delicate point. And we shouldn’t pretend Prince Levistus has no argument with Asmodeus. He might have it in mind to sabotage these efforts and usurp the throne.”
“ ‘Might’?” Sairché said sarcastically, before schooling her tone once more.
“But that would be foolish-Asmodeus is a god. So long as he is a god, there is no chance another archlord might succeed him. So long as he remains a god. “So long as he remains a god,” Sairché repeated, “the archlords are all his grateful vassals, every one.”
Lorcan blew out a breath. “And so your plan hinges on Farideh. She can’t leave because then everything will come apart.”
“That, and I would not repeat Magros’s mistakes.”
Lorcan turned to face her with such fury and horror in his expression that for a moment, Sairché feared he would break their agreement and throw her off the chipped obsidian battlements. “Magros’s mistakes?” he said. “That’s why Asmodeus wants her alive? Shit and ashes!” He rubbed a hand over his face. Sairché frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Lorcan didn’t answer at first, and once more, her brother’s expression became a mask. “Nothing,” he said. “A minor complication. I didn’t mention it.”
“You had better mention it. Are we allies or not?” Sairché demanded.
“What’s happened?”
He wet his mouth as if the words were threatening to choke him. “His Majesty paid me a brief call.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the plane or the winter threaded through Sairché’s core. “He gave you new orders?”
“No.” Lorcan shuddered violently. “He wasn’t interested in telling me any of this plan, or any of your adjustments to it. All he said was that I had to keep Farideh alive. .”
“And?”
Lorcan hesitated. “And then. . he told a joke.”
Sairché’s brother had always had a way with the truth-a calculating stillness that made it impossible to discern how much he had twisted facts to make one hear a different story, how much irony was left to float gently into one’s thoughts masquerading as verity. She studied him a moment-there was no mistaking his agitation.
There was also no mistaking how insane his last comment had been. “He told a joke?” Sairché repeated. “Asmodeus?”
“Yes,” Lorcan said, quieter. “He said he would trust me to do this because he knew I had no ambition in me, that I should keep it to myself and my trusted allies, and that he would reward me handsomely.” He wet his mouth again, as if the very mention of the god of evil dried it out. “And then. . then he said, ‘Handsomely? Of course, for Asmodeus can do nothing in an ugly fashion.’ And then he laughed.” He shook his head. “I think.”
“You think?” Sairché said.
“Have you ever heard His Majesty laugh?”
Now it was Sairché’s turn to shiver. “Once. At a distance. My bones tried to jelly themselves, as I recall.”
“Exactly,” Lorcan said. He dropped his voice. “That didn’t happen.” Sairché frowned. “Perhaps it was someone else. Perhaps it was a ruse.”
“Who in all the planes has the unholy pluck to stand in the palace of Osseia and pretend to be Asmodeus?” Lorcan hissed. “Every other word he spoke, every heartbeat I lay there, was inarguably in the presence of Asmodeus.”
“And then he told a joke.” Sairché shook her head, wishing she didn’t know that, wishing she were still trapped in the stasis cage. “Even the gods should be afraid of what that might mean.” She sucked her teeth. “What do you think it does mean?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care,” Lorcan said, as flustered as she’d ever seen him. “This falls squarely into the category of things we should not consider.”
“I would say ‘things we should hold onto for later,’ ” Sairché said. “But for now, he wants her alive. He never said that before-not that I assumed he’d be pleased. But he didn’t exactly throw Magros to Malbolge when he lost that Chosen. And he never mentioned that stricture in the orders.” Which meant he didn’t want devils to know it mattered. He didn’t want people looking for answers as to why. But it also meant it was critically important if he’d told Lorcan as much.
Sairché wondered if Lorcan realized that.
Lorcan was staring at the clouds again. “You didn’t tell Farideh.”
“Of course I didn’t,” Sairché said. “Do I look like Magros? She would have lost her mind at that sort of revelation.”
“You don’t give her enough credit.” He sighed. “Ashes, we’re playing a dangerous game here.”