“How do you intend to get this creature out of the fortress?” Cereon asked. Armas looked over at Dahl-that part they hadn’t gone over, largely because Dahl was still plotting it out, looking for holes and traps and problems. There were too many, especially when so much of his mind was caught on the two score ales he hadn’t had and the flask full of Shadowfell liquor still riding in his pocket. When his temper was still tangled around Cereon calling Farideh a “creature”-as if there weren’t a hundred others who deserved Cereon’s sneer before she did.
“We are working on that,” Armas said finally. “We just want to know if you’d be willing to ally with Oota if we manage it.”
“And I know better than to make assurances based on fancy. I know how this plays out-you take my agreement and next thing I know, you and your devil-child need sanctuary, because the guards are hunting for her, and as it happens, her magic doesn’t quite work.”
“Oota’s willing to give her sanctuary,” Dahl lied. “And I don’t intend to have guards on our tail.”
Cereon smiled thinly and considered Dahl with his fathomless eyes. “No one does. Trust me, young man, I have been on this plane for several centuries. I know when you ought not prod the dragon.”
Dahl drew a long slow breath, trying to calm the temper that rose in him. “You want to know how we’d manage it? If I had to do it right now, I’d say in through the passage to the sorting courtyard. Up the wall and into the second floor-we’re not nose-to-nose with shadar-kai there since we skip the cellars and the curtain wall-preferably in stolen Shadovar uniforms, but we can make do with the one we have. Then two floors up to the guest quarters as I understand it-she’ll be there. The number of guards at that point isn’t unacceptable, but we can work with that after a casting to peer ahead. After that, she’s on our side.”
Cereon smiled at Dahl as if he’d just suggested they ask nicely to be let in. “Where do you intend to get the means to cast a ritual like that?”
Dahl pulled Farideh’s ritual book from his sack and flipped to the ritual in question as if each turned page was a slap across Cereon’s still face. “Gold salts, cerated sulfur, basilisk venom. Easily obtained from Rhand’s stores.” He hoped-Rhand’s study was at the top of the fortress-either they’d go up blind and pray no one caught them, or Farideh would have to take the risk and smuggle out components. That made Dahl’s nerves fray further still-he was supposed to be rescuing her, not putting her in worse danger.
Cereon tilted his head. “Wizard’s sight,” he said, naming the ritual, “cannot be cast without a focus. Do you have a very expensive mirror hiding in your pack? Or is the wizard going to provide you with that as well?”
Dahl shut the book. “We haven’t pretended that this plan is complete, or that we’re not still looking for solutions to make it work. All we want to know is if you and your people would be willing-under the right circumstances-to throw in with the rest of us. A provisional agreement-that’s all.”
“A provisional agreement to a hypothetical situation,” Cereon said, “deserves careful consideration.” He waved them from the makeshift chambers and back out into the street.
A wet snow fell, melting into the dirt paths and making them muddier still, and dampening all the sounds of the camp into stillness. Dahl wondered if the Harper mission was near. There was no way Tam would send the sort of army needed to retake the camp. He ran his fingers through his hair-there had to be an answer, and he had to find it. Before Rhand claimed too many more Chosen. Before the guards caught on or the possible traitor struck again.
Before something happened to Farideh.
“Well that was no good,” Armas said. “We can try again in a day or so. Maybe don’t talk so much next time.”
Dahl blew out a breath.”I don’t know if we have a day,” he said. “If we leave Farideh in there, she’ll have to keep sorting. If she stops. .” He didn’t want to finish.
“You don’t need Cereon to rescue the warlock.” Armas considered Dahl as they walked. “Why are we counting on a tiefling warlock?”
“Because,” Dahl said firmly, “if we have to fight our way out, we’re going to need casters, and so we’re going to need someone to shatter those finger cages of yours. I’d rather count on a warlock than get cozy with a Shadovar wizard at this point, and those are your options. And she’s not bad.”
Armas grunted. “Neither’s Phalar. And look at that.”
Dahl shook his head. What had Phalar been thinking when he’d told the guards Dahl was in the armory? Probably nothing, Dahl thought. Probably just wanted to make some mischief, put Dahl in some danger. He had his dagger after all. Why worry about the rest?
Because to stop and tell the guards would give away his presence, Dahl thought. Risky. Too risky even for a Chosen of the drow gods. Phalar knew best how to survive, and opening himself to the guards just to strike back at Dahl. . what had Phalar been thinking?
“Every time he comes out,” Armas said, “carrying extra food or supplies or what have you, you think ‘Maybe he’s not so bad. Maybe he’s not so different.’ And then something like this happens.”
Dahl walked along in silence. It was the sort of thing you expected from drow-like kicking a person through a roof, like knifing an ally in the dark-and yet it didn’t fit. It was what you expected, and so the guards should have grabbed him. Made sure he wasn’t lying, wasn’t sending them on a wild hunt or into an ambush. Because that was what you expected from a drow. Phalar shouldn’t have made it out of the fortress if he’d been foolish enough to stop and taunt the guards.
But Phalar wasn’t the only one who knew that Dahl would be in the armory, Dahl realized. Nor the only one who came and went through the fortress.
“Does Tharra have a guard on her when she’s in the tower?”
“Of course,” Armas said. “Everyone does.”
“Same one every time?”
“Since she started playing lady’s maid for your warlock.”
Dahl blew out a breath. Less likely than Phalar, he told himself. But then there was Tharra’s insistence that he was making things worse by getting into the fortress, by trusting Farideh. By bringing weapons out. “She’s not going to be happy about Cereon is she?”
“Happy about us talking to him? Or happy that he’s exactly as difficult as he is with her?” Armas shrugged. “Either way, I doubt it.”
They reached Oota’s quarter as the sun began to set. The alleys around the makeshift court were packed with bodies-frantic, fearful bodies. The court inside was no better, except a circle in the center where Hamdir and Antama had held back the swarms of prisoners.
“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t let Phalar and Dahl go in!” Tharra’s stern tones cut through the crowd of voices. “They’d be alive-she’d be alive if they’d stayed out!”
Cold rushed over Dahl. She’ d be alive. Oh gods. .
“Watch your tongue,” Oota said. “You don’t know why things changed.”
“Tharra?” Armas called, pressing through the prisoners, ducking past Hamdir. “Tharra what’s-”
Dahl and Armas broke through the crowd, and Dahl saw what was truly holding back the other prisoners: a pile of bodies, at least a dozen, wrapped in blood-soaked cloths.
“Where have you been, fledgling?” Tharra demanded. “You were supposed to be watching the children.”
“Gods,” Armas said. “Gods, please, what’s happened?”
Dahl’s heart stopped and he couldn’t look at the stack of bodies, couldn’t bear to find a child-sized bundle among them. “He killed them in the sorting?” he asked.
“Surprised your warlock is no ally?” Tharra said. “From what we can tell, she killed an entire courtyard of people. Took at least four. Including Vanri.”
Shit, Dahl thought. Gods’ broken books. “Where is Farideh?”
“With the wizard,” Tharra said savagely. “We told you, and you didn’t listen, and now Vanri’s probably. .” She faltered. “We were keeping them safe. And you’ve destroyed that.”