"Kall!" Dantane's voice was thick with magic. "The root in its throat—carve it out. Destroy it!"
Kall risked a glance at the throng retreating from the ballroom. A few stragglers had stayed behind—Lord Rays among them—to watch the horrific spectacle.
Kall yelled to Cesira. "Don't let them see!" The last thing he wanted was for the merchants to witness him butchering the girl, even if she no longer resembled anything human. He waded into the mass of tentacles as the druid backed down the dais's steps, chanting a familiar spell and arching her arms above her head.
The air immediately grew thick and moist. Dense fog billowed from the portal of Cesira's arms, curling around the dais in a concealing bubble that hid Kall, Dantane, and the creature from view.
Behind the vapor wall, Kall wedged his sword in the harpsichord bench and grabbed blindly at the creature with his gloved hands, trusting Cesira's protective spell to hold long enough for him to finish his grim task. He punched into the thing's mouth and felt teeth and tongue give way with a wet crunch.
Kall fought down a rush of bile. Whatever shape it took now, the thing still had a woman's head, and Kall had just rendered it a ruin. Steeling himself, he bore down, ignoring the choking and mewling sounds coming from the monster. When his hand met an obstruction, Kall didn't allow himself to think. He yanked the mass of mud and root straight up.
The creature's head disintegrated around his arm. Kall lurched backward, hurling the root ball across the dais. It landed, writhing, at Dantane's boots.
"Kill it," Kall growled.
Dantane wavered. His eyes followed the movements of the dozens of tendrils branching off the mass, each quivering with something arcane.
"Dantane!" Kall shouted.
The wizard flinched, stirred from his trance. He pointed to the mass and muttered something. Flames erupted from the root ball, consuming it in a flash of blue light and searing heat. Dantane raised his sleeve against the glare and stink. "Done," he said.
Kall strode to the bench, yanked his sword free, and kept moving until the point threatened to slice Dantane's nose in half. "If not for Cesira, I'd be smoking on the floor next to that thing. Mind telling me why you tried to get me killed?"
Breathing heavily, Dantane matched the furious lord's stare.
"I was fighting to prevent the creature from tearing your guests apart. If you've a problem with my methods—"
Kall interrupted, "You've as well as told the whole of Keczulla I'm hiding a wizard under my skirts!"
Dantane hesitated. Something that might have been chagrin came and went across his sweat-soaked face. "I'm not accustomed to fighting under these circumstances," he stammered. "As to the rest"—his white lips thinned—"had I intended you harm, Lord Morel, rest assured, your head would now be in as many pieces as that unfortunate creature."
Kall's grip on his sword tightened, but Dantane didn't back down. "Perhaps you would like me to discern the woman's—or man's—identity?" The wizard's voice sounded smug. "It might prove useful, even vital, to have such information at hand when the Gem Guard come calling about this incident."
From somewhere outside the fog, Morgan's voice rumbled, "Two red inks say he skewers him."
"No bet, I can't see his face," was Laerin's reply.
Kall lingered over the raised steel a moment longer. Abruptly, he sheathed his sword, his eyes still spearing Dantane with hostility. He kicked at the harpsichord bench and jumped off the dais.
The stragglers had gone. Aazen had gone. Kall hadn't seen him leave with the crowd. "Close off the estate," he ordered the servants who'd dared remain within earshot. "Let no one back in except the guard, whenever they turn up." He had no doubt they would. Dantane was right, damn the man again. He had to find out who the lute player was and why she—or he—had turned up at the party with deadly magic.
Could it have been one of the families, attempting to strike at him? It seemed ludicrous, considering their aversion to magic and the rumors flying all evening about his generous-bordering-on-desperate attempts to make restitution among the merchants.
Attempts that might come to nothing after tonight, Kall thought. Fury spiked through him. Amn's retribution for magic use, especially magic that murdered, was second only to the collection of debts among the merchant families. He was about to be buried deep in trouble of both sorts.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Howling Delve
4 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)
"This was a great idea," Talal said sarcastically as he held the torch around Meisha's body.
The Harper turned, flames catching in her eyes. Talal flinched. "Are you really going to walk at my heel with that thing, or can I carry it?"
"My torch, Lady," Talal said, holding it out of reach.
"Then would you care to lead?" She pointed down the dark, unfamiliar passage.
"I'd care to go back to the warrens!" he complained, handing her the brand. "I showed you the wizard. Haroun says that's enough, and she doesn't even know he tried to kill you."
"You told me your people explore these caves constantly, looking for ways to escape."
"I told you we draw lots for the pleasure," Talal argued. "Stain one stone with berry juice, put the rest in a sack, and choose. Tymora's lucky whipping boy gets a torch, a weapon, and a trip down the tunnel to have his wits smashed all over the place. That's what happened to Gadi."
"He was killed?" Meisha shone the torch down a side passage and listened. She heard nothing but the distant, constant drip of water. When she'd lived here, Varan had always made his apprentices safe, no matter how dangerous the Delve could be. Now the apprentices were dead, and Varan ...
Meisha suppressed a shudder. Varan had become one of the threats in the dark.
"Smashed, I said. By whatever roams the tunnels outside your wizard's shields," said Talal.
"Varan warned us not to venture outside the wards. Even I don't know what lies at the end of many of these tunnels," Meisha admitted. "You say you've sent someone out already?"
"Braedrin," Talal said, nodding. "Hasn't come back yet. Smash," he murmured under his breath.
"What are these marks?" Meisha pointed to the walls.
"Tells us where people have been," Talal explained. "Means no traps, either."
"Traps," Meisha echoed. A mask of blood and a dead apprentice's face flashed before her eyes.
"Don't know who strung 'em, but they're all over the place. We lost two that way when we first started going out. Pressure spears. Hit you square, one'll take your head clean off. More of Lady Luck's favor, the well-meaning bitch."
Meisha raised an eyebrow. "You've a ready insult for all the gods. Which one do you actually like?"
The boy shrugged, dislodging a scuttling beetle from his clothing. "None of them—easier that way."
"You don't believe in the gods?"
"Believe, yes. But I leave them be, and I wish they'd return the favor." He flicked away the beetle. "Not so much to ask."
"What about after this life? Don't you worry for your soul?"
"Hells, no. I'm aiming to live forever. See how I avoid prancing down dark tunnels with death-seeking sorcerers? I get along fine, Lady; it's the rest of Faer?n that wants to muck me up."
"How many of you are there in the warrens?" Meisha asked, shifting the topic.