Myrmeen held up the locket as if it were a totem of her power over the young woman. "Explain this."
"Give it back," Krystin said, her gaze riveted to the emerald surface. All of her strength was suddenly devoted to restraining the urge to leap at the woman. The palms of her hands became clammy.
"This means so much to you," Myrmeen said in a tired, distant voice. It was the same voice that had pronounced death, life imprisonment, or worse in her tribunal of justice.
Krystin recognized the tone in her voice. Myrmeen had become detached. "I'll tell you where the rest of your gold is buried if you give me back the locket."
"Why don't you try taking it from me? You took what was mine without a second thought last night. Why should this be any different?"
"I had to have it," Krystin said. "You don't understand."
"You're right, I don't."
"What is it you want?" Krystin said, amazed by the tears that were leaking from the corners of her eyes. "If you want me to leave, I'll go. Just give me the locket."
"This bauble is more important to you than learning the truth?"
Krystin was suddenly struck with a new vision, one of a scarred, black-haired man with rotten teeth. He raised the shattered leg of a table over his head and was about to bring it down on her face. Instinctively, she backed away and cowered, her hands rising up to ward off the blow in the manner of a frightened child, not a trained warrior.
"I'm not going to hit you," Myrmeen said.
Suddenly Krystin remembered where she was. The disquieting vision had faded. Myrmeen handed the locket to Krystin. "Take it. If it means so much more to you than the trust I've placed in you, then go ahead."
The young woman did not hesitate. She snatched the locket from Myrmeen's hand. The metal was surprisingly cold and offered little comfort as she watched Myrmeen walk away. The sight infused her with a sudden panic. She did not wish to be left alone.
"I'll retrieve the rest of the gold," Krystin said.
Myrmeen did not stop.
"Just give me a chance. I'll go to the owner of the Bloodstained Sword and confess," Krystin pleaded.
"As you will," Myrmeen said, her voice hollow. She had not slowed.
Clutching the locket, Krystin hurried after her. "I won't lie to you ever again!"
Myrmeen stopped dead, her body tensing. "Two out of three, child. I'll believe two out of three."
They walked on in silence, the fragile bond between them strained almost to breaking.
Thirteen
Lord Sixx and his guest were seated at a table in the Gentleman's Hall. The oddities of his flesh were hidden from the casual observer by one of his many sets of eyes, which he used to influence the manner in which he was perceived. "Is that the one? The boy?" Sixx asked.
The fat man with gnarled hands and blackened teeth shook like a dying mare with palsy. His fear was all-encompassing; he did not seem capable of lying. Nevertheless, Lord Sixx would have felt more comfortable if he could have entered the man's mind and learned his secrets directly. The best time to have attempted this would have been when the man was asleep and fully relaxed. Once inside his mind, Sixx could have manipulated the man's dreams and forced him to reveal any truth he desired to witness. The man would have awakened and thought nothing of the fact that he could not recall his dreams; such occurrences were common. He would not have known that his dreams had been stolen, that they now belonged to Lord Sixx. Sixx was a generous man, however, and he would have left nightmares for the man to feast upon in the years to come.
There was, in truth, an element of danger to this enterprise, which explained why he chose instead to accept the fat man's words. Once'he would not have hesitated to overpower a man's will and invade his conscious mind; he would have looked upon the exercise as an adventure into the unknown, a grand hunt wherein he was the predator stalking his prey through the landscape of their very thoughts. Ten years ago, he would have laughed at the risks involved, for if the prey turned on him and Sixx was killed on the psychic landscape, he would die in reality, too. Today, Lord Sixx, ruler of the night people, consummate master of nightmares and terror, had trouble sleeping.
He needed the belief of his people, the unvarying surrender of their wills to his own. Without belief he would survive, but he would not grow and prosper. Inevitably, a day would come when rivals would try to slay him, just as he had slain his predecessor.
Lately, a significant portion of his time had been spent listening to oily little men like this one, then spending valuable time ascertaining whether or not their claims of dissent within the ranks of the Night Parade were valid. If he found a potential rival, he eliminated the threat. His role as leader of the Night Parade had never been in question. Under his unyielding command, the Night Parade had prospered and become a unified force that existed to best serve the needs of all its people. Their profits were measured not only in human wealth, but also in the contentment of their burgeoning numbers, who were flocking to this place called Faerun at a growing rate.
There is one threat you seem content to ignore, a voice within his mind called out. Imperator Zeal. He has the love and the will of the people within his fiery grasp.
Zeal is not an ambitious man, Sixx countered.
That doesn't matter. His wife, the widow Tamara, hates you. You know why. When you fall-when you are pushed- Zeal will have no choice but to fill the vacancy you will leave.
Do not delude yourself. No one can be trusted. Even your own blood will one day turn on you.
Lord Sixx knew who owned that voice within his skull. The voice had belonged to his father, the man from whom Sixx stole the many eyes that covered his body.
"May I go now?" the man asked.
Lord Sixx was shocked back to reality. He sat at a table with the greasy little man, who seemed to want payment of some kind for his services. Distracted, Lord Sixx slipped a gold piece into the man's sweaty hand, then ordered him to leave at once. If he had been feeling more himself, he would have smiled terribly and told the man that his payment was his life, which Sixx was graciously allowing him to keep. He looked up and realized that the fat man had already gone. Of late, his entire existence seemed to be made up of missed opportunities. That would change, now that he had the information he so desperately required.
Sixx rose from the table, snaked through the crowded hall, and entered Pieraccinni's quarters without being announced. The bald man was busy entertaining a new, young assassin from Sembia. He had already liberated her from most of her clothing and was preparing to show her exactly what was expected of her in her new position when Sixx appeared. The woman stared at him brazenly, her lack of clothing no great concern. Suddenly her expression softened and changed, fear overtaking her bravado. She lowered her gaze, gathered her silk dress, and ran from the room, leaving through the private exit. Lord Sixx allowed the illusion of humanity cloaking him to fall away.
"Lord Sixx," Pieraccinni said, nearly falling as he slipped back into his leathers. "I was not expecting you-"
"Summon the boy," Sixx commanded.
Pieraccinni froze. "Pardon me, sir?"
"The boy. Your servant. The one you call Alden McGregor. Summon him. I hunger for truth."
"Milord, you know what the boy is to me. You can't-"
"Summon him or I will cause you unimaginable pain." Sixx snarled.
Pieraccinni dropped to one knee before his master and swallowed hard. "I will."
Alden had been at the bar, trying to win the heart, or at least the body, or a fresh young serving maid. When he responded to Pieraccinni's summons and entered the room, his cheeks were still flushed. He was surprised when the doors leading to the hall and the servant's entrance slammed shut, seemingly of their own accord.