He pressed on, moving quickly across the rolling hills. The noises around him grew in strength and clarity. Groans, shrieks, shouts. The darkness was almost complete, the colors draining from the sky, and the tiny secluded vale that Teron sought was just ahead. As he crested the last hill, he paused to look back toward the remnants of the ruined monastery. It stood on the hilltop, its jagged lines looking like a shivered fang. Faint glimmers of light shone from a few windows, twinkling like stars brought from the sky to live in Aundair.
Teron smiled cynically. There were a few left, he supposed, a few glimmers of hope. Keiftal was one. He knew the old man was watching, staring into the darkness. He always did. Then there was that young boy who scrubbed the pots; he counted. Definitely Flotsam, such good-heartedness in such an ugly wrapping.
He descended into the shadowy draw, out of sight of the monastery. Down where no one could see, ask questions, come looking … find out. More sounds crawled through the night—the bitter clash of swords, the whetstone flare of spells, the shouts of the desperate, and the pitiful wails of the dying.
It was fully dark, and the tendrils of mist rose and congealed into a fog, thick and somehow greasy. Teron took a deep breath, let it out, then stripped off his shirt. Soon his test would come, but tonight he would practice.
He slowly spun one hand at his side, stirring the supernatural mist. Burgundy curls of smoky energy coalesced as he did so, trailing from his hand like the tresses of a lover. The familiar nausea returned to the pit of his stomach, and he steeled himself to endure the torment.
A translucent figure loomed out of the mist, glowing faintly. It looked human enough, arrayed in old-fashioned Thrane armor, but the utter madness in its glowing eyes spoke otherwise. It opened its black pit of a mouth, and Teron heard a wail of anguish crawl forth as if from an infinite distance.
Teron clenched his fist as the apparition readied a hazy, shifting sword.
A light rain drizzled on the nighttime streets of Wroat. The mellow golden glow of the everbright lanterns washed across the wet cobbles, adding some cheer to an otherwise cold and damp evening. Caeheras wiped his sleeve across his brow and turned from the main road into a side street and then again into a wide alley. As he left the last of the everbright lanterns behind, he pulled a torch from his pack and ignited it with a tindertwig. It flared to life, illuminating the dark alley. Caeheras didn’t need the torch. His elf eyes easily pierced the darkness. But he figured he was being followed, and the least he could do was make it easy for those shadowing him.
He moved through the alleyways with practiced ease. He knew the area well—far enough from the Street of Worship to avoid any unwanted interlopers, near enough to the Foreign District and its plethora of diplomatic bodyguards that the presence of the city constabulary was still greatly diminished.
Caeheras didn’t want interruptions. At least, none that he hadn’t planned.
He found the appointed court, a narrow square surrounded by multistory warehouses and manufactories. A wagon, empty of anything save a crumpled tarp, stood against the wall to one side, its empty harnesses dangling in a puddle. A few open crates and barrels littered an area near the center of the quadrangle. In the far corner from Caeheras stood an array of smaller wooden boxes filled with new goods. Caeheras noted the subtle emerald sheen of a warding spell protecting them against theft. The wizard who owned that particular building was well known for his inventive and vengeful methods of dealing with thievery, and the boxes stood unmolested.
Caeheras placed the torch on the ground in the center of the square, then walked across to the warded boxes and stood with his back to them. Their warding spells were as good as a Deneith bodyguard for protecting one’s back. He pulled his cloak a little tighter and waited, shifting his weight from one foot to the other to keep warm. As expected, he soon heard approaching footsteps.
Caeheras smiled as his richly dressed client stepped into the square. Though taller and a tad more robust than many gnomes, the newcomer was still a good two heads shorter than Caeheras.
“Praxle,” said Caeheras.
Praxle’s smile shone in the darkness. “A torch,” he said. “How rustic. I never would have thought you were a romantic, Caeheras.”
“The Undying Court reminds us that the old methods often work best.”
“Indeed,” answered Praxle. He stepped to the center of the plaza so that the torch illumined him from below. “I didn’t think I’d be hearing back from you for another year or two, maybe longer.”
“I, uh, I work fast.”
Praxle blinked, his mouth open in amused surprise. He doffed his cap and swept it low in a formal bow. “Caeheras, I am truly impressed. You’ve found the answer already?”
“You brought the payment?”
Praxle slid a hand into the folds of his rain cloak and pulled out a small pouch. He reached in and removed a gem. Across the plaza, Caeheras couldn’t tell what kind it was, but he saw the telltale sparkles as Praxle turned it between his fingers to catch the torchlight. “My answer is yes, if your answer is yes. Good wages, especially considering how short a time you worked on it.”
Caeheras wiped his sleeve across his brow again, then ran his hand through his sodden hair. “I found its location for you,” he said, “but I had a bit of a problem.”
“I don’t pay you to find problems, Caeheras,” said Praxle. “I pay you to find information.”
“That is true, Praxle,” said Caeheras, “but I ran into some extra expenses. This was very difficult, you see. Very difficult. And my fee has gone up. A lot.”
Praxle clucked his tongue. “A contract is a contract, Caeheras,” he said, “and I’m very disappointed that you’d think otherwise. But if you give me what you have, we’ll see about paying you a bonus for your efforts.”
“No,” said Caeheras. “I need the entire fee up front. If you don’t have enough with you, we’ll consider what you have a down payment.” Caeheras drew his thin rapier, and as he did, three armed humans entered the quad, cutting off Praxle’s escape routes. “Make your choice, Praxle.”
Praxle smacked his lips. “Caeheras,” he said as he looked over the other thugs, “this is definitely a breach of contract. We agreed that neither of us would bring anyone else in on our meetings.”
“The contract price changed,” said Caeheras, “so I felt some other changes might also be wise.”
Praxle shook his head. “I’m very disappointed, Caeheras.”
“That I worked things to my advantage?”
“No,” said Praxle with a weary sigh, “that you forgot with whom you’re dealing.”
Caeheras started to retort but only uttered one unintelligible syllable before concern clouded his brow.
Praxle looked at the thugs surrounding him, “Since Caeheras didn’t teach you one very important lesson, I will. So remember this, each of you, and it will serve you welclass="underline" Whenever you deal with one gnome, you deal with all of them.” He made a small hand gesture, and the noise of a tiny bell chimed in the night. The warded boxes behind Caeheras faded away, the illusions unraveling into a thousand tiny motes that glittered like diamond dust being swept away by a whirlwind. In the boxes’ stead stood a half-dozen gnomes armed with cocked crossbows. At such short range, each was powerful enough to send a bolt of iron-tipped wood clean through someone’s breastbone. At the same time, the tarp on the wagon rustled, and three more gnomes stood up from beneath it, each armed with a brace of hand crossbows. And above, someone spoke an arcane hex, and light suddenly shone forth to bathe the entire square.