“So you finally returned the painting to House Norjah?” said Riltana, turning to Demascus. By her tone, he knew she was feigning disinterest.
“Yeah. I’m no genius, but why make a clan of vampires mad at you. Better they owe
“That seems at odds with your normal approach,” said Riltana.
“What’s that?”
“Falling face-first into the shit, making it worse by doing exactly the wrong thing, then getting out of it by swinging around your stupidly large sword. Well, right after a nap, of course.”
He laughed. Good friends were a treasure, and Riltana and Chant were worth more than gold. He was lucky they were part of his life. Though the painting was still on his mind, despite the fact that he’d returned it to Kasdrian Norjah. He couldn’t untangle the significance between the Whispering Children, Oghma, Cyric, and himself. He knew he probably wouldn’t like it if he ever managed to figure it out. But so far Oghma remained mute and unreachable on that topic, and every other.
He supposed it could be a coincidence. People tended to remember unlikely co-occurrences and forget every other moment of their lives, which were far more numerous but didn’t involve any kind of coincidence. But as Sword of the Gods and an “agent of fate,” he’d come to see nearly everything as having some sort of deeper connection. Maybe that outlook was a liability he’d have to overcome. Sometimes bad things just happened in life. What was important was what you did next.
“And what about your friend, the one you had the queen write to?” Chant asked the windsoul. “Good news?” He waggled his eyebrows.
Riltana’s skin reddened and the corners of her mouth lifted ever so slightly. “Something like that,” she said. She brushed back the crystalline strands of her hair, looking embarrassed.
“Oh-ho, come on, you’re holding out on us!” accused Chant.
“Carmenere wrote me. She said she got the queen’s letter and that she’s been doing some thinking. And she said … that she missed me.” Riltana smiled, and Demascus couldn’t help echoing her expression.
“Good for you!” he said. “This time, amaze her with a whole new you, one that doesn’t steal every interesting painting she sees.” The moment the words left his mouth, Demascus regretted them. If anyone could take some ribbing, it was Riltana. Under normal circumstances. But by the way her eyes narrowed and her nose pinched, he knew he’d hit her where she was still vulnerable.
“Sorry,” he said, “That was meant to be funny.”
Riltana shrugged it off and took another drink. “I know. Sorry. You’d think I could learn a lesson. First, the queen mother’s portrait. Then a talking burglar that led to a piece that looked like it was painted with a torturer’s cast-off scraps. If you hear me start talking about portraits again in any context, slap me.”
Demascus nodded. “Count on it.”
They all chuckled.
“And promise you’ll do the same for me if I suddenly start telling you about some new heinous crime I only just remembered.”
“Deal,” said Chant. They all toasted.
The beer was tasting better, he noted. Maybe he’d been too harsh. The watered-down flavor had a certain familiarity to it that was almost friendly.
“What’re you going to do about that thing in your new vault?” said Riltana.
“Study it,” he replied. “It’s Kalkan. He’s returning to life-though it looks like he’s actually got a fair bit to go.”
He wrinkled his nose, recalling the smell and the half-formed body reknitting itself. If he hadn’t known otherwise, he’d have thought it was about a two-month-old corpse.
“Burn it, why don’t you?” said Riltana.
“I may. But if I do, Kalkan will still come back somewhere-and I’ll have lost him. This way, I’ll know when and where he returns to the world. And then I can ask him about Cyric.”
“Hey!” said Chant, “I know-why not trap him? Put the remains into some sort of sealed chamber, one only large enough for you to drop down food and water. He’ll never get out …” The pawnbroker trailed off. Then he shook his head, “Nope, he could just kill himself, then reincarnate somewhere else. Sharkbite, I thought I-”
“Strap him down tight as a drum,” interrupted Riltana. “He won’t even be able to snap his fingers, let alone kill himself. Maybe have him committed to the asylum. Keep him blurred out on drugs and ‘restrained for his own safety.’ ”
Demascus scratched his chin, “You know, you might be on to something.”
She grinned and offered another toast. “To me! The smartest!” He and Chant obliged.
There
“We make a damn fine team,” said Chant, his words a little slurred from the quantity of ale he’d poured down his throat.
“Hells, yeah!” agreed Riltana. “We found that crazy drow hiding in the mine, even though all of Akanul’s intelligence apparatus was certain Tymanther was responsible. If it hadn’t been for us, they’d have gone to war with the dragonborn, and Chenraya would’ve been laughing up her webbed sleeve.”
“Well, Queen Arathane is part of Akanul’s power structure,” said Chant. “She was right there with us. We should’ve invited her over tonight. You would have liked that, right, Demascus?”
Demascus smirked. “Yeah, why didn’t you think to ask the monarch over for some beer? I’m sure she gets tired of all that elven wine they serve in the palace.” Besides, there wasn’t anything between him and Arathane save a few looks, maybe a wink or two, and probably a lot of signals he’d misconstrued. “But with Madri’s destruction,” he continued, “I don’t really …” He finished by just shaking his head.
Chant clapped him on the shoulder but didn’t have any words. None existed. The thing was, Demascus didn’t really know how he should feel. Madri had sacrificed whatever existence she had for a person she hardly knew-he wasn’t even the same Demascus who had slain her. Well, not really.
Riltana rose, lost her grip on her mug, and only managed to catch it with a lucky swipe. “It’s late! We should let Demascus get to bed-then maybe he won’t be so prone to snoozing when he should be hacking.”
The deva was pretty sure that joke had run its course five tellings ago, but he smiled anyway.
Chant staggered to his feet and finished off the last of his ale. He slammed the mug down on the table and said, “We’ll come back in a few days and help you decide what to do about Kalkan. How’s that sound?”
“See you then,” Demascus replied. “Bring more of this beer because it’s growing on me.” He showed his friends to the door. When they’d gone, he stood in the foyer for a bit, enjoying the quiet and the way the lamp shone on the polished wooden boards of the floor and the newly whitewashed walls.
Fable’s meow broke the mood.
He returned to the great room, gave the cat a treat, poured himself the last of the ale, and took the stairs to his rooftop balcony. The night was cool and cloudless. The city lights tumbling away down the cliffs made it hard to see the stars, but the moon and its train of smaller companions marched across the sky.
He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt so relaxed. Maybe in a previous incarnation? He chuckled at the possibility.
Demascus dropped into one of the stools around the table. The game of tiles he’d set up for him and Riltana to play was still ongoing. In fact … The thief had made another play. HAUNTED. She’d used all her letters, and arranged the tiles across triple wands. He counted up the score and frowned.
“Damn.”
He’d lost again. Odd that Riltana hadn’t mentioned her victory below, especially with Chant there to hear it. The windsoul wasn’t a humble sort.
And when had she come up to make her winning move? He’d been on the balcony before Riltana and Chant had come over. haunted hadn’t been there then. Something wasn’t-
Demascus looked up into eyes like distant storm clouds.
“Madri?”
“Care for a rematch?” said the ghost.
