believing in his godhood, even breaking his focus wouldn't send him back to the Abyssal Planes. If that happens -- well, you first have to find a demon-killing weapon, then you have to get close enough to strike a killing blow. And you hope that he isn't strong enough to have gone beyond needing a physical form. Or you damage him enough to break the power he gets from his followers' belief -- but that's even harder to do than finding a demon-killing blade.'
'And, needless to say, demon-killing weapons are few and far between.'
'And it isn't terribly likely that you're going to get past a demon's reach to get that killing blow in, once he's taken his normal form.'
Tarma pulled off her boots, and inspected the soles with a melancholy air. 'How likely is that -- an uncontrolled demon?'
'Not really likely,' Kethry admitted. 'I'm just being careful -- giving you worst-case first. It's a lot more likely that he's under the control of a mage that's using him to build a power base for himself. That's the scenario I'd bet on. I've seen this trick pulled more than once before I met you. It works quite well, provided you can keep giving your congregation what they want.'
'So what's next?'
'Well, I'd suggest we wait until morning, and see what I can find out among the mages while you see if you can get any more mercenaries to talk.'
'Somehow I was afraid you'd say that.'
* * *
They met back at the inn at noon; Tarma was empty-handed, but Kethry had met with a certain amount of success. At least she had a name, an address, and a price -- a fat skin of strong wine taken with her, with a promise of more to come.
The address was in the scummiest section of the town, hard by the communal refuse heap. Both women kept their hands on the hilts of their blades while making their way down the rank and odorous alleyway; there were flickers of movement at various holes in the walls (you could hardly call them 'doors' or 'windows') but they were left unmolested. More than one of the piles of what seemed to be rotting refuse that dotted the alley proved to be a human, though it was difficult to tell for certain if they were living humans or corpses. Kethry again seemed blithely unaware of the stench; Tarma fought her stomach and tried to breathe as little as possible, and that little through her mouth.
At length they came to a wall that boasted a proper door; Kethry rapped on it. A mumbled voice answered her; she whispered something Tarma couldn't make out. Evidently it was the proper response, as the door swung open long enough for them to squeeze through, then shut hurriedly behind them.
Tarma blinked in surprise at what lay beyond the alleyside door. The fetid aroma of the air outside was gone. There was a faint ghost of wine, and an even fainter ghost of incense. The walls were covered with soft, colorful rugs; more rugs covered the floor. On top of the rugs were huge, plush cushions. The room was a rainbow of subtle reds and oranges and yellows. Tarma was struck with a sudden closing of the throat, and she blinked to clear misting eyes. This place reminded her forcibly of a Shin'a'in tent.
Fortunately the woman who turned from locking the door to greet them was not a Clanswoman, or Tarma might have had difficulty in ridding her eyes of that traitorous mist. She was draped head to toe with a veritable marketplace-full of veils, so that only her eyes showed. The voluminous covering, which rivaled the room for color and variety of pattern, was not, however, enough to hide the fact that she was wraith-thin. And above the veils, the black eyes were gray-ringed, bloodshot, and haggard.
'You know my price?' came a thin whisper.
Kethry let the heavy wineskin slide to her feet, and she nudged it over to the woman with one toe. 'Three more follow, one every two days, from the master of the Blacke Ewe.'
'What do you wish to know?'
'How comes this thing they call Thalhkarsh here -- and why?'
The woman laughed crazily; Tarma loosened one of her knives in its hidden arm-sheath. What in the name of the Warrior had Kethry gotten them into?
'For that I need not even scry! Oh, no, to my sorrow, that is something I know only too well!'
The eyes leaked tears; Tarma averted her gaze, embarrassed.
'A curse on my own pride, and another on my curiosity! For now he knows my aura, knows it well -- and calls me -- and only the wine can stop my feet from taking me to him -- ' the thin voice whined to a halt, and the eyes closed, as if in a sudden spasm of pain.
For a long moment the woman stood, still as a thing made of wood, and Tarma feared they'd get nothing
