Spinner of Lies

The mask settled its hollow regard on her, saying nothing.

“What, now you’re back to giving me the silent treatment? You know, we’d get on so much better if you’d just be honest. Like you keep saying, Fossil, we both want the same thing.” Except, what was it the Necromancer had whispered, right before she’d collapsed? Something about lies motivating Demascus to accept a commission involving her. But what of it? No exonerating evidence would ever change the fact he had killed her. Of course, she wanted to know why, whatever the answer was … why Demascus had wrapped his fingers around her head and twisted.

Fossil’s voice broke into her reverie. “True enough, figment. We want the same thing. And were it possible to craft a new prophecy now that Demascus has rediscovered how to switch between the most brutish shape of his blade and a more adaptable configuration, I would consider it. But it won’t work. Only a living creature can call on the Voice of Tomorrow. Neither of us qualify.”

“I guess that’d be too easy.” She snorted. “Just out of idle curiosity, how many configurations does Demascus’s gods-abandoned sword have, anyhow?” The more she heard about the blade, the more she wished she’d had something like it when she’d been plenipotentiary to Halruaa. She’d had to undertake more than a couple of tasks in her country’s defense that could have benefited from a divinely amorphous weapon.

“It is not recorded. More than two. An assassin’s weapon must be versatile. Kalkan Swordbreaker once claimed even gods should fear Exorcessum’s final configuration.”

“Why?”

“Only one thing is as strong as that explosive configuration: the flame that burns at the heart of a star.”

Oh. Madri imagined a celestial fire touching down in the heart of Airspur, a blaze so hot it would melt even a god’s flesh from its bones. Such potency, once unleashed, would race out in all directions, burning even the air …

She put her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes. No one should have that kind of power. “But that would kill Demascus, too.”

“Only for a time.”

“It’s madness-what demented deity gave such a weapon into one man’s hands?” she demanded, suddenly angry at the incongruity of it all.

“Gods, not those of Toril, fabricated the implements for the deva Demascus. When he came to Toril, the gods here created a counterbalance-Kalkan Swordbreaker. Though what we propose to do now goes beyond Kalkan’s original remit. We shall permanently deal with Demascus.”

Being permanently dealt with was what Demascus deserved. How many other innocent people had he killed, deluded by the same force that had turned him against her? If she had any second thoughts about her vendetta, learning about the “final configuration” convinced her that the deva must be put down for good. She didn’t know exactly how Kalkan planned to do it, but apparently her involvement was somehow important. Maybe even critical … something Fossil had said earlier, about having to “start over” with her, as if having the help of just any half-ghost, half-figment wouldn’t do. Kalkan and the relic angel needed her. Someone who’d been betrayed and killed by Demascus himself. Curious. She promised herself to give it more thought.

“You have a task to perform,” Fossil said.

“I don’t recall-”

“It was predicated on whether Demascus split his sword, which was uncertain. Now he has accessed the dual-blade configuration, and you must do as Kalkan decreed. Are you ready?”

“What else do I have to fill my hours? Get a manicure at the salon? Have tea with the noble ladies of Airspur? Just tell me.”

Fossil studied her for a moment, perhaps wondering if the time had come to erase her after all. But then it said, “Go to House Norjah. Tell them where they can find the thief, Riltana, with her accomplice. Tell them the thief who stole one of two paintings missing from their gallery stands at the newly connected threshold of the Demonweb.”

CHAPTER TEN

THE CITY OF AIRSPUR, AKANUL

18 LEAFFALL, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

The Gatekeeper was gone. a swirl of sand, black on black, was all that remained of the ebony golem. The windsoul and deva were alone in the courtyard, bleeding freely from dozens of slashes and ragged cuts. Riltana’s consternation was mirrored on Demascus’s face. He held two swords, twin to each other save for the color of their pulsing runes.

Chant waited until he was certain the sand wasn’t about to swirl back into solidity. Then he broke cover. He motioned Jaul to follow. They walked into the courtyard of the structure, which looked like an internment house for the dead.

Demascus glanced at Chant. “What do you make of these?” he said, twirling the swords for effect.

“Gaffing blue!” said Jaul. The expression was new to Chant.

“Yeah, nice trick,” Chant said. “How’d you break your sword and come out with two?”

Demascus shrugged. “Inspiration?”

“Accident, you mean,” suggested Riltana.

The deva laughed. “The golem had two hearts. Well, not hearts, but as good as. I needed something that could pierce both at the same time. And-”

“And naturally, you split your sword,” Chant finished.

Riltana said, “Surprised me as much as it did the golem.”

“Caught me off guard, too, honestly,” Demascus said. Then his brow furrowed. He peered at the sword with the white symbols.

“What?” said Chant.

“Each rune holds a specific stored enchantment. These blades hold the same runes as Exorcessum did. Except a couple I used earlier are still faded. Do you think they’re gone for good?”

“Sharkbite, how would I know?” asked Chant. Though he had to admit, he’d like to. The deva and his sword, scarf, charms, and other missing implements of his previous profession fascinated the pawnbroker. Demascus was a veritable trove of secrets, made all the more so by his missing memories.

“Go easy on the runes, then,” said Riltana. “Though if you’ve got any left for wounds, you and I both could use it.”

Demascus glanced at the webwork of blood dripping from his arms and frowned. “Now that you mention it, I do feel a little … unsteady.”

“Sit down!” said Chant. He waved at a stone block low enough to serve as a bench. “I have something the two of you can share. Riltana, didn’t you once tell me you were always going to carry a vial or two with you?”

The windsoul shrugged. “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly get around to restocking. Not all of us take coin from that leech-fondler Master Raneger to sit on our butts all day.”

“Hey!” said Jaul. “Take that back! What’s wrong with Master Raneger?”

So ends Jaul’s imaginary romance, thought Chant. The pawnbroker was used to the thief’s vernacular, but he had to admit, her comment was a bit below the belt. He agreed with her assessment of Raneger, even if Jaul didn’t. She knew Chant was ashamed to be taking pay from the crime lord, and now she’d thrown it in his face.

But Chant swallowed a biting retort. Instead, he approached Demascus first with the glass vial from his belt pouch. He whispered, “Take a little more than half, why don’t you?”

“Thanks, Chant,” Demascus said. “Let’s sit awhile, then, before we push through into the portal. I don’t want to run smack into Pashra and Chenraya until I’ve caught my breath.”

Chant took a seat. He packed his pipe with some particularly noisome tabac he’d acquired a few weeks ago. Now, if he could just find a coal … where’d he put his pot? It was especially enchanted to keep a fire halflit for days without tending.