“Never heard of her. Who’s she?”
The charm hanging from his single braid didn’t so much as quiver. The vampire lord was telling the truth. Damn. Swallowing disappointment, Demascus continued, “She’s an old acquaintance of mine, someone I haven’t seen in … decades. But she or someone impersonating her sent Riltana to look for a mundane painting of Akanul’s last regent. Which I assume you don’t have?”
“Cyndra? No. That old hag was nothing but trouble. Besides, my gallery is for a very special set of paintings. You say this Madri lured you,” he returned his attention to the windsoul, “here?”
She nodded.
“And you found your way to the gallery and took the Thief. How convenient.”
“Which I’ve just returned.”
Kasdrian waved that off. “But you claim you
The windsoul stiffened. She said in a strained voice, “I said I didn’t take it!”
“I believe you,” said Kasdrian, and shuttered the fire of his gaze. Without the red light burning there, Kasdrian’s eyes were green.
The thief took a relieved breath.
“But someone took the Necromancer the same night as this piece went on walkabout. Perhaps the person who stole it was, who’d you say, Madri? Maybe she lured this poor suggestible windsoul to my home as a distraction. While my hunters and Lady Ascension left to give chase, your long-absent friend helped herself to the Whispering Child specializing in all things undead.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
' All things undead?” repeated Demascus.
“Just so,” said Kasdrian. “The Necromancer. One of the most dangerous of the Whispering Children. This one,” he pointed to the painting Riltana had produced, “knows nearly all there is about thieving. But the Necromancer knows a dangerous sum about reanimating flesh and spirit. Moreover, the Necromancer is somewhat … temperamental.”
Oh great, thought Demascus. Madri’s vengeful ghost is going to empower itself using the Necromancer. Was that what she was planning?
As if reading his mind, Kasdrian said, “Why would your acquaintance want such a thing?”
“I honestly don’t know,” said Demascus. Which was true-despite his speculation, what did he really know for certain? Damn little. “Besides, it’s only your guess that Madri was the one who took it.”
Kasdrian spread his hands and said, “It’s the simplest answer that fits the facts.”
“What
Kasdrian shimmered and was gone. Demascus followed the direction of his whipping hair and saw the vampire back in the high chair, grinning. The portrait of the Thief leaned against the chair’s side. This time, instead of seeming impressively scary, the noble’s antics struck Demascus as just this side of childish. But how much more childish was his own urge to lean into a shadow and show Kasdrian he wasn’t the only one able to move with such alacrity? He shook his head; the lord of House Norjah was probably only going easy on them because he thought they were too far beneath him. He didn’t want to disabuse the vampire of that attitude. Or, mused Damascus, it could be that the noble was still riding high on the news of Lady Ascension’s fall, and in that glow, was willing to entertain even thieves in his home.
When Kasdrian saw everyone had located him again, he pointed at Chant and said, “The paintings are really none of
“True enough, Lord,” said Chant. “But perhaps we can barter. I am a keeper of secrets, and perhaps I know things, especially regarding current events, that you would be interested in.”
Kasdrian lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve heard of you and your network, Morven. I think we could come to some arrangement. What I know about the paintings isn’t widely known. If I tell you, you must agree to discover a secret for me. What that secret is and when I’ll demand it-next month or next year-is not subject to debate. I’ll show up on your doorstep to claim it. Is that agreeable?”
Chant gave a curt nod. “It’s the way I prefer to work.”
Kasdrian clapped his hand. “Good. Because I’m feeling magnanimous. And really, what’s the use of an exclusive collection if no one knows its significance? Very well, Morven, I’ll tell you. But be warned; if I learn a single word of this has filtered into the ears of anyone outside this chamber, I’ll find you and suck you dry.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” said Chant. Demascus wondered if the pawnbroker took Kasdrian’s threat seriously. Hopefully. They were here to
“Oghma the God of Knowledge,” began Kasdrian, “had many children not long after claiming godhead.”
Demascus started upon hearing Oghma’s name on the vampire’s lips. The god of knowledge was the deva’s patron; at least, the patron of his last incarnation.
“Each child of the Binder,” continued Kasdrian, “was a demigod in its own right, and as each gained power, a handful chose to specialize their knowledge. They each pledged to learn all they could on a single topic and to master that subject. Some studied healing, some abjuring, some alchemy, some games of chance, and so on.”
Demascus reached for the charm in his hair. It was payment from the Binder of Knowledge for accepting a contract that ultimately led to Demascus’s discovery of Kalkan. In the name of all the lords of light and shadow … If the Whispering Children were Oghma’s, the situation was more than mere coincidence.
More like connivance! The deva wondered if Kasdrian knew of his connection to Oghma. Was that Kasdrian’s game? Was all of this an elaborate trap? Demascus rested a hand on the Veil, still wrapped innocently around his neck like a simple scarf. If Kasdrian tried anything, he wouldn’t find Demascus unprepared …
The vampire lord was still talking, making elaborate hand gestures illustrating his story. Demascus tried to catch up …
“The god Cyric, father of lies, was jealous of Oghma’s brood. Worse, he despised the God of Knowledge’s pride in his demigod children. So he devised a plan to lure those children away from Oghma, and so to himself. Being young and overconfident in their power, many listened when Cyric promised to deliver to each child a piece of understanding that would crown their expertise.”
“Who’d be stupid enough to believe Cyric?” said Riltana. “He’s the gods damned God of Lies!” Jaul snickered.
Kasdrian said, his voice somewhat sour, “This was long ago.”
“Go on,” urged Demascus and Chant almost in the same voice.
“Back then, Cyric’s full turpitude wasn’t universally appreciated, especially by the brash godlings. Twenty-two fell to Cyric’s deceit, and so were bound by him. Cyric forged their souls into artifacts of wonder, whose knowledge could be used against even the gods. But especially against Oghma. These were the Whispering Children. However, before he could display his creation, he was deprived of every last painting by the late Mystra, Goddess of Magic. Few deities could stand against the one who could deprive them of their access to the Weave. But when Mystra tried to revert the Whispering Children to their proper guise, the paintings were scattered far and wide, thanks to a last spiteful trick of Cyric’s.”
“Not so scattered anymore; you’ve got several,” said Riltana.
Kasdrian’s mouth stretched into a pointy-toothed predator’s grin. “Many have sought to reunite the paintings, for their own reasons. Oghma wishes to release his captured offspring. Others merely desire to learn the lore held by each Whispering Child. I … well,
“Yeah, I doubt you’ve ever questioned any of these for your own benefit,” said Chant, sounding jealous.
