Still, Lorcan was intelligent enough not to test them.
At the base of the stairs, there was a door made of bone, and crisscrossed with bindings of a sinew strong as steel. Lorcan laid his hand upon the seal in the center. It gave slightly and shivered at his touch before the sinews slithered out of their sockets and back toward the center, releasing the door.
Had Sairche known he was lying? he wondered. Bedding some tiefling was nothing, after all. An heir of Bryseis Kakistos was … well, nothing to most devils. But for collectors, Farideh would be priceless. If Sairche figured out who Farideh was, there were a fair number of devils in the Hells who would pay her dearly for the information.
They would still have to lure Farideh away, he thought as he passed rows of sharp and shining blades. And he’d been careful to make sure Farideh didn’t want to leave, even if someone explained how.
Assuming she was safe. Assuming he got rid of that inconvenient acolyte. Assuming he was right about what Farideh wanted anymore.
Lorcan grit his teeth. He shouldn’t be rattled by a warlock or by such a stupid question. He was the one who did the rattling-and as soon as the orc caught up to them, Farideh would be plenty rattled and in no mood to be pushing him and his pact away.
Perhaps he ought to have told the orc to leave Havilar be as well. After all, if anything should happen to Farideh, Havilar was his only possible replacement. Then again, he mused, if Havilar died, it made Farideh even more valuable.
He shook his head. It wasn’t his decision to make, anyway-Farideh would protect Havilar to her final breath. As long as Farideh had the tools to stop the orc from harming her, Havilar would be fine. And if Sairche turned out to be too much trouble after all, well, then she might as well have Havilar instead, and good luck to her.
“There,” he said, spotting the Rod of the Traitor’s Reprisal’s telltale quartz tip. “This one.”
CHAPTER SIX
Neverwinter 11 Kythorn, the Year of the Dark Circle (1478 DR)
The bells over the shop door tinkled as a blonde elf woman swept in. The shopkeeper, a man called Yvon Claven, nodded to her cheerfully. “A moment,” he called. Knowing Sekata, she wouldn’t care about the wait, but manners were manners.
“Now,” he said, turning back to his original customer, a young man with a scruffy beard, “I can have the straps mended in about four days, but I do think you’d be better served with a new brigandine. This one”-he gestured sadly at the rents in the heavy cloth where the metal plates were wearing through-“isn’t going to last much longer.”
The young man, one of many vying for a place among the city’s Mintarn defenders, sighed. “Much as I’d prefer it, I haven’t the coin. Just the straps, please.” He set down a small stack of silver coins, half the cost of the repair.
Poor lad, Yvon thought. Too many of them lately, lads and lasses come to Neverwinter to seek their fortunes, looking for adventure in the ancient city on the Sword Coast. Yvon-who had lived in Neverwinter all of his days and whose ancestors had lived there since well before the cataclysm that shook the City of Jewels to its very foundations-suspected they were largely overwhelmed with what they found in Neverwinter.
“You know, I’ve been thinking of hiring an assistant,” he said. “A guard for the door, and an extra body to stand at the counter when I have things to attend to in the back. Why don’t you come by in the morning and we’ll see if it suits you … what did you say your name was?”
The young man looked at him, surprised. “Kalam. And I will. Thank you.”
The door bells jingled again as the young man left. When the lad came back, Yvon thought, he’d have to pour him a cup of tea and discuss the lad’s options. Desperate straits made one ripe for a different path.
“All right, Sekata?” Yvon asked, as the elf woman set her basket of potions on the counter and started unloading them. The magical traces of her alliance made the air bristle even without Yvon looking for them. “Are you staying cool enough?”
The elf snorted. “In this heat? I’m lucky my potions haven’t all taken to boiling and popped their seals.”
Yvon chuckled and lifted one of the greenish vials up to the light streaming in through the window. “Well, they look well enough.” He’d been selling Sekata’s potions for years now-he trusted no one else.
Sekata took the last of them from her handbasket. “Have you heard,” she drawled, “who was thrown out of the Moonstone Mask last night?”
“I didn’t know
Sekata leaned in. “Creed.”
Yvon shook his head. “I ought to have guessed. What did the young idiot do?” He frowned. “It wasn’t-”
“No, no,” Sekata said. “Nothing like that. Only got a few cups past drunk and started a brawl.”
“That sounds average-”
“
“Oh dear.”
“Poor Creed,” Sekata agreed. “They look delicate, but Liset’s girls know what they’re doing. Got him begging for mercy before the bouncers hauled him out of there. He’s lucky they didn’t just throw him off the earthmote and let him land as he pleased on the rooftops.”
Yvon clucked his tongue. “Does Lector know, do you think?”
“By now? I can’t imagine he hasn’t figured it out and spent half the morning playing wise older brother.” Sekata paused. “Oh no, wait. He’s been in chambers with Mordai Vell all morning. It’s possible Creed’s slipped him by entirely.”
Yvon winced. “Ah. Do you suppose Vell’s still angry about the Glasyan incident?”
“Well, the defenders
“Methinks you’re just jealous you weren’t invited.”
“Yes,” Sekata said dryly, “I don’t get enough blood handling the sacrifices.”
Yvon smiled. “It’s not the same, and you know it.”
Sekata planted her hands on her hips. “The difference is a sacrifice very seldom has friends who are ready to start a street war over their deaths. At least Mordai Vell has the ounce of sense necessary to see antagonizing other cults is bound to come out badly.”
“Ah, not when you wipe them out completely. There’s something very pleasing about striking down Glasyans in particular. It’s the smugness they have that makes the difference. Goes right out of them with a sharp blade.” He patted his bald pate with a handkerchief. “Blasted heat. Anyhow, since when do you care about the Glasyans?”
“I don’t,” Sekata said. “I care about not being hauled out into the open by a bunch of overeager lads. I like my privacy, and I like not having to launder blood out of my everyday things. You two keep this up, and I’ll find another cell.”
Yvon chuckled. “I don’t think you need to worry. If Lector’s still in chambers, we’re definitely being told to quiet down.” He waved at the potions arrayed on the counter. “How much for the lot?”
“Thirty each for the healings, eight hundred for the two vitalities-if you want them-and for the cordials … let’s say fifty for the lot.”
“That’s a bit steeper than normal.”
Sekata shook her head. “The Lord Protector’s new tax collectors came to call. And unlike you, I don’t just kill people who irritate me.”
