Maiden of Pain (7 page)

"Is this true?" The man's hand dropped casually to the hilt of the short sword hanging in a leather scabbard at his side. "Are you a witch, as the girl claims?"

In a city were the arcane was forbidden, Iuna's charge had turned the situation from a childish prank into a potentially deadly encounter. From the man's arrogant bearing, he was obviously nobility, which meant he also probably thought he was invincible. Ythnel had learned how to interact with such people from her years at the manor.

"I apologize, milord," she began, bowing slightly at the waist. "The truth of the matter is that I am this girl's governess. I'm afraid she is not very happy with the arrangement and has been making every attempt to ruin me. I assure you I will see to it personally that she is severely punished for this display."

The nobleman nodded thoughtfully at this. Ythnel walked toward Iuna, hoping the matter finished and she could drag the girl off.

"She's lying," Iuna blurted. "My father bought her as a slave from Thay. Everybody knows that Thay is full of wizards."

"Halt!" At the command, Ythnel stopped, watching the nobleman from the corner of her eye. He circled her slowly, examining her from head to foot. "Your height, skin tone, and shaved head all mark you as Thayan. And the tattoo, is it not also a custom for wizards of that land to wear such decorations?"

"Many who are not wizards also bear such decorations, milord, so as not to stand out." Ythnel noted that the nobleman's hand was now firmly wrapped around his sword hilt.

"Regardless, I think it prudent that you be questioned further. In the name of House Karanok, I order you arrested. Guards, take her." The nobleman motioned, and Ythnel's attention was drawn to the several large, brutish men standing at the edge of the circle, acting as barriers between their lord and the Trade Center crowd. She cursed herself for not noticing them sooner, assuming they were just gawking bystanders.

Ythnel felt a presence behind her and spun inward to her left. With her right hand, she caught the outstretched wrist of the guard sneaking up on her, twisting it then thrusting down in a move she had learned from one of the many classes Sister Yenael taught on dealing pain. Driven to his knees, the man cried out as several bones in his wrist popped. Ythnel rammed her knee into his lower jaw, snapping his head back violently. The guard's eyes lost focus, and he collapsed to the ground with a thud.

Ythnel backed away, trying to keep the other brutes within her field of vision. There was no way she could take all of them. They easily outweighed her by a couple of hundred pounds each. If even one of them were to get hold of her, she would not have the strength to break free. Running was just as futile. The throng of spectators formed a tight, living wall that would surely slow her down enough for one of the thugs to grab her before she could break through. If only she were stronger, then she might stand a chance.

She could give herself that chance with magic.

Ythnel knew she could call on Loviatar for aid, tapping into the Power to enhance her own strength enough that she might be able to defeat the Karanok guards. She would be vulnerable, though, while she uttered the prayer and gave herself over to the divine energy flowing from her goddess in response to the petition. It was a risk she would take.

Yanking out the small scourge she wore under her dress, Ythnel began to chant. While there were no visible signs that anything was happening, she could feel the Power begin to flow into her. The sensation was different for everyone. Some handmaidens had told her it felt like being immersed in a bath of ice. A maiden visiting from Calimshan said it was a fire burning from the inside out. For Ythnel, her skin stung from a thousand tiny whips as the divine magic coursed through her. She wanted to cry out with joy and scream in agony.

"The witch is casting a spell! Stop her!" The nobleman's shout echoed in the recesses of Ythnel's mind. From somewhere beyond the pain, she registered the movement of the guards as they closed in, but she stayed focused on the symbol held out in front of her. Any distraction now, before the prayer was complete, and the Power would slip away.

"Iuna!" With a cry, Prisus burst from the crowd. The commotion drew Ythnel's attention, and as she turned to look, her concentration broke, severing the link to Loviatar. Then something smashed into the back of Ythnel's head, and darkness enveloped her.

The street was empty save for the light of the full moon shining down from a crisp and cloudless winter's night sky. Therescales stood in the shadows cast by a twstory building, his dark, hooded cloak aiding his thin frame to blend with the pools of blackness. Across the street lay his target, a large warehouse used by a local importer of exotic items to store his wares.

Satisfied no one else was around, Therescales intoned the Draconic words that accompanied the motions his hands were now making. With each syllable and sweep, his face began to change. The blond strands that barely covered his scalp became thick white curls. Skin that was once pulled tight over jaw and cheekbones now sagged and wrinkled.

Pockmarks appeared all over his beaklike nose, which flattened as the spell completed. In a matter of seconds, he was the spitting image of his mentor, the man who taught him this minor illusion.

Therescales picked the disguise not only for its irony, but because he never tired of the looks on the others' faces. It was like they had seen a ghost. Just the memory of their widened eyes and startled gasps brought a smirk to his lips as he crossed the street.

Stopping before the entrance, Therescales nervously played with the heavy gold ring on the middle finger of his right hand. He felt somewhat naked without his bracers and dagger, though the protection offered by the enchanted armbands would do him little good in this situation, and the weapon would only arouse suspicions. No, it was the shielding the ring provided that was important. Without it, his mind would be an open book to any with the means and desire to flip through its pages. Were that to happen, he would be as good as dead.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn't the first time he considered the consequences, but there was no turning back; he was already in too deep. Fortunately, the rewards promised should he succeed made the dangers an acceptable part of the bargain. Therescales opened the door and stepped into the warehouse.

The interior of the building had been partitioned off so that Therescales now stood in a lantern-lit showroom that was only a fraction of the warehouse's square footage. Shelves of dark wood lined the walls at various heights, and marble pedestals dotted the floor. Upon these were displayed crafts and trinkets from all across Faerun: ivory carvings by Cormyrean artisans, carpets from Tethyr, lamps of multicolored glass made in Neverwinter, Thayan artwork, and other items of less recognizable origin but certainly no less value. Therescales walked through the gallery, making a show of examining each and every piece. From the corner of his eye, he watched a small, balding man sorting through a pile of papers at a desk by a door in the far wall. He didn't recognize the clerk; it was always someone different, so that was hardly surprising. Therescales worked his way closer, getting to within a few arm's lengths of the desk, when the clerk finally finished his task and looked up.

"I'm sorry, but all sales are by appointment only." The man scowled. If Therescales had not seen his initial, startled reaction, he would have thought the clerk truly frustrated by the interruption.

"That's quite all right," Therescales replied confidently. "I was referred by a shadowy sage whose symbol is a black staff." He smiled and waited.

The clerk became still for a moment, and Therescales could practically hear the clockwork gears turning in his head. Recognition blossomed on the little man's face, and he walked over to the nearby door. He pulled a key from a pouch on his belt and inserted it into the doorknob. With a twist, the lock was undone, and the clerk pushed the door open.

"I hope you find what you're looking for."

Therescales quickly moved past the man and through the doorway. Beyond it waited the rest of the warehouse. The vast space was unlit save by moonbeams that fell through two skylights spaced evenly along the length of the roof. Crates and barrels stacked at various heights formed a maze of shadowy towers. Therescales gazed out into the mysterious landscape, suddenly hesitant. He gave a small jump as the door slammed shut behind him, taking with it the light that had spilled from the showroom. Once his eyes adjusted, he crept into the maze.

Silence blanketed the warehouse while Therescales searched for the mark that would identify his quarry. Even though much of the inventory had been rearranged since his last visit, he moved unerringly to the location mapped in his memory. Soon he stood before a large, seven-foot-high, rectangular crate. Dropping to a crouch, Therescales examined the bottom of the box. In the lower right-hand corner he found what he was looking for: a blue-white, eight-pointed star stamped on the wood.

With his eyes closed, Therescales reached forward, extending his arm beyond the point where the crate should have begun. He groped around the floor until his hand came into contact with cold metal. Gripping the metal tightly, he opened his eyes to see his arm cut off at the elbow by the side of the crate. Then the crate began to dissolve, leaving a wooden trapdoor in the warehouse floor and his hand wrapped around a metal ring bolted to the near edge of the wood.

A blast of warm air hit Therescales as he heaved the door open. Revealed in the soft red glow of some unseen light source was a flight of stairs leading down. Therescales descended, lowering the trapdoor behind himself.

At the base of the stairs, a narrow hall led a short distance to a pair of braziers standing waist high against a blank wall. Therescales grabbed a small pair of tongs that was hanging from a hook on a side of the brazier on the left. Using the tongs, he removed one of the glowing coals from the brazier. In the center of the wall, he used the coal to draw a Draconic sigil. Wherever the coal touched, it left a bright, burning mark in the wall. When he finished, Therescales replaced the tongs and moved back. The sigil flashed and was absorbed into the wall, leaving no trace it had ever been there. Therescales stood silently for a moment. His patience was rewarded as a thin line appeared on the wall a few inches from the ceiling. It stretched from the left brazier to the right then turned sharply and ran to the floor. Therescales stepped forward and gave a slight push, causing the section of wall to swing quietly inward.

Beyond the open portal lay the hidden library of the Mage Society. The square room was lined with shelves of books. Small orbs of blue-white light hovered at the ends of the shelves. There were several people in the library. Some browsed the collection of tomes, the orbs darting to their sides to provide a light over their shoulders. Others huddled in groups, talking in low voices. At Therescales' entrance, several of them looked in his direction and nodded in greeting. He frowned at the lack of startled expressions. Perhaps it was time to switch disguises. What would they think if he arrived looking like one of the Karanoks?

The wall closed behind Therescales, and he decided to take a seat in one of the vacant chairs nearby. Slumping in the low-backed, cushioned chair, he pressed his fingers together in a steeple and watched the room's occupants. Everyone used the Art to hide their features. With such a concentration of arcane energies, Therescales had always wondered how these society meetings had escaped detection. It wasn't until he became a full member that he learned a powerful abjuration had been cast over the building, masking magical auras and preventing attempts to divine the location.

So, rather than study faces, Therescales focused on mannerisms, cataloguing and storing them, trying to match them with people he had encountered before. Did the way that old crone batted her eyes when she laughed remind him of a certain young merchant's wife? Or was that one-eyed man in the corner tapping his chin in the same nervous habit Therescales had witnessed in the patriarch of a minor noble house?

A door opened in the wall to the right of where Therescales had entered, and three more figures emerged. All three wore hooded robes that shadowed their faces and long, flowing sleeves that covered their hands. The shiny black material reflected light from the orbs, creating a rippling effect across the voluminous garments as the three moved through the library.

"Brethren, let us begin," the lead figure announced in a gravelly voice obviously altered by magic. That would be Brother Hawk. The other two would be Brother Boar and Brother Crocodile, but the only way to tell them apart would be by their voices. The combination of cloaks and magic kept the identities of the Three secret.

Everyone fell in behind them as they crossed the library to another door opposite the secret entrance and into a grand, circular chamber. Murals depicting various uses of the Art covered the walls. A long oak table filled the center of the room; three miniature candelabras set atop it provided illumination. The society filed in, taking their places among the twenty chairs around the table. The Three sat at the head. Therescales noted that nearly half the chairs were empty.

Conversations died down, and everyone turned to face the Three.

"May Mystra guard us in our endeavors," Brother Hawk began. The rest echoed the mantra.

"May Azuth bless our efforts," the robed figure to the right continued in a voice unnaturally deep, identifying him as Brother Crocodile. Again, it was echoed by the assembly.

"May we bring magic back to Luthcheq," the figure on the left, who could only be Brother Boar, concluded in a thick slur that was somehow still intelligible, and the statement was repeated in unison by all. With the litany finished, Brother Hawk stood.

"It is good to see you all again, brethren. There is much to discuss this night. Luthcheq has come to a crossroads. I can feel it, and I know you can, too. There are pressures from too many directions—something is about to crack."

"Could be us," a man across the table from Therescales, with a bushy mustache that hid his mouth, said dryly. A few chuckles arose from others.