A Thread in the Tangle (52 page)

“That’s ridiculous, Marsais.
 
I’m far too—how did you put it in Coven—
slight
.”

“I was attempting to be optimistic.
 
And you may think it ridiculous, but if you’re a man, your figure is exceptionally nice to look at.”

Isiilde twisted around, trying to catch a glimpse of that portion of her anatomy.
 
“I thought they were staring at my funny ears.”

“If they are, it’s not because they are funny.
 
You have lovely ears.”

Unshed tears shimmered in her eyes.
 
“Thank you,” she whispered before continuing along her intended path.

She will not think so well of me tomorrow
, he thought grimly.
 
A moment later, Marsais ran into his apprentice whose feet had faltered once again.
 
She stumbled forward, and he nearly reached out to steady her, but brought himself up short, tucking his hands into his sleeves instead.

“You should keep walking, my dear.”

“Are you staring at my backside?”

“No,” he replied curtly.
 
She narrowed her eyes at him, but said nothing more.

Isiilde was silent for the remainder of their journey, winding through hallways and stairwells in thoughtful contemplation.
 
When she recommended the armory, he had assumed that she was referring to the actual armory located in the barracks wing (in which she was not allowed), however, as he soon discovered, this was not the case.
 
She led him to a long chamber that displayed suits of armor: a library of warfare.

The Isle had amassed quite a collection of rare pieces.
 
The assorted hues and materials gleamed eerily beneath torches of everlight set in sconces along the wall.
 
Marsais felt a king inspecting his troops who stood at attention in a crisp line.

“Why aren’t you allowed in here?” he asked, surveying the chamber.

“The Seneschal kicked me out last year.”
 
She didn’t seem inclined to explain the details so he thought it best not to ask.

“Do you have those teeth?”

 
Her ears wilted.
 
“I left them in the Relic Hall.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t have had time to retrieve them.
 
Very wise of you.”

Isiilde brightened and slipped her hand into one of her trouser pockets, working her fingers into the tight fitting space, until she produced a blood caked molar.

“Thedus gave this to me,” she explained, dropping it into his palm.
 
Marsais studied the tooth with a wary eye as she cleaned her hands on his robe.

“Hmm.”

“Do I have to be careful of Thedus?”

“You should be careful of every man.
 
However, I doubt Thedus realizes he’s still attached to his body,” he mused.
 
After determining that it was nothing more than a harmless tooth, he placed it on the floor while Isiilde tried to wrap her mind around his comment.

Marsais stepped beside a suit of Kilnish steel.
 
Blued and bristling, it resembled a rhinoceros, replete with a horn protruding from the visored helm.
 
He thought the armor quite ridiculous.

The air rippled, drawing Marsais’ attention away from the armor.
 
A horde of soldiers in crimson and black livery snapped into view, battling amongst themselves, soaking the floor with their blood and bowels.
 
The tide of carnage ebbed over the floor, filling the chamber with screams and howls.
 
Marsais blinked.
 
Time shifted and all was quiet.

Not even an echo lingered.
 
The hall stood empty and the nymph stood staring up at him.

“O, hello, my dear.” Marsais smiled, pleased to see her lovely face instead of men being disemboweled.

“Are you all right?”
 
Her lilting voice soothed his mind.

His gaze settled on the lone tooth in the center of the floor.
 
“Ah yes, the Imp.”

“How are you going to catch him?”

“I’m not.”

“But I don’t think he can be killed,” she pointed out, studying the bristling set of armor.

“Then you would be correct.
 
Why else would I bind an Imp to a flagon?”

Isiilde squeaked in pain as she poked her finger on a spike.
 
He hoped someone had had sense enough to remove the poison before putting the armor on display.
 
She sucked on her wounded finger, glaring up at him as if he were the cause of her discomfort.

“Marsais,” she seethed.
 
He cast about in alarm.
 
“You said you didn’t know what was in the flagon!
 
That’s why I opened it.
 
I couldn’t stop wondering what was in there.”

“That’s very understandable.
 
Faerie have an insatiable curiosity,” he mused.

“Why didn’t you tell me then?”
 
The nymph crossed her arms, which drew attention to the supple curve of her breasts.
 
Marsais winced, closing his eyes briefly, silently wishing that another vision would distract him.
 
However, none came, so he looked everywhere, except at her.

“I had forgotten about the little fiend, which brings me to another dilemma.
 
I can’t remember the Imp’s name.”

“Why do you need its name?”

“We’re not here to recapture him.
 
I have something else in mind.”

“Which is?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”
 
The nymph bristled, her emerald eyes flashed, and he could not help but look at her then.
 
By the gods, she was breathtaking when she was angry.

“Does it have to do with the emissaries who arrived earlier today?”

“No,” he replied curtly and began pacing before she could ask another question.
 
“I think it starts with a
B
.”

“What?”

“The Imps name.
 
Do try to pay attention, my dear.
 
I need to remember it before he shows up.”

“How about Bjorn, Bolvine, Bazrin—” she began.

“No, no, Imps aren’t noble by nature.
 
They usually have ridiculous names such as Blimp or Bip.”

Isiilde pondered this for a moment, and then launched into a sing-song stream of names which began with
B
.
 
Marsais listened with half an ear and much amusement while he searched his faulty memory, trying to recall when he had bound the little devil.
 
Where had it been?
 
Somewhere in the Bastardlands, terrorizing a village, long before he had Oenghus as an apprentice, over eight hundred years ago.

He stopped to regard his current apprentice, who was still busy listing a myriad of mostly made up names, while she studied her backside in the gleaming surface of a greave.
 
His attention was drawn elsewhere when he noticed the Imp crouching over the tooth.
 
The currents shifted, time rippled, and a heartbeat later it vanished.

“Isiilde, our little friend is coming.”
 
She blushed in surprise, abandoning her inspection.

The Archlord took up a position beside the armor stand of Kilnish plate mail, clasping his elegant hands loosely behind his back.
 
Isiilde took cover behind him, poking her head back around with searching eyes.
 
Scant minutes passed, yet he still couldn’t recall the name.
 
His redheaded companion soon became fidgety and began prodding the suit of armor, sniffing distastefully at the breastplate.

“Marsais?” she whispered, sliding her hand into the dangling gauntlet.

“Hmm.”

“Have you ever been in a battle?”

“Yes,” he replied, softly.
 
A surprised face with wide eyes poked around to stare up at him.
 
“Did you wear one of these?”
 
She wiggled her fingers in the gauntlet, steel scraping on steel.

“My thin frame was never intended for such casing.”
 
He arched a brow down at her.
 
“Why do you ask?”

“They are like monsters waiting for a spirit to enter them.”
 
She snatched her hand from the metal, inching closer to him.
 
He could feel her trembling.
 
“I don’t think the man who died in this ever left.”

Further questioning on this remarkable bit of insight was cut short when a little greasy creature came skipping in.

“Have you remembered?” she whispered.
 
He gave a slight shake of his head.

With nary a hint of hesitation, the Imp skipped up to the molar, plucked it from the ground, and began performing a maniacal dance of glee.

Blast it, what in the Nine Halls was its name?
 
Prize in hand, the Imp had no further interest in the musty old chamber, and turned to leave.
 
Marsais irritably muttered the Lore with deft, weaving fingers, and with a careless flick of his hand, the doors slammed shut, sealing the Imp inside.

The Imp straightened in alarm, bolting instantly into the air, heading for a shuttered window set high on the wall.

“Isiilde, go distract him.”

“What?”
 
She looked up at him as if he weren’t already insane.

“Imps love faerie; keep him occupied,” Marsais said, waving a languid hand towards the Imp who finally caught sight of the pair and began chattering angrily.

His apprentice took a few timid steps towards the center of the chamber, glancing nervously at the flapping Imp overhead.
 
It screeched, whipped its tail, and flew straight for her.
 
She threw up her arms and ducked.

Marsais grabbed the spiked helm off its stand and hurled it at the fiend.
 
The helm dealt the Imp a glancing blow to the wing before it could finish its swooping attack.
 
The creature spiraled out of control, skidding along the stone floor.
 
When it recovered, it zipped straight for Isiilde.
 
She retreated in panic and promptly tripped, falling.

“Luccub!”
 
Marsais snapped his fingers in triumph and the Imp froze, scampering a few steps on the stone.
 
Isiilde scurried behind her master and climbed to her feet.

“Stay where you are,” Marsais commanded in the Abyssal tongue, “or I will put you back in this flagon without your collection of teeth.”
 
The Imp’s beady eyes flashed with threat.

“Don’t you dare try it, Luccub,” he warned.
 
“I have a simple task for you.
 
You’ll enjoy it, and what is more, you can steal all the teeth you desire.”
 
The Imp straightened with a flutter of wings, tail swishing back and forth in consideration before it relented, listening intently.

By nature, Imps were cunning creatures—when they felt like it.
 
As Marsais explained what he required, the Imp barred its misshapen teeth, clearly offended by the underuse of its talents.
 
For a fiend who could not be killed by usual means, sneaking into Thario’s private estate offered very little challenge.
 
But Marsais needed to be sure his conclusions were correct before taking further action on the traitorous Wise One (or soon to be at any rate).
 
A delicate touch was called for, one of risk and timing.
 
A show of strength too soon could prove disastrous.

Marsais dismissed Luccub, who flapped gleefully out, and turned to find a very agitated nymph glaring up at him.

“What?”
 
He snatched the helm turned missile from the ground and set it carefully back on its stand.

“You said his name started with a
B
,” Isiilde explained, slowly.
 
“Luccub does not start with a
B
.”

“How very perceptive of you.”

“So you’re not going to tell me what all that was about?”

“Perhaps you should learn Abyssal,” he suggested.
 
She frowned, spun around, and stalked away.
 
Marsais found himself watching her departing form, admiring the hypnotic sway of her hips before he realized what he was doing and shook the vision from his mind.

After two thousand years,
one would think I’d be immune,
he thought irritably.

“Isiilde,” he called, hurrying after her.
 
She stopped and waited for him to catch up.
 
“I’m not going to tell you because it’s dangerous.”

“It has to do with Tharios,” she stated.

“Correct, but the less you know the better.”

“You discovered what you thought he found.”

“Hmm.”

“And now you’ve sent the Imp to investigate?”