Dragonlance 08 - Dragons of the Highlord Skies (5 page)

Kitiara stared at Ariakas, incredulous. “That is enemy territory, my lord!”

“A dangerous mission, Kit,” Ariakas said imperturbably. “The reason I chose you.”

Kitiara had the feeling there were other reasons as well. Up until a few moments ago, he had planned on sending Iolanthe to Solamnia. Ariakas was not one to act on impulse. He had a good reason for making the switch. Kitiara wondered uneasily what it was. Had she given herself away? Did he guess she had been planning to disobey him and attack the Tower? She thought back to her words, her actions, and decided she had not. No, he must simply be annoyed at her for pressing him on the issue of the High Clerist’s Tower.

Their business concluded, Kitiara took her leave. The two parted, apparently on the best of terms.

“One thing I like about you, Kitiara,” Ariakas said to her as she was walking to the door. “You take defeat like a man. No sulking or pouting just because you don’t get your way. Keep me apprised of your progress.”

Kitiara was so absorbed in her thoughts when she left that she did not see the door to another room open a crack, nor did she see the bright violet eyes, touched with kohl and shadowed by long dark lashes, watching her.

Kit retrieved her sword and her boot knife from the ogres. Unlike Grag, her hands did not shake as she buckled on her sword belt, but she felt a similar sense of relief. Few left Ariakas’s presence alive without feeling relieved.

“Need the location of the nearest bar?” asked the ogre handing over her sword.

“Thanks, I already know it,” said Kitiara.

3

The Inn of the Broken Shield.

Silver magic.

olanthe waited until she saw Kitiara walking down the street, then returned to Ariakas.

He was seated at his desk, writing the promised dispatch. Iolanthe went over to him, put her hands on his broad shoulders and rubbed his neck.

“I could send for your scribe to do that, my lord—” “The fewer people who know of this, the better,” said Ariakas. He wrote rapidly in large block letters, so that there would be no mistaking his words.

Iolanthe, looking over his shoulder, saw that he was writing about the dragon orb.

“Why the change in plans, my lord?” Iolanthe asked. “Why send the Highlord to Solamnia and not me? We had this all arranged …”

“As I told Kitiara, she is better suited to the mission. She already has a plan in mind.”

“I have a feeling there is another reason, my lord.” Iolanthe slid her arms beneath his leather armor, ran her hands over his bare chest. He continued writing.

“The Highlord was concocting some scheme to countermand my orders and attack the High Clerist’s Tower.”

Iolanthe bent closer, so that her hair fell around him, and he could smell her perfume.

“What else?” she said softly.

“She gave in too quickly, especially when I mentioned sending her to Haven. She is keeping something from me,” said Ariakas. His voice had gone hard and grating.

“We all have secrets, my lord,” said Iolanthe, kissing his ear.

“I want to know hers.”

“This can be done,” said Iolanthe.

“She must not suspect.”

“That will be more difficult.” Iolanthe thought a moment. “There is a way, but I must have access to her quarters. What barracks is she in?”

“Kitiara in the barracks?” Ariakas chuckled at the thought. “Sleep on a cot when there’s a comfortable inn in town? I’ll find out for you.”

He took hold of Iolanthe’s wrists, his grip hard, bruising, and with a sudden jerk, he dragged her off her feet and threw her down on the desk in front of him. He bent over her, pinning her arms.

“You do good work for me, Iolanthe.”

She gazed limpidly at him, smiling, her lips parted. He pressed himself against her, his hands fumbling beneath her skirt.

“It is my pleasure, my lord,” sighed Iolanthe.

Once she had finished her business with Ariakas, Iolanthe rearranged her robes and wrapped a shapeless black cloak around her shoulders, pulling the hood over her head. Runes stitched with golden thread on the cloak proclaimed her a magic-user and were meant to serve as a warning to any who might try to molest her. The streets of Neraka were narrow, vile, filthy, and dangerous. The Dark Queen’s soldiers ran the city, feeling free to take anything or anyone they wanted, and because Ariakas promoted rivalry between the various commanders, the troops were constantly getting into fights. Their commanders might or might not decide to break it up.

In addition, the devoted followers of Hiddukel, the God of Thieves, were always on hand to welcome visitors and pilgrims to the Dark Queen’s temple, piously relieving them of any burdens, such as their purses. Criminals of all sorts could find safe haven in Neraka, at least until bounty hunters tracked them down.

Still, despite its lawless nature, Neraka was prosperous and thriving. The war was going well and her people were on the winning side. Spoils of victory poured into the city. The pawn shops were filled with gold and jewels, silverware and crystal, paintings and furniture looted from the conquered lands of Silvanesti, Qualinesti, Abanasinia, and eastern Solamnia. Human and elf slaves filled the slave markets and such was their quality that buyers came from as far away as Flotsam on the other side of the continent.

One entire street in Neraka was given over to shops trafficking in stolen magical artifacts, books and scrolls and potions. Many of these were fake, so one had to know what one was doing when shopping. A potion sold with the guarantee of a good night’s sleep might mean one would never wake up. Holy artifacts were more difficult to come by. A person in the market for those had to go to the Dark Queen’s Temple, and entrance into the walled Inner City was limited to those who had business there and could prove it. Since the Temple was a forbidding place and the dark priests, Takhisis’s servants, were not disposed to welcome visitors, the traffic in holy artifacts was not a brisk one.

Iolanthe made her home in Wizard’s Row, a street of shops and dwellings located outside the Temple walls. A relative newcomer to Neraka, Iolanthe had taken a small apartment above a mageware shop. Housing was difficult to find in Neraka, and she paid an extravagant amount for three small rooms. Still, she did not complain. She considered she was lucky to have a home at all. The city was so crowded that many were forced to sleep in the streets or cram together six to a room in squalid tenements.

The daughter of a well-to-do family in Khur, the fifteen-year-old Iolanthe had disgraced the family by refusing to marry the forty-year-old man they had chosen for her. When they sought to force her into the marriage, she stole the money and jewels that were to have been her dowry and ran away to the capital city of Khuri-Khan. Needing some way to make a living, she paid an itinerant wizard to teach her magic.

Eventually, her betrothed tracked her down and tried to force her to marry him by raping her. Iolanthe killed the man, but unfortunately she neglected to kill his servant, who ran back to tell the family, who vowed revenge. Iolanthe was now embroiled in a blood feud. Her life in Khur was worth nothing.

Her wizard teacher sought permission for her to find safe haven in the Tower of Wayreth, and she was accepted as a pupil by the famous wizardess, Ladonna. Iolanthe proved herself an apt student.

Iolanthe took the dread Test in the Tower of High Sorcery at the age of twenty-six, emerging shaken but unscarred to be confirmed as a Black Robe. Finding life studying magic in the Tower to be unprofitable and boring, Iolanthe searched about for a place where she could plant the seed of her ambition. The filth and squalor of Neraka provided fertile ground.

Wizards were not welcomed with loving arms by the clerics of the Dark Queen, and thus, upon first arriving in Neraka, Iolanthe found herself on the verge of starving. She made money dancing the exotic dances of her people in one of the taverns, and there she was fortunate enough to attract the attention of Lord Ariakas. He took her to his bed that same night, and when he found out she was a mage, he employed her as his own personal witch. Iolanthe’s seed was planted and where once she would have been pleased with only a small tree, she now envisioned a veritable forest.

As she left the Blue Quarter behind her, walking toward Wizard Row, a hobgoblin soldier, whose intake of rot-gut liquor had apparently impaired his vision, grabbed hold of her, breathed his foul breath on her, and tried to kiss her. Iolanthe spoke a word of magic and she had the satisfaction of seeing all his hair stand straight up, his eyeballs bulge, and his big body vibrate from the jolt. The hobgoblin’s companions hooted with laughter as he collapsed, twitching, into the mud.

Iolanthe reached her door without further incident. Removing the wizard lock, she entered her small quarters and went immediately to the library. She searched through her books until she found the one she needed:
Spells of Scrying and Far Sight with Particular Emphasis on the Proper Use of Spell Components
. Sitting down at her desk, she began to flip through the pages, searching for a spell. Those she found were far too difficult for her to cast or required rare components that she would not be able to acquire in time. She was starting to grow discouraged, but then, at last, she found one that would suit. There was some risk involved, but Iolanthe decided the ability to gain ascendancy over Kitiara uth Matar would be worth a little danger to herself.

Iolanthe descended the dark and narrow staircase that led from her apartment to the mageware shop below. She found the wizened old man who was the owner perched upon his stool behind his counter, drinking tarbean tea and watching the people passing in the street outside his window.

The old man’s name was Snaggle and he was a half-breed, though he was so dried-up and wrinkled that it was impossible to tell what the two halves were. He claimed he was
not
a wizard, though he was so knowledgeable in the arcane arts that Iolanthe privately doubted this. He was known for the quality of his merchandise. No need to be concerned about purchasing lamb’s blood that had been sitting on the shelf for three months, or crow feathers masquerading as raven quills. Snaggle had a knack for acquiring rare and precious artifacts, and the emperor himself made frequent visits to the mageware shop to see what new items might have come in.

Snaggle was Iolanthe’s friend and also her landlord, since she rented her apartment from him. He greeted her with a toothless grin and an offer of tarbean tea, something he did only for favored clients.

“Thank you, my friend,” Iolanthe said with a smile. She truly liked the old man and the feeling was mutual. She accepted the tea, sipping it daintily.

“I am looking for a knife,” she said.

The mageware shop was very neat and tidy, unusual in the business. Most such shops tended to resemble magpie nests. All Snaggle’s wares were stored in labeled bins and boxes stacked neatly one atop the other on shelves that went floor to ceiling. Nothing was on display or out in plain sight. The boxes were kept behind the long counter that ran the length of the shop. No customer was allowed behind the counter. The old man enforced this rule with a strange-looking staff said to possess lethal powers.

A customer would tell Snaggle what he or she needed. Snaggle would leave his stool and his tea and fetch the appropriate box, each labeled by a code known only to Snaggle.

“What sort of knife?” the old man asked Iolanthe. “Knife for protection, knife for dicing and chopping components, knife for conducting ritual sacrifices—”

“A knife for scrying,” she said, and she explained the use.

Snaggle thought a moment, his brow furrowed, then, leaving his stool, he took hold of a ladder that ran on wheels along the floor, rolled it over to the correct shelf, and climbed nimbly about halfway up. He pulled out a box, brought it down to the counter, and opened the lid.

An array of knives were neatly arranged inside. Some of the knives were silver, some gold, some steel. Some were large, some small. Some had jeweled handles; some were plain. All had runes inscribed on the blades.

“This one is very nice,” said Snaggle. He plucked out a gold knife adorned with diamonds and emeralds on the hilt.

“But very much out of my price range,” said Iolanthe, “and it is too big and clumsy and made of gold. I have an affinity for silver.”

“True,” the old man said. “I had forgotten.” He saw her gaze go to one slender blade near the back and he was quick to respond. “Ah, you have the eye, Iolanthe. This one is like yourself—delicate in appearance, but quite powerful.”

He drew out the knife and placed it in Iolanthe’s hand. The hilt was silver and simply made, banded with mother-of-pearl in a crisscross design. The blade was sharp. The runes etched on it were intricate as spider web. She hefted the knife. It was lightweight and fitted her hand.

“Easily concealed,” said Snaggle. “How much?” Iolanthe asked.

He named a price and she accepted. The two never haggled. She knew that he would offer her his lowest price at the outset, and he knew that she was an astute buyer who would not pay a copper more than what an object was worth.

“You will need cedar to burn,” he said, as she tucked the knife up her tight-fitting sleeve.

“I will?” Iolanthe glanced up at him, surprised. “The instructions to the spell didn’t say so.”

“Trust me,” said Snaggle. “Cedar works best. Half a moment while I put this away.”

He shut the lid on the box of knives, climbed up the ladder, replaced the box, then propelled himself on the ladder across the floor to another shelf. He opened a box, drew out some sticks of wood as long as his index finger, and hopped back down.

“And add a pinch of sea salt,” he added, as he tied the sticks together with a bit of string into a neat bundle.