The Nether Scroll (18 page)

"You have my word."

That was all Rozt'a wanted from him. She ate her supper, shook sense into Tiep, then
settled in her own blankets, her back toward the fire and, especially, Druhallen. Even
Sheemzher noticed.

"Good woman angry with good sir." A statement, not a question.

Dru grunted. He didn't want to talk to a goblin but, the way his luck had been going,
conversation was inevitable. The dog-face creature wouldn't hear silence. He asked ques-
tions about the Heartland cities, about magic, about love. In desperation, Druhallen took
control with questions of his own.

"If you were one of Ghistpok's goblins at Dekanter, how did you wind up with Lady
Wyndyfarh in Weathercote Wood?"

"Long story, good sir."

"I'm not going anywhere," Dru gestured at the cave entrance where rain and runoff created
a waterfall.

He began: "Sheemzher brave. Sheemzher bold. Sheemzher warrior! Sheemzher make
proud mothers, sisters, brothers. Sheemzher make all blood, all people proud."

Dru suppressed a sigh. The goblin's way of speaking would make the tale longer than
necessary, but a tale did slowly emerge.

Sheemzher had been born to privilege, such as it was, among Dekanter's goblins.
Ghistpok hadn't claimed him as a son, but another elder had. As a child, he'd eaten regularly
and learned how to fight. As best as Druhallen could discern, eating and fighting were a male
goblin's third and fourth favorite activities. The top two pastimes were acquiring females and
children. Sheemzher had done well there, too.

For services rendered, Ghistpok had given Sheemzher a daughter and Sheemzher had
begotten himself six youngsters in four years.

"Elva good woman," the goblin said of his wife. "Twins twice. Very good woman. Not
clever—" he clenched his hands into a single fist, a meaningful gesture, apparently, among goblins,
but lost on Druhallen—"Elva very good woman. Sheemzher important man when Ghistpok die,
Sheemzher elder. Sheemzher help choose Ghistpok. With good woman Elva, Sheemzher someday
maybe Ghistpok. Maybe. Sheemzher hope then, not now." He lowered his head, the very image of
sadness.

Druhallen asked, "What happened to your wife?"

Sheemzher spat out a word then translated it: "Takers. Take people. Take Elva. Never
more seen."

"Your wife was caught by slavers and taken away from Dekanter?" Amarandaris had
insisted that Ghistpok sold his own children, though, in Elva's case, the Ghistpok who sold
her probably wasn't the one who fathered her.

Sheemzher shook his head vigorously. "Takers ... demons ... from below. Never see,
only take. Long ago Ghistpok say: 'Beast Lord protect all people from Takers.' Beast Lord
say, 'Each and all people make worship.' Ghistpok promise, 'People make worship.' People
worship Beast Lord then, now. Beast Lord protect people. Sometime Beast Lord sleep, not
protect people. Takers come. Take people. Take Elva."

Druhallen steepled his hands and stared into the fire. Amarandaris had said, Things
started changing about seven years ago. How old was Sheemzher? Goblins weren't long-
lived, thirty or forty years, at the most. Had Sheemzher been at Dekanter when the changes
came? Had he lost his wife to them?

"Have you ever seen the Beast Lord, Sheemzher?" he asked.

The goblin shook his head. "Ghistpok see Beast Lord. Ghistpok only. People worship
Beast Lord. People drink wine, much wine. People not see anything. People happy."
Sheemzher's expression contradicted his words. "Sheemzher happy. Sheemzher drink much,
much wine. Too much wine. Sheemzher head big." He pressed his palms against his
temples. "Bigger inside. Sheemzher think, Sheemzher never more drink wine. Sheemzher
dance, yes. Sheemzher sing, yes. Sheemzher keep promise. Sheemzher never more drink
wine. Sheemzher pretending drink wine."

Dru clapped the goblin on the shoulder. "Sheemzher is clever. I know too many men who
can't keep that promise."

The goblin shook his head sadly. "Sheemzher not clever. Come one time, next time,
Sheemzher pretending. All people fall down. Sheemzher pretending fall down. Elva fall down
beside Sheemzher; Elva not pretending. Elva stand up. Elva walk away. Sheemzher stand
up. Sheemzher follow." He looked up into Druhallen's eyes. "Bad, good sir. Bad. Bad. Bad.
Sheemzher remember. Sheemzher not want remember."

With Druhallen's gentle prodding, the goblin described how he followed his wife and
several other goblins underground. His wife and the others never recovered their wits.
Mindless, they joined a colony of equally unresponsive goblins who served the Takers. Brave
and bold warrior that he was, Sheemzher planned to rescue his wife, but before he came up
with a plan it was too late. The Takers took Elva again, this time to an underground chamber
with an egg in it.

"Egg big—" Sheemzher shaped the largest oval his arms could manage in the air between himself
and Druhallen. "Elva here." He indicated the bottom portion of the oval. "Mantis here." He indicated
the top. "Doors close... bang... bang ... bang! Sheemzher hide. Sheemzher scared. Come lightning
under Dekanter. Sheemzher think Sheemzher never more scared then doors open ... bang ... bang . ..
bang! Elva gone. Mantis gone. Demon come ... Taker."

"Then I was right—someone—the Beast Lord—is transforming the Dekanter goblins, changing
them into the creatures you've been calling demons. When did this happen, Sheemzher? When did—?"

The goblin couldn't contain himself. "No," he insisted. "No. Never. Taker. Taker demon,
not Beast Lord. Beast Lord not demon. Takers take Elva. Elva inside egg. Elva gone. Demon
come—not Elva. Not. Not. Not! Elva gone. Elva not demon. Beast Lord not Taker."

The truth, which Druhallen could see so clearly, wasn't worth the argument. "How does
Lady Wyndyfarh fit in?" he asked, though he was pretty sure he knew.

"Sheemzher find more mantis in box. Many mantis. One mantis say: Take me to Lady
Wyndyfarh. Take me to Weathercote Wood. Sheemzher take. Good lady listen Sheemzher.
Good lady listen mantis. Good lady say: Stay with me Sheemzher and I will give you
vengeance. It is too late to save Elva, but together we will save your children from the
Takers."

"And us? My friends and I?"

"Good lady not leave forest very far. Greater lady not allow. Good lady obey greater lady,
yes. Dekanter far, too far. Good lady not go Dekanter. Good lady say, good men will come in
due time, Sheemzher. You must wait for them in the village and after they come, lead them to
me. Sheemzher say, how know good men? Good lady say, you'll know him by what he does.
Sheemzher wait six years. Six years too long. Sheemzher children grown. Six years make
Sheemzher very much wiser. Sheemzher learn read. Sheemzher learn write. Sheemzher
learn listen. Parnast little—all talk, Sheemzher listen. Zhentarim know good sir come. Zhentarim
know why. Sheemzher listen. Sheemzher alone. Sheemzher not sure. Good sir save child; Sheemzher
sure. Sheemzher very much sure, yes?"

"It couldn't have been planned," Dru muttered, thinking of the chicken coop. "All this
because of an accident—the right place at the right time, or the wrong place and the wrong time."

Sheemzher shook his head solemnly. "Not accident. Good lady say, good men will come.
Good lady never wrong."

"Then your lady shouldn't have mind-locked Galimer!" Druhallen said abruptly.

"Sheemzher sorry. Sheemzher very much sorry. Gold-hair man good man. Sheemzher
wish gold-hair man here."

"But not Tiep, right? He sees through magic; he saw through you and your lady. What
went on between you two in Weathercote after we killed the reaver? I've heard his side. He
thinks you've arranged everything. Exactly how much did you set up?" Calling Sheemzher
clever was neither a lie nor an exaggeration. Beneath the garbled language was a mind as
devious as any man's.

The goblin made his double-fist gesture again. "Dekanter no place for that one. Dekanter
bad place for that one. Sheemzher think, that one not come Dekanter. That one stay
Weathercote. Good lady help that one, teach that one. Sheemzher make mistake. Gold-
haired man come between that one, good lady. Sheemzher very sorry. Sheemzher sorry for
gold-hair man. Sheemzher sorry for good sir, good woman. Sheemzher sorry for
Sheemzher."

"If you'd been honest—" Dru stopped himself. Cut was cut and they were days beyond useful
hindsight. "This scroll we're supposed to bring back to Wyndyfarh, where does it fit in?"

"Egg top, good sir."

"What?"

"Egg top, good sir." Sheemzher patted his scalp. "Gold scroll fit egg top. Gold scroll eat
Elva, children. Demons come ... Takers."

Dru covered his eyes and swore. He couldn't imagine what part of a wound sheet of
Netherese gold might have played in the transformation of Sheemzher's family, but he could
imagine the egg. Alchemists used such devices to transmute elements and called the devices
athanors. The few Druhallen had seen were small, no bigger than a skull, and required the
might of more fire spells than he could cast in a week before they'd kindle. A mage would
need to harness the sun or the sea tide to power an athanor large enough to transmute a
goblin. The sun, the sea tide, or the forbidden magic of Netheril.

And he, Druhallen of Sunderath, had to pit himself successfully against such a mage if
Galimer were going to walk out of Weathercote Wood.

He swore again.

Child-sized fingers touched his. "Sheemzher help. Sheemzher wait six years. Sheemzher
plan. Sheemzher ready."

Druhallen successfully resisted the impulse to smash helpful Sheemzher against the cave
walls. "Leave me alone now," he said stiffly. "I haven't had six years."

"Sheemzher understand." The goblin made his double-fist gesture as he backed away.
"Good sir make plan. Sheemzher keep watch, yes?"

Not a chance. "I'm keeping the watch, Sheemzher. You curl up and get some sleep."
The goblin did as told, at least as far as huddling up under a blanket and staying put. Dru
opened his folding box. He ran his fingers over the inscribed partitions. So much depended
on choosing the right spells to study each night and he hadn't been doing a particularly good
job of balancing offense, defense, and maintenance these last few days. Should he assume
the worst and commit his mind to fire?

His thoughts wandered away from an answer to Galimer and a huge white egg with a gold
scroll rising from it. The rain eased, stopped. Looking through the cave's entrance, Dru
thought he saw a star.

Did that make fire more attractive or less?

Dru sat with his box open when Rozt'a cast her blankets aside. She awakened Tiep—with
all his worrying about tomorrow's magic, Dru had forgotten to wake the youth—and stared hard at the
goblin, whose snoring rhythm held steady under observation, before joining Druhallen near the cave's
entrance.

"I heard you talking to Sheemzher," she began without the edge and irritation that had
marked her earlier conversation. "If this golden scroll is truly surrounded by demons, we're
doomed."

"Wyndyfarh wants the golden scroll, not a demon's heart. And she thinks we've got a good
chance to grab it."

Rozt'a sat cross-legged on the stone. "Whatever makes you think that?"

"You trusted her. Twice."

"Gods protect us!" Rozt'a snorted. They both looked toward their sleeping companions,
lest the impolite sound had awakened them. "I've been wrong many times, and this might
really be one of them."

"You're right about people—"

"That woman's not people. I don't know what she is, but she's not human."

"She kept Galimer."

Rozt'a retorted, "That's a token in favor of humanity and trustworthiness?"

"In a way. I don't think Wyndyfarh ever intended to keep Tiep. She'd proved he was a thief.
She'd looked in our minds, knew how we'd feel about that. She couldn't be sure we'd come
back for him after we had the scroll. Think of it—beyond the value of the gold, which is surely
great—there's the value of what's written on the gold. There's a legend—I've heard twenty versions if
I've heard one—that says the Netheril Empire was born when someone known as the Finder found the
twice-fifty scrolls of magic—all the magic that ever was or will be."

"Don't tell me—the Takers took the scrolls from the Finder who found them."

Druhallen sighed. Rozt'a would never be either a wizard or a poet.

"I don't think there's a connection. The scrolls disappeared long before the Empire fell.
What did she say—The Beast Lord was a nuisance until he found the scroll?" Dru closed his eyes,
but concentration couldn't resurrect Wyndyfarh's exact words. "It's something to think about. She had
to give her thieves the strongest possible incentive to bring her the scroll rather than keep it for
themselves. Though I'm sure she mentioned the Beast Lord and didn't mention Takers or demons—
Not that it matters who's got the scroll, who we steal it from or how, so long as we bring it to her in
Weathercote Wood."

"The price of a man's life measured in gold and magic," Rozt'a mused, staring past Dru at
the dying fire. "He'd have to be a special man."

"He is," Dru insisted quickly. Rozt'a said nothing for several moments, leaving Dru to
wonder if he'd misread her completely. "You wouldn't—You don't—You two, you're still—?"

She took a while to draw a breath and sigh before saying, "We're none of us easy-
keepers, Dru. He's Galimer Longfingers and nothing's turned out the way he hoped it would,
but, yes, I love him—if that's the question you're asking. I want him back; I want him back from
her. There's not enough gold or magic in the world to make me change my mind about that."

"You're twice the woman Wyndyfarh is, Roz."

It seemed, at last, that he'd said the right thing. Rozt'a leaned back against the cave wall
and relaxed. Moments passed. Dru should have gone to his blankets, but he stayed put,
savoring peace and quiet with an old friend. His mind was drifting when Rozt'a asked a
question.