The Sorcerer (17 page)

A guard peered out from around the column behind which he had dived for cover, his sapphire eyes shining like blue stars in his dark face.

“Aris?” The wispy voice belonged to Amararl or Gelthez— Aris could never tell one Shadovar from another. “Are you all right?”

Aris nodded but continued to lean against the column.

“You’re sure?” This guard was bold enough to step over beside Aris’s knee and ask, “Do you need a keg of water?”

“No, I am well.” He flicked his free hand in the direction of the sun-and-skull relief and said, “Though it would be hard to tell from that.”

“What are you talking about?” asked the first guard. “It’s not beautiful, exactly, but compelling—very compelling. And those empty eyes …” He shuddered. “I can almost see the dark suns burning in them.”

Aris pushed off the column and leaned forward, studying the eye sockets.

“You do not think the left eye is pear-shaped?” the giant asked.”

The guard craned his neck to study the dark sigil.

“Maybe a little.”

“Or the other one too large?” asked Aris.

“Larger than the other one,” said the third guard. “But it only adds to the effect—and places it firmly in period.”

“In period?” Aris scowled down. “What period?”

“Your Slave Period,” the first guard said. “While your excellence of detail has slipped under Malik’s output pressures, it’s widely acknowledged that under bondage, your work has raised grimness to a level of the sublime.”

“There’s quite a debate raging among the princes as to whether this is your best work or your worst,” said the second guard. “The Most High has yet to decree.”

“What do you think?” asked the third. “It would be interesting to hear the artist’s opinion.”

“My opinion is that your princes know nothing about art,” Aris grumbled. He started to retrieve his hammer, then suddenly realized there was a reason his keepers behaved more like assistants than guards. Trying to suppress a smile, he placed his hands on his knees and stooped down so he could speak quietly. “But I am flattered to know you think so highly of my work”

“Indeed,” said the first. “Were it not for the chance to watch you, do you think anyone would work for what Malik is willing to pay?”

Now Aris did smile. “Is that why you were taking my shape studies?”

“Not exactly.” The guards cast nervous looks at each other, then the second one continued, “We took a handful for ourselves—it’s the only way someone less than a lord can afford your work—but Malik claimed most.”

“He was offering them as gifts to anyone who joined his church,” said the third guard.

“Why am I not surprised?” Aris growled. “After all I taught him, he knows better than to show a rough!”

The Shadovar shared smiles, then the first one said, “He certainly knew you would not like what he was doing. You should have seen his face when we told him you had started breaking them.”

“I thought his eyes would pop out of his head,” the second chuckled. “He actually lay on the floor beating it.”

“Yes, I would have liked to see that.”

Of all the betrayals Malik had perpetrated on him, Aris considered distributing his shape studies to be the worst But he had more immediate problems to worry about, namely finding a few moments of privacy so he could swallow Storm’s pill and free the Chosen—before he starved to death. Kneeling on the floor so he could speak even more softly, he fixed his gaze on the first guard, who seemed to be more or less the leader of this trio.

“Gelthez, it is not fair that Malik profits so much from my work,” Aris said, “while he pays you a starving wage.”

“Amararl,” the guard corrected. He shrugged. “There are many things in this world that are not fair.”

Aris winced inwardly and forced himself to continue in a casual manner. “That’s so, but it’s also true that friends must do what friends can to make the world better for each other. I think I’ll make a piece for each of you, if you would like that.”

The mouths of all three dropped open.

“There’s nothing I would treasure more!” gasped Amararl.

“It’s true what the Arabellans say,” the second guard added. “Your heart is as big as you are.”

The third guard was not so enthusiastic.

“What would Malik say?”

“Malik may own me, but my work is mine to give.”

“I am certain he would feel otherwise,” said the third guard. “And the Most High would agree. Whatever a slave makes, a master owns. That is a law as old as Shade itself.”

“How unfortunate.” Aris sighed heavily. “That is a strange law. No giant would ever honor it.”

Aris left the statement to hang and retrieved his hammer, but continued to kneel on the floor and pretended to study his work. Just as he taught Malik the basics of sculpting, Malik had taught him the principles of negotiation. If his plan was to succeed, he knew that the guards themselves would have to suggest the critical illicit step.

It took only a moment before the first guard, Amararl, turned to the third. “Malik wouldn’t have to know, Karbe.”

“Of course he would have to know,” Karbe said, his amber eyes flashing in anger. “He is the Seraph of my lord Cyric, the One and All! We could no more deceive him than the Most—”

The objection came to a strangled end as a dagger tip— it belonged to the second guard, Gelthez—erupted from Karbe’s chest. Aris cried out in shock, but Amararl reacted by clasping his hand over the mouth of the dying Shadovar and pushing him back onto his attacker’s blade. Gelthez finished the murder with a quick back and forth flick, then withdrew the weapon and let his victim collapse to the ground.

“I was so tired of listening to all that babble about The One,”” Gelthez said. “He was about to drive me as mad as his god.”

Amararl kicked the corpse to be certain it was dead, then nodded and looked up at Aris and said, “I think we can work something out.”

Aris could not stop staring at the corpse. Though he had seen plenty of death in battle, this was the first time he had ever been present at—no, been involved in—a murder.

“You killed him!” Aris gasped.

“Don’t worry about him, Aris.” Gelthez knelt over the body and wiped his dagger on its cloak. “He converted. It is no less than he deserved.”

“Converted?” Aris asked. “From what?”

That is not important. Now, what is it you want?” Amararl asked. “We may not have—”

They were interrupted by the muffled voice of someone approaching the Black Portal.

“As you can see, Prince,” Malik was saying, “all of the sculpting is being done by my slave Aris—when he is not busy on his statues, of course.”

Amararl and Gelthez looked to each other, their jewel-colored eyes sparkling with alarm.

“Prince?” Gelthez mouthed.

Their gazes dropped to the corpse between them, and Amararl mouthed some curse Aris did not understand.

“And should you decide to become a member of Malik’s Temple of the One and All,” Malik continued, “you will receive a discount of a quarter of the price on any of Aris’s works you purchase.”

The sound of Malik’s feet scuffing the stairs came through the portal. Aris glanced outside, but saw only the murky facades of the buildings across the square.

“A discount?” It was the wispy voice of Prince Yder. “That does not seem much of a gift for the prestige I would bring by converting.”

Gelthez grabbed Karbe by the arms and started to drag him away, but the spreading pool of blood made vain any hope of concealing the corpse. Aris pushed the body back to the floor, then motioned the two Shadovar aside.

“Of course, the discount is only on purchases made after you become a worshiper of the One.” Malik’s voice grew more distinct as he neared the top of the stairs. “Once you have announced your conversion, it will be my pleasure to make a gift to you of any work you desire.”

“You are too kind.” Yder’s voice was even colder and more sibilant than usual. “I shall look forward to touring Aris’s studio.”

Outside, the crown of the prince’s head was just rising into view. Aris stood and dropped his hammer on Karbe. It hit

with a resounding thud, obliterating all evidence of the murder in a spray of blood and bone.

The conversation outside fell silent

Aris dropped to his rump with a crash far louder than the sound the hammer had made, then braced his head in his hands. There was no need to pretend he was dizzy. His head was already reeling from rising and coming back down too fast

Malik rushed through the Black Portal. On his heels followed Yder, with a dozen gold-armored escorts close behind him. All eyes instantly fell on the mess beneath Aris’s hammer.

“What is this I see?” Malik gasped.

Gelthez was quick with the answer, “Aris did it!”

Aris glanced over and saw the Shadovar, trembling in fear of Yder, drawing his sword.

“Yes, that’s what happened.” Amararl stepped to Aris’s other side. “He grew dizzy and dropped his hammer. It happened to land on Karbe.”

“Is that so?”

Malik studied the mess beneath the stone hammer and the pool of blood spreading across the dark floor. When he saw the chip Aris had dislodged earlier, he marched across the narthex, his eyes bulging and his finger wagging.

“Look what you have done to my floor, you clumsy giant!” He stopped and stood in the divot. “If you would eat as I have commanded, you would have the strength to keep hold of your tools!”

Yder and his escorts followed Malik across the narthex.

“Aris is not eating?” asked the prince.

Malik cringed at his slip, then turned to face the prince. “It is nothing to concern yourself with.” He tried to stop speaking there, but his face twisted into the bitter mask it made whenever Mystra’s curse forced him to clarify a lie of omission. “He will certainly perish if he does not eat soon, but that will only increase the value of the pieces you purchase before he is gone.”

Yder stepped past Malik to where Aris was sitting. Tall even for a prince of Shade, he barely had to tip his head back to meet Aris’s gaze.

“Aris, why are you starving yourself?”

Afraid the prince would force an answer with the same magic Telamont used, Aris looked away and said the first thing that came to mind—well, the second, since the last thing he wanted to do was admit the truth.

“The food is not to my liking.”

“What?” Malik said. “Have I not offered to prepare anything your heart desires? Have I not brought whole boars from your own home in the Greypeak Mountains and roasted them under your nose, only to see the entire beast vanish down a rubbish chute when you could not be enticed to eat one bite?”

Aris’s mouth watered at (he mere memory of the smell.

“I have never been fond of swine.” His stomach growled its protest of the lie, but he added, “I am more fond of yaddleskwee.”

“For the thousandth time,” Malik demanded, “how can I serve yaddleskwee when you refuse to say what it is?”

This drew a sharp-fanged grin from Yder. “I see,” he said. “I think I know what this “yaddleskwee’ is.”

Aris gulped, sincerely hoping the prince did not. A favorite of fire giants, yaddleskwee was the food he most hated in the world. Somehow, he had just never developed a taste for pickled beholder brains.

“You do?” Malik asked.

Yder nodded. “It is not that difficult to figure out.” He raised his gaze back to Aris and said, “You refuse to eat because you are unhappy with Malik as a master.”

Aris breathed a sigh of relief, and nodded. “He was once a friend—”

“As I am still! Had I not asked the Most High to make you my slave, who knows what would have become of you?”

Malik paused there, fighting against his curse, then continued, “Though I doubt your fate would have been much worse, for Shade values your art too highly to execute you out of hand.”

Aris ignored the protest and said, “But now he betrays me at every opportunity.” Aris glared down at Malik, and allowing the bitterness of his tone to give voice to his very real anger, said, “And he betrays my art.”

“Betray your art? Ungrateful giant! How many times must I save your life before you show thanks?”

Malik met Aris’s glare with a fierceness born of his own injured feelings—then he seemed to recall the prince he was trying to impress and grimaced, no doubt mortified at how badly matters were going. He took a breath and composed himself, then turned to Yder.

“Pay no attention to the prattling of a temperamental artist, Prince Yder. I will deal with my slave later—and I assure you he will eat.” Malik shot Aris a look of pure venom, then dared to touch the prince’s elbow and gestured toward the nave. “For now, however, allow me to show you the rest of the temple.”

Yder remained where he was and said, “I think not” He glared down at the hand on his arm until Malik removed it, then looked back to Aris. “It pleases me to hear you are unhappy in Malik’s service.”

Malik’s eyes widened in alarm and he said, “If you think you can steal my slave—”

“Silence.” Yder’s hand was on Malik’s throat, squeezing until it appeared the little man’s eyes would pop from their sockets. “When I wish to hear your obscene voice again, I will break something and let you scream.”

Given the shade of purple Malik’s face was turning, Aris doubted the seraph could have protested had he dared try.

Aris asked, “Why should a slave’s feelings interest a prince of Shade?”

Yder’s yellow eyes glimmered in amusement

“Because it would have been a great waste to eliminate you,” he said, “and now I know you will not—”

The sentence ended in a screech as Malik drew the dagger he kept hidden beneath his robe and brought the curved blade up into Yder’s wrist

The prince’s hand opened, and Malik wasted no time gathering his wits or getting his breath back. He fled through the nave and vanished into the darkness between two columns.

Yder flung his arm forward, and showing no apparent concern for the hand flapping at the end of his bleeding wrist, cried, “After him!”

Yder’s escorts swept past in a dark rush, leaving Aris alone with his two guards and the prince. It was only a moment before the temple was filled with shouted commands and the chime of blades probing beneath black pews. Though Aris could not decide whether he was glad for Malik’s escape or sorry for it, he was not worried about what happen to the little man once he was caught. The seraph had an uncanny—Ruha insisted god-given—ability to vanish the instant he was out of sight