Margaret Weis - Dragons of the Highlord Skies

“Do you know where I am to find Crownguard, my lord? I seem to recall destroying his castle some time ago…”

“According to my agents, he is on Sancrist Isle, residing at Castle Wistan. He leaves there to go back to Palanthas, however.”

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.

Iolanthe 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.