Erin Evans - Lesser Evils

“You want to spend thirty, I’ll sell you a cloak and a pound of sweetmeats,” the shopkeeper said. “Fifty and not a nib less, devil-child.”

She shook her head. Fifty might as well have been five thousand. She had thirty and not a copper piece more-and Mehen was already going to be furious she was spending what she had on a book and not a cloak. “Thirty or not at all.”

The shopkeeper sighed and tucked the book back under the counting table. “Well, for thirty you’re not going to get much. Not these days. You are mad if you think otherwise.” He squinted at the man behind her. “Can I help you, Master Rhand?” he said a little sharply.

“We’ll see, won’t we?” the man said. “Has my piece come in yet?”

The merchant’s expression drew tighter. “Aye. I’ll …” He eyed Farideh for the barest moment. “I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into his storerooms.

“I do hope,” the man said, “you’ve come to Waterdeep for more than a cut-rate ritual book. You’ll never get Amael down to thirty.”

“Yes, well. I suppose I’ll try somewhere else.” She stepped back, enough to put a more comfortable amount of space between them. It didn’t quiet the sense of unease he gave her, as if he might suddenly lunge at her like a snake.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the man said, taking her hand and bowing low over it. “Adolican Rhand.”

“Farideh,” she said, uncertain of what she was supposed to do in return. Adolican Rhand smiled and held her hand a little too long, before she pulled it away.

“Enchanted,” he said. Havilar hurried over. He took her hand too, much to Havilar’s puzzlement, but his unsettling gaze stayed on Farideh. It made her wish for a cloak after all.

“If you want a ritual book for a better rate,” he said, still eyeing her, “I do know a fellow in Dock Ward who can give you the best deal out there. Goodman Florren, on Dust Alley. Stop by there tomorrow.”

It had all the air of an order, and Farideh bristled. “We’ll see.”

“We’re looking for a cloak ,” Havilar said, glaring at Farideh.

“We’re looking for both,” Farideh said quietly.

“Indeed,” Adolican Rhand said. “In the City of Splendors, you can look for anything and find most of it. Such splendid oddities.” Farideh’s back tightened and her tail flicked, which only made her temper surge. Who was this henish to make her nervous?

The shopkeeper returned with a large bundle of canvas, clearly heavier than it looked. He set it on the counter and slid it forward, pushing one side then the other. “Here,” he said. “Still owe-”

“Yes, yes,” Adolican Rhand said, waving him off. “Send the bill around and my man will pay you the coin.” He looked back at the twins. “Would you like to see?”

Not waiting for an answer, Adolican Rhand pulled loose the canvas to reveal a strange and alien sculpture. In the middle, a nude woman twisted, her rib cage stretched and her breasts taut as she reached up toward the monstrous maw above her. The formless creature, a nightmare of teeth and hands and shapeless ooze, surrounded her. Bled into her. Farideh peered a little closer and saw the woman’s mouth was full of tiny, sharp teeth of its own, rendered in shell.

“ ‘Jhaeranna Saelhawk and the Spellplague,’ ” Adolican Rhand said. “What do you think?”

“It’s … fascinating,” Farideh said. Unsettling was a better word-she’d rather have looked at Adolican Rhand than the strange statue another moment.

Fortunately, he only had eyes for his acquisition. “A wizard at the cusp of her true power. They say she was plaguechanged, but the change took her from the inside. Her body looked as perfect as Mystra’s last day. Almost-the back”-he turned the statue to reveal a writhing garden of tentacles sprouting from the woman’s shapely back, grasping at the air-“revealed her true nature. The horrors lay within.” His blue eyes pierced Farideh, and he gave her a wry smile. “The distortion makes it more beautiful, if you ask my opinion.”

“We need to go,” Havilar said, grabbing hold of Farideh’s arm. “Now.” They hurried from the shop.

“ What do you do to draw all these … creepers?” Havilar demanded. She shuddered visibly. “Gods, it’s like your pact is a lodestone for shady codloose winkers. Please tell me you’ve already forgotten that merchant’s name?”

Goodman Florren, she thought, of Dust Alley. “I don’t do anything ,” Farideh said. “One random rake in a shop isn’t my fault. And there are hundreds of merchants in this city. I don’t need his help.”

Havilar fumed. “Because you don’t need a pothac book,” she said. “You don’t need Lorcan.”

“You’ve had your say about that,” Farideh said.

“If you run off and go looking again on our one night in Waterdeep, I will never forgive you. And,” Havilar added after a moment, “you are not the pretty one just because some letchy creeper likes your weird eye!”

Farideh sighed. This would go on forever if she didn’t stop it, as flustered as Havilar was getting. “No one said that.” She slipped her arm through Havilar’s. “And I won’t run off tonight or any night. We’ll stick together. We’ll look for a cloak. Maybe some sweetmeats and chapbooks if we’ve got enough. Sound good?”

Havilar hugged Farideh’s arm close. “Do you think Brin likes you better, too?” she murmured after a few moments.

“Of course not,” Farideh said, almost laughing. “He likes us both well enough. Why would you …” She trailed off as she realized that wasn’t what Havilar had meant. She felt a blush creep up her neck-really? How had she missed such a thing? “Oh.”

“Don’t say ‘oh’ like that. I’m just curious .” Havilar sighed. “If Mehen’s going to act like I have to be corralled from him, and his stupid cousin’s going to call me names, I’d like to know he at least preferred me to you a little .”

“Right,” Farideh said, but she was turning over every little interaction she’d seen between her sister and the runaway lordling. How much of that was true and how much was Havilar saving face? And why- why -hadn’t Havilar said anything sooner? Gods above, she hoped Brin was far gone …

Farideh squeezed her sister’s arm, as they turned up Sul Street. “Forget Brin and forget Mehen,” she said. And forget Lorcan and Bryseis Kakistos, she added silently. “We’ll have whiskey tonight.”

WATERDEEP

28 KYTHORN, THE YEAR OF THE DARK CIRCLE (1478 DR)

Dahl Peredur was early to the taproom of the Blind Falcon Inn, early enough to order an ale and reconsider his notes once. Was being early good, he wondered, or was it bad? In his days with the Church of Oghma, it would have been counted as an extravagance, a waste of useful time-punctuality was the mark of a finely tuned mind. But the Harpers might have appreciated the fact that Dahl had come ahead, to study the taproom and prepare for his meeting.

Maybe. Dahl finished the ale in front of him and waved to the keghand for another. Or maybe they’d chastise him for being too obvious. Or maybe the lorekeepers in Procampur had been wrong and punctuality was no virtue but the sign of a kind of small thinking that the god of knowledge detested-it was clear enough to Dahl that they didn’t know everything.

Besides, his contact- partner , he amended-was late.

He pulled out a stack of papers he’d only just tucked away. Reread the list of antiquaries and items to be sure nothing was missing; everything was in order. Skimmed the advertisement- The Secrets of Attarchammiux, Terror of the Silver Marches -he’d pulled from a market stall that morning. A lucky catch, that. The runes the seller had painstakingly recreated suggested more than the usual brass-grabbing. He shifted it behind the list and set the stack down, as the keghand brought another dark, thick ale.