Erin Evans - Lesser Evils

“And on top of that, you’ve delayed too long.” She pulled a folded page from her jerkin and tossed it on the table. “He’s selling it.”

The Fisher drew the leaflet toward him, avoiding the woman’s eyes. The Secrets of Attarchammiux, Terror of the Silver Marches . A paragraph of reconstituted history-tales of a wizardly dragon fit for chapbooks. A row of broken Draconic letters. The Fisher cursed to himself.

Sloppy, he thought. Godsdamned sloppy, you.

“You said he’d gladly sell it to us.”

“He would have,” she agreed. “And then you sat on your hands so you could pull a stupid prank on an old rival instead of moving quickly enough to catch him before he had it appraised by a nib-brained collector who went ahead and decided to tell him we were dealing with a stlarning dragon’s hoard. Now it’s too valuable to sell for Harper coin.”

“How high is it likely to go?”

“For clues to a dragon’s hoard?” The woman shrugged. “Depends entirely upon the crowd. Worst case: more than one ‘lordly adventurer’ shows up with their pockets spitting gold and their good opinions of themselves raging, and we have a battle of bidders. Could go very high, very quickly. Ten times the value or more.”

The Fisher swallowed more whiskey. “I can’t just hand over that sort of coin.”

“I’m well aware.”

“There’d be questions. They’d want to know what was so important.”

“I said, I’m well aware.” The woman glared at the city out the window glittering with torches, and bit her upper lip, deep in thought. “The plan will have to change. Your agent will know about the items?”

“He will. The greenling I tasked him with is nothing if not thorough when it comes to antiquities.”

She nodded to herself, still thinking. “Then he’ll find me. Keep the coin ready. We’ll find a use for it.”

The Fisher narrowed his eyes at the woman. She stared right back, implacable as ever. Her true identity hadn’t been difficult to puzzle out-even if she hadn’t told him her name, with those dark eyes he would have suspected. Twenty-five years in the field, missing such a detail would have him reaching for the hemlock.

No place in the world for spies who’ve slipped.

“They say it speaks, the page,” he said. “That it has secrets for mages to hear.”

“And?”

“If it’s not a dragon’s, whose is it?” She didn’t answer. “And where’d the stone come from? Your patron never said what it is we’re dealing with.”

“Because it doesn’t matter to you,” she said simply. “Dragon’s hoard, elven ruin, lordling’s country mansion’s facade-”

“Something … darker?” The Fisher studied her expression, but wherever her earlier fury had come from, it released nothing else for the intimation.

“Whatever it is,” she said, “you’re paid the same.”

“Still,” the Fisher said, “a man can’t help but be curious-what’s worth so much?”

She eyed him again, for long moments that seemed to press the very edges of decency.

“A man can help but be curious,” she said, “if he wants to live very long in the Harpers’ good graces.”

For days and days, there had only been the hollow in the tip of a fingerbone tower, still weeping marrow from the walls. The little room and chains and erinyes after erinyes, a new one each time Lorcan woke, and Sairche beside them, now and again. Chains and erinyes and new sorts of pain. He lost track of the time.

“… you’ll kill him if you aren’t careful,” a voice said as he stirred to consciousness.

“ I didn’t do this.” Lorcan tried to open his eyes, but a layer of dried blood lacquered them shut. “Bloody Megara let them go completely feral.”

“ Is he dead?”

Every muscle urged Lorcan to stay down. If they thought he was dead they’d stop.

If they think you’re dead, they’ll throw you to the layer, idiot, he thought. And you don’t have the strength to run from that either. Even being beaten by erinyes was better than being slowly devoured by Malbolge’s hungry ground. Someone grabbed him by the chin and tilted his head-a shock of pain went through him and his eyes wrenched open.

His vision swam-three erinyes. One of the pradixikai by the door. One of the red-haired ones in the middle distance. A blond missing one eye staring into his face. Sulci. Shit and ashes. He recoiled despite himself.

“Oh good,” Sulci said with a horrific smile. “You’re up.”

Not for long, he thought. After so many hours, his arms were bloodless and numb, his mind was hardly holding on to two thoughts at a time. His resolve was shaken-give him to Glasya, he didn’t care anymore-

I may have need of you and her in the future .

He shuddered at the memory of that horrible voice crooning in his ear. Of seeing Glasya’s punishments meted out to other devils. No-not Glasya. Anything but Glasya.

“There’s another,” he tried to say. And all he could imagine was Farideh’s terrified face-he’d promised her, he’d sworn no one would find out about Havi. And if they took Havilar, Farideh would do something drastic to try and stop it, he was sure. She would leave. She would throw herself to Sairche, or worse.

If they don’t take Havilar, he thought, you are not going to be fine, and it won’t matter what she does.

“Another heir,” he tried again, the words slurring from his broken teeth.

“Aw,” Sulci said. “How dear.” She uncoiled her whip. “We’re all well aware you think you’re smarter than us, Little Brother. But don’t think we’re so stupid as to fall for that. You can’t get another heir. Not from here.”

“Less talking,” the pradixikai -shaped blur by the door bellowed.

Sulci looked back over her shoulder. “Lords, Zela, what does it matter? It’s not like the worm’s rallying where he hangs.”

“You have to give him a little credit,” the middle one said. “He hasn’t broken. He ought to have broken.”

“Did you expect some fragile sinner?” Zela said. “Half-mortal or not, he’s still Exalted Invadiah’s son. So quit waiting for him to break on his own and make it happen.”

Sulci didn’t move, her eyes still on the larger erinyes. “You mean Fallen Invadiah.”

Lorcan didn’t need eyes to feel the tension in the room. Having spent all his life attuned to the rage of his fifty-eight half sisters, he could likely be a corpse and still know when one of the pradixikai was nearby and about to strike.

“And who are you to tell me what I mean?” Zela said, coming closer. Shit and ashes-don’t attack her here. One misplaced sword-strike and it wouldn’t matter what Sairche, Farideh, or Glasya wanted. “You answer to me, Sulci, don’t forget it.”

“And we both answer to Baby Sister,” Sulci said, not giving an inch. Both devils loomed over Lorcan, giving him as much notice as an imp underfoot. “Since Mother is no more.”

Zela’s hand shot out and seized Sulci by the throat, but the smaller erinyes was ready and, even choking, pulled an ugly, curved knife and stabbed it into the bare spot between the linked plates of Zela’s dress. Zela roared, and twisted Sulci toward Lorcan-

“Zela!” a voice barked. Sairche barked. Lorcan tried to focus and saw only the shape of her, her wings filling the lacuna of the door. “Drop her.”

Sulci hit the floor with a spongy thud. Zela turned on her unwanted commander, and the air still bristled with the threat of her rage.

Sairche strode into the room, followed by the shapes of more than one erinyes. Lorcan shut his eyes and didn’t bother trying to count the doubling images. More than one. Too many.