Erin Evans - Lesser Evils

“My apologies,” Dahl said stiffly, fidgeting with something on his cloak. “But I don’t see that my name matters in this case. He’s just a fence.”

“It might not,” Tam said. “But it might matter in the next case or the next after that. And the more people who know your name and your face-and those beside your ‘associate’s’ name and face-the faster danger finds you. Don’t think one mission at a time. Just put the damned pin in your pocket. Bloody things are more trouble than they’re worth.”

The shopkeeper came back, toting a heavy-looking bundle of oilcloth, which he heaved onto the counter. A few quick pulls and the bindings came loose, cloth falling aside like a blown flower’s petals.

“There you are,” he said. “Twelve hundred gold.”

Farideh peered between the shelves. On the open oilcloth, glinting in the murky light, lay an assemblage of gears, each leaping over the last as if the mass were alive and running. Its purpose might have been anything-arms and teeth snatched at missing connections-but whatever it was, Farideh thought it was beautiful.

“From the ruins of Lantan,” the halfling shopkeeper said. “Preserved from the seawater by the dying magic of its creator, a great and powerful dwarf, blessed by-”

“It’s a fake,” Dahl sighed. He turned the clockwork on its side and pointed to something on the bottom. “Neverwinter reproduction. From maybe forty or fifty years ago. Before the collapse.”

“Well, that’s still plenty old!” the shopkeeper protested.

“It’s not magical either,” Dahl countered.

“Is too! Has a clever little charm to repel dust, since it’s meant for display.”

Dahl ran a finger over the largest gear and wrinkled his nose. “You might want to have that verified elsewhere.”

“Thank you for your time,” Tam said. He hustled Dahl from the shop. The door closed, and Farideh sighed in relief.

“Knew you couldn’t have gone far,” the shopkeeper said. She eased out from behind the shelf, one eye on the door. “Hiding from Harpers, are you?”

“Not especially,” she said. “Just that one.”

Goodman Florren slapped the paper-wrapped package. “You should have said your Someone was Adolican Rhand,” he said, with some distaste. “Can’t expect me to remember everything. Could’ve saved us some time and avoided your Harper.”

“How much is that one?” she asked.

“For you? Price is already paid,” he said. “Master Rhand sent this over. Said it’s for the tiefling girl with the sun-and-moon eyes, ’course he didn’t bother explaining, never does, that one. You’re late though. He said two days ago. Stuck it in the back when I figured you weren’t showing-out of sight, out of mind.”

Farideh’s stomach tightened. “I think there’s a mistake. I didn’t buy anything from him.”

“No one’s asking how you earned it,” Goodman Florren said. “But you want to tell me there’s someone else he means?”

The package was the size of her haversack, square, and heavy. A ritual book, she thought. What else could it be? She untied the twine and pulled the wrappings aside.

The ritual book had been bound in deepnight blue silk, of all things, and gilded with a pattern of leaves and curling vines. Stunned, she ran careful fingers down its cover-she’d never felt anything so fine, except perhaps the crisp, cream-colored pages within. She leafed back through them-someone’s sharp, precise handwriting marked the first few pages, the instructions for at least three rituals. Adolican Rhand’s instructions. The book fell open to the frontispiece, an etching of the night sky, and an envelope tucked there. She broke the black wax seal.

I think you will find this to your liking , the note read in the same handwriting, the same dark ink. Consider it a welcome to Waterdeep. Should you need assistance filling it, I am ready and willing. Your presence is always welcome at my manor. Adolican Rhand .

Innocent enough words-provided they were turned the right way. But the memory of the man who wrote them made them, when resolutely read, distressing, and there was no place on the face of Toril she’d like to avoid so much as Adolican Rhand’s manor. Farideh dropped the note and wiped her hands on her breeches, staring at the package as if it might come to life.

“I don’t want it,” she said.

Goodman Florren gave her a withering look. “Then take it back to Master Rhand. Just make it clear I held up my end.” He wrapped his Lantan clockwork back up in its oilcloth. “Besides-it’s obvious you do want it if you’re coming down to Dust Alley to bargain.”

… the erinyes scream and shatter into a dozen enormous wasps; wasps with cunning eyes and swords for arms. The air is full of swords and monsters. Lorcan grabs her arm and shoves her back-Run, darling, run fast and run far-

She shuddered, and rubbed her arm where the brand was that marked her pact. If she threw the book out, she would go on dreaming and Lorcan would continue to be tortured and one day she would wake with no powers, no protections because he would be dead.

“No one made him give it to you, darling,” she could almost hear Lorcan say. “Let him come looking for favors-we’ll simply make certain he regrets it.”

She pointed two fingers at the note and drew the powers of the Hells into herself. “Assulam.” A crack and the parchment burst into a fine cloud of ash. The shopkeeper flinched in surprise.

She watched the ashes float down, and said, “You can tell him I did that .” She folded the paper back around the book and scooped it up, all her attention on the churn of Hellish powers seething beneath her skin as she left the shop. She looked both ways down Dust Alley-no sign of Tam, no sign of anyone much, other than some coinlasses loitering in front of another shop several doors down, and a woman hanging wash out her window. Farideh slipped out of the safety of the door way and hurried up the narrow street.

“What happened,” she heard Tam call out from behind her, “to staying out of trouble?”

Farideh cursed to herself, stopped, and turned. Tam stepped out of a narrow alleyway. “It’s not trouble,” she said. “It’s … shopping.”

“At a fence?” He dropped his voice as he reached her side. “What in all the broken planes did you buy from a fence?”

“A ritual book,” she said. “And I didn’t know he was a fence. I was only told he would be inexpensive.”

“Inexpensive is just another way of saying ‘illicit,’ ” Tam said. “You ought to know that.”

“With my vast experience bartering for goods?” she said, acidly. “Be fair.”

“We need to get going,” Dahl said. The younger man watched Farideh and Tam from the shade of the smaller alley. “We’ll be late for the viewing.”

Farideh glanced from Dahl to Tam. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Not necessary,” Tam said. “And we can stroll and speak.”

“Is that wise?” Dahl murmured. “She’s not …”

Tam sighed. “Goodman Peredur,” he said smoothly, “have you met Farideh? I assure you she isn’t going to rush off with the secrets of where Waterdeep’s most plausible fake artifacts lie and sell them to Shade. Although if she would, I think we’d be a little grateful for giving them the distraction. Come along,” he said, and he started toward the market, Farideh and the now-scowling Dahl Peredur following behind.

“I suppose,” Tam said, when she fell into step beside him again, “you’d prefer I not tell Mehen about this?”

“What’s there to tell? I went into a shop. I bought a perfectly respectable item. He should be pleased, really,” she added, although he would be no such thing.