Erin Evans - Lesser Evils

The sword sliced through the air, carving a path toward Mira’s shoulder. Tam raised a hand, the force of the moon swelling through him like a tide on his blood. Powerful, but not powerful enough-time slowed as the assassin went after his daughter.

“Lady aid me,” he cried, the prayer taking hold, rage chasing the fear.

Mira dropped, straight down, as if her legs had given out, and landed flat on her back, well out of the sword’s attack. But now an easy mark for the bleeding assassin. The assassin raised her blade.

Holy fire, bright as a full moon, streamed from Tam’s open palm and crashed over the assassin, throwing her into the far wall. The wave caught her, then she hit the wall and lay silent, dancing with the residual magic of the silverstar.

What remnants of Selune’s peace he’d held tight to now fled. Tam was on the Zhentarim woman in an instant, his chain dropped and a dagger drawn. He cut the assassin’s throat, savage and quick-make certain she’s dead, he thought, the image of her standing over Mira’s prone body hammering at his thoughts.

Panting, Tam turned a slow circle, scanning the darkened corners of the room. Nothing. Mira came to her feet, her knives still gripped in both hands. He jumped at the sudden movement.

“Are you all right?” he all but shouted, his pulse in his ears. He reached for her, to comfort her, perhaps, but also to comfort himself, to be certain she was all right and not cut to ribbons for merely being in the way of one of his missions.

Mira stiffened and sheathed her knives. “Fine,” she said, though she was pale-faced and out of breath. She looked down at the bodies, her eyes distant. “Fine for the moment.”

“You’re not hurt,” he said, looking her over. All the blood was the Zhents,’ but still, she was splattered with it. Like his worst nightmares given flesh. “You’re not hurt,” he said again. “Gods.” He looked around at the carnage. “Gods, if I weren’t here, you could have been killed.”

Mira’s mouth went small. “Possibly. But if you weren’t here, then this fellow wouldn’t have come so close to stabbing you in the ribs.”

He ran a hand over his beard. Never, he’d sworn the last time his duties brought danger so close to his daughter, never again. But now, here Mira stood, looking down at the bodies, calm as the waters of a sacred pool. She always was a calm one, he thought. Even as a babe in the cradle.

Not a babe anymore, he thought. A woman with very sharp knives.

“We still have time,” Mira said. “Though not much. Word’s traveled fast, but not accurately.” She looked up at him. “How much coin can you get together?”

Tam shook his head. “You can’t imagine your patron will go ahead with his bidding. These are Zhentarim assassins.”

“And they only sent two,” she pointed out. “Which means they haven’t figured out what the page and stone point to. They might still think they’re clues to a hoard. They don’t know about Tarchamus.”

Tam started to protest-if they didn’t know, they wouldn’t have sent any assassins, and now that they’d sent two, they would send more. And Shade was still a die unthrown. Now wasn’t the time to be complacent.

But Mira’s expression didn’t suggest she was relieved. She chewed her upper lip, and stared at the body of the male assassin, as if she were trying to spy the fragments of clues scattered over his skin. There was more here.

Stop thinking like a worried parent, he told himself. Think like a Harper.

“You said you know where it came from,” he said. “Where? Or rather, where do you think Shade and the Zhentarim think it came from?”

She looked up at him and blinked. “Getting artifacts from ancient Netheril isn’t easy. What exists is largely in Shade’s hands and they’re particular about what they share. But there are two references to the arcanist Tarchamus. Both are fragmented. Both are widely considered to be apocryphal, or at least exaggerated. But both make it clear that Tarchamus was a formidable arcanist, an expert at tapping into the powers of other planes without traveling to them, capable of crafting weapons that could level cities and mythallars that could stop the stars in their courses.”

Tam raised an eyebrow and she rolled her eyes. “I told you. They exaggerate. But even as such, it’s clear he was no dabbler.”

“If he existed,” Tam added.

“Someone made the book the page was torn from.” She laid a hand on the chest. “It’s possible his spells or the artifacts imbued with his magic still exist somewhere-wherever this came from. And I think the stone is a piece of the door that sealed it. If Shade knew this page might be a clue to the location of Tarchamus’s lost enclave, they would have sent an army by now.”

“And the Zhentarim?”

She cast a skeptical eye down at the dead mercenaries. “They know it’s valuable. I doubt these two’s masters have worked out how valuable. As it stands?” She shrugged. “The Netherese probably know Chansom’s selling something Netherese and would rather it remained in the princes’ treasury. And the Zhentarim probably know Shade wants it.”

“For now,” Tam said. “If word of the page traveled that quickly, word of its secrets can’t be far behind.” He shook his head. “We need to destroy both pieces.”

Mira didn’t move. “If you destroy them,” she said, “then you destroy the key to finding the source. But the lost enclave will still be out there. The stockpile of magic weapons might still exist. The secrets of Tarchamus haven’t been destroyed-they’re waiting for Shade to come and excavate them.

“We have to get there first,” she said.

Before Tam could respond, the door opened, admitting the stout and slightly tipsy Artur Chansom, and another man, a lean fellow all dressed in dark velvets.

At the sight of Tam, Artur Chansom startled. At the sight of the two dead mercenaries slowly soaking the rug with blood, he threw himself back against the wall.

“Waukeen rob me blind!” he cried. “What happened?”

Mira looked down at the dead Zhentarim. “It seems someone wanted to circumvent his competitors.”

“Indeed,” the other man said. He looked up at Tam, curiously, with piercing blue eyes. The hairs on the back of Tam’s neck stood on end. “Artur, I must commend your guards.”

“Beshaba spit on the day I took this on,” the merchant muttered. He ran his fingers through his forked beard and glared at Tam. “That one’s not mine. Who in the Hells are you?”

“Ah, yes,” Tam said, reaching for the merchant’s hand. “I’m Mira’s father-”

The merchant squinted at him. “Who?”

“Pet name,” Mira supplied. “Means ‘little dove’ in Old Calishite.” She squeezed Tam’s arm. “You’ll have to forgive him. Can’t help embarrassing me.”

“My apologies,” Tam said, catching on. She’d used another name? Why? He smiled at the merchant. “They grow up so fast, don’t they? One day she’s my mira , the next she’s … well, killing robbers for you, it seems.”

“Yes,” Chansom said, pointedly not looking at the corpses. “Unacceptable-not you, my dear, nor your father. You’ve done plenty well. I’ll reflect it in your pay. Although I would rather have had them alive.”

“Wasn’t an option,” Mira supplied.

“But this”-he waved his hands at the room-“this won’t do. Clearly these walls might as well be spidersilk for all they keep out thieves. No, it won’t suit.” He combed his fingers through his beard again. “Going to kill me in my sleep. Run off with all the gold.”

“I’d be happy to accommodate you,” the other man said. “I have plenty of room for you and your employees.” He smiled, and Tam could not shake the sense that something was decidedly off about the man. “You can bring your things along with the chest.”