Марк Энтони - Curse of the Shadowmage

Morhion offered a suggestion. “We do need to find someone like Ferret, someone who deals in information and who casts a wide enough net that he may have heard of this Stiletto.”

A crooked smile curled about Mari’s lips. “On second thought, I think I know just the person. And he adores me.”

Mari groaned. Why did these things always seem to happen to her?

“I thought Cormik adored you,” Morhion said coldly.

“I thought he did, too,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Well, if you don’t mind my saying, he has a rather peculiar manner of expressing his affection.”

For emphasis, Morhion rattled the heavy iron shackles that bound his wrists. He and Mari were chained to a rough stone wall in a dank underground chamber. The muffled sounds of raucous laughter and clinking coins drifted down from above. They were somewhere in the basement of the Prince and Pauper, the seamiest gambling house in Iriaebor.

“In case you’re wondering, you really aren’t being helpful, Morhion,” Mari replied in a surly tone. “Can’t you get us out of here with a spell?”

“No, I can’t. Casting a spell requires ritual gestures as well as magical words”—he cast a rueful look at the thick bands of iron that held his hands immobile—“a fact of which your dear friend Cormik seems well aware.”

“Everyone’s entitled to a few mistakes,” Mari grumbled. She seemed to remember Caledan saying that exact phrase once when the two of them were caught in a similar predicament. Things were worse than she thought if she was starting to sound like Caldorien.

Mari racked her brain, trying to think of what she might have done to get on Cormik’s bad side. Cormik was the proprietor of the Prince and Pauper, but he was also one of the most powerful underworld lords in Iriaebor. Officially, Mari could not condone Cormik’s illicit practices, but he had helped the Fellowship to defeat Ravendas. Besides, she had always liked his daggerlike wit and impeccable sense of taste.

It must have been that incident a year ago, she decided. Cormik had wanted her help in prying some compromising secrets out of a particularly wealthy nobleman. Mari had haughtily told Cormik to go ask one of the painted ladies on the Street of Lanterns instead, and had run him out of the Dreaming Dragon. She had not spoken to him since that day. Well, if he was still holding a grudge, she was going to have to find a way to—

The chamber’s ironbound door flew open. Mari blinked against the glare of crimson torchlight that gushed through the opening. When her vision cleared, a figure stood before her. Cormik. He was a corpulent man with a florid, pockmarked complexion and a jewel-encrusted patch over one eye. As ever, he was clad in gaudy finery that involved voluminous quantities of blue silk, wine-colored velvet, and gold brocade. Flanking him were two hulking bodyguards, each bearing a jeweled sword.

Mari licked her lips. “Cormik, if you’ll let me explain—”

He cut her off with a wave of a chubby, ring-laden hand. “Haven’t we been through this once before, Harper?” he said impatiently. “I didn’t want to hear Caledan’s explanation then, and I don’t want to hear yours now. I’m a busy man, you know.” He made a sharp gesture to his bodyguards. “Jad, Kevrek—deal with these two for me.”

Cormik strode from the chamber. His two bull-necked servants stepped forward, grinning fiercely as they reached into leather pouches on their belts. Mari’s eyes widened as she caught a glint of silver and a wisp of steam. She shut her eyes, bracing herself against the coming attack.

“A mirror and a hot towel?” Morhion’s incredulous voice said beside her.

Mari’s eyes fluttered open. She gaped in surprise. Sure enough, each of the bodyguards held a small silver mirror and a steaming cloth towel.

“Of course,” one of the muscle-bound men said in a surprisingly cultured voice. “You’ll both need to freshen up before your audience with the Master.”

“Dungeons can be so messy,” the other hulk added in an equally genteel tone. “Don’t you agree?”

Jad and Kevrek held up the silver mirrors while Mari and Morhion wiped themselves clean of dust and cobwebs. The towels were deliciously hot and scented faintly with ginger. Mari was forced to admit that she felt refreshed. However, she was still furious with Cormik.

A few minutes later, Cormik’s bodyguards led Mari and Morhion into a brightly lit chamber richly appointed with Sembian tapestries and Calishite statuary.

“So, did you like my little ruse, Al’maren?” Cormik inquired coyly. The rotund man was sprawled across a pile of embroidered cushions, a glass of pale wine held loosely in one stubby hand. “I can’t believe you fell for it a second time!”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not laughing,” Mari griped. “Are you laughing, Morhion?”

An ironic smile touched the corners of the mage’s lips. “Actually, I think I am.”

Mari flopped sulkily onto a pile of cushions and treated Cormik to her best scathing look. It was an expression she had perfected in her years working with Caledan. After a moment, Cormik squirmed uncomfortably.

“Oh, stop looking at me like that,” he said testily. “I’m sorry I had to have you thrown in chains, but you really should have given me some warning before you stopped by the Prince and Pauper.”

“So this is all my fault?” Mari inquired dubiously.

“Everyone in Iriaebor knows you’re good friends with the monk Tyveris. And everyone also knows Tyveris is City Lord Bron’s closest advisor. I couldn’t very well have acted as if we were the best of chums when you walked through my front door. If my clients thought I was in cahoots with Bron, I wouldn’t have a customer left. I’d be ruined.”

Mari was forced to admit, she could see the logic of his actions. However, she wasn’t about to concede the argument that easily. “Couldn’t you have thought of something besides throwing us in your dungeon?”

Cormik shrugged noncommittally. “I was rushed. It’s hard to be creative under pressure, you know.”

“All right, Cormik. I’ll forgive you this once. But you owe me a favor.”

The corpulent man gave her a sardonic wink. “Why, I’ll do anything you desire, my sweet.”

“I’m sure you would,” she noted dryly. “But don’t get your hopes up. It’s your mind I need, Cormik, not the rest of you.” Mari drained her wine, gathering strength, then proceeded to tell Cormik all they had learned concerning Caledan, the Shadowstar, and Stiletto.

When she finished, Cormik seemed visibly shaken. “Caledan is becoming a shadowking?” he murmured in disbelief. “I always knew the man had a dark side, but this is ridiculous.”

“So, do you know anything about this Stiletto character or not?” Mari asked impatiently.

A calculating gleam appeared in his one good eye. “I’m afraid that’s an answer that will cost the Harpers a good amount of gold, Al’maren.”

“I’m not asking for the Harpers,” she said quietly. “I’m asking for myself.”

“Is there a difference?”

“There is now.” Mari swallowed hard. She might as well get used to telling people. “I’ve resigned from the Harpers, Cormik.”

His reaction surprised her. “Good for you, Mari! It’s high time you left behind that meddling bunch of do-gooders. And don’t worry about money. You can always come work for me.”

Mari smiled wistfully. “I just might take you up on that offer when this is all over.”

“What of Mari’s question?” Morhion asked grimly.

Cormik shot him an annoyed look. “Don’t worry, my good, repressed mage. I hadn’t forgotten.” His gaze returned to Mari. “Because the information is for you, my dear, I’ll waive the usual fee.”