Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [19]
“I’m surprised it lasted this long,” Caele added. “He’s a god, after all. Be certain to remind the Master of that when you tell him what happened—”
“When I tell him!” Basalt glowered.
“Yes, of course, you should tell him,” stated the half-elf coolly. “You are the Caretaker, after all. You are the one in charge. I am but your underling. You tell the Master.”
“I am the Caretaker of the Tower. You were the one tasked with casting the illusion spell. For all I know, it was your fault that Chemosh found out! Perhaps you made a mistake—”
Caele quit biting his nails. His long, thin fingers curled to claws. “Perhaps if you hadn’t panicked and ordered me to end the spell prematurely—”
“End the spell! What are you talking about?”
The stern voice came from behind them. The two Black Robes exchanged alarmed glances and then, cringing, both turned to face their master, Nuitari, God of the Black Moon.
Both wizards bowed low. They both wore the Black Robes, symbol of their dedication to Nuitari. Beyond that, the likeness between them ended. Caele was tall and gaunt, with straggling, greasy hair that he rarely bothered to wash. He was half-human, half-elven, and united in his hatred of both races. Basalt, the dwarf, was short and stocky. His black robes were neat and clean, his beard combed. He didn’t much like anyone of any race.
Straightening, the two tried to appear at ease, as if they were completely unconscious of the fact they were standing on a stone floor awash in dragon’s blood, with the overturned basin of dragonmetal wobbling about at their feet.
The tall Caele looked down his long nose at Basalt, who glared up from beneath his heavy black brows at Caele.
“Tell him,” Caele mouthed.
“You tell him,” Basalt growled.
“Someone had better tell me, and tell me soon,” hissed Nuitari.
“Chemosh discovered the illusion,” Basalt said, trying to meet the god’s dark and unforgiving eye, and finding it difficult.
“He was coming straight at us,” Caele whined, “waving a huge sword. I told Basalt the god couldn’t harm us, but the dwarf panicked and insisted on ending the spell—”
“I didn’t insist that you upend the basin,” snapped Basalt.
“You were the one howling like a wounded wyvern—”
“You were just as scared as I was!”
Nuitari made an abrupt gesture with his hands.
Basalt, quailing, asked in a low voice, “Master, will Chemosh come to free her?”
No need to name which “her” he was talking about.
“Perhaps,” said Nuitari. “Unless the Lord of Death is more wise than he is obsessed.”
Caele looked sidelong at Basalt, who shrugged.
The god’s round moon face with its lidless eyes and full-lipped mouth held no expression. The mages could not tell if he was pleased or displeased, surprised, or alarmed, or simply bored with the whole procedure.
“Clean up the mess,” was all Nuitari said before he turned on his heel and walked out.
It took both Caele and Basalt to lift the heavy basin, which was in the shape of a serpentine dragon with the coiled tail forming the bowl, back onto the pedestal. Once the basin was in place, they stared down at the pool spreading across the stone tile floor.
“Should we try to salvage some of the blood?” Basalt asked. Dragon’s blood, especially that given by a willing dragon, was an extremely rare and valuable commodity.
Caele shook his head. “It’s been tainted now. Besides, the blood loses its potency for spellcasting after forty-eight hours. I doubt the Master will be attempting this spell again any time soon.”
“Well, then fetch rags and a bucket and we’ll—”
“I may be your underling, Basalt, but I am not your lapdog!” Caele returned angrily. “I do not fetch! Get your own rags and bucket. I must inspect the basin to see if it was damaged.”
Basalt grunted. The basin was made of dragonmetal. He could have dropped it off the top of the Lords of Doom, and it would land at the bottom without suffering a dent. He knew from experience, however, that he could either spend the next half hour in a bitter argument with Caele that the