Prince of Lies - James Lowder [16]
The colophon for this volume was longer than most. It started with the common exclamations of relief and complaints of cramped hands then moved on to hopes for a pretty wench and a pint of fine ale. The final section of the colophon had been obscured by hasty crosshatching, which indicated the lines should be scraped from the parchment before binding. The marks made the text difficult to read, but Bevis was not unpracticed in deciphering such puzzles.
From the god's mouth to my pen, in this, the tenth year of Cyric's reign as Lord of the Dead. Three hundred ninety and seven versions of this tome have come before. May it please my immortal master not to use my skin for the pages of the three hundred ninety-eighth.
With a cry of horror, Bevis pushed the gatherings away. They fluttered from the table and settled to the floor like vultures dropping around a corpse.
"That's hardly the way an artist should treat the work of his fellows," said a voice from the shadows.
Bevis spun around. Someone was there, in the darkest part of the crypt. "P-Patriarch Mirrormane?" the illuminator stammered, cautiously reaching for his penknife.
"Hardly." The man lurking in the darkness stepped forward. He was young and lean, with a catlike grace that betrayed his training as a thief. Brushing aside his black cloak, he planted a hand dramatically on the hilt of his short sword. The weapon hung from a loop on the man's belt, its rose-hued blade unmasked by a scabbard. "Did you enjoy my book?"
The illuminator mouthed a reply, but the words wouldn't leave his throat. The hawk-nosed man stalked closer, his footfalls utterly silent on the crypt's cold stone floor. He bent down and retrieved a gathering, one that depicted the Lord of the Dead then held the page up next to his face for Bevis to compare. The miniature was a remarkable likeness, right down to the halo of darkness.
"Oh gods," Bevis managed to gasp as he crumpled to the floor.
Cyric's cruel smile widened. "No, the only one that matters."
* * * * *
Bevis hung limp against the stone pillar, blissfully unaware of the three figures gathered around him. The ring of braziers still burned brightly, but they were no longer needed. With only a thought from Cyric, light had filled the catacombs, revealing every inch of the uneven stone floors and low vaulted ceilings.
"I wish Fzoul would hurry up!" Xeno Mirrormane shrieked. The high priest's silver-white hair curled wildly around his head as he stalked forward, waving the steaming iron rod at Bevis. The priest's thin frame was hidden by the bulk of his dark purple robes. "I want to get started on this spy before dinner."
The fat nobleman lounging nearby yawned and held a scented handkerchief to his bulbous nose. "Your departed brother would have been proud of the way you wield that thing, Xeno," he drawled through his square of patterned Shou silk. "You have taken to your newfound role as patriarch admirably. We are all grateful you could replace Maskul after he passed away so, er, mysteriously."
"Spare us your innuendos, Lord Chess," Cyric said. "You know Xeno murdered Maskul. Your spies informed you of the deed even before the dagger found his heart. It shouldn't have surprised you, though. After all, Xeno serves me, and I am the Lord of Murder, am I not?"
The facade of foppishness slipped, and the ruler of Zhentil Keep withdrew the handkerchief from his face. "Of course, Your Magnificence," he murmured.
"Tell me, Chess," Cyric demanded sharply, "do you still pray to Leira for a way to hide your disgusting gut from your courtesans? Illusions only conceal so much, you know."
Flushingin embarrassment, Chess straightened his bulk against the crypt's stone wall. When he looked to Cyric for some sign of approval, he found the god's avatar had