Prince of Lies - James Lowder [81]
The inquisition had begun.
* * * * *
As Fzoul and the other three conspirators conversed softly with their mysterious divine patron, Rinda jotted down the last of her notes on Cyric's years in Zhentil Keep's thieves' guild. She scanned the tight, cramped pages and shook her head. The True Life was a tale of helplessness and desperation, hardly the heroic paean to self-reliance the Prince of Lies had woven for the Cyrinishad.
After being sold to the guild by slavers, Cyric had struggled to earn his freedom through work for the guildmasters; he failed time and again to complete a job flawlessly, dooming himself to a life of servitude. Kindhearted people very much like Rinda herself helped him escape, helped him flee the city that would have ground him beneath its iron-shod heels had he stayed. His pockets bulging with the coins given to him in pity, the young Cyric traveled north on a misguided quest for the Ring of Winter. Had Kelemvor Lyonsbane not rescued him from the frost giants in Thar, the history of Faerun might have been very different indeed…
As you leave here today, be wary of your words and your deeds, the melodious, disembodied voice proclaimed. The words seemed to fill Rinda's ramshackle home, driving away the bitter cold. Cyric has grown suspicious of treachery within the Keep. He will be watching the city carefully. Without magic he may find it difficult to keep an eye focused on all his servants. But never underestimate him.
"None of us are foolish enough to do that, I trust"
Rinda glanced at Fzoul Chembryl. The flame-haired Zhentarim agent stood statuelike in the room's center, his arms folded across his black-armored chest. His harsh features had twisted into a grimace at the warning; he knew that the death god's eyes were upon him at all times. Only the powers of their divine patron made it possible for him to attend these subversive meetings with little fear of discovery.
Like Fzoul, General Vrakk took the news seriously. The orc dropped his warty forehead into his hand and grunted his dismay. "What, we got to sneak around even more now?"
There are rumors in the heavens that Cyric has purchased a cache of weapons from Gond, the voice said. It may be some mechanical device that will allow him to compensate for his loss of sorcerous power.
Rinda felt the walls close in just a little. "So what are you saying? Aren't we safe here anymore?" She dropped her pen, leaving a smudge of ink in the corner of the rough parchment page spread before her.
The shield I have in place over this home still blocks Cyric's sight, still makes it appear as if you are going about your normal business, Rinda. As long as any of you are in this place, I can guarantee your safety.
"What about the cover you provide for me?" Fzoul asked angrily. "If you don't create some sort of illusion to let Cyric think I'm still at my keep, he'll get suspicious. I can't just happen to disappear each time we have a meeting."
"And me!" Vrakk growled. "Me supposed to be in barracks now."
Hodur paused in his dice game with Ivlisar just long enough to chuckle at the others' discomfort. "Maybe we'll just have to do without your company, orc," the dwarf noted.
"Hmmm. That would be too bad," the body snatcher added, munching on his everpresent bowl of beetles. "I was finally getting used to your smell – rather like an overturned cart of rotten gourds, as my nose tells it. What do you think, Hodur?"
Vrakk leaped to his feet, his sword in his gray-green paws. "You not so important no more," the orc hissed. "We get others to rally merchants."
The elf looked to Fzoul, but the red-haired Zhentarim shrugged. "He's right."
"The general has mistaken my jest for an insult," Ivlisar said unctuously. He pushed the sword tip away from his chest "I apologize most completely."
At Vrakk's angry glare, Hodur added, "Yeah. Both of us."
This is no time to fight amongst ourselves, the voice said. The chords humming in each word soothed the