Storm of the Dead - Lisa Smedman [26]
The priestess smiled, satisfied. She tipped her head in the direction of the shelves. "Slaves," she said in a low voice, the corners of her mouth curling in disapproval.
Q'arlynd gave a somber nod. He sighed, as though he agreed with her but was powerless to change such an institution. "What brings you to Sshamath, Lady? Can I be of assistance?"
"Not unless you can persuade the Conclave to hear me today, instead of keeping me waiting,"
Q'arlynd smiled. She was there to speak to the Conclave, was she? "Do they know who you represent?" He stared pointedly at the chain around her neck.
"I told the Speaker I had been sent by the Promenade," she said. Her gaze drifted to the door. Her eyes hardened as a priestess of Lolth was carried in on a palanquin borne by two minotaurs. "I didn't think it wise, however, to let who I am be generally known."
"Good idea," Q'arlynd agreed. Meanwhile, his mind was brimming with curiosity. Eilistraee's priestesses normally came below ground only to woo new converts and lead them to the surface-something that was normally done in secret. He wondered what might compel a priestess to announce herself to the rulers of an Underdark city. He decided to find out.
"The Conclave can be slow as a millstone, at times," he told her. "Here in the Underdark, we don't have night and day to remind us of the passage of time. Things tend to seem less… urgent than they might."
"So I've noticed."
"Would you like some company while you wait for your petition to be heard?"
She nodded. "I could use the company of someone who's more in tune with the customs of the World Above. The parts of Sshamath I've seen so far aren't exactly to my taste."
Q'arlynd smiled. The net had been cast. Time to haul in the blindfish.
He took stock. The priestess was far from beautiful. Acne had left her skin porous as limestone. Her braided hair was a dirty mushroom-white and lacking in luster. She was probably double Q'arlynd's age, well into her second century of life. Still, her body was firmly muscled, and her breasts generously endowed-her one redeeming feature. Q'arlynd let his eyes linger on them and smiled.
"I'd be delighted to give you a taste of Sshamath that's more to your liking," he murmured. "Lady…?"
The color of her broad cheeks deepened in a blush as she noticed where he was staring. "Miverra."
"Lady Miverra," Q'arlynd repeated, as if savoring the taste of the name. He ran a hand through his hair and gave her his best "take-me" look.
Her blush deepened.
Q'arlynd gave a mental sigh. Miverra was from the Surface Realms, all right. She expected Q'arlynd to take the lead in this little dance.
So be it.
He bowed. "I'm Q'arlynd."
She showed no sign of recognizing his name. A pity, since this was one instance where he might have capitalized on it. Yet in many ways it was a relief. A handful of Nightshadows still skulked about Sshamath, despite the wave of assassinations that had left the halls of the Tower of the Masked Mage awash in blood. Those assassinations, part of a coup by Nightshadows who had shifted their allegiance to Shar, had taken out the few who insisted on worshiping what remained of Vhaeraun: that strange blend of deities they called the "Masked Lady." There weren't many of the latter left, but Q'arlynd didn't want them learning of his role in Vhaeraun's death. Even one dagger in the back would be too many.
Fortunately, Q'arlynd's part in Vhaeraun's downfall had been overshadowed by Selvetarm's death at the hands of a mortal. Bards had composed a score of odes to the Darksong Knight who had slain a demigod, but not a single stanza had been written about the conjuring of a gate between Vhaeraun's and Eilistraee's domains.
Miverra glanced at the adamantine amulet that hung against Q'arlynd's chest. "You're with the College of Divination?"
"Currently, yes, but I'm in the process of founding my own school. One day, my School of Ancient Arcana will be recognized as a College in its own right." He gave a rueful look, and added, "Assuming, that