Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [47]
The lines around Carmenere’s mouth deepened into a frown. She murmured in a voice stripped of emotion, “Rilta has been known to take things that don’t belong to her. Usually things that aren’t of so much value that their absence would be missed too much. Usually.”
“Value?” yelled Demascus. A few people from the crowd of onlookers glanced at him. He didn’t care. “What does that matter? She’s a thief, and—”
Chant heaved himself to his feet and put a hand on Demascus’s shoulder.
Demascus glared at the pawnbroker, but shut up.
The human cleared his throat and said, “Pardon my friend, Demascus; that wrap has significant sentimental value to him. Maybe you could tell your friend Riltana we’d like it back? That we’d even be willing to pay to have it returned?” Chant’s voice was a model of friendly sincerity.
Demascus finally managed to leash his outrage, but he didn’t trust himself to speak. It was all he could do to stop frowning.
Carmenere said, “I would tell her but … she’s missing. And I’m worried.”
“What do you mean, she’s missing?” said Chant.
“I went by her place yesterday when I heard you were looking for her,” said Carmenere. Her expression wavered, as if much lay behind that simple statement.
“And?” Demascus said.
The woman pulled out a ragged piece of parchment. “I found this message.”
Chant took the scrap and squinted at it. Then he pulled a pair of reading lenses from his pocket and perched them on his nose, and perused the paper.
“What’s it say?” asked Demascus.
“It’s addressed to Carmenere; Riltana says she’s going to meet a client in the Sepulcher to receive payment for services rendered. So?”
Carmenere said, “Rilta should have been back already! She never returned last night, or this morning. I’m afraid something’s happened to her in the Sepulcher.”
“What’s the Sepulcher?” said Demascus.
“A place where crooked deals are made,” said Chant thoughtfully.
Carmenere looked at the ground.
Demascus said, “Let’s go. I need that scarf to help me remember—”
Chant elbowed him, and moved his head slightly in Carmenere’s direction.
Right, Demascus thought. Probably better not to announce his incapacity to every single person in Airspur.
“Carmenere,” said Chant. “We’re heading to the Sepulcher. Will you accompany us to look for your friend?”
“I don’t want …” The woman shook her head. She looked up from studying the ground. “No, I’m out of her life. If you find her, and she’s all right, please don’t tell her I’m the one who sent you after her.”
“Um. Sure,” said Chant, obviously nonplussed.
It’s probably not politic, thought Demascus, to tell the genasi what he intended to do if they found Riltana. Instead he said, “Where do we need to go?”
The pawnbroker pointed west, toward the crevice where the two cliff faces of Airspur came together beneath a veil of roiling white water.
“Did you hear that?” said Chant.
All Demascus could hear was a crashing roar. The rumble of the nearby falls had found its perfect resonance in the tunnel, and the sound was trying to vibrate its way to the center of his skull.
Demascus shook his head. Reaching the Sepulcher had turned out to require a trip into the labyrinths beneath Airspur. The pawnbroker had known which way to go; he said he’d visited the out-of-the-way “drop point” on a couple previous occasions. They’d already traveled nearly half an hour through passages, some of which were make-do sewers for Airspur, and he was ready for the trip to be over.
Chant paused and looked back along the tunnel. Demascus copied the pawnbroker, and studied the apparently empty passage.
“What?” said Demascus, his voice low.
The man shrugged. “Not sure. It sounded like something in the tunnel behind us.”
“I can’t hear anything but the falls.”
“The Akanawater is impressive, eh?”
“Impressively deafening.”
The pawnbroker chuckled. Demascus swallowed a twitch of irritation. The noise was working on his fraying temper, but that didn