Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [52]
“That strikes me as purposefully provocative,” said Chant.
“It sure got my attention,” agreed Demascus.
“You’re right,” said Riltana, blinking. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. It’s like Kalkan wanted you to track me down …”
“Which we finally did,” said Chant. “Lucky for you.”
Riltana raised a finger. “You know what’s really strange? Kalkan didn’t just hire me a couple days ago; he hired me four years ago.”
“So?” said Chant.
“Think about it. Kalkan knew to the moment when Demascus would emerge from your shop with the scarf.”
“Oh … oh!” said the pawnbroker, sitting straighter. “That’s quite a prediction. Especially since Demascus himself didn’t know he’d be in my shop two days ago.”
A chill brushed Demascus’s spine. So fine a detail divined so far into the future just wasn’t possible. He said, “It wasn’t a prediction; it was foreknowledge.”
“What’s the difference?”
Certainty washed through him like a winter wind. He said, “Anyone can predict what might happen a song from now, or an hour, and sometimes even up to a tenday from now. Magic or divine intervention can help narrow the focus on the cloud of branching possibilities. But seeing the future accurately is a devilishly difficult task, one that even eludes the gods. Anyone who possesses such a refined ability would be dangerous beyond compare.”
“Kalkan knew,” said Riltana. Her eyes narrowed. “But maybe it’s not such a miracle. Maybe you and he set this up ahead of time, to draw me into some kind of crazy scheme all of you prepared!” She pushed her chair back, crossed her arms, and glared at them.
Chant raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t know this Kalkan,” said Demascus.
“And how do I know if you’re being honest with me?”
He sighed and decided to tell the thief the whole truth. “In fact, I don’t even know who I am. I woke up two days ago without any memory except a few tattered fragments. One of my reclaimed memories is of … this scarf.”
“That’s it?” said the thief, her manner still suspicious.
“No, there’s more.” Demascus then related how he’d survived being the guest of honor at some kind of demon summoning ritual put on by the Firestorm Cabal, how he’d found his way to Airspur, and how he and Chant had tried to learn more of his past by visiting the Motherhouse. When he told her about facing Chevesh, she whistled and murmured, “You broke into the fire mage’s tower? Maybe you’re both escapees from a nutter’s house.” He concluded by describing how, upon returning from Chevesh’s tower, they found the Motherhouse in ruins.
“All right,” Riltana said finally, raising her hands as if in surrender, “That all sounds too crazy to be anything but the truth.”
“Why’s that?” said Demascus.
“Lies need to be simple, so you can remember them,” offered Chant.
“Exactly,” said Riltana. “So how’d you find me?”
Demascus glanced at the pawnbroker, recalling how Carmenere didn’t want to be mentioned.
Chant said, “We found the note you left in your loft.”
Demascus glanced down, uncomfortable with the falsehood. But they’d promised.
“Was anyone there? At my loft?” said Riltana.
“No, it was empty.”
The thief frowned, then she shook her head. “Well, thanks again for pulling me out of there—even if you did bring that demon with you.”
The cat padded back to them, and wound around the thief’s ankles. She studied Fable a moment, then lifted the cat.
“Careful!” said Chant. “Fable only likes to be petted on the head. She’s a bit temperamental.”
The cat settled into a purring puddle in Riltana’s lap. She stroked down the cat’s head and back. The pawnbroker shook his head. “She’s just lulling you into a false sense of security.”
“Don’t worry. I know cats. I used to have one when I was small.”
“Tell me more about Kalkan,” said Demascus. “He tried to take the Veil from you without paying your fee?”
The thief looked up from Fable. “Yeah