Temple Hill - Drew Karpyshyn [59]
Lhasha recoiled as if she'd been slapped. "Wh… what are you talking about?"
Through clenched teeth Corin spat his words at her. "You've made this partnership impossible. You wouldn't listen to me on what inn to stay at. You wouldn't listen to me when I said this job was a trap."
"But Corin, that was just-"
He continued on as if he hadn't heard her. "I told you to stay back if there was any fighting, but you still managed to get yourself poisoned by the naga."
"I tried to-"
"You're irresponsible, reckless, and foolish. You don't think ahead. You're a menace. A threat to yourself and anyone around you. When you wind up dead, my reputation can't afford to take the blame."
"Your reputation?" Lhasha shot back angrily. "Until you met me you didn't have any reputation left! You were a drunk brawling in the streets, remember? I gave you a chance. I helped you get your reputation back!"
Corin sneered. "And what a grand reputation I have now-working for a second rate thief who dresses like a whore!"
Lhasha grabbed her drink and threw it at Corin. He didn't flinch, but the cup missed him by at least a foot and smashed against the back wall.
"Hey!" the waitress shrieked from across the tavern, "yer gonna pay fer that or I'm gettin' the Maces!"
"Here!" Lhasha shouted back, throwing a handful of coins on the table so hard they ricocheted off and scattered across the floor. "Now shut up, you withered old hag!"
Bottling up her rage, Lhasha turned back to Corin, who hadn't moved since his abrupt severing of their relationship. In a quiet voice she said, "Go see Fendel when you want your back wages. I'll be in Cormyr."
She spun on her heel and walked out, head held high. She kept her composure until she was safely beyond the door, then succumbed to emotion. Sobbing with anger and shaking with adrenaline from the confrontation she stumbled down the street, wiping bitter tears of betrayal from her eyes.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Over and over, Graal paced the length of the small subterranean meeting chamber. Four long, loping strides would bring him to one of the stone walls. He would punch the hard rock with his fist before changing direction and resuming the pattern.
Fhazail was late. It was bad enough the fat steward had sent word virtually demanding this meeting. Graal hated to be at anyone's beck and call. Then to keep him waiting…
The orog struggled to rein his fury in, lest he do something foolish and incur Xiliath's wrath.
This insult was just another in a long list justifying Graal's hatred for Fhazail. Add it to the appalling sight of yellow and orange silk shirts clinging to mounds of rolling fat, or the repugnant scent of perfumes and powders that embraced Fhazail like a desperate lover. It took days for Graal to purge their lavender stench from his nostrils.
It was more than just a physical revulsion that fueled Graal's hatred. Fhazail's attitude was galling to the orog. Graal inspired terror in lesser creatures, and he reveled in it. But in Fhazail's case there was no pleasure in the fear. Fhazail was brazenly craven, he kowtowed and groveled and whimpered and whined too easily. It was second nature to him. Fhazail felt no shame, no humiUation, no debasement when he cowered at one's feet, and Graal felt no power from intimidating such a fawning sycophant.
It even went deeper, Graal suspected. Graal could kill Fhazail on a whim, the steward knew that. Yet Graal sensed that somehow Fhazail was always in control of the situation. The corpulent coward always knew exactly how far he could go, and beneath his trembling exterior Graal suspected Fhazail was toying with him, laughing at him.
Despite the urge, Graal knew he mustn't kill Fhazail. Not yet. Xiliath was very specific about that. Fhazail was his master's most important spy within the Cult of the Dragon, the key to getting the package for Xiliath's own use. Once the package was delivered and Yanseldara's doom assured,