The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [120]
“What?” he sneered. “Have you lost your tongue? Well, I suggest you go look for it somewhere else. We have no use for peculiar-looking, slack-mouthed dimwits here. Now leave me to my woe and suffering!”
The door slammed, coming to a halt a hairbreadth from Lirith’s nose.
She spent another hour on the Street of Flames, but with little more luck. With the help of the Touch, she sensed which workshops were populated, then knocked on those doors. However, the conversations that ensued were, if possible, even less pleasant than the first. While all of the goldsmiths were bereft at the loss of their god, to a one they were haughty, insulting, and mean. If Ondo had been anything like those who followed him, Lirith could imagine that the other gods would be only too glad to be rid of him.
Weary, longing to return to the cool quiet of the hostel, she forced herself to try one last door. A pretty woman no older than herself answered, and for a moment hope rose within her.
It was as quickly crushed as the woman launched into a caustic tirade that made the greetings of her fellow guildsmen seem warm in comparison.
“How dare you come at a time like this, seeking treasures from us?” the woman shrieked.
“But I’m not seeking treasure,” Lirith said, “I simply wanted to—”
“I demand to know who you follow. Is it Imai? Jorus? Ah, I see.” She jabbed a finger at Lirith’s chest. “It’s Sif that you follow. Well, you might as well leave. You’ll never get your precious gold amulets, not now. Until we are granted a new god by the Etherion, the goldsmiths aren’t making jewelry for any of the temples. And we’ll never make anything for those who would plot to steal from us! Bronze is all you’ll ever get.”
This time Lirith was ready for it. She stepped back, narrowly avoiding the door as it slammed shut. Her good mood gone, she left the Street of Flames and started back toward the hostel.
At the first vendor she came upon, Lirith bought a cup of wine. Or tried to anyway. For after she handed the man a coin, he tipped a clay jug, spilling wine on the street, then handed her a wooden cup with a smile and a nod.
“Excuse me,” Lirith said, gazing at the empty cup, “but doesn’t one usually get the cup first and then the wine?”
The vendor slapped his forehead. “Forgive me, mistress. I can’t seem to do anything right today. I keep mixing everything up, I do. Why, just after I came back from temple, I tried to fill my pitcher when it was already full. I spilled wine all over a lady’s feet. She wasn’t happy about that.”
“I imagine not,” Lirith said. She held the cup out.
This time the fellow got the order of things right. Lirith accepted his apologies—and the cup, which he told her to keep for her trouble—but she hardly tasted the sweet liquid as she drank. She did not want to have to tell the others that she had learned nothing from the goldsmiths.
Or had she? Something that last woman had said seemed important. She had mentioned something about Sif, about thinking that was who Lirith followed. Was Sif a god? And if so, why had the other thought Lirith to be one of Sif’s followers?
She remembered the way the woman had pointed at her and looked down. Revealed by the unlacing of her bodice, the bronze spider amulet glowed dully in the sunlight.
Bronze is all you’ll ever get.…
Yes, that was important, she was sure of it. But what did it mean? Lirith closed her fingers around the Mournish amulet as she turned down another street. She would ask Melia about this Sif as soon as she got back to—
A scream escaped her, half-strangled by terror. There, beyond an archway, she saw it: a writhing mass that filled an entire courtyard. Even as she watched, more bright threads were pulled toward it. The threads dimmed to gray, becoming part of the tangle. Lirith felt the first tugs on her being; her feet skittered along stone, toward the archway.
It was bigger here, far bigger than it had ever been in Ar-tolor. And it was