Yet…

"I can't," he said. "Nymia Focar is my tharchion. It would be an act of disloyalty for me to run to another commander with my concerns. To the Abyss with it. This is a strong army and we'll win. We may pay a heavier price for our victory than Nymia anticipates, but we'll have it in the end."

Brightwing grunted, an ambiguous sound that might signify acquiescence, disapproval, or both at once.

Aoth resolved to put his misgivings out of his mind. "I wish I knew where Chathi's gone," he said.

"Why, nowhere," she replied.

He turned. The priestess stood in the house's doorway with a pewter goblet in either hand. She wore only a robe, open all the way down the front, though the night obscured all but a tantalizing suggestion of what the gap would otherwise reveal.

Aoth felt a grin stretch across his face. "I thought you'd be off somewhere celebrating with everybody else."

"I hoped that if I waited for you, we could have a sweeter time together. Was I wrong?"

"No," said Aoth, "you were right as blue skies and green grass." He strode to her, and enfolded in her arms, he did indeed succeed in forgetting all about the undead. At least for a while.

Though he'd known her for twenty years, Aznar Thrul had never beheld the face of Shabella, high priestess of Mask, god of larceny and shadow, and mistress of the thieves' guild of Bezantur. Every time he'd seen her, she'd worn a black silk mask and hooded gray woolen cloak over the rainbow-colored tunic beneath.

That, of course, was simply the way of the Maskarran, and it had never bothered him before. Now it did. What, he wondered, if this isn't the same woman with whom I've conspired for all these years? What if someone else, some agent of my enemies, killed her and took her place? Even if I unmasked her, I wouldn't know.

Trying to push such groundless fancies out of his mind, he scowled at her across the length of the small room he used for private audiences, and as a servant closed the door behind her, she bowed deeply, spreading the wings of her cape.

He left her in that position for several heartbeats, rather hoping it pained her middle-aged back muscles but knowing it probably didn't. Though she likely hadn't committed a robbery with her own hands in a long while, her position required her to train to maintain the skills and athleticism of an all-around master thief, and he had little doubt that she could still scale sheer walls and lift latches with the ablest burglars and stalk and club a victim like the most accomplished muggers.

"Get up," Aznar said at last. "Tell me what's happening in the streets." He already knew, but the question was a way of starting the conversation.

"The common folk," she said, "are celebrating the good news from Pyarados." As always, her soft soprano voice sounded gentle and wistful, belying the iron resolve and ferocity she displayed when circumstances warranted.

" 'The good news,' " he parroted. "Meaning what, precisely?"

"That the legions are pushing back the undead."

"In the opinion of the mob, who deserves the credit for their success?"

Most people hesitated before telling Aznar Thrul something he didn't want to hear. Shabella never did, and that was one of the things that made him if not like at least respect her.

"Szass Tam," she said, "who committed the order of Necromancy to the struggle, convinced Iphegor Nath to send the Burning Braziers, and armed the priests with their torch weapons."

"And who just recently saved the northern tharchs from a Rashemi invasion."

"Yes."

"Curse it!" Aznar exploded. "I don't care what the whoresons done. How can they make a hero of a lich?"

"We Thayans aren't a squeamish people," Shabella replied. "You Red Wizards made sure of that when you recruited orcs, zombies, and even demons to serve you. The commoners had little choice but to get used to them."

"Spare me your gloss on the history of the realm. Tell me who spreads these tidings through the alehouses and markets in a way that lionizes Szass Tam at the expense of everyone else who contributed to the victory."

"Agents employed by Dmitra Flass and Malark Springhill, most likely."

"If you know that, why haven't your cutthroats silenced them?"

"Because I don't really know, I simply infer. The taletellers are wily and my followers haven't yet identified them."

"Too busy skirmishing with the Shadowmasters?" he asked, referring to the one cartel of thieves that sought to supplant her and her organization.

"I have to address the problem," Shabella said. "I'm no use to you dead."

"Are you of any use currently? Perhaps your rivals wouldn't be so foolish as to give their business priority over mine."

"The local Shadowmasters are only one chapter of a greater network based in Thesk. Would it truly suit Your Omnipotence to have foreigners controlling all thievery south of the First Escarpment?"

"It might at least suit me to see someone else officiating in front of Mask's high altar, so get out of here and do what needs doing."

She bowed and withdrew.

The unsatisfactory interview left Aznar feeling as restless and edgy as before, but perhaps he knew a way to lift his spirits. It had been a month since he'd visited Mari Agneh.

Though he didn't play with her as frequently-or, often, as elaborately-as in the first years of her captivity, she still amused him on occasion, which made her a rarity. Generally, the torment of a particular victim eventually came to seem repetitive and stale, at which point he consigned that prisoner to his or her final agonies and moved on to the next.

He supposed it was Mari's austere good looks and defiant spirit that he still found piquant, combined with the fact that she was nearly the first person of significance he'd punished after assuming the mantle of a zulkir. In her way, she was a memento of his ascension.

Smiling now, he rose, took up his staff of luminous congealed flame, and exited the private chamber into a larger hall where bodyguards, clerks, and other functionaries awaited his pleasure. He waved them off and tramped on alone, through one magnificently appointed space after another. His passage was a like a ripple in a pond, agitating everyone. Sentries came to attention and saluted, while everybody else groveled in the manner appropriate to his station.

Such displays became less frequent once he made his way to corridors that, while no less handsomely decorated, were smaller and less well travelled. From there, a concealed door admitted him to his private prison.

Mari gave him a level stare as he entered her cell. "I'm going to kill you tonight," she said.

It surprised him a little. She hadn't made that particular threat in quite a while, not since they'd proved her helplessness time and again.

"By all means, try," he answered. "It always made our times together that much more entertaining, but first, take off your clothes, and keep your eyes on me as you do it. I want you to see me seeing you."

She obeyed, as of course she had to. His magic left her no choice.

"Now crawl to me on your belly and clean my shoes with your tongue."

She did that, too.

"Now hug the whipping post." He wouldn't need to tie or shackle her to keep her there. His spoken will sufficed even for that.

He laid down his staff, took down the whip from its hook on the wall, and cut her back into a tidy Crosshatch of bloody welts. Though it was the least of his accomplishments, he'd always taken a certain satisfaction in his skill with a lash. He fancied that if he hadn't been born with a talent for magic, he could have been one of Thay's more successful slavers. Perhaps it would have been a less stressful and demanding existence than the life of a zulkir.