“He invites the nomads here to Khuri-Khan, to destroy the elves in their tent-city.”
Faeterus froze, then put down his dinner. “Not an idiot—a madman!”
“Maybe. He says his father has betrayed Khur by allowing the elves to remain here, and by filling his coffers with elven steel.”
“They’ll have Sahim-Khan’s head, too, in the bargain.”
“I’m sure that’s what Shobbat intends.”
Faeterus picked up a narrow, conical goblet made of gilded glass and gulped wine like a sailor just back from a long voyage. His fingers left gory prints on the shiny stem. Hengriff wondered whether his nails were naturally that umber shade, or if he painted them.
“An idiot after all,” Faeterus said, refilling his goblet. “Sahim is popular. The nomads won’t unite against him, not now.”
“Perhaps if they had more provocation,” Hengriff suggested.
“That will take some thought. The wanderers aren’t like ordinary people, elf or human. What pleases us offends them, and what angers them we would consider trivial.” The mage leaned back against his cushions, and added, “What will you do for me if I do this favor for you?”
I won’t wring your scrawny neck, Hengriff thought. “This isn’t a souk, elf. I’m not here to bargain. Get to the point. What do you want?”
Faeterus reclined on the cushions, closing his eyes. “A trifle, really,” he murmured.
Hengriff doubted that. The mage seemed immune to the standard temptations. As far as Hengriff could tell, he had only two guiding principles: hatred for his own race, and devotion to the pursuit of his magical arts. Whatever he wanted, it likely would be something extraordinary.
“I want what Gilthas wants: the Valley of the Blue Sands.”
Hengriff frowned at this puzzling reply. He knew the nomads of the northern desert regarded the valley as sacred, belonging to the gods and forbidden by them at the same time. Most of the stories he’d heard, in the souks and various taverns, were improbable in the extreme. In one, the valley was said to house an army of stone soldiers, motionless for two thousand years, who would awaken on hearing a certain magical word. If the wrong word of power was voiced, they would animate only long enough to kill the one who’d said it, then resume their stony existence. Other tales said the valley contained a city of gold, a race of invisible dragons, or-oddest of all—the tombs of dead, foreign gods.
Why, all of a sudden, did Faeterus care about the Valley of the Blue Sands?
Hengriff stood stiffly. Over the years he’d acquired too many injuries, more than a few while chasing the Lioness, to remain hunkered down on the low table for very long.
“I’ll convey your words to my masters,” he said evenly. “Fables and legends aside, the valley represents an excellent defensive position. My Order certainly wouldn’t want the elves to settle there.”
He glanced at a carafe sitting on the rug near Faeterus. The mage had a penchant for a Delphonian vintage steeped with kuroba flowers, which imparted a narcotic effect. Hengriff wanted none of that; he would endure his thirst for a while longer.
“Oh, one thing more,” he said casually. “Gilthas has an agent in the city looking for you.”
The mage’s hazel eyes opened quickly. “Really? An elf?”
“My spy on the Speaker’s council did not specify. Could be a hired Khur.”
“I hope not!” Faeterus rubbed his chin with his fingers, forgetting they were smeared with gore. The bloody streaks made his gaunt face seem savage indeed. “I need a full-blooded elf for my latest experiment. Maybe I should let Gilthas’s ferret find me.”
Hengriff had no desire to speculate on what experiments this loathsome creature might be planning. Duty discharged, he wanted only to be gone. He opened the trap door and held out his hand. He needed new paper amulets, so he could pass safely through the villa’s magical defenses. Each set of warding amulets worked in a very specific fashion-once as Hengriff departed, and once more allowing him to reenter. Faeterus would not have it any other way.
Unfortunately, Faeterus was not ready to let him go. Instead of producing new amulets, the sorcerer brought up the valley again, asking for assurances it would be granted to him. Hengriff brusquely declined to make guarantees. “The decision is not mine to make,” he growled, demanding the amulets.
Faeterus suddenly gave a very birdlike, warbling whistle. In the chamber below, the manticore sprang to its feet and came to stand below the opening. It looked up, and grinned. Hengriff had faced any number of horrors in his time, but the sight of that horrible, too-human face and its rows of steel-sharp teeth caused him to shudder. He thought of the disemboweled beggar outside.
He turned a furious look upon the sorcerer. Faeterus held the paper amulets in one long-fingered hand. “Of course you may leave if you really wish to,” the mage assured him genially. “But perhaps we should discuss proper payment for my services first?”
