Liar's Blade by Tim Pratt

Author:Tim Pratt
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fantasy
ISBN: 9781601255150
Publisher: Paizo Publishing, LLC
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

The Surface Curse

Why does she take the eyes of her enemies?” Cilian whispered.

Rodrick shrugged. “I don’t know. She threatened to tell me once. I’m just as happy not to know.”

Zaqen knelt at the side of the woodland pool where Obed was soaking, speaking to her master in a low voice. Their conversation was occasionally punctuated by Obed’s angry pronouncements. Rodrick hoped the various imperatives and remonstrations wouldn’t take much longer. It would be dark soon, and he wanted to get out of the woods before then. Just because they’d defeated—no, don’t be coy, slaughtered—one group of bandits didn’t mean there weren’t other dangers here.

“The portents have troubled me of late.” Cilian picked up a handful of soil and let it sift through his fingers, peering at the way the falling dirt scattered on the ground. “I have seen things that disquiet me.”

“Like being attacked by bandits and coshed into unconsciousness?” Rodrick said.

Cilian shook his head, serious as always. “No, those are the ordinary dangers of life in this world, and in the wild. I have seen—”

“Rodrick!” Zaqen called, and Rodrick was annoyed to find himself snapping to attention. “Come help me, please!”

“We’ll talk later,” he told Cilian, who nodded, his brow knit in worry. Who knew what anxieties a mad half-elf seeking Brightness suffered? And more to the point, who cared?

Rodrick picked up the small pack they’d filled with dry clothes for Obed. The priest was treading water in the pool, expression furious.

“You’re annoyed about the ring,” Rodrick said, and Obed just growled. “I can’t say I blame you. Fortunately, Zaqen and I were prepared for the possibility of failure. If you’re feeling sufficiently saturated now, we’ll start walking. We should make it to the road before you dry out too much, and if you start to feel too arid …” He thumped the pack, and the inexhaustible pitcher of seawater inside clanked. “We can always douse you with the first key. I suggested we fit the pitcher with straps, make a sort of helmet from the thing, and just upend it on your head to constantly shower you with brine, but …” He shrugged. “Zaqen seemed to think that would lack dignity.”

“Just get me out of these woods,” Obed said. “And let me worry about my own dignity.”

∗ ∗ ∗

The dry clothes proved a bit pointless, since the priest stopped every hour or so to inundate himself with water from the pitcher, upending the artifact over his head and letting the torrent of brine slosh down over him, cascading down his chest, back, and shoulders. Zaqen fluttered around him like a nervous hen around a chick, and Cilian ranged ahead, scouting to make sure they wouldn’t encounter any nasty surprises. Which, fortunately, they didn’t. Rodrick had been party to enough casual murders today. Sometimes murder was necessary, but they hadn’t even made a profit off this last bunch. If the bandit camp had contained any decent loot, they’d hidden it well, and Zaqen hadn’t left any of the brigands alive to interrogate about the location of any treasure troves.

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