Brimstone Angels (12 page)

“Nobody did see,” she said. She clambered over the sill and glanced back into the darkness. “But maybe he should leave by the door. I nearly broke my neck on the way out.” She grinned at Farideh. “Did you see my landing? It … was …”

She trailed off, sniffing. The hot and bitter scent of the portal opening still laced the air, faint but unavoidable. Havilar’s expression grew concerned. Farideh glared at her. After all of Havilar’s complaints, Lorcan had come because she had left.

Havilar rolled her eyes, as if to say to the Hells with Lorcan anyway. Farideh glanced over at the boy. If he smelled the traces of Lorcan’s portal …

He was looking around the room, as if he didn’t want to let his eyes settle. He looked at the walls, the locked door, the bed, the floor, the cold fireplace, and finally, to Farideh.

“Is everything all right?” he said. “You … Did you not want me to come? Havilar said—”

“No,” Farideh said, “it’s not that. I just didn’t want Havilar to go out.”

“Well now we’re in!” Havilar said.

“And Mehen is going to come back eventually. What do you think he’s going to say when he finds out you snuck a boy in here?”

“Brin,” the boy said. “And Mehen didn’t see.” He looked at Havilar. “Should I call him Mehen? Or is it Goodman Something?”

Havilar giggled. “Just Mehen. He doesn’t have a clan name.”

“It’s not funny,” Farideh said, more sternly than she meant to. “It’s better if no one knows there’s a pair of tieflings rooming here.”

“Just everyone who saw us in the taproom,” Havilar said sarcastically. She sat down on the floor and pulled Farideh down beside her. “Brin, give her some whiskey before she has a fit.”

Brin sat down beside them, drawing a half-empty bottle of brown liquor out of his pack. Farideh frowned.

“Where did you get that?”

“Downstairs.”

“The tavernmaster sold you a half-bottle of whiskey?”

“No,” Brin said. “He tried to charge me an arm and a leg for space on the tavern floor. I thought it was fair to even things out a bit.”

“You stole it?”

“It was mutual stealing,” Havilar explained. “Like how you can kill someone if they’re trying to kill you.”

“All right, it sounds stupid,” Brin said hotly. “But it was the only thing I could reach.” He looked at Farideh, puzzled. “Are you feeling all right? Your cheeks are all red.”

“I’m fine,” she said automatically. She pressed a hand to her face. “Just … harder to pull you in than I thought.”

At least having some refugee boy in the room was better than Mehen finding her with Lorcan. If he came in now, it would be Havilar’s fault too.

Havilar grinned madly at Brin, as if she’d caught a particularly tricky beast in one of her traps. “You didn’t think I’d manage, did you?” she said to Farideh.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

Havilar looked past her and frowned. “Why did you bolt the door?”

To herself, Farideh cursed. “Safety.” She hurried to the door and undid the bolt, without meeting Havilar’s eyes.

You’re still just frustrated at Lorcan, she thought. You can’t take that out on Havi. Or Brin.

Brin yanked the cork free and paused, staring at the open bottle. “I never said thank you.” He looked up at Farideh. “For saving me. And … I should apologize too. To both of you. I wasn’t in my right mind, I suppose. But it still was terribly rude to assume you were devils. Even if you had been … you did me a good turn.”

Farideh relaxed a little. Maybe Havilar was right. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it would be normal.

“I don’t have any glasses,” Brin said apologetically. “I hope that’s all right.”

“Brin, we live on the
road,
” Havilar said. “We’re used to not drinking out of glasses.”

“Oh. Right,” he said, taking out a handkerchief to wipe the mouth of the bottle. “And I suppose Mehen doesn’t stand on etiquette.”

Havilar snorted. “Gods, can you imagine Mehen teaching us how to curtsey and take tea? ‘Put your damn back straight,’ ” she bellowed. “ ‘You curtsey from the hip not the knee! You’re leaving yourself wide open for a snub from the queen of Tethyr.’ ”

Farideh giggled. “ ‘No, no, no!’ ” she growled back. “ ‘
M’henish
, how many times do I have to tell you, pass the biscuits with your off-hand so you can parry the zzar with your stronger arm!’ ” Havilar laughed so hard she pounded the floor.

Brin took a sip from the whiskey bottle. “How long have you been traveling with him?”

“Forever,” Havilar took the whiskey bottle from him. “He adopted us. He’s our father.”

That took Brin a moment to absorb. “But,” he finally said, “you call him ‘Mehen.’ Not ‘Father’?”

“Dragonborn call their parents by name,” Farideh said.

“What happened to your real parents?” Brin said, and Farideh felt a surge of irritation. Mehen was a real parent, more so than whoever had left them behind, but she bit her tongue. She knew what he meant even if she didn’t like the way he said it.

Havilar shrugged. “Someone left us at the village gates.”

“And there wasn’t … a note? Or a clue in the blankets?”

Farideh and Havilar glanced at each other. Arush Vayem was the sort of place people went to hide from their pasts, to start over right when that wasn’t possible in other lands. They both knew if someone had left a pair of babies at the gates of Arush Vayem, there was no need of a message to say that they didn’t want the twins back.

“It’s not a story, Brin,” Farideh said. She sipped the whiskey. It tasted sharp and woody and the burn of the alcohol tickled her throat. “We’re not the secret princesses of Abeir or something.”

“Where are
your
parents?” Havilar asked.

“Oh,” Brin said vaguely. “Off somewhere. They’re … adventurers, you know?” He glanced up at them a moment, as if he were weighing something against their expressions, and Farideh wondered what it was. “They go away for years and so I ended up in a strict Tormish school.” He took a careful sip of whiskey. “I … I left. I’m not cut out to be Tormish.”

Havilar snorted. “I’ll say. Tormites don’t steal whiskey.”

“They do
buy
it,” Brin said. “A look of discomfort passed over his features and was gone. “Where’s your village?”

“Near Tymanther,” Farideh said. “In the Smoking Mountains.”

“You won’t have heard of it,” Havilar said. “It’s a secret village.”

Farideh sighed. “Havi.”

“What?” Havilar said. She took a sip of the whiskey. “Who is he going to tell?” She turned back to Brin. “It’s just a village of people who don’t want to be found.” Farideh stopped herself from sighing again.

“You mean criminals?” Brin asked, excitement creeping into his voice.

“She means outcasts,” Farideh said, passing the bottle back to him. “It’s just a village of people who … didn’t belong somewhere else.”

“Lots of dragonborn,” Havilar said. “It seems like it’s rather easy to get cast out of a clan, if you ask me. And humans who didn’t fit in somewhere.”

“And tieflings,” Farideh said.

“Who don’t fit in anywhere,” Havilar said with a giggle. “Also two half-orcs and a dwarf that raises yaks.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Inheritance dispute,” Farideh said, giggling herself. “He says he wanted to quit his clan right.”

“
Don’t
ask him about it,” Havilar said, taking the whiskey. “Or you’ll know far too much about his brother-in-law. Far. Too. Much.”

“If I ever find your secret village,” Brin said, “I’ll make certain I avoid it. Why did you leave? To find your parents?”

Farideh dropped her eyes and shut her mouth. Havilar took an extra-long swig of whiskey that ended with a gasp and a cough. “Whew!” she cried. “This is strong.”

Brin was watching them carefully, his eyes skipping from one to the other. The longer they didn’t answer, Farideh thought, the
more he’d think of his own reasons, and the more he thought of his own reasons, the more awful those reasons might become. Robbery. Murder. Devil worship.

Were they worse than binding yourself to a devil you couldn’t say no to?

“Even outcasts have outcasts,” Farideh said lightly. “We … were involved in some mischief that upset the wrong people. It wasn’t on purpose, but … people were upset.”

Brin’s eyes lit, as if he knew exactly what she meant, and he nodded. She could sense Havilar beside her, relaxing into the safe blandness of that explanation. They might keep him still. “I have certainly been acquainted with those circumstances,” Brin said.

“Is that why you had to leave?” Havilar asked, passing Farideh the bottle. “From wherever you’re from?”

“I didn’t
have
to leave.” Again, that look of discomfort. It was starting to rattle on Farideh’s nerves, and the whiskey did nothing for it. She wrapped her hands around the top of the bottle, pressing her palms into the glass, and willed the shadows not to gather around her.

“Truth is, I’m from Cormyr,” he finally said. “I guess … I don’t really fit there. With my family and such. It seemed better that I get out of their way.”

“ ‘Out of their way’?” Havilar said. “What are they? Rampaging tarrasques?”

Brin chuckled. “Not quite that bad. More like … rampaging dire bears. But with more rules. They
don’t
appreciate mischief any more than secret villages do.”

“I don’t think anyone appreciates having a building blown up,” Havilar said.

Farideh’s every muscle stiffened. “Havi!”

Brin’s mouth fell open. “Is … is that what you did?”

“Sort of,” Havilar said.

“Why? How?” He was positively goggling.

“On accident,” Farideh said. It’s not going to make a difference, she thought. He’s already made up his mind. They would have to run. “It was magic gone awry.”

“It was my fault,” Havilar said quickly, her face as red as Farideh was sure her own was. “I was doing spells that were too powerful.
Nobody died. Nobody … really got hurt.” Her hand closed on Farideh’s. “It was our own house.”

Brin glanced from one to the next and finally shook his head. “Well, you have me beat. The worst thing I’d ever done was run away. Granted,” he added, “I did make a point of doing so regularly enough.”

Farideh took a swig of whiskey and passed it on, grateful that Havilar had defused the situation, but angry that Havilar again took responsibility. Farideh had taken the pact, she’d made the decision, she hadn’t stumbled into it. It was her doing alone. If anyone was to blame it was Farideh. If anyone got hurt, it was Farideh too.

Brin frowned. “But why were you doing spells? You’re not a spellcaster.”

“I can cast a little bit of magic,” Havilar said. “Just not very well. Apparently. I’m better with blades and Fari’s better at magic, that’s all.”

He turned to Farideh. “You’re a sorcerer, aren’t you? Is the explosion what happened to your eye?”

Farideh’s cheeks were still burning. “No.”

“It’s always been like that,” Havilar said quickly. “Mehen says it happens sometimes. It happens a lot more in dogs. It just surprises some people because, well, silver and gold look strange to humans—”

“Havi,” Farideh said, and her sister stopped. She looked at Brin hard. “It’s just an eye.”

“All right,” he said. “I really didn’t mean any offense. I suppose you hear that a lot?”

“I do hear that a lot,” she said after a moment. “It doesn’t take much for some people to be superstitious.”

“They don’t know any better,” Brin said, with a wave of his hand that Farideh had to remind herself wasn’t supposed to be dismissive. Even if it felt like it. Even if it made her anger squeeze tight around her chest.

“I thought you might be a wizard at first, but you don’t have a spellbook.”

“Or,” she said lightly, “a lot of patience. Sorry I snapped.”

He grinned. “Here”—he handed her back the bottle of whiskey—“friends?”

For now, Farideh thought gloomily, but she took the whiskey from him. “Friends,” she said, and she raised the bottle before taking a sip and passing it on to Havilar.

“To winning!” she said, before taking her own turn. She giggled. “I don’t care what Mehen says, I think all seven orcs count.”

“To Neverwinter,” Brin said, “and new beginnings.”

“What will you do in Neverwinter?” Farideh asked. Though it had been a little cruel of Havilar to point it out, he wasn’t cut out to build houses and haul rock.

Brin shrugged. “Whatever someone will pay me for. I’ll save it up and …” He trailed off and took another, bolder sip of the whiskey. “And do something
I
want to do.”

“
Why
Neverwinter?” Havilar asked. “It’s up at the edge of the world. And it’s fallen down. I heard anyway. D’you have a lady friend up there?”

Brin chuckled. “No. I don’t know anyone in Neverwinter, truth be told. It …” He hesitated a moment. “Look … I’m not a refugee really. No one in my family’s from Neverwinter. But I think I could pass. Start a life of some sort. New beginnings, as I said.”

“So long as your house hasn’t already fallen down,” Havilar said with mock solemnity. “I hear, too, that it’s teeming—
teeming
—with monsters. And volcanoes.”

“And orcs,” Brin said. “And warlocks.”

Farideh froze. “Warlocks?”

“Right. The … Hellish sort. That’s what they say, anyway.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I read … somewhere … some devil tried to take Neverwinter over once. Maybe even an archdevil. Ages ago though. Before the Spellplague. So maybe that’s why they all go there. But it’s probably nonsense. People say all sorts of things. I mean, do you know how many stories people tell about how the city got its name?”

Farideh nodded, not really hearing Brin. If Neverwinter were full of warlocks, there had to be at least one among them who knew how to keep a devil in hand. It stood to reason—didn’t it?—that Farideh could not be the only warlock in Toril who didn’t start down the path with the intention of being wicked. And she couldn’t be the only one with a devil who wouldn’t leave her alone.

If she went to Neverwinter, she might find someone who could show her a way to at least give Lorcan pause. Perhaps someone to show her how to leash him. If she could keep him from turning up so often, if she could keep him from needling at her brand, if she could keep him at armslength …