Dawn of Night

CHAPTER 8 THE CITY OF SKULLS

An immense, complicated network of caverns and tunnels honeycombed the rock below Faerun's surface, stretching for leagues in all directions-the world below the world, the sunless expanse of the Underdark. To Azriim, it felt much the same as the Sojourner's pocket plane, itself simply a pinched-off portion of the Underdark.

In the endless night of that oppressive realm, a quarter-league below the city of Waterdeep, Skullport squatted in an immense L-shaped cavern carved from the rock by the slow but inexorable flow of the dark waters of the Sargauth, the underground river that fed Skullport a steady diet of ships and fresh water. The unsupported vault of the cavern's soaring but stalactite-dotted ceiling would have collapsed of its own weight long ago if not for the mantle magic that supported it.

Even in his current, vulgar form, Azriim could feel the subtle currents of magic moving through the still, dank air of the city. The mantle's magic touched everything, and it remained powerful, even after the death of its creators many centuries before.

Millennia earlier, Azriim knew, the cavern in which Skullport stood had been part of a much larger complex of caverns used by Netherese arcanists for magical experimentation-Sargauth Enclave, it was called, or so the Sojourner had explained to Azriim. It was the Netherese who first crafted the magical mantle that blanketed the caverns, an attempt by the human arcanists to secure the safety of their new city and to mimic the highest achievement of elven high magic, the mythal. But when the most powerful of the Netherese archwizards, Karsus, temporarily unraveled the Weave in a failed bid to achieve godhood, the enclave's mantle temporarily ceased to function. Those few heartbeats during which magic was dead in Faerun were as catastrophic to Sargauth Enclave as they were to the rest of the Empire of Netheril. Most of the caverns in which the enclave had stood, no longer buttressed by the magic of the mantle, collapsed in a hail of stone, crushing hundreds.

But a few caverns, by sheer happenstance, suffered only partial collapses. Centuries later, in one such cavern, Skullport squirmed from the corpse of the ruined Netherese outpost like an infestation of maggots. There it crouched, flourishing in the darkness and damp, a great fungus hiding in the shadows.

Bordered on three sides by trade tunnels stretching away into the Underdark, and on one side by an underground bay formed by the dark, pooling waters of the Sargauth, Skullport gradually grew into an important trade link in the chain of the Underdark's unsteady economy. Beings of all races came to the Port of Skulls to trade in wares and flesh.

With limited space in which to build, the city's inhabitants filled the cavern's L-shaped floor and grew upward. Dilapidated homes, shops, and vice-dens-most built of salvaged shipping lumber washed down to the Sargauth by the currents of the surface sea-hugged the walls and ceilings of the cavern like lichen, or lay stacked one upon another, layer after layer, like a human child's blocks. The roof of a brothel might be the floor of the eatery built above it.

An intricate network of catwalks, recycled ships' rigging, tightropes, swings, and unstable bridges connected the buildings that stood above floor level. Strung from structure to structure, or spiked to the stalactites that pointed down from the vaulted ceiling like spear tips, the "hemp highway" made for an effective, if precarious set of airborne streets.

To Azriim, looking up from the floor, the hemp highway resembled the web of an insane spider, vibrating with the movement of hundreds of struggling flies going about their business. With a frequency bordering on clockwork-at least once every twelve hours or so-someone would fall to a screaming, splattering death on the streets below. Sometimes a bridge or catwalk gave out, but just as often it was a creditor's or enforcer's patience that finally came to a violent end.

Without fail, the moment the corpse hit the street Skullport's residents stripped it of valuables as quickly and efficiently as a swarm of fire ants stripped the flesh from anything unfortunate enough to cross its path. Azriim found it amusing.

He and his broodmates had been in the city long enough even to have learned the vernacular and the less-than-sensible geography. Skullport's natives-skulkers, they called themselves-conceptually divided the city into three distinct sections: the Port, which was nearest the bay; the Trade Lanes, which straddled the L- shaped center of the cavern; and the Heart, the darkest and most dangerous area of the city, which stood in the bulb-shaped terminus of the cavern. Each of those sections was further subdivided into subsections to reflect the vertical elevation: lower, middle, and upper. Over the past tenday or so, Azriim learned that the nomenclature was inexact, and that what one person might call the Upper Trade Lanes, another might call the Middle Port. No matter. The city was the same everywhere, whether walking a rickety bridge through a forest of stalactites in the Upper Heart, or elbowing through the crowd of illithids and drow in the Lower Trade Lanes. It was dark, lit only by torches, candles, lanterns, and dim glowballs. And it stank of decayed corpses, wet garbage, and rotting fish.

At every level, the narrow streets and walkways teemed with all manner of hard-eyed creatures: houseless drow mercenaries, white-eyed derro savants, inscrutable illithids, fierce orcs, chattering gnolls, and much worse. Violence was common and bloody, even in public streets, so weapons, wands, fangs, and claws were always bare.

Azriim loved the chaos.

Coffles of slaves, the true coin of Skullport's realm, were as ubiquitous on the lower levels as the drug dens, prostitutes, and muggings. They stood in huddled groups, vacant-eyed and hopeless, awaiting their fates-humans, dwarves, goblins, elves, and creatures Azriim did not recognize. Some would end up as laborers, some as test subjects for chirurgeons, some as food. And even after death, those who were not consumed would continue to work. Zombie laborers were commonplace, especially on the docks. Shambling and stinking, they loaded and unloaded cargo from the many ships that called at the piers of the Port of Skulls.

Unable to help himself, Azriim grinned his mouthful of perfect teeth (even in his current form, he refused to adopt foul teeth or show any eyes other than his natural blue and brown orbs), reveling in the degeneracy of the place. He savored its barely controlled chaos the way he might a fine meal. His only complaint was the filth and the stink. Skullport was the boil on the arse of the world, and it stank accordingly. He would never get his clothes clean. He had not yet been able even to keep them dry. A slow but steady drip of brownish, mineral-laden water fell from the ceiling above, causing the whole city to swell with moisture, and giving the stifling air a mineral tang.

With so many creatures packed into so small a space, the tension was palpable, a temperamental beast that lurked behind every transaction, every word, face, and gesture, waiting to erupt. But for the presence of the Skulls, Azriim knew, the city would long before have devolved into a bloodbath.

Thinking of the Skulls erased his smile and brought a frown to the thick-lipped, doughy face he wore. Skullport's ostensible rulers were almost comically absurd-flying, glowing skulls of all things-but they managed to keep the city under control and the flow of trade continuous. The Skulls kept the violence of the city manageable through the careful, but seemingly chaotic, application of power. Not enough to wreak mass destruction, but just enough to instill the fear of an ugly death. Their spellcraft was paltry compared to the Sojourner's, of course, but still powerful enough to keep the populace from running amok.

To Skullport's citizens, the Skulls were enigmatic, even mystical. To Azriim, they were nothing more than what they were.

When Sargauth Enclave collapsed, the mantle supporting the caverns had absorbed the consciousnesses of thirteen of the mightiest Netherese arcanists killed in the destruction. They later rose from the ruins as the Skulls, the creatures that had given the city its name. For Azriim, the Skulls held no awe. They were simply another obstacle to be overcome on his way to transformation into gray.

Since arriving via a portal in Waterdeep-innumerable portals in Faerun ended in Skullport-Azriim, Dolgan, and Serrin had remained inconspicuous in the city by changing forms and lodgings frequently.

Throughout, they had painstakingly studied the movement and behavior of the Skulls. They noted the time it took the creatures to respond to street fights in various parts of the city, and the frequency with which they were seen in certain locations. From that, they had deduced the general direction of the Skulls' hidden lair, not far up the winding western tunnels that led into the wilds of the Underdark. Azriim was confident that somewhere in a cavern off of those tunnels, hidden by time, fallen rock, and the Skull's magic, unbeknownst to all but the Skulls themselves, stood another cavern that had survived the destruction of Sargauth Enclave. The Sojourner had assured him of as much, and that made it so.

It was in that hidden cavern, that second surviving remnant of Sargauth Enclave, that the Skulls laired. And it was there that Azriim would find the focus for Skullport's mantle, there that he must plant the seed of the Weave Tap. Since their arrival in the city, Azriim had kept the seed in magical stasis, held within the small, invisible, extradimensional space created by the magical ring on his finger. He could release the seed with a shake of his hand and a mental command.

But first things first, he reminded himself. With practiced ease, he regained his smile. He suspected it looked like more of a grimace in his current form.

Azriim walked-plodded, really-the packed earth avenues of the Lower Port, threading his way through the crowds and trailing his mark: a thin, pot-bellied, tonsured human named Thyld, who walked with a limp and wore stained, threadbare brown robes. Azriim had been trailing Thyld for over a tenday, learning the human's habits, his haunts, and his tastes. Azriim felt as though he'd learned as much about the human as there was to know. Thyld was a "collector" for the Kraken Society, an organization perceived by the factions in Skullport to be a legitimate broker of information. The human had contacts among most of the important power groups in the city, in places both high and low. In addition, Thyld ran a lucrative side business, unbeknownst to his Kraken Society superiors, selling some choice bits of information to interested parties in the city. That made him ideal for Azriim's purposes, which was unfortunate for Thyld.

To further his plan, Azriim would "borrow" Thyld for a time, use his contacts, and trade on the Kraken Society's legitimacy. Then, when all of the variables were in place, he and his broodmates would locate the hidden chamber, lure the Skulls away, and plant the seed of the Weave Tap.

Ahead, the open plaza of the Slavers Market was thronged with an auction day crowd. Shouted bids rang loudly in the dank air. Dozens of torches on tall posts illuminated the plaza and sent smoke curling through the caliginous air toward the ceiling. Two chained ogres in filth, flab, and worn leather tunics stood on a raised wooden platform while a middle-aged human with an elaborate mustache, fat-puckered arms, and a bright red tunic stood before them and managed the shouted bids carrying from the crowd. Near the platform, a line of chained slaves-one of them an attractive human female-awaited their turn on the block. The irony of slavery in Skullport was that few of the slaves were actually put to work in the city. The great slave market simply provided the venue for purchasing and selling. The slaves themselves were typically shipped out into the darker corners of Faerun and the Underdark.

Beyond the plaza stood the docks, and ships of all sorts lined the piers, from Calishite slave-schooners to Luskan clippers. Most arrived via the many gates that dotted various areas of the Sargauth's channel. Some made the journey from the surface seas via an intricate, secret network of magical locks and hoists. Crates, bags, and urns of goods lay neatly stacked in piles along the docks. The calls of sailors and goblin dockhands occasionally penetrated through the noise of the auction to reach Azriim's ears.

Azriim's magic sense suddenly caused the back of his throat to tingle and drew his eye upward.

There, high above the plaza, watching the auction and wharves with its inscrutable, eyeless stare, floated one of the Skulls. A dim orange nimbus surrounded it, and its gaze moved slowly hither and yon, seeing all.

Azriim willed himself to be unobtrusive.

Without warning, the Skull swooped down from its high perch and whizzed low over the crowd, trailing a tail of orange light. A gasp went up, fingers pointed, eyes went wide, and the auctioneer fell quiet. Many people fled the plaza, hunched over and terrified. The Skull swooped out wide, turned a half circle, and sped back toward the crowd. Azriim feared he might have been discovered, but no. The Skull stopped directly in front of a thin human male dressed in an ill-fitting gray tunic and leather breeches. A sword hung from his belt but his hand stayed well clear of it. When the human stared into those empty eye sockets, he visibly shook. He licked his lips nervously. The people and creatures around him cleared away, leaving him alone with the Skull.

An anticipatory hush fell over the crowd. The auctioneer seemed frozen with his jiggling arm held aloft, about to accept a final bid for one of the ogres. Like Azriim, the audience knew what was coming-slaughter or slapstick. Either way, an amusing spectacle in Skullport.

The Skull's jaw did not move when it spoke.

"You are a pilferer of trivial things," it pronounced, loud enough to be heard throughout the plaza. The man shook his head and started to protest, but the Skull went on, "Thieves are not tolerated in the Market. Speak now the name of the favored hound of the third son of the fourth high arcanist to rule Iolaum or face immediate punishment."

The accused thief's face flushed red to his ears. Fear paralyzed him, though he looked like he wanted nothing more than to run.

"Wh-what do you mean?" he stammered. "I... I didn't steal nothing. I don't know any arcaners."

"Incorrect," said the Skull.

At that dire pronouncement, the thief must have sensed the fullness of his danger. He finally managed to break free of his fear-induced paralysis and turned to run. Even if there had been somewhere to go, he was too late. The Skull spoke a series of arcane words and a green beam fired from its eyes. It struck the man in the back, swallowed his scream, and instantly reduced him to a pile of fine dust. A handful of silver coins, scattered in the soot, was all that remained of the offender.

"Retrieve your stolen property," the Skull announced to no one in particular, and began to fly off. As it rose back toward the top of the cavern, it gave its pronouncement. "Thievery shall not be tolerated at auction, nor time with eggs, lest they be hatched. Heed well."

For a moment, no one moved and all was silent. Then a laugh sounded, and another, followed at last by the low murmur of a satisfied audience discussing the show. A mad scramble ensued, with several skulkers grabbing for the silver. Within moments, the voice of the fat auctioneer rose, the auction resumed, and the first of the ogres went into bondage.

Disintegrated for a handful of silver, Azriim thought. That was the power of the Skulls, the studied but unpredictable application of discipline that kept the populace respectful and the chaos manageable. Smiling, Azriim relocated Thyld amidst the crowd and continued to follow him through the plaza.

At first, Azriim thought Thyld was heading for the Murkspan, a somber stone arch bridge that reached across Sargauth Bay to set its far footings in the dark earth of Skull Island where stood the crenellated walls and fortress tower of the Iron Ring, the master slavers of Skullport. All slave ships docked at Skull Island to brand and inventory their cargo in the fortress before it could be sold in the plaza. The Ring took its cut of all trade in flesh.

But Thyld turned left and knifed through the crowd, steering wide of a group of illithids, and headed for the fish market.

Azriim followed at a distance, weaving his way through the coffles of slaves for whom buyers would soon bid. Whips cracked; slaves moaned and cried. Would-be buyers poked and prodded the merchandise.

Though Azriim had no sympathy, as such, for the humans and other fodder destined to toil and die in the dark of Skullport, he could imagine few fates for himself worse than a life spent in bondage. Even the relatively moderate boundaries put on his existence by the Sojourner drove him to near madness. While it was true that the Sojourner treated Azriim and his broodmates well, that only made them well-treated servants. Thinking such thoughts boiled up the strange emotional dichotomy he always felt when he considered his "father"-an admixture of love and hate, fear and respect.

He controlled his emotions by reminding himself that he would have his freedom, and be transformed into a gray, when he had assisted the Sojourner in obtaining the Crown of Flame. Azriim didn't know what the Crown of Flame was, nor what the Sojourner intended to do with it, but he knew it must be a mighty artifact indeed to be so desired by his father.

Thyld made a straight path through the fish market and headed down a narrow street lined with rickety taverns and shops. The smell of bad food and the shouts and laughter of patrons boiled from the shutterless windows.

Ignoring the fishermen who lined the street hawking the long, pale fish of the Sargauth, Azriim followed Thyld. The fishermen ignored him too. Azriim took the form of a muscular duergar slaver, complete with a whipblade, a scarred face, and a hard scowl. No one seemed to find him worth more than a first glance. Though he missed the grace of his preferred half-drow form, he deemed the duergar shape less obtrusive. Drow, he had learned, were obsessed with House affiliations, especially recently, when rumors in Skullport told of a drow civil war. Azriim had no time to waste with explanations to every passing drow of his seeming "Houselessness." He did miss the comfort of his usual fine attire, though. The coarse tunic and trousers he wore in his duergar guise made even his dwarven flesh chafe.

He eyed a passing illithid with two troll thralls in tow. The flayer's face tentacles twitched. No doubt he had just received some psionic contact. The towering trolls-green-skinned walls of teeth, claws, and muscle-eyed him with the slack expression of the psionically dominated.

Azriim feigned fear as he passed, though were he in his natural form, his own claws and teeth could have torn apart both trolls and illithid alike. He found himself wondering what illithid brain might taste like if the tide was turned on the brain-eating creature. The temptation to make psionic contact with the mind flayer almost overcame him, but he resisted it. The Sojourner would not be pleased if he took unnecessary risks. His task was to locate the source of the mantle. He kept his focus on Thyld.

The human made a right and turned down a narrow alley. Having learned the man's habits, Azriim knew that Thyld was heading to Aryn's House, a brothel and hostelry, to "seed the soil," as Thyld called it, by paying his informants. Thyld had three spies among the girls at Aryn's. After paying the doxies their tenday stipend, and providing bonuses for any especially useful information they may have gleaned from their patrons, he would move on to the next location. Azriim knew them all.

Are you prepared? Azriim projected to Dolgan.

His broodmate's mental voice answered immediately, We await you at the storehouse. Everything is ready.

Dolgan had secured a room in an isolated storehouse along the docks and Azriim had carefully memorized the look and feel of the space. In order to use his teleportation rod, he needed to have a clear mental image of his desired destination.

He picked up his pace and closed on Thyld.

Though the Sojourner had warned Azriim against casual use of the teleportation rod while in the Underdark, Azriim had little choice but to utilize it. Unfortunately, in order for the rod to transport Thyld, the human had to be either willing or unconscious. The former was unlikely and the latter presented a problem. Azriim could not simply knock Thyld out on the street and steal him away. Witnesses to the human's vanishing-and the consequent rumors that would quickly circulate through the city-would defeat the whole purpose of Azriim's plan. Accordingly, he needed to be somewhat more creative.

Moving quickly, he came up behind Thyld.

"Out of the way, human," he grumbled, in his coarse dwarf's voice, and bumped into Thyld as he passed him by.

As he did, Azriim mentally channeled arcane energy through his hand and into Thyld, turning the human invisible. Azriim could still see Thyld, of course; his vision was that keen.

Though Thyld could see himself, and thus did not know that he was enspelled, it would be only a moment or two before he began bumping into passersby and deduced that something was amiss. Azriim had to act quickly.

He feigned dropping something in the street and bent over to retrieve it. Thyld walked by him, still oblivious to the fact of his invisibility. The moment the human passed by him, Azriim surreptitiously palmed a coin with one hand and with the other removed from a leather tube on his thigh one of the handful of wands given him by the Sojourner. Made of carved ivory, and inscribed with many arcane symbols, the wand fired a beam that would transmogrify the target into any creature or object Azriim desired.

While still purporting to be searching the packed earth road for the fictitious item he'd seemingly dropped, Azriim surreptitiously pointed the wand at Thyld and whispered the words, "Cave shrimp."

The thin yellow beam struck the invisible Thyld in the back. He was able to utter only the beginnings of a scream before his form shrank and shrank, down to that of a tiny shrimp. A passing mercenary spent a moment looking confused by the sourceless, choked-off scream, but quickly went about his business.

"There it is!" Azriim exclaimed, hopping forward two paces and retrieving Thyld-the-shrimp.

The tiny creature squirmed in his fist. With his other hand Azriim held up the coin he'd palmed, brought it to his eye, and smiled as though he'd just picked it up. None of the other passersby looked twice.

Still smiling, but for a different reason, Azriim walked a few paces down a dark side alley. When he thought no one was observing, he willed himself invisible. Still holding the squirming Thyld in his hand he waited for the human-shrimp to become incapacitated from lack of air.

I have him, he sent to Dolgan. I will be along presently.

Dolgan projected an acknowledgment.

Azriim pulled out his teleportation rod while Thyld's struggles grew fainter and fainter. When they stopped entirely, he deftly manipulated the rod and transported himself to the storehouse.

Serrin and Dolgan awaited him there. Serrin, in the form of a dark-haired human corsair, wore high boots, a falchion, an earring, pantaloons, and a blue silken shirt. Azriim envied him the silk. Dolgan had taken the form of a thin, balding drunk, dressed only in dirty trousers and a homespun tunic pitted with holes. His potbelly looked as though it hid a melon.

The small office stood empty but for a desk and a high-backed chair. Three large wax candles sat atop the desk and provided the only light. A coil of fine rope sat beside them.

Azriim threw Thyld-the-shrimp onto the chair and pulled another wand from the leather tube at his thigh. Made from duskwood and capped with an opal, the wand dispelled magical spells and effects.

Hoping that Thyld had not already died-but only because it would be inconvenient otherwise-Azriim pointed the wand at the Thyld-shrimp and caused it to dispel the human's transformation. The shrimp burst, grew, and gave birth to a human, a human who was not breathing.

Had Azriim not had such distaste for expletives, he would have cursed.

"Uh oh," Dolgan said, and bent over Thyld. He grabbed the human by his receding chin and turned his head back and forth. He looked back to Azriim and said, "He's dead, I think."

The big slaad sounded indifferent.

"I can see that," Azriim snapped, and crossed his arms over his broad chest. "Help him."

Dolgan frowned, dumbfounded. "How?"

"I don't-"

Thyld inhaled sharply and deeply, a long breath that rattled with phlegm.

The slaadi shared a look of mild surprise, and Dolgan looked vaguely disappointed.

"Secure him," Azriim, smiling, said to Dolgan. "And take off his robe."

Dolgan asked no questions. He stripped off the human's robe and cast it at Azriim's feet, then used the coil of rope to tie the still-unconscious and only semi-dressed Thyld to the chair. They waited. After a few moments, the human began to groan. In short order, his eyes fluttered open.

To his credit, Thyld took in his situation and managed to not look panicked. He didn't even struggle against the bonds, possibly because he appeared to be the prisoner of a drunk, a sailor, and a badly dressed duergar.

Having gathered his wits and some of his dignity, the human eyed them coolly, each in turn.

"How dare you attack me in the street! Do you know who I am?" he asked, in a nasally, imperious tone. "And who I serve?"

Azriim "tsked" at the bound human and said, "Poor grammar is the sign of a lazy mind. Of course I know who you are and whom you serve. That is the very point." He gave a hard smile and let that sink in. "But you do not yet know who we are. Allow me to make introductions."

At Azriim's mental command the slaadi all began to change. Their ridiculous manling forms grew bulky, leathery green skin formed tightly over powerful musculatures, clothing stretched and tore, mouths exploded with fangs, and claws burst from fingertips. Thyld's eyes went wide and he began to struggle against his ropes, but managed only a mild rocking of the chair. His mouth hung open but no words came forth. A string of spittle hung between his lips like one of the hemp highway's rope bridges.

Azriim felt more at ease in his natural form than in that of the duergar. He flexed his claws, ran his tongue over his fangs. When he reached out his mental senses to touch Thyld's mind psionically, he tasted the human's terror. He worried that Thyld might begin to yell out for help.

"If you begin to shout, I will use this claw-" Azriim held up his forefinger-"to sever your vocal cords."

Then you will answer my questions this way, he projected. Do you understand?

Thyld looked so fearful that Azriim was concerned that the human might become incoherent. No doubt Dolgan's hungry presence did little to make the man feel at ease. The big slaad stood behind the bound Thyld, drooling and shifting from foot to foot with excitement. Dolgan was so intoxicated with Thyld's fear, so eager for Thyld's blood, that he had sank his upper fangs into his lower lip hard enough to draw his own black blood, which mingled with his spit.

We understand each other now, I think, Azriim projected soothingly. And I'd go so far as to say that we're on familiar terms. Friends almost.

"What do you want?" Thyld said, looking from Azriim to Dolgan and back to Azriim.

Azriim let his mental voice drop to a suitably menacing tone.

I require that you answer some questions, Thyld. Without expletives, and without lies. If you tell a falsehood, I'll know. If you curse, or otherwise give voice to vulgarity, I will punish you.

Thyld seemed unable to speak. Sweat dotted his high brow. At last he gave a sharp nod.

You are an agent of the Kraken Society, Azriim projected, and nodded at a small tattoo inked onto Thyld's bare chest-a purple squid in a red field. In addition, unbeknownst to your superiors, you sell information on the side to the various factions in Skullport.

The human did not deny it, simply stared wide-eyed and breathed hard.

Azriim continued, That fact need never leave this room. But it happens that I am in possession of information that would be of interest to Zstulkk Ssarmn and possibly the Xanathar. Who are your contacts within those organizations'?

He held up a clawed hand to forestall any protests that Thyld might have offered. Azriim already knew that those organizations were nearly at war-the fact was integral to his plans. Ssarmn, the yuan-ti slaver, and the Xanathar, the beholder crime lord and slaver, had been quietly murdering one another's operatives for months. They needed only an additional spark to turn their campfire of a conflict into a conflagration.

Thyld shifted uncomfortably in his bonds. Azriim could see the human's mind racing, desperately seeking for a way out of his current straits.

"I can provide you an introduction," Thyld offered. "My contacts are accustomed to speaking only with me."

Azriim smiled a mouthful of fangs, which disconcerted Thyld.

I understand, but I must contact them directly, Thyld, without the intervention of you or the Kraken Society.

When Thyld seemed still to hesitate, Azriim dispensed with the niceties.

Listen carefully: If you do not tell me the names of your contacts now, I will torture you until you do.

At the mention of torture, Azriim sensed a flash of agitation from Serrin.

It seemed to take Thyld a moment to understand the importance of Azriim's words. When he did, he began to shake. So too did Dolgan, but out of a different sentiment all together.

Azriim continued, If you tell me what I want to know, you will be paid handsomely.

That was a lie, of course. But like all lies, it came easy to Azriim.

Three times Thyld opened his mouth to speak and each time nothing but a squeak emerged. Finally, Dolgan clapped him on the back of the head. His claws scratched open the human's scalp. Thyld squealed and bled.

"There," Dolgan said in his guttural tone, after licking his fingers clean. "At least something other than a squeak is coming out. Now answer the question, creature."

Thyld blurted a reply, "Kexen the slaver, for Ssarmn, and Ahmaergo the dwarf for the Xanathar. Both have ways of sending information up the hierarchy. Both will pay you well."

Azriim knew the names. With only slight effort he would be able to locate and set up meets with each of them. He fixed Thyld with a stare. The human recoiled as much as his bonds allowed. The stink of fear leaked from his pores.

"When are you due to report back to your superiors in the Kraken Society?" Azriim asked.

The human hesitated, apparently sensing the danger that lurked behind that question.

"Ten cycles," he said at last.

Cycles. Skullport's skulkers had dwelled in the dark for so long that they no longer divided twenty-four hours into day and night, but instead into two twelve-hour cycles. Azriim would have five days before Thyld's superiors noticed his absence. Time enough.

The human must have mistook Azriim's thoughtful silence as something more foreboding.

"Th-that's the truth," Thyld stammered.

Azriim waved a hand dismissively, his mind still on how to move his plan forward. A Xanathar caravan was arriving through a magical portal within the next six hours.

That should do, Azriim thought.

"What are you going to do with me?" Thyld asked, the trepidation in his voice evident.

Azriim ignored the human, eyed his broodmates, and silently asked the question. They could spare Thyld, he knew, and merely keep him prisoner for the time it took for their plot to unfold. In another five or six days, it would all be finished and the seed of the Weave Tap planted. After that, it could not be undone, and whether Thyld was alive or dead would be irrelevant.

Serrin answered his look with a predictably efficient response.

We should not leave him alive. If he is found, or escapes, it would compromise our efforts.

Dolgan licked his lips and nodded, eyeing the crown of Thyld's head hungrily all the while.

Azriim too nodded. He had been thinking much the same thing. Leaving Thyld alive would entail taking an unnecessary risk. Azriim enjoyed risks, but only when they brought him a thrill. He saw no thrill in sparing Thyld.

With his mind made up, he leaned in close to Thyld-the proximity of his fangs and eyes sent the human into a virtual paroxysm of terror. Azriim studied the human's face with care, took one last look at his build, and began to change. His squat dwarf frame lengthened, his head narrowed, and his build slimmed. In moments, he looked very much like Thyld, complete with a weak chin and potbelly.

Seeing that, the human slumped in his chair.

"You're not going to let me live," he said.

"You're not going to let me live," Azriim parroted, adjusting his vocal cords to approximate Thyld's tone. "No, I fear not. But if it dulls the pain any, I will need your robe." He eyed the rag at his feet with distaste before adding, "Unfortunately."

The human said nothing, merely hung his head in resignation.

We should not leave a body, Dolgan projected, with eagerness in his tone.

Azriim knew that too. Though he preferred brains almost exclusively, they would need to devour Thyld's entire body. He sighed and took out the wand that transmogrified one creature into another. He looked to his broodmates.

Alive or dead for the feast? Azriim asked.

Alive, Dolgan responded quickly.

Azriim nodded. He would use a silence spell to mask the human's screams. He took a deep breath.

"What are you hungry for?" he asked his broodmates.

Thyld began to weep.

* * * * *

Dolgan had requested that Thyld be turned into an ogre before they ate him, bones, hair, flesh, and all. Azriim shook his head as he walked. The big slaad's tastes were sometimes inexplicable. After cleaning up and retaking Thyld's form, Azriim exited the storehouse and made the rounds of Thyld's appointments. Hungry for more sensation, and intoxicated with the aftereffect of consuming Thyld-the-ogre's brain-Azriim had taken that choice morsel for himself-he bedded two of Thyld's whore-spies at Aryn's before paying them their stipend.

Shapechanging had its benefits, he thought.

Later, he would set up meets with Kexen and Ahmaergo. But first, he and his broodmates had a Xanathar caravan to intercept.