Malvek POV
Malvek had been extremely busy since the spore storm.
Panic selling, merchants trying to smuggle goods out before the blockade closed, nobles sending runners with sealed chests and shakier smiles—all of it made his coffers fuller than ever. The space blockade was a kick in the nuts, but he'd already shifted most of his liquid assets into grain and other foodstuffs. You couldn't eat coin; you could always sell food.
A strong laxative had been mixed into the bottom layers of grain in each crate. He'd even tucked in a few rats carrying surface fever. The slaves from above would be fine; their bodies knew these plagues. Most of the drow, raised in sterile caverns under divine caps, did not.
Fifty years of trade had taught him that war and gods were good for business if you were careful and fast. Martial law, though—that was messy. Checkpoints slowed caravans. Random inspections risked his more creative investments. His smuggling routes still existed, but every shortcut out of the city cost more coin than yesterday.
Once he had sold the last of his stock, he would visit the brain eaters. Surface slaves fetched excellent prices there. Speaking of slaves, he had decided where to hide Jacob.
He pulled a small wax tablet from his belt and scratched in neat, cramped letters:
> Fall of Baey'Ra estate = 4 days delay.
> Kidnapping of the headmistress = 2 days delay.
> Spore storm & martial law = 5 days delay.
> Economical Sabotage = 7 days delay.
He glanced at the lines once, then snapped the tablet shut. Time well spent. Someone had to keep track of how long the city's armies stayed exactly where they were: nowhere.
The streets near the slave market were quieter than the council quarter, but only just. Spores clung to every surface like dust. Mushroom-lamps burned dim and sickly, and the guards at the corners now wore cloth over their mouths and noses, as if that would stop a god's tantrum.
Malvek's convoy waited in a side alley: covered wagons, chained surface stock, crates of grain stacked like bricks of future diarrhea. His overseer, a thick-armed half-drow with a scar across his jaw, jogged up as soon as he saw Malvek.
"Master, we found something near the west entrance," the overseer said. "Or someone."
"If it's a dead guard, roll it into a side tunnel," Malvek said. "If it's a live one, sell them a mask at triple price."
"It's neither." The overseer lowered his voice. "It's one of his."
That got Malvek's full attention.
He followed the man around the corner, past the stink of open gutters and the clink of chains, to where a knot of workers had gathered. They parted quickly when they saw him.
A man lay half in the gutter sludge, half on the slime-slick stone. His clothes were torn and scorched; spore-scabs clung to the exposed skin of his throat and arms. He was breathing, barely—short, wet pulls of air that rattled like an old bellows.
Malvek didn't need to see his face.
He looked at the left hand instead.
A pale bone jutted from the palm, fused to the flesh like a growth, not an injury. It was cracked in one place now, darkened by dried blood, but the shape was unmistakable.
The lich's toy.
"Did anyone else see him?" Malvek asked.
"A patrol passed, but didn't look down," the overseer said. "Too busy watching the rooftops. Our boys found him right after."
"Good." Malvek crouched. "He's not here."
The men blinked.
"He's what, master?"
"He's not here," Malvek repeated patiently. "He's never been here. He is one more surface slave in our lot. Strip anything that looks expensive, keep the bone under wraps, and chain him with the others. Hood on, shackles tight. If a guard asks, he came in the last batch from above."
"Understood."
They moved quickly. Jacob gave no sign of noticing any of it. His eyes stayed closed, his face grey under the grime. When they lifted him, his head lolled; when they set him down on the wagon straw, his body folded like empty cloth.
Coma. Good. Comas didn't argue.
Malvek watched until the hood went over Jacob's head and the manacles clinked shut around his ankles. Only then did he let out a slow breath and straighten.
"Put him in the middle row," he added. "Not near the doors. If he dies, we throw him away at the next side tunnel. If he wakes… I'll decide then."
He walked back to the front of the alley, mind already sliding from family problems and old debts back to numbers.
Jacob was hidden. The grain was poisoned. The slaves were ready for sale. The city was still under martial law. It was time to see how the council was breaking.
---
The outer hall of the council building was crowded, but not with the usual petitioners and gossips. Today it was full of runners, quartermasters, junior priests, all moving in tight, frantic patterns. The carved doors to the council chamber were closed; the shouting behind them was not.
"…I warned you!"
"…Ve'ris's testimony is clear—"
"…you put the city at risk, Veyn'dor!"
Malvek joined the line of merchants pretending not to listen, ledger tucked under one arm. A clerk with tired eyes and ink-stained fingers came past, carrying a slate piled with names.
"What's happening?" Malvek asked, pleasantly neutral.
The clerk laughed without humor. "They've decided the city won't march unless someone is thrown to the spores. Veyn'dor vouched for the stranger, so Veyn'dor is going to pay for him."
"Pay how?" Malvek asked.
"With whatever the matrons can take that still lets the walls stand," the clerk said. "Title, duties, favors—whatever hurts and doesn't break the city. They need a spine to point at while they argue about ordination and offense."
He was called away by another frantic aide before Malvek could press for details.
Malvek leaned against a pillar and pulled out his wax tablet again.
He added a new line:
> Council scapegoating Veyn'dor = 3 days delay.
He underlined it once, then slipped the tablet away. The sooner the army marched, the sooner it would trample his favored trade routes flat. Every extra day of screaming in that chamber was a day his caravans could still move.
A gong rang deeper inside the building. The doors cracked open just enough to let a pale, sweating scribe squeeze out and call names. Malvek's was not among them.
Good. He had already gotten what he came for: information, and confirmation that the city was too busy arguing to look at its own gates.
By the time he returned to his warehouse, the spores in the air had thinned a little. The slave pens were quieter; exhaustion did what chains could not.
Jacob had not moved.
He lay hooded among the surface stock, chest still rising and falling, slow and stubborn. One of the slaves had thrown up near his boots. The overseer had thrown sand over it and walked away.
Malvek stood for a moment, fingers resting lightly on the iron bars.
"Spore storm, kidnapping, dead house, poisoned grain, a general in disgrace," he counted softly. "And you sleep through all of it."
He shook his head once.
"Lucky bastard."
Then he turned away and began shouting orders to load the wagons. The blockade would tighten. The patrols would double. The price of permits would go up. The sooner he was out of the city with his cargo, the better.
He had his slaves. He had his profits. He had one comatose problem tucked safely out of sight. And E'nathyr, for all its shrines and armies, was too busy tripping over its own feet to march anywhere.
That was enough for today.
Veyn'dor POV
Veyn'dor left the council chamber with his shoulders straight and his jaw clenched. He had not raised his voice once inside; it would not have mattered if he had. The matrons needed a throat to hang the failure on, and his fit perfectly. He was the one who vouched for the stranger. He was the one who argued that a tool from the outside was necessary.
Tools that slipped their leash left teeth marks on the hand that held them.
Ve'ris hadn't shouted either. She had simply stood there, whip coiled at her hip, and described the wound on the stranger's shoulder in a calm, precise tone. The same wound she had put there in the dark. The same wound she had seen again in the council hall. No hysteria, no dramatics—just facts.
The council believed facts when they hurt the right person.
"Reassignment to outer patrol coordination." That was the polite way of saying exile under arms. He was no longer the shield of E'nathyr, just a bandage over its worst cracks. Someone else would now sit over his maps, move his markers, and command the inner forces that were supposed to march on the Tower of Bones. The marching would be delayed; arguments and ordination rites took time.
He paused at a window slit, watching spore-fog drift over the distant barracks. The city shook and shouted and prayed, but the armies stayed in their tunnels. Somewhere out there, the stranger he had tried to use was still alive. Somewhere above, the Mushroom Queen's silence pressed on the stone.
Veyn'dor adjusted the collar of his armor and turned toward the lower tunnels.
If they wanted him buried in the dark, he would go there.
He just wouldn't go quietly.