Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,88
turned out to be one of the shops that fringed the marketplace. Its elaborately carved door held a massive quartz-crystal knocker. A smaller door was set into the wall next to it: a gnome-sized entrance, fitted with its own handle and knocker. Next to that was a large clearstone window, scribed with a glyph of warding. Just inside the window stood a display counter. Precious stones of various colors glittered against black velvet cushions.
“Flinderspeld’s done well for himself,” Q’arlynd commented.
The svirfneblin nodded. She seemed to be waiting for something. Q’arlynd began to dismiss her before realizing what it was she wanted. He pulled a slim gold coin out of his pouch and handed it to her. She lifted it to her mouth as if to bite it, then stopped, as if thinking better of it.
Q’arlynd hid his smile. Poisoning a gold coin was such a time-worn trick that few drow bothered with it anymore.
She tucked the coin in her belt pouch and hurried away. Or rather, she pretended to. Out of the corner of his eye, Q’arlynd saw her blur, then duck behind a nearby stall.
He lifted the knocker on the larger door and let it fall. A moment later, he sensed he was being watched. Not by the people who thronged the marketplace; theirs was a steady stare of wary curiosity and harsh judgment. This scrutiny felt closer, more intense. Was it Seldszar, checking in on Q’arlynd’s progress? The Master of Divination had given Q’arlynd a brooch to block scryings, but Q’arlynd suspected it contained a “window” that allowed Seldszar to scry Q’arlynd, in much the same fashion that Q’arlynd’s master ring allowed him to peek in on his apprentices, and vice versa. Or perhaps the explanation was simpler. Perhaps the sensation of being watched was just Flinderspeld, peeking through some magiŹcal device to see who knocked on his door.
Q’arlynd ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it. He flicked dust from the hem of his silk piwafwi. He waited.
The door opened. A male svirfneblin wearing a leather apron smudged with polishing rouge stepped out into the sunlight and stared up at Q’arlynd. A gemcutter’s loupe hung from a leather band around his forehead, the lens grossly magnifying his right eye. Gem dust glittered on his hands. He held a wooden stick with a half-polished gemstone affixed to its cup-shaped end by a blob of red wax.
A moonstone, Q’arlynd saw. Sacred to Eilistraee. He took it as a good omen. “Is your master in the shop?”
The svirfneblin had trouble speaking. “Q’arlynd?” he said at last.
Q’arlynd’s eyebrows rose, despite himself. “Flinderspeld? You look … different.”
That he did. Flinderspeld had gained weight since Q’arlynd had seen him last. The tight little lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth had smoothed out. He looked relaxed and solid, a far cry from the slave who had always been tensely poised to duck a swat or a kick.
Not that Q’arlynd had been that kind of masterand not that he’d let anyone else meddle with his property. Yet in Ched Nasad, a slave had never known when the lash would fall.
In days gone by, Q’arlynd would have crossed his arms and stared imperiously down his nose at the svirfneblin. But that had been another place, another time. Furthermore, it was important that things get off to a good start. He dropped down into a squat that brought his eyes level with Flinderspeld’s, and smiled. He started to extend his hands in the arm-clasping gesture the surŹface elves so loved, but couldn’t quite bring himself to complete it. He was of a noble House, after all. He rested his hands on his knees instead. “Good to see you again, Flinderspeld.”
Flinderspeld blinked behind the gemcutter’s loupe. “What are you doing here, M” He checked his tongue, and drew his shoulders a little straighter. He glanced at Q’arlynd’s hands, which were bare. Q’arlynd had been careful to tuck into a pocket the master ring that connected him with his apprentices; he didn’t want to remind Flinderspeld of his former servitude. Not yet. “What brings you to Silverymoon, Q’arlynd?”
“I’d hoped to purchase a chardalyn. Do you sell them?”
Disappointment flickered briefly across Flinderspeld’s face. His attention slid to the crowd that was gathering, and his expression changed to one of understanding. “Of course.” He stepped back and opened the larger door. “I stock them. Come in.”
Flinderspeld closed the door, set down his stick, and folded his arms across his chest. “Now that Blinnet can’t overhear us, tell me