"Half the globe," Vraggen interrupted, glancing at the hemisphere Dolgan still clutched in his ham fist. "You were instructed to bring back the globe. The entire globe." He looked over his shoulder to Elura. "As were you, Elura."
"I'm aware of the instructions I received, Vraggen," Elura snapped. "I followed them. And I still expect to be paid. This dolt's mistake is his own."
She sat in a chair near the stone hearth with her legs crossed. The firelight made her pale skin look translucent, which contrasted markedly with her raven black hair. Even Vraggen, normally without a weakness for women, had to acknowledge that her features were striking. Azriim had recruited Elura to lead Dolgan and Serrin into Stormweather Towers while he and the half-drow dealt with Riven and Cale. Azriim had assured him that she was an experienced infiltrator but Vraggen had his doubts. Still, he had to rely on Azriim for elite manpower. Vraggen's attempts to recruit Zhents had brought in a fair number of operators, but he didn't want to use them until after his return from the Fane of Shadows. At that point, he would be ready to declare open war on the Banite Zhents.
Dolgan's broken face twisted into a look of confusion and he asked, "Is she calling me a dolt?"
Vraggen ignored the question and put a finger on Dolgan's chest.
"Did you understand your instructions?" Vraggen asked.
"Of course I did," replied Dolgan, but instead of looking contrite, he looked past Vraggen to Azriim and laughed. "I was that close to dead," he said to the half-drow, holding two fingers only slightly apart. "It felt wonderful! You should—"
Vraggen snapped his fingers in front of Dolgan's doughy face and shouted, "Half the globe is useless to us! Idiot! Did you hear your friend? Do you hear me?"
Dolgan kept smiling, kept bleeding, and said, "I hear you. It's useless then."
With an exaggerated gesture meant to irritate, Dolgan dropped the half-globe to the carpeted floor.
That bit of insubordination freed Vraggen's anger from the cage of his control. He hissed the words to a spell and black energy flew from his hand, blasting Dolgan in the chest. The enervating ray blew the big man from his feet. He hit the ground like a toppling tree, groaning. He lay there, only semi-conscious, with his breath coming shallow through his thick lips and broken nose.
"Impressive," said Azriim from behind, and he applauded softly. "You've knocked down a man who could barely stand."
"You could be next," Vraggen said over his shoulder, and he meant it.
Azriim took the point. He ceased his applause.
Vraggen straightened his robes and looked around the room.
"I will not abide insubordination," he said, "from anyone. Is that understood?"
No one replied and Vraggen took the silence for acquiescence. He knew he would get no better. In truth, he rarely took issue with the subtle acts of defiance endemic to his crew. It came with the territory. He had taken care to recruit and ally himself with highly competent professional killers and infiltrators. Men and women like that came with a price—they were not lackeys, and he had to give them space to be who and what they were. But only up to a point.
Vraggen kneeled and picked up the half-globe. He whispered the words to a cantrip to clean it of Dolgan's blood. To his magically attuned senses, it pulsed with the Shadow magic used by the priests of Shar in its making. He examined the break—a clean shear exactly down the middle, perfect. None of the tiny, symbolic gems within it had been disturbed, except that the emerald of Toril in the center had been split. If he could recover the other half of the globe, Azriim could still use it to determine how to find the Fane of Shadows.
He looked to Elura and said, "Tell me exactly what happened, woman. And tell me where the other half of the globe is."
Her eyes met his and there was no fear in them.
"As I told you before," she said, "I'm not certain what happened. Cale appeared and alerted the house guards. You and Azriim were to eliminate him, were you not?"
Vraggen could do nothing but endure that little rebuke.
"He escaped us," Vraggen said.
"Obviously. But we were able to escape him ... and the guards. When I teleported out, Dolgan had the globe, as you had instructed. And it was intact. If you had trusted me to keep it in my possession, you'd have it now. I don't know what happened after I got out."
Vraggen digested that.
"Perhaps the lumbering one can tell us himself," Azriim said from his couch.
To Vraggen's surprise, Dolgan had recovered enough from the enervating spell to have sat up. He looked dazed, but still wore that stupid grin. He climbed awkwardly to his feet, swayed, and tried to recapture as much dignity as he could.
"You needn't have done that," he said to Vraggen. "I wasn't laughing at you."
"If I thought you had been, I'd have turned you to dust."
To that, Dolgan gave a half smile, as though he was unsure whether Vraggen was making a joke or a threat.
Vraggen left him with the ambiguity and let the room remain silent for a time. His people needed to know that he was in charge.
"You're bleeding on the carpets," Azriim said to Dolgan, his nostrils pinched in distaste.
Dolgan looked to the dark stain on the colorful Thayan rug under his feet. The villa was decorated throughout with expensive rugs from Thay and farther east.
"So?" the big Cormyrean said. "I got stabbed in the stomach. And the throat. And my nose is broken." Vraggen thought he sounded almost proud of his injuries. "And they aren't your carpets, Azriim."
Azriim reached into his tailored overcoat and removed a glass vial.
"Drink this, dolt," said the half-drow. "Of course they aren't my carpets. But your bleeding on them offends me nevertheless."
With surprising dexterity, Dolgan snatched the vial from the air. He grinned in his stupid way and drank the potion. His bleeding stopped immediately, and the swelling in his face diminished. His skin went from pale to ruddy. He dropped the vial on the floor.
"I really was that close to dead," he said, again holding thumb and forefinger apart by only a bladewidth.
"Quite an accomplishment," said Azriim dryly. "You should be proud."
Serrin pulled out the whetstone he always carried and began to run it along his falchion's blade. The sound grated on Vraggen to no end.
"Enough," said Vraggen. He glared at Dolgan, then at Serrin. "Do you believe this is a game? Either of you?"
Neither replied.
Vraggen stared a hole into Dolgan's face and said, "This Cale would have left you gutted on the ground. Do you find that amusing? Do you think that would be a feeling worth experiencing?
Dolgan tried to frame a reply, stuttered, and fell silent.
Azriim rose from his chair and walked to the wine service.
"We all take your point, Vraggen," the half-drow said. "Dolgan doesn't think it's amusing anyway. And Serrin doesn't know what a jest is. He hasn't even so much as smiled since he ate his mother."
The easterner looked at the half-drow with raised eyebrows. Azriim only smiled.
"None of us think this is funny. But all be damned if it isn't fun. It's danger that makes this affair interesting." He glanced at Vraggen sidelong, his mismatched eyes all innocence. "And that's well. For surely the company doesn't."
Dolgan guffawed, walked to a chair, and collapsed into the cushions. Even Serrin smiled, the prig.