The room that they used was small, for their purposes did not require for it to be larger. What it lacked in spaciousness, however, it more than made up for in security. Stone walls devoid of windows formed a hexagon about the three shadowy forms seated about a round table with goldwood marquetry cunningly inlaid to represent a map of Eskemar, with its various districts and landmarks outlined with fine brass wire. Overhead a single lantern set with crystal lenses sent a refracted wash of thin light onto the scene beneath, distorting the proceedings and highlighting their nefarious nature.
“We shall begin with an invocation to Ikthos, that he may grant us good fortune.”
A gloved hand reached out and placed a small bronze bowl in the center of the table, its depths stained from past use. Another produced a small vial of blood, and its contents were emptied into it. To the figure’s right, the next person deposited the still twitching form of a dying scorpion into the bowl. The third and final figure, head concealed beneath a velvet black hood, contributed a handful of finely ground powder that sparkled in the dim illumination. As the powder made contact with the inside of the bowl a crackling green burst of flame was produced that flared to the level of their heads before dissipating and leaving an acrid haze in the air that stung their eyes. Then they began to chant in unison.
“Ikthos, fomenter of Chaos, we beg you confer upon us favor so that our enemies may suffer at our hands!”
“Lay their weaknesses bare so that we may exploit them!”
“Hide our designs until it is too late to resist them!”
“Aid us so that your glory may be magnified!”
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“We pay homage to you and acknowledge your power, envy your ruthlessness and covet your adaptive nature! Hear our plea and smooth our path to greatness!”
As they spoke, the smoke slowly began to coalesce until it gave the faint outline of a howling, horned head that lasted only an instant before it melted away, leaving behind only the unpleasant odor of the ritual and the bronze bowl, empty once more.
“He hears us!” rasped the Alchemist.
“Did you doubt?” asked the Assassin loftily. “For who does His work if not us?”
The Illusionist, who hardly had the temperament of a zealot, changed the subject. “Was calling this meeting wise? Every time we meet it creates a risk. We have responsibilities now. People notice when we are absent. Even the most loyal minions talk!”
The Assassin responded curtly, “Brother, events are taking shape. As the scheme unfolds we need to be sure our efforts continue to be…harmonious.”
The usually dubious Illusionist regarded him with curiosity. “I take it something has transpired? I mean, aside from the obvious?” He was, of course, referring to the recent death of the Lord Paramount.
The Assassin smiled, a sight that had never cheered anyone. “A certain Most Wise Councilor has been caught in a compromising position and is now in my debt.”
“Oh-ho!” cried the Alchemist, “and I imagine he is most grateful for your ‘discretion’, eh?”
“Indeed. And due to your own potent contributions, a second Councilor is in thrall as well. If events go according to plan we will soon have a majority on the Council that we can manipulate to enact our will!”
There were sinister chuckles all around at that.
The Illusionist spoke in a contemplative tone. “There remain a few who could still oppose us if they so chose.”
The Alchemist waved his hand dismissively. “We know who they are – and more importantly, they are unaware of us. By acting in concert we achieve more than any of us could alone. And if our timetable continues to hold in a few lunar cycles we will effectively constitute a shadow Council that will reap all the rewards but take none of the blame, wield true authority and bend this sprawling beast Eskemar to our collective will.”
