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The Nether Scroll

Tiep was satisfied. The dog-face didn't have a prayer if he'd crossed Dru. There were some nasty spells written inside Dru's wooden box, spells he never memorized unless he had to. Galimer once said that Dru could make the dead sit up and answer questions. He could unravel a goblin's secrets without half trying.

Of course, Sheemzher was sitting on a few secrets Tiep didn't particularly want Dru or Rozt'a to hear, which meant Tiep was in favor of necromancy. According to common wisdom—the only sort of wisdom Tiep laid claim to—dead folk answered only the questions they were asked. If the goblin were dead and Dru didn't get around to asking, specifically, What do you know about Tiep and Zhentarim? then Tiep's secrets were safe.

Not that Tiep, himself, didn't want to know how the goblin knew the Network had its hooks in his hide.

Damn Sememmon, anyway. Why couldn't the Dark Lord just have killed him when he'd made his one, admittedly huge, mistake on the streets of Scornubel three winters ago? But no-o-o-o, Sememmon had led Tiep back to a warm, comfortable room and offered him dark red wine—which Tiep prudently hadn't touched.

You've got a talent, boy, that deep, silky voice had purred. It would be a shame to waste such a talent. I could use that talent; and then I might forget how I discovered it.

Tiep had cut his teeth in the streets. He'd had no illusions about Sememmon's offer but he'd kept his pride and his honor. He'd told the Dark Lord that if the Zhentarim wanted him to betray his foster parents—if they wanted to use him to put pressure on his foster parents, then Lord Sememmon should kill him where he stood, because he'd never do it.

Sememmon had listened, smiled, and said: I don't want you to betray your foster parents, Tiep—and I warn you, the day you betray them will be your last. From time to time, the Zhentarim have need of men and women whose hearts are good and who do not know our faces. Druhallen of Sunderath, Galimer Longfingers, and the woman who calls herself Florozt'a are such folk, but you're not like them, are you, Tiep?

Tiep wasn't. He'd never been, never would be, and he did "favors" for Sememmon. Not many. Not often. And never anything that he wouldn't have done on his own. He'd never drawn blood, directly or indirectly—at least as far as he knew. He'd been offered rewards for his services—which he hadn't taken. Sememmon's memory of a midnight indiscretion on the Scornubel streets remained as sharp as ever.

The Dark Lord would never forget that night. Tiep had understood that much after he'd completed his first "favor" a week after that first meeting. He'd been too ashamed to tell Dru, Galimer, or Rozt'a what had happened. The shame had only grown as the months passed and he'd continued to do Darkhold's bidding—the last time in Parnast. He hadn't stolen the myrrh; he'd won that exactly the way he'd claimed. He hadn't stolen anything in Parnast.

The second night of the dust storm, when he'd been heading home from Manya's, Zhentarim henchmen had accosted Tiep and marched him upstairs above the charterhouse. Amarandaris gave him a sealed blue bottle—the kind ladies used for their perfumes—and instructions to put it in a certain saddle bag at a certain time. Tiep hadn't asked questions and he hadn't gone back for his reward, either. He'd been careful—doubly, triply careful the way he'd learned to be when he was doing Zhentarim "favors."

Tiep wasn't worried about getting caught by any town or guild's law. He worried about his foster parents finding out that he'd fallen deeper than they imagined possible.

Gods! In Weathercote, when Dru and Rozt'a had blamed him for Galimer's imprisonment and he'd thought they were going to turn their backs on him right there, it had almost been a relief. Tiep wasn't ashamed of stealing the lady's amber in Weathercote, or even of smashing her bug.

Sheemzher had set them all up and tricked him specifically. The goblin could die right now and Tiep would dance a jig on his grave. But somehow Sheemzher had known about him and the Black Network.

"I don't know, Dru," he said, trying desperately to sound like Galimer. "Sheemzher's spent a lot of time with that bug lady. She's probably tangled up his mind. It's not his fault; he's just a goblin, but you can't trust anything that he says. I don't think it would be worth asking him. His answers would only make you mad and crazy."