Codex Entry #2
These pages of the journal are notably different from those that precede it. While the text is still an encrypted mixture of Thayan Mulhorandi, Infernal, Common and Undercommon, the decryption is relatively simple, keyed to an Infernal rendering of ‘May a thousand baatezu thread that drow’s entrails from anus to epiglottis with his own oily tongue and a rusty morningstar’.
Moreover, the pen has stabbed through the page at several points.
I have been incredibly stupid. If I had been this moronic, this gullible, this thoughtless at home, I would have been better born a slave. I would have lived a longer and more pleasant life as a subject for Khaseth’s experiments in divinatory vivisection and gut-fondling. I deserve to have my tattoos flayed from my skull and to strangle on my red robe.
I have let down my guard. I have been careless.
I have allowed myself to operate under the ridiculous assumption that everyone else outside Thay is as witless as my companions appear to be.
As a result, I have aided in conveying a drow to the Underdark and more-or-less given him a ship. He has defaulted on the reward we were offered, and while it was of negligible interest to me personally, it remains an irritant. Very well. I hate that I have been outplayed and manipulated into a position of another’s choosing, but I can accept it. I am hardly a stranger to the role of psateth-atka (a Thayan word, whose connotations do not permit an exact translation, but ‘one who feigns subservience and usefulness while she gains another’s measure, lays her plans accordingly, and then strikes at the decisive moment’ is one way of putting it; ‘the patient serpent pretends to be an ox until she spits her venom’ is another). I have leveraged worse disadvantages into successful outcomes.
I took a risk informing the others of the contents of that letter (another gamble, of course. If I were utterly averse to taking risks towards my goals, I would certainly never have left Thay – at least, not free-willed or alive), and I completely misjudged it. I specifically pointed out to Harper several reasons – all of which should have been obvious! – why I did not wish to have the drow accompany us to Philock. For whatever reason – hormonal or in service of his own goals – Harper completely ignored this. The oleaginous piece of Lloth sputum is to be our guide.
Fine. That, too, I can accept. A drow guide in the Underdark who possesses a vested interest in seeing us return safely to the surface would be a useful resource indeed, and possibly the description has sufficient in common with that arrogant, supercilious son of an otyugh to grant us a measure of safety in traversing one of the most inhospitable environments in Faerûn. My misgivings on the subject are near-endless, but chief among them are a) it would be trivially simple for him to betray us under these circumstances; b) while he may want the Tyrran dead, we are utterly disposable or else he would not have chosen us for the task; c) if the potential prize is substantial enough to come to the attention of the Red Wizards, it is certainly something the drow would want.
For the sake of completeness, I should add the completely obvious: this tome may not exist. It is entirely possible that the Ambassador to Waterdeep intended her letter to lure myself, any of those from the Thayan Enclave, or any of their known associates for menial tasks, into a trap laid at Philock. I shall prepare for that possibility as well; if I can leverage it to dispose of inconveniences and dangers, I shall be well pleased.
What was said in front of the syphilitic, soot-stained spider-spawn was almost harmless. Admittedly Harper was less than adept at concealing the fact that I expected to find something specific in the ruins of Philock, but only the husk of an illithid’s meal would believe I’d go out into the Underdark for whimsy or to satisfy some nebulous curiosity.
No. The danger, the idiocy, is that I explained exactly what I was looking for to the others. In an unsecured room. Which the revolting, pointy-eared grease-stain has had access to for an unspecified amount of time. After I knew he possessed some spell-casting ability. After he gave Katy an ostentatious hat, which I did not check for enchantment. The inn is owned by a spell-caster of at least sufficient skill to animate a skeleton, and his affiliations are unknown. There is a displacer beast which seems to live here. The walls and door are none too solid.
And it is for this that I cannot forgive myself. I have neither enough ink nor enough pages in this journal to detail all the means by which anyone might have heard what I was saying. My stupidity is staggering. I am a Divination specialist, a Red Wizard of Thay; I know magical eavesdropping, and I took no precautions. I have been away from home too long.
The situation, I hope, is not irredeemable, but I cannot afford to continue making errors of this sort. I must remember who I am, and how I have survived. This damnable drow has manoeuvred me to his liking; let it be so for now. He quoted an Underdark saying: well, this is a Thayan one that is equally worth remembering.
The following eight words are written in Thayan Mulhorandi. Set by themselves in the middle of the page, they are the only unencrypted letters in the entire journal.
Any tool worth using cuts the wielder’s hand.
