Lies of Light

by Philip Athans

  “No?” asked the ambassador. “And why not?”

  “It’s not necessary,” Inthelph said.

  “There are already means to travel from here to the Vilhon Reach,” Kurtsson cut in, the voice from behind the bear mask had an exotic accent. “I could take you there myself right now, and back again, in but the blink of the eye. And I can do the same with an entire ship. Why, then, all the digging?”

  The contempt he put into that last word stuck in Willem’s ear a bit. An answer to Kurtsson’s question occurred to him, but he didn’t speak it. The idea for a canal was brilliant, and he knew full well that if anyone in Faerûn might have a chance to make it work it was Ivar Devorast, but that was the last thing he’d tell the people around him just then.

  “My friend the bear is correct,” said the strange man behind the black dragon mask. Even under the influence of the brooch’s magic, Willem recoiled a little from the man, as did all of them. “But perhaps a more cheerful subject is in order.”

  “Indeed, Sir Dragon,” the ambassador said. “I do have a question for our friend the weasel.”

  “Of course,” said Willem. “We hunt birds, rabbits, rats, frogs, and various small rodents by the hundreds.”

  There was a pause while they all struggled in their own ways with his answer, then a few reluctant, almost frightened giggles.

  “Oh, Willem, my dear, don’t be silly,” Thurene said as she dug her fingernails into his arm.

  Willem endured the pain and said, “Interesting thing about us weasels: the young are born almost exclusively in the month of Tarsakh—as few as two, and as many as ten in a litter—in a nest lined with the fur of the mother’s kills. Like humans, the female weasel has a strong instinct to protect her young. It takes three and a half tendays for their eyes to open, but they’re hunting by the end of their second month of life.”

  “It must be difficult for the mother weasel to see them leave,” the ambassador played along.

  “Oh, my,” Meykhati interjected. “Were we to have been prepared to discuss the behavior and mating habits of our animals? Isn’t the dreadful mask enough?”

  “Fear not, Senator,” Willem reassured him. “For me, the weasel has always been of interest—its habits and its upbringing. I chose the mask for that reason, not the other way around. A similar devotion on the part of any other guest to their totems is hardly required. But in any event, I hope the ambassador is entertained.”

  “I am,” she replied. “But I hadn’t intended to inquire into the secret mating rituals of the weasel. I remain curious as to why one of His Majesty’s subjects sits on the governing body of an independent city-state so far from home? Surely a young man of your accomplishments could have found a suitable position at home?”

  “One would think,” Willem answered, letting all the bile, all the old animosity he could muster weigh heavily on his words. Meykhati actually took a step back, Insithryllax tensed as if expecting a fight to break out, and Thurene gasped. “But, alas, I was wooed away. Once again, I’m reminded of the weasel. Their fur-lined dens are stolen from the burrowing animals they’ve killed and eaten.”

  “Have you killed and eaten us then?” Meykhati asked.

  “Not quite eaten yet, no,” replied Willem.

  A waiter passed by, his naked body painted to resemble the colorful feathers of a native bird Willem didn’t know the name of. He took a tallglass of wine from the proffered tray and drained half of it in a single swallow. The mask made that difficult, but he managed it without spilling any, even with his mother pulling on his arm.

  The master builder cleared his throat and said, “So, Willem, do tell. Have you given any further thought to Phyrea?”

  “Phyrea?” the ambassador asked.

  “The master builder’s lovely and charming daughter,” Thurene answered. “Senator Inthelph and I have hopes for them.”

  “Our humble take on the royal marriage,” Meykhati joked.

  Willem took a deep breath and almost spilled the wine on his silk tunic when he went to touch the brooch again. It steeled his nerves, but did nothing to help him organize his thoughts. The mention of that name was enough to send him almost into a swoon. Phyrea—beautiful and disturbed, with her bizarre convictions and mysterious agendas—and Halina—soft and insubstantial, but comfortable—the two women in his life.

  “Really, my dear,” Thurene said, “what could possibly cause you to hesitate? She’s such a lovely girl.”

  Three women, Willem corrected himself.

  “Gracious as always, Madam Korvan,” the master builder gushed.

  But Willem knew all too well why Inthelph wanted him to marry his daughter. He thought Willem could rein her in, settler her, control her, and make her something she wasn’t. He couldn’t even do that for himself without the aid of Thayan magic. He touched the brooch again and felt just a little less warmth.

  “In the winter,” he said, “the weasel’s fur turns white.” He gestured with his tallglass to indicate the white mask he wore. “If this was the Midsummer revel, I’d have had it painted brown. Phyrea is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  There was another heavy silence, but Willem felt less inclined to revel in it. Insithryllax and Kurtsson traded a look. Thurene moved her hand up his arm and found fresh skin to mar with her expensively-manicured talons. The ambassador studied him from behind her eagle mask as though he’d just crawled up out of the sea. Meykhati chuckled, and the master builder nodded in a confused, dull way.

  “If you will excuse us,” Insithryllax said, and with a bow of his dragon head, he and Kurtsson moved away.

  Willem caught a glimpse of a woman with a mouse mask standing behind them and got the distinct impression that she had been eavesdropping. Before he could study her in any detail, though, the master builder stole his attention.

  “What do you say, Willem?”

  “Yes, my dear,” Thurene pressed. “Wouldn’t the ransar’s New Year’s Masque be the perfect place for such lovely news?”

  “Phyrea?” Willem asked, and they all nodded, even the woman from Cormyr. “The weasel is a night hunter that kills by biting into the back of its victim’s neck.”

  “You mean its prey,” said the ambassador.

  “Yes, my dear,” Thurene said with another painful squeeze, “do say what you mean.”

  “Not everyone is fond of the weasel,” he said, “though its poor reputation is hardly deserved. So it takes a chicken or two here and there. It also eats rats and mice, so even a chicken farmer can appreciate it. It’s as noble a creature as any, the weasel, and deserves a chance to survive.”

  “I’m sure we would all do our best to preserve the noble weasel,” Meykhati said, his voice making it plain what he wanted from Willem.

  Willem touched the brooch and studied at the people who looked at him through their masks. Their eyes pulled at him.

  “Even weasels must come together for the good of their kind,” Willem said.

  “Indeed,” said Meykhati. “Even weasels.”

  “Master Builder,” Willem said, turning to address Inthelph. Thurene’s hand fell away from his arm, and he heard her breath catch. “In the spirit of the noble weasel, in the home of our ransar, in the presence of my mother, and because her beauty is unparalleled in all the world, I humbly seek your permission to ask your daughter to become my wife.”

  Willem ignored the ensuing gaggle of congratulations. He didn’t really even hear the master builder give him his blessing, but he of course did—and with great enthusiasm. Instead, his attention was drawn to the woman with the mouse mask, who stood several paces away, staring at him. He blinked, but couldn’t quite see her eyes. Still, there was something familiar about her.

  “Oh, it will be a grand affair!” Thurene all but shrieked.

  He glanced at her, but then movement drew his eye back to the mouse. She took her mask off with a shaking hand.

  “Halina,” Willem whispered.

  Tears welled up in her
eyes as she stared at him.

  Willem touched the brooch, but it wasn’t courage he needed just then.

  “Willem, dear,” his mother all but shouted at him. She grabbed his arm, again and he flinched.

  Meykhati clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Well done, Senator. Well done, indeed.”

  Willem forced his gaze away from Halina, but he could see her turn and run into the crowd of revelers from the corner of his eye. He spent the rest of the last night of the Year of the Sword talking about weasels and marriage.

  28

  30 Nightal, the Year of the Sword (1365 DR)

  THE CANAL SITE

  He moved on top of her, inside her, to a rhythm that had started out as his own, but had become a perfect fusion of two heartbeats. Phyrea let herself gasp, let a tear trickle from the corner of one eye, and let her body take his and be taken by his. She gave herself to Ivar Devorast as best she could when he wanted so little of her. He made no sounds, but his body told her that he wanted her, wanted nothing more at that moment than to be there with her. She had from him the best he could give, and more than she could ever truly have hoped for: his undivided attention.

  When finally he slipped off her, Phyrea had to gasp for air. Though it was cold in his odd little cabin, a sheen of sweat covered her. She lay there until she began to shiver before she drew the blanket over herself. He looked down at her, and she wanted him to see her. The air could have been drawn from the room, the blood drained from her heart, but as long as his eyes were on her she would be sustained.

  He smiled at her in that way he had that made it appear as though he knew everything, and she shivered again.

  Outside, the whistle of the winter wind mixed with the sound of men drinking and laughing, shouting and singing. Even in the remote work camp, it the New Year’s Revel, after all.

  “If you tell me not to speak,” she whispered, “I won’t. If you tell me to go, I’ll go.”

  “I don’t want to tell you what to do,” he said. His voice was more relaxed than she’d ever heard it. “You don’t have to await my command. I would like you to stay.”

  “Then I’ll stay,” she whispered, and put her hand on his chest. He took it in his, and her thin fingers were swallowed up in his grasp. He drew her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. When the tip of his tongue drew a circle there, her body alit once again. “I’ll stay forever.”

  He smiled, his teeth white in the dark space of the cabin. “Surely you have something of interest waiting for you in Innarlith. I thought you said you were going to destroy me. That, at least, will—”

  “Shut up,” she said. Phyrea sat, letting the blanket fall away. She wrapped her arms around him for warmth. “Don’t say …”

  But he was right. She had been working hard to poison people against him and his canal. She’d gone so far as to let her father know that she would be willing to marry Willem Korvan. Far all she knew, he was arranging the ceremony at that very moment.

  “I’m here now, with you,” she whispered in Devorast’s ear.

  He returned her embrace, and another tear rolled down her cheek. The embrace was so tender, she was nearly overwhelmed.

  “I suppose you could stay,” he said. “Your work against me is done.”

  “Please, don’t—”

  “The new ransar could stop everything simply by drawing closed the purse strings,” he said. “I’ve been told that he is less than enthusiastic about the canal.”

  “He listens to the mages,” she told him. “But I don’t want to have this conversation. I can’t talk about any possibility of you failing.”

  “I thought you wanted me to fail,” he said, “so that I would stop before I was beaten by lesser men.”

  The sarcasm was plain in his voice.

  “Don’t have fun with me,” she said, and though she’d hoped to sound threatening all she heard in her voice was a little girl’s pleading.

  He turned to her and kissed her cheek, then her lips.

  “Marek Rymüt,” she whispered.

  “The Thayan.”

  “He won’t let you build it.”

  “Because he makes his living by selling the magic necessary to teleport, or to open portals. I know that.”

  Phyrea sighed and said, “Osorkon is dead. Who will protect you from him?”

  “The Thayan has Salatis’s ear?”

  “People tell me he made Salatis ransar,” she said.

  “Then I’ll have to accelerate the work.”

  She shook her head and told him, “By all accounts you’ve stretched your men too far as it is. How fast can one man dig? And I doubt you’ll get our new ransar to send you any more strong backs. That uprising on the docks is over, and Innarlith is back to work. Peasant men don’t need to come out here and risk monsters and trench collapses to earn a day’s wage.”

  He smiled at her again, and the feeling it elicited in her was so intense, she nestled her face in his neck so he couldn’t see it.

  “You have it all sorted,” he joked.

  Phyrea stopped herself from crying by sheer force of will.

  “Have you heard he word ‘smokepowder’?” he asked.

  She cleared her throat and pulled away just far enough that she could look at him again. “Some kind of alchemy that causes things to explode?” He nodded and she continued, “But what would you want with magic? I thought you were determined not to use magic.”

  “I use some form of magic every day, here and there,” he said. “I have no aversion to the right tool for the right job, but anyway smokepowder is not magical in nature. It’s a mixture of rare earth elements that together are quite volatile.”

  “And?”

  “With the proper application of enough force, I can move more earth than any man could shovel.”

  “So, you want to dig with—” Phyrea said. She stopped when something occurred to her all at once. “The Thayan … he …”

  “I won’t accept it from Marek Rymüt, if that’s what—”

  “No, no,” she interrupted. “Someone used smokepowder to try to kill Rymüt. You never heard of it? It caused quite a row. Innocent bystanders were injured, but the Thayan survived unscathed. The would-be assassin was just let out of the ransar’s dungeon.”

  “Who is he?”

  “An alchemist,” she said, only then remembering the rest of the story. “He used to be quite in demand in the city, until Rymüt came along. They said he was bitter about the loss of trade to the Thayan, so he used his skills to try to blow him to bits.”

  “But failed.”

  “The smokepowder exploded, though,” she said. Her heartbeat quickened, and she thought she could feel his race as well. “It worked, but Marek was able to get out of harm’s way. The ground won’t be so difficult a target.”

  Devorast nodded.

  “Do you think it could work?” she asked, and he nodded again. “If you can dig faster, if you can show indisputable progress, Salatis may not be able to—may not even want to stop you, especially if you can bring in gold and workers from other realms, as you planned.”

  “Who is this alchemist?”

  “I don’t remember his name,” she said. “I could find out. I could ask, in the city.”

  “Be careful,” Devorast said. “If the wrong people know what I intend, it could end everything.”

  “Trust me,” she whispered and began to kiss his shoulder.

  “Does that mean you no longer want to destroy me?” he said. “This would be the perfect chance. Tell Marek Rymüt that I want smokepowder to use as a digging tool, and tell him I want to hire the man who tried to kill him to make it for me. He’ll finally just come up here and kill me himself.”

  Phyrea froze. And why hadn’t Master Rymüt done just that? What was he waiting for?

  “Trust me,” she told him again.

  29

  17 Hammer, the Year of the Staff (1366 DR)

  THE CITY OF SAELMUR, ON THE SHORE OF THE LAKE OF STEAM


  Your name is Surero,” the man said as he sat in the chair across the table for all the world as though he’d been invited to do so.

  “Who in the infinite Abyss are you?” Surero asked, his eyes narrowing, his fingers tensing around the heavy earthenware mug he was a heartbeat from smashing over the man’s red-haired head.

  “Ivar Devorast,” the man said. “If you’re finished hiding out and drinking, I have a job for you to do.”

  Surero swallowed and nodded, looking around the low-ceilinged room. The tavern was crowded with people who drank and spoke, but rarely if ever laughed. The dank air was filled with pipeweed smoke and sweat, and the ale was bitter but still overpriced.

  “You are Surero,” Devorast prompted.

  “Yes,” Surero replied, not quite looking the stranger in the eye. “I am …” He paused to think, then finished, “I used to be.”

  Devorast laughed, and the sound was so light and so sincere that Surero was forced to smile.

  “I understand that you are accomplished in the creation and use of smokepowder,” Devorast said. “I have a challenge for you, closer to Innarlith, if you’re interested.”

  Surero froze at the sound of that city’s name, and had to force himself to speak. “I told myself I would never go back to that pit of foreign deceit. And why should I? So I can be robbed blind again? Go back and tell your Red Wizard master that I have nothing left for him to take.”

  “I don’t work for any Red Wizard,” Devorast said. “You’ve heard of the canal?”

  Surero nodded, then took a sip of the bitter ale to try to hide the confusion and excitement that gripped him. His face flushed, and he began to sweat.

  He waited a bit for Devorast to go on, but finally asked, “What of it? What do you want from me?”

  “I need to move a great deal of earth in a very short time,” Devorast explained. “I have the idea that with a sufficient quantity of smokepowder, set in just the right places, that could be accomplished. I know why you were sent to the ransar’s dungeon, and I honestly don’t care. I have no affection for Marek Rymüt, but nor do I waste any time hating him. He isn’t involved in my project, and he won’t be. You don’t have to go back to the city. You can live and work at the site, as I do.”