Not concentrating on any particular destination, she blinked away. She arrived somewhere nearby, but was momentarily disoriented. She saw a moving shape, blurred and indistinct, but knew it was the banelar.
“Someone’s miserable existence ends now,” the banelar hissed. “Of that I can assure you.”
Devorast, she thought. It’s going after Devorast.
She heard the banelar’s voice chanting in Draconic. Svayyah recognized the words, even the cadence, and gasped. She blinked the last of the fog from her eyes and disappeared—once again knowing precisely where she’d end up.
The thing lunged at Devorast, whose eyes widened. He was helpless, and Svayyah could see from what parts of his face he could move that he didn’t like it any more than she would have.
The naga appeared directly behind the banelar, her weapon made of shadowstuff held firm in the air above her head. She stabbed down hard, pushing the trident with the strength of her mind. It sank deep into the serpent creature’s purple carapace, but she wasn’t fast enough.
Devorast opened his mouth, but couldn’t scream. The banelar bit into his shoulder so hard Svayyah heard its fangs scrape bone. The sizzling noise that accompanied that sound confirmed Svayyah’s fears.
Svayyah twisted the spectral trident and pulled back with it, letting it slip past her body to drag the banelar off of Devorast. The banelar had a grip on Devorast’s shoulder for the heartbeat or so it took to die, and the spell that held him rigid disappeared all at once. When the banelar’s fangs came out, Devorast fell to his knees. With joints stiff and creaking, he put a palm to the wound, but hissed and pulled his hand away—burned by the already potent venom, made caustic by the banelar’s spell.
The vile creature slumped to the ground, still and lifeless, so Svayyah let the spectral trident disappear.
She looked down at Devorast, who lay on the ground, writhing in agony, his jaw stiff and his eyes closed. Bright red fluid bubbled up through the punctures made by the banelar’s fangs, as though his blood boiled.
Svayyah spoke the words of a spell and turned her head north, in the direction of the humans’ keep on the banks of the Nagaflow. Not identifying herself, but being sure to mention Devorast by name, she whispered on the winds a message that would carry the half a dozen miles to the nearest human ear. She told them that Devorast was going to die, and die soon, and that he needed their help.
“We will stay with you until your people arrive,” the naga told him, though she wasn’t sure he could understand her.
Devorast was breathing—panting even—so he was still alive, but he’d lost consciousness.
Fortunate, Svayyah thought.
Knowing it would take time for the humans to cross the half a dozen miles from the keep—hopefully with one of their priests—and able only to hope that Devorast would still be alive when they got there, Svayyah turned her attention to the banelar. She used a spell to slip the rings off its still, limp tentacles, then stared at the brooch. It was a black triangle, its top rounded, the point on the bottom. In the center was a gold disk overlapped with an ebony symbol—the letter Z from the human alphabet—emblazoned above it. She didn’t recognize the mark, didn’t think it was the symbol of any god, but knew it had to have some significance. Banelars rarely if ever acted on their own. They were servant creatures. The brooch was a protective device, one that ate her magic missiles, but it was a sort of badge, too, that claimed the banelar in the name of—who? What?
Svayyah turned to the fitfully-sleeping Devorast and said, “I hope you live long enough to find out who sent this wretch, and exact your revenge.” She sighed and studied the dying man. The muscles under his smooth skin quivered with strange tremors. “And now perhaps you will start to carry weapons—or at least a thrice-bedamned healing potion or two.”
34
22 Tarsakh, the Year of the Staff (1366 DR)
SECOND QUARTER, INNARLITH
Anyone who understood the difference between beautiful and pretty could see that the girl was the latter. Her round face and big brown eyes were pleasing to the eye, but lacked definition. Her black hair was clean and combed, but she didn’t bother doing too much more with it. Her simple white silk shift revealed enough of her body that customers knew what they were getting; not enough to appear crass.
“If there is anything I can get you while you—” she said.
“Nothing, thank you, girl,” Marek interrupted, waving her away. “We aren’t customers. We’ve come to see the lady of the house.”
He could see the girl thinking, considering her response, sizing him up. She glanced at Salatis, and Marek could tell she recognized him. When her eyes passed Insithryllax and settled back on Marek, the Red Wizard could tell she’d never seen either of them before, and that concerned her.
“You can go, Cassiya,” Nyla said. The girl couldn’t help herself, she sighed in relief and scurried out. “I know she’s not your type, Master Rymüt.”
“She may be mine,” Salatis cut in with a cheerful leer.
An annoyed grimace passed quickly across Nyla’s face, then she smiled and turned to Salatis and said, “I can do better than that for the ransar.”
Salatis dipped in a shallow bow and was about to speak when Marek said, “The ransar told me you had something to say to me?”
Nyla sighed and sat in one of the deep-cushioned easy chairs scattered around the tastefully-decorated parlor. A fire roared in a fireplace big enough to stand in, and the air smelled of wood smoke and rose oil. The woman put a hand to her forehead and traced around the edge of her eyepatch with the tip of a finger.
Marek gestured to Salatis to sit, and wondered briefly if the man would ever be used to his position enough to be offended when others sat while he stood.
When they had settled in Marek asked Nyla, “What can we do for you?”
“You know my business,” she said, glancing between Marek and Salatis.
The ransar avoided her gaze, but Marek said, “It’s an old profession.”
Nyla might have wanted to laugh, but didn’t. She said, “I have a hand in other things, and I have friends within the city and without.”
“Do you require our assistance, Senator?” Salatis asked.
“No,” she said, and Marek didn’t believe her. “But it’s occurred to me that I can help you.”
“I’m all ears,” Salatis replied with that same leer.
“This canal,” she said.
The three men waited for her to go on, but instead she fingered her missing eye and appeared deep in thought.
“Go on, please,” Marek prompted. He brought a spell to mind and cast it with a tap of his toes and a gesture he passed off as scratching an itch. It wasn’t the best way, or the easiest way, to cast the spell, but it was worth it not to reveal himself. “Tell us what’s on your mind. You’re among friends.”
Even before she spoke, Marek heard her voice in his head. She thought and spoke at the same time, his spell revealing her hidden intentions. Marek listened to both with great interest.
Tell them only what they need to know, she told herself.
“I understand you have reasons for not wanting Devorast to finish the canal,” she said.
When Marek nodded, she thought, The Black Network is angry enough with me. Keep it close.
“And you have to be wondering why I would care when I’ve made my fortune in flesh, and that won’t change—canal or no canal,” she said.
“But you have friends,” Salatis said, “and would like to keep them.”
She glanced at the ransar, nodded, and thought, You’re not the friend I had in mind, fool.
“I can help you,” she said to Marek.
“What have you done?” he asked, staring deep into her eyes.
What does he know? she thought. Marek could feel the panic rising in her. Does he know about the banelar?
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“Have you tried to help us already?” Marek asked.
“You haven’t … paid a visit to the Cormyrean, have you?”
He knows, she thought. By the Dark One’s divine corpse, he knows everything.
“I want to help,” she said, looking Marek in the eye.
“Well,” the ransar broke in, “I’m sure your services will be of value to the city-state. But I haven’t quite made up my mind in regards to the canal yet. There are arguments to be made both for and against.”
Marek fought down the impulse to have Insithryllax melt Salatis in his seat. Instead, he concentrated on Nyla’s thoughts.
I couldn’t kill him, she told herself, but the Thayan could.
“I think we all want the same things,” the Red Wizard said. “And I’m sure that all those we answer to … within the city”—he glanced at Salatis—“and without … will be happy as long as the result is a positive one.”
Thank the Black Hand’s memory, Nyla thought.
She smiled and said, “I just wanted you to know that I am your friend.”
Marek returned her smile.
35
2 Mirtul, the Year of the Staff (1366 DR)
THE NAGAFLOW KEEP
Will he wake soon?” Hrothgar asked.
Surero shrugged in response, and the dwarf fought down the urge to punch the alchemist in the face. Instead, he sighed and looked down at Devorast. He lay in a narrow soldier’s bed in a room near the very top of the imposing fortress. The room was cool, the spring air coming through the pair of arrow loops was fresh, and the sickroom stench that he’d been hit with when he’d first rushed to Devorast’s bedside was gone.
“Or am I just used to it?” he muttered to himself.
“Pardon?” Surero asked, and Hrothgar shrugged him off.
The alchemist sat at a desk cluttered with glassware and iron pots. A little oil lamp burned under a glass bowl in which a strange yellow liquid boiled, sending orange steam into the air that smelled of deep earth—a welcoming sensation for the dwarf.
“Will he live?” Hrothgar asked.
“A tenday will tell,” Surero answered, and Hrothgar could tell he was no more satisfied with that answer than the dwarf was.
“But it’s been longer than that already.”
“Twelve days since the naga brought him here,” Surero replied. “And he’s still alive, which is fortunate for him. This thing that bit him—the naga called it a banelar—did more than just poison him. Its venom had an acidic quality to it that burned him, and burned him badly—deep inside his blood vessels. It introduced a foul humor to his essential fluids.”
“Everybody wants the son of a cow dead,” Hrothgar said. “And all he wants is to dig a hole.”
“Dig a hole and fill it with water,” Surero replied. “And change the way trade moves across the Realms for centuries to come. A lot of people have killed a lot of other people for a lot less.”
The dwarf could only stand there, looking at his friend who appeared already more dead than alive, and shake his head. Of course, Surero was right. The alchemist had also kept Devorast alive, his potions and ointments attacked the venom, neutralized the acid, and slowly started putting the man back together again from the inside out.
The door opened without a sound—Devorast had designed the hinges himself, years before—and Hrothgar turned to see Phyrea step into the room. She was pale. She didn’t look well. When she saw Devorast laying on his back, the bedclothes pulled up to his chin, and the sickly bluish cast to his skin, a tear rolled from her eye, and she took a deep breath.
“There has been no change,” Surero told her.
She nodded in response and moved to stand next to Hrothgar. The dwarf looked up at her, and she met his gaze and nodded, forcing a smile that Hrothgar was reluctant to return. Surero stood and joined them. For the longest time the three of them stood there, staring at their friend.
“I wasn’t able …” Phyrea said at last. She shook her head, unable to finish.
“It’s all right,” Surero said. “I know someone in Saelmur.”
Phyrea untied a small leather pouch from her belt and handed it to Surero. Hrothgar watched as the alchemist opened it, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and unfolded it to reveal two shining gold rings and a brooch of ebony and gold. One ring had a blue gemstone expertly cut in the shape of a ram’s head. Hrothgar had marveled at the workmanship the first time he’d seen it. It was masterful, even for the finest dwarf gemcutters. The brooch bore the mark of the Zhentarim, and the mere thought of it made the dwarf grimace, though he wasn’t surprised that they’d made that particular enemy.
The naga had left the items, saying they belonged to Devorast, though Hrothgar had never seen him wear any sort of jewelry. They all assumed they were worn by the would-be assassin. That they were imbued with magic was no question, but Surero had asked Phyrea to take them back to Innarlith to find out what, if anything, they could do, and how they were used. Also as they’d expected, her efforts had been hindered by not wanting to bring them to the attention of Marek Rymüt.
“He’ll never wear them anyway,” Hrothgar said.
“No, he won’t, will he?” Phyrea replied. “He won’t defend himself. He won’t arm himself. He won’t even recognize that there are people who want him dead. He does—”
She stopped herself, and Hrothgar was relieved. He didn’t feel up to slapping her face.
“He fights when he has to,” the dwarf said. “The rest of the time, he works.”
36
8 Marpenoth, the Year of the Staff (1366 DR)
THE CANAL SITE
Even during the tendays that Devorast lay writhing in quiet agony, then slowly recovered, construction continued. At first many of the Innarlan diggers, woodcutters, and stonemasons had wandered back and forth from Innarlith, but work had become increasingly difficult to find in the city, so most eventually took up residence at the site. Word spread to neighboring cities, and men came from as far as Arrabar for the ransar’s gold. When those coins diminished over time, increasingly replaced by excuses, Arrabar started to pay the Arrabarrans, Saelmur and Nimpeth supported their own people, and King Azoun sent gold by the trade bar.
They had dug for miles, a trench forty feet deep and three hundred feet wide. Parts of it had already been paved on the bottom and sides with stone blocks. All along the mile after mile the site stretched were scaffolds and rigs of all description—structures Phyrea had never seen before. Many of them no one had ever seen before, all of them drawn from the mind of one man.
When she compared in her mind the parts of the canal that she’d seen near completion and the drawings in the stacks and stacks of parchment in Devorast’s little cabin, they were not merely similar, but perfectly identical.
It would be the greatest monument to one man Faerûn had ever known.
Phyrea stumbled on a loose rock, and Devorast took her hand to steady her. His fingers were rough and warm, his grip strong and reassuring. She shuddered at the feeling of his hand in hers, especially when he didn’t let go. She could feel him smiling at her, but she didn’t look at him.
“I can’t come back here anymore,” she said.
“Why not?” he asked, too quick for him.
She wriggled her hand free from his and felt the cold metal of a ring on his finger.
“What is that?” she asked him, then took his hand to examine the ring: a thin gold band traced with a line of engraved runes. “When did you start wearing this?”
Devorast shrugged, and pulled his hand away.
“It’s been almost six months,” she said. “Why would you start to wear that now? If it was anyone but you, I’d think you were wearing it for me.”
He looked at her without speaking, but she knew what he was thinking. He wasn’t wearing it for her.
“Curious?” she asked him. “Is that it?”
He smiled and started walking again. She didn’t follow him.
“If you had died,” she told his back, “I might have killed myself.”
He stopped and
turned, the cool autumn breeze pulling his long red hair away from his stern face. “That would have been stupid.”
She shook her head, and tried not to start crying.
“I lived,” he said, and turned around again but didn’t walk away.
“Yes, you did,” Phyrea replied. “You lived, and you went right back to work. And how many times since the spring have they tried to kill you?”
“If they truly wanted me dead,” Devorast said, “they’d have killed me.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I think they have something else in mind for me,” said Devorast. “They think they can frighten me, intimidate me.”
“And when they finally realize they can’t, if they haven’t already, they will kill you,” she said. “And when they do, I won’t kill myself. I can’t kill myself for you.”
“Phyrea, I never asked you to—”
“I know,” she cut in. “Of course you never asked that of me. You never asked anything of me. I got you saltpeter from my father’s farm, but you paid me for it. You love me with your body but not with your heart—if you even have a heart. You live for this hole in the ground, even if it makes enemies of the whole of Toril, and you don’t even bother fighting them.”
“I fight—”
“For your life,” she shouted. “When they attack you, you defend yourself. I know that. But you don’t fight them, really. You know who it is. You know who’s behind all of it, but will you go back to the city and find him? Will you confront him? Will you have it out—be done with it once and for all? No, you won’t.”
“I have no interest in—”
“Damn it, Ivar,” she screamed at him, “they have an interest in you!”
He looked at her and shrugged. The gesture almost made Phyrea drop to her knees and tear her hair out in frustration. Her eyes blurred with tears.
“I know it’s not cowardice,” she told him, getting control of her voice. “But then what is it? I know how beneath you they are, but—”
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