Lies of Light

by Philip Athans

  She took a deep breath. She’d said it all before, been trapped by him too many times already. She’d given herself to him, and when she was with him, the ghosts that haunted her fell silent. But then days would pass—tendays, months—and she would realize once again that he gave her his body, but too little else—far, far too little of himself.

  “Ivar, I can’t—”

  There was a flash of light, bright even in the midafternoon sun, and he rushed at her with his arms outstretched. He meant to embrace her, and Phyrea, startled, stepped back. His face was a stone mask—utterly unreadable. Her instincts told her to defend herself, but her reflexes failed her. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. She gasped when they left the ground.

  The sound that followed close after the flash of light was a dull but deafening thud that stung her ears. She couldn’t tell for sure but it seemed as though they hurtled through the air—easily a dozen feet off the ground—because Devorast had jumped, but how could that be? It must have been the explosion that launched them into the sky, but—

  The ring, she thought.

  As they rotated in the air she saw a massive orange and yellow fireball still expanding, showering the place where they’d been standing only half a heartbeat before with chunks of smoking rock as big around as her head. Men screamed, and the air hummed from the sound of the big rocks hitting the ground.

  They landed hard enough to make her grunt, but Devorast landed on his feet and came to a stop with his body between Phyrea and the explosion. She pushed away from him and sprawled onto the ground on her back.

  He didn’t even spare you a glance, the voice of the sad woman whined in her head.

  Phyrea closed her eyes.

  I don’t blame you, the old woman said—and Phyrea could see her burn-scarred face in her mind’s eye. I wouldn’t want to see him running away from me again, either, if I were you.

  Forget him, the man with the scar on his face said.

  Phyrea opened her eyes and looked over her shoulder. The man stood among the falling pebbles that rained down on her like warm, dry hail. The stones passed right through him.

  “This is the last time,” she promised the ghost.

  The man shook his head, but Phyrea turned away from him, stood, and followed Devorast. She ran through a continuing rain of pebbles and specks of wood, and vegetation that the fireball had thrown into the air. By the time she reached the edge of the crater and stopped at Devorast’s side, the rain of stones had stopped. Dust and smoke made her cough and stung her eyes.

  “Who is she?” a workman asked.

  She saw Devorast shake his head. On the ground at his feet was the mangled body of a girl. Devorast kneeled and turned her over. Her head rolled on a broken neck, and her dead eyes stared up at the sky.

  “I know her,” Phyrea said, then coughed again.

  Devorast turned, surprised to find her right behind him.

  “I went to finishing school with her,” she explained. “Her father lost his seat on the senate and killed himself when the debts were called in. I lost track of her when she and her mother and sisters moved out of the Second Quarter.”

  “She ignited Surero’s smokepowder casks,” Devorast said. “Why?”

  Phyrea rubbed the grit from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Why does anyone want to kill you?”

  “What’s her name?” the workman asked.

  “Cassiya,” Phyrea answered. “I think her name was Cassiya.”

  37

  30 Marpenoth, the Year of the Staff (1366 DR)

  THE THAYAN ENCLAVE, INNARLITH

  Ransar,” Marek Rymüt said with a flourish, “welcome to Thayan soil.”

  Salatis’s eyes narrowed at that, though he’d agreed to it already. He stepped in and pasted a smile on his face. As he looked around at the glass cases filled with artifacts and unusual curios of the most exotic sort, he clasped a hand around a pendant that hung from a heavy gold chain around his neck.

  “Azuth …” Marek commented with a lift of one eyebrow.

  “Really?”

  Salatis cleared his throat, took his hand away from the holy symbol, and said, “The High One’s wisdom has entered my life of late, yes.”

  Marek smiled and stepped deeper into the showroom, making way for the ransar. Salatis followed, his expression alternating between fear, confusion, and longing as he went from case to case. He stopped at one, the echo of his footsteps pinging from the marble floor to the pounded lead ceiling.

  “This …” Salatis said, looking down at a glass case that contained an ornately-crafted brass horn. “What is this?”

  “Ah,” Marek replied. “You have a good eye, Ransar. That is a horn of blasting.”

  “A horn of …?”

  “It’s a wonderfully crafted piece, isn’t it?” Marek said, stepping behind the ransar and laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Heavy, I suppose. Not … subtle … but beautiful in its own way.”

  “What does it do?”

  Marek laughed, took his hand away from Salatis’s shoulder, and set it on the glass. “There’s someone I know of that would very much like to have this, I’m sure.”

  Salatis shook his head.

  Marek sighed and continued, “People who hear its voice are laid low—not killed, mind you, but they don’t like it too much. It has a tendency to loosen soil, as well, and even … dig holes.”

  Salatis nodded and let a grin spread across his face.

  “But he’ll never have it, will he?” Marek said.

  “He’s getting gold from the king of Cormyr, of all people,” Salatis replied. “If indeed you mean to offer these things for sale, what’s to stop him from buying it?”

  “Me,” said Marek.

  “Well …” the ransar started, then finally figured out that Marek would decide who bought what, when, and for what reason. “And your superiors in Thay are comfortable with that? I mean, what if he came here with … five thousand gold pieces?”

  “Well, first off,” Marek replied, “he’d be seven thousand short.” He gave the ransar a look that he hoped would tell him the rest, and by Salatis’s response, it was enough. “I wonder to what extent King Azoun believes he can meddle in the affairs of an independent city-state.”

  The ransar’s lips tightened, and his face paled. “He vexes me.”

  “He wants that canal built,” the Red Wizard said as he crossed to another case. He looked down at the Wand of the Ten Mages—a one-of-a-kind piece there more for display than anything. Only one of the ten mages who’d collaborated in its creation could wield it, and they had all been dead for six centuries. “He wants his merchants to trade directly with Waterdeep, Baldur’s Gate, and so on, without their caravans being picked apart by Zhents and orcs.”

  “He’ll pay a hefty toll too,” the ransar said trying to make himself believe it.

  “Will he?” Marek asked. “For the use of a canal he paid to build? And will he pay you, or will he pay the nagas?”

  Salatis frowned and said, “It’s gotten out of control, hasn’t it?”

  “My dear, dear Ransar,” said Marek as he moved to yet another case. He looked down at the weapon inside—a ghost touch halfspear that made him think of Phyrea. “This is your city now, and nothing to do with it is outside your control. At worst, all you have to do is rely on your friends, and you do have friends. The realms of the Old Empires, Tethyr, the Zhentarim, even the Emerald Enclave and my own homeland have made their opinions known. Cormyr and Arrabar, and even petty city-states like Raven’s Bluff, are not to be taken lightly, to be sure, but neither are those aligned against it.”

  Salatis took a deep breath and said, “You know that I know that I owe my ascendancy to you, Master Rymüt. You know that I have agreed to this enclave of yours, agreed to your three laws, agreed to … other things. But the canal will be good for Innarlith. It can be, anyway, and by all accounts he’ll be able to do it. You’ve tried to kill him, so has Nyla, and others I don’t even know of. I’
ve sent black firedrakes against him myself, but nothing. If you tell me I must stop the canal from being built I will do my best to do that, but you should be warned that my best may not be entirely up to the task. There are other Realms involved now, all more powerful than our humble city-state. I could lose more than just the canal, but the city itself, should I push too hard in the wrong places.”

  It was Marek’s turn to take a deep breath. Salatis could barely look at him.

  “Well, then,” said Marek, “let’s put it out there then, shall we?”

  “Please do.”

  “It would benefit me to sell the means to travel from here to the Sea of Fallen Stars through the use of magic, but it could also benefit me to finish the canal, also through magical means. The only reason the canal is still being dug is that Devorast refuses to be killed. But you … all along you’ve had the power to stop it without killing him, or finish it without keeping him. Send the foreign workers away. Despite your fears, even Azoun won’t march to war over this hole in the ground, especially if he’s reassured that it will still be built. He can keep the trade bars flowing, for all that, but to me—with a generous return to my esteemed patron, of course”—and he winked at the ransar—“and not that arrogant bastard. Give it up, Salatis, or give it to me.”

  Salatis must have realized that his mouth had been hanging open in a most unflattering way, and he clacked his lips together.

  38

  3 Uktar, the Year of the Staff (1366 DR)

  THE CHAMBER OF LAW AND CIVILITY

  Willem Korvan stared down at a blank sheet of parchment.

  “Be seated, honored colleagues,” Salatis said from the podium.

  Willem sat with the rest of the senators, keeping his eyes on the blank page.

  “I thank you all for allowing me to humble myself before you,” the ransar went on, the greeting the same every time.

  With a shaking hand Willem took the quill from its stand and dipped it into his ink well. He could tell from both the sound and the feel of it that the ink was dry.

  “I will not take up too much of your precious time this evening,” said Salatis, his voice echoing through the chamber. “Before I begin, I offer a prayer to Mask, the Lord of Shadows.”

  While the senate chamber echoed with the murmurs of the outraged or surprised members, Willem lifted the dry quill out and dragged it across the parchment anyway. Only the faintest smudge of gray-black marred the smooth surface.

  “It is you, Lord of Shadows, that tells us the truth of what is most real: that which we can hold in our hands, lock in our coffers, or rule with the strength of our hands and hearts. We expect nothing from you, Honored Lord, but the truth of your words of warning. You have given us all you should and all you ever will, and for that we thank you.”

  The senators grumbled in response. Willem pressed harder and tore a small hole in the parchment sheet.

  “The city-state of Innarlith is in possession … no, I apologize … I should say that the city-state of Innarlith was in possession of a canal that will revolutionize trade in all Faerûn. Promises were made by my predecessor and his agent, but were those promises kept?”

  Then Willem pressed harder still and scratched the surface of his desktop.

  “This once promising endeavor became a drain on our precious but limited resources, but still we believed. Still we sent our gold and our workers out to the monster-haunted frontier and all of our gold and some of our workers didn’t come back.”

  Hand still shaking—maybe shaking even worse—Willem replaced the quill and laid a hand flat on the sheet of parchment. Even there it trembled.

  “But at least it was ours. At least it belonged to the city-state of Innarlith. But in the past months, even that has changed. But has it only been over the past few months? Or was it the intention all along, of the late Ransar Osorkon, to sell this city piece by piece to our neighbors? When we were told that others would share in our fortunes, that was fine. We hold the canal, but not the Vilhon Reach, not the Sword Coast—but we hold the canal!”

  Willem tried to take a deep breath, but hiccupped instead.

  “And now,” Salatis went on, “here we are, months on, and not only our gold is being used to dig this hole, but Arrabarran gold, gold from Cormyr, gold from Aglarond, from Sembia even, and points all up and down the Sword Coast from Athkatla north to faraway Luskan. An army of men dig and saw and toil, and how many of them are Innarlan? How many are Cormyrean? How many Arrabarran? And if Mask’s wisdom has taught us anything, it’s that all you are is what you hold in your hand, and when Arrabarran hands hold our soil, our soil becomes Arrabarran soil.”

  Willem’s vision blurred a little, and he started to blink so that the scene in front of him flickered—but what was it he was looking at? The new ransar babbling about something.

  “But then what can we expect from this man, this foreign man, Ivar Devorast?”

  That’s right, Salatis was babbling about Ivar Devorast.

  “He comes from Cormyr with his strange accent and high-handed manners. As arrogant as his king, he spits in the face of every member of this esteemed body, and every man, woman, and child who calls Innarlith home.”

  No matter where Willem went, how high he rose, or how many concessions he made to his patrons in the senate, the conversation always went to Devorast.

  “This Ivar Devorast builds nothing for the city-state of Innarlith. So who does he build for? Azoun? The Simbul? Not me. Has he even come here? Has he even passed through our gates in months? He hides in my keep on the Nagaflow when his enemies strike at him—and he has attracted enemies, take my word for that—and he spends the lives of my soldiers to keep himself safe, but has he even once come before this body? We all know that he has not. Has he even once come to the Palace of Many Spires or the Chamber of Law and Civilityh, even just to report to his patrons on his progress? I can assure you, he has not.”

  Everyone always wanted to talk about Ivar godsbed-amned Devorast.

  “So, who does Ivar Devorast work for?”

  “Himself,” Willem whispered, so softly even he could barely hear it.

  “Does he work for King Azoun? I know I don’t. And I know you don’t.”

  Willem sighed and hiccupped again. He needed a drink.

  “Senators,” Salatis pronounced, his voice heavy with false drama, “I have come to you tonight to inform you that I have decided to call an immediate halt to all work on the canal. I have ordered the forces of the city-state, led by my own black firedrakes, to peacefully repatriate all foreign workers, and to seize all outstanding foreign gold, and I have ordered them to do this immediately.”

  Willem shook his head and almost laughed at that.

  “When I am certain that things are well in hand—well in Innarlan hands—I will allow work to recommence. Until that time, the Cormyrean Ivar Devorast will no longer be welcome here.”

  Willem cringed. He closed his eyes and quivered as his face pinched up and his fingers curled into fists.

  “Senators, I thank you for your time. Good night, and may the Lord of Shadows bless this body and the people of the great city-state of Innarlith. Praise be to Mask.”

  A deafening round of applause made Willem cover his ears with his hands, until he realized that Meykhati was clapping, so he clapped too. And he continued to clap as Salatis made his way slowly from the podium, clasping hands with a select group of senators—including Meykhati and Nyla—along the way.

  Fools, he thought. He’s not just going to go away.

  Willem could never be that lucky.

  39

  4 Uktar, the Year of the Staff (1366 DR)

  THE CANAL SITE

  Tell him who you are, the old man demanded.

  Anger flared through her, and through clenched teeth she said, “I am the daughter of Senator Inthelph, the Master Builder of Innarlith, and if you don’t take two steps back from me this instant, there will be consequences.”

  Nicely done, girl, the o
ld man murmured. Well said.

  The man who stood before her with the wicked longaxe held in front of his chest seemed to stare right through her with his too-black eyes, but he did step back. With her best world-weary sigh, she stepped around him to the door of Devorast’s little cabin. Before she could reach for the handle the door opened, and Surero stepped out. He looked surprised to see her, but smiled anyway.

  “Is he here?” she asked.

  Surero nodded and glanced back into the dim interior. Devorast appeared in the doorway and nodded in greeting.

  Phyrea had expected him to be angry, or at least annoyed, and certainly offended that the ransar—one of the least visionary men she’d ever met—had shut him down entirely with a single proclamation.

  Tell him, said the little boy. Phyrea could see him, one arm ending in a handless stump, at the edge of her vision. Tell him you’re happy it’s over and that he’s being sent away. Call him a bad name and tell him to go to a bad place.

  She shook her head and said, “It’s wrong what’s happening.”

  No, said the ghost of the burned old woman, it’s about time.

  “We knew it would happen eventually, though, didn’t we?” Surero asked. His eyes darted from one to the other of the three black-haired guards with their longaxes and blank, emotionless expressions. “Maybe not like this, though.”

  “Have they hurt anyone?” Phyrea asked.

  They should, said the man with the scar on his face. She could see him standing inside the cabin, next to Devorast.

  Surero shook his head and stepped out of the doorway. “We should speak inside.”

  Phyrea stepped in, nodding, her eyes glued to the shimmering violet form of the man and the z-shaped scar that marred his otherwise handsome face. She felt her breathing grow faster and more shallow and did her best to control it. Her palms went slick with sweat. She’d never seen the ghosts and Devorast in the same place, had she? He used to—she thought—drive them away.