The Simbul's gift зк-6

by Lynn Abbey

  "Why? Why have you come? Why should I forgive the interruption?"

  "He is here, O Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir. He wishes to speak with you. Now."

  The chamberlain's thoughts were less coherent than usual, but a thread of fear ran through all of them, different than the fear Thrul himself inspired. One might almost think Szass Tam had manifested at the citadel's gate, except zulkirs did not visit one another, not without extreme precautions. There had been no alarms, no warnings. Thrul concluded he knew who wished to see him: the spy master.

  "Tell her I'm indisposed. Tell her I will remain that way until sundown-unless she'd care to join me in, say, my bedchamber." He couldn't imagine her accepting the offer, though he'd bestir himself if she did.

  The chamberlain didn't budge.

  "Are you deaf, lead-head? Go and tell her," Thrul commanded, once again raising his spoon.

  "O Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir, it is not a woman who waits. It is the Chairmaster himself, O Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir."

  That was a mild surprise. It was only this morning that Thrul had sent word to his chairkeeper that a Convocation was likely, and that only because he'd allowed two of Mythrell'aa's minions to escape the city, both of them carrying messages for Szass Tam asking the lich to call a Convocation of zulkirs. Even Szass Tam had to follow procedure for a Convocation. The Chairmaster shouldn't have arrived for another two or three days.

  "Find out if he wishes to dine with me-"

  "I do not," a man's deep voice came through the door. "Nor do I wish to see your bedchamber."

  The chamberlain, who was responsible for Thrul's sacrosanct privacy, turned pasty white beneath his tattoos. His eyes glazed. Spittle appeared at the corners of his quivering mouth. He would have died, if Thrul hadn't decided to deny the Chairmaster the pleasure of watching.

  "Welcome," he said. "You should have sent word."

  "I am word," the exceptionally tall and slender man said as he entered the balcony.

  The Chairmaster wore his own clothes: blood-colored linen gauze, suitable to the season, trimmed with gold threads, garnets, and star rubies-never let it be said that the zulkirs stinted their tithes to the Chairmaster. By his tattoos, the Chairmaster was an illusionist, but he owed nothing to Mythrell'aa, or to anyone else. When he extended his hand, a chair appeared on the balcony: a testament to his power and immunity by working magic in a zulkir's presence without triggering his wards. He sat down opposite Thrul and, having said he wouldn't dine, poured himself wine.

  Thrul would have loved to throw the insufferable lout over the balustrade, or, better yet, take him downstairs to the dungeons. He didn't dare. Not even Szass Tam could successfully challenge the Chairmaster, though rumor had it that the lich had tried a century ago. Supposedly the necromancer still bore a wound that wouldn't heal, though the laws of magic stated that the undead couldn't heal-it took magic to repair their torn flesh, magic any adolescent necromancer should have mastered, and Szass Tam was long past adolescence. Of course, by those same magical laws, Szass Tam couldn't exist either as a lich or as a man, so the rumor never died, and the Chairmaster's reputation as both survivor and wizard was enhanced.

  "There's more where that came from," Thrul said of his wine. "I can arrange for a bottle or two to be ready when you depart."

  The Chairmaster sipped from the goblet and wrinkled his long nose. "Not necessary, Lord Invocation. It's pleasant enough for a city balcony, but it won't travel well."

  Thrul seethed. He knew his vintages. The wine was exceptional, but no one argued with the Chairmaster. "Considering how much you travel, it's a wonder you can find any wine at all," he said, all polite sympathy.

  "All life has its hardships," the Chairmaster agreed, taking up the goblet again. "Yours as well as mine. Lord Necromancy has called for a Convocation. There's a complaint against you, Lord Invocation. It is said that you trespass against Illusion, that you've set wards and guards around her tower-the truth of which I ascertained on my way here. These are serious charges, Lord Invocation, with serious penalties, as you must know. You must answer to your peers at a time, within the next month, and at a place, within Thay, of your choosing."

  "Bezantur, for the place," Thrul said quickly. Though the Master's visit was early, his contingencies were in place, along with his wards and his guards. "Tomorrow at sundown, for the time."

  "The charges are most serious," the Master said after a lengthy pause. "Surely you wish to reconsider? Perhaps to withdraw your provocations entirely? This could be settled without a Convocation, I think. Lady Illusion wishes only to have her freedoms restored."

  "Lady Illusion can stand on the top of her tower and howl at the moon, for all I care. I want a Convocation. The place is Bezantur. The time is tomorrow at sunset."

  Thrul had the once-in-any-lifetime satisfaction of seeing the Chairmaster at a loss for words.

  "It will be difficult," he managed after a moment.

  "Well, that's not my problem, is it? Bezantur is within Thay, isn't it? This room, if I chose it, is within Thay. Tomorrow is within a month? Today would be acceptable as well. Surely this is not a surprise. I have notified my chairkeeper yesterday; he will be here in time. I warned my allies that they should do likewise."

  By allies Thrul meant Nevron of Conjuration and Lauzoril. Nevron had already acknowledged the message; his chair and its keeper were already moving toward the city. Lauzoril, typically, hadn't; Lord Enchantment never acknowledged messages. You sent a message to one of his chancellors and then you waited-like a common petitioner-for his answer. If Thrul's warning hadn't reached Lauzoril… If the Chairmaster couldn't find him, then whatever else tomorrow's Convocation accomplished, it might rid Invocation of a pesky ally.

  "Surely Lord Necromancy did likewise before he notified you, that, too, is within the rules. Unless Lord Necromancy has no allies left? That would place quite a burden on you, wouldn't it? If you had to find everyone yourself?"

  Thrul's question made the Chairmaster squirm. Not the reaction he'd expected. Convocation was, after all, a long-honored compromise among zulkirs who needed, on occasion, to actually govern the realm they dominated and resolve their private disputes without inciting a civil war. Each zulkir, without exception, would have preferred to do away with compromise, but since Thay's independence from Mulhorand, no zulkir had come close to subjugating all his peers.

  None had come closer than Szass Tam had been a year ago, before some major conspiracy had collapsed and driven him into hiding. But the lich would rise again and again, until he was destroyed, which was why a zulkir like Aznar Thrul needed not only allies among his peers, but a tharchionate as well. History showed-Thrul was an avid student of history-that the man who succeeded an ambitious failure, such as Szass Tam must inevitably become, would reap the rewards his predecessor had been denied: a unified Thay and seven puppet zulkirs.

  Every Red Wizard, especially a zulkir, should have a guiding dream. Until his was reality, however, Invocation relied on tradition, on Convocation and, however reluctantly, on the Chairmaster. The thought that Szass Tam might have subverted the Chairmaster before he'd found the way to do so himself was a bone in Thrul's throat.

  The current Chairmaster had been an illusionist before his elevation, years before Thrul or Mythrell'aa had begun to claw to the top of their respective specialties. Thrul's own grandfather, Nymor, Lord Illusion in that time, had branded him. Aznar Thrul had counted on the Chairmaster's memory playing in his favor when the right time came, but had Mythrell'aa beaten him?

  "You'd be a fool," Thrul said very quietly, very calmly. "The last Chairmaster who betrayed his office still bathes in fire beneath Thaymount. You might find yourself joining him or, worse, sitting in one of Larloch's chairs yourself."

  To his credit, the Chairmaster never flinched. He sipped his wine as if he'd heard nothing. Either the man was innocent of deception-a rarity among Red Wizards-or he was a master of it.

  Larloch, reputedly a sorcer
er-king of ancient Netheril, had flourished and vanished millennia ago, leaving a legacy of artifacts that tempted many a young wizard to his or her doom. The legend of his eight chairs, magical voids from which no spell could be cast, into which no harm could come, had proved real enough. Seated in his or her chair, attuned not only to the appropriate wizardly discipline but to purely individual differences, a zulkir was both powerless and invulnerable.

  Naturally, every zulkir from Buvaar on contrived to maximize the powerlessness of the others while maintaining, or increasing, his own invulnerability. At Thrul's ideal Convocation, seven other zulkirs would sit rigid and helpless in their chairs, their lives and their disciples' lives held permanently hostage to his whim. Real Convocations, however, demanded compromise.

  Hence, the chairkeepers, eight wizards whose sole task was guarding the particular chair placed in their possession, and the Chairmaster, who alone could order the chairs assembled for a Convocation. The Chairmaster also guaranteed the safe passage of the zulkirs as they came to sit and, later, depart.

  The Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir maintained the best of all possible relationships with his own chairkeeper, a diviner by training.

  "Have you accepted my terms?" Thrul asked, thinking of his supper going to waste in front of him. The Chairmaster was known to practice the diplomacy of unlimited patience.

  "They are faultless, Lord Invocation, as you knew. The 'keepers will select a suitable chamber-"

  "I'd prefer an open location. The slave market will suffice. I'll declare a holiday; the market will be closed."

  The Chairmaster nodded. "Weather permitting; I cannot control the weather in a priest-ridden city like this one. If you would choose another place…?"

  "I've chosen. I have my own charges to bring. It is not I who trespass against Illusion, but Illusion that trespasses against me, and in trespassing against me, trespasses against my city, which is a trespass against Thay, which is a trespass against all Red Wizards. I have proof."

  "Most irregular, Lord Invocation. If you have proof, you should have called the Convocation yourself. Illusion will not be prepared."

  "Exactly."

  The Chairmaster stood; his chair vanished. "I will tell the others what has been said here," he warned.

  "I'm counting on it."

  The Chairmaster seemed about to speak: his chin lifted, his brow furrowed, but he said nothing and with a flash of golden light followed his chair into thin air. Thrul finished his eggs. They were warm now but they hadn't lost their flavor. Ignoring the pickled rice, he turned his attention to his main course: peppered gnolls' tongues in aspic. No wonder the slaves had been so anxious. He poured a black sauce over the quivering mound and savored the fragrant steam it produced.

  "O Mighty Tharchion-"

  "Go away."

  "Mightier Zulkir. It is that woman again. The one with the carnelian; the one without a name."

  Thrul stared at the dissolving mound on his plate. If he didn't eat it quickly, it wouldn't be worth eating at all. With an angry sigh, he pushed away from the table.

  "Dispose of it," he told the chamberlain, "and I will see the woman in my bedchamber. Clothed or unclothed, however she wishes."

  She wished for clothing, but was quite willing to remove her garments-another little disappointment in an altogether frustrating day. She was, however, a challenging partner, which Thrul would never have expected. It raised a host of questions and possibilities, best left until after tomorrow's Convocation.

  "The Chairmaster has been here," he said afterward, when they were both dressed.

  "I saw him depart."

  An overstatement. The Chairmaster wouldn't have reappeared within Bezantur's walls. He let the comment slide, for now. "Are you ready?" he asked.

  "Even now our spies in the southern cities have moved into the Aglarondan forest. Communication with them will be difficult-impossible-but they are our finest. They understand what must be done, even if we cannot tell them what to do."

  He thought he saw a glimmer of falsehood in her eyes as she spoke of serving his interests and probed her mind subtly. Her thoughts betrayed no secrets, no anxiety, until she sensed his spellcast probe.

  "Ask any question, my lord. I have no secrets."

  "Have you learned anything closer to home?"

  "My net is not cast close to home," she replied, guileless words and thoughts clear as mountain water. "Yet I think your noose around Illusion is not yet tight."

  Thrul thought of the minions he'd let out this morning, and thought he'd caught the woman at last. "How would you know that?" he asked.

  "The House of Illusion in Tilbrand has sent some of its own out into the world. They follow an interesting path, a northeast path, my lord, to the Aglarondan forest."

  First, the Chairmaster arrived early, now this. Mythrell'aa, then, had other means to work her will outside her tower, and had been using them. "What does this mean, woman?"

  "That we are not the only ones looking for something in the Yuirwood. That we will not be alone when we find it."

  17

  Everlund, near the High Forest After sundown, the eighteenth day of Eleasias, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)

  When folk gathered for discussion, the Simbul was most often to be found-or not found-eavesdropping from the chandelier, disguised as a candle. She defended her deceit, saying that her presence inhibited those voices she most needed to hear, but the truth was that Alassra Shentrantra didn't like formal gatherings, and a gathering arranged by Alustriel with three elven sages was as formal as a gathering could get. She would have stayed home, if she hadn't been certain that Alustriel would show up, concerned about her well-being, and demand that she hie herself up to Everlund.

  Bowing to the inevitable, Alassra had delved the depths of her wardrobe before conjuring a gray gown scarcely different than the one she usually wore-except it wasn't torn, frayed, or stained. The setting sun was still a handspan above the horizon when she cast the spell that whisked her north to Silverymoon. Alustriel was waiting, serenely beautiful in sapphire and silver.

  "Did you forget your jewelry?"

  Alassra displayed her rings, each charged with spells. "I don't wear fancy stones."

  "They don't have to be fancy, 'Las, but the Tel'Quessir are a formal people. You have to finish things with them. Finishing tells them who you are."

  "There isn't an elf alive who doesn't know who I am, what I am. If it bothers them, they shouldn't have agreed to meet with me." A stray thought crossed her mind. "You did tell them they'd be meeting with me didn't you? You didn't tell them I'd changed?"

  "They wouldn't have believed me, if I had."

  Satisfied, Alassra linked hands with Alustriel and followed her magically from Silverymoon to an ancient grove where an oblong menhir rested atop a number of smaller stones.

  It was not the sort of place where Alassra could ever feel comfortable. She had nothing against the elves. After six hundred odd years of living, she had great respect for anyone older than her. But the older she got, the more she appreciated the differences between the two races. The Elven Retreat made perfect sense to her: she wished them well and far away. In her grand plan for Faerun's future, the elves would have the eastern march of Thay, beyond Lake Thaylambar. That thoroughly despoiled land was far enough away, or would be, when she was done with the Red Wizards, and Aglarond, too.

  Alassra's discomfort was compounded by the realization that the sages were waiting for them.

  "I thought you said sundown," she whispered angrily.

  "I did. That's what was agreed. These are not the Tel'Quessir I spoke to; I don't know them. But they've come. I'm sure there are reasons for everything, 'Las. Please don't be difficult."

  Hearing voices, the sages roused from their meditations. They did not, as Alassra feared, establish themselves on the wise side of the stone, talking down to short-lived, shortsighted humans. The youngest of the elves, not apparently a sage but a servant, spread a quilt of moo
nlight-pale silken patchwork over the grass then finished it with a circle of six plump cushions. Taking her cues from Alustriel, Alassra shed her sandals before stepping on the quilt and sitting on one of the cushions. The servant handed her a silver beaker of ice-cold nectar and offered a piece of honey-glazed shortbread-her favorite dessert and almost certainly a peace-offering.

  Alassra glanced at her sister, who smiled and said nothing.

  The elven servant served the sages, then seated himself on the last cushion. "It would help," he began without formality, "if you explained the things that trouble you in your own words. Begin at the beginning and leave nothing out. There may be something of significance that we would otherwise overlook."

  Alassra's temper flared. She wasn't a child with a faulty memory; she was…

  She was a queen who'd grown accustomed to the prerogatives and privileges of royalty when she should have known better.

  "It began with a vision while I was napping. A voice said Zandilar. The vision showed me a black-maned horse the color of winter twilight…"

  The elves scarcely moved while the Simbul told the story, as much of it as she could honestly remember on a moment's notice, leaving out only the bits about how her mirror peered into Thay. Fortified with a second beaker of nectar, Alassra spoke of Lailomun Zerad for the first time since she had accepted her Chosen heritage. It was a tale no one had ever heard, not the elves, not her sister, not even her own ears. There were tears in Alustriel's eyes when she finished. The elves saw the matter differently.

  One of the sages, a black-haired Moon elf with a fondness for knives, six of which could be seen sprouting from his sleeves, boots, and belt, leaned forward to ask: "This personal enmity between you and the Zulkir of Illusion, how does it bear on the question of Zandilar?"

  Again the storm queen felt her hackles rise, again she quelled them. "I don't know if it bears on Zandilar. What I do know is that Mythrell'aa has learned of my interest in the horse and, because of Lailomun Zerad, will presume my interest in the Cha'Tel'Quessir, Ebroin of MightyTree. She will pursue them because they are important to me. The other zulkirs will pursue Mythrell'aa, because they are Red Wizards and they swarm whenever one of them has something the others don't. If it were a matter of simply protecting a boy and a horse, I would do that, and I wouldn't be here asking your advice. But it's the Yuirwood, too, and the Cha'Tel'Quessir, and Zandilar, about whom I can learn very little, except that she was called 'the Dancer' and that there's a small stone bearing her name in the Sunglade inside a circle of larger, Seldarine stones."