The Simbul's gift зк-6

by Lynn Abbey

  He disliked the posturing and pretense that accompanied the zulkirs' gatherings: the suffocating robes, the web of deceptive and defensive spells each threw up. The defensive spells were negated the moment they sat down, and as for deception, he was immune to most and could, with a little effort, see through the rest.

  So could the other zulkirs.

  They could see Szass Tam for the corpse he was, and they could see him as a slave's son. Once, when Lauzoril was a novice toiling in Eltabbar, he'd shaved his body and decorated it, but he came from hairy stock. The effort always exceeded the effect, and there was nothing he could do about his ruddy complexion or his bright green eyes without compromising his vision. Long before Lauzoril became zulkir, the tattoos were gone, save the oldest one, and he'd let his hair grow out.

  He was a slave's son; he wasn't proud of it, but he'd stopped being ashamed. There was silver in his golden hair now and natural lines were starting to create their own decorations on his suntanned skin, but at a Convocation, only Szass Tam presented a stranger face.

  Lauzoril paused to wonder what face Lord Necromancy would present.

  This Convocation was Aznar Thrul's idea, even if Szass Tam's seal had been on the writ Lauzoril had received from the Chairmaster only a few short hours ago. Lord Invocation, in his secondary office as Tharchion of the Priador, was leaning on Lady Illusion.

  Only a fool would have believed Mythrell'aa's return to neutrality a few months back. Even if her declaration had been sincere, Lauzoril knew better than most that once an ally of Necromancy, always an ally of Necromancy. Mythrell'aa had stood with Szass Tam at the last Convocation. If she hadn't-if she'd clung to her neutrality-Necromancy wouldn't have had the weight to mortify Enchantment, Thrul, and Nevron of Conjuration for their parts in last year's futile attack at on the Rashemaar barbarians at Gauros Gorge.

  She was entitled to collect a debt. No matter that Szass Tam had endured worse humiliation late last winter beneath the stones of Thaymount. Szass Tam, never a fool, honored his debt, sealed the Chairmaster's writ, and was compelled to appear, the same as any other zulkir.

  That much, Lauzoril knew for himself. The rest, the whys behind Aznar Thrul's strong-arm diplomacy and his expectations at day's end, he'd learned from Thrul's vengeance-minded spy master. The zulkir had been speaking with her in this room when a minion from the Black Citadel arrived. For a moment it had seemed that Lauzoril's worst fears about doing business with traitors had been realized, but the minion had merely carried a message warning Lauzoril to prepare for a quick Convocation in Bezantur.

  Lauzoril hadn't begun asking the spy master questions when she told him everything he'd wanted to know. And a bit more. She was adamant that running Lady Illusion out of Bezantur was only the beginning. Thrul had plans for Aglarond, plans for Conjuration, and plans for Enchantment, all of which involved replacing people he didn't like with people he could control.

  He despises you, the spy master had said. He thinks you rely on luck and charisma. You were supposed to die last year in the Gorge of Gauros-a battle accident, a Rashemaar arrow from a Bezantur bow. He will never forgive you for surviving. After Szass Tam, you're next. He's picked your successor, when we have negotiated, I will share it with you.

  After Szass Tam.

  For Lauzoril's father and grandfather, after Szass Tam meant the day the sun rose in the west, but the Zulkir of Necromancy had stumbled badly. Since spring, his undead legions had fallen apart-literally-when he failed to maintain the spells that animated them. Blackhearts, turncoats, and renegades who'd relied on Necromancy to sustain their treacheries found themselves exposed to bitter, unforgiving winds. Summer had brought public executions, private assassinations, and cracks in the lich's armor.

  Lauzoril had exploited a few of those cracks himself; Enchantment was stronger than it had been. So were all the other schools. The zulkirs had spent a season realigning themselves, carefully and subtly, because no one had known the extent or nature of Szass Tam's wounds or when he might decide to reassert himself.

  If Lauzoril hadn't had the message from Thrul and additional information from Thrul's spy master, he might have thought today's Convocation marked the start of Tam's return. The zulkirs were growing bolder-less careful, less subtle, less afraid of Necromancy. It wouldn't be wise to belittle Szass Tam. He was, undeniably, the mightiest zulkir in Thay's history, but he had to reassert himself soon, or sheer power wouldn't be enough.

  Lauzoril might have been worried. Instead he was excited. After today, the words "after Szass Tam" might not be a motto for the undead. After today, Lauzoril might be at hazard with his allies, might be allied with his enemies. Illusion and Enchantment had made common cause before, though not in his tenure. Anything was possible, even in Aglarond where his dagger moved through the impenetrable Yuirwood forest.

  It all depended on the face Szass Tam showed at the Convocation, whether the lich was equal to Invocation, Conjuration, and Enchantment combined-for the next few hours they would remain allies-or whether tomorrow might not be the first day after Szass Tam.

  A chime sounded and a column of brilliant sunlight sprang up from the carpet.

  "Zulkir Lauzoril, Lord Enchantment," the Chairmaster's voice boomed out of the column. "Your name is called. Step into the light."

  He squared his shoulders and crow-hopped on his toes once or twice, conquering the moment of fear that invariably accompanied the Chairmaster's summons. The safe-passage rules of Convocation hadn't been broken in the centuries since the Chairmaster's office was created, but in Thay, there was always a first time, a first victim.

  The Zulkir of Enchantment took a deep breath and walked into the light.

  Enchantment had no shame, Aznar Thrul thought to himself as Lauzoril strode out of the summoning light, onto the damp sand of the slave market. Never mind that the man's ancestors-probably his parents-had stood on similar sand in different circumstances, Lauzoril marched about with that long hair, those green eyes, that naked tan. He could have transformed himself, brought himself closer to the Mulan ideal; everyone else did. Zulkirs would see through it, of course, but the man should have made the attempt.

  Thrul returned Lauzoril's greeting. They smiled at each other across the empty sand. The eight chairs were arranged in a circle by lot and the Chairmaster's whim. The chairs on either side of Thrul contained Nevron of Conjuration and-Talona's painful mercy-Lallara Mediocros, Zulkir of Abjuration… Zulkir of Indulgence and Mindless Chatter would be more apt. Lauzoril sat between Mythrell'aa herself, a viper swathed in crimson, and Druxus Rhym, a man clearly in need of a good night's sleep.

  Rumor claimed that Enchantment was responsible for Rhym's haggard demeanor, that Lauzoril had snared one or more of Rhym's close associates in conspiracies. No one knew quite how many were involved, certainly not Druxus Rhym. Thrul wasn't shedding any tears for Lord Alteration; he'd lost as many to Rhym's poison as had Lauzoril and Nevron. He could wish, though, that his own revenge plots had worked quicker or been more successful, or that Nevron had been the one to spoil Rhym's sleep. The way things stood, Thrul would have to thank his ally, congratulate him for a job well done.

  Thrul exchanged a pained glance with Nevron. Lauzoril hadn't sat down; Lauzoril was talking to Druxus Rhym, saying the gods alone knew what, except Rhym was listening, nodding his head, and smiling weakly.

  And Nevron… Lord Conjuration looked worse than Druxus Rhym. He hadn't been himself since Gauros. He'd lost an old apprentice in the battle there-his ladylove-and his nerve. Szass Tam's catastrophe hadn't restored Nevron's sharpness, and every move that Lauzoril made put another nail in his heart. Conjuration's days were numbered. Thay had no use for a broken zulkir.

  The seventh name was called: Yaphyll, Lady Divination. Two years ago, she'd been Thrul's third ally. Then Lallara had seduced her, and she had taken a walk down Necromancy's path. She was smiling now, at him and Lallara together. It would take more than a smile before Thrul would forgive her.

  "Zulki
r Szass Tam, Lord Necromancy," the Chairmaster called the last name, the name they'd all been waiting to hear. "Your name is called. Step into the light."

  A square of sunshine appeared on the sand. Despite himself, Thrul held his breath. A moment passed, and another. He started counting in his head: three, four, five…

  "Zulkir Szass Tam, Lord Necromancy. Your name is called. Step into the light."

  Eight, nine, ten.

  Thrul looked up. He caught Mythrell'aa's eye by mistake. They both looked away. Rhym's lips moved as he counted the moments. Nevron's eyes were closed. Lauzoril leaned in the corner of his chair. His eyes were hooded; he looked like a cat about to pounce.

  "Zulkir Szass Tam, Lord-"

  Tam appeared on the sand, facing his chair, his back to his peers. He wore a red robe so dark it seemed black. It was covered with patterns that shifted and could have lured an unsuspecting mind toward madness, if Larloch's chairs had not negated the effect, or if there'd been an unsuspecting mind anywhere in the circle. The lich seemed a bit slump-shouldered and the scents of death surrounded him.

  Aznar Thrul settled back in his chair to get a good view of Szass Tam's face as he turned. Then, belatedly conscious that he'd assumed Enchantment's stance, he leaned forward. The undead Zulkir of Necromancy had turned around.

  "Love of Loviatar…"

  Lallara, naturally, broke the silence, though Thrul needed a strong jaw to keep his own gasping reaction deep down in his throat. A lich was nothing a sane man-a sane zulkir-ever wanted to see, even with Larloch's chair beneath him.

  It wasn't death or undeath; those were commonplace in Thay. A lich was something worse, a nightmare from which you woke up screaming, but couldn't quite remember why. One look at Szass Tam and every living zulkir remembered that nightmare.

  It was true, of course, that the zulkirs saw their undead peer as he was at each Convocation, but just as Rhym and Nevron were ragged, so, too, was Szass Tam. His face was chalk white and constantly in motion, rotting and reforming itself. The zulkir's eyes were empty sockets seething with a luminous green vapor, and his neck had become a serpent whose head had replaced the tongue in his gaping mouth.

  At the head of an army marching against Aglarond or Rashemen, Szass Tam's lich form would have been an ideal battle standard, but in the Bezantur slave market, it only demonstrated how far Szass Tam had fallen and how far he still had to climb before he was his old self again.

  "Lord Necromancy," the Chairmaster intoned from his safe place behind Larloch's chair. "It was you who sealed the writ of Convocation, you who must begin the proceedings."

  "Zulkir Aznar Thrul, Lord Invocation-"

  Thrul sat erect in his chair. In his wildest dreams he hadn't hoped for this: a whispering Szass Tam, a Szass Tam whose quavering voice truly came from beyond the grave. He tried to catch Mythrell'aa's eye: surely she was having second thoughts.

  "Lord Invocation, you have trespassed against another zulkir. You have confined her and denied her the support and consultation of her school. By the Rule of Iphonos Cor, this is forbidden and must be undone. No zulkir can be denied the free access to her school-"

  Mythrell'aa contained her shock and anger. All spring, after Tam's humiliation and her own awkward retreat into Serpent Tower, she had secretly funneled support to her overlord: rare and precious reagents for spells whose purposes she did not want to know; living minions to replace the undead servants he'd lost when his schemes to enslave the tanar'ri lord, Eltab, came crashing down around him; gold and gems in great quantities, no questions asked.

  He was Szass Tam. He'd come back stronger than ever from other setbacks, worse setbacks. Mythrell'aa remembered; she was much older than she looked, but she couldn't remember a time when Szass Tam hadn't dominated Thay.

  Earlier this summer, she'd asked to meet with him-to see him with her own eyes that were immune to all illusion, enchantment and disguise. They met at an inn near Eltab, unheralded, unnoticed. The lich had seemed himself and properly grateful for the sacrifices she'd made on his behalf. He'd given her a black jewel with the power to kill. Mythrell'aa wore it now, beneath her robes, between her breasts. It was useless against the already dead.

  Szass Tam finished speaking. His chest heaved from the effort. Clots of rotten flesh flew into the air, carried by a dank, fetid draft. Mythrell'aa, seated on the lich's left, raised her hand and breathed across the wax perfume she wore on her wrist during Reeking Heat. It didn't help.

  The Chairmaster cleared his throat. "Zulkir Aznar Thrul, Lord Invocation, what say you?"

  "Ten years ago, I brought an end to the Salamander War and order to the Priador, which replaced Bezantur as the southwestern tharch of Thay. In the absence of others-"

  Mythrell'aa seethed. He'd slain her longtime friend and companion, Mari Agneh, then stuffed the Black Citadel with orcs and gnolls before anyone could object!

  — "I became tharchion of the Priador and ruled it from Bezantur, but I was already a zulkir, and there was, already, a zulkir living in Bezantur. Naturally, as I could not turn away from my obligations to Invocation-"

  No zulkir would. Tharchions had only as much authority as the zulkirs allowed them. Mythrell'aa, herself, had ruled the Tharch of Bezantur through Mari Agneh before the Salamander War.

  — "The Zulkir of Illusion should have left, also according to the Rule of Iphonos Cor that two zulkirs shall not establish permanent residence within the same city walls. Lady Illusion begged to remain in her Bezantur tower-"

  Mythrell'aa had not begged. Bezantur had been Illusion's home since the first zulkirs were named. There were other cities in the Priador, if Aznar Thrul insisted on being both zulkir and tharchion.

  — "We negotiated-"

  Thrul was younger then, virile and the recent victor in a brutal war. She'd invited him to Serpent Tower for a day, then a week. He was amusing, as poor Lailomun could never be. How was she to guess he'd become such a grasping bore?

  — "Lady Illusion swore to remain neutral in matters of power and policy-"

  Such things had never interested her. They still didn't, but she'd been a fool to think they didn't matter.

  — "She broke that oath, Lord Necromancy, when she declared her support for you, last year after Gauros-"

  Gauros was a disaster for Thay; and Aznar Thrul, along with his two allies, was responsible for it. The three were censured, disgraced. Common people-slaves! — spoke their names openly and with contempt. Szass Tam had had Thay firmly in the grasp of his long, undead fingers. The choice had seemed obvious: support Necromancy or risk guilt by association with one's neighbor, Invocation. Obvious, at least, at the time, before Szass Tam committed an even greater blunder in the caverns below Thaymount.

  — "Later she recanted that support, reasserting her neutrality-"

  What else could she do?

  — "With lies, but you already know that, Lord Necromancy-she's been doing your work in Aglarond, spying on the witch-queen, making alliances with the Yuirwood mongrels."

  Mythrell'aa lowered her perfumed hand to her breast where she clutched Szass Tam's black jewel through her robe. For a heartbeat, the name on her tongue was her own.

  Vazurmu had said she'd been brought down from behind, but by a Red Wizard, an invoker, not an Aglarondan peasant. Vazurmu had known, and Mythrell'aa should have listened. But Mythrell'aa's shortsightedness wasn't the worst part of her current predicament. The worst part was seated beside her, in Necromancy's chair, not across from her in Invocation's.

  The Zulkir of Illusion had never told the Zulkir of Necromancy about her activities in Aglarond or the advantage she had over the silver-eyed queen. The advantage she'd once had: the rose-thorn no longer responded to her scrying spells.

  When Thrul finished denouncing his neighbor and peer, Szass Tam demanded proof for the charges, though not because he believed in Mythrell'aa's innocence. Quite the contrary, although Thrul-cretin that he was-couldn't see that he'd won. The Mighty Tharchion of the Priador, Mightier Zul
kir of Invocation wouldn't give anything to his long-standing enemy. Beshaba's mercy! If he kept it up, he might succeed in convincing Tam that the charges were trumped up.

  Even Nevron could see victory slipping through his faction's hands. The weary weasel seemed to be in physical agony the longer Aznar Thrul prevaricated with Szass Tam. Mythrell'aa wouldn't chance a sidelong peek at the man on her left. If Lauzoril weren't zulkir of an unimportant school and lazy as a frostbitten snake, he'd be the man to challenge Szass Tam.

  The man…

  Mythrell'aa had assumed it would take a man to break Szass Tam.

  The school…

  She'd assumed it would take a man with a potent school behind him. She'd locked herself up in Serpent Tower waiting for a miracle to happen. But women had dominated Thay in the past, zulkirs from minor schools, also.

  By the time Mythrell'aa stood to endure her humiliation and disgrace, she'd come to see herself in a new and different light. It was time to leave Serpent Tower, time to take Lailomun to Aglarond-and when that was done, it would be time to return.

  19

  The city of Velprintalar, in Aglarond Approaching dawn, the twentieth day of Eleasias, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)

  Leaving Velprintalar had taken the Simbul longer than it should have. She'd wasted an entire day, agonizing over which spells to inscribe in a deer-hide spellbook-which reagents to stuff into an enchanted pouch that was larger within than without but couldn't hold everything on her workroom shelves. She'd sent a message ahead to her chief forester in the Yuirwood, a man whose trust and cooperation was essential if she were going to sort out this many-layered mess.

  Now dawn was coming, and she'd bulled her way out of tighter corners with far less than she was carrying to the Yuirwood. The time had come to seal her privy chambers with wards only Mystra's Chosen could disassemble, to peel the quilt off her mirror for a final glimpse at her known enemies.