The Simbul's Gift

by Lynn Abbey

  The principles of movement through time were the same as those through space—every traveling spell required a bit of both. But to move herself, two children and a horse far enough through time that the stars were displaced should have been—after her skirmish with the Red Wizards—temporarily beyond her abilities.

  “Damned odd,” she muttered, puzzled but not concerned.

  In six centuries of wizardry, Alassra had survived far worse than a misdirected traveling spell, though usually it took more than children and domestic animals to confound her. The horse, she knew, was more than it appeared to be, hence her interest in it, but it remained a horse, neither help nor hinderance where magic was concerned. The little girl, whose hand Alassra still held, didn’t know her own name, much less where they were; she hadn’t played a role in bringing them here.

  That left Bro, the half-elf—Ebroin of MightyTree, to give him the Cha’Tel’Quessir name she’d plucked from his thoughts and the lineage she read from the beads strung around his neck. They’d come to rest in his native place. Bro was as overwhelmed as his sister, but far from empty-minded. In the two years Alassra had been watching him and his colt, he’d shown no magical bent, either for wizardry or the forest magic of his ancestors but this wouldn’t be the first time shock had kindled latent talent. Poised on the verge of manhood, he was the right age for a sudden awakening.

  Mindful of the forest’s interest, Alassra gently touched his brow. The echoes were very faint; the talent not much greater. Bro hadn’t cast a spell. That was some relief: Faerûn didn’t need an untrained druid with the power to pull Mystra’s Chosen through time. He’d intended to cause trouble, and he’d achieved his goal. She found she liked him better than when she’d known him only through the mirror.

  “I’ll have to leave you here,” she said as she lifted her spell from his limbs. “Even the witch-queen has her limits.”

  Bro drew a free breath and clasped his hands around Alassra’s throat.

  “You killed them!” he cried. “You could have saved them, but you didn’t. You let them die—my mother, Dent, the whole of Sulalk—and then you tried to steal Dancer!”

  He was no threat, not to the likes of her. The challenge lay in not killing him when she flung him aside. He landed hard, ten paces away, and for a moment Alassra thought she’d failed. Then Bro hauled himself to his feet and attacked again.

  “Be still!” she commanded, lofting another little crystal into the air. He froze and, like an unbalanced statue, toppled face-first to the ground. “You’re determined to make this difficult for both of us, aren’t you?”

  5

  The city of Bezantur, in Thay

  Mid-afternoon, the fourteenth day of Eleasias, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)

  The tide was out and a stiff wind, running ahead of a sea storm, swept over the harbor mud, absorbing scents of life and death. On land, smoke from countless ovens gave the wind texture, while sun-baked streets and fermenting middens added their offerings to the season known in Bezantur as Reeking Heat.

  Those who could flee the city had left a month ago; those who could not—the poor and the powerful—endured. A perverse few claimed preference for air with a life of its own, but most suffered the stifling, pungent breezes with little grace. Perfumers did better trade than food sellers as everyone created a private aura, using one favored scent against a myriad of others. In the end, stale perfume became the worst stench of all.

  The state room of the Black Citadel at Bezantur’s heart smelt as bad as the meanest alley. Aznar Thrul, Zulkir of Invocation and Tharchion of the Priador—the newest Thayan province of which ancient Bezantur had become the capital—fought Reeking Heat with incense cauldrons and fans: strategies Bezantines had long abandoned. Heavy smoke attracted other aromas, which the fans plastered over every surface. A decade into his tharchionate and Thrul’s laudatory murals were reduced to obscure blotches, and the ceiling was a greasy stain where swarms of insects made their homes.

  Thrul’s nature, infinitely adaptable in politics and deceit, did not allow him to admit an error in ordinary housekeeping. By his order, the cauldrons were kept full and cindering; the fans never stopped swaying. He surrounded himself with the most priceless perfume of all: crisp air invoked from a distant mountaintop. Clothed in heavy velvet, the Zulkir sat on his throne while sweating petitioners paraded before him.

  Sultry heat and foul air weren’t all that made the Bezantine petitioners uncomfortable. Life was dangerous for a Thayan zulkir who accumulated enemies as the ceiling above him accumulated flies, doubly dangerous for a zulkir who was also a territorial tharchion. Death threats were routine; some were serious. Thrul took no unnecessary chances: when petitioners came to the state room, they entered it naked.

  Conventional weapons were impossible to conceal, and it was a rare mage whose concentration was not addled by embarrassment. Shame was further compounded by the constant presence of the citadel’s legion of slaves. Never mind that the slaves were equally unclothed or that most of them were undead: They had eyes, they stared, and there was always the chance that they might recognize or remember.

  There were drawbacks: Unnerved petitioners were often incoherent. It took patience to understand their logic, and Aznar Thrul was not a patient man. He’d have foregone these bribe-heavy occasions entirely were it not useful, even in Thay, for a tharchion to hear the complaints of common folk at least once a season—or twice, in Reeking Heat.

  Thrul saw a score of petitioners before the storm swept in; twenty-three, if he counted the three who fainted between the door and the front of his chair. Once the storm arrived, thunder made it too difficult to hear, and wind whipping through the unshuttered windows blew embers from the incense cauldrons to the ceiling where the greasy soot caught fire.

  Lesser wizards levitated slaves with damp rags to beat out the blaze. Two slaves burned when the flames ignited their undead flesh. Another four were lost when the wizard who held them in the air was distracted by a particularly loud thunder blast. The confusion and cleanup delayed the zulkir’s dinner well into the evening. He was in a foul mood when his chamberlain appeared in the doorway.

  “Neema Gaz,” the blue-tattooed wizard announced. A ragged kilt hung around his waist, a mark of the favor he risked by interrupting Thrul as he ate. Warily, he placed a carnelian brooch on the table. “I do not know her, O Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir, but she had this.” He pointed at the brooch, the token of a wizard whose rank was considerably higher than his own. “She says she will not leave without seeing you, O Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir. I would dispose of her, but …” He shrugged. “If I failed, and she burst in here unannounced, you would be even more displeased.”

  The zulkir, still robed in velvet and surrounded by mountain air, set down his soup spoon with elegance and drama. He rolled his eyes in frustration or possibly the start of an invocation that would consign the chamberlain to the citadel’s legions of undead soldiers. The chamberlain, assuming the latter, folded his arms in prayer.

  Thrul chortled. He seized the brooch, breaking the wards around him. Candle flames flickered briefly in a cool breeze, then sultry calm was restored as the zulkir rubbed the dark red gemstone between his fingers.

  “Give her what she wants, then send her in … alone.”

  “O Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir, she wants—”

  “I know what she wants, lead-head. Assist her!”

  The chamberlain wisely foreswore further argument. Shortly thereafter—when the soup tureen had been carried away and the main course laid in its place—a woman entered the room … alone, according to the zulkir’s command.

  She was a tall human, slender but at least a decade past her prime. Sinuous tattoos in shades of blue and green wound from her scalp to her toes; weathered wrinkles cut across the tattoos, especially where she’d singed away her hair years earlier. Her breasts, visible beneath a loose gown of bleached gauze, had begun to wither—hardly the sort of companion Thrul chose w
hen companionship was on his mind, yet he poured a goblet of wine for her and pointed toward the wall where a three-legged stool waited for those privileged enough to sit in a zulkir and tharchion’s presence.

  Neema Gaz took the goblet, declined the stool.

  “I was not expecting you.”

  “I’d have failed you, my lord, if you were.”

  Thrul slid the brooch across the table. When she picked it up, the pocket of mountain air expanded to surround her as well. He watched her closely—he’d never honored her in this way before—but if she was surprised or flattered, he could not detect it. Then again, a spy-master whose thoughts could be read by an amateur wasn’t worth his gold. Thrul’s own thoughts were duly protected by his robe, which was constructed of spells and velvet. No one, not even the great Szass Tam himself, could probe his mind while he wore it.

  “If you have not failed me, then why have you come?”

  The spy master studied her brooch a moment before fastening it to her flimsy robe. “Messages, my lord, from the west. There was a problem.”

  She paused, met Thrul’s eyes, finding the precise balance between honesty and pride necessary to survive in the tight circle of associates around any zulkir or tharchion. Thrul lowered his gaze first; she continued.

  “A woman in Nethra. She let her guard down and drew unwanted attention, but everything’s been taken care of, my lord. There’ll be no repetition. The web wasn’t compromised.”

  “Why tell me of your mistakes, woman?” Thrul’s scowl took a cruel turn. “I’m not interested in mistakes.”

  “The woman was a fool, my lord, and we’re well rid of her, but she was looking under a very interesting rock when the Tall One interrupted her.”

  “Tall One? You mean the Aerasumé?” the zulkir’s tone was frigid. “What trade do the Aerasumé have in Nethra?”

  “That is not known, my lord. The Tall One took ship immediately after the incident. We looked for his associates but … My lord, pursuing one of them is hardly worth the risk. Whatever his reason for visiting Nethra, he’s gone now. I will tell you if he returns. That is not why I’ve come.”

  “Yes, and why, precisely, have you come?”

  “We are not the only fishers with a net to fling over Aglarond.”

  Aznar Thrul, who shaved his scalp and beard daily but left his eyebrows intact, raised both of them to astonished heights. “Who else? Allies? Enemies?” He paused after each question, but his spy master did not respond. “Zulkirs?” he asked finally. “Who? Toward what ends?”

  “Enchantment no longer relies on our advice. He’s put his own hand on the map.”

  “Lauzoril,” the zulkir drawled, wrapping his voice around the name as he considered his ally of convenience—inconvenience—against Szass Tam. The man gave lip service to the notions of Thay’s imperial destiny, but he was an opportunist, a coward in his gut, like so many enchanters. What Lauzoril knew of strategy and tactics could be written on the back of a woman’s hand, but he had a golden tongue. No gnolls and goblins, undead or unclever, for the Zulkir of Enchantment—the man could raise a human host and hold it together with words alone. He’d proved that last year in Gauros Gorge where he’d extracted his human legions safely from a battlefield rout and gained an undeserved reputation for martial genius. His popularity with the common folk—rare for a zulkir—made him useful … for now.

  “Enchantment is an ally, a friend. I’m sure his spy gave a good account.”

  “The bastard unstrung himself, my lord.”

  Thrul sucked his teeth. The minions of Enchantment were uncommonly good at dying with their secrets intact. A more suspicious man than Aznar Thrul—if such a man were ever born—might suspect their zulkir of practicing forbidden magic or a bit of treachery with Szass Tam. In which case, woe to Necromancy—and Lauzoril was still more useful alive than destroyed.

  “His schemes are known to us. Anyone else? My supper grows cold.”

  “Illusion has spies in Aglarond,” the spy master said abruptly. “Mythrell’aa of the Serpent Tower.”

  Thrul lost his appetite. Lady Illusion had dwelt in Bezantur longer than him, but hadn’t had the wit to leave when he claimed it. She’d locked herself in her obsidian tower and sealed the place with enough magic to make a god hesitate before knocking on her door.

  Publicly, Mythrell’aa claimed she was no one’s enemy, that Illusion had no ambition, and she wished only to follow her own path. Privately, Aznar Thrul knew her proclamations were trash. She’d declared for Szass Tam after last year’s Rashemen Gorge rout, then undeclared when Tam himself was defeated in the spring. He believed the first declaration, not the second. Thrul was certain Lady Illusion had made new promises to Szass Tam; he had more than one spy master reporting to him. He was almost certain the two were conspiring against him directly.

  Mythrell’aa wasn’t useful, not at all. Thrul wanted her dead—if he could be certain death wouldn’t simply make her even more dangerous. But …

  “Mythrell’aa? She’s got a grudge against the silver-eyed bitch, had it for years; no one knows why. But flinging out a net in greater Aglarond? That’s hardly Illusion’s style, woman, and you know it.” Then another thought raced through the zulkir’s mind. “Death’s door—she’s not spying on Aglarond, she’s spying on us! If she’s gotten wind of our web …”

  The spy master nodded sagely. “We cannot not rule that out, my lord. I have not.”

  Thrul wondered, Had he made the greatest mistake of his life when he trusted this woman? Should he slay her on the spot and eliminate the possibility? By design, they kept secrets from each other. Thrul had other spies, other spy masters; that was one of his secrets. What were hers? She wasn’t supposed to spy within Thay, especially within Bezantur, but she’d be a fool if she didn’t. She’d be a fool if she didn’t have eyes and ears within Serpent Tower—if she hadn’t at least tried to place a spy there. Thrul’s gods knew, Thrul himself had tried often enough. Was his spy master luckier? more skilled? Or a traitor? Did he dare trust her? Did he dare not?

  “My lord? You are distracted.”

  The zulkir shook his head and prepared a lie. “We have invested so much in this web. I would be grieved if Mythrell’aa had compromised it before it had truly begun to function.”

  “It is not compromised, my lord. Not at all. The woman we lost was in Nethra. She cannot be traced to us; that is the beauty of what we have created. And she’s already been replaced. Mythrell’aa’s web is in Aglarond proper, disguised as grain traders.”

  “Grain traders! Mythrell’aa?” Thrul snorted and took a drink from his goblet. “Surely, this is humor?”

  “They have been on the roads since the spring mud dried, my lord, visiting village after village. They have paid handsomely for grain they do not want … There will be havoc, my lord, when the real traders arrive. Towns and cities will have to pay more, or face revolt. It is a clever ploy, my lord—one we might consider using—but from Mythrell’aa, it is pure chance. Her minions aren’t looking for grain. We don’t know what it might be, my lord, but we suspect they may have found it in a small village near Mesring.”

  “So? Why tell me this? Why bother me, if you don’t have answers. What do I pay you for, woman? Questions? Suspicions?”

  The spy master squared her shoulders. She came from unquestionable Mulan stock and when she straightened her back she towered over the seated zulkir. “My suspicions are answers, my lord. They are the currency of my trade. If they no longer satisfy you …”

  Thrul met her eyes, weighed his options, and poured more wine for them both. “Tell me your suspicions, woman. My curiosity can be contained no longer.”

  “This morning I learned that there are three wizards in that village, my lord, and three more outside it. The ones inside are of no account, but the others were recognizable. She’s sent three of her best, my lord. Any one of them could turn that village into a memory, but she sent three—”

  “Why? What could attract her? W
ho cares …?” Thrul’s voice trailed. He answered his own question: “The damned queen!” He cursed softly. “A trap to snare the queen in her own backyard. What if she succeeds?”

  The spy master grinned. “No one will know it was her, my lord. Our own wizards have surrounded the village and the illusionists. They won’t make the first move, but they’ll make the last.”

  The zulkir saluted his spy master with his goblet. “A rival, an enemy, and no risk to us, no matter what—correct?”

  “Correct, my lord. If Mythrell’aa fails, you will be there to humiliate her. If she wins, you, my lord, will be the first to claim Aglarond for Thay.”

  “The rewards are indeed incalculable.” Thrul set down his goblet. “What part of them will you claim for yourself, woman?”

  “Who am I, my lord, but your spy master? Will you need me any less tomorrow than you need me today? I want nothing I do not already have—”

  “Wisely said, wo—”

  “But I need gold, my lord.”

  “Debts?” Thrul asked eagerly, thinking he’d discovered her weakness.

  “Replacements, my lord. Mythrell’aa is a fool, but there will be casualties. Faces will have been seen and must, therefore, be eliminated. The entire web will have to be realigned, holes will need filling—six of them, I think. Not for Aglarond, my lord; that’s no place for raw recruits. I send veterans to Aglarond, my lord, but I … we protect them.”

  The spy master had researched the spells that concealed their spies from the closest scrutiny, but the casting was beyond her. Not beyond a zulkir, of course. He set the spell in an oily potion that she delivered to her chosen agents. He added a few reagents, a few hidden consequences that she didn’t know about. It was a fair trade, for Thay.