Whisper of Waves

by Philip Athans

  “How do you know?” Willem demanded, his voice still barely more than a whisper.

  “How do I know?” Khonsu replied, crying. “Because it used to be me.”

  Willem looked as deeply into the old man’s eyes as he could in an effort to pry the truth of his words from his very skull.

  “Meykhati …” Willem whispered.

  Khonsu nodded, then turned his head to one side and whispered through the quivering spasm of a sob, “Make it quick, boy.”

  Willem looked at the shuddering old man, the once great senator, the once influential leader, and saw only garbage, the refuse of a life.

  “Such a waste,” Willem breathed.

  “Quick, boy,” the old man pleaded.

  “No,” Willem whispered, clasping his hand over Khonsu’s mouth again. “No, Khonsu, you quivering worm. I’m no boy, and neither of us deserves a quick death.”

  Khonsu’s eyes went wide, pleading again.

  Willem pressed with the knife and it hesitated, stretching the old man’s papery skin, but not too far, before it popped in. The old man jumped and bucked on the floor, but he was so old, so light, and so weak, it did nothing but make the knife wound a little deeper, a little more jagged, and quite a bit more painful. Willem kept pressing until the blade stopped on a bone—a rib, maybe, or the old man’s pelvis—then he twisted his wrist and pulled the knife across Khonsu’s gut.

  Willem was surprised by how hot the old man’s blood was. He expected Khonsu to be as cold and shriveled on the inside as he was on the outside, but the blood burned him.

  “Please …” the old man gasped through a mouthful of blood, and the next attempt at speech rattled and gurgled in his throat.

  Willem didn’t remember taking his hand off the old man’s mouth.

  Khonsu’s hands worked at him, brittle fingernails snapping against the younger man’s hard, straining muscles.

  Willem moved the knife across again, tearing muscle, slicing flesh, destroying kidney, liver, spleen, stomach, and lung.

  “Die,” Willem hissed, his voice like a snake’s, alien to himself. “Die.”

  Senator Khonsu’s trembling stopped one limb at a time. A grasping hand fell away, one leg stopped kicking, the other hand dropped, then the other leg fell still.

  Willem worked the knife one more time and the blood oozed and pooled instead of pumping.

  “For you, Phyrea,” Willem whispered at the corpse of the first man he’d ever killed. “For you, Mother.”

  He wouldn’t say Halina’s name, though. He couldn’t.

  52

  Greengrass, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)

  SECOND QUARTER, INNARLITH

  It’s quite something to be buried on Greengrass, isn’t it?” Meykhati asked.

  “It’s poetic,” his wife concurred. “More so than the old goat deserved.”

  Willem spent as much time as possible for the past nine days in the presence of Meykhati. The senator’s salon had begun to meet more often, very nearly every night, and Willem became a permanent fixture. He had the feeling that everyone knew he’d killed Khonsu, but no one said it. The moment the old man’s body was found they’d all started treating him differently.

  They’d started treating him better.

  “It’s a lovely tribute,” Willem said.

  Meykhati leered at him but Willem tried not to notice. He watched the funeral procession march ever so slowly down Ransar’s Ride, the wide thoroughfare that cut Innarlith in half from the east gate to the harbor. The normal traffic of merchant’s carts, wealthy citizens’ carriages, and the ever-present foot traffic of peasants and aristocrats alike had been pushed to the side by city watchmen. The guards all looked hot, tired, and bored, but they had been paid by Khonsu’s estate, so they did their jobs and the procession soldiered on.

  A few senators, merchants, and other wealthy and powerful folk—most of them old enough to be Willem’s grandparents—strolled along behind the procession, following the hearse out the east gate to a cemetery outside the walls.

  “Please tell me we don’t have to watch him dropped in his hole,” Salatis huffed.

  Willem glanced at the senator and was surprised again by his height. He stood closer to seven feet than six, thin but not gaunt, with a dusting of gray hair to complement his already distinguished Chondathan features. Willem found him intimidating, and not only because of his height, but because Meykhati and the others seemed to fear him as well.

  “No, no,” Meykhati said, “I doubt that’ll be necessary, though perhaps you should put in an appearance, dear.”

  He took his wife by the arm and with a pained sigh she said, “Oh, no, really?”

  “Don’t you think?” Meykhati said, giving her a look that made it obvious he wanted her to step away for reasons other than protocol.

  “Ah, well, the Weeping Widow’s Club for me, then,” she acquiesced. “Don’t wait up.”

  They kissed the air between them and she whirled away in a cloud of Shou silk and Waterdhavian rose oil.

  Willem looked around at the senators who surrounded him, waiting for his own cue to leave. Instead, Meykhati leaned in close and nodded at the door of an inn.

  The Peacock Resplendent was a sprawling complex of buildings that was something of a gateway to the Second Quarter, located as it was on Ransar’s Ride, in the shadow of the Palace of Many Spires. He had dined there before, always in the company of the master builder, and had never failed to notice at least half a dozen senators in attendance at any one time.

  They entered like a conquering general and his entourage, though Willem wasn’t too sure which of the senators was the general.

  Meykhati was a sort of social leader, regaling them all with his constant review of the arts and fashion and the latest gossip and news from across Toril. Salatis was their spiritual leader, always talking about the gods, though Willem couldn’t remember which deity the tall, serious man gave his fealty to. Horemkensi was always content to follow. Asheru was a wizard of some reputation. The laconic man’s power to cast spells always made Willem uneasy, even though Asheru rarely spoke to him. The master builder was there, of course, but appeared content to let Meykhati speak.

  Still, Willem caught the odd glance from Inthelph. The master builder had a thin smile on his face, one that made it appear as if he knew something Willem didn’t, and it was something Willem was going to be very happy about. Willem couldn’t help thinking it had something to do with Phyrea.

  “This way,” Meykhati said, and only then did Willem notice that they’d left the staff of the inn behind and the senator was showing them into a private chamber well away from the finely appointed common room.

  They took their seats around a huge round table by the light of as many as a hundred candelabras. There were no windows in the low ceilinged room, and it was Meykhati, not a serving wench, who poured wine from a graceful crystal decanter into glasses that had been set out on the table. The innkeeper had been expecting them.

  Willem’s heart began to race. He sat, and when his palms touched the tabletop they left little ghost prints on the polished wood that quickly evaporated. He folded his hands together to stop them from shaking.

  “So, Willem,” Meykhati began, and Willem had to suppress the urge to stand up and flee, “you know everyone here, and everyone here knows you. Tell me, then, what is the only thing that’s different about you?”

  Willem couldn’t make himself comprehend the question.

  “How are you different, my boy?” Inthelph prompted.

  “From us?”

  “You are …” Willem chanced. “You all sit on the Senate of Innarlith?”

  “That’s right,” Meykhati said with a broad, toothy grin. “We are all senators, and you are not, but that is an imbalance that shall be corrected in due course.”

  Willem smiled. He was relieved, surprised, frightened, nervous … all that and more at once.

  “There are details, of course,” Meykhati went on, “but nothi
ng that can’t be settled. I should think that you’ll have your seat by the fall.”

  Willem’s head filled with one question after another.

  “Congratulations, my boy,” Inthelph said.

  “Yes, indeed,” Horemkensi all but shouted. “Hear hear!”

  Salatis and Asheru tipped their wineglasses at him but remained silent.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Willem said. “Thank you, of course. Thank you all.” He glanced at Inthelph, but kept his attention on Meykhati. “Your vote of confidence is flattering beyond description, but there are matters … I don’t quite know how to …”

  “Matters of finance?” Meykhati asked.

  “Yes, Senator,” Willem replied, looking down at the table in front of him.

  “It’s all well and good that we want you on the senate, but there’s the pesky matter of the thousands and thousands and thousands of gold that a seat sells for, no?” Meykhati said.

  Willem could only nod. He had spent every copper he had on that ridiculous sculpture for Phyrea and had had to borrow just to run his house.

  “We’re aware of your difficulties in that regard, Korvan,” Salatis said, “and we’re prepared to see you clear.”

  “See me …?” Willem started.

  “I would hate to see the senate lose a man like you,” Inthelph cut in, “over my daughter’s affections.”

  “Your—?” Willem started again.

  “We’ve all been young, Willem,” said Meykhati, “and we’ve all been in love with a girl. It’s a good match, and I hope your forty-five thousand wins her for you, though I can imagine the master builder spends that every month to keep her in the style to which she’s grown accustomed.”

  He sent a wry wink Inthelph’s way and the master builder returned it with a smile and a tip of his glass.

  “She’s gone off to the country estate for the summer,” Inthelph said. “You’ll be able to concentrate on important business at hand, then in the fall, perhaps, another ceremony.”

  Willem’s mouth went dry. He opened it to speak, but nothing came out.

  Meykhati laughed and said, “Has she run out on you, Willem?”

  “No!” Willem blurted, then blushed. He added more calmly, “She informed me of her intention to take some time in the country air. I thought it would be good for her.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sure it will be,” said Meykhati, “but back to the matter at hand. We’ll buy you your seat, Willem.”

  “We?” Willem had to ask.

  “The five of us,” Salatis answered.

  “But I …” Willem stammered. “I-I mean, I couldn’t possibly …”

  “Oh, stop it, young man,” Asheru said. The wizard’s forehead was wrinkled in irritation, and for a moment Willem feared for his life. “Dispense with the ‘I couldn’t possiblies’ and ‘but I’m not worthies.’ We’re not philanthropists, we’re investors.”

  Willem did understand, and he did think himself worthy, so he took Asheru’s advice and kept his mouth closed.

  “In return for your seat on the senate,” Meykhati said, after shooting an irritated glance at Asheru, “we will expect your first five years’ votes.”

  Willem looked at him and their eyes locked. Meykhati looked strange, like a different man entirely, he was so serious, but Willem didn’t need to consider the bargain. He likely would have voted with Meykhati and the master builder anyway. If they were going to elevate him to the aristocracy, make his entire life different, realize all his greatest dreams for him, and do it in a few months’ time with but a wave of their hands and a scattering of coins, well, the least he could do was vote the way they wished for five years.

  Willem stood, raised his glass, and said, “It will be an honor to serve with you, gentlemen. You have my eternal gratitude.”

  “Your gratitude for five years will suffice, Senator Willem Korvan,” Meykhati said.

  While the five senators returned his toast, Willem let those three words repeat over and over in his mind:

  Senator Willem Korvan.

  53

  16 Kythorn, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)

  THE LAND OF ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN

  Nine black firedrakes flew in a V formation, the biggest male in the lead. Marek used an instrument of his own design to check their spacing. They were within two inches of flying perfectly one foot apart.

  Marek giggled and checked again—exactly a foot.

  “Impressive,” Insithryllax said. “They’re progressing well.”

  The dragon stood on the hill next to him in his natural form. The great bulk of the wyrm towered over the Red Wizard. Marek could feel Insithryllax’s breathing like an intermittent breeze.

  “They are, aren’t they?” Marek replied.

  The firedrake on the far left of the formation swerved off and dived, then the next one in line followed, and so on until the whole formation had turned and headed straight for the rocky landscape of Marek’s pocket dimension. The target was one of the big, ugly grubs.

  “They’re going too fast,” Insithryllax observed, but Marek wasn’t sure he was right. “They won’t be able to pull up.”

  Marek craned his neck to see around a huge promontory of gray-black stone.

  “There!” he said.

  Nine more black firedrakes, also in a V formation, skimmed six feet off the ground, following the contours of the terrain. They flew even faster than the group that was diving, their wings beating so furiously they were nothing but blurs in the air around their lithe bodies. Marek could see by the roll of their eyes that their attention was on the ground most of the time, their gaze flicking at the grubs for just a fraction of a second to keep them on target.

  But they never looked up.

  “Ah …” the black dragon breathed.

  The diving firedrakes fell on the second formation with fang-lined jaws agape.

  One of them missed and hit the hard ground headfirst so fast its neck snapped like a twig and it died quivering a heartbeat later. The other eight found their targets, latching onto whatever piece of the other firedrakes they could get their teeth on—wings, necks, heads, legs—and instead of crashing, they rode along with their fellows. They all veered off course and the one firedrake that was alone dipped and swerved, confused by the sudden disarray of their once-precise formation. One pair hit the ground and skidded to a stop, snapping at each other all the while. The rest eventually broke apart and went their separate ways, roaring and hissing at each other in the air while trying their damnedest to get back into their groups and go back after the grub.

  “Wonderful!” Marek shouted above the din of wing beats, roars, and the whistle of serpentine bodies knifing through the air.

  “They weren’t going for the grub,” Insithryllax said. “They were going for the other firedrakes. They’re starting to think like warriors.”

  “Warriors … yes,” Marek whispered,

  The two groups of black firedrakes split off from each other and whirled higher and higher into the air, forming back into groups, responding to the shrieking calls of their leaders, the two biggest firedrakes.

  “Quite something,” Insithryllax said. “You can be very proud.”

  Marek shrugged off the sarcasm in the black dragon’s voice.

  “Do you mean for them to do this sort of thing in a human city?” the wyrm asked.

  “No …” Marek said, thinking as he spoke. “I suppose that would be a bit less than subtle. Perhaps …”

  The dragon laughed. Marek could feel the sound as a vibration in the ground under his feet.

  “You’re thinking again,” the dragon joked. “I can smell the smoke.”

  “Amusing,” Marek allowed, “but you’re right. They’re fierce, and they’re getting smarter and more organized, but they’re … unsubtle.”

  Marek watched the black firedrakes circle each other in the sky. One group started sending a single individual at the grub while the rest fended off attacks from the other group. Th
en his attention was drawn to some kind of disturbance next to him, a flutter in the air, and he looked over to see Insithryllax standing next to him in his dusky, handsome human form.

  Human form, Marek thought.

  “What is it?” Insithryllax asked. “We are still going to Innarlith tonight, aren’t we? I tire of this place.”

  “Yes,” Marek said, feeling a wide grin split his face. “Yes, my friend. We’re going to Innarlith.”

  The Red Wizard laughed as one of the black firedrakes finally managed to sink its teeth into the wriggling giant grub and bear it aloft to the triumphant roars of its teammates and the angry shrieks of the rest of them.

  “Perhaps not so many parties for a few tendays or so, though,” Marek said. “I have some work to do.”

  54

  22 Kythorn, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)

  FIRST QUARTER, INNARLITH

  It’s beautiful,” Willem whispered.

  He couldn’t make his voice go any louder. His throat and jaw tightened.

  He’d picked up the sheet of parchment at first, but as the lines coalesced on the page and revealed themselves in detail he finally had to set the drawing down on the table and take half a step back away from it. He couldn’t bring himself to touch it for the longest time.

  Ivar Devorast sat behind him, not speaking, breathing quietly.

  “You’ve thought of everything,” Willem said, his eyes still playing over the page.

  Devorast didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to.

  He had thought of everything. The spire was drawn in excruciating detail, from the very tip of the snowflake-lace finial down the crocket-edged flèche to the hexagonal foundation base. It was magnificent—so extraordinary Willem doubted if any human hands could actually build it.

  “I wonder, Ivar,” he said, “if there’s anything you can’t do.”

  “Of course there is,” Devorast replied, “but what I care to do, I insist on doing well.”