“You don’t know?”
Marek started to consider which of the defensive spells in his repertoire to cast first.
Insithryllax said, “We’ll turn at the next alley.”
Marek sneaked a glance at the man, who smiled at them as if about to call out a friendly hello. Then the beggar spun and dived for the corner of a building.
“Insith—” was all Marek got out before the force of the explosion took all the air from his lungs.
He snapped his eyes shut, but still the light was so bright it burned arcs of violet smears across his vision. His feet came up off the ground and he could feel Insithryllax embrace him roughly. The two of them flew through the air—Marek couldn’t tell how high or how far. What felt like glass and nails rained all around him, hitting him from all sides at once. They hit the rough cobblestones and Marek’s head bounced on the pavement. Insithryllax fell on top of him, and if Marek had had a breath left in his lungs the impact would have knocked it out. All around them was a stifling heat that Marek knew should have roasted him.
The fire around them burned itself out in the space of a heartbeat and despite the sound of glass falling all around them, Marek opened his eyes.
The dragon stepped back away from him. Marek saw scales shining like black patent leather in the smoke-diffused sunlight.
“Insithryllax, no—” Marek coughed out.
“Die Thayan!” a wild voice shrieked amid the coughs and sobs of people who’d been caught on the edge of the blast. “Die Red—”
Insithryllax growled, and it was a great wyrm’s voice. Marek grabbed his bulging, expanding arm, and squeezed.
“Insithryllax,” he said, his voice stern and commanding, despite the fact that he was struggling to stand. He was scorched and literally smoking. Broken glass and splinters adorned his torn robe. He looked a fright. “Insithryllax. Do not reveal yourself, my friend.”
“Hold!” a gruff voice shouted from somewhere down the street.
Insithryllax’s arm shrank back to its human size and he ran after the blond man.
Marek rubbed the dust from his eyes with the back of his hand and finally got a view of the street corner. The building they’d been passing was vacant, and Marek thought he should remember what used to be there, but he couldn’t just then. The blond man ran down the cross street, three city watchmen following close on his heels. The strange beggar ran with a bit of a limp—he might even just then have caught a piece of glass in the leg—so the watchmen easily ran him to ground.
“Death to foreign—” the blond beggar screamed before he was punched into reeling silence by one of the watchmen.
Insithryllax approached more slowly while the watchmen subdued then shackled the delirious beggar.
Marek caught up to the dragon with some difficulty and told him, “You’d best be on your way, old friend. People might have seen you.”
They both looked around, but no one seemed to be too interested in Insithryllax. Those who weren’t concerned with their own minor injuries—surprisingly enough Marek saw only the odd scrape and bruise—watched as the beggar was dragged to his feet, his wrists and ankles in chains.
“Don’t be long,” Insithryllax said, then he slipped into an alley and was gone.
The watchmen dragged the weakly struggling man with them.
“Guards,” Marek said, then had to stop to cough.
“Master Rymüt,” one of the watchmen said.
Marek met the blond man’s gaze. Blood oozed from his nose and he appeared on the verge of passing out, but he looked Marek in the eye.
“Thayan …” the man moaned. The way he said it, the word sounded like an accusation.
“Do you know this man?” the watchman asked Marek.
“No,” Marek replied, but there was something vaguely familiar about the beggar’s face. He looked at the would-be assassin and asked, “Who are you? What is your name, boy?”
“Sur …” the blond man said. “My name is Surero. The name of your assassin.”
Marek sighed. He couldn’t place the name. The man went limp in the guards’ arms.
“Why was he trying to murder you, Master Rymüt?” the lead watchman asked.
Marek shrugged and said, “I couldn’t possibly guess. It’s outrageous, really.”
“Well,” the watchman said with a sneer of contempt for the unconscious assassin, “he’ll swing for sure. Don’t you worry about a thing, now.”
“No,” Marek said, taking all three watchmen and no few bystanders by surprise. “No, he didn’t kill me, after all. There’s no reason to kill him. This man obviously has had some difficult times of late. If he caused that explosion to kill me, who has never done anything but help the good people of my adoptive city, well … lock him up, for his own safety at least, but see that he doesn’t hang.”
Marek sifted through his purse and drew out three platinum pieces. He handed them over to the lead watchman and said, “For you and your men, for the service you provide us all.”
The watchmen all looked as if they could have been knocked over with a feather, but they took Marek’s coin—as much as they’d see in months from their paltry salaries.
“Why did he do it?” the watchman asked as his comrades dragged the man off to the ransar’s dungeon.
Marek could think of a dozen reasons even though he couldn’t remember who the man was, exactly. If the would-be assassin was summarily executed, Marek might never know who he was and why he’d acted so boldly.
The watchman still expected an answer, though, so Marek said, “Difficult times, Constable. Difficult times.”
70
6 Uktar, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)
SECOND QUARTER, INNARLITH
While the warm autumn rain drenched the city of Innarlith, Marek Rymüt finally met Willem Korvan. Marek had heard his name, and even seen him from afar, on a number of occasions. He knew, too, that Willem had been seeing his niece Halina. He knew, in fact, what inns they frequented and when. Marek could call to mind specific details of the young Cormyrean’s career, from the moment he came to Innarlith in the employ of the master builder—an important professional acquaintance of Marek’s—through the rumors of Willem’s having murdered the old senator Khonsu and through to his ascension to the senate in the debt of Meykhati.
“You’ve been avoiding me, haven’t you?” Marek asked, a sly grin splitting his face.
Willem squirmed in his chair, his eyes darting to Meykhati, who was the only other person at the small table in their private room at the Peacock Resplendent. Marek enjoyed watching the junior senator’s discomfiture almost as much as he enjoyed watching the junior senator himself. The Cormyrean was a beautiful, almost perfect specimen. The structure of his face was worthy of sonnets, his broad shoulders enough to murder for.
“M-Master Rymüt,” Willem stammered, his lovely face turning red. “Sir, please forgive me if I’ve given you that impression.”
“Oh, you’re forgiven,” Marek replied with the same sly grin.
Willem’s eyes moved around the room, settling on nothing and doing everything he could to avoid looking at Marek.
“You have been avoiding him, haven’t you, Willem?” Meykhati said, his eyes flicking to meet Marek’s.
Willem sighed and his squirming turned into a sort of agonized writhing.
“Do tell,” Marek teased.
“I, um …” Willem muttered, looking at Meykhati with such desperate, powerless pleading that Marek started squirming too, but for very different reasons.
“Perhaps it’s his chivalrous Cormyrean ways,” Meykhati explained, “but Willem here was concerned that he meet you only after he had achieved a certain position in the city-state.”
Marek smiled and nodded, hoping his expression would help the junior senator relax at least a little. It appeared to help.
“Well, then,” the Red Wizard said, “now you’re a senator, and I can’t imagine you hoped for more than that.”
“No,” Wi
llem answered, the blush fading from his cheeks. “No, sir, I couldn’t possibly.”
“I must be honest with you, Willem,” said Marek. “I’ve been curious as to why our paths haven’t crossed until now. We have so many friends in common, I thought there must be a reason. Now that I have that reason, all is forgiven.”
Willem blushed again, but not as badly, and nodded.
“Was there something you wished to discuss with me?” Marek prompted. He enjoyed the young man’s company but had business to attend to in the Land of One Hundred and Thirteen. “Perhaps you’ve come to ask for my niece’s hand in marriage?”
Marek chuckled at the look of mute shock that exploded from Willem’s face.
“I think that’s lovely,” Marek went on, his heart not allowing him to torment the young man too much. “She’s a terribly lovely, lovely girl and I would imagine your children will be equally lovely, if not even more lovely. We’ll plan a lovely wedding and invite everyone who’s anyone in Innarlith.”
Meykhati struggled not to laugh every time Marek said “lovely,” which was why he said it so much. Willem appeared more and more distressed. Marek had seen condemned men with the same expression as the magistrate described the time and manner of their deaths.
Beshaba preserve us, Marek thought. I’m going to enjoy him!
“Thank you, Master Rymüt,” Willem mumbled, eyes glued to the tabletop.
“Oh, no, Willem,” Marek said, putting a gentle hand on the Cormyrean’s strong forearm, “we’re to be family. I insist you call me Marek. Or would you prefer Uncle?”
Willem snatched his arm away, which made Meykhati laugh again.
“I imagine that you’ll be ending things with the master builder’s daughter,” Marek said, only slowly withdrawing his own hand. Willem’s face went from red to white. “A man in your position has to learn where to go for his dalliances. You certainly don’t play up, as it were.”
The look on Willem’s face was priceless. It was plain that he wasn’t sure what Marek meant by “play up,” but he’d get it soon enough. It was Marek’s way of telling Willem that, at least in the Thayan’s mind, Phyrea was Halina’s better, and she was, after all.
“I have every confidence that Willem will do anything to avoid embarrassing either of us or himself,” Meykhati said.
“She’s a charming young thing, though, isn’t she?” Marek prodded. “Phyrea, I mean. Why, in another life, I might have … Well, in another life.”
“Y-you …” Willem stammered. “You know Phyrea?”
Meykhati looked at Willem with disappointment, but the younger man didn’t notice.
“Oh, I’ve known her family for years,” Marek replied. “Even then, well … everyone knows Phyrea, if you know what I mean.”
Willem’s expression was plain. He didn’t know what Marek meant, but he was nervous just the same.
“I haven’t seen her in months,” Willem said. “She left the city. She’s gone to live in the country.”
“Not any more,” Marek was pleased to inform him. “She’s been back for some time. Apparently, the fresh air sufficed to rejuvenate her spirit. Anyway, she seems different somehow. Perhaps she’s simply maturing … growing out of certain things, and so on.”
Willem wore his emotions so plainly on his face Marek would have been embarrassed for him if he hadn’t been having so much fun.
“She’s …?”
They looked up when someone walked into the room, surprised that the privacy they’d paid so dearly for had been interrupted. Marek relaxed when he saw that it was Nyla. He’d almost forgotten that she had been included in the invitation. Apparently, Meykhati was tiring of showing his new boy off to the right people one at a time and was wrapping things up faster.
“Nyla, darling,” Marek said as he stood.
The other two men stood too, as was customary when a lady entered a room, though at least Marek and Meykhati knew that Nyla was no lady. Marek grinned and they embraced. The woman’s eye patch tickled his face. Meykhati didn’t touch her, but they nodded at each other. She didn’t appear to notice Willem at all at first.
Meykhati made the introductions, and Marek could feel the woman begin to take Willem in. Though she was years his senior, the look in her one eye, the purse of her lips, and the twist of her hips on her chair made it clear that she saw all the things in Willem that Marek had seen.
“So, Senator Nyla,” Marek said, “your trade is well, I hope?”
Nyla grimaced at him. She had taken complete control of prostitution throughout the city years ago and had made herself one of the wealthiest women in Innarlith. Though everyone knew how she made the coin that bought her seat on the senate, and almost every other senator availed himself of her services from time to time, there was an unspoken agreement on the part of all the aristocracy not to address it. Profit from it, live it, but for goodness’s sake, don’t talk about it. Marek adored that sort of genteel hypocrisy.
“Fine,” Nyla answered. She brushed an errant strand of hair off her eye patch. “And you, Master Rymüt? It’s been over a month, but you seem no worse off for very nearly being blown back to Bezantur.”
Marek laughed and said, “Oh, no, it wasn’t nearly that bad, my dear. A half-hearted attempt by a poor, lonely, misguided, unfortunate soul. Seems he was miffed with me for having assumed some of his clients some months back. He’s a kind of journeyman alchemist, I’ve been told. Not a good one, but good enough to make loud noises and upset a fine afternoon’s walk. Anyway, I’m from the city of Nethjet.”
They stared at each other for a moment that Marek was sure was uncomfortable for Meykhati and Willem.
“Well,” Nyla said at last, “I’m glad you’re well. I can’t say I remember hearing, though … has the assassin been executed yet? I was told there was some kind of complication?”
“No, the would-be assassin is quite alive,” Marek said. “In fact I’ve recently petitioned the ransar for his release.”
The three senators looked at him with mouths agape. That reaction alone was worth the effort to effect Surero’s parole.
“Really, senators,” he said. “Don’t be bloodthirsty.”
“He tried to kill you, Marek,” Meykhati said.
The Red Wizard shrugged and sat back in his chair.
Meykhati started in on a diatribe about the ingratitude of the masses, but Marek didn’t pay any attention.
71
4 Nightal, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)
SECOND QUARTER, INNARLITH
Willem stared at the tea in his cup, his head bent down, his shoulders stiff, his back aching. He tried to listen to Halina’s uncle prattle on about the responsibility of the aristocracy and the ascendancy of the masses, but all he wanted was to go home and sleep.
Halina reached out for his hand and he held hers. Her skin was soft and warm, but the touch brought a heaviness to his chest.
“Are you feeling all right, Willem?” she asked. Only then did he realize that Marek had stopped speaking.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I think I’m still exhausted from the move.”
“I’ve heard,” Marek said. “Shepherd’s Stride, isn’t it?”
Willem nodded. Shepherd’s Stride was one of the Second Quarter’s best addresses. The house was magnificent and would indebt him to Meykhati for years more—decades.
“It’s a lovely home,” Halina said.
A strange twinkle passed through Marek’s eyes when she said that, and Halina looked away from her uncle, confused and embarrassed. The heaviness in Willem’s chest grew worse.
They sat in a small parlor in the Thayans’ Second Quarter manor, sipping tea with the pretense of discussing wedding arrangements. Willem had worked harder than he had at anything in his life to change the subject and was both relieved and ashamed at having succeeded.
“I understand you live with your mother,” Marek said.
“She lives with me,” Willem retorted. He stopped and took a shallow breath.
“Of course she does,” the Thayan wizard acquiesced. “That’s generous of you. I assume there’s a brother to look after your holdings in Cormyr?”
Willem didn’t know what to say, so he took a sip of tea. It was a bitter black Thayan blend he practically had to choke down. There was no one left in Cormyr. They had no holdings. All the Korvan family—a family consisting only of he and his mother—owned was a debt to Meykhati, and he couldn’t help but think Marek Rymüt knew that.
“An uncle, then,” Marek persisted. “It’s always convenient having a wealthy uncle to look after you, isn’t it? Halina can tell you all about that. Can’t you, dear?”
Halina wouldn’t look at him. She blushed and wrapped herself in her own arms, taking her hand back from Willem. He wanted to embrace her and drag her out of there. He didn’t even understand why, but the urge to rescue her from her uncle’s house was nearly overpowering.
“Halina?” Marek pressed.
“Yes, Uncle,” she said in a voice so small it was barely audible.
“Perhaps there is no uncle or brother left in … where was it?” Marek went on.
“Marsember,” Willem said.
“You do have a reputation of being a self-made man,” the wizard said. “Is that true, Willem? Are you a self-made man?”
“I like to think so, Master Rymüt.”
“I told you to call me Marek.”
Willem met his eyes but immediately wilted away.
“Marek, yes,” he said. “I … I apologize.”
Willem looked at Halina, hoping she would say something to transition them out of the uncomfortable silence that followed. She only sat there as if made of slowly melting wax.
“Well, then, I’m sure my niece will benefit greatly from your ambition,” Marek said, “just as she’s benefited from mine.”
Willem nodded and was ashamed for having done so.
“I understand you came to Innarlith with another of your countrymen,” Marek went on. “A shipbuilder, I think, by the name of Devorast?”
Willem’s eyes narrowed. The sound of that name pronounced with a Thayan accent was somehow inappropriate. He hadn’t heard the name in a while.
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