“No,” Fharaud rasped. “No, Pristoleph … you will fight him. You will have to fight him in the end, I think. I think I saw that, and I think it’s the most important. The rest, you will …”
Fharaud didn’t know how to finish it, and in that moment just before he drew his last breath, he finally decided that he should speak no more. No man should know his future in so much detail. He should discover his own fate on his own, shouldn’t he?
He could see, and he could see Devorast’s face and eyes. Devorast didn’t believe him anyway. He wouldn’t listen. He would do everything he’s done, feeding him, bathing him, visiting him every day, but he would not listen.
“You don’t have to,” Fharaud whispered.
He tried to breathe in, but couldn’t. Devorast saw his distress and leaned closer, concern plain on his face. Concern, but not fear.
“Fharaud?” he said. “Can you-?”
Devorast stopped talking and their eyes met-truly met in a moment of understanding. Fharaud felt Devorast’s hand in his and marveled at the simple sensation. He could feel. He couldn’t breathe, but he could feel.
His heart skipped a beat-was that panic?
If it was it was as fleeting as half a heartbeat, then Fharaud was at peace.
“Good-bye, my friend,” Devorast whispered.
Fharaud wished he could say good-bye too, but he couldn’t, and Devorast would understand. He tried to keep his eyes open as long as he could, but in due course the room went dark.
The last connection with the material world that Fharaud experienced was Devorast’s last whisper, “Rest well, Fharaud. Rest well.”
And he was gone.
50
17 Tarsakh, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)
SECOND QUARTER, INNARLITH
The sculpture was called “Small Evil Deity Crouches in the Running Stream, Mindful of Its Breathing.” To Willem it looked like a twisted bit of metal fastened to a plank of polished cherry wood. He didn’t know much of the blacksmith’s art but could imagine that its graceful curves might have been difficult to fashion had the metal-it looked like iron-started out straight. Still, he had the sneaking suspicion it had been formed by accident, perhaps as a result of a foundry spill or other minor mishap.
“It’s extraordinary,” Phyrea said.
She stared at it with her deep, penetrating gaze. His attention drawn to her, Willem could no longer see the sculpture.
“It is you who are extraordinary, Phyrea,” Willem said, but the girl didn’t hear him.
At the same time Willem had spoken, the gallery owner’s too-loud, too-gregarious voice boomed, “It’s come all the way from exotic Kozakura to delight the lady’s eye, and we can only hope, fill her home with its subtle beauty for decades to come.”
Phyrea smiled and gushed, exploding in a girlish way that seemed unlike her.
“Oh, Luthness,” she said, “I adore it. I simply adore it. Your taste is impeccable.”
“I shall buy it for you,” Willem said, and still neither of them heard.
“Phyrea, my love,” the gallery owner, Luthness, gushed in return, “do tell me you came with your father.”
“No,” Phyrea said with a disingenuous pout. “I can’t drag him to anything of real culture, the old boar.”
“Really, darling,” Luthness cackled, leaning in close and winking, taking Phyrea by the hand. “You’re so bad it’s positively-”
“I’ll buy it,” Willem repeated, in a voice so loud it stopped not only the sycophantic art dealer but Phyrea and half the wall-to-wall crowd that had come to the gallery opening in their tracks. Willem cleared his throat and added, “For the lady.”
After a moment of shock, Luthness beamed again, dropped Phyrea’s hand, and groped after Willem’s. Willem backed away, not intentionally trying to insult the man, but not wanting to hold his hand either.
“Outstanding, my dear sir, outstanding!” Luthness went on. “A man of such taste. Such taste!”
“Really, Willem,” Phyrea said, and Willem thought she looked and sounded sincerely surprised. “That’s not necessary.”
“Oh, but it is,” Luthness cut in, defending his sale. “A woman of your beauty and taste should have a hundred eager suitors filling your life with gifts of beauty and value!”
“How much is it?” Willem asked.
“Ah, right to the business at hand, then,” Luthness replied with a wink. “All the way from far, far Kozakura, crafted by Akira Tanaka, the finest sculptor of his ancient culture, and steeped in the traditions of the Celestial Ea-”
“Tell him,” Phyrea interrupted.
Luthness appeared all too happy for the interruption, offered Phyrea a conspiratorial wink, leaned in close to Willem, and whispered, “Forty-five thousand, sir.”
Willem blinked. He tried but couldn’t stop blinking. He began to sweat.
“Really, Willem,” Phyrea said, her voice going cold. “You don’t have that kind of gold. Stop being silly.”
“My good sir,” Luthness said. “Was it something I said?”
“Forty-five thousand?” Willem asked, then cleared his throat. “Gold?”
“The coin of the realm, sir, yes,” Luthness replied.
“Willem,” Phyrea huffed. “We’re leaving.”
Luthness kept his eyes locked on Willem, though it was obviously difficult for him not to turn on Phyrea, even violently.
“Very well,” Willem said. “Have it sent to the lady’s home.”
Phyrea rolled her eyes, annoyed, but Willem was sure he saw some hint that she was impressed.
“Well done, sir,” Luthness said, and Willem thought the man might actually drool. “Well done indeed.”
“Have you sold any others?” Phyrea asked.
Willem’s mind raced. He could get his hands on forty-five thousand gold pieces, but it wouldn’t be easy. It would be everything. Everything and more. He couldn’t really do it, but he had to. He had to.
“Yes, dear,” Luthness said. “A slightly larger piece by the same artist to Master Marek Rymut, the Thayan wizard of renown.”
Phyrea shrugged that off, but the mention of Rymut’s name set Willem’s mind reeling anew. Halina’s uncle had bought a sculpture by the same artist. Rymut was known for his good taste, but then there were the speeches, the not-so-subtle leanings in favor of the peasantry against the senate and the aristocracy. He was the one man everyone told him he should meet, especially Halina who was still Willem’s fiancee, and he was the one man Willem most feared. Not because of any physical threat-by all accounts Marek Rymut was more woman than man, soft and effete-but because if they met, and if Willem charmed him the way he’d charmed the master builder and his circle of senators, Rymut would surely consent to the marriage, and Willem would have to marry Halina, and Phyrea … beautiful, impossible Phyrea, the master builder’s daughter …
Luthness touched him on the elbow and Willem jumped.
“A tenday then?” the art dealer asked.
“What?” Willem responded, flustered. “I’m sorry?”
“The balance of the forty-five thousand?” Luthness replied. “A tenday from now, sir?”
“Yes,” Willem said without thinking. “By all means.”
Phyrea was gone.
Willem scanned the crowd but saw no trace of her.
“The young lady took her leave of us, my good sir,” Luthness told him, then nudged him toward the door. “Senator Meykhati!” he exclaimed, breaking off from Willem and sweeping into the crowd. “I insist that you embrace me at once!”
Willem got out of the gallery as fast as he could and burst into the warm night air trying to look in every direction at the same time.
“That was stupid,” Phyrea said. She stood leaning against the wall of the gallery building, adrape in imported silk, diamonds sparkling in the light of a street lamp. To Willem she looked like the most beautiful, most expensive streetwalker on the entire whirling globe of Abeir-Toril. “You’re stupid.”
; “You admired it,” he said, not daring to approach any closer. “I wanted to buy it for you.”
“Why?” she asked, and the look she gave him was fit perhaps for a cockroach crawling across a buffet table. “What does your forty-five thousand buy you? Me? My body?”
“No, I-” Willem started to say.
“No, you,” she mocked him. “I’m not your whore, Cormyrean, not for forty-five thousand gold or for that ridiculous strip of metal. ‘Small Evil Deity’ my arse. You are a moron.”
“I’m paying for it,” he said, forcing himself to stand at his full height. He was delighted by how strong his voice sounded but terrified that she could see how badly he was sweating. “It will be delivered to you. Do with it as you will.”
“My father pays you too much,” she sneered, then stepped away from the wall, turned her back on him, and started to walk away.
“Phyrea,” he said, and she stopped, looking over her shoulder at him.
Her long black hair came free of the diamond diadem she wore, and it fell across her face, her perfect cheek and the corner of her big, bright eye, and Willem’s heart seemed to stop in his chest. The shape of her made the Kozakuran sculpture he’d just leveraged his entire life for all the more ridiculous.
“If you tell me you love me,” she said, her voice only just above a whisper, “I will kill you where you stand.”
Willem’s heart started up again and despite his spinning head, he crossed the distance to her in three long, fast strides. She turned to him and he took her in his arms. His hands at her waist, he could feel the warmth of her skin under the expensive silk. She moved just a little bit into him and he bent to kiss her.
She went rigid in his hands, so stiff she might have been one of Luthness’s overpriced statues. He tried to kiss her anyway, but his lips met only resistance-her mouth tightly closed, her lips pulled in. She didn’t fight him or push him away. She didn’t breathe or move at all. She was as if carved from stone.
With a sigh he let go of her and stepped away.
“There,” she said, “was that worth forty-five thousand gold pieces?”
He stared at her, unable to speak, for as long as she wanted to continue to torture him, then she turned her back and walked away.
When she was too far away to hear he whispered to her, “Who do I have to kill, Phyrea? What do I have to buy? Where do I have to go?”
His mind blank, he stood there a while longer, then asked again, “Who do I have to kill?”
51
22 Tarsakh, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)
SECOND QUARTER, INNARLITH
Why didn’t you die, you decrepit old bag of bones, you useless old troll?” Willem hissed into Khonsu’s ear. “I’ll split you in two this instant-this instant!”
The frail old man, dressed in a graying night gown, lay on his back on the floor of his musty bedchamber. Willem Korvan kneeled over him, his left hand pressing hard over the old senator’s mouth, his right holding a wide-bladed kitchen knife against Khonsu’s side.
“Step down,” Willem whispered. “Step aside!”
The old man shook his head, eyes bulging, fixed on Willem’s.
The matronly maid and perhaps other household staff were still in the house. Willem had crept in through a window, surprising himself at a natural tendency toward stealth he never knew he had. Passing through the kitchen, he’d found the knife. Then he’d gone straight to Khonsu’s bedchamber, tore him violently from his bed, stifled his screams with one hand, and there they were, Willem doing his best to keep quiet while still raging at the old man.
“Do you think I’m some kind of joke?” Willem growled low. “Do you laugh at me, old man? Am I good for a laugh? A young man, toadying to a lesser senator, kowtowing to that insipid master builder you so loathe in private, denigrate in public, and befriend to his face? Are we all just players in some comic play staged for your amusement?”
The old man’s eyes threatened to burst from his skull and even in the dark bedchamber Willem could see him going from red to purple. He couldn’t breathe, let alone answer.
“Will you step down?” Willem insisted. “Or do I gut you like the pig you are? Too old to breed, good only for your meat?”
Khonsu closed his eyes.
Willem’s body tensed and he started to realize what he was doing, what he was saying, but then he pushed it all away and there was only rage again: anger, resentment, embarrassment, loathing for himself and everyone he knew who had let him be this man he’d become, this joke, this failure, this social-climbing nothing, this servant of a servant of a servant. All that came together in Willem Korvan and was let loose as hate for Khonsu.
“Do I slay you then?” he asked.
Khonsu’s eyes opened again, pleaded.
“If I let my hand go from your mouth, will you cry out?” Willem asked. “If you cry out, you are disemboweled.” For effect, Willem pressed the knife into the old man’s side, almost hard enough to break the skin. “Will you cry out?”
Khonsu shook his head, and Willem believed him.
He took his hand off the senator’s mouth but still held it to his chin, ready to quickly silence him again if need be.
“I won’t,” the old man squeaked, and even from inches away, Willem barely heard him. “I won’t step down.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s who I am,” the old man whispered.
Willem had to close his eyes. Tears burned his cheeks. He drew in a breath but managed to hold back a body-wracking sob.
“You were right,” Khonsu whispered, “I should have died.”
“You would rather die than step aside?” Willem asked, unable to keep his low, thready voice from cracking.
“What is the difference, one or the other?” the old man asked. Tears rolled down from his red, puffy, still-bulging eyes. “If you kill me, they’ll make you a senator, won’t they, boy?”
“Who?” Willem asked.
“Who?” Khonsu asked in return. “No one sent you?”
Willem shook his head.
“Then let me make one last vote as a member of the Senate of Innarlith,” the old man squeaked. “Kill me if you have to, but hear me. Hear me.”
“Speak,” Willem sobbed, unable to pull his eyes away from Khonsu’s, hard as he tried.
“Inthelph can’t help you anymore,” the senator whispered. “Meykhati. He likes you. He’s the one … he’s the one who chooses.”
“Meykhati?” Willem asked. “That fool? The one who dresses like a Shou and talks and talks and talks? Jabbering with that wife of his?”
“He plays the fool,” the old man said, “but in the meantime he works this city like a sava board. He’s the one who’s picking the new senators now.”
“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. W
illem 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.
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