Scream of Stone w-3

by Philip Athans

  “Are you disappointed in yourself?” he asked.

  T’juyu shook her head. She hadn’t really ever had a stake in the death of that one senator and his wife. She had come to Innarlith for reasons of her own, but that commission, from the ransar no less, brought her closer in to the humans’ city and their barbaric leaders. Still, it rankled her that the woman had awakened before she died. It bothered her that the senator had come in when he did. And she was still confused by the fire….

  “I will take that as a yes,” he said, apparently not having seen her shake her head.

  It was T’juyu’s turn to sigh.

  “There will be other opportunities,” he said.

  “You are tired,” T’juyu said, looking at the side of his face, at the deep lines around his eyes and mouth, the white in the stubble of his beard. “I am sorry.”

  She knew that last didn’t sound as sincere as it should have, but the ransar didn’t seem to mind.

  “It’s a strange thing, disappointment,” he said as though speaking to the night itself and not just to her. “It comes to you in the most unexpected guises and at the most inopportune times. It is unpredictable. Unpredictable….”

  T’juyu looked away from him. He was babbling and there was something about his demeanor that disturbed her greatly. She had very little direct experience with humans, but she had seen their works often enough: strange vehicles dragged by servile animals, vessels afloat on the seas and rivers, and cities that sprawled over acre after acre of land cleared by a dizzying variety of tools. Surely no species could have achieved all those things with such unstable and preoccupied minds. Salatis must have been unusual in that regard.

  “I bring other news,” she said.

  “News other than your failure?”

  “I will not expect to be paid,” she said, growing angrier.

  He shook his head and waved her off.

  “He is building an army,” she said.

  The ransar sighed and looked at her, his eyes drooping and red.

  “An army?” he asked. “I knew it. I had … heard that.”

  “It is a sizable force,” T’juyu said.

  “Big enough, do you think, to threaten me?” he asked. “Big enough to overthrow me?”

  “I don’t know for certain, but it … it is a sizable force, and they are preparing for something.”

  “The defense of the southern approaches?” he said, and it took her a heartbeat or two to decide he was joking. He smiled a weary smile and said, “I knew that. I suspected that.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I will fight him,” he said, though she’d never heard a less enthusiastic proclamation. “I still command the black firedrakes. I still command the city, the loyalty of the senate …?”

  That last had the unmistakable sound of a question. T’juyu realized he didn’t know who to trust, or what he truly controlled, if anything.

  “You’re tired,” she whispered, replacing the throwing knife in her boot with only the smallest degree of stealth, because only the smallest degree was necessary.

  The ransar shook his head.

  “Shall I try again?” she asked.

  He shrugged and though she waited far longer than she wanted to, he didn’t say anything else. Finally, she stood, gave him a shallow bow that he ignored, and walked away. For all she knew, Salatis spent the rest of the night sitting on that bench, staring at nothing, a tired old man too beaten to realize just how beaten he was.

  T’juyu left the palace with the distinct impression that she had chosen the wrong side.

  13

  8 Eleint, the Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)

  FIRST QUARTER, INNARLITH

  How is it possible that you haven’t changed at all?” Surero asked.

  Devorast glanced at the alchemist, shrugged, then looked down when a Shou sailor set his canvas bag down on the planks next to him. The young man bowed and scurried back up the gangplank to the deck of the ceramic ship.

  “It’s been a mess since you’ve been gone,” Surero went on. “People are saying there’s going to be another in our long line of civil wars.”

  “That can’t have anything to do with my having been gone,” Devorast said.

  Surero didn’t realize he was joking at first, so rare a thing that was with Devorast. He smiled as Devorast picked up his bag and turned to look back at the ship. Ran Ai Yu stood at the rail and held up a hand. Devorast returned the gesture, turned back, and started to walk. Glancing back a few times at the Shou merchant captain, who continued to stare at Devorast’s receding back, Surero fell into step beside him.

  “She isn’t coming?” Surero asked.

  “She’s moving on up the Sword Coast to trade.”

  As they walked the length of the long pier, Devorast looked at the ships tied up along the way. Surero watched his critical gaze run up the masts and follow the length of their rails. Ahead of them, a gang of stevedores unloaded barrels from a groaning old coaster while the crew hooted at them from the rail. The smell of decayed flesh, intermingled with the sulfurous stench of the Lake of Steam assailed them as they walked, and Devorast slowed. Surero took his arm to keep him moving at pace.

  “Zombies,” the alchemist said, “courtesy of the Red Wizards of Thay.”

  Devorast didn’t react with the same sort of horrified fascination most people did when they first encountered the new breed of dockhands. Still, it was plain enough in his expression that he didn’t approve.

  “It’s worse,” Surero told him. He found it difficult to go on. He didn’t want to say it, but he knew Devorast needed to know. “They’re building the canal, too.”

  The sigh that came from Devorast was one of the most frightening sounds Surero had ever heard. He shivered as they passed the zombie work gang. None of the undead creatures paused in their slow, methodical work to notice them. Both men put hands to their faces, covering their noses as they passed.

  “They’re still working on it,” Devorast said. “I’m surprised.”

  Surero could tell he was disappointed as well.

  “Salatis has made speeches about it,” said the alchemist. “He said all the right things then put the whole project in the hands of a fool named Horemkensi. Do you know him?”

  Devorast shook his head. They left the zombie longshoremen behind.

  “Accidents …” Surero started, then just shook his head. “It’s been a long time.”

  “I was told that you were brewing beer,” Devorast said, and Surero was surprised to see him smiling.

  “I am,” Surero admitted. “I don’t mind it, actually. I make good beer.” The alchemist sighed and said, “It’s been a long time.”

  “Has it?”

  “Seven months?”

  “Are they following the plans?” Devorast asked. “My drawings?”

  “The best they can, I think,” Surero said. “But their best is horrendous. There’s a hope that the new ransar will be more inclined to bring you back. If there is a new ransar, that is.”

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the time I’ve been in Innarlith,” Devorast said as they stepped off the woodplank pier and onto the gravel streets of the First Quarter, “it’s that there will always be another ransar.”

  Surero smiled and said, “You haven’t changed.”

  “It hasn’t been that long. We have a lot of work to do.”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  Devorast didn’t miss a step. “I intend to finish it-my way, whoever the ransar is.”

  14

  2 Uktar, the Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)

  FIRESTEAP CITADEL

  From a distance they looked like lions-big, solidly-muscled cats built more for strength than speed or stealth. At first she didn’t even notice the third set of limbs, forward and higher up from their front legs, but at the end of those limbs were hands, and in those hands they carried weapons. Their heads, like their bodies, were more lion than man, but even from far aw
ay, it was the eyes that made them different.

  “Innarlans won’t like them,” Phyrea said when she heard Pristoleph step onto the roof behind her.

  He chuckled and stood next to her, his hands folded together and resting on the top of a battlement.

  “They’re not even human,” Phyrea added.

  “The current ransar employs undead to build the canal and to crew the docks,” Pristoleph reminded her. “Surely a few of their neighbors from the south won’t disturb people too much.”

  “The zombies that work the docks belong to you. And who says anyone likes them? At least Salatis’s are well outside the city walls.”

  Phyrea felt more than heard a sigh in her head. It was the old woman, and she was tired of being out in the southern frontier, at the hard and crowded fortress surrounded by soldiers.

  “The people of Innarlith are accustomed to a certain transience in the position of ransar,” Pristoleph said, and Phyrea winced at the implication.

  They’re going to kill him, the man with the scar on his face whispered in her ear.

  “Yes, they are,” she whispered back.

  “Well,” Pristoleph said with a surprised smile, “you’re easy to convince today.”

  Phyrea shook her head in reply.

  “The wemics have no interest in Innarlith,” he said. “I’m sure you won’t have to worry about their crude tents lowering the property values in the Second Quarter.”

  They’ll kill him in public, said the old woman. They’ll make a show of it.

  “What do they fight for then?” she asked, ignoring the ghost.

  “Magic weapons.”

  She narrowed her eyes and turned on the senator.

  “It’s almost too easy,” he went on. “They’re obsessed with enchanted weapons-any sort of weapon, and any sort of enchantment.”

  “And you buy the weapons from the Thayan.”

  Pristoleph shrugged, the look on his face not quite petty enough to be smug, but he was indeed pleased with himself as he stared out over his growing army.

  “There are costs with Marek Rymut that go far beyond the coin,” she warned him, her face flushing when she realized it was both unnecessary and useless for her to try.

  “I am familiar with his desires,” Pristoleph said, “and much more in touch with his true motives than he realizes.”

  “You are a brilliant man, Pristoleph, but Rymut is something else.”

  Pristoleph shrugged again and said, “He’s killed, driven into exile, or employed every other mage of reasonable skill in Innarlith. I need the weapons because I need the wemics, so I deal with Marek Rymut.”

  “And you have them,” she said with a sigh. “So what are you waiting for?”

  He laughed and said, “Are you anxious for me to make my move on the Palace of Many Spires because you miss the city life, or because you believe I’m ready to win?”

  “I just don’t understand what’s taking so long.”

  She wrapped her fur-collared weathercloak around her more tightly and held her arms around her, shivering in the early winter chill. It was colder on the roof of the citadel than it was on the ground, but she had grown to like the solitude it afforded her, even if the view made her nervous. She didn’t like the sight of the army gathering, while at the same time something about it-something insubstantial but in its own way powerful-drew her to it.

  “You’re cold,” he said, stepping closer to her.

  He wrapped his arms around her from behind and she could feel his abnormal warmth radiating through even her thick clothing. The feeling made her close her eyes, made her breathe a little more slowly, and made the ghosts seem just a little farther away.

  Enjoy it while it lasts, the woman who mourned her dead child called from beyond the grave.

  “Enjoy it while it lasts,” Phyrea whispered in response.

  “It will last,” Pristoleph said into her ear, his breath uncomfortably hot on her neck, “as long as I decide it will last.”

  “Are you certain of that?” she asked, but of course he was. He didn’t even bother to stiffen. If anything, he held her only tighter. “Marek Rymut may have something to say about that.”

  “He can say what he wishes,” Pristoleph said. “When I am ransar, I’ll-”

  “Is that what Salatis said?” she interrupted. “I wonder if he said those same words, back in the Year of the Staff.”

  “Rymut is a powerful man, but he’s got his weaknesses, too. He’s a dandy and he craves attention. He manipulates, but he can be manipulated.”

  “And he says the same about you,” Phyrea said, regretting the words the moment they left her mouth.

  He stepped away from her. “I had hoped you’d have more confidence in me by now.”

  She went to him and he embraced her. They shared a kiss and she put her hands on the side of his face. Her hair blew in the wind, whipping his cheeks, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  “He will help you,” she said, “the same way he helped Salatis, and he will destroy you the same way he’s about to destroy Salatis.”

  Pristoleph pushed her away, though gently. She never let her eyes leave his.

  You’re right, the old woman told her. Phyrea didn’t look over Pristoleph’s shoulder. She knew she’d see the apparition on the roof behind him. You’re right about everything. What would he do, I wonder, if you threw yourself off the roof right now? Haven’t you thought about that? I know you have. Just step off into-

  “Nothing,” Phyrea whispered, shaking her head. “Into thin air.”

  No, the old woman said, a pleading quality to her thin voice, into our tender embrace. Into the arms of the only family you have left.

  Pristoleph looked at her with narrowed eyes under a knitted brow and Phyrea forced herself to turn away from him.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  She wiped a tear from her eye, and said, “You don’t have to … Ransar Pristoleph.”

  She hoped he smiled at her, but she didn’t turn to look.

  15

  3 Alturiak, the Year of the Tankard (1370 DR)

  THIRD QUARTER, INNARLITH

  Devorast paused to let a wagon laden with empty crates rattle past him. He didn’t turn to watch it go and only those few missed steps showed he was aware of its passing at all. When it was out of his way he strode forward, as tall and straight, as confident as always.

  The thing that once was Willem Korvan put a hand up on the rough bricks of the tannery, letting only one side of his desiccated face break the plane of the corner, only one dry, stinging eye on his prey.

  No, the undead creature thought, not prey. Not yet.

  Devorast turned a corner and disappeared from sight. Willem had to look both ways, up and down the dark, quiet street. With middark fast approaching, the streets of the Third Quarter were quiet and all but empty. He watched the wagon trundle off around a curve in the street, and there were no other signs of life. Candles and hearth-fires lit a few of the second story windows, but no faces appeared. No one looked down into the deserted street so late at night.

  Willem stepped out from the ink-black alley and crossed the street as fast as he could-in six long strides.

  Each footfall sent a stab of pain up from the soles of his feet, through his legs, and into the still, hollow place in his chest where his heart once beat. He hadn’t grown accustomed to the pain. Every twinge and jab, every throb and ache, nettled and angered him, reminded him of a time when he could walk without it, speak without it, think without it-but that’s all the memory of that time he had.

  There were glimpses of faces, dim recollections of desires and ambitions, but all that had been eclipsed, overwhelmed, swallowed up by a single compulsion: to serve his master. And through all that, like a mountain stream through canyons and valleys, ran the pain.

  When he looked around the corner of the vacant building Devorast had disappeared behind, Willem saw his prey-no, not prey, he reminded himself again, not yet-crossing the more
narrow street several yards ahead. The sound of people laughing, of stories and jokes told too loudly, assaulted his ears. The pain bounced around in his head and he closed his eyes, riding a wave of rage that burned itself out quickly in his dead, defeated spirit.

  Devorast went into a tavern, and Willem rushed behind him as fast as his stiff knees would allow. He slipped into a side street when he heard footsteps approach, and while he listened to another man open the tavern door, releasing another wave of voices and-something else … music? — he turned into an alley. Rats scattered at his approach and one, foolish and brave, perhaps mind-addled with rabies, stopped to hiss at him as he passed. He came around to the back of the tavern then moved to a window that looked out onto the alley on one side.

  The sound, strange and alluring-the sound of music-made him blink. He remembered the song but not its name. He liked that song-or he remembered liking it, remembered, vaguely, a time when he was able to form opinions of that kind: like, dislike, love … hate he could still feel. Hate and blind obedience.

  He saw Devorast in the tavern, surrounded by happy, living people-happy even though they were simple tradesmen-and Willem reveled in his hatred. It was his hatred that sustained him like the air that used to fill the lungs, which had gone still and empty in his chest.

  “Devorast,” he whispered, and touched a cold finger to the colder glass. “My friend …”

  Devorast approached a table and two men-no, one man and a dwarf-stood to greet him with smiles. He embraced the dwarf in a way that even the dead version of Willem Korvan couldn’t believe he’d ever have seen from Ivar Devorast. The dwarf was a spectacle-all hair and grime and the drying crust of stale mead. But they smiled and they embraced.

  The other man-Willem recognized him, but the name was distant and unavailable to him-patted Devorast on the back and they sat. The man Willem couldn’t remember held up a hand and a barmaid approached with a tray. A man at another table grabbed at her behind as she passed but she didn’t notice. Laughter followed.

  The music came from a table in the back upon which sat an old man cradling a yarting. Willem closed his eyes and let the music hammer at his ears. He tried to hear what Devorast said to the dwarf and the alchemist-that’s right, Willem realized, that’s the alchemist-but he couldn’t hear. His head throbbed in time with the music and a pain struck him, as though someone had driven a lance through his right calf.