Scream of Stone w-3

by Philip Athans

  The alchemist and the dwarf glanced at each other, but otherwise didn’t move.

  “Senator Aikiko?” Pristoleph asked the both of them. “She has no authority here.”

  Surero and Hrothgar stared at him as though he were lying, but the fire in his eyes made them quickly look away.

  “She’s a senator,” the alchemist said, addressing Devorast.

  “What of it?” Pristoleph demanded.

  He stepped forward, advancing on the alchemist, who took one step backward away from him and looked at Devorast to help him. Pristoleph grabbed Surero by the throat and felt the man’s skin crisp under his grip. The dwarf stepped back and squared his shoulders with defiance at the same time.

  “What,” Pristoleph sneered into the terrified alchemist’s face, “of it?”

  “Pristoleph,” Devorast said. He put a hand on his shoulder, but pulled it away quickly when the genasi’s heat burned him. “Let him go.”

  “You heard ’im,” Hrothgar said. “You let the man go. Ransar or no … you bloody well let ’im go.”

  Pristoleph heard the black firedrakes step up behind him when the dwarf moved closer. The alchemist gasped and Pristoleph released him. Surero fell to the ground in a heap, gingerly touching at the fiery red burn on his neck. The smell of it spiked the air around them.

  “Speak,” the ransar ordered. “Speak, the both of you, or I’ll burn you where you stand.”

  “It’s a portal,” Surero said, then he stopped to cough and wince in pain.

  Pristoleph laughed even though he wasn’t the slightest bit amused. He turned back to the arch and looked up at it. Though it was impressive for its sheer size, there was something about it that felt alien, wrong. Runes had been chiseled into the stones and inlaid with precious metals. Rising above the simple elegance of the straight-cut canal walls it appeared garish.

  “You were gone,” the dwarf said.

  Pristoleph turned and the dwarf held his gaze, as stern and intractable as the stone he cut.

  “I shouldn’t have been away so long,” Devorast said, but the disappointment in his eyes was plain.

  The dwarf blushed and that stonelike visage slipped the slightest bit.

  “We’ve been gone a few months,” Pristoleph said. “Does he have to be here every day? Does he have to hold your hands? Does he have to cut every stone, and dig every hole?”

  Devorast shook his head and the anger came back to the dwarf’s face.

  “A few months, eh?” Hrothgar grumbled. “A few months?”

  “A few months!” the ransar shouted.

  The dwarf stepped forward with clenched fists and so did the two black firedrakes at Pristoleph’s sides.

  “You’ve had ’im away for five an’ a half months,” Hrothgar said. “Five an’ a half months.”

  “I will be away or I will be here for as long as I wish, dwarf,” the ransar said. “And in the meantime, my orders will be carried out, and they will be carried out without question.”

  “And what were your orders, Ransar?” Surero asked. He looked up from where he sat on the wet, matted grass, and held a shaking hand a few inches from his neck.

  “My orders?” Pristoleph replied. “My orders came to you through Ivar Devorast.”

  Surero glanced at Devorast but obviously saw nothing there in which he could find solace. He looked back down at the ground and grimaced.

  “These senators of yours,” Hrothgar said. “The moment you were gone, they started comin’ outta the stonework. I’m happy to tell them where to get off, but the crew, they see a senator and it gets ’em all tense an’ twitchy.”

  “But Aikiko?” Pristoleph shot back. “What in the name of Azuth’s flaming manhood could she possibly have to contribute to this?”

  “Nothing,” said the dwarf. “She’s a mouth-breather if ever one walked under this godsbedamned sun o’ yers. But that Kurtsson-the wizard-I think he ensorcelled enough o’ the men that the others went along just to make it easy on ’em.”

  “We did our best, Ivar,” Surero almost sobbed from where he sat on the ground. “We couldn’t stop them.”

  Something in the sound of the alchemist’s voice cooled Pristoleph. He took a deep breath and the ground under his feet no longer boiled.

  “Kurtsson,” Pristoleph said. “I know him.”

  “He works for the Thayan,” Surero said.

  Pristoleph resisted the urge to look back at the black firedrakes that still flanked him. He couldn’t explain why, but the guards made him uneasy just then.

  “Rymut,” Pristoleph said.

  The Thayan had always been opposed to the canal-he’d always argued against it. His enclave, which had taken complete control of the trade in magic in every corner of Innarlith, would have profited from the continued practice of moving ships and goods to the Vilhon Reach by magical means-even after the Everwind disaster. But Rymut had been an ally of Pristoleph’s-had been instrumental in his seizing the mantle of ransar.

  He turned to Devorast, who still stared at the arch, and said, “These two were loyal to you, at least.” He paused to sigh. “Loyal….”

  “We were gone too long,” Devorast said. “Hrothgar and Surero are right.”

  Pristoleph shook his head and wanted to argue, but he couldn’t.

  “I still don’t understand …” the ransar said. “Aikiko? What did she do? Did she climb into a carriage, make the trip all the way up here, step out, and just seize control? That simpleton?”

  Surero shook his head and looked at Devorast then the ground. It was obvious he was reluctant to speak.

  “Hells,” the dwarf grumbled, “if she’d done that, I’d’ve knocked ’er out myself.”

  Pristoleph stared at he dwarf, waiting for more, but the stonecutter looked at Devorast as though waiting for permission to continue.

  “Don’t tell me Rymut himself-” the ransar started.

  “No,” Devorast interrupted. “It wasn’t Marek Rymut.”

  Pristoleph turned and was confronted by Devorast’s back. Devorast stared at the gate, and the ransar waited while the man turned to look back down the length of the canal, which was so long it disappeared over the southern horizon. The blue sky hung dense and humid, quiet save for the distant sounds of work gangs.

  Ivar Devorast took a deep breath and said, “It was Willem.”

  51

  16 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

  THE CANAL SITE

  Willem hadn’t moved the tent, as had become customary, to the end of the great trench. He couldn’t see the portal arch from the tent, and the sound of the bursting smokepowder was subdued enough by the distance that he didn’t jump out of his skin every time one went off. And he was far away from the men who looked at him with accusatory glares and grumbled behind his back.

  He sat at the drawing table and stared down at one of Ivar Devorast’s drawings, a plan for a section of the canal that would never be built. Overwhelmed by a draining melancholy, all he could do was stare at it. He was thirsty but couldn’t face the complex and draining task of pouring a glass of water from a pitcher that was just out of reach on another table. When the tent flap rustled and someone stepped in, Willem didn’t turn around.

  “You had to know I was coming back,” Ivar Devorast said.

  Willem’s shoulders sagged and a pressure pushed on his chest so that he could barely force his lungs to take in air. The tip of his tongue cracked, his mouth was so dry, and he tasted blood. The incessant pain of his teeth flared and he closed his eyes to fight back a tear.

  “Willem,” Devorast said.

  Willem opened his mouth-but not to speak. He couldn’t breathe.

  “I should have given you some way to contact me,” Devorast said, stepping closer.

  Willem managed to say, “I would have … used it.”

  “Why, Willem?” Devorast asked.

  Willem shook his head and gasped in a breath that seemed to lodge in his throat. A stabbing pain struck his kn
ee and his shoulders pressed down even farther. He felt as though he were being crushed into the damp ground.

  “I couldn’t stop them,” Willem said. His voice was so low, so weak, he could hardly hear it himself. “He compelled-”

  Willem’s throat closed and he gagged. He wanted to tell Devorast everything. He wanted to tell him that Marek Rymut had in some way magically compelled him to accept Aikiko and Kurtsson’s “help” in finishing the canal. He wanted to tell Devorast he had no choice, that he was just a pawn, as always, of more powerful men, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t force the words from his mouth.

  “Did you come here to kill me?” Willem whispered.

  Devorast stepped closer and Willem tensed, certain he would feel a blade pierce the flesh of his quivering back and still his heart. He couldn’t decide if that would be such a bad thing at all. His heart beat too fast, and a dull pain spread through his chest like water spilled from a barrel.

  “It was my fault,” Devorast said.

  Willem shook his head.

  “It was,” Devorast went on. “I was gone too long.”

  “You …” Willem choked out, “should not have … trusted me.”

  “I shouldn’t have trusted anyone. I should have understood that I have too many enemies to leave for five months or more.”

  Willem nodded, and though he couldn’t remember breathing in, he managed to rasp, “You should have been able to trust me.”

  Willem waited for Devorast to answer, but there was only silence in the tent behind him. A sharp pain in his head made him close his eyes.

  “Ivar?” Willem whispered. “You can’t forgive me.”

  Willem’s jaw clenched of its own accord and the agony of his teeth grinding together made him tilt off the stool to sprawl on the floor. He was dimly aware of Devorast stepping forward to help him, then stepping away when he spun into a crouch, his hands in front of him, his fingers bent to claw at the air.

  “Willem,” Devorast said. “You’re not well.”

  Willem’s head exploded in a shower of liquid agony and the skin on his face tightened, stretching his dry lips into a cracking, painful grimace.

  “Pity?” Willem choked out.

  He looked up, and with dim, dull vision, saw Devorast’s smug, vile, hated face looking at him with condescending pity-looking at him as though Willem were a troubled child who’d done wrong, but couldn’t be blamed because he didn’t know any better.

  Willem rose to his feet, and as he did the pain dropped away, like a tree sheds it leaves in the autumn. By the time he stood to his full height, he was rid of it all, the pain, the shame, the guilt-all of it. And it had been replaced by a single thought, a singular, burning desire.

  From a tiny, walled-off portion of his conscious mind Willem knew he wasn’t breathing, and could feel that his heart had stopped in his chest. But that was just the smallest part of him, a part too small to stop the rest, and the rest wanted only to kill-to kill Ivar Devorast.

  Willem lurched forward, both hands up to grasp Devorast’s throat, but the man turned to the side just in time and Willem, overbalanced, staggered past him.

  “Willem,” Devorast said. “Stop it.”

  With a feral growl Willem spun and lashed out with a backhand that caught Devorast on the shoulder. It was a weak blow, but it sent Devorast, arms flailing, into the drawing table. Wood cracked and splintered and parchment tore and crumpled as Devorast crashed to the ground.

  Willem bent at the waist and twisted, which made something inside him crack and tear, and he grabbed Devorast by his threadbare black vest. Ignoring the sounds of his own body creaking, only half aware of his own pain, Willem lifted Devorast off the ground.

  Devorast hit his wrists then tried to dig his fingernails into Willem’s forearms, but Willem ignored the sensation that a living human might describe as “pain.” He threw Devorast to the ground. When he hit, the air went out of his lungs in a loud grunt that Willem found at once satisfying and disturbing.

  He didn’t want to kill Ivar Devorast. He had to. He didn’t want it to be a long, protracted, painful death, but it would be.

  Devorast crawled away from him as Willem lurched forward.

  “Willem,” Devorast gasped, “what’s … happened to you?”

  Though Willem wanted to answer, he couldn’t. He didn’t know what had happened to him, and he didn’t want Devorast to know anyway.

  “Die,” Willem barked out-his voice so shredded and guttural the word was hardly recognizable.

  Devorast staggered to his feet and turned to run out of the tent, but Willem lashed at him with his left fist-pulling the punch at just the last instant-and knocked Devorast once more to the ground. He knew that if he’d hit him as hard as he could he would have killed him, and as he tried to understand why he’d spared the life of the man he was absolutely compelled to kill, the last trace of question, the last morsel of will, fled him.

  He screamed out his rage-blind, remorseless, unfettered-at the writhing form of his victim, and he stepped forward.

  The tent opened and someone stood in front of Willem.

  “Surero-no!” Devorast gasped.

  Willem didn’t recognize the intruder. He saw a face-eyes wide, mouth open-and a body, but that was all. It wasn’t a person, not a man with a soul and a history, but a thing between Willem and Devorast, and he couldn’t have anything between him and Devorast.

  Willem lashed out, and there was no last-instant tempering of the blow, no reprieve for the unknown victim that should have known better than to step between him and his kill.

  Surero’s head exploded from the force of Willem’s blow. The dry-skinned fist shattered teeth, drove the alchemist’s mouth open, and continued on through flesh, bone, brain, and sinew to burst out the other side drenched in blood and saliva.

  “No!” Devorast shouted. “Willem!”

  Willem stumbled backward, avoiding the headless corpse and blinking from the spray of blood driven up from the alchemist’s still-beating heart.

  The alchemist.

  Willem grunted and blinked-he’d killed … who? Surero.

  And that little closed off corner of his consciousness opened just enough, just barely enough, for him to realize what he’d done. That little corner spoke then to the rest of his dead mind and he knew on every level still available to him that he’d killed the wrong man.

  Willem took control of his body for one step, then another, and he was out of the tent and running.

  52

  17 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Sorms (1374 DR)

  THE CANAL SITE

  Pristoleph stood when Devorast opened his eyes. His heart raced and he almost choked on a sip of the cheap local wine he’d found in the tent.

  “Surero …” Devorast said, his voice thin and raspy.

  Pristoleph shook his head and Devorast closed his eyes. The genasi stood there, looking away, for a long moment while his friend relived the alchemist’s death. Pristoleph had to know more.

  “What was it that killed him?” he asked. “What was it that infected you?”

  “Infected …?”

  “You were half dead when a work gang got to the tent,” Pristoleph explained. “Surero had been murdered, and you lay dying from some kind of disease. It was as though you were rotting alive, just … deteriorating.”

  Devorast shook his head and closed his eyes.

  “The men said they saw someone run from the tent,” Pristoleph continued. “They described some kind of cloying smell, but didn’t see the man.”

  “It was Willem.”

  Pristoleph hissed with surprise. His eyes narrowed and he looked around the room as though searching for something, but he didn’t know what he was looking for.

  “How could that be?” asked Pristoleph. “The priestess from the Sisterhood of Pastorals said it was a disease associated with-”

  “It was Willem,” Devorast interrupted. He struggled to sit up, but Pristoleph held out a calming hand and he lay
back down on the narrow, sweat-soaked cot.

  “I’m beginning to understand something,” Pristoleph said, and waited for Devorast to look at him before he went on. “I saw something at the Thayan Enclave once, some kind of undead creature. Marek Rymut made it, but he said it was for him, that it wasn’t for sale. It wasn’t a zombie, like the dockworkers, but … something else. I don’t know what.”

  Devorast closed his eyes and looked away.

  “I think,” Pristoleph whispered, “that everything I feared has come to pass.”

  53

  18 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

  THE NAGAWATER

  When Svayyah’s right hand broke the surface of the water, she turned it palm up. From below, Devorast’s rough but fascinating features appeared blurred and shifting, and even with eyes accustomed to seeking prey from the safety of the river, she couldn’t quite tell if the human was happy or sad. The fact that he’d come to the Nagawater, to the place they had agreed on as a rendezvous point, didn’t bode well, though. Ivar Devorast didn’t generally visit her with good news.

  Unless …

  He took her hand and Svayyah suppressed a thrilled shudder. Though the man was surely senthissa’ssa-a teacher worthy of emulating-he was human, a lesser being, nonetheless.

  Devorast slipped into the water and shivered. When Svayyah finished her spell she touched his cheek. His eyes and the set of his jaw showed the same reluctance he’d always had with the effects of the spell, he opened his mouth, and cautiously at first, drew in a breath of the frigid water. His body lurched and he coughed out a stream of bubbles, which made Svayyah smile. His second breath was better received by lungs that had finally been purged of air. She looked him in the eye and he remained still while she cast a second spell-one that would allow him to speak.

  With the air out of his lungs, he was at least a bit less buoyant. When she took him by the hand and whipped her great serpentine body behind her, she had only to expend a bit more effort than normal to carry him down with her to the murky river bottom.