“Phyrea!”
She coughed and made herself smile. He lifted her up, and though it hurt her at first to bend at the waist, the movement brought blood into veins that felt dried and brittle, and she was able to move a little more, just enough to put a hand on his shoulder, but not enough to keep it there.
He turned and shouted for Wenefir, and Phyrea let the darkness take her at last.
12
18 Mirtul, the Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)
THE PALACE OF MANY SPIRES, INNARLITH
Do you have a garden of your own?” Ransar Salatis asked. T’juyu seethed, but didn’t allow herself to show it. Instead, she shook her head in the human custom and finished her quick but thorough examination of the rooftop garden. Within the space of a dozen of the human’s ploddingly slow heartbeats she had traced in her mind’s eye the path to nearly as many escape points. The garden was shockingly unsecured, especially for being what appeared to be the ransar’s most favored place in the sprawling palace.
“A pity,” the man rasped. His throat must have been as dry as an Anauroch summer. T’juyu didn’t pity him so much as tolerate him. “Gardens are our way of writing our prayers to the Daughter of the High Forest on the world beneath her.”
T’juyu might have bristled at that, had she paid the forest demigoddess more than a passing respect. She let her eyes dart around the garden and was not just unimpressed, but offended by the way the trees and flowering plants had been imprisoned in pots and boxes, trimmed and tamed into ghastly, unnatural mockeries of their natural forms.
“I didn’t come here to speak of idle pursuits,” she said, the sound of her own voice coming to her ears in the coarse, guttural tones of the primitive creatures she’d surrounded herself with.
“It is not an idle pursuit,” the ransar replied, looking at her with his brows close together, and his jaw set in a firm scowl. Had she really been the creature he thought her to be, she might have been afraid of him just then. He was the most powerful man in the city-state after all, and it would have seemed that she was entirely in his power—alone with him in his garden, in his palace, at night. “This garden is a statement of faith.”
“My apologies, Ransar,” she said, playing along.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to a moss-covered marble bench.
T’juyu nodded and sat, ignoring how the moss slipped under her. It hadn’t grown on its own accord but had been placed there. Salatis sat next to her with a sigh. His breath smelled of rotten vegetables and dust—an old man’s stink.
“Praise be to the Dancer in the Glades,” Salatis said, his eyes closed, his right hand covering a pendant that hung on a gold chain around his neck.
“The Lady of the Woods blesses us,” T’juyu replied.
He looked at her with surprise that quickly turned into an almost comical, boyish delight. He smiled and his hand came away from the pendant: a golden acorn about the size of his thumb. The ransar sighed and looked up into the sky, once more devoid of stars, and heavy with the threat of rain.
“I bring you a disappointing report,” T’juyu said.
“Disappointing for you,” he asked, trying to be clever but only irritating her, “or disappointing for me?”
“For both of us,” she replied quickly, so that his cleverness wouldn’t have time to take hold. “I failed.”
He sighed again, and T’juyu grimaced at the smell of his breath. She wanted to stand but made herself stay seated next to him. He sat on her left, so she drew the throwing knife from her right boot with her right hand, holding it in her palm, against the side of the bench. Salatis didn’t look down but continued to stare into the empty blackness of the night sky. If he was disappointed enough in her failure to try to kill her, she would defend herself.
“There’s more,” she said.
“Did you fail entirely?” he asked. “It was to be both of them—the wife too.”
“They both live,” she said.
“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 away, 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 Rymüt 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 Rymüt 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 Rymüt.”
“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 Rymüt 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.”
“Rymüt 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.
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