"Now then: In the situation I've described, when Szass Tam requests his regency, or however he intends to put it, who among you, without knowing how the others feel, is bold enough to be the first to denounce the proposal?"
Yaphyll wished she could claim that she would find the courage, but she wondered if it was so. No zulkir could show weakness by confessing to fear of anyone or anything. But the truth was, even though he'd supported her in all her endeavors, she was afraid of Szass Tam, and she could tell that Samas and even Lallara, with her bitter, thorny nature, felt the same.
Lallara laughed. "Hear the silence! It appears, Tharchion, that none of us would dare."
"That means four votes in favor," Dmitra said, "and with Evocation's seat empty, at best three against. The measure passes. To forestall that, I hope the three of you will pledge here and now to stand firm against it."
"No," said Samas Kul, "or at least, not yet."
Dmitra inclined her head. "May I ask what more you require to persuade you, Master?"
"Yes, illusionist," the fat man replied, "you may. You've whistled up a host of phantoms to affright us, but I'd be more inclined to cower if I understood why you of all people would want to warn us. You're one of Szass Tam's favorites. If he crowned himself king, you'd benefit."
"You forget," Yaphyll said, "Tharchion Flass has sworn to serve all of us zulkirs, and I'm sure that, like all of us, she's concerned first and foremost with the welfare of the realm."
Lallara shot her a poisonous glance. "Your little drolleries are growing even more tiresome than usual." She shifted her glare to Dmitra. "The hog raises a valid point. If this is all a charade, it's hard to imagine what you could possibly be trying to achieve, but still: Why should we trust you?"
"Because Szass Tam no longer does," Dmitra replied. "In times past, he would have confided in me. Involved me in any scheme to which I might prove useful, even the assassination of a fellow zulkir, yet now, suddenly, he dissembles with me and only asks me to advance his schemes in a limited fashion, even though I've given him no reason to question my loyalty.
"Why? I can't imagine, any more than I know what he gained by murdering Druxus Rhym, or why, after contenting himself with being senior zulkir for so long, he's decided to strike for even greater authority. Not understanding alarms me.
"What I do know is that life in Thay as it's currently governed has been good to me. I have a nasty suspicion that, for whatever reason, I wouldn't find existence so congenial under Szass Tam's new regime."
She smiled. "So I'm trying to keep things as they are, and hope to manage to do so with minimal risk to myself. I've taken pains to keep Szass Tam from learning of this meeting, and if none of you tattles that I sought to rally you against him, I shouldn't suffer for it."
Lallara grunted. "What you say makes a certain amount of sense, Tharchion, which isn't to imply I embrace it as complete and utter truth. And perhaps your motives don't matter so very much, because Samas was right about one thing: He, Yaphyll, and I are all averse to installing the lich in a new office higher than our own. It's clear from our manner even if we haven't declared it outright, so I say, yes, let's seal a secret pact of resistance, just in case."
Yaphyll nodded. "Agreed. No kingship or regency for anyone, ever, under any circumstances." Unless, of course, she could somehow, someday win such a prize for herself.
Samas Kul heaved a sigh. "I agree, too, I suppose."
It was as eloquent an oration as Szass Tam had ever given. He enumerated the dire menaces facing Thay in general and the zulkirs personally. He reminded the other mage lords of his accomplishments, recent and otherwise, and pointed out how divided leadership could prevent even the greatest realm in Faerыn from achieving its goals or coping in an emergency. The failed military endeavors of recent decades were obvious examples.
He also promised he'd step down as soon as he eliminated the threats to the common weal. He omitted, however, any mention of the hideous punishments he'd meted out to folk who had, at one time or another, balked or angered the oldest and most powerful wizard in the land. He was certain the other zulkirs recalled those without his needing to allude to them.
Yet when he saw the glances that passed among Yaphyll, Lallara, and Samas Kul, he realized that somehow the other members of his faction had already known what he was going to propose. Known, palavered in secret, and resolved to oppose him as staunchly as the remaining zulkirs, and that was staunchly indeed. The other three were his long-time enemies: Nevron with his perpetual sneer and the brimstone stink of his demon servitors clinging to his person; Lauzoril, deceptively bland and clerkish; and Mythrellan, who affected to despise everyone else on the council, who changed her face as often as other great noblewomen changed their gowns, frequently to something with an element of the bizarre but always exquisite nonetheless. Today her eyes were gold and her skin sky blue. A haze of unformed illusion ready for the shaping made her image soft and blurry.
Even though he recognized early on that he was almost certainly speaking in vain, Szass Tam carried on to the end then called for a vote. It seemed possible that, now that the moment for support or defiance had arrived, his supposed allies might lose their nerve.
Alas, they remained resolute. Only Szass raised his hand in support of the proposal he himself had introduced. Nevron leered to see his foe so humiliated. Even prim Lauzoril managed a smirk.
Though he hadn't expected to find Yaphyll, Samas, and Lallara united against him, Szass had thought himself prepared for the possibility that his ploy would fail. Still, the mockery inspired an unexpected paroxysm of rage. He yearned to lash out at every adversary, old and newly revealed, seated around the gleaming red maple table.
He didn't, of course. Attacking six other zulkirs at once might well prove suicidal, even for a mage more powerful than any one of them. Instead, making sure his mask of affability didn't slip, he inclined his head in seeming acceptance.
"So be it," he said. "We'll continue on as we always have, deciding all matters by consensus. Be assured, I don't resent it that you rejected my plan, prudent though I believe it was, and I'll keep working diligently to solve the problems that plague us."
At the same time, simply by thinking, he sent a signal. He'd prepared the magic beforehand, with sufficient concern for subtlety to ensure that even the extraordinarily perceptive Yaphyll wouldn't notice it thrilling through the aether.
After that, everyone blathered on for a while longer, and though he felt a seething impatience to depart, he supposed that really it was fine. His minions needed time to do their work.
As soon as the meeting broke up, he spurned Samas, Yaphyll, and Lallara with their slinking excuses and attempts at reconciliation and translated himself back to his study in the citadel of the order of Necromancy. It took the warlock waiting there an instant to notice his arrival, and then the fellow flung himself to his knees. Tsagoth knelt as well, albeit with a glower. Apparently the blood fiend had expected his master to liberate him once he accomplished the death of Aznar Thrul, but as demonstrated by that success, he was too useful an agent to relinquish when so many challenging tasks remained.
"Get up," Szass Tam said. "Tell me what's happening."
"Yes, Master," said the younger necromancer, rising. Szass had the conceit that if he peered deep into his subordinate's eyes, he could glimpse an indefinable wrongness there, a hint of the psychic shackles binding the live wizard to silence and obedience, but perhaps it was only his imagination. "Our agents are spreading the tidings that, in their arrogance, folly, and ingratitude, the other zulkirs denied you the authority you need to preserve the realm."
"With the proper enchantments in play to make the news seem as infuriating as possible."
"Yes, Master, just as you directed."
"Good." Szass Tam turned to Tsagoth. "You know what to do from here. Go tell your partners."
Nular Tabar glanced back at the shuttered three-story brick house behind him. It wasn't the primary stronghold of
the order of Conjuration in Eltabbar. That imposing citadel was on the other side of town, but despite a lack of banners, overt supernatural manifestations, and the like, everyone in the neighborhood knew this was some sort of chapter house. People saw the mages and their retainers passing in and out.
They weren't coming out now. They were leaving the protection of the property to Nular and the dozen legionnaires in his patrol, and at that point, it remained to be seen just how hard the job would be. Though in normal times, no commoner dared annoy Red Wizards, scores of people had gathered to glare, mill about, and shout slogans and insults at the house. Apparently, they all wanted Szass Tam for their king, were angry they weren't going to get him, and had decided to hold Nevron, notoriously one of the lich's enemies, responsible for their disappointment. The zulkir of Conjuration wasn't here to bear the brunt of their anger, but a structure belonging to his order was.
Nular had formed his patrol into a line to block the approach to the house as best they could. The problem was that a dozen soldiers couldn't form a very long line without standing so far apart as to give up the ability to protect one another's flanks. He wasn't about to order that, which meant that a fool hell-bent on getting at the building could dart around the end of the formation.
Sure enough, a wiry, dark-haired youth with a sack clutched under his arm lunged at the gap on the southern end. The warrior last in line pivoted and swung his cudgel but was too slow. The lad sprinted on unbashed.
"Hold your positions!" Nular shouted then raced after the youth himself.
The adolescent was quick, but so was he, and he possessed the advantage of long Mulan legs. He caught up, lifted his baton to bash the lad over the head, then thought how the brutal sight might further enflame the mob. He dropped the cudgel to dangle from the strap around his wrist and grabbed the youth with his empty hands instead.
The boy dropped the bag to wrestle and turned out to have some notion of what he was doing. He tried to jam his knee into Nular's groin, and the guard twisted and caught the attack on his thigh. Next came grubby fingers gouging for his eyes. He protected them by ducking his head then butted the adolescent in the face. The lad faltered, and Nular threw him down on his back. That seemed to knock the fight out of him.
Clad in rags, the lad was plainly a pauper. The stained sack gave off a fecal stink. Most likely he'd meant to use the contents to deface the Red Wizards' door.
"Stay down," Nular panted, "or I swear, next time I'll use my sword on you."
The boy glowered but didn't move.
"What in the name of the Kossuth's fire is the matter with you?" Nular continued. "Would you throw away your life on an idiot prank? You know the wizards punish disrespect."
"Szass Tam has to be regent!" the youth replied.
"Why do you care? What difference do you think it will make to the likes of you?"
And as long as Nular was posing questions, how had the boy and his fellows learned the outcome of the zulkirs' deliberations so quickly? As often as not, lesser folk never even heard the council had met, let alone what it decided.
It was a mystery, but someone shrewder than Nular would have to puzzle it out. His job was simply to keep order in one section of Eltabbar's labyrinthine streets.
"Get up," he said, "and pick up your bag of filth. Now go home! If you're still here in forty breaths, or if I catch you out of doors again tonight, I'll gut you." He prodded the youth with the tip of his club to start him moving.
Once he'd herded the lad to the other side of the line, Nular scrutinized all the others like him. Feeding off one another's outrage, they were growing more agitated by the moment. It was only a matter of time before the stones started flying.
He was no orator, but he had to say something to try and calm them. He was still trying to frame the words in his mind when some of them cried out, and they all flinched back.
He turned to see what had alarmed them. Standing behind the line was a towering four-armed creature with dark scales and gleaming scarlet eyes.
Nular felt a strange blend of fear and relief, the former because every sane person was leery of demons, and the latter because it was plain the conjurors in the house had sent the creature to help him.
He gazed up at its wolfish face. "Do you understand me?" he asked.
The entity chuckled. "Yes."
"Good. That will make things easier. The sight of you has frightened the mob. We need to keep them intimidated. With luck, scare them into going elsewhere."
"No, warrior. We need to slaughter them. Don't worry, fighting in concert, we'll manage easily."
Nular frowned. "Maybe we would, but I'm hoping it won't be necessary."
"It already is. The rabble's impudence is an affront to my masters and must be punished accordingly."
"Do your masters understand that the unrest isn't just happening here? The 'rabble' have taken to the streets across the city. If we kill people, the violence could spread and spread. We could end up with a riot far worse than those we've endured already."
The demon shrugged. "That's nothing to me. My masters command, and I obey. Are you not obliged to obey Red Wizards, also?"
Nular hesitated. "Yes, but you're not one. If we're going to do this, I at least need to hear the order from one of the conjurors." He started to walk around the creature toward the house.
The spirit shifted so as to remain directly in front of him. "That isn't necessary," it said, and its crimson eyes flared brighter.
Nular rocked backward as though something had struck him a blow. He felt bewildered, as if he'd just awakened from a dream so vivid that he couldn't be certain what was real.
Then he caught his balance, and his confusion passed. Or partly so. "What… what were we saying?" he asked.
"That we're going to kill the rebels."
"Yes." That sounded right, or at least familiar. "Swords!"
A couple of his men-the clever ones, who might rise from the ranks one day-eyed him dubiously, but they were all well trained and exchanged their truncheons for their blades without protest. He did the same.
"Now forward!" Nular shouted. "Keep the line and cut the bastards down."
The mob might have had the stomach for a fight with a dozen legionnaires, but legionnaires and an ogre-sized demon were a more daunting prospect. They screamed and tried to run, but their numbers were such that they got in each other's way. The ones closest to their attackers couldn't evade the soldiers' swords and the creature's fangs and talons, and thus they had no choice but to turn again and fight.
It was all right though. The soldiers' training, armor, and superior weapons aided them, of course, but it was the demon's ferocity that truly rendered the mob's numerical advantage inconsequential. Striking quickly as a cat, ripping men to pieces with every blow, the spirit butchered more foes than all its human allies put together, until a rioter charged it from behind and buried an axe in its back. Whereupon the demon screamed, collapsed to its knees, then melted away to nothing at all. Nular could scarcely believe that a creature, which had seemed the very embodiment of inhuman might, could perish so easily, but evidently it was so.
"I killed it!" yelled the axeman, brandishing his gory weapon. "I killed it!" His comrades roared in triumph then hurled themselves at the legionnaires with renewed savagery.
With the fiend gone and rioters circling to get behind their remaining adversaries, the advancing line wasn't viable anymore.
The legionnaires needed a formation that would enable them to guard each other's backs.
"Square!" Nular bellowed. "Square!"
But they couldn't form one. The enemies swarming on them from every side, grabbing and beating at them, made it impossible to maneuver. Pivoting, fighting with his sword in one hand and his cudgel in the other, Nular realized the press had suddenly grown so thick that he couldn't even see his men anymore, just hear the clangor of their opponents' blows pounding on their shields.
That clashing noise diminished as, no doubt, the legio
nnaires fell one by one. Something smashed or cut into Nular's knee, and he dropped too. His injured leg ablaze with pain, he glimpsed men running toward the conjurors' chapter house, then a burly laborer lifted a shovel high and plunged the edge down at his throat.
At first, Faurgar Stayanoga thought, it had made sense. They'd take to the streets as the priest in the alehouse had urged, and when the zulkirs saw how many they were, and how displeased, they'd have to rethink their decision.
More than that, it had been fun. Intoxicating. His whole life, Faurgar had walked warily in the presence of Red Wizards, legionnaires, or any Mulan really, but tonight, roaming the streets with hundreds like himself, he hadn't been afraid of anyone. They'd all said whatever they wanted as loud as they wanted. Defaced, smashed, and torched whatever they wanted. Broken into shops and taverns and taken whatever they wanted.
But he was scared, because the legions had turned out in force to deal with the disturbance, and he and his friends were trapped, with blood orcs advancing from one side and human warriors from the other. The orcs leered and howled their piercing battle cries. The men strode quietly, with faces like stone, but despite their differing attitudes, both companies looked entirely ready to kill.
Faurgar looked up and down the street and found nowhere to run. Some of his companions pounded on doors, but no one would open to them. Evidently hoping the legionnaires would spare the lives of any who surrendered, others raised their hands or dropped to their knees. The rest, defiant still, brandished the knives and tools that were all they possessed in the way of weapons.
Faurgar simply stood, mouth dry, heart pounding, uncertain of what he ought to do. It didn't look to him as if the guards intended to spare anyone, and if so, it seemed better to go down fighting. But if he was wrong, if there was even the slightest chance of surviving…
By the Great Flame, how had he come to this? He was the son of respectable parents and a journeyman mason. He didn't belong in the middle of this nightmare.
The orcs reached the first kneeling man. Steel flashed, blood spurted, and the penitent collapsed to flop and twitch like a fish out of water. Soldiers trampled him as they continued to advance.
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