Lies of Light (20 page)

Marek fought down the impulse to have Insithryllax melt Salatis in his seat. Instead, he concentrated on Nyla’s thoughts.

couldn’t kill him, she told herself, but the Thayan could.p>

“I think we all want the same things,” the Red Wizard said. “And I’m sure that all those we answer to… within the city”—he glanced at Salatis—”and without… will be happy as long as the result is a positive one.”

Thank the Black Hand’s memory, Nyla thought.

She smiled and said, “I just wanted you to know that I am your friend.”

Marek returned her smile.

35_

2 MiHul, the Yearofthe Staff (1366 DR) The Nagaflow Keep

Will he wake soon?” Hrothgar asked.

Surero shrugged in response, and the dwarf fought down the urge to punch the alchemist in the face. Instead, he sighed and looked down at Devorast. He lay in a narrow soldier’s bed in a room near the very top of the imposing fortress. The room was cool, the spring air coming through the pair of arrow loops was fresh, and the sickroom stench that he’d been hit with when he’d first rushed to Devorast’s bedside was gone.

“Or am I just used to it?” he muttered to himself.

“Pardon?” Surero asked, and Hrothgar shrugged him off.

The alchemist sat at a desk cluttered with glassware and iron pots. A little oil lamp burned under a glass bowl in which a strange yellow liquid boiled, sending orange steam into the air that smelled of deep earth—a welcoming sensation for the dwarf.

“Will he live?” Hrothgar asked.

“A tenday will tell,” Surero answered, and Hrothgar could tell he was no more satisfied with that answer than the dwarf was.

“But it’s been longer than that already.”

“Twelve days since the naga brought him here,” Surero replied. “And he’s still alive, which is fortunate for him. This thing that bit him—the naga called it a banelar—did more than just poison him. Its venom had an acidic quality to it that burned him, and burned him badly—deep inside his blood vessels. It introduced a foul humor to his essential fluids.”

“Everybody wants the son of a cow dead,” Hrothgar said. “And all he wants is to dig a hole.”

“Dig a hole and fill it with water,” Surero replied. “And change the way trade moves across the Realms for centuries to come. A lot of people have killed a lot of other people for a lot less.”

The dwarf could only stand there, looking at his friend who appeared already more dead than alive, and shake his head. Of course, Surero was right. The alchemist had also kept Devorast alive, his potions and ointments attacked the venom, neutralized the acid, and slowly started putting the man back together again from the inside out.

The door opened without a sound—Devorast had designed the hinges himself, years before—and Hrothgar turned to see Phyrea step into the room. She was pale. She didn’t look well. When she saw Devorast laying on his back, the bedclothes pulled up to his chin, and the sickly

bluish cast to his skin, a tear rolled from her eye, and she took a deep breath.

“There has been no change,” Surero told her.

She nodded in response and moved to stand next to Hrothgar. The dwarf looked up at her, and she met his gaze and nodded, forcing a smile that Hrothgar was reluctant to return. Surero stood and joined them. For the longest time the three of them stood there, staring at their friend.

“I wasn’t able…” Phyrea said at last. She shook her head, unable to finish.

“It’s all right,” Surero said. “I know someone in Saelmur.”

Phyrea untied a small leather pouch from her belt and handed it to Surero. Hrothgar watched as the alchemist opened it, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and unfolded it to reveal two shining gold rings and a brooch of ebony and gold. One ring had a blue gemstone expertly cut in the shape of a ram’s head. Hrothgar had marveled at the workmanship the first time he’d seen it. It was masterful, even for the finest dwarf gemcutters. The brooch bore the mark of the Zhentarim, and the mere thought of it made the dwarf grimace, though he wasn’t surprised that they’d made that particular enemy.

The naga had left the items, saying they belonged to Devorast, though Hrothgar had never seen him wear any sort of jewelry. They all assumed they were worn by the would-be assassin. That they were imbued with magic was no question, but Surero had asked Phyrea to take them back to Innarlith to find out what, if anything, they could do, and how they were used. Also as they’d expected, her efforts had been hindered by not wanting to bring them to the attention of Marek Rymiit.

“He’ll never wear them anyway,” Hrothgar said.

“No, he won’t, will he?” Phyrea replied. “He won’t defend himself. He won’t arm himself. He won’t even recognize that there are people who want him dead. He does—”

She stopped herself, and Hrothgar was relieved. He didn’t feel up to slapping her face.

“He fights when he has to,” the dwarf said. “The rest of the time, he works.”

36_

8 Marpenoth, the Year of the Staff (1366 DR) The Canal Site

E ven during the tendays that Devorast lay writhing in quiet agony, then slowly recovered, construction continued. At first many of the Innarlan diggers, woodcutters, and stonemasons had wandered back and forth from Innarlith, but work had become increasingly difficult to find in the city, so most eventually took up residence at the site. Word spread to neighboring cities, and men came from as far as Arrabar for the ransar’s gold. When those coins diminished over time, increasingly replaced by excuses, Arrabar started to pay the Arrabarrans, Saelmur and Nimpeth supported their own people, and King Azoun sent gold by the trade bar.

They had dug for miles, a trench forty feet deep and three hundred feet wide. Parts of it had already been paved on the bottom and sides with stone blocks. All along the mile after mile the site stretched were scaffolds and rigs of all description—structures Phyrea had never seen before. Many of them no one had ever seen before, all of them drawn from the mind of one man.

When she compared in her mind the parts of the canal that she’d seen near completion and the drawings in the stacks and stacks of parchment in Devorast’s little cabin, they were not merely similar, but perfectly identical.

It would be the greatest monument to one man Faerun had ever known.

Phyrea stumbled on a loose rock, and Devorast took her hand to steady her. His fingers were rough and warm, his grip strong and reassuring. She shuddered at the feeling of his hand in hers, especially when he didn’t let go. She could

feel him smiling at her, but she didn’t look at him.

“I can’t come back here anymore,” she said.

“Why not?” he asked, too quick for him.

She wriggled her hand free from his and felt the cold metal of a ring on his finger.

“What is that?” she asked him, then took his hand to examine the ring: a thin gold band traced with a line of engraved runes. “When did you start wearing this?”

Devorast shrugged, and pulled his hand away.

“It’s been almost six months,” she said. “Why would you start to wear that now? If it was anyone but you, I’d think you were wearing it for me.”

He looked at her without speaking, but she knew what he was thinking. He wasn’t wearing it for her.

“Curious?” she asked him. “Is that it?”

He smiled and started walking again. She didn’t follow him.

“If you had died,” she told his back, “I might have killed myself.”

He stopped and turned, the cool autumn breeze pulling his long red hair away from his stern face. “That would have been stupid.”

She shook her head, and tried not to start crying.

“I lived,” he said, and turned around again but didn’t walk away.

“Yes, you did,” Phyrea replied. “You lived, and you went right back to work. And how many times since the spring have they tried to kill you?”

“If they truly wanted me dead,” Devorast said, “they’d have killed me.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“I think they have something else in mind for me,” said Devorast. “They think they can frighten me, intimidate me.”

“And when they finally realize they can’t, if they haven’t already, they will kill you,” she said. “And when they do, I won’t kill myself. I can’t kill myself for you.”

“Phyrea, I never asked you to—”

“I know,” she cut in. “Of course you never asked that of me. You never asked anything of me. I got you saltpeter from my father’s farm, but you paid me for it. You love me with your body but not with your heart—if you even have a heart. You live for this hole in the ground, even if it makes enemies of the whole of Toril, and you don’t even bother fighting them.”

“I fight-“

“For your life,” she shouted. “When they attack you, you defend yourself. I know that. But you don’t fight them, really. You know who it is. You know who’s behind all of it, but will you go back to the city and find him? Will you confront him? Will you have it out—be done with it once and for all? No, you won’t.”

“I have no interest in—”

“Damn it, Ivar,” she screamed at him, “they have an interest in you!”

He looked at her and shrugged. The gesture almost made Phyrea drop to her knees and tear her hair out in frustration. Her eyes blurred with tears.

“I know it’s not cowardice,” she told him, getting control of her voice. “But then what is it? I know how beneath you they are, but—”

She took a deep breath. She’d said it all before, been trapped by him too many times already. She’d given herself to him, and when she was with him, the ghosts that haunted her fell silent. But then days would pass—tendays, months—and she would realize once again that he gave her his body, but too little else—far, far too little of himself.

“Ivar, I can’t-“

There was a flash of light, bright even in the midafter-noon sun, and he rushed at her with his arms outstretched. He meant to embrace her, and Phyrea, startled, stepped back. His face was a stone mask—utterly unreadable. Her instincts told her to defend herself, but her reflexes failed her. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. She

gasped when they left the ground.

The sound that followed close after the flash of light was a dull but deafening thud that stung her ears. She couldn’t tell for sure but it seemed as though they hurtled through the air—easily a dozen feet off the ground—because Devorast had jumped, but how could that be? It must have been the explosion that launched them into the sky, but—

The ring, she thought.

As they rotated in the air she saw a massive orange and yellow fireball still expanding, showering the place where they’d been standing only half a heartbeat before with chunks of smoking rock as big around as her head. Men screamed, and the air hummed from the sound of the big rocks hitting the ground.

They landed hard enough to make her grunt, but Devorast landed on his feet and came to a stop with his body between Phyrea and the explosion. She pushed away from him and sprawled onto the ground on her back.

He didn’t even spare you a glance, the voice of the sad woman whined in her head.

Phyrea closed her eyes.

I don’t blame you, the old woman said—and Phyrea could see her burn-scarred face in her mind’s eye.
wouldn’t want to see him running away from me again, either, if I were you.p>

Forget him, the man with the scar on his face said.

Phyrea opened her eyes and looked over her shoulder. The man stood among the falling pebbles that rained down on her like warm, dry hail. The stones passed right through him.

“This is the last time,” she promised the ghost.

The man shook his head, but Phyrea turned away from him, stood, and followed Devorast. She ran through a continuing rain of pebbles and specks of wood, and vegetation that the fireball had thrown into the air. By the time she reached the edge of the crater and stopped at Devorast’s side, the rain of stones had stopped. Dust and

smoke made her cough and stung her eyes. “Who is she?” a workman asked.

She saw Devorast shake his head. On the ground at his feet was the mangled body of a girl. Devorast kneeled and turned her over. Her head rolled on a broken neck, and her dead eyes stared up at the sky.

“I know her,” Phyrea said, then coughed again.

Devorast turned, surprised to find her right behind him.

“I went to finishing school with her,” she explained. “Her father lost his seat on the senate and killed himself when the debts were called in. I lost track of her when she and her mother and sisters moved out of the Second Quarter.”

“She ignited Surero’s smokepowder casks,” Devorast said. “Why?”

Phyrea rubbed the grit from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Why does anyone want to kill you?”

“What’s her name?” the workman asked.

“Cassiya,” Phyrea answered. “I think her name was Cassiya.”

37

30 Marpenoth, the Yearof the Staff (1366 DR) The Thayan Enclave, Innarlith

^Ransar,” Marek Rymiit said with a flourish, “welcome to Thayan soil.”

Salatis’s eyes narrowed at that, though he’d agreed to it already. He stepped in and pasted a smile on his face. As he looked around at the glass cases filled with artifacts and unusual curios of the most exotic sort, he clasped a hand around a pendant that hung from a heavy gold chain around his neck.

“Azuth…” Marek commented with a lift of one eyebrow. “Really?”

Salatis cleared his throat, took his hand away from the holy symbol, and said, “The High One’s wisdom has entered my life of late, yes.”

Marek smiled and stepped deeper into the showroom, making way for the ransar. Salatis followed, his expression alternating between fear, confusion, and longing as he went from case to case. He stopped at one, the echo of his footsteps pinging from the marble floor to the pounded lead ceiling.

“This…” Salatis said, looking down at a glass case that contained an ornately-crafted brass horn. “What is this?”

“Ah,” Marek replied. “You have a good eye, Ransar. That is a horn of blasting.” “A horn of…?”

“It’s a wonderfully crafted piece, isn’t it?” Marek said, stepping behind the ransar and laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Heavy, I suppose. Not… subtle… but beautiful in its own way.”