Lies of Light (24 page)

“There will still be ships,” Pristoleph said, picking up the train of thought, “and if they go through a portal to the Vilhon or a canal, either way they load and unload here.”

“And there are other sources of magic besides the

Thayan,” Wenefir said. He had that look in his eye that Pristoleph had been seeing more and more, and liking less and less.

“You know how I feel about that,” said Pristoleph.

“Cyric’s network is growing stronger and stronger by the month,” Wenefir said. “I have made strong ties with many of the most powerful priests in the region. Show them that you’re open to their help, and they could make you ransar.”

“Like the Red Wizard made Salatis ransar?” Pristoleph asked. “Is that what it takes? A source of dark magic?”

“Apparently, yes,” Wenefir said. His voice had grown thinner and higher, betraying his unfortunate deformity. “In any event, it doesn’t hurt.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“I am sure about Cyric,” said Wenefir.

“It’s not the god that worries me,” Pristoleph replied, “but his servants in Faerun. Still, a new ally is always better than a new enemy.”

“Then I’ll leave it at that for now.”

Pristoleph smiled and tossed a flask of warm water to his sweating friend.

“Thank you,” Wenefir said, and he drank all that was left in the flask but still appeared thirsty.

“This canal,” Pristoleph said, changing the subject in as unsubtle a way possible, “will cause chaos, though. Either way—if they build it or abandon it—there will be confusion for some time. The city-state—the whole region from Calimshan up through the Vilhon Reach—will be off balance. If they eventually decide again on the former, it will be very off balance, and for a very long time.”

“And you’re wondering how you might benefit from the chaos?” asked Wenefir.

“If you can find a way to benefit from it,” Pristoleph told him, “it isn’t chaos.”

9Alturiak, the Yearof the Shield (1367DR) The Thayan Enclave, Innarlith

It’s all right, Kurtsson,” Marek said, though he wasn’t the least bit certain that was true. “That will be all for the night.”

The Thayan didn’t look at Kurtsson, didn’t want to exchange any sort of nervous or knowing glance. He listened to the other wizard stand, pause—hesitate—then finally leave. Marek had every reason to believe that the Vaasan would be listening in on what happened next—he had any number of ways of doing that—but it wouldn’t matter.

“Good evening, Wenefir,” Marek said. He didn’t bother trying to smile. He didn’t even stand. “It’s late for a visit.”

“Not quite middark,” Wenefir replied. “But my apologies just the same.”

Marek put his hands on the table in front of him, palms flat down.

“Everything is well, I hope,” the Red Wizard said. “That remains to be seen.”

Marek cleared his throat and finally managed to smile. A sense of relief washed over him, though he wasn’t sure exactly why.

“May I offer you a drink?” Marek asked, and Wenefir shook his head. “Please sit.”

“I didn’t come here to kill you,” Wenefir said.

“Of course not,” Marek replied. “If anything I said or did gave you the impression that that thought had crossed my mind, please excuse me.”

“I will have a brandy after all.”

Marek didn’t have to stand to reach the bottle or a glass. He kept a tray at hand when he worked late. He poured the drink, and leaning forward in his chair, handed it to Wenefir.

“Please, sit,” he said again.

Wenefir took a sip of the brandy—a very small sip. Maybe he didn’t even drink any at all really, but just touched it to his lips. He sat on a stool, his wide, soft body almost seemed to drape itself around the little seat. He set the glass down on the table.

“That’s pretty,” Wenefir said, nodding at the flamberge that sat on a swatch of black velvet in the middle of the table.

“Isn’t it?” Marek replied, wondering if that could be what Wenefir had come for—but why? That sort of thing wasn’t really his style, or Pristoleph’s.

“Tell me you didn’t make it,” said Wenefir.

“Oh, no,” Marek replied with a chuckle. “No, that one’s old—how old I’m still trying to determine—but old. It belongs to a friend, truth be told.”

“Truth be told—” Wenefir repeated, a wistful look further smoothing his already soft features. “It must be a very good friend, to allow you to hold onto something of such obvious value.”

“It’s what I do.”

“It’s enchanted?”

“Of course,” Marek said. “Why else would I have it?”

Wenefir shrugged, and a little smile crossed his face. They sat for a moment in silence.

“I had a conversation, earlier this evening,” Wenefir said at last, “with Senator Pristoleph.”

“I hope he’s well.”

Wenefir nodded and said, “He appreciates your help in regards to the situation on the quayside, and elsewhere, and he understands your position in regards to the canal.”

“But….?”

Wenefir smiled, seemed relieved, and said, “There will be ships, either way.”

“Either way?” Marek stalled, though he’d sorted it out easily enough.

“He’s prepared to align himself openly with whatever

eventuality you have in mind for the canal,” Wenefir said. “Of course, it would help if he knew your intentions.”

“Either way…” Marek whispered.

Wenefir smiled, so did Marek, and they both laughed.

“He is a man after my own heart,” said Marek.

“I’m sure he would be both delighted and horrified to hear that.”

Marek closed his mouth. His tongue felt dry all of a sudden.

“So?” Wenefir asked.

“Well,” Marek said, taking a deep breath. “My first impulse is to close the whole thing down, but I’m not sure that’s entirely possible.”

“No?”

“There is an expression, I think from Cormyr—or is it Sembia?” Marek said. “They say, ‘The cat is out of the bag.’”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that the idea has been expressed that a canal could be dug to connect the Sea of Fallen Stars with the western oceans. More than that the idea has been expressed that this little bit of empty land to the northwest of Innarlith is the best place to do it. And it is the best place, you know. I’ve consulted maps.”

“Have you?”

Marek let a breath hiss out of his nose and said, “I have.”

“So you’ll let him finish it?”

“Bane’s bloody corpse, no,” Marek said. “Not him.”

Wenefir tipped his chin up, smiled a little again, then nodded and said, “Ah. You’ll finish it yourself.”

“After a fashion,” Marek replied. “I will have it finished, but I won’t be using shovels and sweaty backs.”

“No?”

“Well,” the Thayan said with a wink, “if you can’t beat them, profit from them.”

“Another Cormyrean expression?”

“No, no, I’m quite sure that one’s Sembian.” They shared another laugh.

“There might come a day,” Wenefir said, “that Senator Pristoleph will desire an upward change in station.”

Marek felt his face flush. He forced a smile and said, “I was led to believe—”

“Calm yourself, Master Rymiit,” Wenefir interrupted. “Just something to keep in the back of your mind. For the nonce, let’s say that Senator Pristoleph looks forward to the increase in shipping traffic the canal will provide, and he trusts in your ability to build it, using the many wondrous means at your disposal.”

Marek bent forward a little in a bow as Wenefir stood.

“Middark has come and gone, I should think,” Wenefir said. “I will thank you for your hospitality, and be on my way.”

Marek stood, bowed again, and watched Wenefir leave. When the door closed, he sat again and sighed.

The door opened a few moments later, and Kurtsson stepped into the room.

“Should I be concerned?” the Vaasan asked.

“Of course, dear,” Marek said, then paused to down the rest of Wenefir’s brandy. “A wise man is always concerned.”

“But if Pristoleph is-“

“Pristoleph,” Marek finished for him, “is doing what we always knew he would. And we’ll either survive him or not.”

45_

WAlturiak, the Yearof the Shield (1367DR) Second Quarter, Innarlith

You look awful.”

Willem, startled, gasped and stepped backward into a nightstand. The touch of something on his leg startled him again, then he jumped at the thought that if he knocked it

over it would make a loud noise. He hissed a curse when he whirled to catch it.

“Graceful,” Phyrea whispered.

Willem winced at both her tone and the pain that seemed to drop onto his head from above. His eyes burned. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could feel her behind him, just standing there. He heard something drop to the floor and turned. The nightstand teetered a little but settled on its legs. From his peripheral vision he saw her cloak in a pool around her feet.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered.

“I—” she started, her voice booming in his ears.

He shushed her and she stopped. His head throbbed.

“You look awful,” she whispered.

“You said that,” he whispered back. “I believe you.”

He turned to face her but rubbed his eyes, trying to get some feeling back into his face along with anything but sandpaper under his eyelids. It wasn’t working.

“Why are we whispering?” she asked, whispering.

“I don’t live alone,” he replied, taking his hands from his eyes and blinking in the dim candlelight of his bedchamber.

Phyrea worked at the laces of her leather bodice and said, “That’s right… your mother.”

He nodded and asked, “What are you doing here?”

She didn’t answer, but continued to unlace her top.

“It’s late, isn’t it?” he asked, still blinking.

“It’s early,” she replied.

“I thought you hated me,” he said.

She dropped the bodice to the floor with her cloak. The sight of her took Willem’s breath away.

“You’ve been drinking,” she whispered.

He opened his mouth and shook his head, which hurt. She unlaced her leather breeches, then seemed to suddenly realize she was still wearing her boots.

“You don’t smell good,” she whispered. “I can smell you from here.”

She took off one boot and placed it next to her cloak.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You certainly are.”

She took off her other boot.

“Why did you come here?” he asked her.

“Well,” she replied as she slipped out of her breeches, “I’d have thought that would be obvious by now.”

She wore nothing underneath.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted.

She stood there, naked, looking at him with such an expression of utter contempt that Willem had to look away from her.

“I don’t please you?” she asked.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said. “You’re the most beautiful woman in all of Faerun.” “Thank you.”

“You should go,” he said. “You don’t have to—”

“What?” she asked.

He didn’t know what to say.

Phyrea smiled at him the way people smile at other people’s misbehaving children. She stepped out of the clothing at her feet and crossed the room to Willem’s unmade bed. She slipped under the covers, but kicked them away, presumably so he could see her.

“I don’t feel well,” he said.

“Take your clothes off.”

He shook his head, but started to unbutton his shirt. His fingers were numb, and he had trouble. “Everyone wants us to marry,” he said. “Who’s everyone?”

“Your father,” he told her, “Marek Rymiit… other people.” “Well then I guess we had better marry,” she said. “Each other,” he said.

A look crossed her face—plain as day—that told him in no uncertain terms that the very thought of that was a fate worse than death for her. She couldn’t bear the very idea of it.

“I’m tired,” he said, and took off his shirt. “You’re drunk.”

He shook his head again and winced at the dull agony. “Not anymore,” he said.

“There’s no reason for you to feel sorry for yourself, Willem.”

“Isn’t there?”

Her expression changed again. She pitied him. He hated that.

“I’ll kill you,” he said, “if you ever look at me like that again.”

She took a short, shallow breath, and the look of pity disappeared, replaced in an instant with confusion.

“Are you trying to scare me?” she asked.

He slid out of his trousers and said, “No.”

“Then why would you say something like that?” she asked as he walked to the bed.

He sat down and said, “I’m tired of people not thinking much of me.”

“Then you should do something worthwhile.”

He reached out to touch her face, and she flinched away, so he did too. She smiled in an apologetic way he found confusing.

“May I touch you?” he asked.

“I came here so you could touch me,” she whispered. He touched her face. Her skin was soft—not warm but hot.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“Do you need to know that, really?” she asked. He could feel her jaw working under the flesh of her cheek. “How long has it been since you asked my father for my hand in marriage?”

Willem’s face went hot, and he tried to stand, but she held his arm. He didn’t struggle against her weak grip.

“Other people have been straightforward with me,” he said. “I’ve been told what to do, and what to expect in return. But it seems as though every time I do what I’m

sure people want me to do, they return that with ever greater contempt.”

“You’re not from here,” she whispered. “Innarlith can be an unambiguous place.”

He leaned in to kiss her, but not all the way.

“That’s not true at all,” he whispered.

She leaned in the rest of the way, and their lips met. The kiss took the pain from his head, the stiffness from his joints. With the briefest flick of her tongue she pulled back.

“Everyone wants gold,” she whispered. He could feel her breath hot on his face with every syllable. “They all have different ways of—”

He kissed her, and their tongues met. He pulled away when he thought for a moment that he might pass out.

“—trying to get it,” she went on, “but that’s all anyone here wants.”

“That’s true everywhere,” he said, moving his hands from her face, down her long neck to her shoulder. He traced the edge of her shoulder blade with a finger and she put a hand on his chest.