The Simbul's Gift (10 page)

“If you have not failed me, then why have you come?”

The spy master studied her brooch a moment before fastening it to her flimsy robe. “Messages, my lord, from the west. There was a problem.”

She paused, met Thrul's eyes, finding the precise balance between honesty and pride necessary to survive in the tight circle of associates around any zulkir or tharchion. Thrul lowered his gaze first; she continued.

“A woman in Nethra. She let her guard down and drew unwanted attention, but everything's been taken care of, my lord. There'll be no repetition. The web wasn't compromised.”

“Why tell me of your mistakes, woman?” Thrul's scowl took a cruel turn. “I'm not interested in
mistakes.”

“The woman was a fool, my lord, and we're well rid of her, but she was looking under a very interesting rock when the Tall One interrupted her.”

“Tall One? You mean the Aerasumé?” the zulkir's tone was frigid. “What trade do the Aerasumé have in Nethra?”

“That is not known, my lord. The Tall One took ship immediately after the incident. We looked for his associates but … My lord, pursuing one of
them
is hardly worth the risk. Whatever his reason for visiting Nethra, he's gone now. I will tell you if he returns. That is not why I've come.”

“Yes, and why, precisely, have you come?”

“We are not the only fishers with a net to fling over Aglarond.”

Aznar Thrul, who shaved his scalp and beard daily but left his eyebrows intact, raised both of them to astonished heights. “Who else? Allies? Enemies?” He paused after each question, but his spy master did not respond. “Zulkirs?” he asked finally. “Who? Toward what ends?”

“Enchantment no longer relies on our advice. He's put his own hand on the map.”

“Lauzoril,” the zulkir drawled, wrapping his voice around the name as he considered his ally of convenience—inconvenience—against Szass Tam. The man gave lip service to the notions of Thay's imperial destiny, but he was an opportunist, a coward in his gut, like so many enchanters. What Lauzoril knew of strategy and tactics could be written on the back of a woman's hand, but he had a golden tongue. No gnolls and goblins, undead or unclever, for the Zulkir of Enchantment—the man could raise a human host and hold it together with words alone. He'd proved that last year in Gauros Gorge where he'd extracted his human legions safely from a battlefield rout and gained an undeserved reputation for martial genius. His popularity with the common folk—rare for a zulkir—made him useful … for now.

“Enchantment is an ally, a friend. I'm sure his spy gave a good account.”

“The bastard unstrung himself, my lord.”

Thrul sucked his teeth. The minions of Enchantment were uncommonly good at dying with their secrets intact. A more suspicious man than Aznar Thrul—if such a man were ever born—might suspect their zulkir of practicing forbidden magic or a bit of treachery with Szass Tam. In which case, woe to Necromancy—and Lauzoril was still more useful alive than destroyed.

“His schemes are known to us. Anyone else? My supper grows cold.”

“Illusion has spies in Aglarond,” the spy master said abruptly. “Mythrell'aa of the Serpent Tower.”

Thrul lost his appetite. Lady Illusion had dwelt in Bezantur longer than him, but hadn't had the wit to leave when he claimed it. She'd locked herself in her obsidian tower and sealed the place with enough magic to make a god hesitate before knocking on her door.

Publicly, Mythrell'aa claimed she was no one's enemy, that Illusion had no ambition, and she wished only to follow her own path. Privately, Aznar Thrul knew her proclamations were trash. She'd declared for Szass Tam after last year's Rashemen Gorge rout, then undeclared when Tam himself was defeated in the spring. He believed the first declaration, not the second. Thrul was certain Lady Illusion had made new promises to Szass Tam; he had
more than one spy master reporting to him. He was almost certain the two were conspiring against him directly.

Mythrell'aa wasn't useful, not at all. Thrul wanted her dead—if he could be certain death wouldn't simply make her even more dangerous. But …

“Mythrell'aa? She's got a grudge against the silver-eyed bitch, had it for years; no one knows why. But flinging out a net in greater Aglarond? That's hardly Illusion's style, woman, and you know it.” Then another thought raced through the zulkir's mind. “Death's door—she's not spying on Aglarond, she's spying on
us!
If she's gotten wind of our web …”

The spy master nodded sagely. “We cannot not rule that out, my lord.
I
have not.”

Thrul wondered, Had he made the greatest mistake of his life when he trusted this woman? Should he slay her on the spot and eliminate the possibility? By design, they kept secrets from each other. Thrul had other spies, other spy masters; that was one of his secrets. What were hers? She wasn't supposed to spy within Thay, especially within Bezantur, but she'd be a fool if she didn't. She'd be a fool if she didn't have eyes and ears within Serpent Tower—if she hadn't at least tried to place a spy there. Thrul's gods knew, Thrul himself had tried often enough. Was his spy master luckier? more skilled? Or a traitor? Did he dare trust her? Did he dare not?

“My lord? You are distracted.”

The zulkir shook his head and prepared a lie. “We have invested so much in this web. I would be grieved if Mythrell'aa had compromised it before it had truly begun to function.”

“It is not compromised, my lord. Not at all. The woman we lost was in Nethra. She cannot be traced to us; that is the beauty of what we have created. And she's already been replaced. Mythrell'aa's web is in Aglarond proper, disguised as grain traders.”

“Grain traders! Mythrell'aa?” Thrul snorted and took a drink from his goblet. “Surely, this is humor?”

“They have been on the roads since the spring mud dried, my lord, visiting village after village. They have paid handsomely for grain they do not want … There will be havoc, my lord, when the real traders arrive. Towns and
cities will have to pay more, or face revolt. It is a clever ploy, my lord—one we might consider using—but from Mythrell'aa, it is pure chance. Her minions aren't looking for grain. We don't know
what
it might be, my lord, but we suspect they may have found it in a small village near Mesring.”

“So? Why tell me this? Why bother me, if you don't have answers. What do I pay you for, woman? Questions? Suspicions?”

The spy master squared her shoulders. She came from unquestionable Mulan stock and when she straightened her back she towered over the seated zulkir. “My suspicions
are
answers, my lord. They are the currency of my trade. If they no longer satisfy you …”

Thrul met her eyes, weighed his options, and poured more wine for them both. “Tell me your suspicions, woman. My curiosity can be contained no longer.”

“This morning I learned that there are three wizards in that village, my lord, and three more outside it. The ones inside are of no account, but the others were recognizable. She's sent three of her best, my lord. Any one of them could turn that village into a memory, but she sent
three—”

“Why? What could attract her? Who cares …?” Thrul's voice trailed. He answered his own question: “The damned queen!” He cursed softly. “A trap to snare the queen in her own backyard. What if she succeeds?”

The spy master grinned. “No one will know it was her, my lord. Our own wizards have surrounded the village
and
the illusionists. They won't make the first move, but they'll make the last.”

The zulkir saluted his spy master with his goblet. “A rival, an enemy, and no risk to us, no matter what—correct?”

“Correct, my lord. If Mythrell'aa fails, you will be there to humiliate her. If she wins, you, my lord, will be the first to claim Aglarond for Thay.”

“The rewards are indeed incalculable.” Thrul set down his goblet. “What part of them will you claim for yourself, woman?”

“Who am I, my lord, but your spy master? Will you need me any less tomorrow than you need me today? I want nothing I do not already have—”

“Wisely said, wo—”

“But I need gold, my lord.”

“Debts?” Thrul asked eagerly, thinking he'd discovered her weakness.

“Replacements, my lord. Mythrell'aa is a fool, but there will be casualties. Faces will have been seen and must, therefore, be eliminated. The entire web will have to be realigned, holes will need filling—six of them, I think. Not for Aglarond, my lord; that's no place for raw recruits. I send veterans to Aglarond, my lord, but I … 
we
protect them.”

The spy master had researched the spells that concealed their spies from the closest scrutiny, but the casting was beyond her. Not beyond a zulkir, of course. He set the spell in an oily potion that she delivered to her chosen agents. He added a few reagents, a few hidden consequences that she didn't know about. It was a fair trade, for Thay.

“I'll instruct my chamberlain to purchase blood pearls and dragon-wing powder.”

“I prefer to purchase them myself, my lord.”

Another exchange of stares and the zulkir appeared to concede the point. “Of course. My chamberlain will fill your purse.”

“I will return, my lord, when I have learned more.”

The zulkir dismissed his spy master with a nod. She left the room. Thrul's chamberlain met her in a deserted atrium. He returned her clothing and, after she had dressed, handed her a coin purse. There'd been enough time—barely—for the chamberlain to meet with the zulkir. More likely, the chamberlain's mind was not entirely his own.

She changed her clothes a second time in a bolt-hole not far from the tharchion's citadel. When she emerged her wizard's tattoos were hidden beneath a mane of scraggly hair and padded rags had given her an old woman's humped shoulders. She hobbled along with a cane that was too short by half for her natural height and attracted no one's attention as she completed her homeward journey.

In the paid-for privacy of her room, she tested each coin in the heat of a blue-green flame. In her line of work, a person couldn't be too careful. Her neighbors and associates wouldn't accept an ensorcelled coin at face value, but
they'd pay extra for anything that would draw Aznar Thrul's attention to an enemy.

Two of the lot glowed yellow in the flame. She set them aside with a sigh. There were more tests to run but not tonight. She poured herself a glass of clear liquid and downed it in a single gulp. Tears flowed from her eyes.

“Oh, Deaizul—you'd better be right about this,” she warned the walls.

Deaizul was in Aglarond. Deaizul had been the man who'd tracked Mythrell'aa's spies to the little village, the man who'd told her what he'd found and summoned up the necessary assistance before he'd sent the message, the man who'd taught her everything he knew about spycraft and how to keep the upper hand with men like Aznar Thrul.

She removed the carnelian brooch—Deaizul's last gift and the token through which she'd claimed a place in Thrul's inmost circle—from the inner folds of her rags and set it on the table beside the coins.

Deaizul had lost his nerve during the Salamander Wars. Her mentor worked alone now or he didn't work at all. He'd left the village after he sent the message. The village, he'd said, had given him a missing piece to another mystery, set deep in the Yuirwood: gods in search of worshipers, would-be worshipers in search of gods. Deaizul had a plan, he'd said, to bring the worshipers and the gods together—for the greater glory of Thay. He'd have to become someone else for awhile, but he'd done that a hundred times before. Deaizul could live another man's life for a week, a month, or a year, and his own wife would never suspect.

When he was done, he said he'd come back to Thay and the zulkirs would be like mud on his feet.

Just don't count on him for anything until then. Deaizul in disguise often forgot who Deaizul was or who in Bezantur worried about him each night.

“Are you finished?” the Simbul demanded. “Are you ready to behave like an intelligent man?” She thumped her staff on the ground beside Bro's head. “Or, are you going to continue behaving like a complete fool?”

Bro tried to sit but fell back with a groan, clutching his flanks, hiding his face. His shoulders shook and something like a sob slipped into the night.

Alassra prodded his ankle. He curled into a tight ball of misery. Alassra craned her neck to see if he was bleeding. She'd hit him harder than she meant to. Possibly—probably—she'd broken a few ribs.

“Answer me, Ebroin.”

It hadn't been an even fight: Bro's anger was no match for her skill, even with the unfamiliar staff she passed to her off-weapon hand. He needed healing again. She'd healed him once, back in his village. When she'd shot lightning at the Red Wizard sneaking toward them, the half-elf had gotten a flash burn. It hadn't been a serious injury, but the queen of Aglarond took some pride that she didn't harm her subjects—when they gave her a choice.

Which Bro hadn't.

The troublesome youth had attacked her four times, not counting his initial plunge into the Simbul's spellcasting periphery as she prepared to whisk the colt to safety in Velprintalar, fully intending to return for him and his sister. She'd gone to Sulalk prepared for spell-flinging wizards, not grief-maddened Cha'Tel'Quessir. Alassra knew three-score variations on the simple spells for sleep and tranquility, but she hadn't foreseen a need for such gentle magic and, notwithstanding the shelves of worn spellbooks in her workroom, there was an absolute limit to the number of spells she could retain in her mind.