44
16 Mirtul, the Year of the Wyvern (1363 DR)
SECOND QUARTER, INNARLITH
They say he just came out of it all at once,” Inthelph whispered, but not so softly that half the room didn’t hear him. “He lay at death’s very door for … how long?”
“Five months,” Meykhati provided.
“So long….” Inthelph whispered.
Willem’s head spun and his hands shook. He couldn’t look at the master builder or at any of the senators that stood around him. He breathed only with some difficulty.
“At the very least,” said Senator Djeserka, “you have to give the old man his due. I heard he had enough of that poison in him to drop a stone giant.”
Meykhati nodded and said, “He had a team of clerics working on him practically day and night. Apparently he’d given Waukeen’s temple enough gold over the years that the Merchant’s Friend thought he deserved another year.”
Willem’s mouth went dry. It felt as if he’d crossed the Calim Desert on foot.
“If Waukeen was any kind of friend to that particular merchant,” the master builder said, “he would have let him go.”
“Are you all right, Willem?” Meykhati asked.
Willem’s eyes went wide when he realized the men were looking at him. If he looked half as bad as he felt …
“I’m well, thank you, Senator,” Willem answered, faking a smile.
“My, Inthelph, I think you might be keeping young Willem out in the rain too much,” Meykhati joked, slapping Willem on the back with a fatherly wink.
“Willem has been working very hard lately,” said the master builder. “He’s decided to take control of his own fate.”
Willem spun on Inthelph, his face flushed, sweat soaking him. The three senators were taken aback, but Inthelph laughed and the moment passed.
“He’ll be a senator soon enough,” the master builder said.
Willem studied his cheerful, sociable demeanor and told himself that Inthelph didn’t know anything, didn’t know it was he who had poisoned Khonsu.
The senators moved on to other subjects, including the names of their younger, easier-to-manipulate colleagues whom they had managed to move into the committees once run by Khonsu. Though the old man could maintain his seat on the senate—he’d paid for it long ago, after all—he was a lone vote without consensus or allies. He could sit on the senate forever, but for him it would never be anything but a meaningless title ever again.
Willem swallowed his third glass of brandy and closed his eyes while it burned his throat. His hands were still shaking but not as bad.
He wanted to say, “I got away with it.” He wanted to tell Inthelph and his smug friends who had set the stage for their triumph over the old man. What would they have done?
Willem didn’t know, which is precisely why he kept his mouth shut. Instead he looked across the seemingly endless ballroom at Khonsu.
The old man sat in a chair—a strange contraption with wheels on the sides. A blanket was draped over his frail, sticklike legs. His skin was the color of bleached parchment. What little hair he’d had was gone and his dull eyes were lined with red.
Behind him stood the old chambermaid. She didn’t look much healthier than her half-dead employer.
Willem crossed the room. He didn’t know why, but he wanted a closer look. He wanted to be sure the old man really was still alive. From a distance he looked dead.
“Senator,” Willem said.
Khonsu looked up, his eyes twitching and rolling, looking for the source of the sound.
“Senator Khonsu,” Willem repeated, leaning in a bit.
The old man’s eyes found him and bulged. He drew in a deep, ragged, phlegmy breath.
“Senator,” Willem said, glancing at the chambermaid. The old woman looked at him the way she might a melon in the marketplace, if she wasn’t in the market for melons. There was no recognition, no realization that the mysterious Mister Wheloon had crossed her path again. “You’re alive.”
The old man opened his mouth, and his chin quivered. His eyes twitched in their sockets.
“It’s all right, Senator,” Willem said.
“What do you want?” Khonsu rasped.
Willem looked at the maid again. Her mind was on the buffet on the other side of the room. Though she wasn’t paying any attention to either of them, Willem knew he couldn’t say what he really wanted to say.
“No one knows who did this to you, Senator,” he said instead.
Khonsu shook his head. His legs jumped a little under the blanket and he turned his face away as if afraid Willem was about to strike him.
“They say no one will ever know,” Willem chanced.
“No,” the old man whispered. “No.”
“You will let me know,” Willem said as he took a step back, “if there’s anything I can do for you.” And Willem lay awake the entire rest of that night wondering what made him say, “A cup of tea, perhaps?”
45
8 Flamerule, the Year of the Wyvern (1363 DR)
THE NAGAWATER
Svayyah had cast an array of spells on the bubble and on the man. She wanted to know if he was lying, what he was thinking before he spoke, what spells or magical items he might have had on his person, and so on—anything she could think of, and Svayyah could think of a lot.
They spent the first hour of their meeting discussing the bubble itself. The human was fascinated by it, as if he’d never seen magic in use before, but there was no awe in his eyes or voice. He asked the most bizarre questions, all focused on the fundamentals. He refused to accept that she’d made the sphere of breathable air ten feet below the surface of the long, narrow lake called the Nagawater simply by magic.
Ivar Devorast wanted to know how the magic worked—exactly.
Svayyah was perfectly capable of answering his questions. She wasn’t a mindless monster, as most dista’ssara believed. The Art was Svayyah’s life, and she knew what she was doing, and how she was doing it, at all times.
At the end of that first hour, though, Svayyah was forced to admit to herself that she had spent an hour explaining herself to a human who to her was still largely a mystery. Had it been any other human that would have angered her.
“Enough of that,” she said finally, though she knew Devorast was satisfied anyway. “You are putting us at a disadvantage.”
“I will never compete with you in the creation of magical air bubbles, Svayyah,” he said with that disarming smile.
“Careful how you speak to us, dista’ssara,” she warned. “You have to know that there are a thousand ways we could kill you right now in the blink of an eye.”
“Collapsing the bubble, for instance,” the human replied.
“To begin with,” said the water naga.
“In what way would that benefit you?”
Svayyah stopped herself from answering and thought about the question instead. Perhaps he did have her at a disadvantage after all.
“But,” he said, “we’re here to discuss something else.”
Svayyah nodded and replied, “We have discussed your intentions with our tribemates, and they are intrigued.”
“Do you speak for them all?”
“As much as anyone speaks for the Ssa’Naja,” she replied. “We do not gather into realms and kingdoms the way you lesser beings do. No single naga would ever agree to be placed under the dominion of another. There are enough of us, however, and we are enlightened enough, that here in the lake and in the river south, we consult one another, warn one another of dangers, and have been known to gather together to further a common goal.”
“They understand what this will entail?”
Svayyah suppressed an angry hiss and said, “We are not snakes, ape-creature. We have discussed, and we understand. Don’t forget that if you succeed in this—and we are not the only one among the naja’ssara who believes you will not—we will expect to be compensated for the use of our waters.”
“You claim the river and the lake,” Devorast agreed. “That will be fair, as long as you and your fellows are fair.”
“We will discuss, and we will decide,” she said. “You will abide.”
“I’m not in the habit of abiding,” Devorast said, “but I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”
Svayyah eyed him, and he stared back. She felt no fear in him, and his words echoed the thoughts she heard from his mind half a breath before he spoke. He really believed he was going to succeed in his scheme and that the naja’ssara would be cooperative partners.
Svayyah was growing increasingly convinced that he was right, so she checked again to make sure he was exerting no magical control over her. He wasn’t.
“What of the others?” she asked. “Have you spoken of this with the other interested parties? Those who would stand to gain or lose from the reality of this thing?”
Devorast shrugged and said, “I will take that as it comes, I suppose.”
“Now you’re just being naïve, Devorast,” Svayyah warned him. “You mean to build a canal to join the Lake of Steam to the Nagaflow, which feeds into the Nagawater, which eventually empties into the Vilhon Reach. Nothing like this has ever been done before. You may have interested the naja’ssara, but what of, say, the Thayans?”
“The Thayans?” Devorast asked.
“Yes,” she taunted him, “the Thayans—the realm of wizards who travel through the Weave and who’ve been known to sell access to their portals? This canal could bite into that, no?”
Devorast shrugged. He really didn’t care.
“Cormyr might be on your side, but what of the sahuagin?” she asked.
“The sahuagin?”
“You know what a sahuagin is?” she asked, and Devorast nodded. “Then you know they’re not to be trifled with. The Inner Sea is acrawl with them, and there’s another race, deeper down, one we’re not sure your kind even knows of.”
“What are you suggesting?” he asked, and she thought he might be starting to get annoyed.
“What will the druids in Turmish think?” Svayyah went on. “Who will control the northern end of the canal? Your ransar will hold the southern end, perhaps, but what of the mouth of the Nagaflow at the Vilhon Reach? We don’t bother with those waters, but your fellows in Arrabar just might.”
Devorast shrugged.
“How is it that you get your goods, you humans, from the east to the west now, without this canal—with no navigable waterway between, say, Impiltur and Waterdeep?”
He looked surprised.
“As we said, Devorast, we’re not a dumb animal. We have ears and a mind. We’ve heard of Waterdeep.”
Devorast offered a smile and nod of apology and Svayyah returned the smile despite herself. She fought back the temptation to rest her cheek on the outside of the bubble, but she had the sudden urge to get closer to him.
She shook her long, serpentine body so hard the bubble bounced in the murky water, almost knocking Devorast off his feet.
“All right, all right,” he said, steadying himself on the bottom of the spherical bubble. “Caravans. They carry goods, sometimes across the great desert Anauroch even, in caravans.”
“Slow, tedious, walking on legs on the ground?” Svayyah said.
“Precisely.”
“You will need to do a lot of talking,” Svayyah said. “You will need to build a strong coalition. You will have to keep your friends close and at the very least know who your enemies are. Whoever operates those caravans will not appreciate those same items moving instead aboard a ship that, even passing through the Nagawater and the Lake of Steam, will surely get to the Sword Coast faster than some ox cart. One thing we know about you humans, one thing that makes you predictable, is that you will kill each other over gold. You will do anything for gold.”
Devorast shook his head as if he disagreed with her and said, “You’re right, but that doesn’t interest me. I’m not building this canal to drive some caravanner out of business. I’m not doing it to profit any merchant captain or to empower the ransar of Innarlith, whom I don’t even know.”
“Then why?” Svayyah said with a laugh in her voice. “This will take you years. It could take the rest of your paltry existence in this world to finish a canal that will have to stretch, what, fifty miles—?”
“Forty,” he corrected.
“Forty,” she repeated with ice in her voice. “Over hard, hilly land that belongs to the ransar and not you. If you have no thought of trade and commerce, then why build it? Why even consider it?”
“Because it’s never been done before,” he said. “As far as I know, no one in Faerûn has even considered it.”
Svayyah stared at him for a dense moment that weighed heavily on them both.
“There are few humans like you, Devorast,” the water naga said.
“No,” he said with the confidence of a Ssa’Naja, “there is no one like me.”
46
Midsummer, the Year of the Wyvern (1363 DR)
SECOND QUARTER, INNARLITH
The Midsummer Festival and another party.
Willem Korvan stood on a wide belvedere lined with statuary, which overlooked the harbor and the dark expanse of the Lake of Steam. The night was clear and the crescent of Selûne, followed by her Trail of Tears, rose through a sea of stars. The lights of the city and the stars reflected in the calm water made Willem feel as if there was no world under his feet, just endless night sky on all sides of him.
He had never felt more alone in his life.
“There you are, my boy,” Inthelph said, causing Willem to jump.
His skin gone cold even in the hot summer air, Willem turned to greet the master builder with a nod and saw that his mother had come looking for him too. Behind them rose the lofty towers of the ransar’s palace.
“Really, my dear,” his mother said. “Are you out here all alone?”
“Just admiring the city lights,” he said.
My boy? My dear? As if they owned him.
He tried not to cringe outwardly when they stood at the railing with him, one on either side as if flanking him, trapping him.
“I was just telling your mother about the new project,” said the master builder.
“He was,” Thurene said. “It sounds terribly exciting.”
Willem turned to look behind them to the cluster of needle-like towers that rose above the low buildings of the city like a copse of trees in a field of grass.
“The Palace of Many Spires,” Willem said, his voice so quiet it was barely above a whisper.
“The home of the ransar himself,” the master builder added, his voice almost as quiet, reverent where Willem’s was simply frightened. “It will be the crowning jewel in my career, if not my life.”
“Surely the latter would be the birth of your lovely daughter,” Thurene prodded.
Willem closed his eyes and stood stiffly withstanding the uncomfortable moment.
The master builder at last cleared his throat and said, “Of course, madam. In my career, then, to be sure.”
“But it’s already such a pretty building,” said Thurene.
“And it will be prettier still when your son and I are through with it, Madam Korvan,” Inthelph replied. “The ransar has asked that I provide another spire, one taller and more graceful than any other. It will house visiting dignitaries from realms near and far. It will help make Innarlith a city-state of importance to all of Faerûn.”
Willem had heard Inthelph and other senators say that before, but he didn’t understand it. How could a spire make anything like that degree of difference? It was more busy work. It would occupy the master builder’s time and energy, then it would occupy the treasury and a small army of workers. In the end, it would likely sit empty most of the time, but when it was all done, the ransar would be able to tell everyone that he had built it, and how glorious it was. In the end they would have been doing something other than going to parties and ceremonies and balls and talking, ta
lking, talking to the same small group of people.
“Tall and graceful,” Thurene said, her voice and manner intentionally wistful. “Words that have been used to describe my Willem. I’m sure he’s the man for the job.”
Inthelph smiled and clapped Willem on the back.
“Mother….” Willem started.
“Indeed, he is both of those things—all three,” the master builder said. “Willem will be at my right hand the whole way.”
Thurene gasped and grabbed hold of Willem’s arm. He put a smile on his face when he looked down at her. She beamed, her face glowing in the starlight. A group of revelers in the street below let out a spontaneous cheer—he didn’t know why. They were all drunk, and it sounded to Willem as if they were cheering his latest political success.
“Your right …” Thurene said, pretending she was unable to go on.
“My right hand …” the master builder replied. “It is impossible for me to describe the extent to which I’ve come to rely on your son, Madam Korvan. He will be involved in every decision, assisting me more closely than anyone on my staff. He will assist me with presentations to Ransar Osorkon himself.”
Thurene gasped and tightened her grip on Willem’s arm—so much so that it was almost painful.
“Your son will sit on the senate some day,” Inthelph pronounced. Willem looked at him and was greeted with a wink and a fatherly smile that made him turn away again. “He is doing everything right and making all the right friends, including, this very night, the ransar himself.”
“Did you hear that, Willem?”
“Yes,” Willem said. He smiled and was disappointed by how easy it was, how sincere. “Yes, I did, Mother. Thank you, Master Builder. I only hope that I will continue to prove worthy of your trust.”
“I’m certain you will, my boy,” Inthelph said, touching Willem on the elbow.
Willem looked at him again and the look he saw in the master builder’s eyes made it plain what Inthelph expected of him. Willem would design the tower, Willem would build it, Willem would lead the teams.
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