“No,” Fharaud answered. “If I had known it was my last meal, though, I would have demanded better than soup. That was yesterday, wasn’t it? When you last made me soup?”
“Yesterday,” Devorast replied, and he wasn’t lying. Ivar Devorast had never lied to him. “Yes. You should eat.”
He shook his head again and said, “I told you, I’m going to die today.”
“And I told you, you say that every day.”
“Do I?” Fharaud asked. He closed his eyes and sighed. It felt good to sigh. “This time I mean it.”
“Do you intend to do yourself in?”
Fharaud opened his eyes and looked deeply into Devorast’s.
“I won’t ask you to kill me,” Fharaud said. “You’re going to have to trust that a man knows when he’s going to die.”
Devorast nodded and said, “Then you should tell me what you need to tell me.”
“They will be away for thirty-three days, the two of them,” he heard himself say. “No, that’s not it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m putting things in the wrong order,” Fharaud said. “But listen to me. Listen to me when I tell you that when I went through that gate, and when I fell … when Everwind fell and my body was shattered my mind was splayed open and the future poured in. It overwhelms me, but I can see it. I can feel and taste and hear it. I have the future living inside me, but it’s a future that doesn’t include me.”
“I’m not interested in having my fortune told, old man,” Devorast said. “Let me make you some soup.”
“He’ll be watching you when you meet with the dwarf and the alchemist,” Fharaud said, but Devorast had already stood and gone to the stove.
He’d brought a basket of vegetables with him and started sorting through them, preparing his soup with the same calm efficiency that he did everything.
Fharaud closed his eyes again and tried to put everything in order, but as he sifted through the barrage of images and sensations that came to him and the others that were lodged in his memory, he skipped a breath. He stopped breathing, then started again.
It’s started, he thought. That’s how it starts.
“One breath,” he whispered, “then another, and another, then the rest of them, and that’s it.”
“I wasn’t able to get the okra,” Devorast said as he began to chop the vegetables.
“You have taken better care of me than I deserve,” Fharaud said to his former disciple’s back. “I haven’t done … I didn’t do enough for you to deserve this. I want to help you more before I go. I want to tell you the things that have been revealed to me.”
“The onions are very mild, though,” Devorast said, “just the way you like them.”
“Damn it, Ivar,” Fharaud said, loudly. The effort made him cough, and something warm and wet spattered his chin. “Damn it.”
Devorast turned around and quickly returned to his side, leaving the vegetables on the board next to the stove. He dabbed at Fharaud’s chin with a handkerchief and the dying man could see the blood soaking into the rag.
He could taste it in his mouth.
“Pristoleph,” Fharaud said, his voice reduced to a wet, rattling whisper.
“No,” Devorast said, and Fharaud saw the calm in his face and that calmed him too. “No, it’s me. It’s Ivar.”
Fharaud sighed and more blood dribbled from his mouth.
“No,” Fharaud rasped. “No, Pristoleph … you will fight him. You will have to fight him in the end, I think. I think I saw that, and I think it’s the most important. The rest, you will …”
Fharaud didn’t know how to finish it, and in that moment just before he drew his last breath, he finally decided that he should speak no more. No man should know his future in so much detail. He should discover his own fate on his own, shouldn’t he?
He could see, and he could see Devorast’s face and eyes. Devorast didn’t believe him anyway. He wouldn’t listen. He would do everything he’s done, feeding him, bathing him, visiting him every day, but he would not listen.
“You don’t have to,” Fharaud whispered.
He tried to breathe in, but couldn’t. Devorast saw his distress and leaned closer, concern plain on his face. Concern, but not fear.
“Fharaud?” he said. “Can you—?”
Devorast stopped talking and their eyes met—truly met in a moment of understanding. Fharaud felt Devorast’s hand in his and marveled at the simple sensation. He could feel. He couldn’t breathe, but he could feel.
His heart skipped a beat—was that panic?
If it was it was as fleeting as half a heartbeat, then Fharaud was at peace.
“Good-bye, my friend,” Devorast whispered.
Fharaud wished he could say good-bye too, but he couldn’t, and Devorast would understand. He tried to keep his eyes open as long as he could, but in due course the room went dark.
The last connection with the material world that Fharaud experienced was Devorast’s last whisper, “Rest well, Fharaud. Rest well.”
And he was gone.
50
17 Tarsakh, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)
SECOND QUARTER, INNARLITH
The sculpture was called “Small Evil Deity Crouches in the Running Stream, Mindful of Its Breathing.” To Willem it looked like a twisted bit of metal fastened to a plank of polished cherry wood. He didn’t know much of the blacksmith’s art but could imagine that its graceful curves might have been difficult to fashion had the metal—it looked like iron—started out straight. Still, he had the sneaking suspicion it had been formed by accident, perhaps as a result of a foundry spill or other minor mishap.
“It’s extraordinary,” Phyrea said.
She stared at it with her deep, penetrating gaze. His attention drawn to her, Willem could no longer see the sculpture.
“It is you who are extraordinary, Phyrea,” Willem said, but the girl didn’t hear him.
At the same time Willem had spoken, the gallery owner’s too-loud, too-gregarious voice boomed, “It’s come all the way from exotic Kozakura to delight the lady’s eye, and we can only hope, fill her home with its subtle beauty for decades to come.”
Phyrea smiled and gushed, exploding in a girlish way that seemed unlike her.
“Oh, Luthness,” she said, “I adore it. I simply adore it. Your taste is impeccable.”
“I shall buy it for you,” Willem said, and still neither of them heard.
“Phyrea, my love,” the gallery owner, Luthness, gushed in return, “do tell me you came with your father.”
“No,” Phyrea said with a disingenuous pout. “I can’t drag him to anything of real culture, the old boar.”
“Really, darling,” Luthness cackled, leaning in close and winking, taking Phyrea by the hand. “You’re so bad it’s positively—”
“I’ll buy it,” Willem repeated, in a voice so loud it stopped not only the sycophantic art dealer but Phyrea and half the wall-to-wall crowd that had come to the gallery opening in their tracks. Willem cleared his throat and added, “For the lady.”
After a moment of shock, Luthness beamed again, dropped Phyrea’s hand, and groped after Willem’s. Willem backed away, not intentionally trying to insult the man, but not wanting to hold his hand either.
“Outstanding, my dear sir, outstanding!” Luthness went on. “A man of such taste. Such taste!”
“Really, Willem,” Phyrea said, and Willem thought she looked and sounded sincerely surprised. “That’s not necessary.”
“Oh, but it is,” Luthness cut in, defending his sale. “A woman of your beauty and taste should have a hundred eager suitors filling your life with gifts of beauty and value!”
“How much is it?” Willem asked.
“Ah, right to the business at hand, then,” Luthness replied with a wink. “All the way from far, far Kozakura, crafted by Akira Tanaka, the finest sculptor of his ancient culture, and steeped in the traditions of the Celestial Ea—”
“Tell him,” Phyrea interrupted.
Luthness appeared all too happy for the interruption, offered Phyrea a conspiratorial wink, leaned in close to Willem, and whispered, “Forty-five thousand, sir.”
Willem blinked. He tried but couldn’t stop blinking. He began to sweat.
“Really, Willem,” Phyrea said, her voice going cold. “You don’t have that kind of gold. Stop being silly.”
“My good sir,” Luthness said. “Was it something I said?”
“Forty-five thousand?” Willem asked, then cleared his throat. “Gold?”
“The coin of the realm, sir, yes,” Luthness replied.
“Willem,” Phyrea huffed. “We’re leaving.”
Luthness kept his eyes locked on Willem, though it was obviously difficult for him not to turn on Phyrea, even violently.
“Very well,” Willem said. “Have it sent to the lady’s home.”
Phyrea rolled her eyes, annoyed, but Willem was sure he saw some hint that she was impressed.
“Well done, sir,” Luthness said, and Willem thought the man might actually drool. “Well done indeed.”
“Have you sold any others?” Phyrea asked.
Willem’s mind raced. He could get his hands on forty-five thousand gold pieces, but it wouldn’t be easy. It would be everything. Everything and more. He couldn’t really do it, but he had to. He had to.
“Yes, dear,” Luthness said. “A slightly larger piece by the same artist to Master Marek Rymüt, the Thayan wizard of renown.”
Phyrea shrugged that off, but the mention of Rymüt’s name set Willem’s mind reeling anew. Halina’s uncle had bought a sculpture by the same artist. Rymüt was known for his good taste, but then there were the speeches, the not-so-subtle leanings in favor of the peasantry against the senate and the aristocracy. He was the one man everyone told him he should meet, especially Halina who was still Willem’s fiancée, and he was the one man Willem most feared. Not because of any physical threat—by all accounts Marek Rymüt was more woman than man, soft and effete—but because if they met, and if Willem charmed him the way he’d charmed the master builder and his circle of senators, Rymüt would surely consent to the marriage, and Willem would have to marry Halina, and Phyrea … beautiful, impossible Phyrea, the master builder’s daughter …
Luthness touched him on the elbow and Willem jumped.
“A tenday then?” the art dealer asked.
“What?” Willem responded, flustered. “I’m sorry?”
“The balance of the forty-five thousand?” Luthness replied. “A tenday from now, sir?”
“Yes,” Willem said without thinking. “By all means.”
Phyrea was gone.
Willem scanned the crowd but saw no trace of her.
“The young lady took her leave of us, my good sir,” Luthness told him, then nudged him toward the door. “Senator Meykhati!” he exclaimed, breaking off from Willem and sweeping into the crowd. “I insist that you embrace me at once!”
Willem got out of the gallery as fast as he could and burst into the warm night air trying to look in every direction at the same time.
“That was stupid,” Phyrea said. She stood leaning against the wall of the gallery building, adrape in imported silk, diamonds sparkling in the light of a street lamp. To Willem she looked like the most beautiful, most expensive streetwalker on the entire whirling globe of Abeir-Toril. “You’re stupid.”
“You admired it,” he said, not daring to approach any closer. “I wanted to buy it for you.”
“Why?” she asked, and the look she gave him was fit perhaps for a cockroach crawling across a buffet table. “What does your forty-five thousand buy you? Me? My body?”
“No, I—” Willem started to say.
“No, you,” she mocked him. “I’m not your whore, Cormyrean, not for forty-five thousand gold or for that ridiculous strip of metal. ‘Small Evil Deity’ my arse. You are a moron.”
“I’m paying for it,” he said, forcing himself to stand at his full height. He was delighted by how strong his voice sounded but terrified that she could see how badly he was sweating. “It will be delivered to you. Do with it as you will.”
“My father pays you too much,” she sneered, then stepped away from the wall, turned her back on him, and started to walk away.
“Phyrea,” he said, and she stopped, looking over her shoulder at him.
Her long black hair came free of the diamond diadem she wore, and it fell across her face, her perfect cheek and the corner of her big, bright eye, and Willem’s heart seemed to stop in his chest. The shape of her made the Kozakuran sculpture he’d just leveraged his entire life for all the more ridiculous.
“If you tell me you love me,” she said, her voice only just above a whisper, “I will kill you where you stand.”
Willem’s heart started up again and despite his spinning head, he crossed the distance to her in three long, fast strides. She turned to him and he took her in his arms. His hands at her waist, he could feel the warmth of her skin under the expensive silk. She moved just a little bit into him and he bent to kiss her.
She went rigid in his hands, so stiff she might have been one of Luthness’s overpriced statues. He tried to kiss her anyway, but his lips met only resistance—her mouth tightly closed, her lips pulled in. She didn’t fight him or push him away. She didn’t breathe or move at all. She was as if carved from stone.
With a sigh he let go of her and stepped away.
“There,” she said, “was that worth forty-five thousand gold pieces?”
He stared at her, unable to speak, for as long as she wanted to continue to torture him, then she turned her back and walked away.
When she was too far away to hear he whispered to her, “Who do I have to kill, Phyrea? What do I have to buy? Where do I have to go?”
His mind blank, he stood there a while longer, then asked again, “Who do I have to kill?”
51
22 Tarsakh, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)
SECOND QUARTER, INNARLITH
Why didn’t you die, you decrepit old bag of bones, you useless old troll?” Willem hissed into Khonsu’s ear. “I’ll split you in two this instant—this instant!”
The frail old man, dressed in a graying night gown, lay on his back on the floor of his musty bedchamber. Willem Korvan kneeled over him, his left hand pressing hard over the old senator’s mouth, his right holding a wide-bladed kitchen knife against Khonsu’s side.
“Step down,” Willem whispered. “Step aside!”
The old man shook his head, eyes bulging, fixed on Willem’s.
The matronly maid and perhaps other household staff were still in the house. Willem had crept in through a window, surprising himself at a natural tendency toward stealth he never knew he had. Passing through the kitchen, he’d found the knife. Then he’d gone straight to Khonsu’s bedchamber, tore him violently from his bed, stifled his screams with one hand, and there they were, Willem doing his best to keep quiet while still raging at the old man.
“Do you think I’m some kind of joke?” Willem growled low. “Do you laugh at me, old man? Am I good for a laugh? A young man, toadying to a lesser senator, kowtowing to that insipid master builder you so loathe in private, denigrate in public, and befriend to his face? Are we all just players in some comic play staged for your amusement?”
The old man’s eyes threatened to burst from his skull and even in the dark bedchamber Willem could see him going from red to purple. He couldn’t breathe, let alone answer.
“Will you step down?” Willem insisted. “Or do I gut you like the pig you are? Too old to breed, good only for your meat?”
Khonsu closed his eyes.
Willem’s body tensed and he started to realize what he was doing, what he was saying, but then he pushed it all away and there was only rage again: anger, resentment, embarrassment, loathing for himself and everyone he knew who had let him be this man he’d become, this joke, this failure, this social-climbing nothing, th
is servant of a servant of a servant. All that came together in Willem Korvan and was let loose as hate for Khonsu.
“Do I slay you then?” he asked.
Khonsu’s eyes opened again, pleaded.
“If I let my hand go from your mouth, will you cry out?” Willem asked. “If you cry out, you are disemboweled.” For effect, Willem pressed the knife into the old man’s side, almost hard enough to break the skin. “Will you cry out?”
Khonsu shook his head, and Willem believed him.
He took his hand off the senator’s mouth but still held it to his chin, ready to quickly silence him again if need be.
“I won’t,” the old man squeaked, and even from inches away, Willem barely heard him. “I won’t step down.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s who I am,” the old man whispered.
Willem had to close his eyes. Tears burned his cheeks. He drew in a breath but managed to hold back a body-wracking sob.
“You were right,” Khonsu whispered, “I should have died.”
“You would rather die than step aside?” Willem asked, unable to keep his low, thready voice from cracking.
“What is the difference, one or the other?” the old man asked. Tears rolled down from his red, puffy, still-bulging eyes. “If you kill me, they’ll make you a senator, won’t they, boy?”
“Who?” Willem asked.
“Who?” Khonsu asked in return. “No one sent you?”
Willem shook his head.
“Then let me make one last vote as a member of the Senate of Innarlith,” the old man squeaked. “Kill me if you have to, but hear me. Hear me.”
“Speak,” Willem sobbed, unable to pull his eyes away from Khonsu’s, hard as he tried.
“Inthelph can’t help you anymore,” the senator whispered. “Meykhati. He likes you. He’s the one … he’s the one who chooses.”
“Meykhati?” Willem asked. “That fool? The one who dresses like a Shou and talks and talks and talks? Jabbering with that wife of his?”
“He plays the fool,” the old man said, “but in the meantime he works this city like a sava board. He’s the one who’s picking the new senators now.”
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