Whisper of Waves wt-1

by Philip Athans

  “A ship to carry cargo,” he said, “all the way back to Shou Lung?”

  “A journey of much distance,” she replied with a bow.

  Something began to glow in Ivar Devorast’s face, and he smiled.

  “That is yes,” she said.

  “You will sail this ship all the way back to Shou Lung,” he said. “Sailing, the whole way.”

  “I do not trust any other journey,” she said, hoping that conveyed what she thought would be a point over which they agreed: their mistrust of magical means of travel. “I will sail.”

  “Then it would be my pleasure to build your ship, Miss Ran Ai Yu of Shou Lung,” he said.

  32

  6 Kythorn, the Year of the Helm (1362 DR)

  FIRST QUARTER, INNARLITH

  Would you believe it’s taken over a month for word of all this to filter to me?” Willem asked.

  His old friend Ivar Devorast had no response. Instead, he continued to chip away at a block of what Willem thought looked like mahogany. The tool took both delicate slivers and crude chunks from the hardwood, precisely as Devorast desired.

  “I never knew you were so handy with an adze,” Willem said as he settled on a stool in Devorast’s cramped, busy workshop. “And the workshop … it’s small, but it suits you somehow. So I guess you’re your own man now, eh? Master Shipbuilder Ivar Devorast?”

  Devorast allowed him a shrug at last and Willem forced a smile.

  “I’ve heard complaints about you, you know,” Willem said.

  Without pausing in his exacting work, Devorast replied, “The meaningless chatter of tiny minds.”

  That made Willem laugh, and for the briefest moment he thought he saw Devorast smile too.

  “They’re a curious people, aren’t they, our new neighbors,” said Willem. He glanced around at the crew Devorast had hired to help build his ship. He saw a pair of dwarves, but the rest looked like locals with their dark skin and lean physiques. None of them were speaking, all simply bent about their tasks. “At risk of sounding elitist, they don’t seem to … to …”

  “Like themselves?” Devorast offered.

  Willem was surprised by that but only a little. He had been leaning in that direction, though he also tried to take a more diplomatic tack. The locals nearby either hadn’t heard, believed he was right, or needed the work too much to risk defending themselves.

  “You’ve seen it too,” he said.

  Devorast nodded and paused from his carving.

  “They import everything,” Devorast said, “as if their own hands aren’t capable, but they are capable. I’ve seen good, solid tools made by local craftsmen on sale in the Third Quarter for half the price-less than half-of a cheap piece of cast-off iron from someplace like Waterdeep or Sembia. It’s their principal weakness, this distrust of themselves.”

  Willem thought about that for a moment as Devorast went back to his work.

  “I’ve been collecting friends since we came here,” Willem said. “You probably sorted that out though, eh? Friends and contacts, patrons and mentors, and they all share that same curse, that lust for anything from anywhere but Innarlith.”

  “Including engineers,” Devorast said with no hint of meanness.

  “Or shipwrights,” Willem shot back, likewise without malice.

  A little while passed as Devorast continued his precise carving and the crew buzzed around him like so many bees at work on their hive, but instead of a hive, what was taking shape in that rented space on the quayside was a ship unlike anything Willem had ever seen.

  “I understand your patron …” Willem said, “or is it matron … is from Shou Lung.”

  Devorast stopped long enough to nod, examine his progress a bit, then continue.

  “I suppose that makes your vessel the greatest prize an Innarlan could imagine,” Willem said.

  Devorast looked up and said, “Is it?”

  “Certainly,” Willem replied. “A ship built by a Cormyrean for a Shou. If that’s mahogany from Kozakura you’re working on, I’ll have to wonder if there’s anything of Innarlith in it at all. And what could these dwarves of yours be about? I didn’t think their kind could float.”

  The look Devorast gave him then made the blood start to run from Willem’s face. When Devorast went back to work, though, he managed to gather himself.

  “The wood,” Devorast said as he chopped and chipped, “is teak, and it’s from the jungles of Chult, so you’re partly right.”

  “And the dwarves?” Willem asked, trying his best to ignore a sidelong glance from one of the stout little men.

  “They’re helping me with the tiles,” Devorast replied.

  “Tiles?”

  “The hull will be covered in cut stone and ceramic tiles,” Devorast explained.

  Willem looked at the shell of the ship’s hull. Wide and shallow, it was made of wood and where planks had yet to be installed Willem could see something of the interior structure.

  “You know I’m no shipwright, Ivar,” he said, “but your hull seems a bit thin.”

  “That’s why the tiles,” Devorast replied.

  “It couldn’t possibly float,” Willem whispered, knowing even as he said it that …

  “It’ll float,” Ivar Devorast said.

  Willem Korvan had no doubt that it would. It would be the first such ship he’d ever heard of.

  “Is that how they build them then, in Shou Lung?” Willem asked.

  “No one has ever built a ship like this,” Devorast said with no hint of pride or arrogance in his inflection.

  Willem nodded, then started to think of an excuse to leave.

  33

  18 Kythorn, the Year of the Helm (1362 DR)

  FOURTH QUARTER, INNARLITH

  Every part of Fharaud’s body had become unreliable. His vision, for instance, would be fine one day, then slowly blur, then start to return to normal, then everything would go dark. When he was blind it was difficult for him to tell if he was awake or asleep, alive or dead. Sometimes he could hear people shuffling around his room and when he tried to call out, the words wouldn’t form on his useless tongue. Sometimes he managed a pained, animalistic grunt or a kind of ragged roar, and sometimes he could speak perfectly. Once his vision became so acute he spent an afternoon examining every detail of the wings of a fly that had lit on the ceiling above his bed.

  He slept for long stretches of time and awakened for long stretches of time or slept for a moment or two then awakened for a moment or two.

  On more than one occasion he climbed from a deep sleep to find that he’d soiled himself and his bed. Once he awakened feeling damp and warm as if fresh from a bath he had no recollection of taking. If there was food waiting for him when he awoke he ate. If there was water he drank. Sometimes he was naked, sometimes he was wearing a dressing gown, sometimes a tunic but no pants, and he never remembered dressing himself.

  The face he saw in his room most often belonged to Devorast and on rare occasions they would speak.

  On that warm day that might have been the first day of summer, Fharaud watched Devorast prepare something in a dented pot in the little fireplace. It smelled like soup.

  “Something bad,” Fharaud said to Devorast’s back.

  His former apprentice turned to face him and Fharaud could see by the look in his eyes that Devorast didn’t understand, wouldn’t understand, and only pitied him.

  I’m babbling, he tried to say, but his lips wouldn’t open.

  “Rest,” Devorast said. “We’ll eat soon.”

  Fharaud had to say, “Bad things,” then repeat, “Bad things.”

  Devorast went back to his soup and Fharaud let his weak neck turn his head back up to the ceiling.

  He’d never seen words there before, though at first it looked like his own handwriting. Even as he puzzled over how the message had gotten onto the ceiling, who had written it-and it couldn’t have been Devorast-he read it aloud: “The master tells the revenant that he’ll have his chance to
kill you soon, but he wants you to finish it first. He wants him to go back to being a second-rate human before he’ll allow him to be a first-rate monster.”

  As his rough, phlegmy voice faded, so did the writing. With a few blinks of the eye it was gone as if it had never been there, because it really had never been there.

  “Will you be able to eat?” Devorast asked.

  Fharaud closed his eyes and though he didn’t feel as though he’d fallen asleep, he started to dream. He saw the girl-the beautiful girl-and the things that lived inside her.

  “The serpent girl,” he tried to shout, but instead whispered.

  “It’s all right, old man,” Devorast said, and Fharaud felt a hand on his shoulder.

  He opened his eyes, but couldn’t see.

  “I’m blind again,” he said.

  “I know,” said Devorast, but how could he?

  How could he know?

  “There are things I have to tell you,” Fharaud said, “but I don’t know why, and I don’t know how.”

  He felt a spoon touch his bottom lip and despite wanting to talk he sipped the warm soup. It was salty and good and as he swallowed it made red and purple flashes of light dance in the black void of his lost sight. He read aloud the message contained in that light.

  “The girl who hears the whispers of the dead …” Fharaud said.

  “What about her?” Devorast asked.

  He was humoring him. Fharaud could hear it in his voice.

  “You think I’m mad,” he said. “Black firedrakes.”

  “No,” Devorast lied. “Eat a little more, then rest.”

  Devorast fed him some more soup while Fharaud cried then sat with him in silence until he fell asleep.

  34

  17 Flamerule, the Year of the Helm (1362 DR)

  SECOND QUARTER, INNARLITH

  She was a handsome woman by anyone’s standards.

  No, Marek thought, not “handsome,” but beautiful. Her smooth skin was a color that he’d seen only rarely, though trade with Shou Lung and the exotic east was becoming increasingly commonplace in Innarlith and throughout the southern Realms. Her thin eyes sparkled with wit and intelligence that Marek knew enough to be wary of.

  “I must thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” he said, tipping his head in a slight bow.

  She smiled and Marek was sure that most men would have melted at the sight of it-fallen in love with her instantly and completely.

  “Of course I have heard your name,” she said, charming him with her accent. “You are a man who must be known should one trade in Innarlith.”

  Marek offered her a shrug and said, “I have been fortunate to make the acquaintance of the right people and to offer my services from time to time. I will admit, however, that I am a bit at a loss with you, if I may say so.”

  Marek took note of the fact that that seemed to please her. She tipped her head, beckoning him to elaborate.

  “Your name, though most pleasing to the ear,” he said, “confounds my sense of protocol.”

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “How do I address you?” he asked. “To show the proper respect.”

  “My name is Ran Ai Yu,” she said with a cheerful smile. “It would be customary to say ‘Miss Ran,’ if that pleases you, Master Rymut.”

  Calling him “Master” and not “Mister” told him she had done some investigating of her own. She looked like some kind of exotic courtesan, some kind of porcelain doll, but she was a merchant through and through.

  “Well, then, Miss Ran,” Marek said, “please, sit.”

  He motioned her to a chair and stayed on his feet until she lowered herself to the fine silk cushion. Afraid she would be reluctant to come to his home he’d asked her to meet him at a particularly exclusive tea house that specialized in teas from Kozakura and Shou Lung. He chose the place not sure if he wanted her to feel at home, if he wanted her to see that he knew something of her culture and customs, or if he simply liked the tea himself. In any case, the surroundings were quiet and cultured enough that they could speak without the venue overwhelming the conversation.

  “Your message made me …” she said, hesitating, searching the air above her head for something. “Apologies for not knowing the word … hao qui?”

  Marek didn’t recognize the language but guessed, “Curious?”

  “Not certain, but wanting to know more?” she said, floundering a bit.

  “Curious, yes,” he said.

  She nodded and said, “Your message made me curious.”

  “Well,” he said, “it’s actually quite simple. It’s come to my attention through various sources here in the city that your ship met with some misfortune and you currently find yourself unable to return home by that means.”

  “The rescue of myself and my crew from the waters of your Lake of Steam was no secret, I am sure,” said Ran Ai Yu.

  “Oh, no,” said Marek, beginning to sense an impatience in the beautiful Shou merchant. “It was quite the sensation, actually.”

  “And you have some service to offer,” she prodded.

  A serving woman came and set a small porcelain tea pot and two dainty little cups and equally dainty little saucers on the table. She took the handle of the tea pot, but Marek waved her off. She scurried away and he poured the tea, first into Ran Ai Yu’s cup, then into his. She never took her eyes off his face and he wasn’t even sure she breathed while he poured.

  “I can return you, your crew, and your cargo to Shou Lung,” he said, “without the necessity of a ship or the considerable time it would take to sail.”

  “You would accomplish this by the use of magic,” she said.

  He nodded and sipped the tea. He found it bitter but tried not to let his face pucker.

  “That will not be necessary,” she said.

  Marek hoped she would think it was the hot tea that made his face flush, not the sudden anger that welled up inside him.

  “You have made other arrangements?” he asked, even though he knew in some detail the arrangements she’d made.

  “A ship is being built,” she said.

  She made no move to drink the tea.

  “Ah,” Marek said. “Time.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Time to build a ship,” he said, “and time to sail the ship.”

  Ran Ai Yu shrugged.

  “I could have you home on the morrow.”

  “I thank you for your offer, Master Rymut,” she said, “but with respect, decline. I am not of a mind to travel in the Weave.”

  “I can assure your safety,” Marek promised.

  “On a ship,” Ran Ai Yu said, “I can assure my own safety.”

  “On a ship built by whom, may I ask?” Marek said, baiting her.

  “Ivar Devorast,” she answered.

  “Ivar Devorast,” Marek repeated. “I’ve heard of him. Though it may well sound as if I’m trying to sway your opinion in favor of my own service, I feel I have a duty to inform you that this Devorast character has a rather less than admirable record when it comes to the seaworthiness of his vessels. The locals here won’t have anything to do with him. He and his former employer were, in fact, responsible for the deaths of dozens of sailors in a particularly disastrous catastrophe at sea.”

  As he spoke he tried to interpret the subtle shifts in her expression: the narrowing of already narrow eyes, the twitch of a lip, the flush of a cheek. She didn’t seem to understand every word of what he said, but Marek felt reasonably sure she knew what he was trying to say. She either didn’t believe him or didn’t care.

  “The people of Innarlith,” Marek went on, not giving her an opportunity to rebut or remark, “are quite enamored of all things Shou. I should think that you will do well here, regardless of what you trade.” He lifted the delicate cup to his lips and sipped the bitter Shou tea. “This, for instance, can make you rich alone. Like me, you are a visitor from a far-off land, and would do well to make friends here. You would do w
ell to understand not only their customs but their perception of yours.”

  “Good advice,” she said, though nothing in the look on her face made it seem she really thought so.

  “If you make the wrong friends,” he said, leaning in just a little, “or if you let people think that you have a strong preference against, say, alternative forms of travel, you could cause trouble for the good people of Innarlith and not just yourself.”

  He knew that she recognized the threat for what it was.

  Ran Ai Yu stood, tipped her head, then turned and walked out of the tea room without a word.

  Marek made up his mind as he finished his tea that he would give her two days to change her mind, then he would make sure she didn’t change anyone else’s.

  35

  20 Flamerule, the Year of the Helm (1362 DR)

  FIRST QUARTER, INNARLITH

  Blue-white lightning sizzled the air, boiling the rain as it fell around them. Ran Ai Yu whirled her thin, straight, double-edged long sword over her head in an effort to draw the creature away from the defenseless shipwrights. The men scattered in a blind panic. The beautiful Shou merchant grimaced when one of the monster fish fell upon a particularly unlucky craftsman. With a mouth as big around as the man was tall, the demonic beast bit the man so cleanly in half that his legs continued to run for fully three steps before falling into a twitching mess on the rain- and blood-soaked deck. Her new ship, still not yet completed, christened in innocent blood.

  The monsters towered above her. In all her travels, from far Shou Lung to the great western oceans and back again, Ran Ai Yu had never seen something so big that was actually alive. There were two of them, one just a little smaller than the other, more blue than green, but they were obviously the same species.

  She thought they looked a bit like eels, but they stood twenty feet above the deck, which was twelve feet above the keel, and there was another five or six feet of wood-beamed dry-dock to the water below. Ran Ai Yu knew enough about what it took to float on water to guess that perhaps two thirds of the things’ bodies were still underwater.