Scream of Stone

by Philip Athans

  She already had a napkin on her lap, so it was easy for her to dab the little droplets of blood that bubbled to the surface of the wound. The men continued speaking, not noticing her, and so she did it again.

  When she dabbed the second wound she let a finger trace the edge of a bandage that she’d wrapped around her thigh. Beneath it were more little cuts, some still oozing a little blood, every one worth a few moments away from the ghosts.

  Pristoleph had noticed the wounds, of course. The first time he had been worried, then he reacted with anger, and eventually the sight of the little cuts just made him sad. But he was never disgusted. And he never asked her why.

  “Have you spoken with the nagas since you’ve returned?” Pristoleph asked Devorast, and it was the first sentence she’d really heard since Devorast had arrived earlier that evening. She’d gone through the motions, of course, acting the dutiful wife and charming hostess as best she could with apparitions of violet light circling her, telling her to kill her guest and to kill herself.

  “I have,” Devorast replied. He glanced at her again but she couldn’t make herself look him in the eye. “The terms of our bargain remain unchanged.”

  “Then there is nothing in your way,” Pristoleph said with a self-satisfied finality that made Phyrea’s flesh crawl, especially when Devorast shook his head.

  You will have to kill him, the man with the scar in the shape of the letter Z told her. You know—we’ve told you over and over—that you will have to kill him.

  His presence doesn’t ease your mind, child, the old woman told her. He can’t drive us away anymore. You’ve been apart too long. He’s forgotten you.

  He’s given you to the genasi, the woman who cried for her dead baby said. He’s left you in the hand of this half-human thing, this ransar who will be killed soon enough, to make way for the next new ransar. These men will leave you, always, one way or another. Even Willem went away, and so what if he’s back? He came back just the moment you’d forgotten about him entirely, just the precise moment he stopped loving you.

  “Stop it,” Phyrea whispered.

  “Phyrea?” Pristoleph asked. “Did you say something, my love?”

  Phyrea cringed and shook her head. She tried to say she was sorry but wasn’t conscious of saying anything.

  “If you’re not feeling well….” Devorast offered, and when she realized he was trying to take his leave of them, that he was trying to go away again, she shook her head.

  “I’m fine,” she said, and by enormous force of will made her lips curl up in a smile. “Please. Go on. I’m perfectly fine.”

  “But you haven’t eaten,” Pristoleph said.

  Phyrea, the man with the scar whispered in her head, are you finally letting yourself see the truth?

  “The truth?” she replied aloud.

  “Of course,” Pristoleph said at the same time as the ghost.

  The truth, the old woman said, is that these men will never love you. All they’ll do is borrow you from each other, trade you back and forth, until there’s nothing left of you.

  Nothing left of you to live on, the little girl said.

  “You don’t like the eel?” Pristoleph asked. “Have you tried the eyes? They’re a delicacy. Or shall I have the cook prepare another dish for you?”

  Phyrea chanced a look up at Devorast, who stared at her in a way she couldn’t comprehend. Either he understood her perfectly, or he didn’t care one bit.

  Come with us, the little boy begged.

  Let this all end, the old woman demanded.

  “No,” Phyrea said, sinking the little fork half an inch into her inner thigh so that a trail of blood ran along her hand, to her wrist, to drip unseen onto the cold marble floor. “I’m fine. I’m just fine.”

  31

  27 Hammer, the Year of Rogue Dragons (1373 DR)

  THE CHAMBER OF LAW AND CIVILITY, INNARLITH

  As they walked together into the senate chamber, Willem couldn’t help thinking Meykhati was afraid of him. The normally jovial, condescending man kept his face turned away—not so much as most people would notice, but he never looked Willem in the eye.

  “It hasn’t changed,” Willem said, thinking Meykhati would expect him to say something like that, his having been away from the senate for three years.

  Meykhati nodded but offered no other reply. When they passed a junior senator Willem didn’t recognize, Meykhati stopped and greeted the young man as though they were old friends who hadn’t seen each other in decades. The junior senator was obviously flustered by Meykhati’s attention, but played along well. He only snuck a few glances Willem’s way, and again Willem thought he saw fear.

  Why, he asked himself, would any of these people be afraid of me?

  “Senator?” Willem said, touching Meykhati’s elbow.

  The senior senator flinched as though Willem’s touch had burned him. The younger man he’d been speaking with took a full step backward and only just barely stopped himself from putting both hands up to fend Willem off. When Meykhati turned, he spoke to Willem’s chest, not his eyes, and his face was tense.

  “Please don’t wait for me, Senator,” he said.

  Willem paused. It appeared Meykhati had more to say, but instead he turned back to the junior senator and a spirited discussion of the uniformly gray and rainy winter weather.

  With a sigh, Willem stepped down the aisle, walking slowly to give himself time both to consider Meykhati’s strange manner and to simply soak in the air of the place. He had always been intimidated, even afraid of the senate chamber, but coming back to it after having been away for so long, he realized how much he missed it.

  That thought made him pull up short. Another senator brushed behind him, then scurried into one of the rows of seats muttering the starts to half a dozen different apologies. It was another man Willem didn’t recognize.

  He shook his head, not sure why he’d stopped walking. Was it something about missing the senate chamber? But he would have had to have been conscious of where he was and what he’d been doing for the last three years to really miss a place. But still Willem either couldn’t, or on some level he couldn’t control in himself, wouldn’t think about that.

  “Willem Korvan,” a woman’s voice came from behind him. He turned to see a woman with her right eye covered by a silk patch, staring up at him with her left. Her white hair was thinning, and the lines in her face were deeper than Willem remembered. “Is that really you?”

  “Senator Nyla,” Willem said, holding out his hand. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

  Nyla looked down at his hand and leaned back just a little. “Forgive me,” she said, “but I’ve been sneezing all day, and….”

  “Quite all right,” Willem said, just so the uncomfortable moment would pass.

  “Is it true, what they say?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry?”

  She squirmed a little in her own skin just then, and Willem almost gasped at the sight of it.

  She cleared her throat and said, “You’ve been gone too long.”

  He nodded, hoping she would say more, but instead she scanned the room as if looking for an escape route.

  “What do they say, Senator?” Willem pressed, but at that moment wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  “Think nothing of it,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Forgive me?”

  “I’m certain there’s nothing to forgive,” he said, “but—”

  “We should take our seats,” she interrupted, then walked away from him a little too quickly.

  “She’s right,” Meykhati said. Willem wasn’t quite startled, but he hadn’t been aware of the senator’s approach. “You know which way the vote is to go, then?”

  “Yes,” Willem said, once again trying to engage Meykhati in eye contact but failing. “I mean, I think so. What are we debating?”

  Willem knew full well what the session had been called to vote on, but he found himself compelled to make further convers
ation with the man who’d been his sponsor for so long, but who couldn’t or wouldn’t look him in the eye.

  “We’re here to vote for the purchase of wands that will allow the gate guards to detect the presence of magical radiations and dweomers,” Meykhati said, his eyes lazily scanning the room, but steadfastly not looking at Willem. “Once those are in place we can begin to assign a tax on any magical items brought into the city by non-citizens.”

  “Why?” Willem asked.

  “Why the tax?” Meykhati responded. When Willem nodded he said, “To help defer the cost of the wands.”

  “And we are for this?” Willem clarified.

  “Yes,” Meykhati replied. “Please, take your seat.”

  Willem nodded and watched Meykhati pass other senators who tried to stop him to chat. The senior senator found his chair and all but fell into it. He put his face in his hands and breathed hard, wiping sweat from his brow and upper lip. He took a deep breath, held it, then seemed to sense that Willem was still looking at him. He turned, still holding the breath, and when their eyes finally met, Willem’s skin went cold and his own breath caught in his throat.

  He’s terrified of me, Willem thought.

  He turned his head so Meykhati wouldn’t have to look him in the eye anymore, then Willem took his seat and prepared to vote for another purposeless tax.

  32

  28 Hammer, the Year of Rogue Dragons (1373 DR)

  PRISTAL TOWERS, INNARLITH

  Marek Rymüt took a deep breath and held it. He’d just been told by the ransar something he already knew: Ivar Devorast had once again taken charge of the canal. Marek scanned the room, taking a mental inventory of all the expensive gewgaws and whatnots that crowded the space. He stopped counting when he reached ten thousand gold pieces and had examined barely a tenth of the room’s contents.

  Behind him stood Insithryllax, in his human form, with his arms crossed over his chest. Marek thought his old friend looked more tense that usual, but the black dragon had refused to tell him what was wrong, though Marek had asked repeatedly in the coach from the Second Quarter.

  “And if I were to advise you against that course of action?” the Red Wizard asked the ransar.

  Pristoleph cracked a smile in return and said, “It’s already done. Ivar Devorast has my full confidence.”

  “He will be master builder, then?” the dragon asked, and Marek could hear the irritation in his voice.

  “Insithryllax, please,” Marek cautioned. “I apologize, Ransar, but my companion has asked an interesting question, and one that begs an answer. The city-state has been without a master builder since the unfortunate murder of Senator Horemkensi.”

  “You know,” Pristoleph replied, his tone artificially conversational, “I asked him about that. I offered him the position, in fact, with a rather generous stipend—more than was given to Inthelph, even—and he accepted on the spot with rather gracious thanks.”

  Marek pursed his lips and let a breath hiss out through his nose. He heard a similar sound escape Insithryllax.

  “I had a quill in my hand to sign the proclamation, not a heartbeat later,” Pristoleph went on, “and he grabbed it off my desk and tore it in half. He shouted at me, actually. It’s the only time I’ve ever heard him shout. People have told me they’ve known him for years and never heard him raise his voice. He told me he didn’t want a title and didn’t want any part of running the city-state. He didn’t want to work for me or for anyone, and certainly not for what he called a ‘meaningless collective.’ I’m still puzzling over what he meant by that, precisely.”

  Marek said, “You will excuse my ignorance, Ransar, but I don’t think I understand. He refused the appointment?”

  “In no uncertain terms.”

  “And yet still he commands the army of workers that continue to build this canal of his?” the Red Wizard said.

  “Yes … well,” the ransar hesitated, “not all of the workers.”

  Marek raised an eyebrow and leaned back against the soft leather cushion behind him. The chair was comfortable, but still the Thayan felt ill at ease. He could feel the black dragon standing behind him as though Insithryllax loomed in his true, draconic form. With the genasi in front of him, Marek felt trapped. He began to sweat.

  “He will need you to give him control of the zombies,” Pristoleph said.

  “No,” the dragon in human form said. “Don’t help him, for—”

  “It will be costly,” Marek said, cutting the dragon off.

  Pristoleph shrugged and Marek was left to ponder how much he’d grown to hate that gesture, though only a few scant months ago, he’d loved it more than anything. The genasi’s seemingly bottomless purse was responsible for nearly four out of every ten gold pieces the enclave brought in. Marek knew there wasn’t another suitable candidate for ransar that would even begin to make up for that.

  “What’s a few zombies here and there between friends?” Marek said with a smile he knew would look as false as it was.

  “I have a list,” Pristoleph said. “He requires other items.”

  Marek swallowed again and said, “If I have it or if it can be made, I will be delighted to arrange it for you.”

  “Not for me,” Pristoleph said with a smile Marek longed to wipe from his face with a fireball—no, not a fireball against a fire genasi, but an ice storm.

  Yes, the Red Wizard thought, a blast of tiny daggers of glasslike ice—or acid.

  “I beg your pardon, Ransar?” Marek said through stiff jaws.

  “The items are not for me,” the ransar clarified, “but for Ivar Devorast.”

  Insithryllax stormed around the sofa and stood over Pristoleph. The ransar didn’t move, but Marek could feel him growing hotter.

  “Insithryllax!” the Thayan barked.

  Insithryllax didn’t turn, but growled at the ransar, “I cannot be compelled to help this man. You are not my master.”

  Marek scuffled to his feet and though he knew it wasn’t allowed, he barked out the words to a spell when he saw that Insithryllax was beginning to transform. It was likely that Pristoleph was unable to detect any change in the dark-skinned, black-clad man who everyone thought was simply Marek Rymüt’s bodyguard, but Marek had known Insithryllax too long, and he could tell.

  With the aid of the calming spell, Marek said, “Insithryllax, please. The ransar has always been a valued customer of the Thayan Enclave. If he has a list, we know he has the means.”

  Insithryllax relaxed, but only enough to forestall his transformation—a physical change that would have burst the little parlor at its seams. If Pristal Towers was built strong enough, the dragon would have succeeded only in crushing himself and the ransar. Marek’s various contingency spells would have spirited him away, but what a mess he would have left to explain.

  Truly, though, the question wasn’t what would happen if the dragon did transform and attack, but why he almost had.

  “Insithryllax, please,” Marek said once more, and finally the dragon withdrew, cursing under his breath in Draconic.

  When Marek once again returned his attention to the ransar, he was amazed how calm the genasi was. Pristoleph didn’t frighten easily, and that made Marek wonder what it would take to frighten him.

  “They can be delivered directly to Devorast,” Pristoleph said, “at the canal site.”

  “Of course they can,” Marek replied. “Ransar, I would be remiss in my duty to you and to the city-state of Innarlith if I did not advise you not to trust this man Devorast.”

  “And why wouldn’t I trust a man who has only ever done everything he’s promised to do?” the ransar asked.

  “Ransar, I—”

  “I’m not finished, Marek,” Pristoleph said, and his use of the familiar while Marek called him “Ransar,” rankled the Red Wizard to no end. “Ivar Devorast summoned this canal unbidden from his own imagination. No one who has been put in charge of it since has used anything but his original drawings. He has not sought to enrich
himself. He has refused power and influence. He is no threat to anyone, including you. Why is it you seem to despise him so?”

  Marek rubbed his face with both hands and spent a long time thinking about how to respond. Insithryllax put a hand on his shoulder and began to squeeze.

  “Please,” the Red Wizard whispered over his shoulder to the dragon.

  Marek found himself more curious as to the source of Insithryllax’s anger than a suitably cunning response to the ransar’s question. He’d known the dragon for many years and had come to respect his often unpredictable temper, but Insithryllax had always seemed personally ambivalent toward the canal and didn’t ever seem to give Ivar Devorast much thought. He made a mental note to ask the dragon about all that in greater detail once they returned to the enclave.

  “I don’t hate him,” Marek said to Pristoleph. “I hate what he’s doing and how he’s doing it. I hate how he misuses you and those who have held the office of ransar since and including Osorkon.”

  “You hate that the canal will make your teleport—” “I profit from the canal,” the Thayan interrupted, perhaps just a bit too loudly. He cleared his throat, felt a wave of heat wash over him from the genasi, and in a calmer, quieter voice, went on. “I profit from the canal in many ways, Ransar, and I will continue to do just that, even after its construction is complete … should that actually ever come to pass.”

  “Then what do you care who digs the damned thing?” Pristoleph asked, letting some of his anger at having been interrupted in his own house show in his smoldering eyes.

  Marek’s skin crawled, but not from the ransar’s disapproving stare. The Red Wizard could sense the rage building once more from the more-than-human figure behind him. The spell should have made him as tranquil as a nursing baby, but instead the dragon seemed to have brushed it off.

  Forced to concede the ransar’s point, Marek said his good-byes as quickly as he could without being overly rude and got the dragon out of there before—and it seemed to be just before—anyone was killed.