Scream of Stone Page 24

  10 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

  PRISTAL TOWERS, INNARLITH

  A cloud of greasy black smoke brushed against the outside of the glass and Pristoleph breathed deeply of its pungent odor. A human—someone fully human at any rate—would have choked and gagged, even with the glass between him and the smoke, but Pristoleph’s lungs, which had as much in common with his elemental father’s as his human mother’s, took in the smoke with something bordering on relish.

  “Your city burns, Ransar,” Wenefir said.

  The sound of his former confidante’s voice rankled him, and he could feel his hair stir and warm. He closed his hands into hot fists, but kept his consciousness away from the torches that burned in the sunlit chamber.

  He could see Wenefir—a vague outline of him, anyway—reflected in the glass. He was flanked by two wemics who nervously pawed at the floor, their eyes locked on the priest.

  “Ransar?” Wenefir asked.

  Pristoleph took a deep breath that he hoped would let Wenefir know that he would answer in his own time.

  The tower room fell silent, save for the fidgeting wemics, and Pristoleph’s eyes darted from fire to fire. Below him the Fourth Quarter burned. Not all of it, but enough of it to send ragged refugees streaming into the Third Quarter or out the eastern gate. He was too high up to see the gangs of watchmen alternately helping and harrying them. The peasants of the Fourth Quarter had precious little to steal, but word had come to him of rape and murder, of humiliations extreme and petty.

  “It doesn’t take much, does it?” Pristoleph asked.

  “Ransar?” Wenefir replied.

  “To set people on their neighbors,” the ransar went on. “It doesn’t take much to turn men into beasts, brothers into enemies….”

  “I’m not so sure of that,” the priest answered.

  Pristoleph turned to face him, an eyebrow raised. Wenefir wilted almost imperceptibly under his gaze, but managed to stand straight and—almost—look him in the eye.

  “Terrible events and powerful forces conspired to bring this chaos to the streets of the city-state,” Wenefir said.

  “Was that it?” Pristoleph joked, a forced lightness in his voice that he couldn’t possibly have felt at that moment. “Or was it terrible forces and powerful events?”

  “As you wish, Ransar,” Wenefir replied with a smirk.

  “Neither,” Pristoleph said, all traces of gaiety fled from his voice and his manner. “Men made smoke rise over Innarlith. And perhaps one god.”

  “Tread lightly on that path,” Wenefir warned, “if at all, Ransar.”

  The wemics beside him stiffened and sniffed at the threat. Second Chief Gahrzig came up the stairs as if on cue and scowled at the former seneschal.

  “Make one move to work your magic, priest,” the mercenary leader threatened, “and I’ll drop you where you stand.”

  Wenefir glanced at the wemic and Pristoleph could tell the priest believed him.

  “He won’t require an order from me to do so, my old friend,” Pristoleph added.

  Wenefir said, “Understood, Ransar, but I have not come here to ensorcell you.”

  “I think I know why you’ve come here,” said Pristoleph.

  “Believe what you will of me, Pristoleph,” Wenefir said, and the ransar couldn’t help but notice something of his old friend, that weak little boy he’d saved from a short life on the streets, in the sound of his voice, “but know that I hold this city dear. It is my home. I do my god’s work here.”

  Pristoleph couldn’t help but smile at that. “You’ve taught me enough of your god’s ways over the years, you know. This—” and he jerked his head in the direction of another plume of smoke that blew past the window—“is precisely the sort of work your god values the most.”

  “Be that as it may,” the Cyricist said, too quickly, “I come to offer advice.”

  “You have been discharged,” the ransar reminded him. “You no longer serve the city-state, as my seneschal or in any other capacity.”

  “Then take this as advice from a friend, Pristoleph. Take it as a warning from an enemy, if you must, but heed it. Heed me.”

  The wemics tensed again and Gahrzig drew steel. Pristoleph glanced at the wemic chieftain, but the second chief’s eyes stayed on Wenefir.

  “Speak,” Pristoleph said.

  “The senate is against you,” said Wenefir. “What few allies you had have either turned or been killed. Blood runs in the streets, fires rage in the Second Quarter, too, now, and none of them will long stand for that.”

  “They know how to stop this,” Pristoleph said.

  “And so do you.”

  Pristoleph took a deep breath and said, “So now you’ll tell me to surrender to Marek Rymüt. You’ll advise that I gift this city to a Thayan invader to sell on the cheap to his Red Wizards back home?”

  Wenefir sighed, and Pristoleph could tell the priest didn’t have to fake the exhaustion written so plainly on his face. “Hear their demands—the senate’s demands, not the Thayan’s.”

  “Why?”

  “The city burns,” Wenefir said. “It’s the ransar responsibility to keep Innarlith safe, not to watch it burn from atop a tower.”

  Pristoleph’s eyes smoldered at that, and he could see Wenefir struggle not to turn and run.

  “Surely you haven’t climbed all this way,” Wenefir went on, sweating, “from the middens where we first met to the fortune and power you’ve amassed, simply to let it burn around you. Not for the sake of a canal, and certainly not for the sake of one man.”

  Pristoleph sighed and said, “And still you don’t understand. You of all people should, Wenefir. Nothing worth doing is done for the sake of or by anyone but one man. It is men, it is their will alone, that shapes our world.”

  “There are gods,” Wenefir argued, “who would disagree.”

  “Men,” Pristoleph replied, “by any other name.”

  The priest bristled but held his tongue.

  “Your message has been delivered,” Pristoleph said, turning his back on the priest to stare down at the angry fires below. “Good day.”

  The wemics edged closer, but Wenefir didn’t wait for them to take him by the arms. He turned on his heel and walked down the stairs, the wemic guards close behind. When their footsteps faded away, Second Chief Gahrzig stepped closer.

  “Is it wise, Ransar,” said the wemic, “to let him go?”

  “No,” Pristoleph said. “No, it isn’t. But let him go anyway. No matter what he does, that man will not die by my hand.”

  65

  20 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

  THE CHAMBER OF LAW AND CIVILITY, INNARLITH

  I think we can all agree that the present ransar has brought all of this on himself,” Senator Asheru said, his voice clipped and hollow, resonating in his chest as though he shouted up from the bottom of a deep well. “Worse, that he brought this on us all.”

  Marek Rymüt nodded along with the other small group of senators gathered in one of the many private parlors in the labyrinthine cellars of the Chamber of Law and Civility. Warded against magical eavesdropping and arcane forms of egress, the room was meant to be a safe place for committees and quorums to gather and discuss the business of the city-state. The parlor in which Marek sat had become something of a war room.

  “Senator Asheru is of course correct,” Sitre agreed. Her voice had grown deep and rough with age, and her hands, lined with veins, showed brown spots. Her once beautiful face, though still handsome, was deeply lined, her skin gone thin and pale. “Can he not see the damage this standoff is wreaking on his own city?”

  Asheru harrumphed and said, “Apparently not.”

  Marek smiled at Asheru and considered the senator. A middle-aged man with long black hair he certainly dyed to mask the gray, his gray-green eyes shone with intelligence and perhaps a spell or two that allowed him to see in ways that mundane humans could not. Asheru had been, before the Thay
an Enclave had come to Innarlith, the head of an underground college of wizards, and the chief supplier of spell components, scrolls, and other arcane paraphernalia. The speed with which he abandoned all that to Marek, for a few new spells and a seat on some senate committee he’d had his eyes on, still boggled the Thayan’s mind.

  “Though it falls well outside my purview as Ambassador from the Court of Cormyr,” Tia Harriman interjected, “I must say I agree with you both.” The Cormyrean ambassador still wore her hair tinted a garish shade of purple that only made her pale skin, as old and as weathered as Sitre’s, less attractive. “For my part, and on behalf of Their Majesties, King Azoun the Fifth and the Steel Regent, I wished only to see the canal completed. Should it have employed some teleportation magic was not relevant. That it was destroyed, is.”

  The fact that Marek bribed her with magic that was making her younger by the day, and Meykhati provided a stipend of gold that more than tripled what her king paid his ambassadors had something to do with her being there as well.

  Alas, Marek thought, at least one Cormyrean can be bought outright.

  Meykhati poured himself another glass of wine and shook his head, clicking his tongue in time with the gesture, then said, “It will cost plenty to rebuild the city. One of my own storehouses on the quayside burns even as we speak, and it is loaded from floor to ceiling with Tethyrian grain.”

  “We have all suffered losses,” Nyla said, her teeth clenched in rage.

  “And all that work,” Aikiko complained. “All that time.”

  Marek offered a smile and a calming gesture to them all and said, “My friends, please. We have been over this too many times already. The city burns because one man, Ransar Pristoleph, holds one other man, Ivar Devorast, above not only the senate, but above all the people of Innarlith—nay, the city-state herself.”

  “That much we know,” Meykhati interjected. “But how to bring him down? That’s what we must decide, once and for all.”

  “Bring him down?” Marek asked, not letting his anger at the interruption show. “Or bring him back into the fold?”

  “He’s brought those bestial barbarians into the city to kill good Innarlans,” Nyla argued. “That alone should have him marched to the gallows.”

  Sitre and Meykhati nodded their agreement, but Asheru and Aikiko looked to Marek for their lead.

  “The city burns,” said the Thayan, “but it still stands. This building, protected by my magic and others’—” and he paused to nod at Asheru, who beamed in response—“still stands, and will continue to stand. The city walls hold firm, and no outside enemy lays siege or otherwise appears to be taking advantage of Innarlith’s moment of weakness.” No other realm but Thay, Marek silently reminded himself. “There have been fires and isolated looting, but most of us are safe in the Second Quarter. The reserves of food, gold, and magic hold firm, and remain largely in our hands. Buildings can be rebuilt, and if history has taught us anything it’s that peasants breed. The Fourth Quarter slums will be shoulder to shoulder with human refuse again soon enough.”

  “If,” said Meykhati, “we stop it from getting any worse.”

  “But Pristoleph won’t even come down from his tower to speak with us,” Aikiko said.

  “And his fortress is as secure as ours,” Asheru reminded them. It had been Asheru who had provided much of Pristal Towers’s magical defenses, before Marek had arrived in Innarlith, and though he knew the secrets of many of them, they all know that there were more—more than either Asheru or Marek could defeat. “Somehow, he must be smoked out.”

  “Perhaps a poor choice of words,” Meykhati said, “but I agree with the spirit of it. We must increase the pressure on him, even lay siege to that bloody palace of his. We must drive his wemics out of the city, and kill Pristoleph. It’s time Innarlith had a new ransar.”

  “And that ransar should be Master Rymüt,” Aikiko said.

  Though he tried, Meykhati couldn’t quite avoid the scowl he shot at her before he set his surprise aside. He didn’t look Marek in the eye, but they both knew who Meykhati imagined the next ransar to be.

  “I second that,” Asheru said.

  The others looked at each other, sipped their wine, picked at the seams of their clothing, and otherwise avoided speaking up.

  “I set that aside,” Marek said. “I came here from my faraway home to trade, not to establish myself as your master. I serve the people of Innarlith by serving the interests of your fellow travelers in Thay.”

  “Well put, Master Rymüt,” Meykhati said and they exchanged a look deep in meaning.

  Marek knew then that Meykhati would never brook a foreigner as ransar. The Thayan thought it fortunate indeed—for Meykhati—that he hadn’t lied when he said he didn’t want to be ransar. It didn’t pay.

  “We have the votes in the senate to simply make that happen,” Asheru said. “If not Master Rymüt then some other—any other, but Pristoleph. We can name our new ransar, and Pristoleph will be nothing more than the outlaw he’s proven himself to be.”

  “That may not be necessary,” Marek said before Meykhati could volunteer for the position of usurper. “For the good of the city-state we must all reach an accord. Pristoleph must be given one more chance to hear the pleas of his people.”

  “If he hasn’t heard us yet,” Meykhati challenged, “what could change that?”

  “A new messenger, perhaps,” said the Thayan. “Wenefir?”

  There sounded a low hum, and a smear of dark indigo light billowed into the air on the other side of the room, startling all of them but Marek.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Meykhati asked no one in particular.

  “Th-this isn’t supposed to … to …” Aikiko stammered as the cloud of light formed a doorway in the thin air. “You’re not supposed to be able to do that here. Not in this room.”

  Wenefir stepped out of the light and onto the richly carpeted floor, and the magical doorway closed behind him.

  “This is highly irregular,” Meykhati protested, his face turning red.

  “Senators,” Marek said with a shallow bow, “and Ambassador, may I present to you Wenefir, former Seneschal of Pristal Towers.”

  The priest returned Marek’s bow and said, “I come to serve.”

  66

  3 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

  PRISTAL TOWERS, INNARLITH

  Wenefir has come to talk,” Pristoleph told Gahrzig, “not to kill me.”

  The embattled ransar looked at his old friend, who nodded in agreement, then back to the wemic, who was rather less convinced.

  “If you wish it, I will leave,” said the wemic, his smoldering gaze locked on Wenefir, “but I would rather—”

  “Go,” Pristoleph said, then held up a hand to calm the barbarian chieftain. “Thank you, my friend, but I will be all right.”

  Pristoleph was happy to see that Wenefir had retained enough wisdom to remain silent, even if that wisdom had failed him of late in terms of choosing his allies.

  When the wemic backed out of the room and closed the door, Pristoleph turned and waved Wenefir to one of the two overstuffed armchairs that had been pushed close to the fire. Though it was a warm summer day, Pristoleph wanted the fireplace stacked high with hot-burning wood. Wenefir knew well his ability, inherited from his mysterious father, when it came to fire. If Wenefir sat as close to the hearth as he, Pristoleph could immolate the priest at will.

  Though Pristoleph had known Wenefir long enough to see that the priest was rather less than comfortable with the arrangement, much less the heat, he played the dutiful guest and sat before the fire.

  “You have come here with a message,” Pristoleph said as he lowered himself into the chair facing Wenefir. “Speak.”

  Wenefir worked to suppress a smile that made Pristoleph seethe. The smile disappeared when the fire blazed bright and hot, and the priest blinked and edged away from it in his seat.

  “Anyone else would have run,” Pristole
ph said, offering his old friend a smile and willing the fire back to its normal state.

  Wenefir seemed unsure as to whether to nod or shake his head. “You have nothing to fear from me, Pristoleph, and I have nothing to fear from you.”

  “We’ll see if that still holds true after you’ve delivered your message,” Pristoleph said with a tilt of one eyebrow.

  Wenefir cleared his throat and said, “As a neutral third party, representing only the Temple of the Delicate Chaos, I have been asked to inform you that the senate intends to meet on the morrow to rescind your charter as ransar and bestow the title to another, with all rights and privileges of the office, thereby putting a stop to the civil unrest that has brought the city-state to her knees.”

  Pristoleph smiled, though he wanted to scream. He nodded, though he wanted to lash out. The fire burned just a little hotter, though he wanted flames to fill the room.

  He knew what Wenefir had meant by “all rights and privileges.” Whomever they chose to replace him would command the black firedrakes.

  “I can still fight,” Pristoleph said.

  “The senate hopes that you will step aside,” said Wenefir. “For the good of—”

  “That’s enough,” Pristoleph interrupted. “That’s enough.”

  Wenefir pressed his lips together and waited, looking Pristoleph in the eye.

  “As a neutral third party….” Pristoleph mused.

  “As a friend,” Wenefir replied.

  “There are hundreds in the city still loyal to me,” Pristoleph warned. “And I have the wemics still, and am not without surprises of my own.”

  “I have been told to tell you that the senate begs you—” he paused for effect—“begs you, Pristoleph, to put an end to this.”

  “That is their one demand?”

  Wenefir nodded in a way that made it clear there would be others.

  “I will talk to them,” Pristoleph said. “But I will need certain guarantees.”

  “It would be my honor to convey any message you have back to the senate.”