Whisper of Waves Page 4

  “Yes,” he said, and the whychfinder stopped laughing. “I’m going somewhere.”

  Pristoleph killed the man with his own dagger, left it waving slowly back and forth in his chest, and disappeared into the shadows.

  7

  6 Alturiak, the Year of the Lion (1340 DR)

  THE CITY OF AMRUTHAR, THAY

  The map was a series of illusions that hung in the air of the broad circular chamber and produced the only light in the room. Marek Rymüt let his eyes drift across the shimmering blue line that represented the southern coastline of the Vilhon Reach. He reached up to cut the coastline with the tip of his finger. He guessed that the width of his fingernail eclipsed maybe five miles of coastline between the cities of Hlath and Samra.

  A group of Red Wizards settled into positions around the circumference of the room, each accompanied by one or two trusted bodyguards and a secretary.

  Marek looked around the room and returned the silent, nodding greetings of friend and foe alike. Though it had been over four years since he’d returned to civilization with Insithryllax in tow, most of the Red Wizards still gave the transformed dragon wary looks. Some, Marek knew, were hoping the series of powerful enchantments that held the dragon in thrall would one day fail and leave Marek Rymüt at the wyrm’s mercy. Others, he hoped, saw Insithryllax as an ally as dependable as Marek himself. It was just that balance upon which the Red Wizard’s life teetered.

  “I will make this brief,” said the tharchion as he swept into the room through a rapidly fading dimension door.

  What little noise there had been in the room—the shuffling of feet, a stifled cough, or whispered commands to assistants—dropped away. The tharchion held up one nearly skeletal arm and with a crooked, knobby finger, pointed to a floating point on the great map.

  “Reth,” the tharchion said, “Tovek.”

  The Red Wizard named Tovek, a confused expression crossing his brow for just a split second, bowed in response as the coastal city of Reth blazed with a fierce orange light that picked it out from the dull blues and greens of the translucent map.

  The tharchion’s finger followed the coastline southwest and settled on the city of: “Iljak, Toravarr.”

  Toravarr, no less confused than Tovek, bowed to the tharchion.

  As he spoke the name of one city after another, the corresponding point blazed with an orange radiance. Finally, the tharchion pointed at a small sphere hanging on the eastern edge of the Lake of Steam, and Marek’s heart sank.

  “Innarlith,” the tharchion said, “Rymüt.”

  Marek Rymüt made certain his face betrayed none of what he was feeling. He bowed even as the tharchion moved on to the next city, and stood only after he’d named two more.

  Insithryllax leaned in toward Marek’s left ear, but the Red Wizard waved him off with a barely perceptible shake of his head. The dragon paused momentarily then leaned back.

  They stood in silence until each of the assembled wizards had been assigned to a different city.

  “You will leave for your new homes when the sun rises on Ches,” the tharchion commanded. “Once there, you will make yourself a part of your city’s life pulse. You will learn the names of all whose names are worth knowing. You will indebt yourselves, ingratiate yourselves, inculcate yourselves. You will not command, you will not conquer, you will not take nor will you accept control. You will listen, you will watch, you will remember, and you will report. When you are commanded to do so, you will act. When you are recalled, you will return. The interests and the future of Thay in each of these places rests in your hands, so should you fail that is the first part of you that will be taken by me in payment.”

  Without bothering to field questions or even hear confirmation that he was heard and understood, the tharchion stepped forward into a dimension door that opened the instant his foot came off the ground and disappeared the moment his other foot passed its threshold.

  The air in the room was heavy with shock, and for a long time the assembled Red Wizards stood silently considering the life-altering assignments that had been forced upon them as if from nowhere. Then one by one the still-reeling wizards cleared the room.

  Marek drew in a deep breath and Insithryllax once more leaned in close to attend him.

  “Well,” the Red Wizard said, “it appears we’re moving to Innarlith.”

  “Where is Innarlith?”

  Marek almost answered the question but stopped himself short.

  “Innarlith?” he replied instead. “It’s nowhere. It’s nothing.”

  Insithryllax’s eyes narrowed and Marek could tell that the dragon didn’t quite understand but knew well enough that that was all the answer he was going to get.

  Just to surprise the dragon, Marek added, “Not yet, anyway.”

  8

  1 Mirtul, the Year of Shadows (1358 DR)

  THE CITY OF MARSEMBER, CORMYR

  Willem Korvan watched his mother sift through the stack of drawings, growing increasingly agitated with each glimpse of the contents of one sheet of parchment after another. Had they been drawn in her son’s precise, delicate hand, she would have felt quite differently. Instead, the drawings showed the unrestrained, almost careless, loose style of Ivar Devorast.

  Willem knew she didn’t understand the contents of the drawings. She lingered over one that even she could see was reminiscent of a crossbow, though if the hastily sketched figure of a person standing next to it was drawn to scale, it would have to be a crossbow of mammoth proportions.

  “Monstrous,” she whispered as she turned that one drawing to get a better look at it.

  “Mother?” he said, startling her. “What … um … What are you doing there?”

  She let the papers fall back into place on the table and turned to the open door, plastering a false smile on her face.

  “Just cleaning up in Master Devorast’s room, my dear.”

  “It’s not necessary for you to call him that, Mother,” he said.

  She shrugged.

  “He’s twenty-two years old, for goodness sake. If anything it would be … it would be Mister Devorast by now,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb. He looked at her without a trace of suspicion, though he should have noted that she held no rag or duster, no sign that she was cleaning the room. “I’m sure you can call him Ivar.”

  Thurene nodded, reached out her hands to her son, and said, “Come, my dear.”

  Smiling, he stepped forward into her embrace. Thurene kissed her son on the cheek, though she had to stand on her tiptoes, and he had to bend considerably at the waist to make that possible.

  They pulled away from each other at the same time and Thurene said, “Old habits die hard, my dear. It was the appropriate form of address when we were first introduced, and well, I guess it just stuck. Besides, Mas—Mister Devorast never seemed to mind.”

  Willem shrugged, his eyes drawn to the stack of drawings.

  “Ivar doesn’t listen, anyway,” he said. “He probably hasn’t heard a word you’ve said since he moved in.”

  Thurene’s smile faded, but Willem couldn’t help the look of undisguised admiration on his face as his eyes played over Devorast’s wild imaginings.

  “They’re quite a mess, aren’t they?” she said, twisting her neck around in an severe way in hopes of drawing her son’s eyes from the paper. It didn’t work. “Nothing like the way he keeps his room. So clean, so … featureless. He’s the only boarder we’ve ever had who hasn’t put a moment’s thought into his décor.”

  “I think you’ll find Ivar unconcerned with pretty well everything but his work,” Willem said. “He’s a very serious man, and it shows in his drawings.”

  Thurene glanced down at the drawings and said, “But so messy.”

  “Don’t confuse the hand with the intent, Mother,” said Willem. “The work he’s done while at the college is beyond any of the other students. He makes me look like a—”

  “Don’t,” Thurene interrupted. “You are not in
competition with this young man, with his wild drawings and mad ideas. Your potential … Well, I mustn’t beam.”

  Willem chuckled and said, “You’re my mother. Beam if need be.”

  Thurene touched his arm with real affection and turned him gently back toward the door. Together they left the spartan room and the drawings behind them.

  “You will go farther than your friend Ivar, my dear,” Thurene said, holding her son’s arm as they walked out onto the narrow landing, “and I’m certain you will do better than your pitiful father. You will save us both. You will save your family name. I’ve never been more sure of anything. As long as you remain strong and make the best choices … The things you have—your face, your refined manner—you will leave that Ivar Devorast, that stoic, indecipherable, odd little—”

  Willem stopped short, startling her again, and she appeared about to ask him what was the matter when she noticed Ivar Devorast standing on the staircase not three feet in front of them.

  Willem’s face flushed and his heart sank. Surely Devorast had heard every word she’d said, and though his mother had no concern for Devorast’s feelings, Willem couldn’t bear the thought that she might have embarrassed herself and his friend.

  “Master …” Thurene started, then her tongue seemed to twist in her mouth. She tried again with: “Mister … Duh—”

  “Ivar,” Willem said, in an effort to come to her rescue, “there you are. I was hoping I’d run into you.”

  Devorast stood perfectly still, both feet on one stair and looked at Willem, simply waiting for him to continue. The young man’s red hair was unkempt, his simple, unattractive clothing—a style popular in the Year of the Bow, Thurene enjoyed pointing out—were stained with charcoal and ink.

  “You’ll be at the reception, I hope,” Willem said.

  “Reception?” Thurene asked as if it was the first she’d heard of it.

  “Yes,” Devorast answered, his deep voice at once aloof and commanding.

  Willem nodded at Devorast, then looked down at Thurene and said, “The college is hosting a reception for the recent graduates. We were told to bring some samples of our work to show to some important people invited by the college. It could mean a placement for both of us, if all goes well.”

  Thurene put a hand to her chest.

  “Oh, Willem, my dear, that’s lovely,” she said, not bothering to keep the tiniest part of the excitement she felt from showing in both her voice and her face. “A placement. With the Court, perhaps?”

  Willem chuckled again and said, “From your lips to Tymora’s ear, Mother. Perhaps the Court or perhaps a private concern. Fortifications and such for me, I hope, and likely a spot with a naval architect for Ivar here.”

  Thurene’s excitement faded from her face when she turned to Devorast and said, “Ships, is it, then?”

  Devorast nodded, but said nothing. He still hadn’t moved a muscle.

  “Ivar’s designs for shipboard weapons are … are already attracting a great deal of attention,” said Willem. “If he brings the sketches he has in his room, well, he’ll place for sure.”

  They both looked at Devorast for a reaction, but he gave them nothing but a glance at their feet. Willem realized a second before his mother did that they were standing at the top of the stairs, blocking Devorast’s way up, and all he wanted was for them to move.

  They stepped aside and he passed to the door of his room where he stopped, turned to them, and said to Willem, “Knock when you’re ready to go.”

  Willem nodded, and Devorast closed the door behind him.

  “A placement,” Thurene said as she followed her son down the stairs. “Gold and position enough to keep the house without the parade of student boarders I’ve had to endure since your bumbling fool of a father died. Gold and position enough for anything.”

  Willem felt a heaviness in his chest, as if someone was standing on the space above his heart.

  9

  1 Mirtul, the Year of Shadows (1358 DR)

  MARSEMBER, CORMYR

  Willem was too nervous to eat or drink. He’d come with Devorast, but they quickly separated. Willem occasionally caught sight of his friend standing over his drawings at a table against a wall. His red hair all disheveled, his clothes a mess, Devorast stood like a statue, for all the world wholly uninterested in what was happening around him.

  Everyone was there. The faculty, the graduating students, nobles, and dignitaries from Marsember and the rest of the kingdom. Willem mingled with other students but stuck as close to key members of the faculty as he could. He was introduced to a small delegation from Sembia—dour, unhappy-looking men who didn’t bother to feign interest in anything, and no one could figure out why they were there. The man from Waterdeep was the most popular and was so surrounded by solicitous students and faculty members alike that Willem didn’t even bother trying to get an introduction. He had a pleasant conversation with a wealthy architect from Silverymoon who was looking for help in building some sort of temple, but the look on his face when he leafed through Willem’s drawings made it clear that Willem wouldn’t be moving to Silverymoon.

  It was one of the college administrators who introduced him to the men from Innarlith.

  As they exchanged niceties, Willem racked his brain. Where in all Toril was Innarlith? He couldn’t help thinking he’d heard of the realm before, but there was no map of the place in his head.

  The professor wandered off, and none of the other students appeared interested in the two strange men from some obscure place far, far away. They stayed in their circles around the representatives from the Court of Cormyr, Silverymoon, or Waterdeep instead. Willem and the two strange men found their way to the edge of the room, and Willem put his drawings down on the table next to Devorast’s.

  “These are quite good,” said the man who’d been introduced simply as Inthelph.

  “I work very hard,” Willem replied, doing his best to smile and to look the man in the eye, just as his mother had taught him.

  “I can see that,” Inthelph said, then turned to his companion. “Have you seen these?”

  The other man—the one named Fharaud—was looking at Devorast’s drawings instead while Devorast scanned the room, giving no indication he had even seen the man from Innarlith.

  Inthelph was a stout man of middle years with jet black hair and eyes nearly as dark. His skin was like leather and a deep brown. He looked like a foreigner but didn’t seem out of place in the rarified air of the formal reception. His clothing was exotic, but beautifully tailored and made of silk and fine linen. He smelled of something that might have been perfume or some exotic spice. His accent was strange but not difficult to understand. Willem watched Inthelph’s eyes examine his drawings with great care.

  But he couldn’t help sneaking glances at the other man from Innarlith, who was going from one drawing of Devorast’s to another, his mouth agape. Fharaud was taller and thinner than Inthelph. His hair was surely once as black as Inthelph’s but had gone gray. His eyes were gray too, almost as if they had aged along with his hair. Perhaps, Willem thought, that sort of thing happens in Innarlith.

  “Yes,” Inthelph said, drawing Willem’s full attention again. “Yes, these are quite precise. Quite nicely done.”

  “You have a very … inspired hand, son,” Fharaud said to Devorast, and Willem’s eyes flicked to his classmate.

  “Thank you, sir,” Willem said to Inthelph, though he continued to look at Devorast.

  “It’s an Art,” Devorast said, and both of the men from Innarlith gave him their full attention.

  Willem was convinced he could hear the capital A in Art, the same way wizards spoke of spellcasting.

  “In your hands,” Fharaud said, “it may well be.”

  Inthelph looked over at the drawings, but for only a moment. Willem’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of the man’s reaction. Inthelph dismissed Devorast’s work out of hand and quickly went back to admiring Willem’s.

  “You
have a very precise hand and a solid exhibition of the basic mathematics,” Inthelph said.

  “An art?” Fharaud asked Devorast, and again all three of them waited for Devorast’s answer.

  “The design itself,” Devorast explained, “is as important as the function. The solution to a problem is greater than the problem itself.”

  “You’re designing weapons,” said Fharaud. “One might consider the enemy the ‘problem’ that a builder of weapons must solve. Surely you take your enemy into account.”

  “The only enemy I have is myself,” Devorast replied, “my own limitations. The enemy, the purpose of the war, if there is one, is of no consequence. If something that projects fire is required, my only concern is that my device projects fire in the most efficient manner possible. Should I be asked to fire arrows, my device should fire more of them, farther, and with more force and accuracy than previous devices.”

  Inthelph looked doubtful, even dismissive, but Fharaud nodded and smiled.

  “You have little concern for convention,” Fharaud said with a nod to the drawings.

  “That’s not true, sir,” replied Devorast, “I have no concern for convention. I’d prefer to develop conventions of my own.”

  That brought a smile to Fharaud’s face—one that Willem couldn’t help but think was a bit patronizing—and a scowl to Inthelph’s.

  “You could learn some from your friend here,” Inthelph said to Devorast, motioning to Willem. “He is a very careful young man.”

  Devorast had no reaction and that in itself made Willem’s skin crawl. His heart raced. He could see it written plain across Devorast’s face. He had nothing to learn from Willem. Nothing to learn at all.

  “Willem Korvan,” Inthelph said, “I hope that you will accept a position with the city-state of Innarlith in the Office of the Master Builder. We are preparing for a wide-scale improvement of the city’s walls, and I believe your talents and education can be of some assistance to us. There will be a stipend, of course, and other considerations.”