Scream of Stone Page 8

  Phyrea shook her head and sank into a plush, silk-upholstered sofa. Pristoleph sat next to her, so close she could feel his heat, and he waved the butler away. The servant stepped backward through the double doors, pulling them closed in front of him.

  “It has been a long time,” he said, setting his tallglass on the little table next to him. He took her glass from her and set it next to his, and looked at her with undisguised lust—fire, even, in his eyes.

  Though the word “canal” conjured an image of a man she still knew she loved in a way she could never love her husband, she had missed Pristoleph more than she thought she would, and the heat of him, the smell of him, his commanding presence surrounded by his seemingly limitless wealth, managed to push Ivar Devorast’s face from her thoughts.

  “And how may I serve the ransar?” she whispered.

  Pristoleph kissed her, burning her mouth with his tongue. As hot as it was, she pressed in harder still.

  He pulled only a hair’s breadth away from her and said, “This ransar will serve you.”

  20

  30 Eleint, the Year of the Unstrung Harp (1371 DR)

  THE CANAL SITE

  It’s true then,” the Cormyrean said, and T’juyu, who listened, invisible and unmoving, from behind the canvas rear wall of the tent, sensed more relief than surprise in his voice.

  “Warden Truesilver,” a man’s voice replied—it was the alchemist. T’juyu didn’t know his name. “To what do we owe this—?”

  “My king is dead,” Truesilver interrupted. A silence followed and T’juyu had no idea how to interpret it. “Our king has fallen on the field of battle.”

  The alchemist cleared his throat and said, “I’m … shocked to hear that, Warden. I’m sorry.”

  “Devorast?” Truesilver asked.

  “He was a good man,” Ivar Devorast said. “He was a fair and forthright king.”

  “I suppose that will suffice as an outpouring of grief for the misery of your homeland,” the warden replied. T’juyu wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic.

  “Is that what you came here to tell us?” Devorast asked, and from his tone T’juyu could tell he didn’t think that was the case.

  “Please, Warden, sit,” the alchemist said.

  There came a rustling and shuffling of feet as the three men settled themselves in the cramped, dark tent. For a while the only sounds were the general murmur of the camp—not too loud with Devorast’s tent so far removed from the others—and the croaking of unseen frogs hiding in the tall grass around them. The night sky was devoid of stars and the breeze from the west was cool and damp.

  “I heard a rumor that you had returned,” the visiting Cormyrean said. “You have taken back your canal, then.”

  There was another pause then the alchemist said, “Well … not precisely.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Truesilver. “I’ve seen the progress. It’s remarkable. This is truly a feat that will be the envy of … well, everyone.”

  “Horemkensi,” Devorast said, “is the master builder.”

  “Whatever does that mean?”

  “It means,” said the alchemist, “that as far as anyone who matters in Innarlith knows, Senator Horemkensi is directing the construction of the canal, not Ivar Devorast.”

  “And I would prefer that that fiction remain in place,” Devorast said. “At least for now.”

  There was another pause, but T’juyu could hear the warden breathing loudly. Finally the Cormyrean said, “That’s an outrage. The new ransar is so loyal to this Horemkensi that he wouldn’t hear your plea?”

  If it was possible to hear someone shrug, T’juyu heard it, or at least sensed it from the alchemist.

  “Have you even spoken to him?” Truesilver asked.

  “Pristoleph?” the alchemist replied.

  “No,” said Devorast.

  “I’ve met with him,” Truesilver said. “I’ve just come from Innarlith and plan to ride the rest of the way north to Arrabar. A Cormyrean ship awaits me there so that I can return home … to a kingdom without—” He stopped speaking and even T’juyu could sense the discomfort in the air.

  A footstep startled her and she brushed up against the canvas. Feet shifted inside, but T’juyu looked up at the sound of another footstep outside, then another. A man carrying a short spear and wearing ring mail that looked at least a size too big for him passed. He looked and smelled drunk—only a little—but he still seemed determined to make his rounds.

  T’juyu held her breath. Of course she could kill the guard, but then there would be a dead or missing guard, and the canal site would be placed on watch. The men in the tent would suspect that it was an assassin that had brushed their tent, and they would only be partly mistaken.

  “Is someone there?” the alchemist called.

  “Ahoy there,” the guard called back, teetering a bit as he came to a stop not half a yard from the invisible T’juyu.

  “Is that you, Reety?” the alchemist responded from inside the tent.

  “Aye,” the guard, who must have been a sailor before hiring on to guard the canal site, said around an airy belch. “It’s just me.”

  “On your way, then,” Devorast said, and Reety moved on.

  T’juyu didn’t risk a sigh.

  “So,” Truesilver continued. “You should speak to Ransar Pristoleph.”

  “I don’t need Pristoleph’s permission to do what I’m doing,” Devorast said. “And besides, his wife would never allow it.”

  “His—?” the Cormyrean started.

  “It’s complicated,” the alchemist covered. “I hope we can leave it at that.”

  Truesilver sighed loudly and T’juyu sensed that the three of them would leave the conversation there, and so it was her cue to leave. As she made her way as quietly as she could away from the tent, she heard a shuffle of parchment or paper from within and Truesilver said, “These are interesting. The way the teeth on these wheels …”

  Then his voice was lost to the night, and so was T’juyu.

  21

  2 Marpenoth, the Year of the Unstrung Harp

  THE CANAL SITE

  Though she had spent only a short time in the company of humans, T’juyu had gotten to know much about them. Within the first few heartbeats after stepping into the little clapboard shack that Senator Horemkensi called home, she knew he would be easy to get close to, and all she had to do was get close.

  “Well, now,” the man said, his voice throaty and not unpleasant, “what do we have here?”

  T’juyu smiled and pulled the door closed behind her, letting her gaze dart across the confines of the cabin, reassuring herself that they were alone.

  “What is your name?” he asked, his smile matching hers, his teeth bright, his eyes dull.

  “T’juyu,” she said, using a simple cantrip to make her voice higher, almost squeaky. She knew that sort of thing put human males off their guard.

  The senator sat at a small table on which was set a silver service and a half-finished meal T’juyu didn’t like the smell of. She knew that by brutish, human standards the man was considered handsome. His clothes were all silk and soft linen, his black leather boots so shiny T’juyu could see the curve of her own hip reflected in the uppers.

  “Ah,” he breathed, “where are my manners?”

  He rose but didn’t approach her. She made a sound she’d come to know as a “giggle” and it seemed to please him.

  “You’re Senator Horemkensi?” she asked. She knew who he was, but still she felt she had to be sure. She had to hear him at least admit to who he was, if not what he’d done.

  The senator dipped into a low bow, sweeping his arm down as he went and said, “At your service, fair lady.”

  “And there was to be someone else,” she said, brushing an errant hair from her forehead, though her hair was short, almost like a man’s. She’d tried it long but hated the feeling of it brushing her shoulders—not to mention the feeling of having shoulders in the first place
. “Harkhuf?”

  Horemkensi blinked and said, “Alas, he is in Innarlith on an urgent errand. But what could we two possibly require of him?”

  T’juyu fought not to let her disappointment show. No matter, she thought. She had the head, so what of the fate of the tail?

  “You have very lovely skin,” the man said, leaning against the little table, his meal forgotten. “Where are you from?”

  “The Chondalwood,” she said, not even bothering to lie.

  He didn’t seem to have heard her anyway, as though he had asked the question but had no interest in any answer.

  “What brings you to my door this evening, T’juyu?” he asked, and she was surprised that he’d remembered her name. “All this way from the city …”

  “Not what,” she replied, “but who.”

  He raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.

  “I am a gift, my lord,” she said, pleased that she managed not to choke on calling him that. “I was sent by Ransar Pristoleph with his thanks for your efforts on the city-state’s behalf.”

  Horemkensi burst out laughing and brought his hands together in front of him with a loud slapping noise that startled her.

  “That old scoundrel,” he said. “And here I was worried that that street urchin cum king was going to have me sent home in disgrace, if not killed.”

  “But you have done so well here. The whole city is talking about it,” she said, and again it wasn’t easy for her to keep up the pretense. She knew full well that it was another who had brought the growing canal back from the brink of disaster.

  He stopped laughing, but smiled still and nodded. He took his eyes away from her and she took that opportunity to move closer to him in just a few small steps. He didn’t look up when she stood only inches in front of him. His eyes traveled up her legs slowly, then lingered in her middle. Uncomfortable in the rough fabric anyway, she let her simple woolen gown fall from her shoulders. He drew in a breath.

  “You like what you see?” she asked. “My form pleases you?”

  “My compliments to the ransar,” he whispered.

  And something about that, and the way he said it, drove the last sliver of patience from T’juyu. She couldn’t wait for the man to look her in the eye on his own accord. He obviously had no interest in her eyes or her face. He reached out to touch her and she let him, forcing herself to lean in closer. With the tip of one finger under his chin she drew his face up to meet hers. He smiled playfully and she thought again how handsome he was, but how dull and lifeless were his eyes.

  She stared deeply into those dull orbs and held him, reaching out with her gaze, then with her mind, then with a power that rose up from the core of her being like a tide slowly rising under the gentle but relentless influence of Selûne.

  T’juyu wasn’t the slightest bit surprised when the man fell under her spell. She robbed him of the ability to move.

  “Don’t be afraid, Little Lord H,” she whispered into his still, confused face. “To be quite honest, this is more about me than it is about you.”

  He could hear her, she knew that, but she didn’t get the feeling he quite understood what was happening to him, let alone what was about to happen.

  “I came from the Chondalwood,” she told him, “because the water nagas had made an arrangement that made my kind very, very nervous. We don’t like water nagas, you see. But then I spent some time listening, some time understanding, and it’s occurred to me that, despite how this hole in the ground might benefit the naja’ssynsa it seems I was on the wrong side.”

  He tried to shake his head, to tell her he didn’t understand, not to break the eye contact that held him rigid and helpless before her. The spell wouldn’t let him look away.

  “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” she asked.

  His eyes told her she was right.

  “That,” she whispered into his ear, letting the eye contact break, “is only one of the reasons why I’m killing you.”

  He started to move, but only the slightest twitch before T’juyu let her fangs grow out from her human gums. The long, needle-like teeth sank deeply into the warm, soft flesh of his neck and she let her venom pour into him.

  22

  3 Marpenoth, the Year of the Unstrung Harp (1371 DR)

  THE PALACE OF MANY SPIRES, INNARLITH

  Oh … oh, Ransar …” the alchemist babbled as he was hustled into the lavish sitting room by one of Pristoleph’s black firedrakes. “Please, my lord, oh, please allow me to explain. I beg you. I didn’t think … I mean, I didn’t realize … I don’t know …”

  He doesn’t know what he’s defending himself against, Pristoleph thought, rolling his eyes.

  The black-armored soldier let go of Harkhuf’s arm and the alchemist dropped to his knees, his green-stained hands shaking and scrabbling at the fine Calishite rug. He was dressed in dingy gray undergarments and a tattered weathercloak. His face was sweating and great brown stains showed under his arms. From the state of his hair and the redness in his eyes it was obvious that the black firedrakes had roused him from a sound sleep. It was well after middark after all.

  “Calm yourself,” Pristoleph said, but the groveling man hardly seemed to hear him.

  “Harkhuf, really,” Marek Rymüt scolded, almost as though Harkhuf were his own unruly child.

  It was only then that Harkhuf seemed to notice that the Red Wizard was in the room. He scrambled to his feet and crossed to where Marek sat and Pristoleph could see his knees bending ever more with each step.

  “There is no need to bow to me, Harkhuf my friend,” the Thayan said, and Pristoleph imagined his next words might have been: “At least not in the presence of the ransar,” but the Red Wizard left that unsaid.

  “Sit down, man,” Pristoleph said, taking a seat himself on a particularly garish, massive wingback easy chair of Waterdhavian design.

  Harkhuf took two steps on weak knees and collapsed on a foot stool in front of Marek, looking for all accounts like a dog caught soiling his master’s rug.

  “I assume we had to wake you, this evening?” Pristoleph said.

  “Oh, oh, no, Ransar, no, not at all. Not at all,” the alchemist replied around a hissing, toadying laugh that made Pristoleph’s skin crawl. Marek rolled his eyes behind the alchemist’s head.

  “Since you were sleeping,” Pristoleph pressed on, “I will assume you have not yet heard of the death of Senator Horemkensi.”

  “The … what?” Harkhuf said. If it was possible for his face to get any whiter, it did just then. “The what … of … who? Who died?”

  “You heard him,” Marek said.

  Harkhuf tried to look at both of them at the same time and appeared almost more regretful of having sat between them than he was of the word of his master’s death.

  “How?” he asked in a voice as small as a little girl’s.

  “He was murdered,” Pristoleph said.

  “Poisoned,” Marek added.

  “No,” Harkhuf whispered, his bloodshot eyes bulging. “Oh, blessed Azuth, you can’t possibly believe that I had anything—” He threw himself to the floor, pushing the foot stool toward a startled Red Wizard, and commenced a most unseemly groveling. “Oh, Ransar, I beg you. I beg you to hear my defense. I was not even there when it happened. I know nothing of poisons. I know even less of poisons than I do of smokepowder. I would never … I would never …”

  “Will you please calm yourself,” Pristoleph said. “And get up off the floor.”

  Harkhuf did as he was told, hurrying to a small chair in the corner of the parlor, where he sat with his green hands at his sides. He was having a great deal of difficulty breathing.

  “By the gods,” Marek said, “you’ll pass out.”

  “No one here is accusing you of anything,” Pristoleph said.

  That stopped Harkhuf breathing all together.

  “Breathe,” the Red Wizard urged.

  Harkhuf took a deep breath and nodded. He blinked and for a moment Pr
istoleph thought he was about to pass out, but finally he managed to gather himself—at least enough to remain conscious.

  “It was the Zhentarim,” the alchemist said.

  Pristoleph looked at the Thayan and met his eyes.

  “The Black Network?” Marek asked.

  “Yes,” the alchemist said, though he shook his head at the same time. “It was the merchant’s council of Turmish, then. Yes?”

  “Do you—?” Pristoleph started to ask.

  “The caravanners!” the alchemist exclaimed. “Our own caravanners … they’ve opposed construction of the canal all along!”

  “So, you’re guessing,” Marek said with a dark, perturbed look.

  “I was hoping you could tell me more,” Pristoleph said with a sigh. “The two of you seemed close. And together you’ve made remarkable progress, or so I’ve been told.”

  “Yes,” the alchemist said, looking down at the rug between his unshod feet. “I haven’t the slightest clue as to how or why, my lord, but we have made exceptional progress.”

  “Whatever do you mean, you have no clue how or why?” asked Marek.

  “I’m terrible, my lords,” the alchemist said to both the ransar and the Red Wizard. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what I’m doing. By my own count I’ve killed two hundred men … more, maybe … and all that with smokepowder still left over from Surero. When I told the men to make some more they looked at me in a way that made it plain they had no idea where to begin, and yet within a tenday, the supplies were almost entirely restocked.”

  Again Pristoleph traded a look with Marek.

  “You mean you haven’t been—?”

  “Doing much at all, Ransar,” Harkhuf admitted. “Please, Master Rymüt … I should be discharged. I am incompetent and I have failed you over and over and over again.”

  “And now,” Pristoleph grumbled, “the senator who’s been covering for you is dead, and you’re afraid whoever killed him will come after you next.”

  “Master Rymüt,” Harkhuf said, a little drool beginning to drip from his quivering lower lip. “Something is happening to the zombies. Every so often some of them disappear. They just … aren’t there anymore. We … I have no idea what’s become of them.”