Whisper of Waves (10 page)

The ship rode a torrent of the Lake of Steam’s sulfurous water down that whole hundred feet. Sailors screamed as they were torn from the deck by the twisting, lurching, chaotic fall made all the worse for the enormous sail that took on some of the air, slowed them then released it and turned them sharply—utterly useless and out of control, it couldn’t save them from the impact.

Fharaud closed his eyes and held his breath but couldn’t hold it long enough. He let the breath out but kept his eyes closed. More screams, the crack of wood, the whip of rope torn loose from fittings, the cries of a dying vessel filled his ears.

When they hit the water Fharaud tried to scream, but every bit of air he had in him was driven out by an impact so violent and sudden that his teeth cracked in his head, one bone after another snapped like so many dried twigs, and his life became a mad maelstrom of pain, screaming, suffocating, and defeat. Everwind exploded around him and he was in the water before fickle Tymora blessed him with unconsciousness.

18_

16Alturiak, the Year of Maidens (1361 DR) Second Quarter, Innarlith

With the aid of half a dozen unseen servants, Marek Rymiit played midwife to a hundred hatchling firedrakes.

Hour after blood-and slime-soaked hour they came, one egg after another opening with a wet crack to reveal the writhing, already snarling form of the mutant dragon inside it. The babies were hatched with teeth and were born hungry. Marek ran out of piglets only three hours

into the day. He’d brought a hundred of them, one for each egg he expected to hatch that day, but he was surprised to find that even the newborn firedrakes could eat more -j than one piglet. In fact, the black lizard-beasts, their fine scales shining in the torchlight like black patent leather, ! could take one piglet in three bites. {

“Betterget more pigs, my friend,” the great black wyrm • Insithryllax chided around a rumbling laugh, “before they turn on you.”

“Well,” Marek replied, panting, dragging another newborn firedrake out of the remains of its broken egg, “perhaps I’ll get lucky and they’ll turn on their parents first.”

The black dragon laughed again and said, “Trust me, Marek, that wouldn’t be lucky for anyone here.”

To emphasize his point, Insithryllax let a drop of his caustic spittle fall to the floor at his feet. The acid ate through a thick piece of broken egg shell, then the flagstone floor and the rock underneath, in less time than it took for Marek to blink once.

Though he would have enjoyed a bout of banter with the dragon, Marek went back to his work. A great deal of effort had been put into accelerating his breeding program, and the black firedrakes needed time to mature,, and time for training, before they could be delivered. He had no time, and no firedrakes, to lose.

The older generations of black firedrakes packed along the walls of the great underground chamber and looked on while their little brothers and sisters were born. Marek did his best to ignore the hungry looks in their eyes. One of the reasons he’d begun to breed so many at a time, augmenting the black dragon’s potency and the egg-laying capabilities of the firedrake females with spells, was that he knew he’d lose a few in the first tenday or so. The firedrakes would eat one or two, then the older blacks would take as many as a dozen of the runts. Blood would fill the room long after the last egg hatched.

Having run out of food for the newborns, Marek knew he had only one recourse and that was to accelerate that natural process as well.

The black firedrake he pulled out of its egg was heavy, and it looked at the Red Wizard with a dangerous gleam in its eye, so Marek knew that one would live. He cast about him, eggs pressing in on all sides, and scooped up a handful of the slimy yellow tissue that wrapped the growing reptiles inside their shells. He pressed the handful of slime into the newborn’s mouth and it took the protein in hungrily. As Marek searched the floor around him for a more substantial meal, he instructed the unseen servants to do the same. All around him handfuls of yolk sacs were offered up by invisible hands to eagerly snapping jaws.

The adult female drakes, their red scales shining with the vile-smelling moisture that filled the air, hissed and snapped from the periphery. The smell was starting to excite them and was having the same effect on their black offspring.

Marek finally found what he was looking for and quickly rattled off a simple spell that sent bolts of blue-violet energy ripping into the still-soft scales of a smallish newborn, one he thought looked weak enough to do without. The spell killed the black firedrake, and Marek dragged it to the creature he’d just delivered. Four others of the stronger newborns fell on their slain sister and fought over every last strip of bloody flesh.

The same began to happen all over the chamber and Marek, for the first time in a while, felt the icy tendrils of fear tickling at the edges of his consciousness. It wasn’t a feeling he relished.

“Insithryllax____” he said, looking up at the dragon

and at the same time calling to mind a spell.

“Go,” the dragon said. “I will settle things, but you’ll lose more than I know you’re hoping to.”

Marek looked around at the hellish birthing chamber, the older black and adult red firedrakes were moving in

slowly, but he could see in the corded muscles of their powerful legs the inevitability of dozens and dozens of feral pounces.

“This won’t do,” the Red Wizard said, frustration holding the fear at bay at least for the moment.

“It’s too crowded in here,” the great black rumbled.

Marek nodded, looked Insithryllax in the eye, and said, “I’ll send for you when I’ve found a bigger lair.”

The dragon nodded and Marek cast a spell that got him out of there half a heartbeat before all hell broke loose.

19_

19 Alturiak, the Year of Maidens (1361 DR) First Quarter, Innarlith

In what was left of his pain-addled mind, Fharaud made a list of things he had lost:

Everwind.

The ship was utterly destroyed. Hardly any two planks were still nailed together when the Cormyrean ship that had been waiting for them in the Vilhon Reach dragged the few bodies, and even fewer survivors, from the unforgiving sea.

Fharaud, or so he was told tendays later when he first regained consciousness, had been “lucky”—that’s how the priest of Waukeen in Arrabar had put it: lucky—in that he had been wrapped in ropes that remained tied to a larger piece of wreckage and so had been dragged up and out of the water. They’d found him lashed to his makeshift raft and at first thought he was dead, so grievous were his wounds and so shallow his breathing.

The Cormyreans had dropped the survivors in Arrabar and buried the dead at sea. Ayesunder Truesilver, a Cormyrean naval officer of some note, had been aboard the ship that Everwind was supposed to have met. He’d written

a short letter and tucked it into one of Fharaud’s pockets. When he regained some sense in the temple of the Merchant’s Friend one of the acolytes had read it aloud to him:

Master Fharaud,

Please accept the best wishes of the Kingdom of Cormyr and oursincerest hope for your speedy and complete recovery.

As the cog Everwind was still under your command and with a pilot from Innarlith at the helm, we must consider her to have been scuttled in your possession. In the interest of time and the proper maintenance of His Majesty’s Fleet, Cormyr shall look elsewhere for her ships and shall consider no balance owed to you.

Regrets,

Ayesunder Truesilver, Harbormaster And that brought him to:

His Family Fortune.

There was hardly a silver piece left.

Everwind had not been built from the pocket of King Azoun IV but from gold and collateral of Fharaud’s family fortune. His parents had left him with a sizeable trust, and with that he had built his business, all the while holding back enough to live on and to pay his modest staff.

He had gambled it all on Everwind.

Why shouldn’t he have? The ship was the finest afloat. He and Devorast had outdone the finest shipbuilders in Faerun, if not the whole of Toril. The purse and honor of King Azoun IV was without question. Fharaud had been mere hours from delivering the ship and coming into possession of chest after chest of Cormyrean gold. Instead, the gold had returned to Marsember with Ayesunder Truesilver, and it would not be coming back.

He had proven himself unworthy of it, after all, and so much for…

His Reputation.

From the moment word reached Innarlith that Everwind had been lost, everyone from whom he’d borrowed gold or goods, every enemy he’d ever made, every craftsman who thought he was owed a little extra for his effort, came to call on the business he’d left behind.

Though Devorast had done an admirable job of holding them at bay, by the time Fharaud returned to Innarlith, carried on a stretcher from the seemingly endless, agonizing carriage ride south from Arrabar, he had simply been picked clean, and people he thought were his friends seemed to have forgotten his name.

He was the man who lost the Cormyrean king’s gold, the fool who launched a ship and sank it the same day, who had built a ship too big for the portal, or so they said, because he wanted to impress a foreign king.

All he was left with was the little room that had been his office but into which Devorast had moved a bed and a scattering of his possessions—enough barely to live on. Alone and an invalid he had lost even…

The Following Parts of his Body:

His right leg, right arm, right eye, and right ear.

Fharaud felt like half a man, and in almost literal terms, he was. The priests in Arrabar had healed him enough to keep him alive, but to do more they wanted gold. Even that soon after the loss of Everwind, the priests—all savvy entrepreneurs in their own right—started to realize that Fharaud had no gold, certainly not enough for that sort of clerical attention.

They wrapped him up and put him on a carriage, and by the time he got back to Innarlith, there was nothing to pay for healing there either, and there he was left.

Every day was a long stretch of agonizing torment. The constant pain was so all-consuming there were times when he could feel his mind slipping away and would come back to his senses only hours, even days later, drooling,

panting, screaming, tied to his bed and watched over by the one person who hadn’t abandoned him.

“I don’t deserve this,” he said to Ivar Devorast on the two hundred and fortieth day after the loss of Everwind.

Devorast looked him in the eye and shrugged.

Though it made his head virtually explode with agony to do so, Fharaud laughed. He didn’t understand what Devorast meant by that shrug any more than he understood his own words.

He didn’t deserve what?

To be ruined, to be maimed, or to be alive?

Maybe he didn’t deserve any of those things.

20__

28 Alturiak, the Year of Maidens (1361 DR) Second Quarter, Innarlith

Willem could tell his mother didn’t like the house. Still, she knew enough not to embarrass him in front of the master builder. The look on her face when she first stepped into the confines of the dark, narrow townhouse on the eastern edge of the Second Quarter was one of polite disappointment.

“I know you must be proud of your son, Lady Korvan,” Inthelph said.

Thurene looked at Willem, who cleared his throat and said, “It’s not… in Cormyr, you see…”

With a smile Inthelph said, “She will always be Lady Korvan to me, Willem, whether or not the Royal Court of Cormyr recognizes the title.”

It was Willem’s turn to blush, but it was Thurene who answered, “The Master Builder is most charming. Thank you.”

“Please, call me Inthelph.”

There were smiles and nods all around, and a silence stretched past the point of being bearable.

“We should sit,” Willem said, his mind moving in a sluggish, unsure manner. Looking between his mother, whom he hadn’t seen in years, and the master builder who seemed so much a part of his new life in Innarlith, he thought the two of them couldn’t possibly coexist in the same room at the same time. “This way, please.”

“Perhaps I should go,” Inthelph said, glancing down at the trunks that had been stacked in the tiny foyer. “I can only imagine you must be tired after so long a journey, madam.”

“Oh, no, no,” Thurene replied. “I couldn’t possibly run you off.”

“But if you are tired, Mother….” Willem said. He felt tired himself.

“My son looks after me,” Thurene said to Inthelph, “but I’m sure you know what that’s like.”

A strange look came over Inthelph’s face, then one that made Willem uncomfortable.

“You have a daughter,” Willem offered, cringing at what felt like a presumption but was a simple enough statement of fact.

“Do you indeed?” Thurene asked, beaming just enough to be polite.

Inthelph all but squirmed, then said, “My daughter and I are often… at odds with one another.”

Thurene tipped her head and smiled in a sweet and genuine way Willem could tell was anything but.

“They all go through those times,” she said. “Never fear. It doesn’t last. Look at my boy here. All grown up, a responsible young man who’s found so accomplished and impressive a mentor.” A conspiratorial look came over Thurene then and she added, “Perhaps if the two of them were introduced, my Willem could be a good influence—”

She stopped short when Inthelph turned to leave and Willem practically jumped to open the door for him. The hot, humid night air blew into the tight space bringing

with it a hint of sulfur. Thurene put a dainty hand to her nose.

Inthelph smiled and said, “One does get used to it.” Thurene’s smile was gracious but unconvinced. “Good night, Master Builder.”

“Good night, sir,” Willem said.

With a shallow bow, the master builder went off into the night.

“You haven’t met his daughter yet?” Thurene asked once the door was closed.

“No, Mother,” Willem answered, just getting the words out felt like a titanic struggle. “I had held out some hope that…”

“If she’s such an embarrassment to him,” Thurene offered, “perhaps it’s just as well. Still, a man your age….”