Whisper of Waves (24 page)

“Slow, tedious, walking on legs on the ground?” Svayyah said. “Precisely.”

“You will need to do a lot of talking,” Svayyah said. “You will need to build a strong coalition. You will have to keep your friends close and at the very least know who your enemies are. Whoever operates-those caravans will not appreciate those same items moving instead aboard a ship that, even passing through the Nagawater and the Lake of Steam, will surely get to the Sword Coast faster than some ox cart. One thing we know about you humans, one thing that makes you predictable, is that you will kill each other over gold. You will do anything for gold.”

Devorast shook his head as if he disagreed with her and said, “You’re right, but that doesn’t interest me. I’m not building this canal to drive some caravanner out of business. I’m not doing it to profit any merchant captain or to empower the ransar of Innarlith, whom I don’t even know.”

“Then why?” Svayyah said with a laugh in her voice. “This will take you years. It could take the rest of your paltry existence in this world to finish a canal that will have to stretch, what, fifty miles—?”

“Forty,” he corrected.

“Forty,” she repeated with ice in her voice. “Over hard, hilly land that belongs to the ransar and not you. If you have no thought of trade and commerce, then why build it? Why even consider it?”

“Because it’s never been done before,” he said. “As far as I know, no one in Faerun has even considered it.”

Svayyah stared at him for a dense moment that weighed heavily on them both.

“There are few humans like you, Devorast,” the water naga said.

“No,” he said with the confidence of a Ssa’Nqja, “there is no one like me.”

46_

Midsummer, the Yearof the Wyvern (1363 DR)

Second Quarter, Innarlith

The Midsummer Festival and another party.

Willem Korvan stood on a wide belvedere lined with statuary, which overlooked the harbor and the dark expanse of the Lake of Steam. The night was clear and the crescent of Selune, followed by her Trail of Tears, rose through a sea of stars. The lights of the city and the stars reflected in the calm water made Willem feel as if there was no world under his feet, just endless night sky on all sides of him.

He had never felt more alone in his life.

“There you are, my boy,” Inthelph said, causing Willem to jump.

His skin gone cold even in the hot summer air, Willem turned to greet the master builder with a nod and saw that his mother had come looking for him too. Behind them rose the lofty towers of the ransar’s palace.

“Really, my dear,” his mother said. “Are you out here all alone?”

“Just admiring the city lights,” he said.

My boy? My dear? As if they owned him.

He tried not to cringe outwardly when they stood at the railing with him, one on either side as if flanking him, trapping him.

“I was just telling your mother about the new project,” said the master builder.

“He was,” Thurene said. “It sounds terribly exciting.”

Willem turned to look behind them to the cluster of needle-like towers that rose above the low buildings of the city like a copse of trees in a field of grass.

“The Palace of Many Spires,” Willem said, his voice so quiet it was barely above a whisper.

“The home of the ransar himself,” the master builder added, his voice almost as quiet, reverent where Willem’s was simply frightened. “It will be the crowning jewel in my career, if not my life.”

“Surely the latter would be the birth of your lovely daughter,” Thurene prodded.

Willem closed his eyes and stood stiffly withstanding the uncomfortable moment.

The master builder at last cleared his throat and said, “Of course, madam. In my career, then, to be sure.”

“But it’s already Buch a pretty building,” said Thurene.

“And it will be prettier still when your son and I are through with it, Madam Korvan,” Inthelph replied. “The ransar has asked that I provide another spire, one taller and more graceful than any other. It will house visiting dignitaries from realms near and far. It will help make Innarlith a city-state of importance to all of Faerun.”

Willem had heard Inthelph and other senators say that before, but he didn’t understand it. How could a spire make anything like that degree of difference? It was more busy work. It would occupy the master builder’s time and energy, then it would occupy the treasury and a small army of workers. In the end, it would likely sit empty most of the time, but when it was all done, the ransar would be able to tell everyone that he had built it, and how glorious it was. In the end they would have been doing something other than going to parties and ceremonies and balls and talking, talking, talking to the same small group of people.

“Tall and graceful,” Thurene said, her voice and manner intentionally wistful. “Words that have been used to describe my Willem. I’m sure he’s the man for the job.”

Inthelph smiled and clapped Willem on the back.

“Mother….” Willem started.

“Indeed, he is both of those things—all three,” the master builder said. “Willem will be at my right hand the whole way.”

Thurene gasped and grabbed hold of Willem’s arm. He put a smile on his face when he looked down at her. She beamed, her face glowing in the starlight. A group of revelers in the street below let out a spontaneous cheer—he didn’t know why. They were all drunk, and it sounded to Willem as if they were cheering his latest political success.

“Your right…” Thurene said, pretending she was unable to go on.

“My right hand…” the master builder replied. “It is impossible for me to describe the extent to which I’ve come to rely on your son, Madam Korvan. He will be involved in every decision, assisting me more closely than anyone on my staff. He will assist me with presentations to Ransar Osorkon himself.”

Thurene gasped and tightened her grip on Willem’s arm—so much so that it was almost painful.

“Your son will sit on the senate some day,” Inthelph pronounced. Willem looked at him and was greeted with a wink and a fatherly smile that made him turn away again. “He is doing everything right and making all the right friends, including, this very night, the ransar himself.”

“Did you hear that, Willem?”

“Yes,” Willem said. He smiled and was disappointed by how easy it was, how sincere. “Yes, I did, Mother. Thank you, Master Builder. I only hope that I will continue to prove worthy of your trust.”

“I’m certain you will, my boy,” Inthelph said, touching Willem on the elbow.

Willem looked at him again and the look he saw in the master builder’s eyes made it plain what Inthelph expected of him. Willem would design the tower, Willem would build it, Willem would lead the teams.

Willem had no idea where to even begin.

“I am so proud,” Thurene said, pulling on his arm. “We should go back inside before anyone thinks we’ve left early That wouldn’t do at all, would it, Master Builder?”

“Not at all, Madam Korvan,” Inthelph replied. “The ransar is still more sensitive than usual, too, after that terrible, bold theft of a priceless family heirloom right from this very palace.”

“Really?” Thurene gasped. “How awful. How long ago did that happen?”

“What was it, Willem?” the master builder asked.

“Six months or so?” Willem answered, his mind elsewhere.

He let them lead him back inside and when they stepped back into the noise and frivolity of Osorkon’s Midsummer revel, Willem knew precisely where to begin. He knew whose vision would stand among the soaring monuments of the Palace of Many Spires and whose name would forever be etched in its stone, and Willem Korvan knew he would be neither of those men.

47_

19Marpenoth, the Yearofthe Wyvern (1363DR) First Quarter, Innarlith

Ivar Devorast lived in a hovel. It was the only word for it, though perhaps “shack” might have been appropriate, or even “shanty.” Willem could see through the gaps in the clapboard walls and water dripped from the rusted tin roof in half a dozen places. Devorast had rearranged the spare, threadbare furniture based on the demands of the leaks rather than esthetics or traffic flow, so it

was difficult for them to see each other, sitting in chairs set askew and on opposite ends of the single, dark room. Though the hour was getting late, the sun beginning to kiss the horizon, Devorast wouldn’t light his last candle until it became entirely necessary.

“I will bring you candles, next time I come,” Willem said.

“That won’t be necessary,” Devorast was quick to reply.

They sat in silence for a while again, listening to the drips tap into the buckets and pots Devorast had arranged on the floor.

“Saves a walk to the well,” Devorast said, startling Willem as much because he’d been caught staring as that he couldn’t remember Devorast ever initiating a conversation.

Willem tried to laugh but couldn’t and ended up coughing through a confused grunt.

“There’s no reason to be uncomfortable, Willem,” Devorast said. “We have chosen the lives we’re living.”

“You didn’t choose this,” Willem risked, looking around at the decrepit dockside shack.

“I chose the path that led here,” Devorast replied with a shrug.

“I know you better than that,” Willem said. “Do you?”

They looked at each other, feeling the heft of the air between them.

“Yes, Ivar, I think I do.”

Devorast stared at him, his eyes as clear and commanding as ever, despite their residence in his unshaven face, a face that was growing to match the horrid little house.

Sensing that Devorast wouldn’t let him off easily, Willem continued, “I know that you never intended to end up here. You’ve always said that a man controls his own destiny, that a man who sets his own course will arrive at his intended destination, whatever that may be, in due time.”

“In due time,” Devorast concurred with a smile.

“Oh,” Willem said, sharing the smile. “Oh, that’s it, is it? This is but a rough patch on the way to your eventual, what… mastery of all you survey?”

“Not quite,” Devorast replied, looking down at his lap. “No, I don’t intend to be any man’s master.”

For the first time Willem noticed that Devorast was holding a silver coin, passing it through his fingers in an absent-minded way that seemed unlike him.

“Your last silver?” Willem asked, knowing full well he was being rude and forcing himself not to care.

Devorast didn’t look up when he said, “One last piece of silver, for luck, or perhaps I’ll spend it on some candles.”

“Then what?”

Devorast looked up then, shrugged, and said, “Something tells me, old friend, that that’s why you’re here this evening.”

Willem’s face flushed, and he struggled to hold Devorast’s gaze.

“Willem?”

“Of course,” Willem said finally. “Of course, Ivar. For Waukeen’s sake…”

“I don’t do anything for Waukeen’s sake.”

Willem chuckled and said, “Of course not… the atheist Well, then don’t thank Waukeen, but me.”

“I suppose this is another project for which you will receive all the credit?” Devorast asked without the slightest trace of animosity or accusation.

That bothered Willem most of all.

“Really, Ivar,” he said, “you shouldn’t be so … blase about this. It pains me, taking advantage.”

“You aren’t taking advantage of me,” Devorast replied. “If I don’t want to do it, I won’t.”

“And starve?”

“And do something else,” Devorast said, and all Willem could do was nod in response. “So, speak.”

“The Palace of Many Spires,” Willem said, latching on to his old friend’s gaze.

There was a sparkle in Devorast’s eyes when he said, “Goon.”

“The ransar has tired of living in someone else’s house, apparently, and he’s decided to make his own mark on the palace,” Willem explained. “He wants another tower, the tallest spire yet. The master builder is responsible, of course, so if you’re curious who will get the credit, there you are”

“You want me to design it, to do all the arithmetic, to make it stand for millennia, and you will be the middle, copying the plans and sketches and figures so that this dolt Inthelph can bury himself in the ransar’s gold and bask in the glory of this civil achievement for the rest of his petty, miserable life?”

“By the gods, Ivar,” Willem said, sharing a laugh with his friend, “I think that constitutes a formal speech from you. I never thought you capable of so many words in a single sitting.”

Devorast turned his attention back to the silver piece.

“Really, Ivar,” Willem went on, “shall I leave you so you can sleep it off? You must be exhausted.”

“I’ll live,” Devorast said, his laugh fading away, “and I’ll do it.”

Willem nodded and immediately started to think of an excuse to leave.

“Have you met him?” Devorast asked.

Willem widened his eyes in hopes of a clarification, but when he realized they were sitting in the dark, and Devorast’s attention was on the coin, he said, “Met whom?”

“The ransar.”

“Osorkon?” Willem replied. “Yes, I have, more than once, at formal functions. State functions and such. I attended his Midsummer revel, in fact.”

“I’ve been looking at this silver piece,” Devorast said. “It must be new, because it’s minted with a picture of him.”

“I’ve seen them,” Willem said, all at once overwhelmed with curiosity. “It’s a reasonable likeness, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

It was hard to tell in the dark room, but Willem thought Devorast nodded.

“I can front you a few gold, Ivar, if—”

“That’s not it,” Devorast interrupted. “I was just wondering, honestly, about this man: the Ransar of Innarlith Here’s a man who, by his own strength of will, has his likeness stamped into every coin in the realm.”

“Azoun was no different,” Will said.

“No, he wasn’t. Still, I can’t make myself understand how a man can do that. How a man can crave and keep power over other men.”

“Please, Ivar,” said Willem, “I’ve never met a man, the ransar included, less inclined to that sort of hubris than you. If anything about our relative positions in Innarlith strikes me as strange at all it is that you’re not the ransar yet yourself.”