Whisper of Waves (25 page)

“I never wanted to be the ransar,” Devorast said, and Willem thought he sounded sincere. “I never want to be ransar.”

Willem waited through a seemingly interminable stretch of drip drip drip, but Devorast never finished that thought.

Finally, Willem stood and drew a small leather pouch from an inside pocket of his cloak. He dropped the pouch on a little shelf and the clink of coins echoed in the darkness.

“An advance,” Willem said. “I will come back again in a tenday’s time with the ransar’s specifications.”

Devorast didn’t respond.

Willem took one last look around the little space and said, “Well, then, I guess that’s good—”

He saw Devorast’s weatherworn old portfolio sitting on the only dry space left on the floor. It was stuffed with parchment, sheets crammed in so that it would no longer even come close to closing.

“Working on something?” Willem asked.

“Yes,” Devorast answered, filling that one short word

with such a sense of finality that Willem didn’t bother pursuing it.

“Well, then,” Willem said. “Good evening, Ivar.”

He opened the door, paused for Devorast to respond, but after a silent moment, he stepped through the door and onto the stinking, dirty waterfront. He went straight home and slept better than he had in months.

48_________

4 Alturiak, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR) Second Quarter, Innarlith

Marek turned the skull over in his hands and looked at the teeth.

“This one should have eaten more vegetables,” he said. “He died with the most unfortunate set of teeth.”

“What do you want here, Thayan?” Thadat asked.

Marek set the skull down on the cluttered work table and replied, “Can’t one practitioner of the Art pay a friendly visit to another without some nefarious purpose in mind?”

“No,” the haggard wizard replied.

Thadat was a man of slight build. Shorter than Marek and considerably thinner, he wasn’t physically intimidating in any way, but Marek knew he was an accomplished spellcaster and that made him dangerous. His suite of rooms in a fine inn on the edge of the Second Quarter were full of half-unpacked crates and already cluttered with all the obvious accoutrements of a wizard. Marek recognized a few of them as useful spell foci, but the vast majority were of no use—no use for anything but creating a false credibility in the eyes of visiting dilletantes.

“I was surprised to hear that you had made this move,” Marek said, scanning the work table for more interesting artifacts. “This is not the finest inn, but it is in the Second Quarter. Quite a step up for you, isn’t it?”

“I have been working hard,” Thadat said. “I don’t remember hearing that I had to ask you for permission to rent rooms.”

“Oh, you don’t need my permission for that,” Marek replied, picking up a glass jar in which was contained a dead bat, preserved in some kind of clear blue liquid. The bat’s face was frozen in a wide-mouthed, needle-fanged scream. “This is ghastly.”

“Precisely,” Thadat said, reaching out to take the jar from Marek’s hand.

Marek pulled away and looked down his nose at the smaller man, making it clear that Thadat was not to touch him.

“I didn’t come here to discuss your living arrangements,” Marek said, “if you’d prefer to dispense with the niceties we can move on to the business at hand.”

“Yes,” Thadat replied, staring daggers at Marek, “let’s do that. I know something of the extent of the powers at your command, Rymiit, but you should know I’m not a spellcaster to be trifled with either. If you’ve come here to intimidate—”

“Oh, come now,” Marek interrupted. “Don’t be crass.”

He set the jar of pickled bat down on the table and clasped his hands behind his back.

“I will have to ask you to keep your hands visible to me at all times while you’re in my home, sir,” Thadat insisted.

With a grin and a flourish, Marek put his hands up and at his sides, waving them around like a croupier quitting a knucklebones table.

“I’ve made myself clear to you, I think, Rymiit. I’d prefer it if we didn’t encounter each other again.”

Marek’s face reddened a bit, but he didn’t lash out and kill Thadat. He turned back to the table and picked up a clove of garlic. Thadat had written a little poem on the side of the garlic in a tiny but clear hand.

“Draconic,” Marek said.

“Put that down,” Thadat commanded, but Marek ignored him.

” ‘Dan de dan de dan ne zhee,’” Marek read aloud. ” ‘Chaznur durro shizzlin dul aele asruzhaeldi. Ullian-drol durro klaya aele sheet al leernall. Realnakfloordurro shoke aele aesaldrindur. Lomridnelle verith al almindure fleezhae. Gahn dool aesdnurde quinlek gloesh.’”

“Be careful, there,” Thadat warned.

” ‘One and one and one is three,’” Marek translated. ” Tear that trembles up my spine. Pain that turns my cries to screams. Despair that breaks my spirit line. Surrender truth to desperate dreams. Set your soul and body free.’”

Thadat stepped back, looked away, and began to sweat.

“Planning to turn yourself into a vampire, Thadat?” Marek asked. “Surely not a lich.”

“That is no business of yours, Rymiit,” the other wizard said, “and you should know not to trifle with a thing like that. Please, put it down.”

With a great flourish Marek set the clove of garlic back down on the work table.

“Now, go,” Thadat said.

Marek made no move to go, but said, “Tell me why I’m here.”

“To threaten me,” Thadat responded without hesitation. “You’ve come here to intimidate me into joining your little club.”

Marek’s jaw clenched and his hands became fists. Thadat stepped back farther, kicking over a pile of musty old books on the floor behind him.

“I serve no master, Rymiit.”

“So, then,” Marek said, “that’s why I’m here. You see, I have given up on you, Thadat. You are a talented practitioner. I understand it’s rings you’re specializing in now. Is that correct?”

“There is plenty of gold to go around in Innarlith,” Thadat said. “Leave me my customers, leave me my rings, and I’ll leave you your…”

“My what?” Marek prompted.

Thadat swallowed, and sweat made him blink, but he said, “There’s plenty to go around.”

“No, there isn’t, my friend,” Marek said, putting all the finality he could into his inflection. “I didn’t come here to be satisfied with my little portion of Innarlith’s riches. I came here for all of it. In this godsforsaken city, magic is mine. Anyone who wants it comes to me. Anyone who sells it, sells it for me.”

“What do you want of me?” Thadat asked. “Gold? Rings?”

“I want you to be an example.”

Thadat began to cast a spell. He got two words into the incantation when silence descended on them both. It was as if Marek lost his hearing all at once. Thadat’s lips moved, but there wasn’t the barest whisper of sound. His eyes bulged. Marek had cast no spell, made no move at all, and held nothing in his hands.

Kurtsson appeared behind Thadat in a shimmer of magic-rippled air. Within the first heartbeat after he’d fully materialized, Kurtsson’s axe took Thadat’s right arm off just above the elbow and bit a quarter of an inch into his side. The bloody, screaming murder that followed played out in horrifying silence. There was no sound of bones snapping, no tearing of flesh or splashing of blood as Kurtsson hacked and hacked at him. Thadat’s mouth was open wide, his neck straining, his chest heaving, but the scream went unheard.

Kurtsson stood in that same dead silence, drenched in the frail wizard’s blood, panting from his exertion.

Marek smiled and mouthed the words: Well done.

Kurtsson returned the smile and sketched the parody of a courtly bow.

After slipping the magic-inscribed garlic into a pocket of his robe, Marek left the room, motioning Kurtsson to stay well behind him. The moment they were clear of the effects of the spell, he stopped.

“Don’t get blood all over me,” Marek said.

The Vaasan held up a hand in understanding, the bloody axe dangling limply in his other hand.

“You know what to do,” Marek prompted.

Kurtsson cast a spell with casual ease and in moments he’d taken on the remarkably convincing form of an anonymous street thug, but he was still drenched in blood. Anyone who might see him leaving the home of the slain wizard would describe a dark-haired Chondathan with a full beard, a pronounced limp, and a sailor’s tattoo on his hairy forearm. The fair-skinned, blond-haired Vaasan wizard would never be a suspect in the murder he’d so gleefully committed at Marek Rymiit’s command.

“When you’ve had a chance to clean up,” Marek said, “meet me at the Rose and Stone for a brandy, eh?”

The ugly street urchin grinned—he was even missing teeth, the illusion was so complete—and with a chuckle, Marek opened a dimensional door and made good his escape.

49_

6 Tarsakh, the Yearofthe Wave (1364 DR) Fourth Quarter, Innarlith

The pain was gone. He could see, and he could breathe, but his body was numb. He couldn’t move his legs or his arms.

“Can you speak?” Devorast asked.

“Yes?” Fharaud said, not sure until the word passed his lips if he could or not.

Devorast smiled and sat down next to him.

“I’m going to die today,” Fharaud said.

He didn’t recognize his own voice. It sounded like his grandfather’s voice.

“You say that every day,” Devorast replied.

“But he’s been dead for years,” Fharaud said.

“Who has been dead for years?”

Fharaud shook his head. He tried to order his mind, so that he wouldn’t do that sort of thing anymore.

“I have so much to tell you, Ivar,” he said. “I’m trying to make sure that the Shou woman will tell him all about the girl—that the spirits inside her…”

Damn it all, Fharaud thought. I’m doing it again.

“What can I get you, old man?” Devorast asked. “Are you hungry? Can you eat?”

“No,” Fharaud answered. “If I had known it was my last meal, though, I would have demanded better than soup. That was yesterday, wasn’t it? When you last made me soup?”

“Yesterday,” Devorast replied, and he wasn’t lying; Ivar Devorast had never lied to him. “Yes. You should eat.”

He shook his head again and said, “I told you, I’m going to die today.”

“And I told you, you say that every day.”

“Do I?” Fharaud asked. He closed his eyes and sighed. It felt good to sigh. “This time I mean it.”

“Do you intend to do yourself in?”

Fharaud opened his eyes and looked deeply into Devorast’s.

“I won’t ask you to kill me,” Fharaud said. “You’re going . to have to trust that a man knows when he’s going to die.”

Devorast nodded and said, “Then you should tell me what you need to tell me.”

“They will be away for thirty-three days, the two of them,” he heard himself say. “No, that’s not it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m putting things in the wrong order,” Fharaud said. “But listen to me. Listen to me when I tell you that when I went through that gate, and when I fell… when Everwind fell and my body was shattered my mind was splayed open and the future poured in. It overwhelms me, but I can see it. I can feel and taste and hear it. I have the future living inside me, but it’s a future that doesn’t include me.”

“I’m not interested in having my fortune told, old man,” Devorast said. “Let me make you some soup.”

“He’ll be watching you when you meet with the dwarf and the alchemist,” Fharaud said, but Devorast had already stood and gone to the stove.

He’d brought a basket of vegetables with him and started sorting through them, preparing his soup with the same calm efficiency that he did everything.

Fharaud closed his eyes again and tried to put everything in order, but as he sifted through the barrage of images and sensations that came to him and the others that were lodged in his memory, he skipped a breath. He stopped breathing, then started again.

It’s started, he thought. That’s how it starts.

“One breath,” he whispered, “then another, and another, then the rest of them, and that’s it.”

“I wasn’t able to get the okra,” Devorast said as he began to chop the vegetables.

“You have taken better care of me than I deserve,” Fharaud said to his former disciple’s back. “I haven’t done … I didn’t do enough for you to deserve this. I want to help you more before I go. I want to tell you the things that have been revealed to me.”

“The onions are very mild, though,” Devorast said, “just the way you like them.”

“Damn it, Ivar,” Fharaud said, loudly. The effort made him cough, and something warm and wet spattered his chin. “Damn it.”

Devorast turned around and quickly returned to his side, leaving the vegetables on the board next to the stove. He dabbed at Fharaud’s chin with a handkerchief and the dying man could see the blood soaking into the rag.

He could taste it in his mouth.

“Pristoleph,” Fharaud said, his voice reduced to a wet, rattling whisper.

“No,” Devorast said, and Fharaud saw the calm in his face and that calmed him too. “No, it’s me. It’s Ivar.”

Fharaud sighed and more blood dribbled from his mouth.

“No,” Fharaud rasped. “No, Pristoleph … you will fight him. You will have to fight him in the end, I think. I think I saw that, and I think it’s the most important. The rest, you will…”

Fharaud didn’t know how to finish it, and in that moment just before he drew his last breath, he finally decided that he should speak no more. No man should know his future in so much detail. He should discover his own fate on his own, shouldn’t he?

He could see, and he could see Devorast’s face and eyes. Devorast didn’t believe him anyway. He wouldn’t listen. He would do everything he’s done, feeding him, bathing him, visiting him every day, but he would not listen.

“You don’t have to,” Fharaud whispered.

He tried to breathe in, but couldn’t. Devorast saw his distress and leaned closer, concern plain on his face. Concern, but not fear.

“Fharaud?” he said. “Can you-?”

Devorast stopped talking and their eyes met—truly met in a moment of understanding. Fharaud felt Devorast’s hand in his and marveled at the simple sensation. He could feel. He couldn’t breathe, but he could feel.