Scream of Stone (30 page)

Alas, Marek thought, at least one Cormyrean can be bought outright.

Meykhati poured himself another glass of wine and shook his head, clicking his tongue in time with the gesture, then said, “It will cost plenty to rebuild the city. One of my own storehouses on the quayside burns even as we speak, and it is loaded from floor to ceiling with Tethyrian grain.”

“We have all suffered losses,” Nyla said, her teeth clenched in rage.

“And all that work,” Aikiko complained. “All that time.”

Marek offered a smile and a calming gesture to them all and said, “My friends, please. We have been over this too many times already. The city burns because one man, Ransar Pristoleph, holds one other man, Ivar Devorast, above not only the senate, but above all the people of Innarlith—nay, the city-state herself.”

“That much we know,” Meykhati interjected. “But how to bring him down? That’s what we must decide, once and for all.”

“Bring him down?” Marek asked, not letting his anger at the interruption show. “Or bring him back into the fold?”

“He’s brought those bestial barbarians into the city to kill good Innarlans,” Nyla argued. “That alone should have him marched to the gallows.”

Sitre and Meykhati nodded their agreement, but Asheru and Aikiko looked to Marek for their lead.

“The city burns,” said the Thayan, “but it still stands. This building, protected by my magic and others’—” and he paused to nod at Asheru, who beamed in response—”still stands, and will continue to stand. The city walls hold firm, and no outside eneniy lays siege or otherwise appears to be taking advantage of Innarlith’s moment of weakness.” No other realm but Thay, Marek silently reminded himself. “There have been fires and isolated looting, but most of us are safe in the Second Quarter. The reserves of food, gold, and magic hold firm, and remain largely in our hands. Buildings can be rebuilt, and if history has taught us anything it’s that peasants breed. The Fourth Quarter slums will be shoulder to shoulder with human refuse again soon enough.”

“If,” said Meykhati, “we stop it from getting any worse.”

“But Pristoleph won’t even come down from his tower to speak with us,” Aikiko said.

“And his fortress is as secure as ours,” Asheru reminded them. It had been Asheru who had provided much of Pristal Towers’s magical defenses, before Marek had arrived in Innarlith, and though he knew the secrets of many of them, they all know that there were more—more than either Asheru or Marek could defeat. “Sbmehow, he must be smoked out.”

“Perhaps a poor choice of words,” Meykhati said, “but I agree with the spirit of it. We must increase the pressure on him, even lay siege to that bloody palace of his. We must drive his wemics out of the city, and kill Pristoleph. It’s time Innarlith had a new ransar.”

“And that ransar should be Master Rymiit,” Aikiko said.

Though he tried, Meykhati couldn’t quite avoid the scowl he shot at her before he set his surprise aside. He didn’t look Marek in the eye, but they both knew who Meykhati imagined the next ransar to be.

“I second that,” Asheru said.

The others looked at each other, sipped their wine, picked at the seams of their clothing, and otherwise avoided speaking up.

“I set that aside,” Marek said. “I came here from my faraway home to trade, not to establish myself as your master. I serve the people of Innarlith by serving the interests of your fellow travelers in Thay.”

“Well put, Master Rymiit,” Meykhati said and they exchanged a look deep in meaning.

Marek knew then that Meykhati would never brook a foreigner as ransar. The Thayan thought it fortunate indeed—for Meykhati—that he hadn’t lied when he said he didn’t want to be ransar. It didn’t pay.

“We have the votes in the senate to simply make that happen,” Asheru said. “If not Master Rymiit then some other—any other, but Pristoleph. We can name our new ransar, and Pristoleph will be nothing more than the outlaw he’s proven himself to be.”

“That may not be necessary,” Marek said before Meykhati could volunteer for the position of usurper. “For the good of the city-state we must all reach an accord. Pristoleph must be given one more chance to hear the pleas of his people.”

“If he hasn’t heard us yet,” Meykhati challenged, “what could change that?”

“A new messenger, perhaps,” said the Thayan. “Wenefir?”

There sounded a low hum, and a smear of dark indigo light billowed into the air on the other side of the room, startling all of them but Marek.

“What is the meaning of this?” Meykhati asked no one in particular.

“Th-this isn’t supposed to… to…” Aikiko stammered as the cloud of light formed a doorway in the thin air. “You’re not supposed to be able to do that here. Not in this room.”

Wenefir stepped out of the light and onto the richly carpeted floor, and the magical doorway closed behind him.

“This is highly irregular,” Meykhati protested, his face turning red.

“Senators,” Marek said with a shallow bow, “and Ambassador, may I present to you Wenefir, former Seneschal of Pristal Towers.”

The priest returned Marek’s bow and said, “I come to serve.”

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3Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR) Pristal Towers, Innarlith

Wenefir has come to talk,” Pristoleph told Gahrzig, “not to kill me.”

The embattled ransar looked at his old friend, who nodded in agreement, then back to the wemic, who was rather less convinced.

“If you wish it, I will leave,” said the wemic, his smoldering gaze locked on Wenefir, “but I would rather—”

“Go,” Pristoleph said, then held up a hand to calm the barbarian chieftain. “Thank you, my friend, but I will be all right.”

Pristoleph was happy to see that Wenefir had retained enough wisdom to remain silent, even if that wisdom had failed him of late in terms of choosing his allies.

When the wemic backed out of the room and closed the door, Pristoleph turned and waved Wenefir to one of the two overstuffed armchairs that had been pushed close to the fire. Though it was a warm summer day, Pristoleph wanted the fireplace stacked high with hot-burning wood. Wenefir knew well his ability, inherited from his mysterious father, when it came to fire. If Wenefir sat as close to the hearth as he, Pristoleph could immolate the priest at will.

Though Pristoleph had known Wenefir long enough to see that the priest was rather less than comfortable with the arrangement, much less the heat, he played the dutiful guest and sat before the fire.

“You have come here with a message,” Pristoleph said as he lowered himself into the chair facing Wenefir. “Speak.”

Wenefir worked to suppress a smile that made Pristoleph seethe. The smile disappeared when the fire blazed bright and hot, and the priest blinked and edged away from it in his seat.

“Anyone else would have run,” Pristoleph said, offering his old friend a smile and willing the fire back to its normal state.

Wenefir seemed unsure as to whether to nod or shake his head. “You have nothing to fear from me, Pristoleph, and I have nothing to fear from you.”

“We’ll see if that still holds true after you’ve delivered your message,” Pristoleph said with a tilt of one eyebrow.

Wenefir cleared his throat and said, “As a neutral third party, representing only the Temple of the Delicate Chaos, I have been asked to inform you that the senate intends to meet on the morrow to rescind your charter as ransar and

bestow the title to another, with all rights and privileges of the office, thereby putting a stop to the civil unrest that has brought the city-state to her knees.”

Pristoleph smiled, though he wanted to scream. He nodded, though he wanted to lash out. The fire burned just a little hotter, though he wanted flames to fill the room.

He knew what Wenefir had meant by “all rights and privileges.” Whomever they chose to replace him would command the black firedrakes.

“I can still fight,” Pristoleph said.

“The senate hopes that you will step aside,” said Wenefir. “For the good of-“

“That’s enough,” Pristoleph interrupted. “That’s enough.”

Wenefir pressed his lips together and waited, looking Pristoleph in the eye.

“As a neutral third party….” Pristoleph mused.

“As a friend,” Wenefir replied.

“There are hundreds in the city still loyal to me,” Pristoleph warned. “And I have the wemics still, and am not without surprises of my own.”

“I have been told to tell you that the senate begs you—” he paused for effect—”begs you, Pristoleph, to put an end to this.”

“That is their one demand?”

Wenefir nodded in a way that made it clear there would be others.

“I will talk to them,” Pristoleph said. “But I will need certain guarantees.”

“It would be my honor to convey any message you have back to the senate.”

“I want safe passage out of the city for two people, and the wemics,” Pristoleph said.

“The barbarians are mercenaries,” Wenefir said. “No one will stop them from going home, if they go home in peace.”

Something about the way he’d said that curled under Pristoleph’s skin.

“And the two?” Wenefir asked. “Yourself and Phyrea?”

“Phyrea and Devorast,” Pristoleph said.

Wenefir winced, though he couldn’t have been surprised.

“Agreed,” the priest said.

Pristoleph let his body sink into the leather chair. He looked as deeply into Wenefir’s eyes as he could. “Is that all?” the priest asked. “A neutral third party,” Pristoleph repeated. Wenefir smiled.

Pristoleph sat there staring at his old friend sweat for a long moment, wondering if the priest realized he’d been caught negotiating, that he’d agreed to something no “neutral third party” had a right to agree to.

“Safe passage,” Pristoleph said again. “The wemics will remain until Phyrea is safe at Berrywilde, and Devorast is on his way to Shou Lung.”

Wenefir blinked and nodded. “You have the word of the Senate of Innarlith.”

Pristoleph cleared his throat and clenched his teeth together to keep himself from laughing.

“And then everything goes back to normal,” Wenefir said.

Pristoleph smiled and allowed a chuckle to bounce out of his throat.

“Yes, well,” he said, “the crown weighed heavily on my brow after all.”

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8Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR) The Sisterhood of Pastorals, Innarlith

Iristoleph watched as one of the sisters helped Phyrea into a chair. Her brow narrowed and she blinked, but the grimace, the grunting, and the tears were gone. It hurt her to move, but not as bad.

“You’re looking better every time I see you,” Pristoleph said.

Phyrea glanced at him, smiled, then turned her attention to the sister, who arranged a napkin on her lap and took the pewter cover off a tray of food. The smell of the steamed vegetables and fish stew reminded Pristoleph that he hadn’t eaten himself in—how long? He couldn’t even remember. The aroma didn’t make him feel hungry, though.

“I want you to leave the city,” he said.

Phyrea had been about to dip her spoon into the bowl of stew, but she froze. She didn’t look at him, but glanced instead at the sister. The young acolyte shifted uncomfortably, trying with all her will not to look at either the ransar or his wife. Finally, the girl turned and stepped to the door.

“Unless you need anything else… ?” she asked Phyrea, and the way she said it, it was as though she was begging for Phyrea to say “no.”

Phyrea obliged the sister, who stepped out and closed the door behind her.

“I want you to go to Berrywilde,” Pristoleph said before Phyrea had a chance to speak. “Wait for me there.”

“If I ask you why, will you tell me the truth?” she asked, setting her spoon down and folding her shaking hands in her lap.

“Of course I will,” he promised.

“Then I won’t ask you why,” she said. He blinked at that, but let it go. “I’m still not well.”

“Considering the extent of your injuries,” Pristoleph replied, “it’s Chauntea’s own miracle that you can walk, let alone speak and feed yourself. I’ll ask the sisters to send acolytes with you to help, and we’ll hire a new staff.”

Phyrea shook her head and stared down at her plate.

“You’re healing quickly,” he said. “And it’s been … how long?”

“Forty-six days,” Phyrea said, glancing up at him with a flash of reproach.

“Forty-six days,” he repeated.

“I know what’s been happening in the city,” Phyrea said, either looking down at her lap or sitting with her eyes closed—Pristoleph couldn’t tell. “The sisters have been keeping me informed. As much as anyone could be in the midst of a bloody civil war.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call it that,” Pristoleph said, though that’s precisely what it was. “It’ll all be over soon.”

“Are you going to kill them all?” she asked. “Marek Rymiit, Meykhati, Nyla … the whole senate? Or are they going to kill you?”

“Neither,” he said, “unfortunately.”

She looked up at him and the look in her eyes made him so profoundly sad he had to turn his back on her. A lump lodged itself in his throat.

“I don’t care if I’ve failed Innarlith,” he said with some difficulty. “I don’t even care if I’ve failed myself—though it makes me a hypocrite of the first order to admit that. But if I thought for a moment that I’d failed you, I’d throw myself in the lake.”

“You haven’t failed me,” she told him.

Pristoleph nodded and, still not looking at her, said, “Your safe passage has been guaranteed. You will go unmolested to Berrywilde while I put an end to all this infighting and stupidity once and for all.”

“And if I don’t want to go?”

He paused for a long moment because he didn’t want to say what he knew he had to say. “I will have you restrained, or sedated, and taken there.”

He stood facing the wall, listening to her slow, steady breathing for so long it felt as though days passed with each exhale.

“You may have to do that,” she said.

“I only asked one thing of Rymiit and the senate,” he said, “and that was a guarantee of safe passage for you and Ivar Devorast. You won’t make a liar of me. I’m sorry.”

“They’ll let Ivar go?” she asked. “Not to Berrywilde…?”