Unclean (3 page)

Ral began to sob.

The youth was nice-looking in a common sort of way, but he looked up at Dmitra Flass, often called “First Princess of Thay” for the sake of her sharp wits, iron will, and buxom, rose-and-alabaster comeliness, tharchion of Eltabbar and so mistress of the city in which he dwelled, with a mixture of fear and petulance that could scarcely have been less attractive.

“Maybe I did throw a rock,” he whined, “but everyone else was throwing them, too.”

“Bad luck for you, then, that you’re the one who got caught,” Dmitra replied. She shifted her gaze to the blood-orc warrior who’d dragged the prisoner before her throne. “Take him to your barracks and tie him to a post. You and your comrades can throw stones at him and see how he likes it. If there’s anything left of him at sunset, turn him loose to crawl away.”

The boy started to cry and plead. The ore backhanded him across the face then manhandled him out of her presence. Dmitra looked to see who the next prisoner was—in the wake of a riot, administering justice was a time-consuming, tedious business—and Szass Tam appeared in the back of the hall. She

had a clear view of the doorway but hadn’t seen him enter. Nor had she, Red Wizard of Illusion though she was, felt a pulse of magic. Yet there he was.

And about time, too, she thought. She rose, spread the skirt of her crimson brocade gown, and curtsied. As a mark of special favor, he’d decreed she need no longer kneel to him. Her courtiers and prisoners turned to see whom she was greeting, and they of course hastily abased themselves.

“Rise,” said the lich, sauntering toward the dais, the ferule of his ebony staff clicking on the marble floor. “Dmitra, dear, it’s obvious you’re busy, but I’d appreciate a moment of your time.”

“Certainly, Master.” She turned to the blood-orc captain. “Lock up the remaining prisoners until—on second thought, no. I refuse to feed them or squander any more of my time on them. Give them ten lashes each and turn them loose.” She smiled at Szass Tam. “Shall we talk in the garden?”

“An excellent suggestion.” He’d always liked the garden, and the open-air setting made it difficult for anyone to eavesdrop.

Outside, it was a fine sunny afternoon, and the air smelled of verdure. Heedless of the thorns, which evidently couldn’t pierce or pain his shriveled fingers, Szass Tam picked a yellow rose and carried it with him as they strolled, occasionally lifting it to his nostrils and inhaling deeply.

“I take it,” he said, “that news of poor Druxus’s assassination triggered a disturbance in the city.”

“The ores dealt with it.”

He smiled. “I wonder if the mob was celebrating the welcome demise of a hated tyrant or expressing its horror at the foul murder of a beloved leader. Perhaps the commoners don’t know themselves. Perhaps they simply enjoy throwing rocks and will seize on any excuse.”

She shifted her flared skirt to avoid snagging it on a shrub. “I wondered if you were even aware of Druxus’s murder. I assumed

that if you were, you would have come immediately.”

“Is that a hint of reproach I hear in your dulcet voice? I came as soon as it was practical. Believe it or not, matters of consequence sometimes do arise beyond the confines of the capital, and I trusted you to manage here, as you evidently have.”

“I managed to keep order. It may take both of us to get to the bottom of Druxus Rhym’s murder.”

It galled her to admit it. She was proud of the network of spies and covert agents she operated on the lich’s and her own behalf, but the affairs of the zulkirs were a difficult and perilous business for any lesser being to investigate.

“What have you learned so far?”

“Precious little. Not long after midnight on the morning of the fifth, someone or something managed to enter Druxus Rhym’s apartments undetected. The intruder killed him and his bodyguards with blasts of fire.”

“That’s certainly enough to suggest a hypothesis. Druxus was well protected against both mundane and mystical threats. It would likely take a master wizard to slip into his bedchamber, a master who then employed evocation magic to accomplish his purpose. Surely the evidence points to Aznar Thrul or one of his particular prote’g^s, acting at his behest.”

Perhaps it did. Though relations among the zulkirs were mutable and complex, the council could be viewed as split into two factions, with Mythrellan, zulkir of Illusion, standing aloof from either, and tharchions like Dmitra either tacitly casting their lots with one mage-lord or another or striving assiduously to avoid taking sides. Szass Tam headed up one faction, Druxus Rhym had been his ally, and Aznar Thrul, zulkir of Evocation and tharchion of Priador, was the lich’s bitterest rival among the opposition. Thus, it made sense that Aznar might murder Druxus. By so doing, he’d weaken Szass Tarn’s party and strengthen his own.

Still, it seemed to Dmitra that perhaps because he and Aznar so loathed one another, the usually judicious Szass Tam was jumping to conclusions. “One needn’t specialize in evocation to conjure fire,” she said. “Many wizards can do it.”

“True,” said the necromancer. “Still, I’m convinced my conjecture is the most plausible explanation.”

“I suppose, and if we can prove it, perhaps we can rid ourselves of Thrul. Even his closest allies might forsake him rather than risk being implicated in his crime.”

“The problem is, you won’t be able to prove it. Aznar is too able an adept.”

“Don’t be so sure. With all respect, I don’t care if he is a zulkir, with scores of potent spells at his command. Everyone makes mistakes. If he wrote anything down or let slip a careless word where a servant could overhear—”

Szass Tam shook his head. “I know the wretch and I can assure you, he didn’t. He’s too wily. If there’s proof to be had, only magic will uncover it, and Yaphyll’s the best person to attend to that.” The woman to whom he referred was zulkir of Divination, and with Druxus Rhym slain, his staunchest remaining ally on the council. “I need you to focus your energies on another matter.”

“Which is?”

“I’ve decided Samas Kul should be the new zulkir of Transmutation.”

“May I ask why? He’s a competent mage, but his order has others more learned.”

“And I daresay we can trust them to advance the art of transmutation even if they aren’t in charge. What’s important is that the new zulkir side with us, and Samas will. Our faction is responsible for the new mercantile policy, and he’s grown rich as Waukeen heading up the Guild of Foreign Trade. If we make him a zulkir, he’ll have even more reason to support us.”

“The election of a new zulkir is an internal matter for the order in question. It won’t look well if folk realize we’re trying to influence the outcome.”

“Which is why the business requires your deft and subtle touch. Samas has the gold to buy support wherever it can be purchased. You and your minions will dig for information we can use to persuade electors not susceptible for bribery, and in general, do whatever you can to shape opinion among the transmuters. Make Samas seem a demigod and his opponents worms. Do you understand?”

She shrugged. “Of course. Bribery, blackmail, and slander, the same game we usually play.”

“Excellent. I knew I could count on you.” He raised the yellow rose, saw that it had already blackened and withered in his grasp, and with a sigh tossed it away.

The ironbound door was below street level. Bareris bounded down the stone steps and pounded until the hatch set in the center of the panel opened. A bloodshot eye peered out, and its owner said, “What’s the password?”

“Silver.” Bareris lifted a coin for the doorkeeper to see.

The other man chuckled. “Close enough.” A bar scraped as it slid in its mounts, then the door swung open. Bareris tossed the silver piece to the doorkeeper and advanced into the cellar.

The place had a low ceiling and a dirt floor. The flickering light of a scattering of tallow candles, stuck in wall sconces or empty wine bottles in the centers of the tables, sufficed to reveal the gamblers hunched over their cards and dice, the whores waiting to separate the winners from their profits, and the ruffians on hand to keep order and make sure the house received its cut of every wager. The tapers suffused the air with eye-stinging smoke and their stench,

which mingled with the stinks of stale beer and vomit.

Bareris cast about until he spotted Borivik Iltazyarra. Tammith and Ral’s father was a stocky fellow with a weak mouth and close-set eyes, which were currently squeezed shut as if in prayer. He shook a leather cup, clattering the dice inside, then threw them down on the table. They came up losers, and he cursed and flung the cup down. The croupier raked in the coins.

Bareris started forward then felt just how furious he was. He paused to take a long, deep breath.

It calmed him to a degree, but not enough to keep him from grabbing hold of Borivik’s shoulders and tumbling him out of his chair and onto the floor.

The croupier jumped up and snatched for one of the daggers in his braided yellow belt. Another tough came running. Two of the gamblers started to rise.

Bareris sang a succession of rapidly ascending notes in a tone strident as a glaur horn. Power shimmered through the air. The croupier yelped and recoiled, wetness staining his crotch. His fellow ruffian balked, dropped his cudgel, and backed away trembling, empty hands raised to signal that he no longer intended any harm.

Bareris knew the two irate gamblers weren’t experiencing any magical terror. He hadn’t been able to cast the effect widely enough to engulf everyone, but the display of arcane power evidently made them think better of expressing their displeasure, because they froze then settled back down in their chairs.

Bareris raked the room with his gaze. “Does anyone else want to meddle in my business?” From the way they all refused to meet his eye, it seemed no one did. “Good.” He pivoted back around toward Borivik, who was still sprawled on the floor.

“Bareris!” the older man stammered. “My boy! You … couldn’t do that before.”

In point of fact, he couldn’t. For as long as Bareris could

remember, he’d possessed a knack for the magic implicit in music, but it was only during his wanderings that it had evolved into a genuinely formidable talent. The ventures he’d undertaken to make his fortune had required that he become a more powerful bard and a stronger swordsman, or else perish.

But he wasn’t here to talk about such things. “I saw Ral,” he said. “He tried to tell me what happened to Tammith, but he was too upset to make the details clear if he even understands them. You tell me.”

Boravik swallowed. “It was all her own idea. I would never even have thought of such a thing.”

“Damn you!” Bareris snarled. “Just tell it, or I’ll sing the eyes out of your head.”

“All right. We… owed coin. A lot. To bad people.”

“You mean, you owed it.”

It was maddening. Boravik was a skilled potter, or at least he had been once. There was no reason he shouldn’t have lived a comfortable, prosperous life, but after his wife died bearing Ral, and it became clear the child was simple, he’d taken to drink, and when he drank, he gambled.

“Have it your way,” Boravik said with a hint of sullenness. He made a tentative motion as if to rise, waited to see if Bareris would object, then drew himself clumsily to his feet. “I made the wagers, but the White Raven gang was going to hurt all three of us if I didn’t pay. You remember what they’re like.”

“Go on.”

“Well, you know Ral can’t work. Maybe I could have, but no one will hire me anymore. Tammith did work, but earning a journeyman’s wages, she couldn’t make enough. Time was running out, and she decided that, to save us all, she needed to… sell herself.”

“And you went along with it. You let your own daughter become a slave.”

“How was I supposed to stop her, when neither of us could think of another answer? Maybe it won’t be so bad for her. She’s a fine potter. Good as a master, even if she hadn’t worked long enough to claim her medallion. Whoever buys her, it will surely be to take advantage of her talents.” Or her beauty, Bareris thought and struggled to suppress the images that rose in his imagination. “Maybe her owner will even let her keep a portion of the coin she earns for him. Maybe in time she can buy her free—”

“Stop prartling! Curse you, I promised I’d come home with enough wealth to give Tammith everything she could ever want.”

“How were we supposed to know it would be this month or even this year? How were we supposed to know you were still alive, or that you still felt the same way about her?”

“I … don’t know and it doesn’t matter anyway. When did Tammith surrender herself?”

“A tenday ago.”

A tenday! It was maddening to think that if Bareris had only bade farewell to his comrades and taken ship a little earlier, he might have arrived soon enough to prevent what had happened.

Yet a tenday was also reason for hope. Thay was a large and populous realm possessed of tens of thousands of slaves, but since Tammith had given up her liberty so recently, it should still be possible to trace her.

“I’m going to find Tammith and bring her home,” Bareris said. “You get out of this place and don’t come back. Use the coin your daughter gave you to pay the White Ravens and care for Ral, as she intended. If I come back to find you’ve drunk and gambled it all away, I swear by Milil’s harp that I’ll cut you to pieces.”

The snores and slurred mumblings of the sleeping slaves weren’t particularly loud, nor was the smell of their bodies intolerably foul. Lying in the midst of them, Tammith Iltazyarra suspected it was actually fear and sadness keeping her awake. In any case, awake she was, and so she stared up into the dark and wondered how things might have been if she’d spoken her heart six years before:

I don’t care if we have coin. You’re the only thing I need. Stay in Bezantur and marry me today.

Would Bareris have heeded her?

She’d never know, because she hadn’t said it or anything like it. How could she, when she’d perceived what was in his heart? He’d said he needed to go for the sake of their future, and he meant it, but he also wanted to go, wanted to see foreign lands and marvels and prove himself a man capable of overcoming uncommon challenges and reaping uncommon rewards.