The sarcasm was plain in his voice.
“Don’t have fun with me,” she said, and though she’d hoped to sound threatening all she heard in her voice was a little girl’s pleading.
He turned to her and kissed her cheek, then her lips.
“Marek Rymiit,” she whispered.
“The Thayan.”
“He won’t let you build it.”
“Because he makes his living by selling the magic necessary to teleport, or to open portals. I know that.”
Phyrea sighed and said, “Osorkon is dead. Who will protect you from him?”
“The Thayan has Salatis’s ear?”
“People tell me he made Salatis ransar,” she said.
“Then I’ll have to accelerate the work.”
She shook her head and told him, “By all accounts you’ve stretched your men too far as it is. How fast can one man dig? And I doubt you’ll get our new ransar to send you any more strong backs. That uprising on the docks is over, and Innarlith is back to work. Peasant men don’t need to come out here and risk monsters and trench collapses to earn a day’s wage.”
He smiled at her again, and the feeling it elicited in her was so intense, she nestled her face in his neck so he couldn’t see it.
“You have it all sorted,” he joked.
Phyrea stopped herself from crying by sheer force of will.
“Have you heard he word ‘smokepowder’?” he asked.
She cleared her throat and pulled away just far enough that she could look at him again. “Some kind of alchemy that causes things to explode?” He nodded and she continued, “But what would you want with magic? I thought you were determined not to use magic.”
“I use some form of magic every day, here and there,” he said. “I have no aversion to the right tool for the right job, but anyway smokepowder is not magical in nature. It’s a mixture of rare earth elements that together are quite volatile.” “And?”
“With the proper application of enough force, I can move more earth than any man could shovel.”
“So, you want to dig with” Phyrea said. She stopped when something occurred to her all at once. “The Thayan…he…”
“I won’t accept it from Marek Rymiit, if that’s what” “No, no,” she interrupted. “Someone used smokepowder to try to kill Rymiit. You never heard of it? It caused quite a row. Innocent bystanders were injured, but the Thayan survived unscathed. The would-be assassin was just let out of the ransar’s dungeon.” “Who is he?”
“An alchemist,” she said, only then remembering the rest of the story. “He used to be quite in demand in the city, until Rymiit came along. They said he was bitter about the loss of trade to the Thayan, so he used his skills to try to blow him to bits.”
“But failed.”
“The smokepowder exploded, though,” she said. Her heartbeat quickened, and she thought she could feel his race as well. “It worked, but Marek was able to get out of harm’s way. The ground won’t be so difficult a target.”
Devorast nodded.
“Do you think it could work?” she asked, and he nodded again. “If you can dig faster, if you can show indisputable progress, Salatis may not be able tomay not even want to stop you, especially if you can bring in gold and workers from other realms, as you planned.”
“Who is this alchemist?”
“I don’t remember his name,” she said. “I could find out. I could ask, in the city.”
“Be careful,” Devorast said. “If the wrong people know what I intend, it could end everything.”
“Trust me,” she whispered and began to kiss his shoulder.
“Does that mean you no longer want to destroy me?” he said. “This would be the perfect chance. Tell Marek Rymiit that I want smokepowder to use as a digging tool, and tell him I want to hire the man who tried to kill him to make it for me. He’ll finally just come up here and kill me himself.”
Phyrea froze. And why hadn’t Master Rymiit done just that? What was he waiting for? “Trust me,” she told him again.
29
17 Hammer, the Year of the Staff (1366 DR) The City of Saelmur, on the Shore of the Lake of Steam
"Your name is Surero,” the man said as he sat in the chair across the table for all the world as though he’d been invited to do so.
“Who in the infinite Abyss are you?” Surero asked, his eyes narrowing, his fingers tensing around the heavy earthenware mug he was a heartbeat from smashing over the man’s red-haired head.
“Ivar Devorast,” the man said. “If you’re finished hiding out and drinking, I have a job for you to do.”
Surero swallowed and nodded, looking around the low-ceilinged room. The tavern was crowded with people who drank and spoke, but rarely if ever laughed. The dank air was filled with pipeweed smoke and sweat, and the ale was bitter but still overpriced.
“You are Surero,” Devorast prompted.
“Yes,” Surero replied, not quite looking the stranger in the eye. “I am…” He paused to think, then finished, “I used to be.”
Devorast laughed, and the sound was so light and so sincere that Surero was forced to smile.
“I understand that you are accomplished in the creation and use of smokepowder,” Devorast said. “I have a challenge for you, closer to Innarlith, if you’re interested.”
Surero froze at the sound of that city’s name, and had to force himself to speak. “I told myself I would never go back to that pit of foreign deceit. And why should I? So I can be robbed blind again? Go back and tell your Red Wizard master that I have nothing left for him to take.”
“I don’t work for any Red Wizard,” Devorast said. “You’ve heard of the canal?”
Surero nodded, then took a sip of the bitter ale to try to hide the confusion and excitement that gripped him. His face flushed, and he began to sweat.
He waited a bit for Devorast to go on, but finally asked, “What of it? What do you want from me?”
“I need to move a great deal of earth in a very short time,” Devorast explained. “I have the idea that with a sufficient quantity of smokepowder, set in just the right places, that could be accomplished. I know why you were sent to the ransar’s dungeon, and I honestly don’t care. I have no affection for Marek Rymiit, but nor do I waste any time hating him. He isn’t involved in my project, and he won’t be. You don’t have to go back to the city. You can live and work at the site, as I do.”
“I need to know who’s coin will pay me,” Surero said.
“Mine,” Devorast said. “Where I get it from doesn’t have to concern you.”
With a sigh, Surero looked around the room again. “You see all these people, Devorast? Look at them. These are sad, desperate people. And do you know why?”
“No,” Devorast replied.
Surero stopped himself from answering right away and looked Devorast in the eye. He could see the unspoken words in the man’s steely gaze: And I don’t care.
“Tell me, have you spoken with Rymiit about this canal of yours? Has he made his opinion of it known to you?”
“I have reason to believe he’s sent monsters to kill me on at least two occasions,” Devorast said.
Surero found it difficult to breathe. He downed the rest of his ale and almost choked on it. Devorast held up a hand and got the attention of the serving wench. He held up two fingers, and she nodded and waddled to the bar.
“What are you doing here?” asked Devorast. “I’ve asked about you, and by all accounts you’re an alchemist of considerable skill.”
“I used to be,” he said. “Then the Thayan…”
“He took your customers from you, and otherwise made it difficult to practice your craft,” Devorast finished for him. “If you’re ready to leave off crying about that, come with me and help do something that no one in Faerun has ever done.”
“I can’t place your accent,” Surero said.
“I was born in Cormyr.”
Surero shrugged, and sat quietly while the serving wench set two more ales on the table, collected his empty and the Cormyrean’s coin, and shuffled off.
“I need to know if this canal… when it’s done, will Marek Rymiit hate it? Will he despise anyone who helped? Will he stop at nothing to destroy it?” Surero asked. “Answer meand tell the truth. I have ways of knowing if you’re lying.”