She held her breath, trying to think. She felt as though her brain was sunk in heavy, clinging mud.
Don’t bother, the old woman, who she couldn’t see, told her. Just go, child.
“This is why I’ve said the things I’ve said about you,” she said. Hrothgar stepped closer to her, but she kept her back to him and her eyes on Devorast. “This is what I’ve been telling you all this time would happen. I told you they would try to kill you, and if they couldn’t kill you that they’d find some way, some excuse to take this away from you.”
“Wait a moment, there,” Surero said.
“They can chase us off today, girl,” said the dwarf, “but not forever.”
“Hrothgar’s right,” the alchemist concurred. “There’s enough support in”
“Oh, shut up, Surero,” Phyrea snapped. “There’s enough support to send gold, men, and goodwill, but not enough to go to war over. Who’s going to send footmen here to fight the ransar for a strip of land that is Innarlith’s whether you like it or not? Azoun? Will he go to war for your canal, Ivar?”
Devorast didn’t look at her. He went about his packing.
“I told you they’d take it away and they have,” Phyrea said. “But I hope you don’t think the worst is over.”
“That’s about enough, girl,” said the dwarf.
No, the man made of light said, get it off your chest, then take us all back to Berrywilde with you.
“No,” Phyrea went on, “the worst is when they send someone here to finish it for you. And it’ll be either my father or Willem Korvan, or both, and what will become of all this then? What mess will they make of it in the name of their two-copper ransar?”
Devorast looked at her, and the look on her face made goosef lesh ripple across the undersides of her arms.
He hates you now, the little girl said.
Yeah, said the little boy, and that means it’s all right to hate him back.
He’s almost destroyed you, the old woman said. Phyrea could see her sitting on Devorast’s cot. You’re getting away just in time. He’s wanted to destroy you all alongand not kill you, but destroy youand there’s a difference, believe me.
Phyrea shook her head, turned, brushed past the dwarf who stared daggers at her, and burst out the door into sunlight that made her eyes close all on their own. She had to squint and stumble her way back to her horse.
Berrywilde, the old woman whispered in her ear.
She shook her head and whispered back, “No, I want to go back to Innarlith first.”
40
5 Uktar, the Yearof the Staff (1366 DR) Third Quarter, Innarlith
Phyrea had no idea what made her stop, but was sure that if she hadn’t, she’d have been killed.
She had no ability to cast spells, had never been trained in the Art, and had no ring or wand to help her see magical auras, emanations, or dweomers. All she had was instinct, or luck, or whatever it was that told her to stop. She took a deep breath and held it as she drew so close to the door her nose almost touched the lacquered wood. The keyhole was bigas big as the first twp knuckles of her little fingerand set into a polished brass plate above the handle. She tried to look through the keyhole but saw only black. Either it didn’t go all the way through the door, or the room beyond was unlit.
She unfolded her kita soft leather folio in which were arrayed a series of picks and other fine implementsbut wasn’t sure if she should even bother. Picking the lock would surely set off whatever trap it was she’d sensed on the door.
Why don’t you just knock? the voice of the little girl echoed in her head.
Phyrea closed her eyes and slowly exhaled.
What is if? asked the sad woman, her thin voice on the edge of panic. What’s wrong?
Phyrea let her exhale become a reedy hiss. Though she knew no one could hear the voices but her, she wanted them to be quiet anywayshe wanted them to let her think.
Is fire going to shoot out? asked the little girl. If fire shoots out it will burn your face, and you won’t be pretty anymore.
Phyrea turned her head and saw the little girl standing behind her. At first it appeared as though she leaned against a wall, but in fact she stood so close to the wall that her right arm had disappeared into the wood paneling. Phyrea could see the outline of the shop’s assortment of curios and decorative pottery through the wispy violet form of the spectral child.
The little girl who could walk through walls.
“Would you help me?” Phyrea asked, pitching her whispered words so low they barely registered in her own ears.
The little girl looked her in the eyes, and Phyrea’s blood ran cold. Something about the way the girl looked at her made her want to scream.
You don’t talk to us enough, the child whispered back, though her lips only moved once, parting just the slightest bit. You should talk to us more. All we ever wanted was to be your friend, and for you to stay with us.
Phyrea had to force herself to whisper, “Help me.”
The little girl reached out to touch Phyrea’s face-but she had been several steps away. The little girl had moved closer all at once, never stepping, not actually moving across the intervening space. Phyrea recoiled, lurching back away from those translucent fingertips, and bounced her head off the door. Squatting, she slid onto her backside.
The little girl looked hurt, offended, then she faded away.
Phyrea’s head hurt, but worse, the blow had made a sound. She stiffened, spun, and rose to her feet in one motion, and brought her hand to the hilt of the short sword in its scabbard at her belt.
“Who’s there?” asked a muffled voice from the other side of the heavy door.
Damn it all to the Nine bleeding Hells, Phyrea thought.
She’d wanted to sneak in. She’d planned on waking Wenefir from a deep sleep, unsettling him, starting off with him unbalanced so that she would have the upper hand. That was over.
“It’s me,” she said, her voice low but loud enough to carry through the door. “It’s Phyrea.”
You don’t need to live like this anymore, the voice of the man with the scar on his face said. Go back to Berrywilde.
“The hells do you want?” the voice behind the door asked.
“Open the gods bedamned door, Wenefir,” she demanded. “I need to talk.”
“Have you come to kill me?” he asked. “Did I say I came to kill you?” “Yes or no.”
Phyrea took a deep breath and let it all out at once to say the word, “No.”
Wenefir paused, and Phyrea got the feeling he had some way of knowing whether or not she’d told the truth. The lock clanked open, and the hinge squeaked.
Revealed in the open doorway, Wenefir looked old and tired, chubby and soft. He looked her up and down and from the look on his face she could tell he thought she looked bad too, but in what way she wasn’t entirely sure.
“I thought you were out of the business,” he said, lifting an eyebrow.
“I am,” she said. “I didn’t come to fence something.”
He stood there, staring at her, waiting, so she went on.
“You know why I’m here,” she said.
Wenefir sighed and said, “I don’t have time for this, Phyrea. What’s happened to you?”
She shook her head, almost as though she were trying to shake off the look he gave her.
“I’ve been hearing the things you’ve been saying about the young senator from Cormyr, selling him around town like some piece of pilfered jewelry,” he said. “I’ve also heard that you’ve been spending time with the other Cormyrean, the canal builder. Which is it, Phyrea? Which Cormyrean are you here to plead for?”
“I’m not here to plead for anyone,” she lied. She was there to do exactly that.
And Wenefir knew it.
“You have friends in the senate,” she said.
“So do you,” he replied.
Phyrea shook her head.
“So, it’s the canal builder,” Wenefir concluded.
I don’t like him, the little girl whispered.
Phyrea resisted the urge to look over her shoulder.