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“Please, sit,” he said again.

Wenefir took a sip of the brandya very small sip. Maybe he didn’t even drink any at all really, but just touched it to his lips. He sat on a stool, his wide, soft body almost seemed to drape itself around the little seat. He set the glass down on the table.

“That’s pretty,” Wenefir said, nodding at the flamberge that sat on a swatch of black velvet in the middle of the table.

“Isn’t it?” Marek replied, wondering if that could be what Wenefir had come forbut why? That sort of thing wasn’t really his style, or Pristoleph’s.

“Tell me you didn’t make it,” said Wenefir.

“Oh, no,” Marek replied with a chuckle. “No, that one’s oldhow old I’m still trying to determinebut old. It belongs to a friend, truth be told.”

“Truth be told” Wenefir repeated, a wistful look further smoothing his already soft features. “It must be a very good friend, to allow you to hold onto something of such obvious value.”

“It’s what I do.”

“It’s enchanted?”

“Of course,” Marek said. “Why else would I have it?”

Wenefir shrugged, and a little smile crossed his face. They sat for a moment in silence.

“I had a conversation, earlier this evening,” Wenefir said at last, “with Senator Pristoleph.”

“I hope he’s well.”

Wenefir nodded and said, “He appreciates your help in regards to the situation on the quayside, and elsewhere, and he understands your position in regards to the canal.”

“But…?”

Wenefir smiled, seemed relieved, and said, “There will be ships, either way.”

“Either way?” Marek stalled, though he’d sorted it out easily enough.

“He’s prepared to align himself openly with whatever eventuality you have in mind for the canal,” Wenefir said. “Of course, it would help if he knew your intentions.”

“Either way…” Marek whispered.

Wenefir smiled, so did Marek, and they both laughed.

“He is a man after my own heart,” said Marek.

“I’m sure he would be both delighted and horrified to hear that.”

Marek closed his mouth. His tongue felt dry all of a sudden.

“So?” Wenefir asked.

“Well,” Marek said, taking a deep breath. “My first impulse is to close the whole thing down, but I’m not sure that’s entirely possible.”

“No?”

“There is an expression, I think from Cormyror is it Sembia?” Marek said. “They say, ‘The cat is out of the bag.’”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that the idea has been expressed that a canal could be dug to connect the Sea of Fallen Stars with the western oceans. More than that the idea has been expressed that this little bit of empty land to the northwest of Innarlith is the best place to do it. And it is the best place, you know. I’ve consulted maps.”

“Have you?”

Marek let a breath hiss out of his nose and said, “I have.”

“So you’ll let him finish it?”

“Bane’s bloody corpse, no,” Marek said. “Not him.”

Wenefir tipped his chin up, smiled a little again, then nodded and said, “Ah. You’ll finish it yourself.”

“After a fashion,” Marek replied. “I will have it finished, but I won’t be using shovels and sweaty backs.”

“No?”

“Well,” the Thayan said with a wink, “if you can’t beat them, profit from them.”

“Another Cormyrean expression?”

“No, no, I’m quite sure that one’s Sembian.” They shared another laugh.

“There might come a day,” Wenefir said, “that Senator Pristoleph will desire an upward change in station.”

Marek felt his face flush. He forced a smile and said, “I was led to believe”

“Calm yourself, Master Rymiit,” Wenefir interrupted. “Just something to keep in the back of your mind. For the nonce, let’s say that Senator Pristoleph looks forward to the increase in shipping traffic the canal will provide, and he trusts in your ability to build it, using the many wondrous means at your disposal.”

Marek bent forward a little in a bow as Wenefir stood.

“Middark has come and gone, I should think,” Wenefir said. “I will thank you for your hospitality, and be on my way.”

Marek stood, bowed again, and watched Wenefir leave. When the door closed, he sat again and sighed.

The door opened a few moments later, and Kurtsson stepped into the room.

“Should I be concerned?” the Vaasan asked.

“Of course, dear,” Marek said, then paused to down the rest of Wenefir’s brandy. “A wise man is always concerned.”

“But if Pristoleph is-“

“Pristoleph,” Marek finished for him, “is doing what we always knew he would. And we’ll either survive him or not.”

45

18 Alturiak, the Yearof the Shield (1367DR) Second Quarter, Innarlith

You look awful.”

Willem, startled, gasped and stepped backward into a nightstand. The touch of something on his leg startled him again, then he jumped at the thought that if he knocked it over it would make a loud noise. He hissed a curse when he whirled to catch it.

“Graceful,” Phyrea whispered.

Willem winced at both her tone and the pain that seemed to drop onto his head from above. His eyes burned. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could feel her behind him, just standing there. He heard something drop to the floor and turned. The nightstand teetered a little but settled on its legs. From his peripheral vision he saw her cloak in a pool around her feet.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered.

“I” she started, her voice booming in his ears.

He shushed her and she stopped. His head throbbed.

“You look awful,” she whispered.

“You said that,” he whispered back. “I believe you.”

He turned to face her but rubbed his eyes, trying to get some feeling back into his face along with anything but sandpaper under his eyelids. It wasn’t working.

“Why are we whispering?” she asked, whispering.

“I don’t live alone,” he replied, taking his hands from his eyes and blinking in the dim candlelight of his bedchamber.

Phyrea worked at the laces of her leather bodice and said, “That’s right… your mother.”

He nodded and asked, “What are you doing here?”

She didn’t answer, but continued to unlace her top.

“It’s late, isn’t it?” he asked, still blinking.

“It’s early,” she replied.

“I thought you hated me,” he said.

She dropped the bodice to the floor with her cloak. The sight of her took Willem’s breath away.

“You’ve been drinking,” she whispered.

He opened his mouth and shook his head, which hurt. She unlaced her leather breeches, then seemed to suddenly realize she was still wearing her boots.

“You don’t smell good,” she whispered. “I can smell you from here.”

She took off one boot and placed it next to her cloak.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You certainly are.”

She took off her other boot.

“Why did you come here?” he asked her.

“Well,” she replied as she slipped out of her breeches, “I’d have thought that would be obvious by now.”

She wore nothing underneath.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted.

She stood there, naked, looking at him with such an expression of utter contempt that Willem had to look away from her.

“I don’t please you?” she asked.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said. “You’re the most beautiful woman in all of Faerun.” “Thank you.”

“You should go,” he said. “You don’t have to”

“What?” she asked.

He didn’t know what to say.

Phyrea smiled at him the way people smile at other people’s misbehaving children. She stepped out of the clothing at her feet and crossed the room to Willem’s unmade bed. She slipped under the covers, but kicked them away, presumably so he could see her.

“I don’t feel well,” he said.

“Take your clothes off.”

He shook his head, but started to unbutton his shirt. His fingers were numb, and he had trouble. “Everyone wants us to marry,” he said. “Who’s everyone?”