“Then I will dispense with further niceties and bring us to the meat of the issue,” the Thayan said. “Your mas-excuse me… your friend Pristoleph has made a very bad decision of late and I’ve come in the hopes that between the two of us we can either show him the error of his ways, or at the very least mitigate the damage his impetuosity might cause.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“The girl,” Marek said, and left it at that.
Wenefir wore his thoughts clearly on his face. Marek didn’t need a spell to see that the Cyricist was no friend of Phyrea’s. Marek smiled, trying to defuse the expression with as much sympathy as possible. If he had guessed right about how Wenefir would feel about Pristoleph’s sudden and acute obsession with Innarlith’s most beautiful prize, the rest would be easy.
Remembering where he was, and that Wenefir was likely capable of mind-intruding magic gifted him by his mad god, Marek tried to keep his surface thoughts clear.
“It’s a matter of the heart,” Wenefir said, though his eyes pleaded for argument. “I can’t imagine what we might be able to do to make him feel differently.”
“All that in due course,” said Marek. “For now, though, can we agree that the relationship is an unhealthy one?”
“Perhaps, but I’d be curious to hear your reasons for thinking so.”
Marek nodded and replied, “She is married to another senator. You know that well enough, having performed the ceremony yourself.”
“Cyric smiles upon those who change their minds,” Wenefir said, almost showing his disappointment over that bit of scripture. “No marriage in his name is ought but temporary.”
“Be that as it may, among the city’s social circles it will be frowned upon.”
Wenefir nodded, happy enough to concede the point. “Has there been talk?” he asked.
“Oh, there’s always talk,” said Marek. “Had it simply been a matter of divorce and remarriage tongues would wag among the wives and servants, but ultimately the city-state would have gone on about its business, but that, I’m afraid, is not the worst of it.”
“Oh?”
“There’s the matter of Senator Willem Korvan,” Marek said.
Wenefir raised an eyebrow and asked, “What of him? He’s been drinking, but don’t we all? I understand he’s been mostly away, at the canal site. I can’t imagine he’d be stupid enough to publicly resist Pristoleph.”
“Oh, and he isn’t,” Marek assured him. “In fact he’s done just the opposite. Instead of crying on the shoulders of his fellow senators and making a sticky social situation any worse, he’s disappeared.”
“I’m sorry?”
“He’s gone, and no one knows where,” Marek said, though he knew precisely where Willem Korvanor what was left of himwas.
“A young senator on the rise like that, with influential friends…” Wenefir thought aloud.
“Why, even if he was humiliated by Pristoleph’s appropriation of his cheeky young bride,” Marek said, leading
Wenefir in a disturbing direction, “why would a rising star like Willem simply walk away from all he’s worked so hard to build? In some ways he’s the heir apparent to Innarlith.”
“I can assure you that neither Pristoleph nor myself had anything to do with his disappearance,” Wenefir said. “I was told that he had acquiescedsurrendered, as it were, of his own free will.”
“Such as a boy like Willem has free will, yes,” Marek said. “Please believe me that I did not come here to make that accusation.”
“So you believe he’s gone to ground?” Wenefir asked, dire thoughts clouding his eyes. “Is he holed up somewhere planning some reprisal, or gathering allies against Pristoleph?”
“And Pristoleph,” Marek said, “like all of us, has enemies to spare.”
Wenefir nodded, and his eyes played over the shadows along one unlit section of the curved wall. Marek followed his gaze and saw the strange creature there take a tentative step forward, looking to Wenefir for instructions. The Cyricist held up a handa subtle gestureand the creature slinked back into the deeper darkness.
“He was one of your boys,” Wenefir said. “What has he told you?”
Marek brushed aside the implication that weighed heavily in Wenefir’s eyes and said, “I have not heard from him, nor seen him, in days. But there is more to consider than Willem Korvan. There’s the master builder. Phyrea is his daughter, after all, and he fought for the marriage with Willem. And he isn’t necessarily counted among Pristoleph’s allies. And the master builder has the ear of the ransar.”
“And you have the mind of the ransar,” Wenefir retorted. “What have you told Salatis to think?” “You overestimate me.”
“No, Marek, I don’t think I do,” Wenefir said. “You were right to come to me. This relationship has implications, and those implications will have to be more carefully considered.”
“Carefully considered,” Marek suggested, “by someone with a clearer view, unfiltered by love, lust, and so on.”
Wenefir’s eyes went cold, and a tickle of fear played along the edges of Marek’s consciousness.
“I’ll show you the way out,” Wenefir said.
Turn on each other, Marek thought as he followed the soft, strange man to a hidden door. Turn on each other over a girl.
He tried not to laugh as he climbed the spiral stairs that would take him a hundred feet up to the street.
67
30 Nightal, the Yearof the Banner (1368 DR) The City of Ormpetarr
"Please, please, can’t you let us go home? the little girl begged. Don’t look at him.
He has replaced you, said the old woman. He’s replaced you in his heart. There are other women. He didn’t wait for you.
Surely you didn’t expect him to wait for you, said the man with the scar on his face.
He should have, the younger woman sobbed. Why didn’t he?
Phyrea stood at the foot of the skeletal pier that stretched out into the calm expanse of the Nagawater. The ghost of the old woman stood in front of her, and most of what she saw of the pier was filtered through her insubstantial violet form. Phyrea hugged herself and shivered. Even her heavy wool weathercloak didn’t keep the chill away from her bones. When she caught the ghostly woman’s eye she shivered worse. The spirit’s freezing gaze cut her like a dagger, and her head ached.
“He won’t kill me,” Phyrea whispered.
Yes, he will, the little girl replied. “You will,” she whispered.
The woman sneered at her, her eyes flickering orange. Phyrea put her hands over her eyes. The old woman’s shriek rattled her skull, and beneath her the planks shuddered.
“Go away,” she whispered, and opened her eyes.
The old woman was gone, and before her stood Ivar Devorast.
Phyrea took a step backward.
“I can’t go away,” he said. “I have work to do.”
He wore the same simple tunic and breeches he always wore, and though it was cold, he didn’t have any sort of cloak or coat. He held a carpenter’s hammer in one hand, loose and comfortable at his side.
“Not you,” she said, shaking her head.
Phyrea expected one of the ghosts to say something, but they remained silent. She looked around but couldn’t see any of them. She smiled.
“You’re not surprised to see me,” she said.
He shook his head, but said nothing. His red hair whipped around his face in the steady wind.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Helping to build a pier,” he said.
“But why?” she asked.
“They want to start building ships,” he replied.
She waited for him to say morethen smiled. It had been a long time since she’d had to do that, to wait for him to say more. She couldn’t believe how much she’d missed it.
“Will you build ships, then?” she asked.
“I’ll build the pier,” he told her.
“And you won’t think of the canal?”
“I think of the canal every day,” he said, and a darkness descended over his face that made Phyrea shiver.