They soon came to a submerged burrow, one of many that Svayyah had dug over her long lifetime. It was a convenient place to withdraw from the occasional dangers of the wild Nagawater. A place to sleep, eat, or plan. The entrance was barely big enough for her alone, so she pushed Devorast toward it:
When he looked at her with suspicion she said, “Come now, Senthissa’ssa. You wish to speak in private.”
Though he hadn’t said as much, Svayyah found it a safe assumption, and one that was apparently correct, for Devorast turned and swam in his ungainly human fashion, into the dark hole. The moment he cleared the passage, Svayyah followed.
Past the opening, the burrow was a roughly spherical depression in the muddy riverbank, entirely filled with water. Roots from trees along the bank held the walls together. Devorast felt around along the walls, facing away from her, and Svayyah realized he couldn’t see. She dug one hand into the mud wall and found a small gold box. She’d secreted one such box in each of her burrows, and in them were coins and other items of value. She opened the box with a sibilant, hissing sound to deactivate the magical traps that sealed it.
Inside the box was a silver coin minted millennia past by a forgotten civilization. A spell had been cast on it that made it glow with a brilliance that made both Svayyah and Devorast blink. Their eyes adjusted soon enough and they faced each other in the tight confines of the burrow. Svayyah’s serpent’s body brushed up against the side of Devorast’s leg, but the man didn’t seem to mind the contact.
“It is safe to speak here,” she said, then raised an eyebrow and waited.
Devorast appeared reluctant to speak, but finally he said, “I came here to tell you that the construction of the canal will be delayed indefinitely.”
Svayyah was surprised, and let that show. “That’s not what we expected to hear, Senthissa’ssa,”she said.
Before she could go on, Devorast said, “Please, do not call me that.”
“It is meant to show respect,” Svayyah said. She tried not to be too irritated. After all, as wise and as capable as he seemed to be, Devorast was a human after all. “It means”
“I know what it means,” Devorast interrupted, and he either didn’t notice the stern look of reproach she flashed him, or didn’t care. Svayyah would have wagered the contents of her little gold box that the latter was true. “Please, call me Ivar.”
“Ivar,” she said with a tilt of her head. It wasn’t an unpleasant sound. “What has happened now? More false nagas sent to kill or confuse you?”
Devorast shook his head. 1
“Your ransar has been unseated?” she ventured. “Or he has withdrawn his support and coin?” t
“None of those things, no,” he said. “It was me.”
She thought about that word, “me,” as he looked away, looked around the burrow without really seeing it. It was a strange concept, the humans had, of considering themselves an individual among many, instead of one of many individuals. Svayyah wondered if they could even understand the distinction.
“I allowed myself to be distracted,” Devorast went on.
“It is a common trait among humans,” she said, still waiting for a clearer explanation.
Devorast shrugged her comment off and said, “Do you have anything in that box that can help me send a message?”
Svayyah said, “No, but there are other boxes.” She thought for a moment then asked, “What has happened?”
“I allowed an enemy in too close, and so did Pristoleph. Even he won’t be able to stop him now.”
“Explain,” Svayyah said, curious about the vagaries of human interaction.
“The Red Wizard I’ve told you about,” he said, “sent agents to install a portal in the canal. He’s done something to Willem Korvan, something that made him some kind of monster.”
“You’ve known for some time that the Thayan would be just as happy to see you dead,” Svayyah said. “You’ve told us yourself that this one means to take the canal from you, or destroy it. If he’s kept you alive this long, it means he intends to shame you in the process.”
Devorast nodded.
“So what has changed?” she asked. “He’ll kill Pristoleph, too,” Devorast said. “When that happens, I’ll only have Hrothgar, and some of the men.” “The alchemist?”
“Killed by Willem Korvan,” Devorast said, and at that moment Svayyah saw more emotion on the man’s face than she’d ever imagined from him. “That was my fault, too.”
“It sounds like it was Willem Korvan’s fault,” she said. “But that aside. You gave us the impression that Pristoleph was stronger than the Thayan, that together the two of you could”
“Marek Rymiit controls the senate,” Devorast said. “And it’s the senate that names the ransar. Whoever is named ransar controls the black firedrakes.”
“The ransar’s guards?”
“If they strip Pristoleph of his title he’ll find himself surrounded by acid-spitting monsters that can hide in human form.”
Svayyah stopped to consider that, but could find no other conclusion than the one Devorast had come to.
“Then it’s over?” she asked.
Devorast didn’t reply, and didn’t look at her.
“Ah, well,” the water naga said, “we were never convinced it was such a good idea after all, all those human ships passing over ustolls or no tolls.”
53
19 Tarsakh, the Yearof Lightning Storms (1374 DR) Second Quarter, Innarlith
Home.
The word itself had lost all meaning to him, but it was both more and less than a word that brought Willem Korvan to his own door. After fleeing the canal, fighting all the while against a compulsion to return-to return and kill Ivar DevorastWillem wandered south. His dead, numb legs carried him along ground that grew increasingly familiar, even to senses ravaged by undeath.
He entered the city under the cloak of night, crawling in along the edge of where the wall met the rocky shoreline of the Lake of Steam. He thought he might have killed a guard, or even a whole contingent of them, and maybe even more people as he wound his way through the streets of the First Quarter. He couldn’t remember for sure. Perhaps there had been no people at all. He thought he could still hear a woman’s primal, ragged scream echoing in his ears, but it might have been his imaginationor his inner ears drying and crumbling in his head.
Something that could have been described as memory moved him through the city. There were people in the First Quarter, talking and singing in taverns and festhalls along the quay and a few blocks deeper in. But when he crossed that invisible but very real line into the Second Quarter, the city went quiet. Candle-and hearth-light burned in windows high above the streets, but not many. Most windows were dark, the residents asleep, or pretending to be so the neighbors, who were themselves pretending to be asleep, wouldn’t notice and begin whispering rumors of
Of what?
Willem had forgotten what he was thinking. He didn’t understand himself.
The buildings may as well have been solid to him, boulders or stone towers carved out by wind and water. The streets were as a canyon. The idea that there was anyone inside those structures made no difference to Willem.
There was in fact no reason for Willem to go home. It wasn’t a matter of his will or his master’s. It was as though his body walked there entirely of its own accord, and for reasons it kept to itself.
The garden gate was never meant to be anything but ornamental, and Willem didn’t even think of it until his knee clipped it and the latch broke free to clatter onto the flagstone pathway. He didn’t worry that the sound would alert anyone, because it didn’t matter.