Gweltaz wanted a new and presumably more able pupil. Gweltaz wanted a new son, and that was something Chazsinal could not permit.
So before his son was weaned, Chazsinal took Lauzoril from his mother and placed him with the Eltabbaran enchanters, where, the boy's innate charm along with a sackful of gold secured him a place on the student roster. Then Chazsinal worked his best magic on his own memory to convince himself that his son was dead.
Chazsinal's best was never good enough. Gweltaz saw through his son's deception. He struck swiftly and precisely; Chazsinal's flesh began to putrefy between one breath and the next. Gweltaz regretted his rage immediately, but once done, the magic could not be undone and the best that Gweltaz could do was clutch his son's spirit to his undead heart.
They remained together, out of sight and forgotten, caught in the crack between life and death, aware of Lauzoril's progress through the enchanters' ranks and aware of Szass Tam as their great enemy's influence grew to unprecedented heights. Convinced that Tam would move against them the moment he became aware of their continued existence, they denied themselves every opportunity to contact Lauzoril. Then, some thirty years after Chazsinal died, Lauzoril found them.
Their son and grandson had become a zulkir, albeit of enchantment, a discipline opposed to necromancy and, in their considered opinion, decidedly inferior as well. They restrained their prejudice when Lauzoril transferred Gweltaz's fragile remains to the Thazalhar estate and, more importantly, saw his father restored with the same spells that preserved Gweltaz. Lauzoril even took up their cause against Szass Tam. But there was no controlling the Zulkir of Enchantment, not as Gweltaz had controlled Chazsinal.
"My son brings us supper," Chazsinal said, amber light seeping through his linen bandages. "I can smell the blood."
Gweltaz snorted. "Control yourself. He starves us, treats us like beggars and slaves while you fawn at his feet. He brings us farmyard beasts, strangled with a dainty cord. His hands are always clean; he has no taste for death."
"Haven't I?" the zulkir inquired mildly, his voice entering the crypt while his body continued its descent down the spiral stairs. "Then why do I keep you around, Grandfather? Not for the company, I assure you—or the smell."
"For my advice, young fool, and my wisdom. I know things you cannot imagine."
"Of course, how could I forget? You know everything about death—especially your own."
Blue-green light outlined the door, as Lauzoril released wards meant to protect the living members of his household. He had no fear of his ancestors. One word from him and they would be consumed within their bandages.
"I know Szass Tam! I know how his mind works, how he thinks, the way he plans. Without my warnings, you'd have died ten times over."
There was a measure of truth in Gweltaz's claims, which Lauzoril acknowledged by throwing him the larger of the two strangled piglets he'd brought. He threw the smaller to his father, whose hollow- eyed, pleading glance he did not acknowledge at all.
Lauzoril understood Gweltaz. There were a hundred men and women just like him in his own discipline. Treacherous and greedy, they were unaware of their mediocrity. Their conversation was shaped by centuries of tradition, ritual, and rehearsed invective. Living or undead, Lauzoril used them in the great game he played with his peers and disposed of them when their ambitions exceeded their usefulness.
Gweltaz trod the fine line between utility and arrogance; he was very careful never to cross it.
That line blurred when Lauzoril considered Chazsinal, who was not as useful to any scheme but who had—for whatever reason—delivered Lauzoril to the enchanters. Lauzoril had only to look at Chazsinal to see the fate he had avoided: A man could stand against Gweltaz, who was almost as good as he thought he was, but a boy in leading strings would have been broken utterly.
By that measure, Lauzoril owed Chazsinal everything, but everything else about Chazsinal grated on his nerves. He paid his debt with spite and contempt.
Silence hung in the crypt while the undead necromancers consumed the flesh he'd brought them. When damp gristle was all that remained of their meal and the two necromancers were suffused with a fresh, bloody glow, Lauzoril opened the conversation.
"The matter with Druxus Rhym is finished. He'll be watching his back too closely to make trouble for a while."
Neither Chazsinal nor Gweltaz cared about Rhym. Alteration, like enchantment, was inferior magic in necromancers' eyes. But the Zulkir of Alteration had allied himself with Szass Tam: A strike against him was a strike against their enemy, and that they approved. Besides, the pair was starved for more than blood. Lauzoril's visits were their only direct contact with the world beyond the crypt. They hungered for his voice. Gweltaz contained himself; Chazsinal could not.
"How? What did you do? How many died? Did they suffer?"
Lauzoril sat back in his comfortably upholstered chair. These were the moments when he was grateful for his undead relations. Every man needed a confidant who revelled in his triumphs and commiserated his defeats. For a zulkir, true confidants were rarer than dragon's blood, more precious than a golem's tears. The Zulkir of Enchantment had two of them. He propped his legs on the table, crossing them at the ankle, consciously creating the image of a man in complete control of his world and enjoying every moment of it. "They suffered and suffer still, I imagine. Rhym believes they betrayed him. He won't be content until they confess. But their confessions will be lies ..."
Lauzoril allowed himself a smile. Last month, Rhym had begun a war against Lauzoril's faction within the zulkirs. It was an undeclared war, as most were in Thay. No one was supposed to know who'd poisoned the fish at a very private banquet, least of all the zulkirs of Enchantment, Invocation, and Conjuration, each of whom had lost a handful of reliable aides that night. Lauzoril hadn't consulted with Lord Thrul of Invocation or Lord Nevron of Conjuration. Disguised as a cook—a very charming and persuasive cook—he'd started with the pot slaves and worked his way up to Druxus Rhym. Then he'd plotted his revenge.
His plan was simple: a few false clues planted in fertile ground throughout Thay, a few rumors whispered in suspicious ears, and Rhym imagined himself the victim of conspiracy and rebellion within his own school. By last night, six ranking transmuters were known dead, another score had disappeared. No one suspected Enchantment's role in the purge. Lauzoril gained no glory for his schemes, but he'd taken no risk, either and that was the way he liked to play the zulkirs' game. Don't waste your own strength, that was the supreme lesson he'd learned from his predecessor:
Make your enemy waste his.
"You're not as good as you think you are, boy," Gweltaz said, as if he could pluck a man's thoughts from his head—which, perhaps, he could: Lauzoril did not know the limits of his grandfather's abilities, only that he, Lauzoril, held the upper hand. "While you were celebrating, a man died in Nethra—your man in Nethra. He suffered, too."
Lauzoril uncrossed his feet, then crossed them again and remained where he was, though his calm had been shattered. He racked his memory to remember who he had in Nethra and why. A face swam out of memory: Vur Bract, a youngish man with a bent for merchantry. He tended the enchanters' affairs, buying cheap and selling dear; he'd had a rewarding life ahead of him.
"How did he die?" Chazsinal interrupted his son's remembering. "Who killed him—the witch- queen?"
Despite himself, Lauzoril stiffened; Gweltaz noticed.
"Oh, come now—who else would kill one of yours in Nethra? Just because you spy on her, did you think you were exempt from her wrath, boy? If she knew—when she finds out, you'll find yourself strung across the abyss with Tam on one side, her on the other."
"The spell will fade before the Simbul thinks to look for it."
"Of course it will—enchantments fade rather quickly, don't they?"
Lauzoril's answer was a sneer and a shower of sparks that swirled around the pitch-soaked bandages. The zulkir didn't think of the dagger as a spy. He'd enchanted both blade and studded- leather hilt with a variety of spells for the challenge of stabilizing so much magic in so small and mundane an object. He'd maneuvered it into Aglarond for the same reasons. The glimpses his enchantments provided of the Simbul's workroom—once a day, but never at the same time and never longer than the pause between two heartbeats—were scarcely the useful information a zulkir expected from his spies. She was seldom there and the knife had not become one of her favorites.
No one except Gweltaz and Chazsinal knew what he'd accomplished or the pleasure he derived from the stolen moments of the Simbul's life. At times like this, Lauzoril wished he'd never told them—but they were his confidants. With them, he took risks.
"Forget her, Lauzoril," Gweltaz advised when the sparks were dead coals peppering Chazsinal's bandages. "A man like you—you're still in your natural prime. Add some spice to your celebrations, O Mighty Zulkir. Visit the stews and the brothels; it worked well enough for your own father. You need a son, Lauzoril."
"That's not open to discussion," Lauzoril said, raising three fingers of his right hand in a gesture that made both necromancers fade within their bandages.
Whatever Lauzoril's interest in Thay's archenemy, it didn't include romance. He'd never laid eyes on her, never met or heard of anyone who had and survived the experience. It was a known fact: The woman slew Thayan wizards without provocation—witness what she'd done to Bract. And, anyway, other women didn't tempt Lauzoril. He had a wife, the granddaughter of his predecessor, and while he was not compelled to be faithful to her, he'd made ordinary promises that he'd found surprisingly easy to keep.
He had children, as welclass="underline" two of them, but not the sons Gweltaz deemed necessary. His daughters were beautiful, especially the younger one, and wise, especially the elder. He kept them safe in Thazalhar where desolation and the ghosts of slaughtered armies reinforced his enchantments. They were innocent, both of them ignorant of all magic and of the life their father led when he was not with them. He brought them gifts whenever he returned and told them stories about a world that didn't exist. Their joy when they welcomed him kept him sane.