The two men stood a step apart as the work camp was unloaded crate by crate around them.
“A hole in the ground, forty miles long and a thousand feet wide,” Osorkon said. “A canal that will make Innarlith the crossroads of Toril’s oceans, a gateway city that will reshape trade in Faerun for all time. I’m trusting you. I’m trusting your word, and Fharaud’s, with my own future as well as my city’s. I wonder if you even realize how difficult that is for me-how difficult that is for any leader to do.”
Devorast shrugged-the gesture brought the beginnings of rage burning in Osorkon’s chest-and said, “I know what I’m doing. I can do it.”
The ransar was calmed by the perfect self-confidence radiating from the Cormyrean.
Devorast stopped next to an open crate filled with shovels. He took one and walked a little ways to the edge of the camp. The ransar followed him like a schoolboy after his teacher. Devorast glanced down at the ground, then looked up at the ransar.
“You’re up to the task?” Osorkon asked.
Devorast thrust the shovel into the dirt, his eyes never leaving the ransar’s. He didn’t blink or try to look away. There was no hint, not the slightest fraction of doubt. He filled the spade with a mound of earth and tossed it off to one side.
Ransar Osorkon, lord and master of the city-state of Innarlith, took a deep breath and said, “I hope so, Ivar Devorast. I truly do, because the people who will oppose you are up to the task as well.”