Philip Athans - Scream of Stone

“Zombies,” the alchemist said, “courtesy of the Red Wizards of Thay.”

Devorast didn’t react with the same sort of horrified fascination most people did when they first encountered the new breed of dockhands. Still, it was plain enough in his expression that he didn’t approve.

“It’s worse,” Surero told him. He found it difficult to go on. He didn’t want to say it, but he knew Devorast needed to know. “They’re building the canal, too.”

The sigh that came from Devorast was one of the most frightening sounds Surero had ever heard. He shivered as they passed the zombie work gang. None of the undead creatures paused in their slow, methodical work to notice them. Both men put hands to their faces, covering their noses as they passed.

“They’re still working on it,” Devorast said. “I’m surprised.”

Surero could tell he was disappointed as well.

“Salatis has made speeches about it,” said the alchemist. “He said all the right things then put the whole project in the hands of a fool named Horemkensi. Do you know him?”

Devorast shook his head. They left the zombie longshoremen behind.

“Accidents …” Surero started, then just shook his head. “It’s been a long time.”

“I was told that you were brewing beer,” Devorast said, and Surero was surprised to see him smiling.

“I am,” Surero admitted. “I don’t mind it, actually. I make good beer.” The alchemist sighed and said, “It’s been a long time.”

“Has it?”

“Seven months?”

“Are they following the plans?” Devorast asked. “My drawings?”

“The best they can, I think,” Surero said. “But their best is horrendous. There’s a hope that the new ransar will be more inclined to bring you back. If there is a new ransar, that is.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the time I’ve been in Innarlith,” Devorast said as they stepped off the woodplank pier and onto the gravel streets of the First Quarter, “it’s that there will always be another ransar.”

Surero smiled and said, “You haven’t changed.”

“It hasn’t been that long. We have a lot of work to do.”

“What do you intend to do?”

Devorast didn’t miss a step. “I intend to finish it-my way, whoever the ransar is.”

2 Uktar, the Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)

FIRESTEAP CITADEL

From a distance they looked like lions-big, solidly-muscled cats built more for strength than speed or stealth. At first she didn’t even notice the third set of limbs, forward and higher up from their front legs, but at the end of those limbs were hands, and in those hands they carried weapons. Their heads, like their bodies, were more lion than man, but even from far away, it was the eyes that made them different.

“Innarlans won’t like them,” Phyrea said when she heard Pristoleph step onto the roof behind her.

He chuckled and stood next to her, his hands folded together and resting on the top of a battlement.

“They’re not even human,” Phyrea added.

“The current ransar employs undead to build the canal and to crew the docks,” Pristoleph reminded her. “Surely a few of their neighbors from the south won’t disturb people too much.”

“The zombies that work the docks belong to you. And who says anyone likes them? At least Salatis’s are well outside the city walls.”

Phyrea felt more than heard a sigh in her head. It was the old woman, and she was tired of being out in the southern frontier, at the hard and crowded fortress surrounded by soldiers.

“The people of Innarlith are accustomed to a certain transience in the position of ransar,” Pristoleph said, and Phyrea winced at the implication.

They’re going to kill him , the man with the scar on his face whispered in her ear.

“Yes, they are,” she whispered back.

“Well,” Pristoleph said with a surprised smile, “you’re easy to convince today.”

Phyrea shook her head in reply.

“The wemics have no interest in Innarlith,” he said. “I’m sure you won’t have to worry about their crude tents lowering the property values in the Second Quarter.”

They’ll kill him in public , said the old woman. They’ll make a show of it .

“What do they fight for then?” she asked, ignoring the ghost.

“Magic weapons.”

She narrowed her eyes and turned on the senator.

“It’s almost too easy,” he went on. “They’re obsessed with enchanted weapons-any sort of weapon, and any sort of enchantment.”

“And you buy the weapons from the Thayan.”

Pristoleph shrugged, the look on his face not quite petty enough to be smug, but he was indeed pleased with himself as he stared out over his growing army.

“There are costs with Marek Rymut that go far beyond the coin,” she warned him, her face flushing when she realized it was both unnecessary and useless for her to try.

“I am familiar with his desires,” Pristoleph said, “and much more in touch with his true motives than he realizes.”

“You are a brilliant man, Pristoleph, but Rymut is something else.”

Pristoleph shrugged again and said, “He’s killed, driven into exile, or employed every other mage of reasonable skill in Innarlith. I need the weapons because I need the wemics, so I deal with Marek Rymut.”

“And you have them,” she said with a sigh. “So what are you waiting for?”

He laughed and said, “Are you anxious for me to make my move on the Palace of Many Spires because you miss the city life, or because you believe I’m ready to win?”

“I just don’t understand what’s taking so long.”

She wrapped her fur-collared weathercloak around her more tightly and held her arms around her, shivering in the early winter chill. It was colder on the roof of the citadel than it was on the ground, but she had grown to like the solitude it afforded her, even if the view made her nervous. She didn’t like the sight of the army gathering, while at the same time something about it-something insubstantial but in its own way powerful-drew her to it.

“You’re cold,” he said, stepping closer to her.

He wrapped his arms around her from behind and she could feel his abnormal warmth radiating through even her thick clothing. The feeling made her close her eyes, made her breathe a little more slowly, and made the ghosts seem just a little farther away.

Enjoy it while it lasts , the woman who mourned her dead child called from beyond the grave.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Phyrea whispered in response.

“It will last,” Pristoleph said into her ear, his breath uncomfortably hot on her neck, “as long as I decide it will last.”

“Are you certain of that?” she asked, but of course he was. He didn’t even bother to stiffen. If anything, he held her only tighter. “Marek Rymut may have something to say about that.”

“He can say what he wishes,” Pristoleph said. “When I am ransar, I’ll-”

“Is that what Salatis said?” she interrupted. “I wonder if he said those same words, back in the Year of the Staff.”

“Rymut is a powerful man, but he’s got his weaknesses, too. He’s a dandy and he craves attention. He manipulates, but he can be manipulated.”

“And he says the same about you,” Phyrea said, regretting the words the moment they left her mouth.

He stepped away from her. “I had hoped you’d have more confidence in me by now.”

She went to him and he embraced her. They shared a kiss and she put her hands on the side of his face. Her hair blew in the wind, whipping his cheeks, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“He will help you,” she said, “the same way he helped Salatis, and he will destroy you the same way he’s about to destroy Salatis.”