Philip Athans - Scream of Stone

“My king is dead,” Truesilver interrupted. A silence followed and T’juyu had no idea how to interpret it. “Our king has fallen on the field of battle.”

The alchemist cleared his throat and said, “I’m … shocked to hear that, Warden. I’m sorry.”

“Devorast?” Truesilver asked.

“He was a good man,” Ivar Devorast said. “He was a fair and forthright king.”

“I suppose that will suffice as an outpouring of grief for the misery of your homeland,” the warden replied. T’juyu wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic.

“Is that what you came here to tell us?” Devorast asked, and from his tone T’juyu could tell he didn’t think that was the case.

“Please, Warden, sit,” the alchemist said.

There came a rustling and shuffling of feet as the three men settled themselves in the cramped, dark tent. For a while the only sounds were the general murmur of the camp-not too loud with Devorast’s tent so far removed from the others-and the croaking of unseen frogs hiding in the tall grass around them. The night sky was devoid of stars and the breeze from the west was cool and damp.

“I heard a rumor that you had returned,” the visiting Cormyrean said. “You have taken back your canal, then.”

There was another pause then the alchemist said, “Well … not precisely.”

“What do you mean?” asked Truesilver. “I’ve seen the progress. It’s remarkable. This is truly a feat that will be the envy of … well, everyone.”

“Horemkensi,” Devorast said, “is the master builder.”

“Whatever does that mean?”

“It means,” said the alchemist, “that as far as anyone who matters in Innarlith knows, Senator Horemkensi is directing the construction of the canal, not Ivar Devorast.”

“And I would prefer that that fiction remain in place,” Devorast said. “At least for now.”

There was another pause, but T’juyu could hear the warden breathing loudly. Finally the Cormyrean said, “That’s an outrage. The new ransar is so loyal to this Horemkensi that he wouldn’t hear your plea?”

If it was possible to hear someone shrug, T’juyu heard it, or at least sensed it from the alchemist.

“Have you even spoken to him?” Truesilver asked.

“Pristoleph?” the alchemist replied.

“No,” said Devorast.

“I’ve met with him,” Truesilver said. “I’ve just come from Innarlith and plan to ride the rest of the way north to Arrabar. A Cormyrean ship awaits me there so that I can return home … to a kingdom without-” He stopped speaking and even T’juyu could sense the discomfort in the air.

A footstep startled her and she brushed up against the canvas. Feet shifted inside, but T’juyu looked up at the sound of another footstep outside, then another. A man carrying a short spear and wearing ring mail that looked at least a size too big for him passed. He looked and smelled drunk-only a little-but he still seemed determined to make his rounds.

T’juyu held her breath. Of course she could kill the guard, but then there would be a dead or missing guard, and the canal site would be placed on watch. The men in the tent would suspect that it was an assassin that had brushed their tent, and they would only be partly mistaken.

“Is someone there?” the alchemist called.

“Ahoy there,” the guard called back, teetering a bit as he came to a stop not half a yard from the invisible T’juyu.

“Is that you, Reety?” the alchemist responded from inside the tent.

“Aye,” the guard, who must have been a sailor before hiring on to guard the canal site, said around an airy belch. “It’s just me.”

“On your way, then,” Devorast said, and Reety moved on.

T’juyu didn’t risk a sigh.

“So,” Truesilver continued. “You should speak to Ransar Pristoleph.”

“I don’t need Pristoleph’s permission to do what I’m doing,” Devorast said. “And besides, his wife would never allow it.”

“His-?” the Cormyrean started.

“It’s complicated,” the alchemist covered. “I hope we can leave it at that.”

Truesilver sighed loudly and T’juyu sensed that the three of them would leave the conversation there, and so it was her cue to leave. As she made her way as quietly as she could away from the tent, she heard a shuffle of parchment or paper from within and Truesilver said, “These are interesting. The way the teeth on these wheels …”

Then his voice was lost to the night, and so was T’juyu.

2 Marpenoth, the Year of the Unstrung Harp

THE CANAL SITE

Though she had spent only a short time in the company of humans, T’juyu had gotten to know much about them. Within the first few heartbeats after stepping into the little clapboard shack that Senator Horemkensi called home, she knew he would be easy to get close to, and all she had to do was get close.

“Well, now,” the man said, his voice throaty and not unpleasant, “what do we have here?”

T’juyu smiled and pulled the door closed behind her, letting her gaze dart across the confines of the cabin, reassuring herself that they were alone.

“What is your name?” he asked, his smile matching hers, his teeth bright, his eyes dull.

“T’juyu,” she said, using a simple cantrip to make her voice higher, almost squeaky. She knew that sort of thing put human males off their guard.

The senator sat at a small table on which was set a silver service and a half-finished meal T’juyu didn’t like the smell of. She knew that by brutish, human standards the man was considered handsome. His clothes were all silk and soft linen, his black leather boots so shiny T’juyu could see the curve of her own hip reflected in the uppers.

“Ah,” he breathed, “where are my manners?”

He rose but didn’t approach her. She made a sound she’d come to know as a “giggle” and it seemed to please him.

“You’re Senator Horemkensi?” she asked. She knew who he was, but still she felt she had to be sure. She had to hear him at least admit to who he was, if not what he’d done.

The senator dipped into a low bow, sweeping his arm down as he went and said, “At your service, fair lady.”

“And there was to be someone else,” she said, brushing an errant hair from her forehead, though her hair was short, almost like a man’s. She’d tried it long but hated the feeling of it brushing her shoulders-not to mention the feeling of having shoulders in the first place. “Harkhuf?”

Horemkensi blinked and said, “Alas, he is in Innarlith on an urgent errand. But what could we two possibly require of him?”

T’juyu fought not to let her disappointment show. No matter, she thought. She had the head, so what of the fate of the tail?

“You have very lovely skin,” the man said, leaning against the little table, his meal forgotten. “Where are you from?”

“The Chondalwood,” she said, not even bothering to lie.

He didn’t seem to have heard her anyway, as though he had asked the question but had no interest in any answer.

“What brings you to my door this evening, T’juyu?” he asked, and she was surprised that he’d remembered her name. “All this way from the city …”

“Not what,” she replied, “but who.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.

“I am a gift, my lord,” she said, pleased that she managed not to choke on calling him that. “I was sent by Ransar Pristoleph with his thanks for your efforts on the city-state’s behalf.”

Horemkensi burst out laughing and brought his hands together in front of him with a loud slapping noise that startled her.

“That old scoundrel,” he said. “And here I was worried that that street urchin cum king was going to have me sent home in disgrace, if not killed.”