Philip Athans - Scream of Stone

“But you have done so well here. The whole city is talking about it,” she said, and again it wasn’t easy for her to keep up the pretense. She knew full well that it was another who had brought the growing canal back from the brink of disaster.

He stopped laughing, but smiled still and nodded. He took his eyes away from her and she took that opportunity to move closer to him in just a few small steps. He didn’t look up when she stood only inches in front of him. His eyes traveled up her legs slowly, then lingered in her middle. Uncomfortable in the rough fabric anyway, she let her simple woolen gown fall from her shoulders. He drew in a breath.

“You like what you see?” she asked. “My form pleases you?”

“My compliments to the ransar,” he whispered.

And something about that, and the way he said it, drove the last sliver of patience from T’juyu. She couldn’t wait for the man to look her in the eye on his own accord. He obviously had no interest in her eyes or her face. He reached out to touch her and she let him, forcing herself to lean in closer. With the tip of one finger under his chin she drew his face up to meet hers. He smiled playfully and she thought again how handsome he was, but how dull and lifeless were his eyes.

She stared deeply into those dull orbs and held him, reaching out with her gaze, then with her mind, then with a power that rose up from the core of her being like a tide slowly rising under the gentle but relentless influence of Selune.

T’juyu wasn’t the slightest bit surprised when the man fell under her spell. She robbed him of the ability to move.

“Don’t be afraid, Little Lord H,” she whispered into his still, confused face. “To be quite honest, this is more about me than it is about you.”

He could hear her, she knew that, but she didn’t get the feeling he quite understood what was happening to him, let alone what was about to happen.

“I came from the Chondalwood,” she told him, “because the water nagas had made an arrangement that made my kind very, very nervous. We don’t like water nagas, you see. But then I spent some time listening, some time understanding, and it’s occurred to me that, despite how this hole in the ground might benefit the naja’ssynsa it seems I was on the wrong side.”

He tried to shake his head, to tell her he didn’t understand, not to break the eye contact that held him rigid and helpless before her. The spell wouldn’t let him look away.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” she asked.

His eyes told her she was right.

“That,” she whispered into his ear, letting the eye contact break, “is only one of the reasons why I’m killing you.”

He started to move, but only the slightest twitch before T’juyu let her fangs grow out from her human gums. The long, needle-like teeth sank deeply into the warm, soft flesh of his neck and she let her venom pour into him.

3 Marpenoth, the Year of the Unstrung Harp (1371 DR)

THE PALACE OF MANY SPIRES, INNARLITH

Oh … oh, Ransar …” the alchemist babbled as he was hustled into the lavish sitting room by one of Pristoleph’s black firedrakes. “Please, my lord, oh, please allow me to explain. I beg you. I didn’t think … I mean, I didn’t realize … I don’t know …”

He doesn’t know what he’s defending himself against, Pristoleph thought, rolling his eyes.

The black-armored soldier let go of Harkhuf’s arm and the alchemist dropped to his knees, his green-stained hands shaking and scrabbling at the fine Calishite rug. He was dressed in dingy gray undergarments and a tattered weathercloak. His face was sweating and great brown stains showed under his arms. From the state of his hair and the redness in his eyes it was obvious that the black firedrakes had roused him from a sound sleep. It was well after middark after all.

“Calm yourself,” Pristoleph said, but the groveling man hardly seemed to hear him.

“Harkhuf, really,” Marek Rymut scolded, almost as though Harkhuf were his own unruly child.

It was only then that Harkhuf seemed to notice that the Red Wizard was in the room. He scrambled to his feet and crossed to where Marek sat and Pristoleph could see his knees bending ever more with each step.

“There is no need to bow to me, Harkhuf my friend,” the Thayan said, and Pristoleph imagined his next words might have been: “At least not in the presence of the ransar,” but the Red Wizard left that unsaid.

“Sit down, man,” Pristoleph said, taking a seat himself on a particularly garish, massive wingback easy chair of Waterdhavian design.

Harkhuf took two steps on weak knees and collapsed on a foot stool in front of Marek, looking for all accounts like a dog caught soiling his master’s rug.

“I assume we had to wake you, this evening?” Pristoleph said.

“Oh, oh, no, Ransar, no, not at all. Not at all,” the alchemist replied around a hissing, toadying laugh that made Pristoleph’s skin crawl. Marek rolled his eyes behind the alchemist’s head.

“Since you were sleeping,” Pristoleph pressed on, “I will assume you have not yet heard of the death of Senator Horemkensi.”

“The … what?” Harkhuf said. If it was possible for his face to get any whiter, it did just then. “The what … of … who? Who died?”

“You heard him,” Marek said.

Harkhuf tried to look at both of them at the same time and appeared almost more regretful of having sat between them than he was of the word of his master’s death.

“How?” he asked in a voice as small as a little girl’s.

“He was murdered,” Pristoleph said.

“Poisoned,” Marek added.

“No,” Harkhuf whispered, his bloodshot eyes bulging. “Oh, blessed Azuth, you can’t possibly believe that I had anything-” He threw himself to the floor, pushing the foot stool toward a startled Red Wizard, and commenced a most unseemly groveling. “Oh, Ransar, I beg you. I beg you to hear my defense. I was not even there when it happened. I know nothing of poisons. I know even less of poisons than I do of smokepowder. I would never … I would never …”

“Will you please calm yourself,” Pristoleph said. “And get up off the floor.”

Harkhuf did as he was told, hurrying to a small chair in the corner of the parlor, where he sat with his green hands at his sides. He was having a great deal of difficulty breathing.

“By the gods,” Marek said, “you’ll pass out.”

“No one here is accusing you of anything,” Pristoleph said.

That stopped Harkhuf breathing all together.

“Breathe,” the Red Wizard urged.

Harkhuf took a deep breath and nodded. He blinked and for a moment Pristoleph thought he was about to pass out, but finally he managed to gather himself-at least enough to remain conscious.

“It was the Zhentarim,” the alchemist said.

Pristoleph looked at the Thayan and met his eyes.

“The Black Network?” Marek asked.

“Yes,” the alchemist said, though he shook his head at the same time. “It was the merchant’s council of Turmish, then. Yes?”

“Do you-?” Pristoleph started to ask.

“The caravanners!” the alchemist exclaimed. “Our own caravanners … they’ve opposed construction of the canal all along!”

“So, you’re guessing,” Marek said with a dark, perturbed look.

“I was hoping you could tell me more,” Pristoleph said with a sigh. “The two of you seemed close. And together you’ve made remarkable progress, or so I’ve been told.”

“Yes,” the alchemist said, looking down at the rug between his unshod feet. “I haven’t the slightest clue as to how or why, my lord, but we have made exceptional progress.”