Philip Athans - Scream of Stone

“I can tell you precisely how much it will cost you,” Devorast said, and Pristoleph almost winced at the power of the sheer self-confidence the man radiated, “down to the last copper.”

Pristoleph said, “On your way out, write that figure on a sheet of parchment. Gather yourself-eat, sleep-find your man Surero, and get back to work. Build it for whomever you please, however you please, but I will hold you to the number on that sheet of parchment. Down to the last copper.”

16 Nightal, the Year of Wild Magic (1372 DR)

THE THAYAN ENCLAVE, INNARLITH

And what will it cost me to ensure that this stays between us?” Wenefir asked as he hefted the mace, obviously impressed with its perfect balance.

Marek Rymut didn’t tell the priest what he was thinking, of course, but instead lied. “My dear Seneschal, I assure you that all our transactions are made within the confines of the strictest, most impenetrable confidence. In fact, I won’t even ask you who it is you intend to hide this beautiful piece from.”

Wenefir rolled his eyes and said, “I am willing to pay for your silence, Master Rymut, but if you assure me I already have it, I will have to hold you to that.”

“And you wouldn’t hold me to it if I did ask for coin?” the Red Wizard risked, and was answered with just the frigid glare he’d expected from the Cyricist. Time to calm things down. “I jest, of course.”

“Fire and ice?” the priest asked, examining the platinum-inlaid mithral head of the enchanted weapon.

“You have merely to speak the word ‘inflae’ and the head of the weapon will burst into flame,” the Red Wizard explained. “It will burn hotter than ordinary fire-but as long as you hold the mace, it will not burn you.”

“And the ice?”

Marek took note of the strange look that fell over the priest as he asked that question. Though it wasn’t an emotion he was personally plagued by, Marek thought the seneschal looked guilty.

“The word is ‘cahlo’,” said the wizard.

“Netherese….” Wenefir sighed.

“You’re familiar with the ancient tongue?”

Wenefir shook his head and laid the mace back into the felt-lined duskwood box. He closed the lid with a gentle touch and flicked the clasp closed.

Marek sank into a leather chair and regarded the priest with a curious eye. The door opened and Marek nodded to the apprentice wizard who looked in.

“Some wine, perhaps?” Marek asked Wenefir, who shook his head, looking down at the box with a distant expression.

Marek waved the apprentice away and the door closed.

“How many Thayans live here now?” Wenefir asked.

Marek shrugged and smiled. He had no intention of replying in any further detail. Instead, he asked, “What is it, Wenefir? There’s something on your mind, my old friend.”

“Are we friends?” the priest asked. “I didn’t think we were.”

“There isn’t a word for precisely what we are to each other, Wenefir,” the Red Wizard answered, meaning to be cryptic in his response. “But I suppose ‘friends’ will have to do.”

“I suppose so,” the priest answered.

“So?”

Wenefir sighed, maybe just for effect, and said, “Pristoleph has freed Ivar Devorast and that alchemist of his.”

Marek blinked and put a hand to his heart before he realized maybe he should try to pretend he wasn’t surprised. But then, even someone who knew as much as Marek Rymut knew had to hear everything for the first time.

“I suppose Devorast will return to work, then,” the Red Wizard guessed.

“He was pulled out of an eight by eight cell in the dungeons under the Palace of Many Spires yesterday, and I understand he’s already on his way north.”

“Well,” Marek said with a sigh, “I suppose that is the ransar’s prerogative. Surely, though, as his seneschal, you had some influence on that decision.”

“I suppose people could get that impression,” the priest grumbled, his normally reedy voice surprisingly deep. “I have been his oldest and most loyal confidant for more years than I want to enumerate, but my opinion seems less and less relevant to him.”

“Oh?” Marek prodded. “And who has the ransar’s ear if not for you?”

“That woman …” Wenefir started, but wouldn’t let himself finish.

“It’s been my experience,” Marek said, not letting Wenefir stew too much over the fair Phyrea, “that men like Pristoleph rapidly tire of women like Phyrea.”

“Beauty fades?”

Marek laughed and even Wenefir cracked a smile.

“Beauty like Phyrea’s shan’t fade for many, many years to come, Seneschal,” Marek said.

“Her influence on him will last as long, I fear.”

Marek shrugged that off.

“I’m surprised at you,” Wenefir went on. “I suppose I’m always surprised at you … but you as much as anyone helped make Pristoleph ransar, and to let that idiot girl, that mad woman, bend his ear …”

“What has she told him to do that so worries you?” Marek asked.

Wenefir shook his head and started to pace the parlor, his puffy girth coming close to knocking expensive Kozakuran ceramics from the side tables-and Marek winced with every pass.

“Was it Phyrea who prompted him to release Devorast?” the Red Wizard asked.

“I don’t think so,” the priest replied, “but perhaps. Regardless, she is a negative influence on a man who could do us both more harm than we’d like to admit, should circumstances move him in that direction.”

“Then we will have to remain in control of his circumstances,” the Red Wizard said. He wouldn’t tell Wenefir the whole truth, but he thought maybe he could calm some of the priest’s only partially-warranted fears. “Besides, I’m hardly afraid of Pristoleph.”

“Careful, Master Rymut,” the priest warned. “The ransar is more than he seems.”

“Oh, please, Wenefir,” Marek replied with a chuckle that made his generous rolls shudder. “It takes more than a genasi to frighten me, I assure you.”

Wenefir raised an eyebrow in surprise, but the expression was fleeting. “I should learn not to be surprised that you know everything about everyone.”

Marek shrugged.

“Still, Marek-” Wenefir started.

“Calm yourself, Wenefir,” the Red Wizard interrupted. “Between the two of us, Pristoleph is well in hand, and should that stop being the case, well … perhaps you can use your priestly skills to ask the rotting corpse of Salatis what happens when a ransar outlives his usefulness.”

Wenefir stopped pacing and kept his eyes away from Marek’s. He crossed his arms over his chest and his voice squeaked a little when he said, “Perhaps that wine, after all?”

18 Nightal, the Year of Wild Magic (1372 DR)

THE LAND OF ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN

I had these teeth carved out of whalebone for you,” Marek Rymut said, holding up the little bowl for Willem to see. Gray-black clouds boiled in the sky above them. Standing on the roof of the tower as they were, the bottoms of the clouds seemed only inches above their heads. “Open your mouth.”

The undead thing opened its jaws wide and Marek stepped closer. Emaciated and half-rotten, Willem Korvan stood naked in the uniformly warm air of his master’s pocket dimension. Marek examined the spaces in his black gums where the teeth had fallen out.

“I wish you would have kept the originals,” Marek chastised his creation. “These will do-no one will notice, anyway-but they’ll hurt.”

Marek didn’t expect any reaction from Willem and didn’t get one, but Insithryllax grunted from behind him and said, “Why do you speak to that thing as though it understands you?”