Philip Athans - Scream of Stone

“Answer him,” Pristoleph commanded no one in particular. “Someone speak.”

“Her name is Senator Aikiko,” the alchemist Surero answered. “But it was the Vaasan that’s been overseeing it-every part of it.”

Pristoleph didn’t look at the alchemist but at Devorast.

“Take it down,” Devorast said.

All eyes turned to the stone archway. It rose over the canal trench, which ended only a few yards beyond it.

“Take it down,” Devorast repeated, and the workers that had gathered to see his reaction to the arch began to break up and go on about the business of carrying out Devorast’s orders.

The alchemist and the dwarf glanced at each other, but otherwise didn’t move.

“Senator Aikiko?” Pristoleph asked the both of them. “She has no authority here.”

Surero and Hrothgar stared at him as though he were lying, but the fire in his eyes made them quickly look away.

“She’s a senator,” the alchemist said, addressing Devorast.

“What of it?” Pristoleph demanded.

He stepped forward, advancing on the alchemist, who took one step backward away from him and looked at Devorast to help him. Pristoleph grabbed Surero by the throat and felt the man’s skin crisp under his grip. The dwarf stepped back and squared his shoulders with defiance at the same time.

“What,” Pristoleph sneered into the terrified alchemist’s face, “of it?”

“Pristoleph,” Devorast said. He put a hand on his shoulder, but pulled it away quickly when the genasi’s heat burned him. “Let him go.”

“You heard ’im,” Hrothgar said. “You let the man go. Ransar or no … you bloody well let ’im go.”

Pristoleph heard the black firedrakes step up behind him when the dwarf moved closer. The alchemist gasped and Pristoleph released him. Surero fell to the ground in a heap, gingerly touching at the fiery red burn on his neck. The smell of it spiked the air around them.

“Speak,” the ransar ordered. “Speak, the both of you, or I’ll burn you where you stand.”

“It’s a portal,” Surero said, then he stopped to cough and wince in pain.

Pristoleph laughed even though he wasn’t the slightest bit amused. He turned back to the arch and looked up at it. Though it was impressive for its sheer size, there was something about it that felt alien, wrong. Runes had been chiseled into the stones and inlaid with precious metals. Rising above the simple elegance of the straight-cut canal walls it appeared garish.

“You were gone,” the dwarf said.

Pristoleph turned and the dwarf held his gaze, as stern and intractable as the stone he cut.

“I shouldn’t have been away so long,” Devorast said, but the disappointment in his eyes was plain.

The dwarf blushed and that stonelike visage slipped the slightest bit.

“We’ve been gone a few months,” Pristoleph said. “Does he have to be here every day? Does he have to hold your hands? Does he have to cut every stone, and dig every hole?”

Devorast shook his head and the anger came back to the dwarf’s face.

“A few months, eh?” Hrothgar grumbled. “A few months?”

“A few months!” the ransar shouted.

The dwarf stepped forward with clenched fists and so did the two black firedrakes at Pristoleph’s sides.

“You’ve had ’im away for five an’ a half months,” Hrothgar said. “Five an’ a half months.”

“I will be away or I will be here for as long as I wish, dwarf,” the ransar said. “And in the meantime, my orders will be carried out, and they will be carried out without question.”

“And what were your orders, Ransar?” Surero asked. He looked up from where he sat on the wet, matted grass, and held a shaking hand a few inches from his neck.

“My orders?” Pristoleph replied. “My orders came to you through Ivar Devorast.”

Surero glanced at Devorast but obviously saw nothing there in which he could find solace. He looked back down at the ground and grimaced.

“These senators of yours,” Hrothgar said. “The moment you were gone, they started comin’ outta the stonework. I’m happy to tell them where to get off, but the crew, they see a senator and it gets ’em all tense an’ twitchy.”

“But Aikiko?” Pristoleph shot back. “What in the name of Azuth’s flaming manhood could she possibly have to contribute to this?”

“Nothing,” said the dwarf. “She’s a mouth-breather if ever one walked under this godsbedamned sun o’ yers. But that Kurtsson-the wizard-I think he ensorcelled enough o’ the men that the others went along just to make it easy on ’em.”

“We did our best, Ivar,” Surero almost sobbed from where he sat on the ground. “We couldn’t stop them.”

Something in the sound of the alchemist’s voice cooled Pristoleph. He took a deep breath and the ground under his feet no longer boiled.

“Kurtsson,” Pristoleph said. “I know him.”

“He works for the Thayan,” Surero said.

Pristoleph resisted the urge to look back at the black firedrakes that still flanked him. He couldn’t explain why, but the guards made him uneasy just then.

“Rymut,” Pristoleph said.

The Thayan had always been opposed to the canal-he’d always argued against it. His enclave, which had taken complete control of the trade in magic in every corner of Innarlith, would have profited from the continued practice of moving ships and goods to the Vilhon Reach by magical means-even after the Everwind disaster. But Rymut had been an ally of Pristoleph’s-had been instrumental in his seizing the mantle of ransar.

He turned to Devorast, who still stared at the arch, and said, “These two were loyal to you, at least.” He paused to sigh. “Loyal….”

“We were gone too long,” Devorast said. “Hrothgar and Surero are right.”

Pristoleph shook his head and wanted to argue, but he couldn’t.

“I still don’t understand …” the ransar said. “Aikiko? What did she do? Did she climb into a carriage, make the trip all the way up here, step out, and just seize control? That simpleton?”

Surero shook his head and looked at Devorast then the ground. It was obvious he was reluctant to speak.

“Hells,” the dwarf grumbled, “if she’d done that, I’d’ve knocked ’er out myself.”

Pristoleph stared at he dwarf, waiting for more, but the stonecutter looked at Devorast as though waiting for permission to continue.

“Don’t tell me Rymut himself-” the ransar started.

“No,” Devorast interrupted. “It wasn’t Marek Rymut.”

Pristoleph turned and was confronted by Devorast’s back. Devorast stared at the gate, and the ransar waited while the man turned to look back down the length of the canal, which was so long it disappeared over the southern horizon. The blue sky hung dense and humid, quiet save for the distant sounds of work gangs.

Ivar Devorast took a deep breath and said, “It was Willem.”

16 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

THE CANAL SITE

Willem hadn’t moved the tent, as had become customary, to the end of the great trench. He couldn’t see the portal arch from the tent, and the sound of the bursting smokepowder was subdued enough by the distance that he didn’t jump out of his skin every time one went off. And he was far away from the men who looked at him with accusatory glares and grumbled behind his back.

He sat at the drawing table and stared down at one of Ivar Devorast’s drawings, a plan for a section of the canal that would never be built. Overwhelmed by a draining melancholy, all he could do was stare at it. He was thirsty but couldn’t face the complex and draining task of pouring a glass of water from a pitcher that was just out of reach on another table. When the tent flap rustled and someone stepped in, Willem didn’t turn around.