Philip Athans - Whisper of Waves

He commanded me, as if I was one of his lowly soldiers, to measure the section again, and of course I refused. The master builder himself was clear with me that I am not in the charge of the military and should accept orders from no one but him.

Wasn’t it your son’s fair fortune to have been invited to a reception at the master builder’s residence not a handful of days after this unfortunate confrontation with Ptolnec (see, between the two of us, I will not call him captain again)? The master builder, as one can expect from a senator in so lofty a perch, has many and varied friends among the better people of the city, not the least of whom was the senator in whose charge was the committee that holds sway over the military’s reserves of gold-their very lifeline.

Oh, Mother, how proud of me you would have been. I promise you I did not embarrass you, myself, or the master builder by complaining, but with great care let slip this difficulty with Ptolnec. All along I apologized, feigned worry over having offended this simple officer, and always speaking in support of my adopted city, its tireless guardians among the soldiery, the master builder, and the lot of my betters.

I have heard only this morning that my performance was not in vain and that this Ptolnec will trouble me no more, having been reassigned to a faraway post in the mountains that I’m to understand is the closest thing to exile that can be forced on an officer of the armies of the city-state.

I will leave you with that, the knowledge that your efforts on my behalf since the moment of my conception have not been in vain and that your son continues to rise in the world.

Further evidence, the box of gold coins in which this letter has been found. In the months ahead I am certain I will be able to send more, and then only until I can at last send for you to join me here.

Until next, I remain forever your dutiful son.

— Willem

14 Flamerule, the Year of Shadows (1358 DR)

FIRST QUARTER, INNARLITH

Fharaud deliberately slowed his steps when he saw Devorast standing at the end of the long pier. The young man faced the water, his arms at his side, his weight equally distributed on both feet, for all appearances like a statue overlooking the gently lapping waves of the Lake of Steam.

Devorast had been in Innarlith working for Fharaud’s shipyards for only a month but had already proven himself both as a surprisingly eager student, despite his brusque even insolent manner, and as a young shipbuilder with extraordinary promise. Though he hadn’t know Devorast long, Fharaud couldn’t help but think that he should know him better after a month working so closely together. He’d opened his shipyards and his home to the young man, who had never once thanked him, and still spoke in such terse, clipped tones that it felt as if any attempt at conversation beyond the demands of the project at hand was an intrusion Devorast only grudgingly allowed.

As he approached Devorast, Fharaud puzzled over his own patience. How many times in the past had he dismissed an associate for less than he tolerated every day from Devorast? That there was something undeniable about the young man was itself undeniable. He simply had a quality to him, an aura of potential that Fharaud was unable to ignore.

“Good morning, Ivar,” Fharaud said as he finally gained the end of the long pier. The waves were so quiet and the breeze so moderate that he didn’t have to raise his voice.

“Good morning,” Devorast replied without turning around.

Fharaud sighed. In years past, that petty discourtesy alone would have been reason enough for him to let an associate go.

They stood in silence for a while, Fharaud trying once more to let Devorast begin a conversation. In time, he gave up.

“The wind is from the southeast this morning,” Fharaud said.

“That’s unusual?” Devorast asked.

“Unusual,” said Fharaud, “but not unheard of. It’s a kind wind that keeps the smell of the lake off the city for a while. I can see why you’d take the opportunity to spend some time nearer the water. I’m surprised we don’t have more company.”

Devorast shrugged, and Fharaud got the feeling the smell, the wind, and the company had never entered his mind. He stood there because he wanted to stand there, not because the conditions invited it.

“Sometimes I think it’s Umberlee herself who’s cursed this lake,” Fharaud said, scanning the far horizon to pick out the tall plume of the Arnrock-the great volcano in the center of the Lake of Steam-that stood like a white thread against the uniform gray of the high overcast far out to the west. “I suppose it’s bad luck to utter the Bitch Queen’s name so close to the water, but the breeze means Tymora has a hand in the day’s events as well.”

Devorast had no response to that, which elicited another sigh from Fharaud.

“In the time we’ve spent together I don’t remember you speaking of the gods,” Fharaud said. “Do you hold one’s favor above another’s? What temple holds sway over your Marsember?”

It was a question that anyone might ask a newfound friend from a far-off realm, but when Devorast finally turned the look on his face made Fharaud feel as if he’d been speaking a language the young man didn’t understand.

“I have no more interest in the gods than they do in me,” Devorast said then turned back to the water.

Fharaud replied, “I have heard similar sentiments from men before, but I must say, men much older than you.”

They stood in silence a bit longer, then Fharaud said, “Are you happy here, Ivar? Content in your work? Suitably challenged?”

“Yes, I am,” Devorast answered. “For now, at least.”

“And when you’re not, you will be on your way?”

Devorast nodded as if there was no need to state so obvious a point of fact.

“Well, then,” Fharaud went on, “I suppose it’s up to me to keep you challenged.”

Again, Devorast gave no response.

“I have seen you looking out into the water more and more,” said Fharaud, “and I have seen you reading, always reading, and always on the subject of shipbuilding, the art of the sail, and the ways of the sea. In my day, we’d describe a man like you as having heard the whisper of waves. What, I wonder, have the waves whispered to you?”

For once, Fharaud had asked Devorast a question for which he didn’t require an answer, and for once, the young man answered anyway:

“I haven’t heard a whisper, sir, not in words, anyway. The waves don’t speak to me, nor do the gods. I speak to myself, though, and the sight of the water, the waves, the far horizon, gives me peace enough to hear myself.”

“And what do you say?”

“I remind myself that the world is mine for the taking, is there for us all, gods or no,” said Devorast. “I remind myself that if there is some deficiency in the world, as surely as I can identify it, I can repair it.”

Fharaud smiled and nodded. “The shape of the world doesn’t please you, does it, Ivar?” he asked.

“Not always,” the young man replied with a shrug.

“So how will you go about changing it to your liking?”

Fharaud let Devorast stand in silence for a long time, as he could see the young man was truly considering his question.

“For now at least,” Devorast said finally, “with ships.”

That made Fharaud smile again.

15 Eleint, the Year of Shadows (1358 DR)

SECOND QUARTER, INNARLITH

The nursery was an assault on the senses.

Marek Rymut had begun to dread his infrequent visits there, though it was he who had built the place. Well, to be entirely accurate, he hadn’t built it but found it. The space had been there for a very long time. A long-disbanded guild of thieves had used it as a place to hide and squabble over loot, then it was used as a wine cellar for some wealthy merchant to indulge his dilettante’s fantasies of culture and good taste. Pirates moved in for a year or so after that, doing much the same as the thieves had, but entering more often through the dreary, slime-covered water that washed in from the drainage tunnel and spilled into the Lake of Steam. Then it was used as a prison during some minor border skirmish against a nearby city-state Marek had never heard of. Through the decades it went on like that, with no one bothering to scrape the mold off the walls or sweep the dust from the floor.