Philip Athans - Whisper of Waves

Devorast didn’t seem to have heard him anyway.

“It’s been a long time,” Willem said.

Devorast nodded.

“Two years?” Willem asked.

Devorast shrugged.

Willem sighed and before he could stop himself, before he could think it through, he said, “I owe you my career, you know.”

Devorast had no response. When Willem looked at him all he saw were Devorast’s sparkling, animated eyes darting from structure to structure in the town below, lingering only on the tall masts of the ships bobbing in the rain-muddied harbor.

“Anyway,” Willem went on, “the fact that there’s a wall for us to stand on is a testament to that, and you have never asked for anything in return.”

“The work was reward enough,” Devorast replied.

Even with the cold air already making him shiver, Willem shuddered at the sound of Devorast’s voice. It was as clear, as solid and uncompromising as ever. It was a king’s voice, coming from the body of a pauper.

“Still, I owe you,” Willem said, “and I’m the sort of man who makes good on his debts.”

Again, no response was forthcoming from the stoic Devorast.

“I’ve heard that things have finally hit bottom for your shipbuilder,” Willem said.

Any other man might have flinched, but Devorast simply nodded.

“All Innarlith was shocked by the accident,” said Willem.

“If it was an accident,” Devorast replied. “You think it was something else?” asked Willem. “Do you believe someone deliberately opened that portal in the sky?”

Devorast’s lips tightened to a thin slit, but he didn’t speak.

“Well, anyway,” Willem said, “a man has to eat, and with that at least, I think I can help. If I do this for you, though, I will consider my debt to you paid in full, and we will continue for the rest of our lives never speaking of it again. Agreed?”

“What do you intend to do for me?” Devorast asked.

As if on cue, both of them turned at the sound of hurried footsteps and watched the master builder hustling up the temporary wooden stairway from the ground far below. Though some stretches of the stairway were covered to protect workers and soldiers from falling debris, Inthelph was as drenched as Willem and Devorast. He hurried to the shelter of the scaffold, and Willem was certain Devorast would move out to give the master builder room out of the rain. With each footstep closer that Inthelph drew, the less likely that seemed to be. Devorast appeared only barely aware of the man.

Finally, Willem stepped into the chilling downpour and the master builder shook rain from his weathercloak under the scaffold.

Keeping his anger in check, Willem said, “Master Builder Inthelph, may I introduce my good friend and classmate Ivar Devorast, late of Marsember in the Kingdom of Cormyr.”

The master builder looked Devorast up and down like a man examining a fencepost for rusty nails.

Devorast, in turn, remained impassive, but nodded in a minute approximation of a bow and said, “Master Builder.”

“Devorast, is it?” Inthelph said, turning his stare to Willem. “Willem tells me we met in Cormyr. Though I’m sure I don’t recall that meeting, I’ve heard good things about you, despite the sad incident with the Neverwind.”

Willem’s skin froze on his body and his heart sank in his chest. Of course he’d heard the ill-fated cog referred to by that slanderous name “Neverwind” before, but to say it in the presence of a man who at least had a hand in its design and who had suffered greatly for its loss, was rude beyond description. Willem stood still, having no idea what to say or do.

“They say she was too big for her britches,” the master builder went on.

“It was precisely the size it needed to be,” Devorast said, his voice betraying no hint of animosity or anger, “and it was seaworthy.”

The master builder plastered a false grin on his face and said, “Of course it was. Though I know you’ve heard more than one authority maintain that she was simply too big for the portal.”

“Master Builder, sir …” Willem started, but when Inthelph looked at him and raised an eyebrow, he had no idea what to say.

“Fear not, Willem,” Inthelph said. “I have learned to trust your instincts and your judgment. If you judge this man to be worthy of my attention, then he must be, past failures aside.”

Willem watched Devorast for any sign of a reaction, certain that that last comment must rankle even him, but there was nothing.

“He is one of the great …” Willem said, still looking at Devorast. “He is one of the great minds.”

Devorast looked him in the eye then, and something that might have been silent thanks passed between the two men. Inthelph blew a breath out his nose-not quite a scoff but close enough.

“Well, then,” the master builder said, “I won’t keep any of us up here in the freezing rain any longer than we need to be. Devorast will have a place at the keep.”

“The Nagaflow Keep?” Willem asked, not surprised by the master builder’s decision.

Devorast looked between the two men, obviously waiting for further clarification.

Inthelph nodded and said to Willem, “Have him show me something in two months’ time.”

“Of course, Master Builder,” Willem said, “thank you, sir.”

“Yes,” Devorast said, and Willem could hear the reluctance in his voice, the words almost sticking in his throat, “thank you.”

Inthelph drew up his collar and stepped into the rain but paused at the top of the stairway. He turned to Willem and Devorast and said, “I think you will find that failure for me will mean worse than a year or two in poverty, Devorast. Do as well as your friend says you can.”

It had not the slightest ring of encouragement.

Willem and Devorast watched the master builder disappear down the stairs, then Devorast said, “The Nagaflow Keep?”

“A watchpost really,” Willem explained. “The ransar wishes to keep a closer eye on the river to the north.”

Devorast nodded and said, “Fine.”

Willem was about to say something when Devorast just walked away, following the master builder down the stairs. Hate seethed under Willem’s skin and in the beating of his heart. He wanted Devorast to know how he felt. For the sake of fairness, just once the perfect Ivar Devorast should know what was like to be afraid, to be a failure.

“Fail,” Willem whispered after him, “you arrogant …”

He sighed instead of being vulgar then waited half a frigid hour before climbing down from the wall.

3 Tarsakh, the Year of Maidens (1361 DR)

SECOND QUARTER, INNARLITH

When the black firedrake tore the man’s throat out, killing him instantly, it was tantamount to an act of mercy. After all, it had already melted off his face with its spittle of flaming acid.

As he looked on from a second-story rooftop above, Marek Rymut was of two minds. He was thrilled by the sheer destructive power and undeniable effectiveness of the black firedrakes, but at the same time he was horrified by the ill-timed, accidental appearance of the creatures. It had been only a month and a half since he’d promised Insithryllax more space for his brood and that long since Marek had been down to check on them. Things had obviously gone from bad to worse in the hatchery.

Marek cringed away from a blast of heat and ducked behind the peak of the roof-a good thing, too, as shards of glass pattered onto the shingles around him. He looked over the edge and simultaneously grinned and grimaced at the sight of the billowing, orange-traced smoke billowing out of the blasted storefront. It took only seconds before the lamp-oil merchant’s shop was completely engulfed in flames, which quickly spread to the neighboring buildings.