Philip Athans - Whisper of Waves

“Of course she does,” the Thayan wizard acquiesced. “That’s generous of you. I assume there’s a brother to look after your holdings in Cormyr?”

Willem didn’t know what to say, so he took a sip of tea. It was a bitter black Thayan blend he practically had to choke down. There was no one left in Cormyr. They had no holdings. All the Korvan family-a family consisting only of he and his mother-owned was a debt to Meykhati, and he couldn’t help but think Marek Rymut knew that.

“An uncle, then,” Marek persisted. “It’s always convenient having a wealthy uncle to look after you, isn’t it? Halina can tell you all about that. Can’t you, dear?”

Halina wouldn’t look at him. She blushed and wrapped herself in her own arms, taking her hand back from Willem. He wanted to embrace her and drag her out of there. He didn’t even understand why, but the urge to rescue her from her uncle’s house was nearly overpowering.

“Halina?” Marek pressed.

“Yes, Uncle,” she said in a voice so small it was barely audible.

“Perhaps there is no uncle or brother left in … where was it?” Marek went on.

“Marsember,” Willem said.

“You do have a reputation of being a self-made man,” the wizard said. “Is that true, Willem? Are you a self-made man?”

“I like to think so, Master Rymut.”

“I told you to call me Marek.”

Willem met his eyes but immediately wilted away.

“Marek, yes,” he said. “I … I apologize.”

Willem looked at Halina, hoping she would say something to transition them out of the uncomfortable silence that followed. She only sat there as if made of slowly melting wax.

“Well, then, I’m sure my niece will benefit greatly from your ambition,” Marek said, “just as she’s benefited from mine.”

Willem nodded and was ashamed for having done so.

“I understand you came to Innarlith with another of your countrymen,” Marek went on. “A shipbuilder, I think, by the name of Devorast?”

Willem’s eyes narrowed. The sound of that name pronounced with a Thayan accent was somehow inappropriate. He hadn’t heard the name in a while.

“Willem?” Marek nudged.

“Oh, yes. Ivar Devorast.”

“Well, he’s making quite the stir. Have you heard?”

Willem shook his head. The last he’d heard Devorast had left Innarlith. Someone told him he’d gone off to the Great Rift to live with the dwarves, but then that never made any sense.

“Well, he’s captured the ear of our unfortunate ransar.”

Willem’s mind reeled. How had Devorast come up from the sad state he’d been in to having somehow won the ear of the ransar?

“Unfortunate?” Willem asked, instantly embarrassed for having latched onto that word.

“If what he’s considering is true, yes. Most unfortunate,” Marek replied. “Your friend Devorast has some odd ideas.”

“He’s not my friend,” Willem said.

“Good,” replied the Thayan with a smile. Halina looked at him and seemed to be trying to smile too, but she couldn’t. “I am your friend, though, aren’t I, Willem? Your friend, at least?”

“At least,” he admitted, looking at Halina to keep from wanting to run away.

“You know the services I provide?” the Thayan wizard asked.

“Magic items, yes,” said Willem. “Spells and suchlike?”

“And suchlike, yes. This … well, not friend, but former countryman of yours has an idea that should it come to pass will be most inconvenient for me. It would have an unfortunate impact on one particular part of those services-a big part.”

Willem nodded, hoping that he gave off the appearance of having any idea what the Thayan was talking about.

“Meykhati tells me that when the time comes, I will be able to depend on you,” Marek said.

Willem nodded and said, “If Senator Meykhati requires my help, he will get it, and if it harms Ivar Devorast in the process, well, then all the better.”

I thought I was done with him, he thought.

“Good,” Marek said, nodding and grinning. “Very, very good, Senator. I hope you will continue to take great care in choosing your friends.”

Marek stood and looked down at Halina. Willem was startled by the expression of open contempt on the wizard’s face. He looked at his niece as if she’d just crawled out from under a rock. Then he heaved a weary, disappointed sigh and returned his attention to Willem.

“Well, then, I must take my leave of you both. Perhaps next time we meet we’ll discuss the wedding, should that still be of interest to you.”

Willem stood and nodded a slight bow to the wizard, who looked at him so strangely he had trouble sorting it out.

Only after the door had closed behind Marek did Halina seem to relax even a little.

He doesn’t want me to marry her, Willem thought, but not because he thinks she’s too good for me.

Willem looked at his betrothed, who stared at him with damp, dull eyes. Her face always made him feel better, her touch always relaxed him, the warmth of her always made him feel safer.

But then, if Marek Rymut thought she wasn’t good enough for him….

“Willem?” she asked, her face all needy, almost pleading. “What are you thinking?”

He shook his head and sat in silence for a long time trying to think of a lie. She waited patiently while he thought and seemed entirely satisfied with what he finally came up with.

7 Nightal, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)

ON THE SHORE OF THE LAKE OF STEAM

Osorkon came aboard the second ship. They’d run the small, flat-bottomed cogs right up on the rocky beach. The captains, maybe anxious to impress the ransar, barked orders at their men, who moved double-time to begin unloading crate after crate onto the lakeshore.

One of the sailors unfurled a rope ladder that dropped onto the beach. He bowed to Osorkon. The ransar nodded to the young man, swung a leg over the rail, and struggled with the rope ladder. Self-conscious, he didn’t want the sailors to see him fall. When his foot hit the smooth, round rocks he’d never been more relieved.

The crates were quickly stacking up, and the ransar smiled at all the activity. He breathed deeply. The cool breezes of late autumn carried the familiar odor of the sulfur-rich lake, but he didn’t mind.

Ivar Devorast walked among the stacks of crates pointing here and there, directing the sailors. The men followed his orders without hesitation, though none of them likely knew the man. Osorkon recognized a natural leader when he saw one, and obviously the sailors did too.

“Devorast,” he called.

The man turned and nodded. As the ransar approached he continued to organize the unloading of the various supplies.

“When can I expect the rest?” Devorast asked without bothering with greetings and protocol.

Osorkon laughed and said, “Good morning to you too, Devorast. I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

The joke was lost on Devorast, who shrugged and said, “I want to begin right away.”

The ransar sighed and looked around at the crates. Some of the sailors were starting to pry them open.

“You’ll need to set up your camp first,” Osorkon said. “These two ships have brought mostly that: tents, supplies for cooking, tools, and so on. I was under the impression that you were still finishing the final drawings.”

“The plans are finished,” Devorast said, more of his attention on a gang of sailors struggling with a particularly heavy crate.

“Are they?” the ransar asked.

Devorast ignored him and instead hurried to help the struggling sailors. Anger flashed through Osorkon, almost making him blush, but he forced it down. He watched Devorast bend his back to the work of the common seamen with as much admiration as confusion.