Lies of Light

29

17 Hammer, the Year of the Staff (1366 DR) The City of Saelmur, on the Shore of the Lake of Steam

"Your name is Surero,” the man said as he sat in the chair across the table for all the world as though he’d been invited to do so.

“Who in the infinite Abyss are you?” Surero asked, his eyes narrowing, his fingers tensing around the heavy earthenware mug he was a heartbeat from smashing over the man’s red-haired head.

“Ivar Devorast,” the man said. “If you’re finished hiding out and drinking, I have a job for you to do.”

Surero swallowed and nodded, looking around the low-ceilinged room. The tavern was crowded with people who drank and spoke, but rarely if ever laughed. The dank air was filled with pipeweed smoke and sweat, and the ale was bitter but still overpriced.

“You are Surero,” Devorast prompted.

“Yes,” Surero replied, not quite looking the stranger in the eye. “I am…” He paused to think, then finished, “I used to be.”

Devorast laughed, and the sound was so light and so sincere that Surero was forced to smile.

“I understand that you are accomplished in the creation and use of smokepowder,” Devorast said. “I have a challenge for you, closer to Innarlith, if you’re interested.”

Surero froze at the sound of that city’s name, and had to force himself to speak. “I told myself I would never go back to that pit of foreign deceit. And why should I? So I can be robbed blind again? Go back and tell your Red Wizard master that I have nothing left for him to take.”

“I don’t work for any Red Wizard,” Devorast said. “You’ve heard of the canal?”

Surero nodded, then took a sip of the bitter ale to try to hide the confusion and excitement that gripped him. His face flushed, and he began to sweat.

He waited a bit for Devorast to go on, but finally asked, “What of it? What do you want from me?”

“I need to move a great deal of earth in a very short time,” Devorast explained. “I have the idea that with a sufficient quantity of smokepowder, set in just the right places, that could be accomplished. I know why you were sent to the ransar’s dungeon, and I honestly don’t care. I have no affection for Marek Rymiit, but nor do I waste any time hating him. He isn’t involved in my project, and he won’t be. You don’t have to go back to the city. You can live and work at the site, as I do.”

“I need to know who’s coin will pay me,” Surero said.

“Mine,” Devorast said. “Where I get it from doesn’t have to concern you.”

With a sigh, Surero looked around the room again. “You see all these people, Devorast? Look at them. These are sad, desperate people. And do you know why?”

“No,” Devorast replied.

Surero stopped himself from answering right away and looked Devorast in the eye. He could see the unspoken words in the man’s steely gaze: And I don’t care.

“Tell me, have you spoken with Rymiit about this canal of yours? Has he made his opinion of it known to you?”

“I have reason to believe he’s sent monsters to kill me on at least two occasions,” Devorast said.

Surero found it difficult to breathe. He downed the rest of his ale and almost choked on it. Devorast held up a hand and got the attention of the serving wench. He held up two fingers, and she nodded and waddled to the bar.

“What are you doing here?” asked Devorast. “I’ve asked about you, and by all accounts you’re an alchemist of considerable skill.”

“I used to be,” he said. “Then the Thayan…”

“He took your customers from you, and otherwise made it difficult to practice your craft,” Devorast finished for him. “If you’re ready to leave off crying about that, come with me and help do something that no one in Faerun has ever done.”

“I can’t place your accent,” Surero said.

“I was born in Cormyr.”

Surero shrugged, and sat quietly while the serving wench set two more ales on the table, collected his empty and the Cormyrean’s coin, and shuffled off.

“I need to know if this canal… when it’s done, will Marek Rymiit hate it? Will he despise anyone who helped? Will he stop at nothing to destroy it?” Surero asked. “Answer meand tell the truth. I have ways of knowing if you’re lying.”

There was a potion that would help him discern the truth, but he hadn’t mixed one in years. Surero just needed to hear the man say it.

“I will build it, because I want it to be built,” Devorast said. “I have no intention of seeking permission from Marek Rymiit.”

Surero sighed again and met Devorast’s firm gaze.

“It’s a good idea,” Surero said. “Smokepowder for digging… I hadn’t ever thought of it, but it’ll work. I’m sure it’ll work. This canal, basically it’s a trench that’ll eventually be filled with water?” Devorast nodded, and Surero went on, “I can do that. I’d be the first to do it… at least that I know of… and I can do it.”

Devorast took a sip of his ale and didn’t seem to react at all to its bitterness. He looked Surero in the eye and waited.

The alchemist sighed again and said, “I came here with the intention of gathering what few coins I could before moving on farther west. I’d thought, maybe, Athkatla. I’ve heard that some of the port cities are experimenting with weapons powered by smokepowder that could hurl heavy objects long distances to crash into ships and whatnot.”

Devorast nodded as if he’d heard that too, and as if he thought the idea was perfectly sound, but he said, “What I mean to build is more worthy of your talents.”

Surero laughed and drank more of his ale, wincing at the bite of it on his tongue.

“Why me?” he asked.

“Because I think you can do it.”

“To be the first…” Surero said.

Devorast nodded and Surero pushed the flagon of ale away from himself with a grimace.

“What’s it like?” the alchemist asked. “Your work site. Is it like this?” He gestured to the room full of desperate men.

“Yes,” Devorast replied, “but the air is a little fresher.”

Surero laughed and felt relief wash over him like a waterfall. It had been so long since he’d had anything to do, he nearly cried.

Nodding, he said, “All right then.”

They finished their ales and Surero talked. He told Devorast everythingevery last detail of his attempt to kill Marek Rymiit. He told him of his training in the alchemical arts, his workshop and business before the Red Wizard came to Innarlith. He talked and talked, and everything inside him spilled out into the ears of the red-headed Cormyrean who sat almost perfectly still, almost perfectly silent, and listened.