Lies of Light

54

1 Marpenotk, the Yearof the Banner (1368 DR) Third Quarter, Innarlith

Marek wondered at the feeling of familiarity, being in a temple where he knew he was unwelcome. Not that he was particularly unwelcome at the Cascade of Coins. Maybe it was the location, in the Third Quarter among the tradesmen and workshops.

“It could be that I’m uncomfortable with temples in general,” he said.

Pristoleph nodded, and Marek could detect at least a trace of sincere camaraderie. It was a strange sensation.

“I never had a religious upbringing,” Marek went on, “and a life of study in the Art has taught me not to rely on the whims of gods and goddesses, but to force power from the eternal Weave.”

“Careful,” Pristoleph said, pausing to sip wine from a gleaming gold cup, “that kind of talk might attract thunderbolts in a place like this.”

Marek winked and said, “I’ve risked worse.”

“Why come then?”

“It is the sort of social gathering one needs to attend,” the Thayan replied, “whether one likes it or not. I’d like to think I’m not the only one here under false pretenses.”

“Waukeen seems the type to forgive and forget,” Pristoleph said. “For the right price, anyway.” “You’re circling him,” the Red Wizard risked. “Excuse me?” “Salatis.”

Pristoleph smiled, and declined to answer directly. “So, who will you honor tonight?” Marek asked. “Wenefir?”

“Marthoon is a festival honoring guards,” Pristoleph said.

“And isn’t he-?”

“Wenefir is my friend,” Pristoleph cut in, his gaze cooling rapidly.

“Of course,” Marek replied with a curt bow. “I apologize if I suggested otherwise. I meant only that it’s well known in the city that he… looks after you.”

“As I look after him.”

“Of course,” said Marek. “Is it true that they have a dozen of these?”

Pristoleph nodded and said, “But not all in honor of guards. And you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Who are you here to honor?” Pristoleph asked. “Surely not Salatis.”

“I suppose one could say that I’m here to honor guards in general.”

“A fine answer,” said Pristoleph. “I wonder why you feel I’m circling him.”

“The priests here are calling themselves ‘Waukeenar,’” Marek said. “I could have sworn they were ‘Waukeenites.’”

“No, I think it’s always been ‘Waukeenar,’ but I could be wrong,” said Pristoleph. “Apparently I’ve been too busy circling the ransar to study church protocol.”

Marek smiled and said, “We’re all very busy, aren’t we?”

“It’s always good to have one’s day full.”

“I wonder how much more full a ransar’s day is,” Marek said. “Of course, should he find he was able to trust his friends, a certain amount of pressure could be set aside.”

“Trust?” Pristoleph asked. “Really?”

“I know it can be difficult to imagine, but let’s say that if he should decide that a new aqueduct is required, say,” Marek explained, “perhaps the ransar would trust his closest allies to make sure that the right people are allowed to supervise its construction.”

“Speaking of construction,” Pristoleph replied, his eyes roaming the space above them, “what do you call this?”

Marek followed the senator’s eyes up the length of a tall marble column. The column, and seven more just like it, supported a triangular roof that protected the wide front doors of the temple. The festivities had spilled out into the street in front of the building, and the doors had been left open and unguardedthe guards were being honored within, showered with gold and silver coins, with like sums being thrown into a deep well that served as the centerpiece of the temple proper.

“That would be a portico,” Marek replied.

“Portico…” Pristoleph repeated, as though he’d never heard the word. “I suppose it’s important to have an entrance that conveys a sense of power.”

“Indeed.”

“Why Salatis?” the senator asked.

Marek blinked at the question, and took a step backward. Pristoleph raised an eyebrow and stared at him, waiting for an answer. In order to simply have something to do while he thought, Marek laughed. Pristoleph smiled, but didn’t join him in laughing.

“It’s terrible in there, isn’t it?” Marek asked. “All the colors… it confuses the eye.”

Pristoleph glanced through the open doors at the garish decorations, rugs with intricate designs, everything gilded and overly decorated.

“I keep trying to focus on one thing,” the Thayan said.

“I think if I can pay most of my attention to one thing among many, I might be able to put up with the confusion around me.”

“But when there is so much detail,” Pristoleph said, “so many colors, and all this embarrassment of riches, it can be difficult to choose one thing worthy of attention. Certainly it’s not something that should be selected at random.”

“I will admit, though with some reluctance,” said Marek, “that I too often act with some impetuosity. But then one always hopes he’ll think through every decision with care, but time and circumstances don’t always allow that luxury.”

Pristoleph smiled and tipped his chin down in the tiniest bow. His bright red hair moved in a way that seemed unnatural, as though it had a life of its own. Marek couldn’t look away from it.

“Perhaps,” the Red Wizard said, his voice low and coming from deep in his throat, “a little impetuosity might do me well tonight.”

“Risking a thunderbolt,” Pristoleph said, looking Marek in the eye and slowly, infinitesimally shaking his head, “I wonder what you think of the persistent rumor that the Merchant’s Friend has actually fled her worshipers.”

“I have heard that,” Marek replied, forcing his face to mask his disappointment.

“That she was killed, or fled Toril’s sphere, a decade ago?”

“During the Time of Troubles,” Marek said. “But then, here we are.”

“Could the Waukeenar simply be putting up a brave front?” asked Pristoleph.

“Everything is possible,” Marek said, “but to answer that with any accuracy one would have to ask the very people who would be most intent on keeping the secret.”

“And I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway.”

A bell rang, and one of the younger Waukeenar called the faithfuland those just visitinginto the temple’s central hall for some formal rite or another. Pristoleph gave Marek a smile and started to move off into the crowd. The Thayan stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. The genasi glanced down at the touch with a face so stern it seemed carved from stone. Marek took his hand away and reached into a pocket. Pristoleph watched his every move, and Marek had no doubt that the senator was ready for anythingincluding an assassination attempt.

Marek withdrew a polished silver box from his pocket, two inches by six inches, and hinged on one side. He offered the box to Pristoleph with a shallow bow.

“What is this?” the senator asked.

“A gift,” Marek replied. “Consider it a token of good will from the Thayan Enclave.”

Pristoleph took the silver box and looked Marek in the eye. He’d been taken off guard, and Marek made a note of that.

“Please don’t try them on,” Marek said when Pristoleph opened the box to reveal a pair of pince-nez spectacles with lenses of opaque magenta, “until you are in a private place.”

Pristoleph closed the box and smiled. Marek could see that he had intrigued the genasi, and worried him at least a little.