Scream of Stone

43

27 Eleint, the Year of Rogue Dragons (1373 DR) Pristal Towers, Innarlith

The chain mail was tightly woven, but the steel was dull and heavy. Rolling it between his fingers, Pristoleph tried to imagine how heavy it would be in various configurations: a sort of tunic that would protect his arms and down to his mid-thighs, or just a vest to keep blades from his heart and gut.

The door opened and he turned to watch Wenefir step in while nodding to the black firedrakes that stood guard outside. One of the guards pulled the door closed. Wenefir caught Pristoleph’s eye and dipped in a shallow bow.

Pristoleph nodded and turned his attention back to the table. He picked up a square of stout black leather onto which had been sewn a dense pattern of steel rings. It wasn’t quite as heavy as the chain mail, but likewise wouldn’t provide the same protectionand it was identical to the armor the black firedrakes wore.

“The armorer left samples behind for me to examine at my leisure,” the ransar explained, though he knew he didn’t have to.

Wenefir stepped up behind him, but not too close, and said, “Is that really necessary?”

Pristoleph shrugged, put down the patch of ring mail, but didn’t turn around.

“I think so,” he said. “I think it’s been necessary for a long time, actually.”

“People have tried to kill us before,” Wenefir said.

Pristoleph smiled, and turned to face his oldest friend. Wenefir returned his smile from a face that was pale and deeply lined. Wenefir had aged over the last few years in a way that Pristoleph, with his half-elemental blood, hadn’t.

The priest looked pale, as though his skin hadn’t seen the sun in a very long time.

“But you think this time it’s worse,” Wenefir said, the smile fading from his lips.

Pristoleph nodded and reached behind himself to take a small iron box from the tabletop. It opened and he held it out to Wenefir so his seneschal could see what was inside.

Wenefir looked into the box and raised one eyebrow. He swallowed and said, “An ear.”

Pristoleph nodded and looked at the ear in the box. It was pointed, like an elf’s, but the skin was gray and mottled, sickly.

“The ear of the naga that tried to kill you?” Wenefir said.

“No.”

“Something else, then?”

“It was sliced off the side of the naga’s head,” Pristoleph explained. “I saw it with my own eyes. But when I first placed it in this box it was rounded on the top, like a human ear, and the flesh had a blue cast to it.”

“One might expect a disembodied ear to turn gray after-“

“And the shape?” Pristoleph interrupted, then took a deep breath. He didn’t like to exhibit the sort of anxiety he felt just then, but if he could trust anyone, it was Wenefir. “I’m sorry, old friend.”

Wenefir smiled and said, “No apologies are necessary, Ransar.” He cleared his throat and went on, “It could have been… malformed, when it was shorn from the creature’s head.”

Pristoleph shook his head and replied, “No. I told you, I put it in the box, and when I opened it again the next dayyesterdayit was different.”

“Someone switched it?”

Again the ransar shook his head.

“Of course,” said Wenefir, “it was in your possession the whole time.”

“It wasn’t a water naga that attacked us,” Pristoleph said. He closed the lid of the box and held it out to Wenefir. The seneschal looked at it, but Pristoleph could sense his reluctance to take it. “I don’t know what it was.”

With a slow, pained exhale, Wenefir reached out and took the little iron box from the ransar’s hand.

“I need you to tell me what that ear came from,” Pristoleph commanded.

Wenefir nodded, but Pristoleph could tell the motion came hard. He looked down at the box in his hands as though he feared it would bite him.

“I know you have ways to find the truth of things,” Pristoleph said. “Your own ways…”

Wenefir turned away and started to pace the room. Pristoleph didn’t like the way he looked. He could tell when someone was hiding something from him.

“I don’t want you to give it to the Thayan,” Pristoleph said.

Wenefir stopped and turned his head to look at Pristoleph from the corner of his eye.

“You don’t trust Master Rymiit?”

“I don’t trust anyone,” Pristoleph said. “Someone is trying to kill me.”

“And you think it could be Marek Rymiit?”

“It could be,” Pristoleph replied. The words almost stuck in his throat. He didn’t like to say it aloud, and for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, especially to Wenefir. “Whoever it is, it’s someone of considerable power.”

Wenefir started to pace again.

“One of the other senators, then?” Wenefir asked, and Pristoleph got the feeling his seneschal was trying to lead him in that direction.

“Perhaps,” Pristoleph said, confused as to why he felt he needed to humor his old friend. “Any number of them would like to be ransar, and I have enemies to spare in the Chamber of Law and Civility. But this is worse, I think. It’s not just a grab for power. Whoever it is may not even be trying to kill me so much as trying to turn me against Devorast.”

“Devorast?” Wenefir asked, and again he stopped pacing.

“This assassin was sent in the guise of the water naga that Devorast befriended in order to secure the Nagaflow end of the canal,” Pristoleph explained. “I was meant to believe, or whatever witness was left alive was to believe, that Devorast had turned on me and sent the naga to kill me. Someone is trying to ruin Ivar Devorast, and the canal in the process.”

“There is a very long list of people who don’t want to see that trench ever filled with water.”

“I know,” said the ransar, “but it will be. The canal will be finished, and it will be Ivar Devorast who finishes it. Every eye in the wide Realms will be turned in the direction of Innarlith. Ships will pass, and trade will flow.”

“And gold,” Wenefir whispered.

“And gold,” Pristoleph agreed. “And hang every last senator that thinks otherwise. I will raise Ivar Devorast above every one of their thick heads if I have to to see this done.”

“And that,” Wenefir said, “is why they’ll line up to kill you.”