Whisper of Waves

13

3 Marpenoth, the Year of Shadows (1358 DR)

SECOND QUARTER, INNARLITH

The smell of richly oiled wood mixed so well with the aroma of the food and wine that Willem thought it almost musical. It was just as that word came to his mind that real music began to play, drawing his eye to the musicians who had gathered in the corner. He recognized the tune as a minuet popular four or five years ago in Cormyr, the work of a better known Cormyrean composer whose name escaped Willem for the moment.

“Ulien,” Inthelph said from behind him.

Willem turned even as a chill ran down his spine and the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Surely the master builder hadn’t actually read his mind.

“That’s correct, isn’t it?” the older man asked, seemingly taken aback by what must have been an odd, disturbed look on his young charge’s face. “The Cormyrean composer.”

“Yes,” Willem said, recovering himself. “Indeed. He is quite well known in Cormyr and a favorite of the Court, or so I’m told.”

Inthelph smiled and nodded, taking a deep breath. The master builder radiated such an air of contentment and self-confidence Willem thought he could have warmed his hands over the man.

“I must thank you for your gracious invitation, Master Builder,” Willem said. “Your home remains the most extraordinary …” He let his voice trail off so that Inthelph would think the room had struck him speechless.

Indeed, Willem had been to few homes more impressive. The place dripped of the gold-bar after bar of it-that must have gone into the place. By Cormyrean standards, it would have been considered an adequate hunting lodge by the most wealthy of the Court. Where King Azoun might have marble, Inthelph had wood, but wood cut from the finest hardwood trees in Faerun and polished to such a luster it nearly took Willem’s breath away. Stained in colors meant to dazzle, the effect was one of being inside a rainbow made of wood.

The furnishings were of equal quality and the lighting a mix of natural and magical designed to bring out not only the richness of the woodwork but of its owner as well. The three hundred or more guests at what Inthelph had called “a small gathering of friends” in the engraved invitation all glowed in the rarified air, their skin taking on the richness of their surroundings.

“There is someone I was hoping to introduce you to, Willem,” said the master builder.

“Indeed, sir?” Willem asked.

“Yes. His name is Marek Rymut, and I think he’s someone you should know, or more appropriately, he’s someone who should know you.”

He’d heard the name Marek Rymut before, of course, and by all accounts he was indeed someone Willem should add to his list of contacts and patrons. Rymut was well known as a source of magic items, a spellcaster for hire, and an experienced and capable consultant in all things related to the Weave. Magic could be more valuable than gold and could mean the difference between success and failure, life and death, for anyone with ambition.

“Well, sir,” Willem said, “I’m at your disposal.”

Before Inthelph could go on, a middle-aged woman whom Willem only vaguely recognized took the master builder gently by the elbow and greeted him with a shallow curtsey and an even more shallow smile.

“Ah, my dear,” Inthelph said returning the woman’s curtsey with a little nod.

The two began trading banalities and Willem found himself utterly hung out to dry. He suppressed the beginnings of a feeling that might have turned into indignation, anger, or something else inappropriate and instead stepped back a few steps and turned-into the face of a woman who was walking quickly behind him.

They both recoiled from the near collision, eliciting only cursory glances from the partygoers around them. There were a few stuttered apologies, furtive glances, only passing the other’s gaze, and they stepped away from each other, he with boot heel clacking on the polished wood floor, her in a rustle of skirts and a toss of an errant strand of hair.

Before Willem could voice a suitable apology, he finally really saw her.

She was young, but Willem couldn’t say how young. Her body, hidden as it was in the formal skirts and fold after fold of silk and satin, was difficult to make out but she reflected a sense of slimness devoid of athleticism. Her pale face with its prominent cheekbones and slightly too-sunken eyes was one that in a woman of her youth would be called “homely” but would surely turn to “handsome” by her fortieth year. Her eyes blazed blue, and one of them peeked at him from behind that errant strand of chestnut hair, long and straight, with just the hint of a curl at the very last quarter inch. She smelled of rose oil and her thin lips were brushed with just a wisp of red. Her hands, as pale as her face, were tiny, ending in thin fingers that came almost to points at the tips, fingernails well manicured but not painted.

“Do please accept my apologies, miss,” Willem said finally, hoping his voice didn’t sound as reedy and trivial to her as it had to himself.

She smiled at him, and for just the briefest moment it was a smile of such warm sincerity that Willem was all but knocked over by it. He felt the curve of her lips, and the sparkle that passed like a shooting star in her eyes, in the deepest bottom of his heart.

Then her smile faded to one of polite graciousness, and Willem wanted to take a step away from her but didn’t.

“May I introduce myself?” he asked her, his voice finally sounding like his own.

She cleared her throat-not a dainty sound, Willem was surprised to enjoy-and said, “If that is your custom, sir.”

Her voice wouldn’t have sounded like music to anyone else’s ears but Willem’s.

“Willem Korvan,” a man’s voice said, startling both Willem and the girl.

Willem had to consciously refocus his eyes, forcing them away from the girl and to the man in military regalia who had appeared as if by some translocational magic at his left elbow.

“There you are,” the officer went on. Willem finally recognized him as Thenmun, a minor but quickly rising lieutenant who had been recently assigned to aid in the reconstruction of the wall. The lieutenant had apparently been told by someone in authority precisely what had led to his predecessor’s reassignment and since then he had done an admirable job of avoiding the master builder’s wrath or Willem’s.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Willem said, grasping right forearms with the man as was the custom in Innarlith. “Here I am.”

“Ah,” said the young officer, “do you two know each other?”

“No,” Willem answered before the girl could. “I’m afraid we have not been properly introduced.”

The girl smiled at him again, showing only a half-second of that true smile-enough to cause Willem’s palms to sweat.

“Well, then, please allow me,” said Thenmun. “Miss Halina Sverdej, this is Master Willem Korvan, late of the kingdom of Cormyr.”

Thankfully, it was not custom for men and women only just introduced to take hands, so instead she curtsied again.

Willem nodded and said, “Miss Sverdej, I am most pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise, Master Korvan,” she said.

“Please, call me Willem.”

The girl blushed but smiled.

“Well, then,” Lieutenant Thenmun said, grinning as well, “I’ll leave you two alone.”

The officer gave Willem a secretive leer, his back carefully placed to Halina, and withdrew.

“You are from Cormyr,” Halina said.

“I am,” he replied, then chanced: “Your accent is … pleasing. I would guess that you are a stranger here yourself?”

“I am,” she replied. “I have come from Thay to live with my uncle.”

“Have you’ve been here long?”

She shook her head as the minuet came to a close, and they paused to participate in the quiet smattering of applause that followed.

Before the musicians began to play again, Willem said, “Then I hope you will allow me to introduce you to the city I have come to call home.”

Her answer was a smile that almost caused Willem Korvan’s heart to break apart in his chest.