Whisper of Waves

72

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.

“I admire your energy,” he said when Devorast finally returned. “I like a man who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.”

Devorast ignored the compliment and said, “I plan to have the first trench dug by the end of the month.”

“I’ll leave all that to you,” said the ransar, “but …”

He looked around at the men and the crates again, then turned to the north and let his gaze linger on the tall brown grass and scattered trees. They were fifty miles up the lakeshore, northwest of Innarlith. It was land that no one contested as being part of the city-state’s domain, but the farther north they went, the less true that was.

“I’m trusting you,” he said.

Devorast looked him in the eye. He stood straight, calm and excited at the same time.

“You can really do this?” the ransar asked.

Devorast nodded.

A nod. He was trusting a nod.

“This is a lot of gold,” said the ransar, gesturing to the crates all around them. “A lot of gold, and a lot of time, and not everyone is going to want to see this happen.”

He looked north again and when he turned back, Devorast was reading through one of the ship’s manifests.

“Devorast,” he said. The man didn’t look at him.

“Devorast.”

The ransar put his hand on the parchment Devorast was reading from and gently folded it down. The Cormyrean finally looked at him.

“I respected Fharaud,” he said, “I was impressed with the Everwind, and I like your idea. Those three things got you this far, but they won’t carry you all the way. I may not still be ransar by the time you’re finished here. I admire your devotion to your own vision, but along the way, you need to make friends. I’m convinced, and that got you to here. To get all the way to the Nagaflow, you’ll have to convince a lot more people, and not only just people.”

“I have spoken with a representative of the nagas,” Devorast said. “I told you that.”

“Yes,” the ransar replied, “and again, that’s why we’re here with all these supplies, but Devorast, I need to know that you understand-really understand-what I’m trying to tell you.”

The two men stood a step apart as the work camp was unloaded crate by crate around them.

“A hole in the ground, forty miles long and a thousand feet wide,” Osorkon said. “A canal that will make Innarlith the crossroads of Toril’s oceans, a gateway city that will reshape trade in Faerun for all time. I’m trusting you. I’m trusting your word, and Fharaud’s, with my own future as well as my city’s. I wonder if you even realize how difficult that is for me-how difficult that is for any leader to do.”

Devorast shrugged-the gesture brought the beginnings of rage burning in Osorkon’s chest-and said, “I know what I’m doing. I can do it.”

The ransar was calmed by the perfect self-confidence radiating from the Cormyrean.

Devorast stopped next to an open crate filled with shovels. He took one and walked a little ways to the edge of the camp. The ransar followed him like a schoolboy after his teacher. Devorast glanced down at the ground, then looked up at the ransar.

“You’re up to the task?” Osorkon asked.

Devorast thrust the shovel into the dirt, his eyes never leaving the ransar’s. He didn’t blink or try to look away. There was no hint, not the slightest fraction of doubt. He filled the spade with a mound of earth and tossed it off to one side.

Ransar Osorkon, lord and master of the city-state of Innarlith, took a deep breath and said, “I hope so, Ivar Devorast. I truly do, because the people who will oppose you are up to the task as well.”