66
29 Nightal, the Yearof the Banner (1368 DR) The Temple of the Delicate Chaos, Innarlith
Marek stepped out of the dimension door onto a rough flagstone floor that shifted under his weight. He staggered, his hands out to his sides, and almost fell. The stone bobbed on something that might have been water, but was too thick. The effect was the same as floating, but the movement was slower.
As the spell effect dissipated behind him his eyes began to adjust to the dim light from torches set in iron sconces on the tiled walls. The tiles had apparently been salvaged from wherever tiles could be salvaged from. Few were the same size, and almost none of them were of matching colors. The effect might have been pleasing had they been arranged with the care and vision of an artist, but it was no mosaic, just a random jumble of shapes and colors.
Marek stepped to another flagstone, riding the slow undulation under his feet, growing more secure with the uncertain footing. The flagstones did indeed float in some thick, gelatinous medium. Marek swallowed to settle his stomach. His first few steps had disturbed many of the stones around him so that the floor rose and fell in waves throughout the chamber.
The room itself was a circle that Marek judged to be a hundred feet in diameter. The torches were not set at even intervals around the circumference so there were bright spots, and places where the shadows were deep as night. He got the distinct feeling that somethingmore than one somethingwatched him from the shadows, so he quickly ran through a spell.
Blinking, he refocused his eyes, and a bluish cast descended over the room. The shadows were peeled back when he set his attention on them, and indeed strange creatures that might have been insects or lizards stared at him, following his every move with twitching antennae, darting forked tongues, and bulging compound eyes.
Another spell, and blue-green fire flickered over his body, covering his robes in a glowing sheen that would give the creatures a painful surprise should they choose to attempt to do him harm.
“That won’t be necessary,” Wenefir said from behind him.
Marek knew better than to try to turn around too fast on the undulating floor, so instead he took his time, planting his feet with care.
“Well, better safe than breakfast,” Marek said, stalling.
Wenefir laughed a little and stood with his hands clasped in front of him. He wore breeches of billowing purple silk but was naked from the waist up. Folds of hairless fat drooped off him, and Marek was reminded of why he so rarely went shirtless himself. His smile was cautious, suspicious, and set to turn at the slightest provocation.
“I was surprised to see you step into this place so easily,” Wenefir said. “Well done, Master Rymiit.”
“I can show you how to ward against dimensional intrusion,” Marek replied.
“For a price, of course?”
“I’m sure we can come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement,” said Marek.
“And yet I’m sure that you had a very different purpose in mind when you made the decision to invade the sanctity of Cyric’s holy shrine this morning.”
Marek dipped into as deep a bow as his girth and the floating floor would allow him, and said, “Indeed, my good friend. I suppose it would be safe to consider this a social call.”
“This is not a salon, Master Rymiit, but a holy place,” said Wenefir, but Marek could tell the man was curious to hear what he’d come to say.
“Then I will dispense with further niceties and bring us to the meat of the issue,” the Thayan said. “Your mas-excuse me… your friend Pristoleph has made a very bad decision of late and I’ve come in the hopes that between the two of us we can either show him the error of his ways, or at the very least mitigate the damage his impetuosity might cause.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“The girl,” Marek said, and left it at that.
Wenefir wore his thoughts clearly on his face. Marek didn’t need a spell to see that the Cyricist was no friend of Phyrea’s. Marek smiled, trying to defuse the expression with as much sympathy as possible. If he had guessed right about how Wenefir would feel about Pristoleph’s sudden and acute obsession with Innarlith’s most beautiful prize, the rest would be easy.
Remembering where he was, and that Wenefir was likely capable of mind-intruding magic gifted him by his mad god, Marek tried to keep his surface thoughts clear.
“It’s a matter of the heart,” Wenefir said, though his eyes pleaded for argument. “I can’t imagine what we might be able to do to make him feel differently.”
“All that in due course,” said Marek. “For now, though, can we agree that the relationship is an unhealthy one?”
“Perhaps, but I’d be curious to hear your reasons for thinking so.”
Marek nodded and replied, “She is married to another senator. You know that well enough, having performed the ceremony yourself.”
“Cyric smiles upon those who change their minds,” Wenefir said, almost showing his disappointment over that bit of scripture. “No marriage in his name is ought but temporary.”
“Be that as it may, among the city’s social circles it will be frowned upon.”
Wenefir nodded, happy enough to concede the point. “Has there been talk?” he asked.
“Oh, there’s always talk,” said Marek. “Had it simply been a matter of divorce and remarriage tongues would wag among the wives and servants, but ultimately the city-state would have gone on about its business, but that, I’m afraid, is not the worst of it.”
“Oh?”
“There’s the matter of Senator Willem Korvan,” Marek said.
Wenefir raised an eyebrow and asked, “What of him? He’s been drinking, but don’t we all? I understand he’s been mostly away, at the canal site. I can’t imagine he’d be stupid enough to publicly resist Pristoleph.”
“Oh, and he isn’t,” Marek assured him. “In fact he’s done just the opposite. Instead of crying on the shoulders of his fellow senators and making a sticky social situation any worse, he’s disappeared.”
“I’m sorry?”
“He’s gone, and no one knows where,” Marek said, though he knew precisely where Willem Korvanor what was left of himwas.
“A young senator on the rise like that, with influential friends…” Wenefir thought aloud.
“Why, even if he was humiliated by Pristoleph’s appropriation of his cheeky young bride,” Marek said, leading
Wenefir in a disturbing direction, “why would a rising star like Willem simply walk away from all he’s worked so hard to build? In some ways he’s the heir apparent to Innarlith.”
“I can assure you that neither Pristoleph nor myself had anything to do with his disappearance,” Wenefir said. “I was told that he had acquiescedsurrendered, as it were, of his own free will.”
“Such as a boy like Willem has free will, yes,” Marek said. “Please believe me that I did not come here to make that accusation.”
“So you believe he’s gone to ground?” Wenefir asked, dire thoughts clouding his eyes. “Is he holed up somewhere planning some reprisal, or gathering allies against Pristoleph?”
“And Pristoleph,” Marek said, “like all of us, has enemies to spare.”
Wenefir nodded, and his eyes played over the shadows along one unlit section of the curved wall. Marek followed his gaze and saw the strange creature there take a tentative step forward, looking to Wenefir for instructions. The Cyricist held up a handa subtle gestureand the creature slinked back into the deeper darkness.
“He was one of your boys,” Wenefir said. “What has he told you?”
Marek brushed aside the implication that weighed heavily in Wenefir’s eyes and said, “I have not heard from him, nor seen him, in days. But there is more to consider than Willem Korvan. There’s the master builder. Phyrea is
