18
The city of Bezantur, in Thay Approaching sunset, the nineteenth day of Highsun, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)
Lauzoril paced his locked bolt-hole deep within enchantment's Bezantur academy. His crimson robes of office, shimmering with enchantments and embroidered in gold, swirled around him. Dust vanished in the spell-induced breeze that kept the bolt-hole air cool and fresh. Waiting never came easily for him. Waiting for the Chairmaster to open a Convocation came hardest of all.
He disliked the posturing and pretense that accompanied the zulkirs' gatherings: the suffocating robes, the web of deceptive and defensive spells each threw up. The defensive spells were negated the moment they sat down, and as for deception, he was immune to most and could, with a little effort, see through the rest.
So could the other zulkirs.
They could see Szass Tam for the corpse he was, and they could see him as a slave's son. Once, when Lauzoril was a novice toiling in Eltabbar, he'd shaved his body and decorated it, but he came from hairy stock. The effort always exceeded the effect, and there was nothing he could do about his ruddy complexion or his bright green eyes without compromising his vision. Long before Lauzoril became zulkir, the tattoos were gone, save the oldest one, and he'd let his hair grow out.
He was a slave's son; he wasn't proud of it, but he'd stopped being ashamed. There was silver in his golden hair now and natural lines were starting to create their own decorations on his suntanned skin, but at a Convocation, only Szass Tam presented a stranger face.
Lauzoril paused to wonder what face Lord Necromancy would present.
This Convocation was Aznar Thrul's idea, even if Szass Tam's seal had been on the writ Lauzoril had received from the Chairmaster only a few short hours ago. Lord Invocation, in his secondary office as Tharchion of the Priador, was leaning on Lady Illusion.
Only a fool would have believed Mythrell'aa's return to neutrality a few months back. Even if her declaration had been sincere, Lauzoril knew better than most that once an ally of Necromancy, always an ally of Necromancy. Mythrell'aa had stood with Szass Tam at the last Convocation. If she hadn't-if she'd clung to her neutrality- Necromancy wouldn't have had the weight to mortify Enchantment, Thrul, and Nevron of Conjuration for their parts in last year's futile attack at on the Rashemaar barbarians at Gauros Gorge.
She was entitled to collect a debt. No matter that Szass Tam had endured worse humiliation late last winter beneath the stones of Thaymount. Szass Tam, never a fool, honored his debt, sealed the Chairmaster's writ, and was compelled to appear, the same as any other zulkir.
That much, Lauzoril knew for himself. The rest, the whys behind Aznar Thrul's strong-arm diplomacy and his expectations at day's end, he'd learned from Thrul's vengeance-minded spy master. The zulkir had been speaking with her in this room when a minion from the Black Citadel arrived. For a moment it had seemed that Lauzoril's worst fears about doing business with traitors had been realized, but the minion had merely carried a message warning Lauzoril to prepare for a quick Convocation in Bezantur.
Lauzoril hadn't begun asking the spy master questions when she told him everything he'd wanted to know. And a bit more. She was adamant that running Lady Illusion out of Bezantur was only the beginning. Thrul had plans for Aglarond, plans for Conjuration, and plans for Enchantment, all of which involved replacing people he didn't like with people he could control.
He despises you, the spy master had said. He thinks you rely on luck and charisma. You were supposed to die last year in the Gorge of Gauros-a battle accident, a Rashemaar arrow from a Bezantur bow. He will never forgive you for surviving. After Szass Tam, you're next. He's picked your successor, when we have negotiated, I will share it with you.
After Szass Tam.
For Lauzoril's father and grandfather, after Szass Tam meant the day the sun rose in the west, but the Zulkir of Necromancy had stumbled badly. Since spring, his undead legions had fallen apart-literally-when he failed to maintain the spells that animated them. Blackhearts, turncoats, and renegades who'd relied on Necromancy to sustain their treacheries found themselves exposed to bitter, unforgiving winds. Summer had brought public executions, private assassinations, and cracks in the lich's armor.
Lauzoril had exploited a few of those cracks himself; Enchantment was stronger than it had been. So were all the other schools. The zulkirs had spent a season realigning themselves, carefully and subtly, because no one had known the extent or nature of Szass Tam's wounds or when he might decide to reassert himself.
If Lauzoril hadn't had the message from Thrul and additional information from Thrul's spy master, he might have thought today's Convocation marked the start of Tam's return. The zulkirs were growing bolder-less careful, less subtle, less afraid of Necromancy. It wouldn't be wise to belittle Szass Tam. He was, undeniably, the mightiest zulkir in Thay's history, but he had to reassert himself soon, or sheer power wouldn't be enough.
Lauzoril might have been worried. Instead he was excited. After today, the words 'after Szass Tam' might not be a motto for the undead. After today, Lauzoril might be at hazard with his allies, might be allied with his enemies. Illusion and Enchantment had made common cause before, though not in his tenure. Anything was possible, even in Aglarond where his dagger moved through the impenetrable Yuirwood forest.
It all depended on the face Szass Tam showed at the Convocation, whether the lich was equal to Invocation, Conjuration, and Enchantment combined-for the next few hours they would remain allies-or whether tomorrow might not be the first day after Szass Tam.
A chime sounded and a column of brilliant sunlight sprang up from the carpet.
'Zulkir Lauzoril, Lord Enchantment,' the Chairmaster's voice boomed out of the column. 'Your name is called. Step into the light.'
He squared his shoulders and crow-hopped on his toes once or twice, conquering the moment of fear that invariably accompanied the Chairmaster's summons. The safe-passage rules of Convocation hadn't been broken in the centuries since the Chairmaster's office was created, but in Thay, there was always a first time, a first victim.
The Zulkir of Enchantment took a deep breath and walked into the light.
Enchantment had no shame, Aznar Thrul thought to himself as Lauzoril strode out of the summoning light, onto the damp sand of the slave market. Never mind that the man's ancestors-probably his parents-had stood on similar sand in different circumstances, Lauzoril marched about with that long hair, those green eyes, that naked tan. He could have transformed himself, brought himself closer to the Mulan ideal; everyone else did. Zulkirs would see through it, of course, but the man should have made the attempt.
Thrul returned Lauzoril's greeting. They smiled at each other across the empty sand. The eight chairs were arranged in a circle by lot and the Chairmaster's whim. The chairs on either side of Thrul contained Nevron of Conjuration and-Talona's painful mercy-Lallara Mediocros, Zulkir of Abjuration… Zulkir of Indulgence and Mindless Chatter would be more apt. Lauzoril sat between Mythrell'aa herself, a viper swathed in crimson, and Druxus Rhym, a man clearly in need of a good night's sleep.
Rumor claimed that Enchantment was responsible for Rhym's haggard demeanor, that Lauzoril had snared one or more of Rhym's close associates in conspiracies. No one knew quite how many were involved, certainly not Druxus Rhym. Thrul wasn't shedding any tears for Lord Alteration; he'd lost as many to Rhym's poison as had Lauzoril and Nevron. He could wish, though, that his own revenge plots had worked quicker or been more successful, or that Nevron had been the one to spoil Rhym's sleep. The way things stood, Thrul would have to thank his ally, congratulate him for a job well done.
Thrul exchanged a pained glance with Nevron. Lauzoril hadn't sat down; Lauzoril was talking to Druxus Rhym, saying the gods alone knew what, except Rhym was listening, nodding his head, and smiling weakly.
And Nevron… Lord Conjuration looked worse than Druxus Rhym. He hadn't been himself since Gauros. He'd lost an old apprentice in the battle there-his ladylove-and his nerve. Szass Tam's catastrophe hadn't restored Nevron's sharpness, and every move that Lauzoril made put another nail in his heart. Conjuration's days were numbered. Thay had no use for a broken zulkir.
The seventh name was called: Yaphyll, Lady Divination. Two years ago, she'd been Thrul's third ally. Then
