Chapter Nine
The sha’ir who does not seek
the origin of magic is a coward.
The sha’ir who believes there is one is a fool.
– “Clever Janna and the Third Sha’ir”
Almraiven, the City of Spells, had stood by the Shining Sea for more than seven thousand years, despite the sea’s best efforts.
More than once in the city’s unthinkably long history, some sultan or potentate managed to offend a goddess who responded with enormous waves crashing over the high seawalls of the port. More than once, some magic user drunk on power called up creatures from the fathomless depths, hoping to harness their inhuman might, only to die with tens of thousands of others when the beasts breathed clouds of madness and sorcery through the ancient streets.
When the sea could not defeat the city, it sought retreat. The coastline of southern Faerun had changed a dozen times in the city’s life. Other cities drowned when the sea rushed in, or dried up when it disappeared over the southern horizon, but Almraiven endured. Whether by a god’s whim, the work of wizards of enormous power, or through simple luck, Almraiven still stood by the sea. It still thrived.
And it had endured more than oceanic threats. Fires mundane and magical, plagues of disease and of pests, drought and rebellion, and the yoke of foreign tyrants-all these befell Almraiven down the fantastically long roll of years that made up its history.
The city was conquered by human armies and by dragons, razed by alien orbs chattering indecipherable nightmare languages, and then rebuilt by freed slaves who cast off their shackles for a generation or two before finding it expedient to forge the chains again when some enemy force exhausted itself in another doomed attempt to wipe out Almraiven once and for all.
Almost anything that could be imagined occurring in a city of the South had occurred there a dozen times.
“Except for one thing,” the WeavePasha told Cephas. “Almraiven has never been conquered by the mad tyrants of the Elemental Chaos. Neither djinni nor efreeti has ever ruled her. No other city in these lands can make that claim.”
The human proved a generous host. Cephas and his companions were met the previous night by dozens of servants who offered them food and wine, hot baths, and cool silk sheets. They had yet to enter the palace, but each of the travelers was given his own vast tent, divided into multiple chambers by gauzy curtains and screens of an aromatic wood that let a scent like blooming flowers and cedar fill the air when it was warmed by the first rays of sunrise.
Cephas rose, dressed in loose cotton pants and an open-necked tunic, and considered what to do with his flail and armor, which were secreted beneath the huge round bed he’d slept on through the night.
He recognized his surroundings from stories. This was the home of a king. He decided to carry his possessions, but not don them.
In the courtyard, a horseshoe-shaped table stood next to a bubbling fountain. It was low to the ground, surrounded by cushions instead of chairs, and overflowed with platters of foodstuffs, vases of flowers, pitchers of chilled fruit juices, and carafes of fine wines. At least, that was Cephas’s best guess as to what constituted the enormous plenty. He could only be sure that he recognized a platter of oranges. He had once watched the freedman Talid win such in a game of dice with a caravan guard, only to devour the five bright fruits so quickly that he vomited them up.
Tobin was taking little time to savor the morningfeast himself, and Cephas hoped the goliath’s constitution would aid him in keeping down the enormous quantities of food he consumed at a steady pace. The only other person who sat at the table, a human and a stranger to Cephas, sat watching Tobin, clearly impressed.
The gray-haired man wore a short beard, neatly trimmed and oiled to a point. He smiled and beckoned for Cephas to join them. His manner was relaxed, but Cephas saw that he was armed with an ornate dagger thrust through a corded belt. Otherwise, he was dressed much like Cephas and Tobin.
“Welcome to my table, friend,” the old man said. “I am Acham yn Aban el Jhotos yi Almraiven, Caleph Arcane of the Alcazar, Pasha of the Guild Arcane, and humbled to serve this ancient city as its Sultan Supreme.”
Tobin spoke around a mouthful of mutton. “Corvus says we’re to call him ‘Your Grace.’ Or ‘WeavePasha.’ ”
The man smiled and nodded. “Yes, those are appropriate. It is unfortunate, but no whisper in this place falls only on the ears it was meant for, and my vizars are much invested in the formalities of rank and station. Even old friends such as Corvus Nightfeather and honored guests such as you and this redoubtable goliath must keep the forms, lest I find myself being tutored in protocol by my grandchildren.”
Cephas sat next to the WeavePasha at the man’s waved invitation and made a careful study of the closest platters. A heavy plate, gilded and empty, lay before him. He saw no utensils, but Tobin apparently violated no protocols in eating with his hands. Cephas tentatively reached for a bunch of purple fruits, glistening with condensation, and set them on his plate. As if sensing his reticence, the WeavePasha said, “Please, allow me to serve you.”
Cephas leaned back, expecting the man to take his plate, but instead, the WeavePasha clapped twice. A dizzying array of fruits, meats, and flatbreads flew from every direction, and Cephas ducked, sure he was about to be pelted with the food. Instead, an artfully arranged meal settled down onto his plate.
Before he could give the WeavePasha his thanks, Ariella took a seat beside him. “Good morning, honored WeavePasha,” she said. “I see that Cephas is impressed by your famously generous table. You will forgive your humble guest, I pray. He is new to the ways of the wider world.”
The WeavePasha said, “Yes, I was about to ask him about that, in fact. And good morning to you, Mistress Kulmina. Your countrymen have awaited your return most anxiously.”
An unpleasant look Cephas hadn’t seen before came to the windsouled woman’s face-one that unaccountably troubled him-but she said only, “I am sure.”
“Now, young man,” said the WeavePasha, surprising Cephas by taking his hand, “what am I to call you? Your friends name you Cephas, and I know the spymaster believes you to be connected to the windsouled el Arhapan pashas of the Calimien. Are you Cephas el Arhapan yi Calimport, then?”
Cephas frowned. “I–I am Cephas, Your Grace. It is the only name I’ve known, though Ariella has called me Cephas Earthsouled. The freedmen I was raised among had other names for me, but I hope you will not ask me to answer to those.”
The WeavePasha’s broad smile faded. “No, of course not. Cephas you have been and Cephas you shall be. At least until you decide to be someone else.”
Cephas selected one of the glistening purple fruits he’d chosen for himself before the WeavePasha filled his plate. “Is that something one can do in Almraiven? Decide to be someone else?”
This time the wizard’s grin was rueful and accompanied by a shrug. “A fair enough question. Though unexpected from one who travels in the company of a kenku who has as many names as he does voices.”
Tobin paused in his chewing. “I have known Corvus for many years,” he said. “His was the first name I learned outside those of my clansmen. I believe it to be his real name.”
The WeavePasha nodded in acknowledgment. “It is the one they gave in the rookeries in his youth, yes.”
Tobin and Cephas were taken aback by the idea of Corvus as a child, and even Ariella gave the WeavePasha a long, considering look. “You knew the ringmaster when he was young?” asked Tobin.
The WeavePasha laughed. “Let us say I knew
