Fharaud deliberately slowed his steps when he saw Devorast standing at the end of the long pier. The young man faced the water, his arms at his side, his weight equally distributed on both feet, for all appearances like a statue overlooking the gently lapping waves of the Lake of Steam
Devorast had been in Innarlith working for Fharaud’s shipyards for only a month but had already proven himself both as a surprisingly eager student, despite his brusque even insolent manner, and as a young shipbuilder with extraordinary promise. Though he hadn’t know Devorast long, Fharaud couldn’t help but think that he should know him better after a month working so closely together. He’d opened his shipyards and his home to the young man, who had never once thanked him, and still spoke in such terse, clipped tones that it felt as if any attempt at conversation beyond the demands of the project at hand was an intrusion Devorast only grudgingly allowed.
As he approached Devorast, Fharaud puzzled over his own patience. How many times in the past had he dismissed an associate for less than he tolerated every day from Devorast? That there was something undeniable about the young man was itself undeniable. He simply had a quality to him, an aura of potential that Fharaud was unable to ignore.
“Good morning, Ivar,” Fharaud said as he finally gained the end of the long pier. The waves were so quiet and the breeze so moderate that he didn’t have to raise his voice.
“Good morning,” Devorast replied without turning around.
Fharaud sighed. In years past, that petty discourtesy alone would have been reason enough for him to let an associate go.
They stood in silence for a while, Fharaud trying once more to let Devorast begin a conversation. In time, he gave up.
“The wind is from the southeast this morning,” Fharaud said.
“That’s unusual?” Devorast asked.
“Unusual,” said Fharaud, “but not unheard of. It’s a kind wind that keeps the smell of the lake off the city for a while. I can see why you’d take the opportunity to spend some time nearer the water. I’m surprised we don’t have more company.”
Devorast shrugged, and Fharaud got the feeling the smell, the wind, and the company had never entered his mind. He stood there because he wanted to stand there, not because the conditions invited it.
“Sometimes I think it’s Umberlee herself who’s cursed this lake,” Fharaud said, scanning the far horizon to pick out the tall plume of the Arnrockthe great volcano in the center of the Lake of Steamthat stood like a white thread against the uniform gray of the high overcast far out to the west. “I suppose it’s bad luck to utter the Bitch Queen’s name so close to the water, but the breeze means Tymora has a hand in the day’s events as well.”
Devorast had no response to that, which elicited another sigh from Fharaud.
“In the time we’ve spent together I don’t remember you speaking of the gods,” Fharaud said. “Do you hold one’s favor above another’s? What temple holds sway over your Marsember?”
It was a question that anyone might ask a newfound friend from a far-off realm, but when Devorast finally turned the look on his face made Fharaud feel as if he’d been speaking a language the young man didn’t understand.
“I have no more interest in the gods than they do in me,” Devorast said then turned back to the water.
Fharaud replied, “I have heard similar sentiments from men before, but I must say, men much older than you.”
They stood in silence a bit longer, then Fharaud said, “Are you happy here, Ivar? Content in your work? Suitably challenged?”
“Yes, I am,” Devorast answered. “For now, at least.”
“And when you’re not, you will be on your way?”
Devorast nodded as if there was no need to state so obvious a point of fact.
“Well, then,” Fharaud went on, “I suppose it’s up to me to keep you challenged.”
Again, Devorast gave no response.
“I have seen you looking out into the water more and more,” said Fharaud, “and I have seen you reading, always reading, and always on the subject of shipbuilding, the art of the sail, and the ways of the sea. In my day, we’d describe a man like you as having heard the whisper of waves. What, I wonder, have the waves whispered to you?”
For once, Fharaud had asked Devorast a question for which he didn’t require an answer, and for once, the young man answered anyway:
“I haven’t heard a whisper, sir, not in words, anyway. The waves don’t speak to me, nor do the gods. I speak to myself, though, and the sight of the water, the waves, the far horizon, gives me peace enough to hear myself.”
“And what do you say?”
“I remind myself that the world is mine for the taking, is there for us all, gods or no,” said Devorast. “I remind myself that if there is some deficiency in the world, as surely as I can identify it, I can repair it.”
Fharaud smiled and nodded. “The shape of the world doesn’t please you, does it, Ivar?” he asked.
“Not always,” the young man replied with a shrug.
“So how will you go about changing it to your liking?”
Fharaud let Devorast stand in silence for a long time, as he could see the young man was truly considering his question.
“For now at least,” Devorast said finally, “with ships.” That made Fharaud smile again.
12
15 Eleint, the Year of Shadows (1358 DR)
Second Quarter, Innarlith e nursery was an assault on the senses. Marek Rymiit had begun to dread his infrequent visits there, though it was he who had built the place. Well, to be entirely accurate, he hadn’t built it but found it. The space had been there for a very long time. A long-disbanded guild of thieves had used it as a place to hide and squabble over loot, then it was used as a wine cellar for some wealthy merchant to indulge his dilettante’s fantasies of culture and good taste. Pirates moved in for a year or so after that, doing much the same as the thieves had, but entering more often through the dreary, slime-covered water that washed in from the drainage tunnel and spilled into the Lake of Steam. Then it was used as a prison during some minor border skirmish against a nearby city-state Marek had never heard of. Through the decades it went on like that, with no one bothering to scrape the mold off the walls or sweep the dust from the floor.
When Marek found it, he had trouble at first believing that it was a man-made structure and not a natural cavern so thick was the dust and debris. He hired some men to clean it out, paid them not to speak of it, then paid others to intimidate them into keeping that promise and even briefly considered having all of them killed. Then that wasn’t really necessary, was it? Anyone who really wanted to know would know, and most everyone else wouldn’t care. He’d have to do what he always did, which was trust that he had more, better friends in Innarlith than any of his enemies did.
All those thoughts were pushed from his mind when his foot found the bottom step and he turned into the great vaulted chamber under the streets of Innarlith. The smell got to him first, even though he had been careful to place a fine silk handkerchief over his mouth and nose before he was halfway down the seemingly endless staircase from the sewer above.
The smell was a combination of blood, sulfur, charred flesh, burned hair, and things even less pleasant. There was no way a human could pick out each of those smells separately, so all he could do was withstand the force of the combination. What all those things created when put together was a unique odor all its own and one Marek could only call “the nursery.”
He put his hand on the wall and it felt warm. The air was thick with humidity and so hot Marek began to sweat from his forearms along with all the usual places. He didn’t like the way that felt and couldn’t wait to get out of there for at least that reason. A bath and clean clothes seemed like the most valuable things in the world just then. He stepped into the room on legs made unsure by a vibration that rattled the ancient flagstones under his
