off the beaches and let it dry.”
“And the charcoal?” Devorast asked as he searched the sacks for just the right size. S
“Willow,” Surero replied. “From now on, I’ll only use willow.” Devorast glanced at him with one eyebrow raised, so Surero explained, “You can use almost anything. Zalantar isn’t bad, but it can be expensive. Elder or laurel is pretty good. I’ve heard of people using grapevine. I could make it with pinecones, even.”
Devorast lifted a sack from a low shelf and hefted it. He gave no indication that he’d heard a word the alchemist had said.
“You know what you are, Ivar?” he asked, not expecting a response and not getting one. “You’re fearless.”
Devorast glanced at him as he walked past with the sack of smokepowder, and Surero could see the trace of a grimace on his lips.
“See?” the alchemist continued, following him out of the shack. “That’s ten pounds you have there. I measured it myself. If that went off now there wouldn’t be enough left of you to use as fertilizer, but to look at you, anyone would think it was a sack of potatoes.”
Devorast kept walking, down the hill.
“I know, I know…” Surero went on. “It’s not going to go off. You know it won’t, because you know how to handle it. That’s your secret, isn’t it? Self-confidence. You just believe in yourself completely.”
“Don’t you?” Devorast asked.
Surero laughed and said, “Don’t I? I still lie awake at night wondering why Marek Rymiit had me released from the dungeon. I experiment with smokepowder and every second of it my hands are shaking and sweating and I’m sure the next turn of the mortar and pestle and will be my last.”
Devorast ignored him as, having set the sack of smokepowder on the ground next to him, he crouched to inspect the hole. Ten yards away from the crater they’d just made, and still a safe distance from the onlooking workers, Devorast had had another shaft dug. The hole was no more than a foot in diameter.
“That’s ten feet,” Surero said. “Ten pounds at ten feet? That’s easy to remember.”
Devorast tied the end of the smokepowder-infused twine onto the top of the sack, then lowered it down the hole. Surero watched Devorast count the depth from knots that had been tied in the rope every foot. When the sack finally rested on the bottom, and Devorast had counted nine knots, he stood and walked back up the hill, trailing the twine as he went.
“Aren’t you paying me to do that?” the alchemist asked.
“I’m paying you for the powder,” Devorast replied.
Once they were a safe distance away, up the hill, Devorast struck a flint and steel and a spark leaped to the twine. It sizzled and popped its way down the length of the fuse. Surero watched its progress with a self-satisfied smile.
“You’ll want to cover your ears this time,” the alchemist warned, then did as he’d advised himself.
Devorast waited until the little sparking flame following the length of twine dipped down into the deep shaft before holding his hands against his ears. Surero squinted, afraid of what ten pounds of
The explosion was so loud it rattled his eardrums, regardless of his hands pressed to the sides of his head. He staggered back a few steps and closed his eyes. Bending at the waist he moved his hands from his ears to the back of his head, protecting it from the stinging rain of dirt and stones that pounded them both. The onlooking workers shifted back several paces like a school of fish fleeing a shark.
When it was safe to open his eyes again, Surero looked at Devorast. The Cormyrean stood there nodding, watching as the dust and smoke cleared to reveal a crater several times the depth and diameter of the first.
“We need more,” he said.
Surero chuckled, nodded, and said, “I don’t have a single grain of saltpeter left, and no one in Innarlith will sell it to me.”
Devorast nodded, thinking, then said, “Phyrea’s father harvests saltpeter at his country estate. I saw the lean-to when I worked there.”
“That’s interesting, but isn’t Phyrea’s father the master builder, and one of Rymiit’s closest allies in the senate?” Devorast shrugged. “If Rymiit doesn’t want us to have itdoesn’t want me to have it since he’s mage enough to know what I intend to use it forhe’ll never sell it to us. I’m going to need a lot of it, too. Three quarters of every sack is sulfur, a tenth is saltpeter, and the rest charcoal. A young lady can’t just hide it in her pockets and walk it out to us.”
“She’ll think of something,” Devorast assured him, then turned and picked up his measuring stick again.
He walked down the hill, and Surero called after him, “Maybe she can steal us some of her father’s wine, too. I can use it to mix the serpentine so it doesn’t blow up in my face!” Devorast again made no indication he’d heard anything the alchemist had to say, so he added more quietly, “And if I drink enough of it maybe my hands will stop shaking all the time.”
31
9 Alturiak, the Year of the Staff (1366 DR) The Palace of Many Spires, Innarlith
Salatis smiled and rubbed his hands together, gazing up at the jet black iron disk rimmed with purple-stained woodthe finishing touch to the shrine.
“Shar be praised,” he whispered.
One of the men looked at him, his eyes wide. Salatis’s blood ran cold, and the man looked away, sensing, perhaps, that he shouldn’t have heard that name.
“Olin,” Salatis said, still staring at the workman.
The black firedrake stepped up behind him with hardly a sound, and stood stiff and at the ready in his human guise. The workman and his partner wouldn’t look them in the eye. Instead, they hurried to pack up their tools. They were such simple men, with their rough homespun clothes and dirty, calloused hands. They smelled of sweat and sawdust.
“Is there a problem, Ransar?” a stern, deep voice asked from behind him.
Salatis turned to see Insithryllax standing in the open doorway. The swarthy, intimidating man folded his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. He glanced at Olin with a smirk, but the black firedrake refused to look at him.
“No,” Salatis said, “thank you, Insithryllax. What brings you here?”
“Just curious,” Marek Rymiit’s man replied, stepping into the room. Salatis could feel Olin move between them. “Back off, drake.”
A sound like a creaking door rumbled out of Olin’s throata bestial growl. Insithryllax laughed.
“Please, gentlemen,” said Salatis. “Have some care with your behavior. You are in a holy place.”
The too-curious workman glanced up at the symbol of the Lady of Loss, and Salatis watched goosef lesh break out on his arms. He put a hammer into his toolbox, and Salatis sensed his reluctance to let go of the would-be weapon.
“My apologies, Ransar,” Insithryllax sneered.
Salatis stifled a gasp and thought, Ransar. I am the ransar, aren’t I?
“Not at all, Insithryllax,” he said, watching the two workmen finish up their packing. “If you don’t mind, though, I wonder if between the two of you, you might do me a favor and kill these two workmen.”
The two men looked up at that, fear taking over their faces. They began to sweat profusely, and stood on shaking legs. One of them held up his hands, the other shook his head.
“Why?” Insithryllax asked.
“Because I am your ransar, and I wish it.”
“Please, Ransar,” one of the peasants blurted. “What what have we done?”
“Pardon me,” said Insithryllax, “but you are not my ransar.”
The hair on Salatis’s arms stood on end, and he suppressed a shudder. Olin, without a word, stepped closer to the two men, who backed away from him with their hands up to fend him off. He hefted his longaxe and smiled
