of badge, too, that claimed the banelar in the name ofwho? What?

Svayyah turned to the fitfully-sleeping Devorast and said, “I hope you live long enough to find out who sent this wretch, and exact your revenge.” She sighed and studied the dying man. The muscles under his smooth skin quivered with strange tremors. “And now perhaps you will start to carry weaponsor at least a thrice-bedamned healing potion or two.”

34

22 Tarsakh, the Yearof the Staff (1366 DR) Second Quarter, Innarlith

Anyone who understood the difference between beautiful and pretty could see that the girl was the latter. Her round face and big brown eyes were pleasing to the eye, but lacked definition. Her black hair was clean and combed, but she didn’t bother doing too much more with it. Her simple white silk shift revealed enough of her body that customers knew what they were getting; not enough to appear crass.

“If there is anything I can get you while you” she said.

“Nothing, thank you, girl,” Marek interrupted, waving her away. “We aren’t customers. We’ve come to see the lady of the house.”

He could see the girl thinking, considering her response, sizing him up. She glanced at Salatis, and Marek could tell she recognized him. When her eyes passed Insithryllax and settled back on Marek, the Red Wizard could tell she’d never seen either of them before, and that concerned her.

“You can go, Cassiya,” Nyla said. The girl couldn’t help herself, she sighed in relief and scurried out. “I know she’s not your type, Master Rymiit.”

“She may be mine,” Salatis cut in with a cheerful leer.

An annoyed grimace passed quickly across Nyla’s face, then she smiled and turned to Salatis and said, “I can do better than that for the ransar.”

Salatis dipped in a shallow bow and was about to speak when Marek said, “The ransar told me you had something to say to me?”

Nyla sighed and sat in one of the deep-cushioned easy chairs scattered around the tastefully-decorated parlor. A fire roared in a fireplace big enough to stand in, and the air smelled of wood smoke and rose oil. The woman put a hand to her forehead and traced around the edge of her eyepatch with the tip of a finger.

Marek gestured to Salatis to sit, and wondered briefly if the man would ever be used to his position enough to be offended when others sat while he stood.

When they had settled in Marek asked Nyla, “What can we do for you?”

“You know my business,” she said, glancing between Marek and Salatis.

The ransar avoided her gaze, but Marek said, “It’s an old profession.”

Nyla might have wanted to laugh, but didn’t. She said, “I have a hand in other things, and I have friends within the city and without.”

“Do you require our assistance, Senator?” Salatis asked. “No,” she said, and Marek didn’t believe her. “But it’s occurred to me that I can help you.”

“I’m all ears,” Salatis replied with that same leer. “This canal,” she said.

The three men waited for her to go on, but instead she fingered her missing eye and appeared deep in thought.

“Go on, please,” Marek prompted. He brought a spell to mind and cast it with a tap of his toes and a gesture he passed off as scratching an itch. It wasn’t the best way, or the easiest way, to cast the spell, but it was worth it not to reveal himself. “Tell us what’s on your mind. You’re among friends.”

Even before she spoke, Marek heard her voice in his head. She thought and spoke at the same time, his spell revealing her hidden intentions. Marek listened to both with great interest.

Tell them only what they need to know, she told herself.

“I understand you have reasons for not wanting Devorast to finish the canal,” she said.

When Marek nodded, she thought, The Black Network is angry enough with me. Keep it close.

“And you have to be wondering why I would care when I’ve made my fortune in flesh, and that won’t change-canal or no canal,” she said.

“But you have friends,” Salatis said, “and would like to keep them.”

She glanced at the ransar, nodded, and thought, You’re not the friend I had in mind, fool.

“I can help you,” she said to Marek.

“What have you done?” he asked, staring deep into her eyes.

What does he know? she thought. Marek could feel the panic rising in her. Does he know about the banelar? “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “Have you tried to help us already?” Marek asked. “You haven’t… paid a visit to the Cormyrean, have you?”

He knows, she thought. By the Dark One’s divine corpse, he knows everything,

“I want to help,” she said, looking Marek in the eye.

“Well,” the ransar broke in, “I’m sure your services will be of value to the city-state. But I haven’t quite made up my mind in regards to the canal yet. There are arguments to be made both for and against.”

Marek fought down the impulse to have Insithryllax melt Salatis in his seat. Instead, he concentrated on Nyla’s thoughts. couldn’t kill him, she told herself, but the Thayan could. p›

“I think we all want the same things,” the Red Wizard said. “And I’m sure that all those we answer to… within the city”he glanced at Salatis”and without… will be happy as long as the result is a positive one.”

Thank the Black Hand’s memory, Nyla thought.

She smiled and said, “I just wanted you to know that I am your friend.”

Marek returned her smile.

35

2 MiHul, the Yearofthe Staff (1366 DR) The Nagaflow Keep

Will he wake soon?” Hrothgar asked.

Surero shrugged in response, and the dwarf fought down the urge to punch the alchemist in the face. Instead, he sighed and looked down at Devorast. He lay in a narrow soldier’s bed in a room near the very top of the imposing fortress. The room was cool, the spring air coming through the pair of arrow loops was fresh, and the sickroom stench that he’d been hit with when he’d first rushed to Devorast’s bedside was gone.

“Or am I just used to it?” he muttered to himself.

“Pardon?” Surero asked, and Hrothgar shrugged him off.

The alchemist sat at a desk cluttered with glassware and iron pots. A little oil lamp burned under a glass bowl in which a strange yellow liquid boiled, sending orange steam into the air that smelled of deep eartha welcoming sensation for the dwarf.

“Will he live?” Hrothgar asked.

“A tenday will tell,” Surero answered, and Hrothgar could tell he was no more satisfied with that answer than the dwarf was.

“But it’s been longer than that already.”

“Twelve days since the naga brought him here,” Surero replied. “And he’s still alive, which is fortunate for him. This thing that bit himthe naga called it a banelardid more than just poison him. Its venom had an acidic quality to it that burned him, and burned him badlydeep inside his blood vessels. It introduced a foul humor to his essential fluids.”

“Everybody wants the son of a cow dead,” Hrothgar said. “And all he wants is to dig a hole.”

“Dig a hole and fill it with water,” Surero replied. “And change the way trade moves across the Realms for

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