“You know full well that coin is pouring in from the docks,” Wenefir replied.
“The Guild of Stevedores…” the genasi said with a grin. “And all because of that Thayan pig’s ridiculous speeches.”
“He may be a pig, but I hope he never hears you call him that.” Pristoleph shrugged and Wenefir continued, “He’s been a good ally.”
“He had his own reasons for shutting down the harbor, I’m sure,” said Pristoleph. “Someday I hope to know precisely what they were. But in the meantime, I’ll enjoy the gold that his rabble rousing has made for me.”
“For all intents and purposes you control the flow of trade in and out of the city,” Wenefir said. “That’s quite a gift from someone not necessarily known for his selfless generosity.”
“No one is truly selfless,” Pristoleph reminded his friend.
“That’s what I mean. I don’t trust him.”
“And why would you?” Pristoleph replied. “I don’t either, but then I don’t trust anyone, do I? At any rate, as long as he can be counted a friend, we avoid a powerful enemy.”
“It’s not like you to avoid enemies.”
The two men exchanged smiles.
“You did not contribute to the hearing regarding the canal,” Wenefir said. “Why not?”
“Did you expect me to?”
Wenefir wiped sweat from his brow. He wasn’t nervous-he had nothing to be nervous aboutthe room was hot.
“The canal will surely increase shipping traffic, which will increase my income from the docks,” said Pristoleph. “I’m inclined to think that’s a good idea, but at the same time I understand why Marek Rymiit is opposed to it. It made sense to simply stand mute.”
“I wonder, though,” Wenefir said, a thoughtful cast to his features. “Which is the most damaging addition to the city-state of Innarlith? Ivar Devorast’s canal, or Marek Rymiit’s enclave?”
Pristoleph thought it over for a moment then said, “Both, or neither. The Thayan thinks he can pull coin into Innarlith by sending people and goods to the Vilhon Reach by means of the Weave. The Cormyrean’s going to do the same with a big hole in the ground. As long as those goods move through our docks, well…”
“And in order to send them by magical means, does Rymiit even need our docks?”
“Point taken,” Pristoleph said, the thought sticking in his head like a bur.
“The Thayan Enclave draws coin for Thay,” Wenefir went on. “It fills their coffers, not ours, and puts a foreigner in a position of inestimable power.”
“A cogent argument against it,” Pristoleph replied, “but…?”
“But,” Wenefir said with a mischievous smile, “he’s already driven out every other mage, or made a partner of them, and we need magic too from time to time. Not everything is worthy of the spells necessary to disappear it from place to place.”
“There will still be ships,” Pristoleph said, picking up the train of thought, “and if they go through a portal to the Vilhon or a canal, either way they load and unload here.”
“And there are other sources of magic besides the
Thayan,” Wenefir said. He had that look in his eye that Pristoleph had been seeing more and more, and liking less and less.
“You know how I feel about that,” said Pristoleph.
“Cyric’s network is growing stronger and stronger by the month,” Wenefir said. “I have made strong ties with many of the most powerful priests in the region. Show them that you’re open to their help, and they could make you ransar.”
“Like the Red Wizard made Salatis ransar?” Pristoleph asked. “Is that what it takes? A source of dark magic?”
“Apparently, yes,” Wenefir said. His voice had grown thinner and higher, betraying his unfortunate deformity. “In any event, it doesn’t hurt.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“I am sure about Cyric,” said Wenefir.
“It’s not the god that worries me,” Pristoleph replied, “but his servants in Faerun. Still, a new ally is always better than a new enemy.”
“Then I’ll leave it at that for now.”
Pristoleph smiled and tossed a flask of warm water to his sweating friend.
“Thank you,” Wenefir said, and he drank all that was left in the flask but still appeared thirsty.
“This canal,” Pristoleph said, changing the subject in as unsubtle a way possible, “will cause chaos, though. Either wayif they build it or abandon itthere will be confusion for some time. The city-statethe whole region from Calimshan up through the Vilhon Reachwill be off balance. If they eventually decide again on the former, it will be very off balance, and for a very long time.”
“And you’re wondering how you might benefit from the chaos?” asked Wenefir.
“If you can find a way to benefit from it,” Pristoleph told him, “it isn’t chaos.”
44
9Alturiak, the Yearof the Shield (1367DR) The Thayan Enclave, Innarlith
It’s all right, Kurtsson,” Marek said, though he wasn’t the least bit certain that was true. “That will be all for the night.”
The Thayan didn’t look at Kurtsson, didn’t want to exchange any sort of nervous or knowing glance. He listened to the other wizard stand, pausehesitatethen finally leave. Marek had every reason to believe that the Vaasan would be listening in on what happened nexthe had any number of ways of doing thatbut it wouldn’t matter.
“Good evening, Wenefir,” Marek said. He didn’t bother trying to smile. He didn’t even stand. “It’s late for a visit.”
“Not quite middark,” Wenefir replied. “But my apologies just the same.”
Marek put his hands on the table in front of him, palms flat down.
“Everything is well, I hope,” the Red Wizard said. “That remains to be seen.”
Marek cleared his throat and finally managed to smile. A sense of relief washed over him, though he wasn’t sure exactly why.
“May I offer you a drink?” Marek asked, and Wenefir shook his head. “Please sit.”
“I didn’t come here to kill you,” Wenefir said.
“Of course not,” Marek replied. “If anything I said or did gave you the impression that that thought had crossed my mind, please excuse me.”
“I will have a brandy after all.”
Marek didn’t have to stand to reach the bottle or a glass. He kept a tray at hand when he worked late. He poured the drink, and leaning forward in his chair, handed it to Wenefir.
“Please, sit,” he said again.
Wenefir took a sip of the brandya very small sip. Maybe he didn’t even drink any at all really, but just touched it to his lips. He sat on a stool, his wide, soft body almost seemed to drape itself around the little seat. He set the glass down on the table.
“That’s pretty,” Wenefir said, nodding at the flamberge that sat on a swatch of black velvet in the middle of the table.
“Isn’t it?” Marek replied, wondering if that could be what Wenefir had come forbut why? That sort of thing wasn’t really his style, or Pristoleph’s.
“Tell me you didn’t make it,” said Wenefir.
“Oh, no,” Marek replied with a chuckle. “No, that one’s oldhow old I’m still trying to determinebut old. It belongs to a friend, truth be told.”
