“In no uncertain terms.”
“And yet still he commands the army of workers that continue to build this canal of his?” the Red Wizard said.
“Yes… well,” the ransar hesitated, “not all of the workers.”
Marek raised an eyebrow and leaned back against the soft leather cushion behind him. The chair was comfortable, but still the Thayan felt ill at ease. He could feel the black dragon standing behind him as though Insithryllax loomed in his true, draconic form. With the genasi in front of him, Marek felt trapped. He began to sweat.
“He will need you to give him control of the zombies,” Pristoleph said.
“No,” the dragon in human form said. “Don’t help him, for-“
“It will be costly,” Marek said, cutting the dragon off.
Pristoleph shrugged and Marek was left to ponder how much he’d grown to hate that gesture, though only a few scant months ago, he’d loved it more than anything. The genasi’s seemingly bottomless purse was responsible for nearly four out of every ten gold pieces the enclave brought in. Marek knew there wasn’t another suitable candidate for ransar that would even begin to make up for that.
“What’s a few zombies here and there between friends?” Marek said with a smile he knew would look as false as it was.
“I have a list,” Pristoleph said. “He requires other items.”
Marek swallowed again and said, “If I have it or if it can be made, I will be delighted to arrange it for you.”
“Not for me,” Pristoleph said with a smile Marek longed to wipe from his face with a fireballno, not a fireball against a fire genasi, but an ice storm.
Yes, the Red Wizard thought, a blast of tiny daggers of glasslike iceor acid.
“I beg your pardon, Ransar?” Marek said through stiff jaws.
“The items are not for me,” the ransar clarified, “but for Ivar Devorast.”
Insithryllax stormed around the sofa and stood over Pristoleph. The ransar didn’t move, but Marek could feel him growing hotter.
“Insithryllax!” the Thayan barked.
Insithryllax didn’t turn, but growled at the ransar, “I cannot be compelled to help this man. You are not my master.”
Marek scuffled to his feet and though he knew it wasn’t allowed, he barked out the words to a spell when he saw that Insithryllax was beginning to transform. It was likely that Pristoleph was unable to detect any change in the dark-skinned, black-clad man who everyone thought was simply Marek Rymiit’s bodyguard, but Marek had known Insithryllax too long, and he could tell.
With the aid of the calming spell, Marek said, “Insithryllax, please. The ransar has always been a valued customer of the Thayan Enclave. If he has a list, we know he has the means.”
Insithryllax relaxed, but only enough to forestall his transformationa physical change that would have burst the little parlor at its seams. If Pristal Towers was built strong enough, the dragon would have succeeded only in crushing himself and the ransar. Marek’s various contingency spells would have spirited him away, but what a mess he would have left to explain.
Truly, though, the question wasn’t what would happen if the dragon did transform and attack, but why he almost had.
“Insithryllax, please,” Marek said once more, and finally the dragon withdrew, cursing under his breath in Draconic.
When Marek once again returned his attention to the ransar, he was amazed how calm the genasi was. Pristoleph didn’t frighten easily, and that made Marek wonder what it would take to frighten him.
“They can be delivered directly to Devorast,” Pristoleph said, “at the canal site.”
“Of course they can,” Marek replied. “Ransar, I would be remiss in my duty to you and to the city-state of Innarlith if I did not advise you not to trust this man Devorast.”
“And why wouldn’t I trust a man who has only ever done everything he’s promised to do?” the ransar asked.
“Ransar, I-“
“I’m not finished, Marek,” Pristoleph said, and his use of the familiar while Marek called him “Ransar,” rankled the Red Wizard to no end. “Ivar Devorast summoned this canal unbidden from his own imagination. No one who has been put in charge of it since has used anything but his original drawings. He has not sought to enrich himself. He has refused power and influence. He is no threat to anyone, including you. Why is it you seem to despise him so?”
Marek rubbed his face with both hands and spent a long time thinking about how to respond. Insithryllax put a hand on his shoulder and began to squeeze.
“Please,” the Red Wizard whispered over his shoulder to the dragon.
Marek found himself more curious as to the source of Insithryllax’s anger than a suitably cunning response to the ransar’s question. He’d known the dragon for many years and had come to respect his often unpredictable temper, but Insithryllax had always seemed personally ambivalent toward the canal and didn’t ever seem to give Ivar Devorast much thought. He made a mental note to ask the dragon about all that in greater detail once they returned to the enclave.
“I don’t hate him,” Marek said to Pristoleph. “I hate what he’s doing and how he’s doing it.-1 hate how he misuses you and those who have held the office of ransar since and including Osorkon.”
“You hate that the canal will make your teleport”
“I profit from the canal,” the Thayan interrupted, perhaps just a bit too loudly. He cleared his throat, felt a wave of heat wash over him from the genasi, and in a calmer, quieter voice, went on. “I profit from the canal in many ways, Ransar, and I will continue to do just that, even after its construction is complete… should that actually ever come to pass.”
“Then what do you care who digs the damned thing?” Pristoleph asked, letting some of his anger at having been interrupted in his own house show in his smoldering eyes.
Marek’s skin crawled, but not from the ransar’s disapproving stare. The Red Wizard could sense the rage building once more from the more-than-human figure behind him. The spell should have made him as tranquil as a nursing baby, but instead the dragon seemed to have brushed it off.
Forced to concede the ransar’s point, Marek said his good-byes as quickly as he could without being overly rude and got the dragon out of there beforeand it seemed to be just beforeanyone was killed.
33
25 Alturiak, the Year of Rogue Dragons (1373 DR) Pristal Towers, Innarlith
Fifteen people, including Wenefir, sat on various chairs and sofas in the enormous office of Ransar Pristoleph. Some of them were mages, six were black firedrakes, and the rest were advisors and hangers on, or part-time spies. A few of them read through journal books and ledgers, occasionally making notes. Two of them played a long, half-hearted game of sava. The rest stared at one or another of a score of crystal balls that had been arranged on stands around the room. From those enchanted devices, Pristoleph was able to look in on the comings and goings of friends and enemies alike.
A small group of men stood around one crystal ball, leering and giggling at the magically conjured image of the wife of a senator they all knew well who was engaged in an illicit dalliance with her upstairs maid. The senator himself appeared in another of the crystal balls, taking tea with two other senators in an opulent sitting room elsewhere in the Second Quarter.
Pristoleph sighed and propped his head in his hands, his elbows on the gigantic desktop in front of him.
“Oh, my!” exclaimed one of the men looking into the crystal ball at the senator’s wife and her maid.
Pristoleph looked up, noticing the sudden change in mood. The men around the crystal ball stared at the
