mariner seeking to dissuade him, he jumped for the dock.
It was a fairly long drop and he landed hard, nearly falling before he managed a staggering step to catch himself. But he didn't break anything, and at last, after six long years abroad, he was home in Bezantur once more.
He gave his traveling companions on the ship a grin and a wave. Then he was off, striding up the dock and on through the crowds beyond, picking his way through stacks and cart-loads of goods the stevedores of the busy port were loading or unloading, sword swinging at his hip and silver-stringed yarting slung across his back.
Some folk eyed him speculatively as he tramped by, and he realized with a flicker of amusement that they took him for some manner of peculiar outlander in a desperate hurry. They had the hurry part right, but he was as Thayan as they were. It was just that during his time abroad, seeking to make his way among folk who were seldom particularly fond of his countrymen, he'd abandoned the habit of shaving the wheat blond hair from his head.
He supposed he'd have to take it up again, but not today. Today something infinitely more wonderful demanded his attention.
For all his eagerness, he stopped, stood, and waited respectfully with everyone else while a pair of Red Wizards and their attendants passed by. Then he was off again and soon left the salt-water-and-fish odor of the harbor behind. Now home smelled as he remembered it, stinking of smoke, garbage, and waste like any great city, but laced with a hint of incense, for Bezantur was Thay's 'City of a Thousand Temples,' and it was a rare day when the priests of one god or another didn't parade through the streets, chanting their prayers and swinging their censers.
There were no great temples where Bareris was headed. A worshiper would be lucky to happen upon a mean little shrine. He passed through a gate in the high black wall and into the squalid shantytown beyond.
He took the back-alley shortcut he'd used as a boy. It could be dangerous if a fellow looked like he had anything worth stealing, and these days, carrying an expensive musical instrument, he supposed he did. But during his travels, he'd faced foes considerably more daunting than footpads, and perhaps it showed in the way he moved. At any rate, if there were thieves lurking anywhere around, they suffered him to past unmolested.
A final turn and his destination, just one nondescript shack in a row of equally wretched hovels, came into view. The sight froze him in place for a heartbeat, then he sprinted up the narrow mud street and pounded on the door.
'Open up!' he shouted. 'It's Bareris. I'm back!'
After a time that seemed to stretch for a day, a tenday, an eternity, the rickety door creaked open on its leather hinges. On the other side stood Ral Iltazyarra. The simpleton, too, was as Bareris remembered him, doughy of body and face, with a slack mouth and acne studding his brow and neck.
Bareris threw his arms around him. 'My friend,' he said, 'it's good to see you. Where's Tammith?'
Ral began to sob.
The youth was nice-looking in a common sort of way, but he looked up at Dmitra Flass, often called 'First Princess of Thay' for the sake of her sharp wits, iron will, and buxom, rose-and-alabaster comeliness, tharchion of Eltabbar and so mistress of the city in which he dwelled, with a mixture of fear and petulance that could scarcely have been less attractive.
'Maybe I did throw a rock,' he whined, 'but everyone else was throwing them, too.'
'Bad luck for you, then, that you're the one who got caught,' Dmitra replied. She shifted her gaze to the blood-orc warrior who'd dragged the prisoner before her throne. 'Take him to your barracks and tie him to a post. You and your comrades can throw stones at him and see how he likes it. If there's anything left of him at sunset, turn him loose to crawl away.'
The boy started to cry and plead. The orc backhanded him across the face then manhandled him out of her presence. Dmitra looked to see who the next prisoner was-in the wake of a riot, administering justice was a time- consuming, tedious business-and Szass Tam appeared in the back of the hall. She had a clear view of the doorway but hadn't seen him enter. Nor had she, Red Wizard of Illusion though she was, felt a pulse of magic. Yet there he was.
And about time, too, she thought. She rose, spread the skirt of her crimson brocade gown, and curtsied. As a mark of special favor, he'd decreed she need no longer kneel to him. Her courtiers and prisoners turned to see whom she was greeting, and they of course hastily abased themselves.
'Rise,' said the lich, sauntering toward the dais, the ferule of his ebony staff clicking on the marble floor. 'Dmitra, dear, it's obvious you're busy, but I'd appreciate a moment of your time.'
'Certainly, Master.' She turned to the blood-orc captain. 'Lock up the remaining prisoners until-on second thought, no. I refuse to feed them or squander any more of my time on them. Give them ten lashes each and turn them loose.' She smiled at Szass Tam. 'Shall we talk in the garden?'
'An excellent suggestion.' He'd always liked the garden, and the open-air setting made it difficult for anyone to eavesdrop.
Outside, it was a fine sunny afternoon, and the air smelled of verdure. Heedless of the thorns, which evidently couldn't pierce or pain his shriveled fingers, Szass Tam picked a yellow rose and carried it with him as they strolled, occasionally lifting it to his nostrils and inhaling deeply.
'I take it,' he said, 'that news of poor Druxus's assassination triggered a disturbance in the city.'
'The orcs dealt with it.'
He smiled. 'I wonder if the mob was celebrating the welcome demise of a hated tyrant or expressing its horror at the foul murder of a beloved leader. Perhaps the commoners don't know themselves. Perhaps they simply enjoy throwing rocks and will seize on any excuse.'
She shifted her flared skirt to avoid snagging it on a shrub. 'I wondered if you were even aware of Druxus's murder. I assumed that if you were, you would have come immediately.'
'Is that a hint of reproach I hear in your dulcet voice? I came as soon as it was practical. Believe it or not, matters of consequence sometimes do arise beyond the confines of the capital, and I trusted you to manage here, as you evidently have.'
'I managed to keep order. It may take both of us to get to the bottom of Druxus Rhym's murder.'
It galled her to admit it. She was proud of the network of spies and covert agents she operated on the lich's and her own behalf, but the affairs of the zulkirs were a difficult and perilous business for any lesser being to investigate.
'What have you learned so far?'
'Precious little. Not long after midnight on the morning of the fifth, someone or something managed to enter Druxus Rhym's apartments undetected. The intruder killed him and his bodyguards with blasts of fire.'
'That's certainly enough to suggest a hypothesis. Druxus was well protected against both mundane and mystical threats. It would likely take a master wizard to slip into his bedchamber, a master who then employed evocation magic to accomplish his purpose. Surely the evidence points to Aznar Thrul or one of his particular proteges, acting at his behest.'
Perhaps it did. Though relations among the zulkirs were mutable and complex, the council could be viewed as split into two factions, with Mythrellan, zulkir of Illusion, standing aloof from either, and tharchions like Dmitra either tacitly casting their lots with one mage-lord or another or striving assiduously to avoid taking sides. Szass Tam headed up one faction, Druxus Rhym had been his ally, and Aznar Thrul, zulkir of Evocation and tharchion of Priador, was the lich's bitterest rival among the opposition. Thus, it made sense that Aznar might murder Druxus. By so doing, he'd weaken Szass Tam's party and strengthen his own.
Still, it seemed to Dmitra that perhaps because he and Aznar so loathed one another, the usually judicious Szass Tam was jumping to conclusions. 'One needn't specialize in evocation to conjure fire,' she said. 'Many wizards can do it.'
'True,' said the necromancer. 'Still, I'm convinced my conjecture is the most plausible explanation.'
'I suppose, and if we can prove it, perhaps we can rid ourselves of Thrul. Even his closest allies might forsake him rather than risk being implicated in his crime.'
'The problem is, you won't be able to prove it. Aznar is too able an adept.'
'Don't be so sure. With all respect, I don't care if he is a zulkir, with scores of potent spells at his command. Everyone makes mistakes. If he wrote anything down or let slip a careless word where a servant could
