you’ll have one of the black firedrakes kill and eat him,” Marek answered. “Anyway, that’s what I would do. But first things first. I will give you the black firedrakes so that you can be ransar, and in return I will expect what favors from you I might choose to request. You will deny not a single one of those requests, nor shall you pause before seeing to their completion. Otherwise, the city-state is yours to do with as you wish.”
“What favors-?”
“What he wishes,” the dragon grumbled. “When he wishes it.”
Salatis swallowed hard, almost choked.
“I will require from you only a single word answer, Senator Salatis,” Marek said.
Without pause Salatis asked, “And if I refuse? I will never leave this strange little world of yours alive, will I?”
Marek took a deep breath, locked his eyes on Salatis’s, and said, “Since time is a luxury that neither of us can squander on trivialities, we’ll let that be as it may for now. I will have your answer.”
Salatis swallowed again, looked out over the army of transformed monsters, and said, “Beshaba guide me.”
Marek smiled, and studied the tall man. Salatis was afraid, but that passed in a few breaths to be replaced by a look Marek had seen too often in men like Salatis. It was a lust for power that transcended all sense of proportion. It was the drive that made empires rise and fall, and rise and fall, over and over and over again for millennium after millennium.
“This business with religion,” Marek said. “It could be of use in controlling the people, of course, but from
henceforth you will set it aside when you speak with me. You will hold sway over the black firedrakes for as long as I have your loyalty. The moment I feel I no longer have thatwhether you’ve given it over to another man, or some god or goddessyou will no longer hold sway over the beating of your heart or the breath in your lungs, much less the firedrakes. Remember this gift and who gave it to you, or I will send Insithryllax to see you, and he will send you to the embrace of whatever Power is forgiving enough to take your disloyal soul into its embrace.
“Are you, or are you not, my ransar?”
Marek listened for one word, and heard it.
“Yes, I am your ransar,” Salatis answered with an almost drunken grin.
My ransar, Marek thought. The ficklest daughter of Tyche will have to look elsewhere for hers.
20_
16 Kythorn, the Yearofthe Sword (1365 DR)
Third Quarter, Innarlith
Willem watched Phyrea wander through the merchants’ stalls for most of the afternoon. He was able to breathe, after a time, only to the rhythm of her footsteps and the graceful sway of her narrow hips. She wore a cloak of shimmering silk and carried a parasol of black lace. He hadn’t recognized her at first because of the parasol. It was an aristocratic lady’s affectation that was beneath her, especially with the thin, high overcast tempering the direct rays of the sun.
“How much?” she asked a vendor.
The man studied the boot she held up to him, glanced at her foot, and seemed at a loss for words. Willem slid past a woman who had stopped to admire a spray of cheap pewter jewelry laid out on a blanket on the street so that he could get a better look. He ignored the look of impatience the
woman shot his way, even when her face softened and she smiled at him, trying to catch his eye.
“For the lady’s husband?” the cobbler asked Phyrea.
She shook her head. The boot was easily twice the size of her own delicate foot, and cut for a man. The craftsmanship was exceptional. Willem could see that even from a distance.
Someone bumped him, and Willem looked down to see his purse stolen by a boy no older than ten. They looked each other in the eye for half a breath, the boy’s dirty face frozen in fear, his mouth open to show yellow teethan old man’s teeth. He ran into the crowd, pushing past a man carrying a crate of live chickens. The chicken farmer shouted some obscenity
“What favors-?”
“What he wishes,” the dragon grumbled. “When he wishes it.”
Salatis swallowed hard, almost choked.
“I will require from you only a single word answer, Senator Salatis,” Marek said.
Without pause Salatis asked, “And if I refuse? I will never leave this strange little world of yours alive, will I?”
Marek took a deep breath, locked his eyes on Salatis’s, and said, “Since time is a luxury that neither of us can squander on trivialities, we’ll let that be as it may for now. I will have your answer.”
Salatis swallowed again, looked out over the army of transformed monsters, and said, “Beshaba guide me.”
Marek smiled, and studied the tall man. Salatis was afraid, but that passed in a few breaths to be replaced by a look Marek had seen too often in men like Salatis. It was a lust for power that transcended all sense of proportion. It was the drive that made empires rise and fall, and rise and fall, over and over and over again for millennium after millennium.
“This business with religion,” Marek said. “It could be of use in controlling the people, of course, but from
henceforth you will set it aside when you speak with me. You will hold sway over the black firedrakes for as long as I have your loyalty. The moment I feel I no longer have thatwhether you’ve given it over to another man, or some god or goddessyou will no longer hold sway over the beating of your heart or the breath in your lungs, much less the firedrakes. Remember this gift and who gave it to you, or I will send Insithryllax to see you, and he will send you to the embrace of whatever Power is forgiving enough to take your disloyal soul into its embrace.
“Are you, or are you not, my ransar?”
Marek listened for one word, and heard it.
“Yes, I am your ransar,” Salatis answered with an almost drunken grin.
My ransar, Marek thought. The ficklest daughter of Tyche will have to look elsewhere for hers.
20_
16 Kythorn, the Yearofthe Sword (1365 DR)
Third Quarter, Innarlith
Willem watched Phyrea wander through the merchants’ stalls for most of the afternoon. He was able to breathe, after a time, only to the rhythm of her footsteps and the graceful sway of her narrow hips. She wore a cloak of shimmering silk and carried a parasol of black lace. He hadn’t recognized her at first because of the parasol. It was an aristocratic lady’s affectation that was beneath her, especially with the thin, high overcast tempering the direct rays of the sun.
“How much?” she asked a vendor.
The man studied the boot she held up to him, glanced at her foot, and seemed at a loss for words. Willem slid past a woman who had stopped to admire a spray of cheap pewter jewelry laid out on a blanket on the street so that he could get a better look. He ignored the look of impatience the
woman shot his way, even when her face softened and she smiled at him, trying to catch his eye.
“For the lady’s husband?” the cobbler asked Phyrea.
She shook her head. The boot was easily twice the size of her own delicate foot, and cut for a man. The craftsmanship was exceptional. Willem could see that even from a distance.
Someone bumped him, and Willem looked down to see his purse stolen by a boy no older than ten. They looked each other in the eye for half a breath, the boy’s dirty face frozen in fear, his mouth open to show yellow teethan old man’s teeth. He ran into the crowd, pushing past a man carrying a crate of live chickens. The chicken farmer shouted some obscenity
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