"I'm leaving, too," Lallara said. The admission wounded her pride, but pride was of no use to the dead.
"So am I," said Samas.
"And I," said Kumed, as if anyone cared.
"Then I must come as well," Nevron said. "Plainly, I can't hold the city without you. But curse you all for the gutless weaklings you are!"
He seemed furious enough, but Lallara sensed a histrionic quality to his bitterness. Perhaps, underneath it all, the conjuror was grateful they'd made it impossible for him to stay.
His fingers scratching among the feathers atop Winddancer's head, Mirror wafting a chill at his back, Bareris stood at the rail of a barge overloaded with griffons and their riders and watched the zulkirs' fleet set sail. It took a long time for so many vessels to maneuver out of the harbor. The Red Wizards and nobles had laid claim to every trawler, sloop, and cog in port to transport themselves, their troops, their possessions, and favored members of their households.
The city stood in a haze of smoke. As the fleet set forth, evokers had hurled blasts of fire at the piers and the shipyards with their half-completed and half-repaired vessels suspended in dry dock. The idea was to make it as difficult as possible for the necromancers to give chase over the Alambar Sea, and if the conflagrations spread to other parts of the city, the lords who were abandoning it no longer had any reason to care.
The smoke was thick enough to sting their eyes and make them cough. Yet hundreds of folk perched on rooftops, or ventured as close as they could to the water's edge, to watch their masters' departure. Bareris wondered if they were happy or sad to see them go.
He wondered the same about himself. He'd been a warrior for sixteen years. He didn't like losing, and despite all the council's swaggering talk of hiring a mighty host of sellswords and returning to reclaim mainland Thay in a year or two, he judged that was exactly what had happened. He doubted he'd ever lay eyes on the city of his birth again.
It was particularly hard to accept defeat after a ten-year struggle against Szass Tam. He'd hated the lich ever since he'd discovered that his minions had turned Tammith into a vampire, and he still did.
But that loathing wasn't the passion that ruled his life anymore. His love for Tammith was stronger, and perhaps he ought to regard this final retreat as a blessing. Now they could devote themselves to one another, and to finding a remedy for her condition, without worrying that, in one ghastly fashion or another, war would sunder them yet again.
Yes, it might all be for the best-if the fleet managed to slip away unmolested.
The late Aznar Thrul had commissioned a magnificent pleasure ship for himself. After succeeding the murdered evoker, Samas Kul had looked forward to taking full sybaritic advantage of the vessel, only to discover that he was prone to seasickness. After that she had seldom left her berth.
But now he had a use for her, and he'd invited his fellow zulkirs aboard to enjoy a splendid breakfast and watch Thay fall away behind them. He hoped he wouldn't disgrace himself by needing to rush to the rail. So far, the potion he'd drunk seemed to be doing an adequate job of preventing distress in his guts, but one never knew.
Nevron summoned a demon with the head of a beautiful woman and a body like a small green dragon to carry him between ships. Lallara flew like a bird, and Lauzoril shifted himself through space.
That left only Kumed Hahpret to appear. Samas waited a little longer, then asked if anyone knew where he was.
Nevron smiled. "I'm afraid our young peer won't be joining us. He met with an unfortunate accident before we even set sail. I myself had to command his underlings to set the port on fire or it wouldn't have gotten done."
Lauzoril inclined his head as if to convey approval. "I suppose the evokers will hold an election."
Nevron snorted. "They can try."
chapter eleven
6-11 Marpenoth, the Year of Blue Fire
It gladdened Szass Tam to see the gates in the high black walls of Bezantur standing open, and the banners of the Order of Necromancy flying from the spires that rose above. He had a sudden foolish urge to spur his infernal steed with its jet black coat, iron hooves, and red eyes, gallop ahead of his army, and enter the city immediately.
It wasn't an entirely mad idea. According to his scouts and seers, no one was left in the city with the will and the power to have any chance of harming him. But he was going to rule Thay in years to come. It would be politic to start out by entering the realm's greatest city with the pomp appropriate to the new "regent."
So he took the time to organize a procession, while his officers chafed at the delay, and he derived a bit of secret amusement from their restlessness. They believed he was wasting precious time, but that was because they didn't understand just how much mystical strength the Black Hand had given him.
He'd already expended a goodly portion of it, and the rest had begun to slip away as he'd known it would. But he fancied he had enough left to bring his war to a satisfactory conclusion.
When everything was ready, he marched his army into the city with Malark Springhill, Homen Odesseiron, and Azhir Kren riding in places of honor just behind him. The streets echoed to the deafening chants that kept the blood orcs striding in unison, and to the huzzahs of the folk who lined the streets and leaned out of windows to wave little red flags and cheer for him.
Sometimes the cheering faltered, and when it swelled again, it had a forced quality to it. Szass Tam suspected that happened when the crowd caught sight of some particularly hideous or uncanny-looking horror, even though he hadn't put a great many of his most alarming servants on display. Some were too gigantic to pass easily through the streets, some were invisible in the afternoon sunlight, and others had to hide from it lest it sear them from existence. Still, enough remained to daunt even a populace that had long ago accustomed itself to the fact that demons and undead served in the ranks of its armies.
Or perhaps the carrion stink of all the dread warriors and ghouls packed together was making people sick to their stomachs.
In any case, Szass Tam was realist enough to understand that few, if any of these supposed well wishers, had yearned to see him crush his rivals, although it was likely a number had prayed for someone to win and bring the long war to an end. They were cheering to convince him they'd only served the council because they had no choice, and therefore it would be pointless for their new overlord to punish them.
Comprehending their true motives didn't vex him. He enjoyed the moment because it was a symbol of his victory. He didn't need Bezantur to love him.
Triumphal processions through the city traditionally entered through the northeast gate, followed a circuitous route that took them past the major temples and Red Wizard bastions, and terminated in the plaza north of the Central Citadel. Szass Tam adhered to the custom and found Zekith Shezim waiting to greet him. His eyes and the jagged patterns of his tattooing as dark as his gauntlet and vestments, the high priest of Bane advanced, kneeled, and proffered a ring of iron keys.
They should properly have been keys to the Central Citadel, but Szass Tam, who'd seen the genuine items before, albeit not for ten years, recognized that they weren't. His enemies had probably taken all the real ones when they fled.