The Simbul’s Gift

"Replacements, my lord. Mythrell'aa is a fool, but there will be casualties. Faces will have been seen and must, therefore, be eliminated. The entire web will have to be realigned, holes will need filling—six of them, I think. Not for Aglarond, my lord; that's no place for raw recruits. I send veterans to Aglarond, my lord, but I... we protect them."

The spy master had researched the spells that concealed their spies from the closest scrutiny, but the casting was beyond her. Not beyond a zulkir, of course. He set the spell in an oily potion that she delivered to her chosen agents. He added a few reagents, a few hidden consequences that she didn't know about. It was a fair trade, for Thay.

"I'll instruct my chamberlain to purchase blood pearls and dragon-wing powder."

"I prefer to purchase them myself, my lord."

Another exchange of stares and the zulkir appeared to concede the point. "Of course. My chamberlain will fill your purse."

"I will return, my lord, when I have learned more."

The zulkir dismissed his spy master with a nod. She left the room. Thrul's chamberlain met her in a deserted atrium. He returned her clothing and, after she had dressed, handed her a coin purse. There'd been enough time—barely—for the chamberlain to meet with the zulkir. More likely, the chamberlain's mind was not entirely his own.

She changed her clothes a second time in a bolt-hole not far from the tharchion's citadel. When she emerged her wizard's tattoos were hidden beneath a mane of scraggly hair and padded rags had given her an old woman's humped shoulders. She hobbled along with a cane that was too short by half for her natural height and attracted no one's attention as she completed her homeward journey.

In the paid-for privacy of her room, she tested each coin in the heat of a blue-green flame. In her line of work, a person couldn't be too careful. Her neighbors and associates wouldn't accept an ensorcelled coin at face value, but they'd pay extra for anything that would draw Aznar Thrul's attention to an enemy.

Two of the lot glowed yellow in the flame. She set them aside with a sigh. There were more tests to run but not tonight. She poured herself a glass of clear liquid and downed it in a single gulp. Tears flowed from her eyes.

"Oh, Deaizul—you'd better be right about this," she warned the walls.

Deaizul was in Aglarond. Deaizul had been the man who'd tracked Mythrell'aa's spies to the little village, the man who'd told her what he'd found and summoned up the necessary assistance before he'd sent the message, the man who'd taught her everything he knew about spycraft and how to keep the upper hand with men like Aznar Thrul.

She removed the carnelian brooch—Deaizul's last gift and the token through which she'd claimed a place in Thrul's inmost circle—from the inner folds of her rags and set it on the table beside the coins. Deaizul had lost his nerve during the Salamander Wars. Her mentor worked alone now or he didn't work at all. He'd left the village after he sent the message. The village, he'd said, had given him a missing piece to another mystery, set deep in the Yuirwood: gods in search of worshipers, would-be worshipers in search of gods. Deaizul had a plan, he'd said, to bring the worshipers and the gods together—for the greater glory of Thay. He'd have to become someone else for awhile, but he'd done that a hundred times before. Deaizul could live another man's life for a week, a month, or a year, and his own wife would never suspect.

When he was done, he said he'd come back to Thay and the zulkirs would be like mud on his feet.

Just don't count on him for anything until then. Deaizul in disguise often forgot who Deaizul was or who in Bezantur worried about him each night. 6

The Yuirwood, in Aglarond Night, out of time, out of place

"Are you finished?" the Simbul demanded. "Are you ready to behave like an intelligent man?" She thumped her staff on the ground beside Bro's head. "Or, are you going to continue behaving like a complete fool?"

Bro tried to sit but fell back with a groan, clutching his flanks, hiding his face. His shoulders shook and something like a sob slipped into the night.

Alassra prodded his ankle. He curled into a tight ball of misery. Alassra craned her neck to see if he was bleeding. She'd hit him harder than she meant to. Possibly—probably—she'd broken a few ribs.

"Answer me, Ebroin."

It hadn't been an even fight: Bro's anger was no match for her skill, even with the unfamiliar staff she passed to her off-weapon hand. He needed healing again. She'd healed him once, back in his village. When she'd shot lightning at the Red Wizard sneaking toward them, the half-elf had gotten a flash burn. It hadn't been a serious injury, but the queen of Aglarond took some pride that she didn't harm her subjects—when they gave her a choice.

Which Bro hadn't.