The Simbul’s Gift

Thrul set the spoon down with an ominous sigh. He glowered at his pot-bellied chamberlain. The man had eaten—the zulkir could pluck the menu from his mind; he would have to suffer.

"Why? Why have you come? Why should I forgive the interruption?"

"He is here, O Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir. He wishes to speak with you. Now."

The chamberlain's thoughts were less coherent than usual, but a thread of fear ran through all of them, different than the fear Thrul himself inspired. One might almost think Szass Tam had manifested at the citadel's gate, except zulkirs did not visit one another, not without extreme precautions. There had been no alarms, no warnings. Thrul concluded he knew who wished to see him: the spy master.

"Tell her I'm indisposed. Tell her I will remain that way until sundown—unless she'd care to join me in, say, my bedchamber." He couldn't imagine her accepting the offer, though he'd bestir himself if she did.

The chamberlain didn't budge.

"Are you deaf, lead-head? Go and tell her," Thrul commanded, once again raising his spoon.

"O Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir, it is not a woman who waits. It is the Chairmaster himself, O Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir."

That was a mild surprise. It was only this morning that Thrul had sent word to his chairkeeper that a Convocation was likely, and that only because he'd allowed two of Mythrell'aa's minions to escape the city, both of them carrying messages for Szass Tam asking the lich to call a Convocation of zulkirs. Even Szass Tam had to follow procedure for a Convocation. The Chairmaster shouldn't have arrived for another two or three days.

"Find out if he wishes to dine with me—"

"I do not," a man's deep voice came through the door. "Nor do I wish to see your bedchamber."

The chamberlain, who was responsible for Thrul's sacrosanct privacy, turned pasty white beneath his tattoos. His eyes glazed. Spittle appeared at the corners of his quivering mouth. He would have died, if Thrul hadn't decided to deny the Chairmaster the pleasure of watching.

"Welcome," he said. "You should have sent word."

"I am word," the exceptionally tall and slender man said as he entered the balcony.

The Chairmaster wore his own clothes: blood-colored linen gauze, suitable to the season, trimmed with gold threads, garnets, and star rubies—never let it be said that the zulkirs stinted their tithes to the Chairmaster. By his tattoos, the Chairmaster was an illusionist, but he owed nothing to Mythrell'aa, or to anyone else. When he extended his hand, a chair appeared on the balcony: a testament to his power and immunity by working magic in a zulkir's presence without triggering his wards. He sat down opposite Thrul and, having said he wouldn't dine, poured himself wine.

Thrul would have loved to throw the insufferable lout over the balustrade, or, better yet, take him downstairs to the dungeons. He didn't dare. Not even Szass Tam could successfully challenge the Chairmaster, though rumor had it that the lich had tried a century ago. Supposedly the necromancer still bore a wound that wouldn't heal, though the laws of magic stated that the undead couldn't heal—it took magic to repair their torn flesh, magic any adolescent necromancer should have mastered, and Szass Tam was long past adolescence. Of course, by those same magical laws, Szass Tam couldn't exist either as a lich or as a man, so the rumor never died, and the Chairmaster's reputation as both survivor and wizard was enhanced.

"There's more where that came from," Thrul said of his wine. "I can arrange for a bottle or two to be ready when you depart."

The Chairmaster sipped from the goblet and wrinkled his long nose. "Not necessary, Lord Invocation. It's pleasant enough for a city balcony, but it won't travel well."

Thrul seethed. He knew his vintages. The wine was exceptional, but no one argued with the Chairmaster. "Considering how much you travel, it's a wonder you can find any wine at all," he said, all polite sympathy.

"All life has its hardships," the Chairmaster agreed, taking up the goblet again. "Yours as well as mine. Lord Necromancy has called for a Convocation. There's a complaint against you, Lord Invocation. It is said that you trespass against Illusion, that you've set wards and guards around her tower—the truth of which I ascertained on my way here. These are serious charges, Lord Invocation, with serious penalties, as you must know. You must answer to your peers at a time, within the next month, and at a place, within Thay, of your choosing."

"Bezantur, for the place," Thrul said quickly. Though the Master's visit was early, his contingencies were in place, along with his wards and his guards. "Tomorrow at sundown, for the time."