The Simbul’s Gift

Lauzoril might have been worried. Instead he was excited. After today, the words "after Szass Tam" might not be a motto for the undead. After today, Lauzoril might be at hazard with his allies, might be allied with his enemies. Illusion and Enchantment had made common cause before, though not in his tenure. Anything was possible, even in Aglarond where his dagger moved through the impenetrable Yuirwood forest.

It all depended on the face Szass Tam showed at the Convocation, whether the lich was equal to Invocation, Conjuration, and Enchantment combined—for the next few hours they would remain allies—or whether tomorrow might not be the first day after Szass Tam.

A chime sounded and a column of brilliant sunlight sprang up from the carpet.

"Zulkir Lauzoril, Lord Enchantment," the Chairmaster's voice boomed out of the column. "Your name is called. Step into the light."

He squared his shoulders and crow-hopped on his toes once or twice, conquering the moment of fear that invariably accompanied the Chairmaster's summons. The safe-passage rules of Convocation hadn't been broken in the centuries since the Chairmaster's office was created, but in Thay, there was always a first time, a first victim.

The Zulkir of Enchantment took a deep breath and walked into the light.

* * *

Enchantment had no shame, Aznar Thrul thought to himself as Lauzoril strode out of the summoning light, onto the damp sand of the slave market. Never mind that the man's ancestors— probably his parents—had stood on similar sand in different circumstances, Lauzoril marched about with that long hair, those green eyes, that naked tan. He could have transformed himself, brought himself closer to the Mulan ideal; everyone else did. Zulkirs would see through it, of course, but the man should have made the attempt.

Thrul returned Lauzoril's greeting. They smiled at each other across the empty sand. The eight chairs were arranged in a circle by lot and the Chairmaster's whim. The chairs on either side of Thrul contained Nevron of Conjuration and—Talona's painful mercy—Lallara Mediocros, Zulkir of Abjuration ... Zulkir of Indulgence and Mindless Chatter would be more apt. Lauzoril sat between Mythrell'aa herself, a viper swathed in crimson, and Druxus Rhym, a man clearly in need of a good night's sleep.

Rumor claimed that Enchantment was responsible for Rhym's haggard demeanor, that Lauzoril had snared one or more of Rhym's close associates in conspiracies. No one knew quite how many were involved, certainly not Druxus Rhym. Thrul wasn't shedding any tears for Lord Alteration; he'd lost as many to Rhym's poison as had Lauzoril and Nevron. He could wish, though, that his own revenge plots had worked quicker or been more successful, or that Nevron had been the one to spoil Rhym's sleep. The way things stood, Thrul would have to thank his ally, congratulate him for a job well done.

Thrul exchanged a pained glance with Nevron. Lauzoril hadn't sat down; Lauzoril was talking to Druxus Rhym, saying the gods alone knew what, except Rhym was listening, nodding his head, and smiling weakly.

And Nevron ... Lord Conjuration looked worse than Druxus Rhym. He hadn't been himself since Gauros. He'd lost an old apprentice in the battle there—his ladylove—and his nerve. Szass Tam's catastrophe hadn't restored Nevron's sharpness, and every move that Lauzoril made put another nail in his heart. Conjuration's days were numbered. Thay had no use for a broken zulkir.

The seventh name was called: Yaphyll, Lady Divination. Two years ago, she'd been Thrul's third ally. Then Lallara had seduced her, and she had taken a walk down Necromancy's path. She was smiling now, at him and Lallara together. It would take more than a smile before Thrul would forgive her.

"Zulkir Szass Tam, Lord Necromancy," the Chairmaster called the last name, the name they'd all been waiting to hear. "Your name is called. Step into the light."

A square of sunshine appeared on the sand. Despite himself, Thrul held his breath. A moment passed, and another. He started counting in his head: three, four, five ...

"Zulkir Szass Tam, Lord Necromancy. Your name is called. Step into the light."

Eight, nine, ten.

Thrul looked up. He caught Mythrell'aa's eye by mistake. They both looked away. Rhym's lips moved as he counted the moments. Nevron's eyes were closed. Lauzoril leaned in the corner of his chair. His eyes were hooded; he looked like a cat about to pounce.

"Zulkir Szass Tam, Lord—"

Tam appeared on the sand, facing his chair, his back to his peers. He wore a red robe so dark it seemed black. It was covered with patterns that shifted and could have lured an unsuspecting mind toward madness, if Larloch's chairs had not negated the effect, or if there'd been an unsuspecting mind anywhere in the circle. The lich seemed a bit slump-shouldered and the scents of death surrounded him.