The Simbul's gift - Lynn Abbey [28]
Thrul saw a score of petitioners before the storm swept in; twenty-three, if he counted the three who fainted between the door and the front of his chair. Once the storm arrived, thunder made it too difficult to hear, and wind whipping through the unshuttered windows blew embers from the incense cauldrons to the ceiling where the greasy soot caught fire.
Lesser wizards levitated slaves with damp rags to beat out the blaze. Two slaves burned when the flames ignited their undead flesh. Another four were lost when the wizard who held them in the air was distracted by a particularly loud thunder blast. The confusion and cleanup delayed the zulkir's dinner well into the evening. He was in a foul mood when his chamberlain appeared in the doorway.
"Neema Gaz," the blue-tattooed wizard announced. A ragged kilt hung around his waist, a mark of the favor he risked by interrupting Thrul as he ate. Warily, he placed a carnelian brooch on the table. "I do not know her, O Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir, but she had this." He pointed at the brooch, the token of a wizard whose rank was considerably higher than his own. "She says she will not leave without seeing you, O Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir. I would dispose of her, but…" He shrugged. "If I failed, and she burst in here unannounced, you would be even more displeased."
The zulkir, still robed in velvet and surrounded by mountain air, set down his soup spoon with elegance and drama. He rolled his eyes in frustration or possibly the start of an invocation that would consign the chamberlain to the citadel's legions of undead soldiers. The chamberlain, assuming the latter, folded his arms in prayer.
Thrul chortled. He seized the brooch, breaking the wards around him. Candle flames flickered briefly in a cool breeze, then sultry calm was restored as the zulkir rubbed the dark red gemstone between his fingers.
"Give her what she wants, then send her in… alone."
"O Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir, she wants-"
"I know what she wants, lead-head. Assist her!"
The chamberlain wisely foreswore further argument. Shortly thereafter-when the soup tureen had been carried away and the main course laid in its place-a woman entered the room… alone, according to the zulkir's command.
She was a tall human, slender but at least a decade past her prime. Sinuous tattoos in shades of blue and green wound from her scalp to her toes; weathered wrinkles cut across the tattoos, especially where she'd singed away her hair years earlier. Her breasts, visible beneath a loose gown of bleached gauze, had begun to wither-hardly the sort of companion Thrul chose when companionship was on his mind, yet he poured a goblet of wine for her and pointed toward the wall where a three-legged stool waited for those privileged enough to sit in a zulkir and tharchion's presence.
Neema Gaz took the goblet, declined the stool.
"I was not expecting you."
"I'd have failed you, my lord, if you were."
Thrul slid the brooch across the table. When she picked it up, the pocket of mountain air expanded to surround her as well. He watched her closely-he'd never honored her in this way before-but if she was surprised or flattered, he could not detect it. Then again, a spy-master whose thoughts could be read by an amateur wasn't worth his gold. Thrul's own thoughts were duly protected by his robe, which was constructed of spells and velvet. No one, not even the great Szass Tam himself, could probe his mind while he wore it.
"If you have not failed me, then why have you come?"
The spy master studied her brooch a moment before fastening it to her flimsy robe. "Messages, my lord, from the west. There was a problem."
She paused, met Thrul's eyes, finding the precise balance between honesty and pride necessary to survive in the tight circle of associates around any zulkir or tharchion. Thrul lowered his gaze first; she continued.