Free Scream of Stone by Philip Athans Page A

around the edges of what was either flesh or some leather strap across the dead man’s chest. Pristoleph bent over the corpse, the black firedrakes stepping farther back to give him room. He played a fingertip across the smoldering line and drew away a lick of fire the size of a candle flame. He let it burn from the tip of his finger, and thrilled at the subtle warmth of it. He held it up so that the black-armored guards could see it burn but cause no injury to his half-elemental flesh.
    “I claim the palace,” he said. “I claim the title Ransar of Innarlith.”
    The black firedrakes, still kneeling, bowed their heads, and Captain Olin took a knee.
    “We serve the ransar,” the captain said.
    The wemics let up a warbling ululation, but the black firedrakes stayed on one knee until Ransar Pristoleph told them to stand.
    “You,” he told the hooded undead, “take this back to your master”—he indicated the liquefied corpse of Salatis—”and give him my thanks.”
    The undead creature shuffled forward and did as it was told.
    17__
    14 Tarsakh, the Year of the Unstrung Harp (1371 DR) The Canal Site
    Excuse me, sir,” the stout Innarlan man with the mud-hardened trousers said, his tattered wool cap in his hands.
    Surero looked up and scratched his beard. He’d had it for months, but still wasn’t used to it.
    “Sir?” the man repeated.
    Surero nudged Ivar Devorast with an elbow to the ribs and whispered, “He means you, Lord Ditchdigger.”
    Devorast stopped his steady rhythmic shoveling and looked up at the man, twelve feet up the side of the trench from him. He squinted into the sun and blinked a few times, but otherwise waited to hear what the man had to say.
    The man cleared his throat and looked both ways as though afraid of passing carts. He opened his mouth to speak then seemed to think better of it. He set his cap on the edge of the trench and climbed down to the level where Surero and Devorast dug.
    “You’re him, all right,” the man said in a voice that made it plain he was holding back a laugh or some other expression of joy. Surero stood, leaning on his shovel, also working to keep a smile off his face. “They said not to say anything, and I swear by whatever god looks after people who dig holes in the ground that no one will hear your name from these lips.”
    Devorast nodded and said, “Thank you, Mister… ?”
    “No mister, anyway, sir,” the man replied, embarrassed. “My name is Fador, and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
    “What can we do for you?” Surero asked, startling Fador, who looked at him as though just then noticing someone else was there.
    “Um, well…” he started, forcing his attention back to Devorast. “Little Lord H”—as the men had come to call Horemkensi—”he’s told us to use four inches of sand instead of eight from now on as it’s takin’ too long using eight inches and he wants us to build faster.”
    Devorast shook his head, and Surero smiled when he saw no anger or even frustration there. It was as though Devorast had already fixed the problem that had been brought to him.
    “It has to be eight inches,” he told Fador. “Tell everyone I said so.”
    “But Little Lord H, sir…” Fador mumbled.
    “He’ll never know,” Surero assured the man. “Likely as not he’s already forgotten the order.”
    Fador smiled at that, still embarrassed. “But if we don’t build faster?”
    Devorast started digging again and Surero realized that for him, at least, the conversation was over.
    “The horses had to be reshod this month,” Surero said— the first thing that came to mind. Fador answered with a confused look. “If the horses all have to be reshod the work will slow, even if you used less sand.”
    “But the horses are fine, Master…”
    “Call me Orerus,” Surero replied. “Don’t actually reshod them, Fador, but your Little Lord H won’t know you didn’t, will he?”
    Fador smiled and nodded. He looked back at Devorast and