The Simbul's Gift by Lynn Abbey Page A

no taste for death.”
    â€œHaven’t I?” the zulkir inquired mildly, his voice entering the crypt while his body continued its descent down the spiral stairs. “Then why do I keep you around, Grandfather? Not for the company, I assure you—or the smell.”
    â€œFor my advice, young fool, and my wisdom. I know things you cannot imagine.”
    â€œOf course, how could I forget? You know everything about death—especially your own.”
    Blue-green light outlined the door, as Lauzoril releasedwards meant to protect the living members of his household. He had no fear of his ancestors. One word from him and they would be consumed within their bandages.
    â€œI know Szass Tam! I know how his mind works, how he thinks, the way he plans. Without my warnings, you’d have died ten times over.”
    There was a measure of truth in Gweltaz’s claims, which Lauzoril acknowledged by throwing him the larger of the two strangled piglets he’d brought. He threw the smaller to his father, whose hollow-eyed, pleading glance he did not acknowledge at all.
    Lauzoril understood Gweltaz. There were a hundred men and women just like him in his own discipline. Treacherous and greedy, they were unaware of their mediocrity. Their conversation was shaped by centuries of tradition, ritual, and rehearsed invective. Living or undead, Lauzoril used them in the great game he played with his peers and disposed of them when their ambitions exceeded their usefulness.
    Gweltaz trod the fine line between utility and arrogance; he was very careful never to cross it.
    That line blurred when Lauzoril considered Chazsinal, who was not as useful to any scheme but who had—for whatever reason—delivered Lauzoril to the enchanters. Lauzoril had only to look at Chazsinal to see the fate he had avoided: A man could stand against Gweltaz, who was almost as good as he thought he was, but a boy in leading strings would have been broken utterly.
    By that measure, Lauzoril owed Chazsinal everything, but everything else about Chazsinal grated on his nerves. He paid his debt with spite and contempt.
    Silence hung in the crypt while the undead necromancers consumed the flesh he’d brought them. When damp gristle was all that remained of their meal and the two necromancers were suffused with a fresh, bloody glow, Lauzoril opened the conversation.
    â€œThe matter with Druxus Rhym is finished. He’ll be watching his back too closely to make trouble for a while.”
    Neither Chazsinal nor Gweltaz cared about Rhym. Alteration, like enchantment, was inferior magic in necromancers’ eyes. But the Zulkir of Alteration had allied himself with Szass Tam: A strike against him was a strikeagainst their enemy, and that they approved. Besides, the pair was starved for more than blood. Lauzoril’s visits were their only direct contact with the world beyond the crypt. They hungered for his voice. Gweltaz contained himself; Chazsinal could not.
    â€œHow? What did you do? How many died? Did they
suffer
?”
    Lauzoril sat back in his comfortably upholstered chair. These were the moments when he was grateful for his undead relations. Every man needed a confidant who revelled in his triumphs and commiserated his defeats. For a zulkir, true confidants were rarer than dragon’s blood, more precious than a golem’s tears. The Zulkir of Enchantment had two of them. He propped his legs on the table, crossing them at the ankle, consciously creating the image of a man in complete control of his world and enjoying every moment of it.
    â€œThey suffered and suffer still, I imagine. Rhym believes they betrayed him. He won’t be content until they confess. But their confessions will be lies …”
    Lauzoril allowed himself a smile. Last month, Rhym had begun a war against Lauzoril’s faction within the zulkirs. It was an undeclared war, as most were in Thay. No one was supposed to know who’d poisoned