by Ed Greenwood
The chiming wind curled away, moving along the battlements. He exchanged glances with Curthas, and they both trotted warily after it, watching it grow larger and brighter. From behind them came the faint squeal that heralded the shutters of the Master’s turret window opening. Perhaps it was one of his spells … or not, but they’d best chase it down even so. This could well be a test of their diligence.
It led them to the Prow Tower at the end of the ridge, where rocks fell away in almost cliffs beneath the castle walls, and there it seemed to quicken its dancing and circling. Curthas and Halglond closed with it cautiously, separating to come at it from different directions, with halberds to the fore and crouching low to avoid being swept over the battlements into a fall, no matter how fierce the wind became.
The chiming rose to a loud and regular sound, almost annoying to the ears, and the mist that made it spiraled up into a vaguely human form taller than either of them. Both guards stabbed at it with their pikes, and suddenly it collapsed, falling to become a milky layer of radiance awash around their boots.
Curthas and Halglond traded looks again. Nothing met their probing pike thrusts, and the chiming was silent. They shrugged, took a last look around the curved tower battlements, and turned to head back to their posts, If the Master wanted to tell them what it had been, he would; if he kept silent about it, ’twould be best if they did, too, and—
Halglond pointed, and they both stared. Halfway back along the way they’d come, the mist was dancing along the battlements. It had a definite shape, now—and the shape was female, barefoot and in flowing skirts, with long hair flying free in her wake as she ran, a faint chiming in her wake. The guards could just see through her.
In unspoken accord they broke into a run. If she turned across the bridge they were supposed to be guarding …
She ran right past it, heading toward the binding-racks and bloodstains of Bloodtop Tower, where—when the Master had prisoners he no longer needed—the wyverns were sometimes allowed to feed. That was a good way off, and the ghostly lady seemed in no hurry; the pounding guards gained on her swiftly.
A dark-robed figure was coming across the bridge—the Master! Halglond hissed a curse, and Curthas felt like joining in, but the mage ignored them, turning to join the chase along the battlements well ahead of his two guards. He carried a wand in one hand.
The guards saw her turn, hair swirling in the moonlight, amid the binding-racks, and silently beckon the Master of Wyverns, as coyly as any lover in a minstrel’s ballad. As he approached her, she danced away to the edge of the battlements. The hard-running guards saw him follow warily, wand raised and ready. Glymril looked back at them once, as if deciding whether or not to wait until they reached the Tower, and Curthas clearly saw amazement on his face.
Not of their master’s making, then, and unexpected to boot. They did not slow in their now-panting sprint—but even so, Curthas knew the strange foreboding that precedes by instants the sure knowledge that one is going to be—just—too late.
The woman became a snakelike, formless thing, and the shocked guards heard a long, raw howl from Klandaerlas Glymril as something bright whirled around him in a swift spiral, climbing toward the moon.
An instant later the Master of Wyverns became a roaring column of flame that split the night with its sudden fury. Curthas clutched at Halglond’s arm, and they came to a ragged, panting halt together, all too close to where the battlements joined Bloodtop Tower. There was a booming thump, and something exploded out of the pyre, trailing flames down into the inner courtyards: the wand.
The guards exchanged fearful looks, licked dry lips, and started to back away in fear. They had managed two strides before the stones beneath their feet rippled like waves on a beach and started to slump and fall.
They fell into oblivion with the gathering roar of Glymril Gard collapsing ringing in their ears.
As the moon saw that great fortress crash back down into the tumbled ruin it had been before Glymril’s spells had rebuilt it, a bright and triumphant mist danced over the rising dust and fading screams, its chimes mixed with cold, echoing laughter.
The court mage looked at the guard captain’s grim face and sighed. “Who was it this time?”
“Anlavas Jhoavryn, Lord Elminster: a merchant from somewhere south across the sea. Brass work, sundries; nothing important, but a lot of it. Many coins here over many seasons. His throat was cut.”
Elminster sighed. “Maethor or one of the new barons?”
“L-lord, I know not, and hardly dare s—”
“Your hunches, loyal Rhoagalow.”
The guard captain glanced nervously from side to side; El smiled crookedly and leaned over to put his ear right to the man’s lips. “Limmator,” the officer breathed hoarsely; El nodded and stepped back. No particular surprise if Rhoagalow was right; Limmator was the only baron—or lordling—in Galadorna busier in dark corners with bribe, threat, and ready knife than Maethor of the Many Whispers.
“Go and dine now,” he told the exhausted guard officer. “We’ll talk later.”
Rhoagalow and his three armsmen hurried out; El took care not to sigh until the antechamber was quite empty.
He murmured something and moved two fingers a trifle. There was a faint thump behind one wall, as the spy there abruptly went to sleep. El gave the section of wall a mirthless smile and used the secret door he wanted to keep secret a little longer, taking the lightless passage beyond to one of the disused and dusty hidden rooms in the House of the Unicorn. A little time alone to think is a rare treasure some folk never seize for themselves … and others, the truly deprived in life, cannot.
Three barons had died so far this year, one of them with a dagger in his throat not two steps from entering the throne chamber, and six—no, seven—lesser lords. Galadorna had become a nest of vipers, striking at each other with their fangs bared whenever the whim took them, and the court mage was not a happy man. He had no friends; anyone he befriended soon ended up staring sightlessly at a ceiling of a morning. There were whisperings behind every door in the palace and never any true smiles when those doors opened. El was even getting used to the sight of dark ribbons of blood wandering out from behind closed doors; perhaps he should issue a decree commanding all doors in Nethrar be taken down and burned.
Hah to that. He was becoming what he knew they called him behind his back: “the Flapping Mouth That Spews Decrees.” The barons and lordlings constantly tried to undercut royal authority, or even steal openly from the court, and his Lady Master was no help at all, using her spells too seldom to engender any fear that might in turn breed obedience.
There came a faint scratching sound from off to his left. Elminster pulled on the right knob and a panel slid open. Two young guardsmen peered into the dimness. “You sent for us, Lord Elminster?”
“Ye found the scrolls, Delver, and—?”
“Burned, and the ashes in the moat, lord, as you ordered, mixed with the dust you gave me. I used all of it.”
Elminster nodded and reached out a hand to touch a forehead. “Forget all, loyal warrior,” he said, “and so escape the doom we all fear.”
The guard he’d touched shivered, eyes blank, then turned and hurried back into the darkness, unlacing his breeches as he went. He’d been heading for his quarters when the sudden, urgent need to use a garderobe had come upon him, and led him into the disused wing of the palace.
“Ingrath?” the court mage asked calmly.
“I found the Q—ah, her work in the Redshield Chamber and mixed in the white powder until I could see it no more. Then I said the words and got out.”
El nodded and reached out his hand. “Ye and Delver are earning such handsome rewards.…” he murmured.
The guardsman chuckled. “Not the need to go to the jakes, please, lord. Let it be wandering trying to recall my youthful dalliances down here, eh?”
El smiled. “As ye wish,” he said, as his fingers touched flesh. Ingrath’s eyes flickered, and the forge
tful warrior stepped around the still and silent mage, walked in a thoughtful circle around the room, found the panel, and trotted away again, his part in slowing Dasumia’s evil forgotten once more.
Which might just keep him alive another month or two.
’Twould be safer if the two weren’t friends and knew nothing of each other—but it had happened that the best warriors El could trust, after subtle but thorough mind-scrying, were fast friends. That should be no surprise, he supposed.
El paced the gloomy room, his mood dark enough to match it. Mystra’s command to serve had been clear, but “serve in his own way” had always been Elminster’s failing; if it was a flaw that was to doom him now, then let it be so. Some things a man must cling to, to remain a man.
Or a woman cleave to, to be herself … and there was certainly one lady in Galadorna doing just as she pleased. Queen Dasumia always seemed to be laughing at him these days and certainly cared nothing for the duties of being queen; she was seldom to be found on the throne or even in the royal castle, leaving El to issue decrees in her stead. Galadorna could sink into war and thievery without her noticing … and daily, as more slavers and unscrupulous merchants rushed in, knowing they’d be left more or less unrestricted in their dealings, the Lords of Laothkund were casting covetous eyes on the increasingly wealthy kingdom. One thing lawlessness among merchants does bring is full tax coffers.
El sighed again. The important thing was to make sure that with all this gold, lawlessness did not spread to the crown. Sweet Mystra forfend. Whatever would it be like to live in a land ruled by merchants?
Everyone ignored the splintering and crashing sounds of a table collapsing under two cursing men slugging each other and the shivering and tinkling sounds of breaking glass that followed as various nearby drinkers hurled bottles at the combatants, seeking to alter the odds of wagers just placed. Someone screamed from another room—a death cry that ended in a horrible, wet gurgle, and was answered by drunken applause. It was late, after all, and this was the Goblet of Shadows.
Nethrar had known wilder taverns in its time, but the days of golem dancers who ate their fees to enrich Ilgrist were gone, and the dens they’d done more than dance in were gone with them. The Goblet, however, was very much here—and those too afraid to brave its pleasures alone could always hire a trio of surly-looking warriors to guard them and make them—at least in their own eyes—seem a veteran member of a band of adventurers on dangerous business bent.
And there were the ladies. One such, a vision in blue silk and mock armor whose loops of chain and curves of leather did more to display than conceal, had just perched on the edge of a table not far from where Beldrune and Tabarast were nursing glasses of ruby-hued but raw heartsfire and grumbling, “Well aged? Six days, belike!” to each other.
Over their glasses, Beldrune and Tabarast watched the saucy beauty in the silks bending low over two young men at the table she’d chosen, giving them a view of the sort that older, more sober men have fallen headlong into before now. The two wizards cleared their throats in unison.
“ ’Tis getting a might hot in here,” Tabarast observed weakly, tugging at his collar.
“Over that side of the table, too?” Beldrune grunted, his eyes locked on the lady in blue. He flicked a finger, and through the din of chatter and laughter, singing and breaking glass, the two mages could suddenly hear a voice purring, as if it was speaking right in their ears: “Delver? Ingrath? Those names are … exciting. The names of daring men … of heroes. You are daring heroes, aren’t you?”
The two young warriors chuckled and said something more or less in unison, and the saucy beauty in blue whispered, “How daring are you both feeling this night? And … how heroic?”
The two men laughed again, rather warily, and the beauty murmured, “Heroic enough to do a service for your queen? A—personal service?”
They saw her reach into her bodice and draw forth a long, heavy chain of linked gold coins that caught and held their hungry eyes as she flashed the unicorn-adorned Royal Ring of Galadorna.
Two sets of eyes widened, and looked slowly and more soberly up from the coins and the curves to the face above—where they found an impish grin followed by a tongue just darting into view between parted lips.
“Come,” she said, “if you dare … to a place where we can … have more fun.”
The watching wizards saw the two men hesitate and exchange glances. Then one of them said something, lifting his eyebrows in an exaggerated manner, and they both laughed rather nervously, drained their tankards, and rose. The queen looped her chain of coins around the wrist of one of them and towed him playfully off across the dim and crowded maze of tables, beaded curtains, and archways that formed the backbone of the Goblet.
Blue silk and supple leather swayed very close past the innocently tilted noses of Beldrune and Tabarast. When the second warrior had stalked past—hungry eyes, hairy arms and all—the two mages with one accord drained their heartsfires, turned to each other and turned red at the same time, tugged at their collars again, and cleared their throats once more.
Tabarast rumbled, “Ah—I think it’s time to see the bottom of more than one tankard … don’t you?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Beldrune agreed. “After a keg or three of beer, now, mind you.…”
Deep in the dimness behind a pillar in the Goblet of Shadows, an elf whose face might have been cut from cold marble watched Queen Dasumia of Galadorna tow her two prizes out of the tumult. When they’d rounded a corner, out of sight, Ilbryn Starym turned his head to sneer down at the two blushing old wizards, who didn’t see him. Then he glided off through the Goblet toward the exit he knew the queen would use, taking care to keep well back and well hidden.
Rhoagalow had brought word of another murder and a knifing whose victim might live. Elminster had handed him a hand keg of Burdym’s Best from the royal cellar and told him to go somewhere safe and out of uniform to drink it.
Now the Court Mage of Galadorna was striding wearily bedward, looking forward to some solid hours of staring up into the darkness and getting some real thinking work done on the governance of a feud-festering little kingdom. Perhaps there’d be another assassination attempt in the wee hours. That would be jolly.
El’s mood had a sword edge to it just now; an ache was already raging in his head from dealing with sharp-tongued merchants all day. Moreover, he couldn’t seem to put an idea out of his mind—a rumor abroad in Nethrar courtesy of the two old bumbling mages from Moonshorn Tower, who seemed to have followed him here, that “Dasumia” was the name of the dread sorceress called the Lady of Shadows; could she and the queen somehow be related?
Hmmm. El sighed again, for perhaps the seven hundredth time this day, and out of habit glanced along the side corridor his passage had brought him to.
Then he came to a dead halt and peered long and hard. Someone very familiar was crossing the corridor farther down, using a passage parallel to his own. It was the queen, clad in blue silks and leather and chains like a tavern dancer—and she was leading two young men, warriors by their harness, whose hands and lips were hard at work upon her person as she led them along … out of view, and into a part of the House of the Unicorn Elminster had never yet visited. Cold fear stirred deep in his vitals as he recognized those two ardent men as his sometime tools against her, Delver and Ingrath.
His headache started to pound in earnest as he caught up his robes and sprinted as quietly but as swiftly as he could down the corridor toward the place where he’d seen Dasumia disappear. It was better not to use a concealment spell now, in case his Lady Master had a trailing spelltell active.
The queen was making no effort at stealth. The high, tinkling laugh she used as false flattery rang out as El reached the corner he thought was the right one and began hopping from pillar to pillar.
There followed the sounds of a slap, Delver’s voice telling a jest he couldn’t catch the words of, and more laughter. El abandoned stealth for haste
as he saw the passage they’d used end at an archway. He was just in time to see the amorous trio leave the far end of that empty, echoing room through another arch.
One dark and disused chamber proved to lead into another, through a succession of open archways, and El took care to keep out of sight of anyone glancing back, and freeze whenever the sounds ahead ceased. He’d worked his way back to being a single chamber behind when some trick of eddying air currents made the voices of those he was following startlingly loud.
“Where by all the gods of battle are you taking us, woman?”
“Uh, Your Majesty, he meant to say.… This does look suspiciously like a way down to the dungeons.”
Dasumia laughed again, a deep, hearty sound of pleasure this time. “Keep that hand right where it is, bold warrior … and no, don’t-be-gentle-sirs, we’re heading nowhere near the dungeons. You have a royal promise on that!”
El crept to the next archway like a hunting cat and peered around its edge—in time to hear the rattle of a beaded curtain, unseen around a corner, parting. Light flared out from beyond it; El took a chance, danced across the room to that corner, and took another chance: across the open, lit way they’d taken was another curtain. He could hide behind it and see into the lit area, if he just darted across the open way at the right moment not to be seen.
Now? He darted, halted, and tried to bring his breathing back to soundlessness, all in a handful of instants. He used the next handful, and the next, to stare at where the queen had taken her catches.
The brightly lit area beyond the curtains was only an antechamber; an archway in its far wall opened into a place lit by a red, evil-looking radiance. Flanking that arch were two fully armored guardians, with their visors down and curving sabers raised in their gauntlets—warriors without feet, whose ankle stumps were gliding along inches above the stone floor without ever touching it. Helmed horrors, men called them; magically animated armor that could slay as surely as living armsmen.