Silverfall: Stories of the Seven Sisters (forgotten realms)

by Ed Greenwood

  The cellar was large, damp, and equipped with bells on the wall that could send signals up metal rods to places above. Laeral kept to its darkest corner as the two bowmen looked gloomily at those bells then at the adjacent stone door. The two agreed grimly that they'd wait until morning to give a report that was going to be received with rage. They went on a quick search for rats among the pile of empty crates that filled one end of the cellar. Finding none, the bowmen set their lantern on the floor to burn itself out, and took two of the rough rope mattresses slung along one wall. Once they'd settled uneasily off to sleep, Laeral drifted silently around the cellar, inspecting the other things it held. Among the items there were a long coffle bar with manacles, rows of body irons hung on a wall, and two casks that-if several small, dried puddles could be trusted-held the rich, dark, drugged wine known as "slavesleep."

  Well, it wasn't exactly trumpet blaring news that the owner of this particular cellar was slave-dealing. Laeral wondered briefly just how many cellars, in the labyrinth of underways beneath the streets and houses of Waterdeep, held similar incriminating items. Or worse, like the one that had been found knee-deep in bodies drowned in brandy to keep down the smell, or the monster-fighting pit under Cat Alley, or …

  Why drow, though? And why Mrilla Malsander? The reach was too needlessly broad and bold for just kid shy;napping and slaving. This was something bigger …

  Not that these two would know anything of use, even if she'd been carrying the right magic to get it out of them.

  One of the men muttered something unintelligible but fearful in his slumber. The Lady Mage of Waterdeep drifted over to stand above him, frowning thoughtfully down. She blew him a kiss and slipped back to the passage wall like a silent shadow, vanish shy;ing through it a scant instant before the other bowman sat bolt upright, quivering in fear, and tried to tell himself that there'd been no gliding ghost in the cellar beyond the phantoms conjured by his imag shy;ination. It took him longer than usual to convince himself that everything was all right.

  Laeral melted back out of the wall, murmured a word that made her solid again, and touched a dark, bare drow arm. Through the contact she said silently into Qilue's mind, I know whose cellar this is. Auvrarn Labraster, recently risen to become one of Waterdeep's most ''prominent" merchants.

  He would be, of course, Qilue replied in the same silent, intimate way. Sister, I simply must get back to my own work. Serving two goddesses must be the hard shy;est trail in all Faerun, I often think.

  I don't doubt that. I'll take over from here, Laeral replied, and kissed her sister with a tenderness that surprised them both. As they clung to each other in an embrace that neither of them wanted to end, taking simple pleasure in merely holding each other tight, the Lady Mage added, with a cold resolve that Qilue could feel through the places where their bare skin touched, and I know just where to start.

  "My lady," her seneschal said with a grave flourish of his silver-handled rod of office, "you have a visitor."

  Mrilla Malsander looked up from the latest installment of The Silk Mask Saga with barely concealed exaspera shy;tion. Her servants seemed determined to interrupt her, time after time, in her one sacred, daily indulgence-reading a certain series of cheap, street corner chapbooks. The endless adventures of the amorous Lady Elradra, recently a slave and from birth (secretly) the Lost Princess of Cormyr, struggles in the salons and palaces of rich and sinister Sembian merchants to gain allies and the gold she needs to one day reclaim her kingdom. These melodramas were accompanied, in Mrilla's case, by warm sugared milk and pieces of expensive Shou ginger dipped in even more expensive Maztican chocolate.

  She gave the seneschal her best glare, but his eyes were fixed firmly on the eagle Malsander crest that adorned the crown of her high-backed chair, and his stance and bearing were beyond reproach.

  Gods blast the man down! She was theirs the rest of every day, until dusk took her out to the revels, but this one hour or so of every morning, as she raced through Elradra's latest exploits, sighed, then read the spiciest bits aloud to herself, savoring them with delicious shudders and thrills, was hers, and hers alone. It was too much, by all the gods! It was just too much!

  She would not hurry. No.

  Mrilla set down the chapbook, discreetly purchased on a corner only hours before, and carefully concealed it beneath a grand copy of the Malsander family genealogy that was as thick as her thigh, and took all of her strength to lift. She sat back to study its appear shy;ance, nodded her satisfaction, then took up her milk and drained it in one long swallow, not caring if stable shy;men did such things in taverns she would never deign to visit. Wiping the mustache she knew was beginning to take firm hold of her upper lip, Mrilla set the plate of ginger pieces on the table that nestled half seen beneath the spreading arm of her chair. She slid it as far out of sight as possible, and snapped, "Well, Jalarn? This visitor is important enough to interrupt me at my reading, but not important enough to have a name?"

  The seneschal told the carved eagle, "She gave her name as Lady Sylull Cassalanter, my lady. I conducted her into the Fleet, my lady, where she awaits your pleasure."

  Mrilla Malsander's eyes opened wide, and her mouth dropped open even wider. Lady Cassalanter? Lady Cassalanter?

  The Dame In White, known less respectfully as "the Dame with the Cane," was one of the oldest and most respected of Waterdhavian nobles. She was reclusive due to her failing bones and rigid standards of respectability. This was a woman who was said to regard unmarried ladies dancing at revels as doing something almost as sinful as the woman who, for a handful of coins, might take several partners at once up her bedchamber stairs in Dock Ward.

  Not that Mrilla Malsander knew about such things!

  Oh, no. .

  Mrilla felt the warmth on her forehead and cheeks that she knew meant she was blushing crimson to the carefully shaven and powdered tip of her chin. The Fleet Parlor was the best of her receiving rooms, crowded with gold and hung with large and colorful portraits of the ships that had enriched the Malsanders racing through stormy-but vividly sunlit-seas, but still. .

  "Jalarn," she said icily, "we do not keep the heads of Waterdeep's noble families waiting in our parlors. Apol shy;ogize deeply to her for the wait-abjectly, mind; none of your mockery! — and conduct her straight to me, here. Then you may withdraw, listening not behind the key shy;hole, but by the board at the doors, for me to summon you by means of the bell."

  The seneschal bowed deeply-to the eagle carved at her father's orders rather than to her, Mrilla noted with fresh irritation-and withdrew. The moment the door closed behind him, she plunged into a whirlwind of throat clearing, nose picking, hair teasing, and straight shy;ening of throat lace and collar.

  She'd safely settled herself back into her chair and assumed an easy, graceful smile by the time the door opened again. The seneschal struck its brass boom panel, and announced the guest.

  Mrilla rose graciously. "Lady Cassalanter," she sim shy;pered. "So good of you to come. My humble home is unworthy to receive such grace."

  The powdered, jowled figure in white silk blinked at her, nodded thanks and dismissal to the seneschal, and started forward, stooped over a cane that glit shy;tered from top to bottom with rare and precious gems from the farthest realms of Faerun. She bore down-slowly-on Mrilla Malsander, who found herself ensnared by piercing dark eyes divided by a nose as sharp and as hooked as a vulture's beak, but said not a word until the door boomed closed behind her.

  Then she barked, "Malsander! I've words for you. Sit!"

  Mrilla gaped at the woman.

  The Lady Cassalanter lifted one white, bristling brow. "Sit down, woman! You look like an actress pre shy;tending to be a noblewoman, dithering back and forth there. This is your house. Sit and be at ease."

  "I–I-" There were few folk in Waterdeep who could claim to have witnessed Mrilla Malsander at a loss for words-and she was proud of that-but Lady Cassalanter could now claim to be one of them.

  Mrilla b
acked wildly to the nearest chair and sat down on its edge, straining to keep bolt upright and to remember how best to pose her hands-crossed but not clasped, in her lap, yes, that was it-and her legs-crossed at the ankles? Left together with knees bent and toes turned to one side? Drawn back under her-no, that was for young girls. Oh, gods!

  Lady Sylull Cassalanter marched right past Mrilla and seated herself in Mrilla's own high-backed chair; the one placed to dominate the room. She crossed wrinkled hands over the massive sculpted silver rose that sur shy;mounted her jeweled cane, parked its encrusted length upright between her knees, and leaned forward to bark, "Oh, you ape nobility very cleverly, girl, and don't think your ambitions haven't been noticed. 'Lady Malsander' is what you dream of-don't attempt to deny it! — and scheme toward; none too cleverly, I might add."

  The gaze fixed upon Mrilla became severe, then soft shy;ened. Its owner assumed a slightly less curt tone-a tone that someone who knew Sylull Cassalanter rather better than Mrilla did would have interpreted as "tenderness."

  "You might be interested to know that some of us have admired your bold spirit, your hunger to become one of us, and your deftly underhanded business meth shy;ods. We have almost taken the step of petitioning the lords to ennoble House Malsander." The aged noble shy;woman lowered her voice and added in a growl, "I say almost, girl."

  "Ah-y-yes?" Mrilla replied intelligently.

  "There are just three things standing in your way," the Dame In White explained gruffly. "The first and foremost is your tightfistedness-gods, girl, you finally get someone noble into the house and you can't even stir yourself to offer even the tiniest glass of whatever wretched stuff you fondly believe to be 'high class' wine, or some of those chocolates you've tried to hide down there."

  "Oh!" Mrilla cried, blushing bright crimson, "Ah-uh-please, help yourself. I'll ring for some wine. I-"

  "Whatever bottle lurks in that hollow book you just glanced at will do just fine," Lady Cassalanter said in dry tones. "Don't fluster yourself, girl."

  She watched Mrilla scurry to the bookshelf. Once her hostess had turned away to reach down the book, wrinkled noble hands moved in two small, deft gestures, and dry, patrician lips shaped two softly breathed words. Mrilla never noticed in her haste and breathless fumbling.

  The book proved to contain both a flask and a pair of fluted tallglasses. When the pride of the Malsanders finally spun around with a glass of her best firewine trembling in her hand, the old lady had leaned back at ease in the eagle-crowned chair.

  Reaching forth a hand for the proffered glass, she said, "The second thing is your clumsy campaign of unsubtle attempts to unmask and bribe as many lords as you can ensnare, girl. This is unutterably common. Cease at once-at once, do you hear me?"

  The Dame In White held up her glass, surveyed its contents critically, and put it down untasted. "The proper way," she purred, "is to content yourself with just one lord and discreetly seduce him-as I did. Avoid crude jests, talking with your mouth full, and scratch shy;ing yourself in his presence, and you're in-oh yes, except for the third thing."

  She fell silent then, with disconcerting abruptness, and fixed Mrilla Malsander with such a piercing glare that Mrilla, for all her years, wealth, and airs, squirmed on her chair like a young miss in the nursery, still aghast at the thought of Lady Cassalanter so casu shy;ally talking of seduction. . and in the end felt moved to fill the silence. "Yes," she asked earnestly, "this third thing? What might it be?"

  "Consorting with undesirables," the Lady Cassalanter thundered. "Waterdeep, the eternal City of Splendors, cannot clasp to its bosom snakes who work to its downfall, or those who consort with them. Grasp shy;ing merchants are quite bad enough, but this Labraster man is beyond even our legendary tolerance! Sever your relations-whatever they may be-with Auvrarn Labraster, forthwith."

  Mrilla went white then, instead of crimson, and her eyes narrowed a trifle. "How-how did you-?"

  "Gods, woman, do you walk Waterdeep in a daze? 'Tis a city of people, girl, people with eyes and ears and wits every bit as sharp as yours, even if they be dock loaders or stablemen or chamber servants. If you treat them as furniture, stepping around them without noticing, how can you help but be surprised when they murmur that you've been talking to a drow slaver one night-"

  Mrilla stiffened, and her eyes glittered dangerously, but her noble guest seemed not to notice.

  "— and an old fool of a noblewoman the next morning?"

  The pride of the Malsanders gripped the arms of her chair so hard her knuckles started to go white. She swayed slightly as she licked dry lips and asked rather faintly, "The. . the noble families of Waterdeep watch with whom I deal? And care?"

  "No, no, girl. Don't give yourself airs or plunge into thinking that dark conspiracies rule this city. We watch only those who interest us-those we might marry, or ambitious, thrusting persons-such as yourself-who might soon win nobility and whom we therefore want to know better."

  Lady Cassalanter leaned forward and added in a stage whisper, "I don't know how much you need the coins your dealings with this Labraster bring, nor do I care what you do for him or he does for himself. Truly, girl, do you not think that each and every noble family of this city doesn't get up to a little of the shady stuff to please and enrich ourselves? But we're already in the club, don't you see? If you wish to join us, you'll need to put aside this Labraster man thoroughly enough to convince, say, the Lord Mage Blackstaff that you're done with him-and I do mean convince him after he's rummaged around in your mind with his spells, not just a letter you don't mean and a few empty words let fall from your lips. We don't care two copper coins about this, but we'll triumphantly use it against you if you don't jump when we demand this severance. So for you, 'tis simple: be noble, or work with this merchant. Once you are noble, you can work with him again-discreetly-and probably be of far more use to him. Of course, he'll have a hold over you, then, and that's a weakness a noble can ill afford."

  Mrilla Malsander blinked, and the spell-disguised Laeral hardly needed the mind reading spell she'd cast to be certain of Mrilla's connection to Auvrarn Labraster. The spell did let her read enough of the dark, reptilian mind of the would-be noblewoman to tell her that Mrilla actually knew very little of the workings of the cabal Labraster and she herself were a part of. She knew little more, in fact, than that she must report to Auvrarn Labraster what Brelma or others using Brelma's name told her, that she must invest monies he gave her as he directed, keep safe documents and gems he handed to her, purchase things he directed her to purchase, and never, upon pain of death, to ask why.

  The Lady Sylull Cassalanter rose with a muffled grunt of effort, steadied her stooped self over her cane, and rasped, "Just some friendly advice, dear. I think your determination and spirit would be good for Waterdeep. I'd like to see you as one of us. You'd be surprised how many nobles don't even want to be nobles-or at least, take on the tasks and responsibilities of nobility-and you want it so much. I look forward to your doing the right thing. A pleasant day to you, Goodwoman Malsander."

  The stooped noblewoman proceeded a few laborious steps toward the door and added, without turning, "Nice paintings, by the way."

  Mrilla half rose to gush her thanks and help her guest to the door, then, somehow, fell back in her chair, her mind a welter of images and sudden strong surges of feeling. She was ashamed at how thor shy;oughly this wrinkled old woman had humiliated her, yet she was grateful to Lady Cassalanter for the frank, discreet advice. They wanted her to be a noble! She was aghast at how closely they'd watched her, and what they knew. Auvrarn Labraster came into her mind, speaking to her on a balcony at a revel overlooking the gardens of Brossfeather Towers. His image wavered away into the piercing eyes of Lady Cassalanter, talking to her just now, and they in turn became the barely concealed contempt in the eyes of her wooden-faced seneschal Jalarn. She was enraged that folk meaner and lesser than she had presumed to judge her. At the same time she was delighted that ennoblement was so close, and
that nobles-some, at least-thought her worthy of exalted station.

  Mrilla Malsander sank back limply in the chair, and began to drool onto its embroidered arm cush shy;ions. Laeral's gentle, magical clouding and rearrangement of her memories had, in a matter of moments, left Mrilla with an abiding fear and hatred of Auvrarn Labraster. She was also left with the need to cooperate with him fully, loyally, discreetly, and carefully-but slowly, always slowly. She was to delay and dawdle whenever and however possible. She had no more clear a memory of Lady Cassalanter than recollections of a pleasant, welcome-to-the-nobility social call, after which she'd drifted off to sleep so swiftly that she'd left untouched the glass she'd poured for herself after the stooped old lady with the splendidly jeweled cane had shuffled out the door. She also found herself thinking of Jalarn with sudden affection, even excitement, as she considered his strong shoulders, discretion, and the grace of his long strides. She realized that the little signs he'd made, over these last few years, betrayed the depths of his affection and regard. .

  "Ah, but you can be a cruel woman, Laeral," the Lady Mage of Waterdeep chided herself under her breath. She stepped out of a palace alcove and paused critically before a mirror across the hallway. The reflection showed her a fat, male, heavy-lidded merchant, his mustache bristling importantly above a doublet that was more gaudy than pleasant to look upon. So dis shy;guised, she strode away, boots clicking on the polished marble pave, and nodded an imperious greeting to the guards she swept past. They frowned, trying to remem shy;ber the name of this merchant. They'd seen him around the palace a time or two. Since none of them had seen him emerge from the alcove that shuffling old Lady Cassalanter had entered, none of them thought there was anything unusual or amiss.