Silverfall: Stories of the Seven Sisters (forgotten realms)

by Ed Greenwood

  Maervidal Iloster walked past the Old Skull Inn quite alone, sighing as he turned onto the Northriver Road in front of the temple of Chauntea. He was dressed well, in a black leather vest and breeches, with a mauve silk shirt a Sembian dandy would not have been sorry to be seen in, and knee-high boots as dashing as anything a Cormyrean noble could boast. Yet his face was grim and his pace slow, almost dawdling. He knew he was walking to the place where he was going to die.

  They'd found him out. Just how, he knew not, but it no longer mattered. They knew.

  All day the Zhentarim who normally contacted him-Oleir and Rostin-had taken turns oh-so-casually dropping into his shop, giving him cold smiles and gentle reminders of the revel to which he'd been invited three days ago.

  Just before closing, their superior-Samshin, whom he usually saw but once or twice a year-had strolled in to loom over the counter and huskily bid him well met, and to express the fond hope that they'd be able to share drinks together at Warmfires when the sun was fallen from the sky. Oh, they knew.

  Since the day-three sunrises back, now-Oleir had leaned on the same counter to deliver the invitation, he'd felt cold, unseen eyes watching him. Waiting to see where he'd run to, and who he'd contact. Everyone who stepped into Crown amp; Raven Scriveners to order a sign or browse the stock was under suspicion.

  What would become of his shop, after he was gone? They'd plunder it, to be sure. For all that it stood within easy view of the Twisted Tower itself, an easy trot for the guards on the Ashaba bridge, it had a back door none could see from the road. After a spell-fed fire blazed up and devoured it, who would check in the ruins for the writing paper, framed and mounted poems and illustra shy;tions, signs, heraldry, pens, inks, and portraits that should have been there? And what of Rindee?

  A pretty lass she was-too pretty to escape grasping hands, if the Zhents felt so inclined. Maervidal had taken her on as his assistant for her skilled hands with the brush, not for her face and figure, but he doubted any Zhentarim would care for a finely-curved letter or a superbly-rendered coat of arms. She was a local, and didn't have to be shrewd to know something was amiss, but he'd told her nothing. He should have warned her, but she lived on a farm too far in the wrong direction-west of his shop, well over the river in the newly-cleared lands-to turn back now. But if the Zhents caught her..

  He felt sick, but what could he do? They were watching his house even now, on this clear, warm evening. All it would take was one man with a crossbow, back in the woods, who might shoot even if he turned back just to leave a note. They were all around him, hidden but watch shy;ful.

  He should have been ready for this, with letters written out and left in safe hands. After all, only a fool could expect to watch and whisper for the Zhents and beneath it all do the same for the Harpers, and not get caught at it eventually. Somehow, though, he'd thought "eventually" would take longer to arrive.

  "We'll be expecting you," Oleir had said with a crooked grin, his eyes as cold as winter, "at Warmfires House, by dusk. Don't be late."

  Oleir was tall and broad-shouldered, yet moved with uncanny silence. A forester who could crush half a dozen Maervidal Ilosters in his bare hands, he was probably out there in the trees now, watching the doomed scrivener trudge up the road. The Zhents could muster twenty like him.

  "Stand and face it, Maervidal," he whispered aloud. "You're doomed."

  Warmfires House was a Sembian venture that stood on the new northern edge of central Shadowdale, in a bend of the Ashaba. It was a huge, rambling farmhouse that could be rented by the day, two days, or a tenday at a time. Maervidal had been in it only once, on a gawking tour with other dalefolk when it was not quite finished. He'd been brought in to see the dance floor in the feast hall, the meeting rooms above it, the bathing pool rooms, and the luxurious bedchambers. It hadn't been quite the success the greedy Sembians had hoped, but the Lord Mourngrym had built a guard post nearby, and considered it the anchor of the new cluster of homes and shops folk had taken to calling "Northend."

  It was a good long walk from Twisted Bridge to Northend, but to Maervidal it was seeming all too short, now. His last walk in the clear air-gods blast it all, his last walk anywhere!

  How had they found out? Oleir, a tall, blond forester, as strong and as stupid as the trees he cut down and the bears he trapped, was vicious enough, but too slow-witted to put two ends of a broken blade together and see that they matched. Rostin was sly and quiet enough to over shy;hear things, but he was a scribe-for-hire staying at the Old Skull only for a tenday to write letters, contracts, and records for hire, before walking on to Tilverton then back and down to Ashabenford. Samshin was in the dale even less. Just now, he was posing as a farm laborer looking for work. He'd talked idly, as he turned to go, of how when a fugitive gets hunted across a quiet dale, all sorts of inno shy;cent people get knifed by mistake. In other words, if Maervidal tried to run, they'll murder a lot of dalefolk, and blame it on him, branding him an outlaw forever.

  The scrivener sighed again. It really didn't matter how they'd found out, did it?

  He glanced at the dark, wooded bulk of Fox Ridge ahead on his right, and shrugged. Perhaps it was full of Oleir and a dozen Zhent comrades, perhaps not. It didn't matter now. None of it mattered now.

  A figure turned into the road ahead, and his heart leaped in sudden hope. A woman had stepped out of the mouth of her own farm lane. The woman drew every male eye in an instant, even when dressed in an old leather jerkin and breeches, stained from farm work and accom shy;panied by floppy old knee boots that had gone the color of the dust and old mud that had so often caked them.

  Maervidal swallowed. It wasn't just her height-she was taller than most knights and smiths he'd seen, the sort of height and shoulders that seemed to fill a doorway-but the silver hair that cascaded down almost to her ankles. It was tied back like a horsetail, with a scarf that looked like an old scrap of black silk-a scarf that every man who'd hoisted a tankard at the Old Skull knew was a dancer's costume that covered so little that Storm rarely bothered to put it on. Maervidal closed his eyes for a moment, his mouth suddenly dry, at the memory of the last time she'd shed her farm leathers to spring up onto a table in that costume-and of the dance and song she'd given them all then.

  It wasn't just her dancing, though, it was her walk. All fluid, sensual grace-not the proud strut of a cat that knows it's beautiful, and flaunts it, but the calm, confident lilt of a creature who knows she is stunning to the eyes, but cares not-and it was her eyes. They were dancing and merry, a flashing blue as they looked down the dale, and found the view pleasant. These eyes promised every shy;one good humor, real interest, and a teasing, daring excitement. They were the eyes of the most famous woman in all the dales.

  Common folk knew her skill with the harp, but true Harpers knew just how much they, and all Faerun around them, owed the Bard of Shadowdale.

  "Tymora and Mystra, smile upon me together now," Maervidal whispered hoarsely to the air. He'd never uttered a prayer so fervently in all his life.

  Storm Silverhand had been absent from the dale a lot this winter-down Senibia way playing ballads for rich nobles and stacking up the gold coins they tossed her, some said-and he'd hardly traded six words with her yet this spring. It had been too much to hope for her to be around now, but she knew who he was. "Oh, great gods above, save me now!" he whispered, finding himself very close to tears, and made himself stroll toward her without calling out or breaking into a run.

  She was coming abreast of him, nodding to him in pleasant, wordless greeting, and striding by. Now!

  Maervidal Iloster turned to the Bard of Shadowdale as if something had just occurred to him, and laughed loudly. It sounded a little wild even in his own ears, and she spun around to face him, hand falling with smooth grace to the hilt of the sword she always wore.

  Desperately he hissed out his situation to her, trying not to lose control of his voice. He found himself on the verge of tears only a few words later, pleading with her t
o come to the revel and rescue him.

  She drew herself up and looked stern, and for one awful moment Maervidal thought she was going to rebuke him for being a craven coward, and send him on his way with harsh words, send him on his way to death. Instead, the Bard of Shadowdale stepped forward and embraced him. Maervidal found himself trembling, struggling not to break down and cry, as Storm Silverhand-who stood almost a head taller than he, and smelled distractingly of forest floors and nose-prickling spices-embraced him and said into his ear, "Press yourself against me, Maervi shy;dal. Right in close-don't be shy. Thrust your belly and hips against me. Clasp your arms together, around my neck, and sag against me … aye, like that. Now speak not, and keep still."

  The wondering scrivener felt a sudden strangeness sweep over him, a tingling that left him feeling empty and faintly sick. Something stirred, then surged through him. . from Storm's hips, he thought. Or perhaps it seemed that way because he could feel her hands busy there shy;abouts, her knuckles grazing him as she did something that… that…

  She was putting a belt around his waist-a waist that was more shapely than he remembered. His hips didn't stick out like that. And he was taller now, looking down at the muddy dale lane from a greater distance than he remembered, looking down even at Stor-ye gods!

  Maervidal swallowed. He was looking down at himself. That is, where Storm had stood was a man with untidy brown hair and large, liquid brown eyes. It was the same handsome rake who looked back at him from his shaving mirror each morning. And he himself was … he looked straight down, at the body beneath his own chin.

  "Great thundering gods!" he whispered hoarsely, utterly aghast. The man who looked like him chuckled.

  "My body's not all that bad," she said, "for something that's seen around six hundred summers. Wear it well."

  She clapped him on the arm and turned north, back the way she'd come-or rather, the way he'd been heading.

  "But-" Maervidal managed to blurt, noting that his voice sounded lower, and more musical. "But-"

  Storm turned around again, winking at him with his own eyes, and said quickly, "We haven't really switched bodies-just exchanged shapes. You'll be yourself again in the morning."

  She giggled-Maervidal hadn't known his body could giggle-and he knew he, or rather, Storm Silverhand, the shape he was wearing, was starting to blush. He'd stared down at his new-found breasts in wonder, and without thinking had shaken himself to make them sway and bob. She'd buckled her sword belt around his hips-that'd been what he felt her doing. As for the rest, he was wearing her farming leathers, shiny with hard use at the knees and elbows, and she was him, in his best mauve silk shirt and black finery.

  "You'll find coins in plenty slid in all along the sword belt," she said gently. "Now don't forget-you use the ladies' jakes this night, not that smelly corner one you men spray about in, so. Don't worry if it all seems strange. Just smile a lot, say little, and wait for the morning. My house is open. Feel free to eat and sleep as it pleases you. Oh, aye-when you're in the Skull, you'd best be careful who you have a drink with."

  "Uh, pardon?" he asked, putting his hands on his-her, oh, to the Nine Hells with this: his-hips as he'd seen Storm do.

  She winked at him. "I was on my way to the Old Skull Inn, to try to convince Jhaele to take the vacation she's been longing for, and see Waterdeep like she's dreamed aloud of doing, for years. Don't try to do that, but if you feel uncomfortable, just put your elbows on the bar and ask, 'Jhaele, what news of Waterdeep?' Then just let her talk."

  Maervidal nodded, then stopped, smiled, and nodded as he'd seen her do it, head tilted a little to the right, and a hand lifted as if to cup the chin.

  She nodded approvingly. "Ver-ry good. What I meant about the drinks was that three of the regulars at the Skull are becoming quite ardent. Hands on my knees and wandering higher … that sort of thing."

  The scrivener who now looked like Storm Silverhand swallowed. "And I should do what-?" he asked faintly. Suddenly, and just for a wild, fleeting moment, walking to sure death didn't seem so dark a thing. He closed his eyes and thought he'd probably kiss every man in the taproom of the Skull if that's what it would take to keep him alive.

  "Josh them pleasantly. Don't act shocked. The rest, I’ll leave to you. The ones to watch out for are Sarnjack, Old Juk, and Halcedon."

  Maervidal's eyes narrowed. "Sarnjack I know, but the others.. "

  "Mystra above, man," Storm said to him, in his own incredulous voice, "you live in this dale for four seasons as an informant for the Zhents and for us, and don't know every last man and woman in the dale? No wonder you were walking to your-"

  She saw the stricken look that climbed across his face, and quickly said, "Sarnjack the ring maker-weathered face, retired farmer from Mistledale? Recall him?" At his nod, she went on. "Big, fat, balding man who sits over the chessboard most nights, retired from farming in Voonlar to raise chickens here. That's 'Old Juk,' but you'll want to tartly call him by his full name, Belinjuk Trawan, as his wife does-to remind him he's still married."

  Maervidal didn't smile. He was nodding slowly, vaguely remembering the fat man by the chessboard.

  Storm said swiftly, "In case we're being watched, I should go. The last man is the one you really should have been keeping an eye on. Halcedon Muiryn was once a hiresword, but someone took his right arm off at the elbow for him, and now he tutors lads in weaponsplay, spies on caravan shipments for all manner of merchants, and makes those fine long swords you see him selling to trav shy;elers in the Skull. He has a pair of jaws, like a smith's pin shy;cers, fitted to his stump. Got that? Good, now wish me luck."

  "Storm," Maervidal Iloster said, swallowing back threatening tears, "May you have all the luck the gods are willing to hand out to mortals for the next season or so. They know better than I how much you deserve it."

  He drew in a deep breath, and asked the last thing that was troubling him then. "But what of when I'm myself, on the morrow? Won't the Zhents just come after me then?"

  Storm gave him a wintry smile. Maervidal stared at her; he'd never realized before just how chilling one of what he called his "smiles of cold promise" really looked.

  "If my plans work out," she told him softly, "there won't be one of them alive to come after you in the morn shy;ing."

  He stared at her for a moment, then a sudden shiver swept the length of his body. "Hmm," Storm said, survey shy;ing the result critically. "That looks … interesting."

  She turned and left him then, standing dumbfounded in the road, scarcely able to believe his good fortune.

  "So, Maervidal, how do you like the wine?" Storni looked up at Calivar Murpeth and smiled with an easiness that the real Maervidal Iloster would not have felt. "It's very good," she said eagerly. "Very… fruity."

  "That's the saisha in it," purred Murpeth's right-hand man. Aldluck Dreen had sidled up to them more quietly than she'd thought such a large man would have been able to move, though the revel was raging heartily all around them. Laughter and loud, well-oiled voices were raised in such a din that the Sembian piper trio could scarcely be heard this far across the lofty hall.

  "The what?" Storm asked, playing the role of an inno shy;cent scrivener with a good memory and a clear eye, but not much worldliness backing them up. He was the per shy;fect Zhent informant, though they seemed to have found an imperfection in this one. A soon to be fatal imperfec shy;tion, she had no doubt.

  "Saisha," Murpeth said smoothly, darting a quelling glance at Aldluck, who seemed to have already downed rather more firewine than it was good for a man to take aboard this early of an evening, "is more popularly known as hammerlock."

  "Because it locks up your joints," Aldluck snarled, "so we have to use a hammer if we want to bend them- ahahaha!"

  "Aldluck," the sly-tongued local Zhentarim leader said smoothly, "I think it's time to tell Brezter to be ready, don't you?"

  His burly henchman peered at him a little owlishly, then reddened, nodded curtly, and spun around to pl
ow his way roughly through the drink-swilling throng.

  The false Maervidal watched him go a little longingly, and did not fail to notice that two other men she knew to be Zhents advanced smoothly to fill the gap left by Aldluck's departure. They were keeping their rabbit in a corner, against a wall.

  "Loyal scrivener," Calivar Murpeth purred proudly, "may I introduce to you Nildon Baraejhe, who's come to us all the way from the Border Kingdoms?"

  "To be sure the saisha was fresh," Nildon said in a wet, avid voice, his eyes gleaming as he looked at Maervidal.

  "And over here stands Aliphar Moongul, who deals in perfumes, oils, and medicines."

  "As well as more deadly things," the handsome travel shy;ing merchant added with a smile, bowing.

  They, uh, they certainly weren't s-subtle, were they? Storm adopted Maervidal's best stammer. "I'm, uh, I'm not exactly sure what saisha is, that is, why is, um, why is it so … important?"

  "It costs much," the Borderer hissed, "because the Tashlutan herbs it is made from are rare, and the recipe is secret. It paralyzes the entire body, save for the senses, the lungs, and the jaw-which it makes hang slack-for about three hours, then passes off as if it had never been there."

  "And in your three hours," Murpeth purred, "we'll help you to a nice, private bed."

  "A bed?" Maervidal asked faintly "Will I, uh, feel sleepy?"

  If Storm had been standing there as herself, she'd have asked sardonically, "Where you'll slay me while I can't resist? Well, try not to get blood on the linen." She'd almost said that, but caught herself in time. She had to remem shy;ber she wasn't being Storm Silverhand just now, but a somewhat handsome, good-natured, scholarly scrivener-a scrivener who'd be so tremblingly scared by now, hemmed in by tauntingly sinister Zhentarim, that he'd be on the verge of filling his pants.