Murder in Halruaa (forgotten realms)

by Richard Meyers

  Pryce’s brain instantly laid the options out on the table of his mind. Run or think. Pryce considered running for a fraction of a second, but he pictured himself being bitten in two, so he chose “think.”

  Pryce looked to his left. Incredibly, coming straight at him, across one inch of water, was one of the most terrifying creatures known to any seafarer. Pryce had heard a rare survivor of an encounter with a dragon turtle call it “beautiful” and “awesome.” It was indeed both.

  The forty-foot-long dragon turtle was only fifty feet away from him. Pryce stared straight into the creature’s one dark, copper-colored eye as its long webbed, spiked, craning neck bore down on him, its fins skimming the water like a pond bug. But a pond bug could be crushed with one swat of a human hand. The only swatting to be done here was by the thing’s scaly, armored tail that is, if it didn’t swallow Pryce whole first.

  “Run!” he heard Dearlyn cry over the roar of the approaching beast. “I’ll try to do something!”

  Pryce Covington spun around to face the shore and anchored his legs firmly, his right arm shooting up and out in a commanding position. “No!” he boomed. “I, Darlington Blade, forbid it!”

  Dearlyn was stunned into silence by his decree, and then it was too late. She watched as the beast covered the remaining distance. Then the creature’s snout opened, and from between its shardlike teeth emerged a sizzling cloud of scalding steam that shot forward, completely covering the Lalloreef Strait.

  With one chomp of its deadly jaws and one sweep of a murderous claw, it sank into the bay on the other side of the Inquisitrix Castle.

  Dearlyn Ambersong stared out at the bay in shock. The water was placid. There was no sign of the monster or the slightest hint that it had been there. It was as if nothing had happened.

  Except the man she knew as Darlington Blade was nowhere to be seen.

  Pryce Covington was gone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  What Pryce Glory?

  Pryce opened his eyes slowly. As he had hoped and prayed, he was not inside the belly of the beast. Instead, he was in the lair of Berridge Lymwich, which held the promise of being just as painful.

  “Dragon turtle,” he said matter-of-factly. “Nice touch. Very convincing. The castle is devoted to illusion, I surmise?”

  Berridge Lymwich turned from an oblong cavern of divining orbs to face her guest. “Guess,” she challenged him. “What was it you two shouted to each other just before you were swallowed?”

  Pryce immediately made up something to protect Dearlyn Ambersong. ” ‘Lovely night for a swim,’ she said, to which I replied, ‘Come on in. The water’s fine.’”

  He was seated on a not very comfortable lounge chair in the middle of a large black, otherwise empty floor. The floor was constantly being dappled by colors, however, from the reflected images of scenes from throughout the city on the dozens of orbs placed high on three walls in the semicircular room. It was as if Pryce sat inside a huge bulb, with many halves of other, smaller bulbs jutting out from the inner wall, each showing a different view of the city.

  “Which one does the Eye of the Inquisitrix see?” Pryce wondered aloud.

  “That is not your concern,” Lymwich stated, walking toward him slowly. She was no longer in her inquisitrix uniform. Instead, she wore an impressive gown of dark gold with ruffled sleeves, cinched wrists, a long, puffy train, and a severe bodice threaded with silver laces. As she stepped closer, he could see that she wore matching gold-colored boots, also with silver laces.

  She languidly pointed at a particular orb. Her voice sounded like a fingernail scratching on a chalkboard. “That view should be familiar to you.”

  He looked to see Lalloreef Strait from the viewpoint of the castle. He saw a lone figure on the quay, her hands up to her mouth.

  “Poor Dearlyn seems at a loss for words, let alone actions,” Lymwich murmured. “I wonder why.”

  Pryce knew why. Just before he had been “swallowed up,” he had figured out how to defeat the fear the dragon turtle had instilled in him. Logically deciding that the fiend had to be an illusion, he then decided it was imperative that Dearlyn display no illegal magic for Lymwich to witness.

  Halruaa had nine schools of magic, and the disciples of Mystra had erected a castle for the study and even worship of each one. The tenth castle was on Mount Talath and honored them all. Pryce already knew of the locations of several of themEnchantment, Alteration, Summoning, and Necromancybut not of Illusion. Even with the monster heading straight toward him in a very convincing way, logic dictated that it would look bad if the inquisitrixes had every unannounced visitor gobbled up.

  Besides, the domestication and training of a dragon turtle into a guard tortoise or “watch reptile” would be arduous in the extreme.

  Knowing instinctively that it was all a gamble, and that the overwhelming odds were that Berridge or someone like her was watching, Pryce sought to protect Geerling’s daughter at all costs. Her earlier divining spell was so ineffective and of such a low level that Covington was certain he could explain it away if need beperhaps as a parlor trick he had been teaching her.

  But he would never have been able to explain away the kind of attack she had made on him earlier in the evening, especially if she had attempted to unleash it upon the dragon turtle. Thankfully, the inquisitrixes’ illusion was too good: Its roar had drowned out Dearlyn’s cry and Pryce’s warning.

  Pryce said to Inquisitrix Lymwich casually, “I wonder why, with all the many inqusitrixes assigned to Lallor, I keep running into you.”

  Berridge wasn’t taken aback. Instead, she smiled demurely. “I wonder, in turn, why an illusion as incongruous as a dragon turtle seems to have paralyzed the great Darlington Blade, then inspired him to take what looked like, for all intents and purposes, a last stand.”

  Pryce was thankful for the probing riposte. It allowed him to be completely honest again. “My sole concern was for the daughter of Geerling Ambersong. She is not as well versed in the nature of prestidigitation as you or I.”

  “Presti” Lymwich’s expression remained demure, but the silk had hardened to stone and her voice had a harsh grate. “You like her, don’t you? She is… attractive to you, is she not?” She started to walk away from him.

  “She has youth and beauty,” Covington acknowledged. “But she also has anger and doubt… like many people.”

  Lymwich turned on him, her face half in shadow. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to guard this city? The dignitaries who maintain homes here should not, and will not, be interfered with, but we are surrounded by possible danger.” She turned to the wall, and suddenly the half-orbs were filled with images of the mountainous countryside.

  ‘To our east, the Azhal Mountains, crawling with thieves. Farther east, Kethio, the Great Swamp, teeming with beasts of all kinds, both natural and supernatural. Beyond that, Dambrath. If the malicious Dambraii ever tried to invade us again, Lallor could well be the first city they attacked…” Lymwich let that sink in before continuing with her litany of jeopardy. ‘To the north, the Bandit Wastes. I don’t imagine I have to tell the likes of you the sort who populate that forsaken area.”

  She turned, and suddenly the half-orbs were looking down at the Bay of Azuth, which lay just beyond Lallor Bay. “Go south and you won’t have to travel far to be within reach of the Shipgrave Isles and the Stormtails, where many a ship is beset by Dambrathian raiders, monster whirlpools, South Shining Sea pirates”

  “And dragon turtles,” he concluded for her.

  “Yes… and dragon turtles,” she agreed with a slightly more sincere smile, but its duration was short. “We are virtually surrounded by threats,” she said grimly, “and if they ever chose to target our tiny city, the navy at Zalasuu would be of little help.” She stood before him, her legs wide, her feet anchored, and her hands clasped before her hips. “So is it any wonder that newcomers who are under suspicion are assigned a personal inquisitrix to watch over them?”

  �
��Under suspicion?” Pryce echoed.

  Lymwich shrugged with a malicious smile. “Geerling Ambersong is still missing, and you no longer have the excuse that he is out somewhere teaching you.”

  “Does that concern you?” Covington asked the question for three reasons. One, to play for time. Two, to keep her from asking him any more questions. And three, because it certainly did concern him.

  “Everything concerns me, Mr. Blade.” The images in the orbs returned to more nearby sites. “Halruaa is ruled by a Council of Elders,” Lymwich continued somberly, “of which Geerling Ambersong is but one. Of course, there are four hundred elders, but you know only thirty-nine are needed to achieve a quorum. But even if they needed thirty-nine-hundred, we would still respect Mage Ambersong as if he were King Zalathorm’s heir. That is how well regarded he is here.”

  She placed her hands on the back and arm of the lounge chair and leaned over until her face was mere inches from Pryce’s own. “We want to knowneed to knowthat if you are to take his place, Lallor will remain as safe and as free as it has been during the seventy-five years Geerling watched over it.”

  Seventy-five years, Pryce marveled. Twenty-five years to grow up and apprentice… that meant he probably sired Dearlyn at the age of eighty! He filed that revelation in the back of his mind and concentrated on the piercing gaze the inquisitrix was directing at him.

  “I cannot guarantee anything,” he told her honestly. “I can only promise to try” he thought fast and hard about how to finish the sentence”to make things right.”

  She stared at him for several seconds, apparently trying to scoff at his simple declaration but ultimately failing. Instead, she almost scowled, then abruptly turned away. “You know, of course, that Zalathorm has predicted every attack on Halruaa for the last half century,” he heard her say, not at all liking where this particular bit of folklore was heading. ‘Would it surprise you to know that our finest diviners on Mount Talath fear that one of the greatest threats to our country and people is yet to come… from within?”

  Pryce saw the crack in her statement and jumped on it with both feet. “No, it wouldn’t surprise me,” he said. “Zalathorm rules a hundred and forty miles away from Talath, in the city of Halarahh, where they make a fine wine that is particularly tasty when hurled in the face.”

  Lymwich turned around and confronted him with incredulity. “You would renounce a threat to your country and your newly adopted city?”

  Pryce pushed himself to his feet. “I renounce contrived controversies and artificial arguments,” he told her. “And I do not like being tested… especially with feigned confessions of patriotism. You waste your tricks on me, inquisitrix.”

  Lymwich started, but she did not advance toward him. That, Covington decided, was a good sign. “I want to know where Geerling Ambersong is,” she said warningly.

  “So do I,” Pryce answered with all his heart.

  “You have his magic. Find him.”

  “He has his magic,” Pryce corrected. “I have mine.”

  Covington thought the confrontation had come to an end. Unfortunately, it was only a prelude to a far more dangerous one. Lymwich lowered her head until her face was completely in shadow, and the colors of the approaching Lallor sunrise filled Covington’s eyes from the many blinding orbs.

  “Do you?” he heard her say softly. “Do you really?” The tone of her voice raised the hair on the back of his head. He steeled himself for what might come next, his mind hurrying to lay out all the possible scenarios.

  “I find it interesting,” she continued in a quiet, chilling manner, “that during your entire visit here, you have not displayed your vaunted magic once. Not to avoid the dragon turtle, not to avoid a faceful of wine, nothing… ”

  Covington’s voice, when it came, was not his. It was the man he had been forced to become. “I do not waste magic,” he said. “I respect my teachings too much. They are too precious for any such triviality.”

  “Are they?” she mused sinuously. “Are they really? Tell me, Darlington Blade, do you know the requirements to enter a Castle of Mystra?”

  “I do not,” he admitted without shame. He knew he was about to find out.

  “Only a person with a clear heart and good intentions is allowed to enter without fear of punishment,” she told him. “And, apparently, you have both in abundance.”

  Pryce should have been pleased. The second requirement came as quite a surprise. But instead he found himself holding his breath. He hadn’t felt this much dread since his father had disappeared. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “What you don’t seem to have the slightest amount of,” Lymwich continued, “is magic.”

  She didn’t even let him have a second to respond. As soon as the words escaped her mouth, her arms twisted into a series of movements that built up to a devastating spell.

  A ball of energy appeared between her waving, caressing hands. She shaped and pressed it tighter with her fingers and a new torrent of words until it became a condensed sphere of power. “Your magic must be great indeed,” she cried over the spell’s roar, “or nonexistent!”

  Without looking or really thinking, Covington leapt over the lounge chair and slammed his feet into the floor. He threw back his arms, the Ambersong cloak unfurling in the air, and stood directly in the path of the oncoming cataclysm.

  “By Zalathorm!” he thundered with the agony and ecstasy of final freedom. If this was how it was to end, then let it end gloriously, with his head up and his eyes open!

  Lymwich thrust forward, and the orb blasted across the room. Covington watched as it smashed into the cloak clasp… and disappeared.

  Of course. The cloak clasp was the key. It glowed with the memory and power of the gift Geerling Ambersong had be- stowed upon his student. Not only would it open any Ambersong door but it would also protect the wearer from any magic lesser than Geerling’s own.

  Pryce was nearly overcome with emotion. He now wore what a great mage had created only for the people he held dear… which is why it had protected him from Lymwich’s spell but had no effect on Dearlyn’s earlier attack.

  It was at that moment that Pryce Covington swore to all the gods he knew, and would ever know, that he would not simply try to stay alive. He would find out the truth no matter where it led him.

  Lymwich was obviously shaken. Covington stood before her, untouched. “Butbut” she stammered, “all our magic-sensing spells… all our divining charms… they said you had nothing… nothing!”

  Pryce smiled with a certain pitying compassion. “There are diviners, illusionists, invokers, generalists, abjurers, conjurers, necromancers… and then there’s you,” he said with harsh calm. “There is the magic of Geerling Ambersong… and then there’s yours.”

  The perplexed inquisitrix could only try desperately to salvage some vestige of pride from her nearly unpardonable affront. “Your magic… is awesome,” she marveled, unable to completely eliminate tones of envy from her voice. ‘To have so much, yet to reveal none!”

  Covington stared directly at her, trying to penetrate her mind. All he saw was blustering ambition… and it was that ambition that led him to a blinding insight. “Of course!” he cried.

  His shout made Lymwich jump and raise her arms to defend herself. But instead of retaliating, he flashed her a knowing smile.

  “Ask me again,” he invited. “Whawhat?”

  “Think of what you brought me here for,” he said. ‘Think of what you want from me. You asked me beforeseveral times. All will be forgiven if you ask me again.”

  She couldn’t deny him, not after what she had done. Only this time she wasn’t so much asking the question, but asking if this question was the right question to ask. “Where… where is Geerling Ambersong?”

  Pryce clapped his hands together with satisfaction. Then he asked her the one question he should have been asking her and himselfall along. “Why?” he exclaimed in exultation.

  “What?” she repeated.


  He enunciated each word carefully, reveling in his understanding. “Why… do… you… want… to… know?”

  She was truly confused now. “Didn’t I already tell you that? The inquisitrixes of Mystra need to know so the security of the city can be assured____________________ ”

  Pryce waved that contention away impatiently. He was beginning to enjoy shouldering the responsibilitiesand wisdomof Darlington Blade. “Not them… you! You already admitted you were assigned to me. Assigned… or did you ask to be assigned?” He could see by her reaction that he had hit upon the truth.

  “I was impressed by your dedication to your job,” he continued casually, walking nonchalantly toward the globes that lined the far wall. He stood before the one that showed the quay outside. “Still watching me at such a late hour? Practically obsessed with your assignment, I’d say. Even willing to unleash magic on an untried, unconvicted person ‘with a clear heart and good intentions.’ Why? Why is it so important that you, personally, know where Geerling Ambersong is?”

  Her earlier shame disappeared before his eyes, leaving only bitter rivalry. “You’re the great Darlington Blade,” she said darkly. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  He showed her his open, empty hands. “Why does the great inquisitrix Berridge Lymwich do anything?” he theorized. “Why is she so jealous of Dearlyn Ambersong? For her youth and beauty?” He made a clucking sound and dismissed that notion with a wave of his hand. “That’s a secondary motive. Your primary reason? You’re jealous of her proximity to Geerling Ambersong. Why so distrustful of me? Security concerns?” He waved that idea aside with his other hand. “A subsidiary consideration. Your principal envy? My affiliation with Geerling Ambersong. What does he have that you want so badly that you would risk unleashing magic on a person you thought was totally helpless?”

  “All right! All right!” she screeched, retreating, her hands up to her ears. “Stop toying with me! You know what I want! You know what every aspiring primary mage in this city wants!” Just before she disappeared through a dark doorway beneath the orbs, she turned back and pointed at him accusingly. ‘You know that even the great Geerling Ambersong can’t choose his successor without the approval of the council!” she cried. “It’s not over, Darlington Blade! You may know the location of Ambersong’s secret workshop, but I’ll discover it yet!”