Prince of Lies

by James Lowder

  A trio of spear-toting soldiers prodded a minotaur along. Children taunted the great bull-headed guardian of lost tombs and labyrinths, waving bits of red cloth to catch its attention. The minotaur nearly got away from its handlers when a drunken man got too close. He’d been trying to tantalize the starving beast with a chunk of stale bread, but the minotaur would have taken the man’s arm right up to the elbow, if it had been given half a chance.

  “You’ve nothing to fear,” the barker shouted, noting the disquiet in the faces of the people nearest the minotaur. “So long as you’re faithful to Cyric, no harm will come your way.”

  On a cart drawn by an elephant, a merman shivered in a huge tank of water. The scales on his fish’s tale were dark with some disease, the muscles on his human torso flabby from long captivity. He stared out at the crowd with pleading eyes—a pointless gesture in the Keep, where slave auctions were as common as drunken brawls.

  The prize attraction came next: a very young white dragon. The wyrm was festooned with chains and surrounded by a dozen brawny warriors. It couldn’t have been more than ten feet long from its blunted snout to the tip of its tail, with wings that had been clipped to prevent the beast from flying away. As it moved along, the dragon pulled and tugged against the chains, dragging first one, then another of its captors closer to its steel-muzzled jaws. Each time the wyrm balked, a Zhentilar carrying a torch scalded its tail until the beast shrieked in protest and lurched forward a few more steps.

  Vrakk stared in amazement as the dragon approached; the Zhentilar had branded its flank with Cyric’s holy symbol and the gauntlet-and-gem crest of Zhentil Keep. Though white dragons were, on the whole, less intelligent than other wyrms, they were prone to exacting violent retribution for wrongs against their kin. The other dragons in this hatchling’s flight would devote themselves to wiping out the caravans traveling to and from the Keep, should they ever learn of the brands.

  “If the priests ain’t afraid of the wyrms,” Vrakk heard one rather dimwitted merchant proclaim, “then the church has got to be as powerful as they say.”

  The tense silence that answered the man might as well have been a roaring shout of disagreement. Few in the Keep were foolish enough to openly question any claim made about the church’s authority or its might, not when an inquisitor could appear at any moment to quell any spoken dissent. Thus silence had become the favored way to show dissatisfaction with Cyric or his minions. But if Xeno Mirrormane and his fanatics had their choice, even this mute revolt would soon be punishable by death.

  Still, the Zhentish recognized the patriarch’s power; when his carriage rolled into the marketplace, a dull cheer went up. Even the merchants, who resented the parade for taking up valuable trading time, showed their grudging support. A few particularly unctuous hawkers offered free food and wine to the contingent of Zhentilar surrounding the high priest’s opulent carriage. As the merchants expected, the stern-faced soldiers silently refused the gifts, but the hawkers knew the appearance of support for Xeno and his troop might later buy valuable favors.

  “An announcement by His Holiness!” a herald shouted, perched stiffly at the back of the patriarch’s carriage. “All true citizens of Zhentil Keep, all true worshipers of the great god Cyric, gather close and hear the words of his most blessed servant!”

  The carriage lurched to a stop, as it had in a dozen other crowded parts of the city, and Xeno Mirrormane rose to his feet. Hair silver-white and tangled, eyes narrowed with smug satisfaction, the patriarch looked out over the marketplace. “Lord Cyric has found it in his heart to grant Zhentil Keep the honor of becoming his residence in the mortal realms,” Xeno crowed. “Because of this great honor, today has been declared a high holy day in the city. All citizens are free from taxes until sunset”

  An enthusiastic and sincere cheer rang out from the crowd, lasting almost as long as the parade of beasts had taken to stagger through the market.

  Finally Xeno spread his arms wide, as if to embrace the throng. “Know, then, that we must show our appreciation by declaring the Church of Cyric the only true spiritual body in the city. None of the pretender gods may receive worship from our homes or our temples, and all holy symbols and effigies devoted to them are to be considered contraband. Possession of such items after sundown this day will be construed as heresy against the church, bringing with it the punishment prescribed by law. All holdings of said heretical churches are now property of the city-state.”

  Xeno shared the carriage with the newly appointed lord of the Keep, who struggled now to his feet. His painfully thin face peeked out from a furred hood. “What the g-good p-patriarch says is the t-truth,” he stammered, gesturing at the commoners with a small toy soldier. “Let all in my city know that Lord Cyric himself has d-declared our cause j-just!”

  “Thank you, Ygway,” Xeno said, rudely pushing the man back to the seat “Be still, now. We wouldn’t want you to tire yourself out.”

  In reply, the young man smiled stupidly and slouched down. He took up the rest of his toy army and recommenced the mock battle for the cushioned seat opposite him.

  The crowded marketplace was now very nearly silent, save for the occasional tinny sound of discarded holy symbols dropping to the cobbles. Most present had lived through the scourging of Bane’s image from the Keep after the Time of Troubles, but this was something very different. Cyric had replaced Bane as Lord of Strife. The gods now declared heretical still held court in the heavens, still held sway over the mortal realms.

  Vrakk stood in a sea of shocked human faces, carefully taking stock of the patriarch and the addle-brained nobleman at his side. With the disappearance of Lord Chess a tenday past, the church had seized control of the city government, installing Ygway Mirrormane as Zhentil Keep’s lord. Insanity ran in the Mirrormane family, or so the rumors said. After watching Xeno and his drooling, twitching nephew in action, Vrakk would disagree. It galloped like a Tuigan pony with its tail on fire.

  “Know, too,” Xeno announced, “that all travel from the city has been suspended, unless approved by both the church and the government. These restrictions will remain in effect until Lord Cyric declares the inquisition at an end.”

  With that, the patriarch gestured to his driver. His carriage lurched ahead—only to stop a moment later as a pile of dung was cleared from its path. Vrakk shook his head; the priests hadn’t been bright enough to put the elephants at the rear of the procession.

  A swarm of church novitiates, Cyric’s holy symbol tattooed upon their foreheads, set upon the marketplace in the wake of the parade. They gathered up the discarded holy symbols, as well as any merchandise that might be ornamented with the newly contraband images. Other priests posted broadsheets repeating Xeno’s proclamation or scanned the crowd for anyone overly distraught by the announcements. Such unseemly sorrow could only come from a heretic.

  Vrakk paid the clerics little attention as he continued his patrol of the small market. The courtyard held a variety of stalls. Vendors hawked everything from dried meats to woolen blankets. It wasn’t the largest market in the city, its wares rather mundane and uninteresting, but that was precisely why the orcish general had been assigned to patrol it. For a soldier of his rank and renown, the duty was tantamount to sweeping the streets.

  “Hey, pig-snout,” someone snarled, grabbing the back of Vrakk’s coarse cloak. “You deaf as well as ugly? I said give me a hand with this heretic.”

  The orc turned slowly. The young man’s imperious tone had announced him as a priest, even before Vrakk saw his dark robes and sour, sanctimonious grimace. “Call me General,” Vrakk rumbled, slapping the insignia on his leather breastplate. “Or sir.”

  “No priest of Cyric will ever call an orc sir,” the young man snapped. “And no orc should be a general in the service of a holy city like Zhentil Keep.” He yanked a woman forward by the hair and pushed her at Vrakk. “Take her into custody.”

  The woman fell to her knees, dark hair streaming around an olive-skinned fa
ce. This was no Zhentish woman, but a trader from Turmish or one of the other southern lands. In her slender hands she clasped something, desperate to keep it away from the priest. “The patriarch,” she began tearfully, “he said we have until sundown to destroy our holy symbols. Please, I am leaving this very day with a caravan to my home in Alaghon. I have permits approved by the church and the nobles. My god will not understand if I desecrate his image needlessly.”

  “She right.” Vrakk pulled the woman to her feet with one meaty, gray-green paw. “That what Mirrormane say. I not so deaf I not hear that.”

  The priest shoved a large sheet of paper right up to the orc’s snout. “The proclamation says all holy symbols not issued by Cyric’s church are to be destroyed.”

  Vrakk realized then the priest was not going to be bullied, so he let a practiced facade of doltishness slide over his features. His mouth hung open just enough to show his dark tongue, and a line of spittle drooled around the two yellowed tusks jutting up from his lower jaw. “Uh, me not read Zhentish,” he lied, fixing beady red eyes on the priest in his best vacant stare. “Can only do what Mirrormane say, and he say let ’em alone until sundown.”

  The Turmish merchant took the cue, sliding unnoticed into the crowd as the young priest focused his anger on the orcish Zhentilar. “Why are you still allowed to wear a uniform?” the cleric demanded. “I thought all your kind were put to work repairing the bridges.”

  He was right; most of the orcs and even the half-ores in the Zhentilar had been given the inglorious task of laboring on the twin bridges crossing the Tesh. Vrakk was a war hero, though. His loyal service to Lord Chess and the city had gained him an exemption from that insulting work—even though the church had pushed for a ban on all nonhumans in the Keep’s military.

  “Me too stupid to work on bridges,” Vrakk muttered, turning his back on the sputtering priest. “Gotta go check merchant permits now.”

  The orcish soldier tried his best to swallow his anger, but it burned in his throat like a ball of flaming pitch. He’d been a good soldier, a tireless defender of the Keep and the Church of Cyric. Orcish souls meant nothing to the Prince of Lies, though, and his minions had done all they could to drive them out of the city.

  As he went about the dreary task of checking the guild licenses and merchant permits in the marketplace, Vrakk found himself snarling almost as much as the priests scouring the stalls for contraband—that is, until he came upon an old man setting up a rickety puppet stage at the market’s edge.

  “Here you are, my good fellow,” the gaunt man chimed as he handed Vrakk his city permit.

  “Show been checked by priests?” Vrakk grunted.

  The puppeteer bowed broadly, swirling his mottled cloak and flourishing his broad-brimmed hat. “Last time I was in this fair city,” he chirped. “Stamp’s on the back of the permit. A bit weathered, but that can’t be helped, not when I’ve spent the last annum traveling the world, you know.”

  Vrakk handed the man the tattered slip of parchment and turned away. “If you got a knuckler, he better be in with the thieves’ guild. They chop his hands off if he ain’t.”

  The man looked shocked at the suggestion he’d hire a pickpocket to work the crowd, though the practice was common enough. “Otto Marvelius has never bilked a patron of a single copper. Good, wholesome entertainment’s what I offer. Shows that would bring a smile even to one of Cyric’s priests—” he leaned close and winked conspiratorially “—and we both know how tough a crowd they can be, eh?”

  The puppeteer went about his work, whistling a bawdy tavern song popular in the less reputable ports along the Sword Coast. The striped curtains and the bright awning he rolled out over the boxlike stage drew both children and adults like some enchanted piper. Vrakk milled at the fringes of the growing crowd of urchins and commoners, watching for the almost inevitable petty crooks who’d come to prey upon them.

  “Kind people of Zhentil Keep,” Marvelius began, standing before the stage, “on this festive day, I have come to your great city to present a play both entertaining and enlightening. I have presented this pageant, known throughout the civilized world as ‘The Rescue of the Tablets of Fate’ or ‘Cyric Wins the Day,’ to the crowned heads of Cormyr and the emperors of fabled Shou Lung.”

  With theatrical flair he unfurled a huge roll of parchment, covered with seals and elaborately wrought signatures. “These affidavits, provided by such notables as Bruenor Battlehammer of Mithril Hall, Tristan Kendrick of the Moonshaes, and King Azoun IV of Cormyr, attest to the story’s power to enthrall even the most unenlightened audience.”

  The parchment could have been signed by anyone, stated anything, since most of the people gathered before the stage couldn’t read. Vrakk smirked at the expressions of awe riding over the sea of faces; Marvelius might not hire a pickpocket, but he was certainly a flashman in his own right.

  Marvelius hung the scroll on one side of the stage, then took up another, less impressive piece of parchment. “I have also had the chance to present this play in each of the various dales to your south.”

  A hiss, very much expected by the showman, slithered from the crowd. Marvelius held up a restraining hand and presented the second parchment, blotchy with spilled ink, food stains, and huge, thick Xs. “They tried their best to sign an affidavit, too, but this was all they could manage.” He waited for the chuckles to subside just a little, then added, “Good thing Elminster taught Lord Mourngrym and the rest of the, er, warriors of Shadowdale how to make Xs or the thing would be blank—and speaking of puppets, let’s get on with the show, shall we?”

  The laughter and rough clapping filled the time it took Marvelius to position himself behind the stage. By now Vrakk was almost mesmerized, watching the old man play the crowd. The Zhentish hated the dalesmen, especially Mourngrym and the men from Shadowdale, with a passion unrivaled. By insulting the nobleman and the old sage who advised him, Marvelius was certain to win over his audience—and more than a few coppers when his helper passed the collection box after the show.

  A puppet of a raven-haired woman, with bone-white skin and strange scarlet eyes, appeared on the stage. Her blue-white robe and the farcical wand in her hand identified her as Midnight, the earthly avatar of Mystra. “Oh my,” she said. “I wonder where the Tablets of Fate are hidden. Do you know where they are?” Her exaggeratedly shrill voice—provided by Marvelius’s unseen assistant—made more than one child cover his ears with his hands.

  Midnight leaned toward the audience. “Well, if none of you know, I’ll bet I can guess who has them. Oh, Kelemvor? Where is my brave knight?”

  The puppet depicting Kelemvor was as well-known as Mystra’s: a hulking body supported a head divided equally into two faces. One side was human, with coarse features, all bristling sideburn and drooping mustache. The other was feline, a panther’s head with a mouthful of sharp white teeth. The children shrieked in delighted fear as Kelemvor appeared behind Midnight, his panther face to the audience.

  As Midnight turned, Kelemvor switched faces. “Here I be, my love,” he answered, his words slurred drunkenly and dripping with stupidity.

  “Do you have the tablets?” Midnight asked. “We must get them to Mount Waterdeep and return them to Lord Ao.”

  “Well, why would we want to do that?” Kelemvor replied, scratching his head. He dropped out of sight, then returned with two nondescript squares meant to represent the sacred artifacts. “They’d make nice tables or even a good couple of chairs.” He tried to sit on them.

  Midnight hit him soundly with her wand. “Dolt. When we give these back to Lord Ao, he’ll make us gods.” The puppets froze and trembled in surprise at this news, just long enough for the audience to have their fill of shouting and hissing. “And then we can give all the people we like lots of power.”

  “Like the Zhentish?” Kelemvor asked foolishly.

  The crowd cheered, but Midnight silenced them. “Of course not. We like the dalesmen, especially that handsome Lord Mourn
grym. If we get to the mountain first, we’ll become gods and help them take over the world!”

  The chorus of boos was silenced by the appearance of a handsome, hawk-nosed Cyric-puppet at the edge of the stage. “This will not do!” he shouted to the audience, brandishing his rose-hued sword above the heads of the children huddled close to watch the play.

  As Midnight and Kelemvor trudged along toward Waterdeep, Cyric crept behind them, keeping to the fringes of the stage. The two occasionally paused on their mock quest to beat each other or embrace frantically. Then Cyric would sneak in, getting closer and closer to stealing the Tablets of Fate. Something different caused the thief to be captured each time—and each time he tricked the foolish duo into letting him go.

  “The old prig’s good at his job. I’ll say that much for him,” came a whispered voice at Vrakk’s ear.

  “Go ’way,” the orc rumbled, not bothering to look at Ivlisar.

  The body snatcher snorted in mock outrage. “Fine way to treat a chum, this is. Just because I haven’t seen you in a tenday.… Well, that can’t be helped now, can it? Circumstances beyond our control and all that.”

  Vrakk tried to look casual as he walked around the periphery of the audience, but the elf stuck to his side. The orc didn’t need to see Ivlisar to know he’d been drinking; the body snatcher’s breath sent the stench of cheap gin into the air with each syllable.

  “It took me days to find you.”

  “Wasted time,” Vrakk grumbled.

  “I’m leaving the city.”

  “So?”

  Ivlisar stepped in front of the orc, his shoulders squared in something akin to military fashion. His rail-thin frame was hidden beneath a triple layer of overcoats, with a gray cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He moved almost as stiffly as the puppets battling violently across the stage, though his face was very much animated by shock and anger.

  “Don’t you care about my connections?” the elf asked, flushing red to the tips of his pointed ears. “You need me, you know.”