by Ed Greenwood
Elaith Craulnober gracefully indicated a door. "That tunnel leads to a shop kept by a man who knows that anyone emerging from it is to be helped to discreetly depart the city. Trust in him, for he answers to me."
Mrelder gave a slight bow, in the manner of equals parting in mutual respect.
Elaith smiled. So much for the gratitude of the conquered whose life has been spared. He watched the cultists go, mulling over a feeling that Mrelder had taken some meaning from his words that he hadn't intended.
He turned, nodded, and watched his own forces swiftly scatter into their war-bands and plunge into various tunnels that led under the Purple Silk. Only when he was alone did he open a concealed door to take a hidden way to the festhall only he knew.
Old habits died hard, and Elaith would no longer deny the duties of his heritage and nature. He was a lord, wherever he chose to live and whatever he chose to rule. By his lights, he'd done Waterdeep many services this night-warning the First Lord of danger, standing guard over Piergeiron lest an enemy use the still-missing slipshield to approach him in the unreadable guise of a friend, casting magic that sent many of the revelers safely away from death from stone-fall, helping them find their way out of the tunnels, even culling some deadwood from noble family trees. He had one more service to give, though it irked him to yield such an advantage: the name and nature of he who would be Waterdeep's next Open Lord.
It occurred to him, suddenly, that perhaps Mirt and the rest knew their business better than he'd thought possible. Why else would they give such valuable magic as slipshields to a pack of noble pups?
Elaith hurried through the tunnel, a bemused smile on his face. Though he had lived long and seen much, this city never ceased to astonish and amuse him!
Suddenly, in silence and without any fuss at all, Amaundra fainted. Her eyes rolled up, her body quivered, and she stopped breathing.
"Wizard," Piergeiron snapped, springing up from where he'd been sitting, "you're killing her!"
Tarthus, lying flat on his back trembling uncontrollably, didn't look as if he could kill a fly. He stared up at the Open Lord with eyes of forlorn pain.
"I can't accept this any longer!" Piergeiron snapped. "I must fight for Waterdeep! It's my duty, and I'm needed! Drop the shielding!"
The golden dome persisted. Piergeiron repeated his order, shouting this time.
"N-no," Tarthus gasped faintly.
Madeiron Sunderstone laid one great, restraining hand on Piergeiron's arm and bent over the wizard on the floor. "I remind you that your oaths require you to obey any direct order from the Open Lord of Waterdeep."
"A higher authority forbids," Tarthus gasped, eyes still closed.
"What? There is no-"
Mirt waved a reproving finger in Piergeiron's face to quell lis outburst, then laid it to his own lips, and pointed down at Tarthus.
On cue, a very different voice came from the wizard's trembling lips. "Most of this last bell," it said in feminine tones all four men knew, "my strength has been holding the shield around you, Piergeiron. Tarthus has been obeying me-and in this matter, I am obeying Mystra herself."
"Laeral," Piergeiron breathed.
"Holy Mystra," Madeiron Sunderstone gasped, making a reverent gesture.
At that moment Mirt became aware that someone was standing just outside the shielding. A slender, handsome figure: Elaith Craulnober. Their eyes met.
Mirt lifted his eyebrows inquiringly. Elaith made a certain swift gesture. Mirt replied with another, and the elf confirmed the silent question with a nod.
They both made the chopping motion that signified agreement, and the moneylender shuffled forward, went down on one knee beside Tarthus, and firmly cuffed the wizard's head with one hairy fist.
That head lolled, the shielding went pale-and as Madeiron looked up and glared at the elf, clapping hand to hilt, Elaith calmly worked a spell.
Golden radiance fell away into dying sparks that flared into a sudden bright roaring that stabbed into every ear and eye and swept all Faerun away…
The first thing that Mirt the Moneylender heard was Piergeiron the Paladin groaning, "What happened?"
There was a low rumble of bafflement from Madeiron Sunderstone.
Boom.
Oh. That sounded all too familiar.
BOOM.
Through a glimmering of tears Faerun returned to him, and Mirt found himself groaning, rolling over, and peering at the bare feet of Amaundra Lorgra. The boots of Tarthus were right next to them, and above, the feasting-hall of the Purple Silks was still standing.
In a manner of speaking.
Boom-BOOM.
There was no sign of Elaith Craulnober. Nor were there Walking Statues at every window-though the ground trembled under the weight of their retreating footfalls, sending bits of the walls cascading down into dust at every blow.
BOOM.
"Hoy!" Mirt cried, causing Amaundra's head to jerk up. "We're free to flee this tomb-in-the-making! Get up, all of ye!"
Even barefooted Watchful Order magists of some seven decades of experience can move swiftly on their corns when they need to, it seemed-and in a few frantic, hurrying breaths of dodging falling stones, the five eminent Waterdhavians were outside and staring across the night-shrouded city.
The wall-lamps glimmered as always, and by their light the great stone guardians of Waterdeep could be seen resuming their usual places.
Piergeiron's eyes narrowed. "Who commands them? And just how by the Nine Hot Hells did whoever it was manage that trick?"
And then his gaze fell on the scrap of parchment Mirt held out to him, and the terse message written on it-the answers to his just-spoken questions. "Where," he asked softly, "did that come from?"
The old moneylender stared at what he was holding with a strange, perplexed expression, and then said slowly, "I've no idea. No idea."
A memory came into Mirt's mind then, through a golden shimmering: the wry smile of a certain elf.
Well, now, perhaps he knew the answer after all.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The strangest and most painful day of Beldar Roaringhorn's life was the day he attended his own funeral.
He wore Korvaun Helmfast's form, of course, his fallen friend's blue cape around his shoulder and a pale but composed Naoni staunchly at his side.
It was… odd, watching others mourn him. His family's grief was deep and genuine-and puzzling. How could they mourn someone they'd never really known? All his life he'd felt apart, ignored, even scorned, yet the senior Lord Roaringhorn spoke with tearful pride of his son's accomplishments, his swordsmanship, his riding, and his eloquent knowledge of law. The Roaringhorn heir confessed to feelings of envy-even inadequacy-that his fallen junior had been most fitted to inherit, to lead.
Nearly as hard to hear were the words of his friends-apologies for doubting him, praise for saving Korvaun Helmfast by giving him a potion that transferred his wounds to Beldar himself.
For that was the comfort every mourner held dear, and only three knew to be false: Beldar Roaringhorn had died that a friend might live.
Well, Beldar lived that his friend might live, and he stood in silent tears, iron-determined to leave a legacy that Korvaun would be proud of.
Only the Dyre sisters knew his secret, and Faendra had already cornered him alone, and told him in no uncertain terms that he would treat Naoni well or answer to her. Beldar needed no threat but rather admired the way she'd delivered it. The Dyre girls were superb-as fine as the magic that spilled from Naoni's clever fingers.
He looked at the woman at his side, noting her grace, her quiet strength. Small wonder Korvaun had lost his heart to Naoni Dyre. Beldar was already half in love with her himself. Perhaps, in time, she might…
"Korvaun, they're waiting for you to speak," Taeros murmured.
Korvaun had spoken at Malark's funeral, not so many days past. Those words had honored, comforted, and inspired. Now it was his turn to do the same for his friends and family.
<
br /> He strode to the coffin wherein Korvaun had been laid to rest, wearing both Beldar's form and-as a shroud-the ruby gemweave cloak. Drawing a deep breath, he began.
"We are none of us quite what we seem. Beldar Roaringhorn had dreams of greatness and perhaps the seeds of it too. He found not lasting greatness but brief glory, when he gave his life in service to others."
He stared around slowly at tearful faces.
"That greatest of deeds leaves an obligation upon all who knew him, and upon me most of all. It will henceforth define for me what it truly means to hold power, position, and wealth. Rest well, Beldar Roaringhorn, knowing that we will never forget this."
It was a short speech, but he saw in all those faces that it had been enough.
He walked back to his friends, accepting their nods and handclasps as what they were: warriors raising swords to acknowledge their leader.
What he once had been, he was again. This time, he would honor his responsibilities by becoming the man he was truly intended to be.
The summons to the Palace came the morning after Beldar's funeral. Taeros wasn't surprised; after all, he'd yet to account for the slipshield entrusted to him.
He made all haste, but when the seventh set of guards showed him into the room, Taeros found that there was only one vacant chair left-his. Korvaun nodded to him, seated with an exalted trio: Lord Piergeiron, Mirt the Moneylender, and the archmage Khelben Arunsun, who looked somewhat the worse for wear.
The Open Lord inclined his head. "Well met, Lord Hawkwinter. I trust you know us all?"
Taeros cleared his throat. "One only by repute."
Khelben fixed him with a stern eye. "Reputations you've labored to enhance, young scribbler, as a seabird enhances a statue."
Taeros felt his face grow warm as he recalled some of his more biting ballads. "If-if I've offended, I most humbly beg pardon."
Piergeiron waved a dismissive hand. "Waterdeep has need of men such as you, who make us all laugh and think at the same time. Four out of five snore during sermons, but sharp humor keeps them awake long enough to listen. 'Tis far easier to rule men who listen, think, and laugh than those who do none of those things."
A smile came unbidden to Taeros's face. It would seem he did have a role in the governance of this city, however small.
"Fewer than a dozen people in Waterdeep know of slipshields," the Blackstaff said abruptly. "It's been decided we'll keep the number small, rather than finding another man who can keep track of his property."
Taeros stared at what Khelben Arunsun held out to him then: A tiny shield affixed to leather thongs.
"Is that…"
"Against my better judgment, it is. Important in safeguarding this city and its leaders. Secrecy's vital."
Taeros closed his fingers firmly around this second chance. "I gave my vow, and I'll give it again if you require it."
"No need," said Piergeiron. "You fought loyally when the Statues walked, but understand that carrying a slipshield binds you not only to secrecy, but to service."
Taeros found this notion deeply satisfying. "That's my desire as well as my duty. It's all I've wanted in my life."
The three elders of Waterdeep nodded. Mirt then turned to Korvaun.
"And what of ye, young Lord… Helmfast. What'll ye make of your secrets? Some lordlings are all too boastful and proud, the more so when in their cups or feeling slighted."
Korvaun met the old man's sharp gaze calmly. "Some young lords are all that, and worse. As for me, know this: I am determined to live up to the name I bear."
His words rang across the chamber. After a moment, he added in a softer voice, "I've learned that some secrets are worth dying to protect."
Emboldened by his friend's fervor, Taeros said, "When I said my desire was to serve Waterdeep, I omitted something important to me: it's always been my desire to advise and stand with great men."
"We would be grateful for your advice," Piergeiron said gravely, with no hint of the patronizing tone Taeros thought he'd be more than justified in using.
"He's not speaking of us," Mirt growled. "He's talking about him."
The moneylender waved at Korvaun, a faint smile curling the corner of his untrimmed, food-hoarding mustache. "And mayhap-just mayhap-he might blasted well be right."
The faintly giggling man on the slab beside Mrelder didn't seem to know where he was or who was with him.
Setting his jaw, the sorcerer looked from his father to the beastmen standing over him, and said, "Do it."
The two Amalgamation priests started chanting.
As one of them lifted a knife, Mrelder smiled. "Just don't make me lopsided."
The shining blade swept down.
Out of purple agony he swam up into ruby-red pain. Mouthless, he shrieked… eyeless, he wept… voiceless, he prayed-and shot into the light.
Flaming torches overhead, and pain, pain, PAIN.
Mrelder screamed.
A face swam above his, grim and somehow familiar, blotting out torchlight. Cruel fingers forced his jaws apart, pouring gurgling iciness that soothed… soothed…
He sank thankfully away from the pain and the light, sinking into shadows warm and welcome, that His head was struck into fresh fire. "Stop that! Rise, Mrelder of the Amalgamation!" The priest slapped him again, and Mrelder found himself blinking up at the torches. His throat was raw, his body ached and, yes, itched despite all the healing potions they'd poured into him… and he was still screaming.
Or, no, the shrieking wasn't his. It was coming from beside him, and weakening into gurgles.
Golskyn of the Gods writhed on his slab, one eye socket empty and weeping, and a raw stump where his nearest arm ought to be.
Mrelder's father was dying, literally drowning in his own blood as he thrashed feebly.
Mrelder looked back up at priests. "How well did it go?"
"Very well. If your grafts remain alive, you've gained your father's fiery eye and his best arm."
That was saying something, considering how many powerful appendages the man who'd called himself Lord Unity had sported. Mrelder glanced down at his new limb, strong-looking and promisingly ruddy. "Well, we'll know soon enough."
"We will indeed." The beastman's voice was flat.
Their eyes met. Both knew that if Mrelder's grafts started to fail, the priests would slay him without hesitation. There was an old saying: Those who smite kings had best slay at first strike…
Mrelder struggled to sit up. Raw fire surged through him, and the only thing that kept him from weeping and vomiting was his body's struggle to decide which to do first-and the awe and respect on the faces of the priests.
With a smile of satisfaction, Mrelder forced himself upright. "To come to Waterdeep was no mistake," he announced to the dozen surviving Amalgamation faithful. He discovered that he was drooling blood but went on anyway. "Even so, Golskyn's deeds have made this city a trap for us now. We'll return here in time, but not before we are ready to triumph. Make ready for the journey back to the temple-cellar in Scornubel."
"And this?" One of the beastmen pointed at the mutilated and dying Golskyn.
Mrelder looked down at the weakly mewing man who'd filled his entire life with terror and pain. "He no longer matters. It's past time to leave him behind."
Mrelder hugged himself against gnawing pain as the lurching wagon creaked and groaned.
He lived, and the spell he'd so carefully prepared burned in his mind like an overwhelming lust.
"Stop the wagons," he ordered, thrusting aside the wagon-flap with his new arm. "This is far enough."
He clambered out and down and walked a little way along the ridge to look back at the distant walls and towers of Waterdeep.
"The City of Splendors," Mrelder murmured, and cast his spell with slow, deliberate care.
"There will come a day when this City of Splendors is mine… and that day will come sooner than any think."
The monstrous priest bowed his head. "Lord," was all he s
aid, but his voice was husky with reverence.
The beast-madness is a powerful spell, and during his time in Waterdeep, Mrelder of the Amalgamation had managed to touch or wound no less than six magists of the Watchful Order.
One of them erupted from quiet spell-study when the sorcerer's words crashed into his mind. He raced out and over a handy parapet, to a wet and bone-shattering death below.
Another whimpered, stopped in mid-stride on a busy street, and then burst into roaring, capering madness. Merchants recoiled from the wild-eyed, foam-mouthed wizard, and when he clawed at a shopkeeper's face, the frightened man snatched out his belt-knife and slashed the wizard's throat.
The other four erupted into madness inside Watchful Order moots and spell-chambers, where alarmed colleagues kept maddened magists from harm. All of those four survived, lapsing into calm, forgetting-all-that-had-befallen normalcy after announcing softly: "There will come a day when this City of Splendors is mine… and that day will come sooner than any think."
For the next tenday or three, there was much debate in the Order over those words, and the fell magic that had brought them-but Waterdeep is a busy, bustling city, and the wonder of today is the old news of the morrow. That calm promise, like the Night the Statues Walked, seemed likely to join the fading memories only bards and sages recalled.
But then again…
Winter was coming. So promised the brisk morning wind tugging Taeros Hawkwinter's cloak into a writhing amber semblance of flame as he reached the newest shop on Redcloak Lane.
It was smaller than the predecessor destroyed by sahuagin, fire, and playful nobles, but it was sturdily built of dressed stone. Its newly carved overdoor sign announced that Larksong Stories was open for business.
Taeros stepped inside and looked around with his usual pleasure. Bright new books lined the polished shelves. Comfortable chairs and heaps of cushions welcomed those who stopped by after tools-down to hear hired taletellers spin stories of Waterdeep.