by Paul S. Kemp
Some of those trudges would be long. Ombreir was a sprawling place, a massive, towering stone house rising three stately floors from the ground, with the general shape of a rider's spur connecting three towers, one to the south and a northwest-northeast pair. At the junction of the spur were a splendid sweeping stair-ornate luxury compared to the narrow, bare spirals inside the towers-and a central block of grand chambers surrounding a glass-roofed courtyard. The easternmost of those lofty rooms was a grand entry hall, for the entrance to Ombreir lay in the east. A foregate ramp approached the mansion between two ponds to reach a spired gatehouse in Ombreir's surrounding fortress wall. All around that wall was a dry ditch moat large and deep enough to swallow a man on a horse, and all around the moat were tilled fields, slopes stretching away with not a tree in sight.
Ombreir was pleasant to the eye, from its soaring stone shy;work to the fruit-tree shade-bower out back-enspelled to keep birds away-to the southwest, the stables to the west with their gabled servants' quarters above the stalls, and the gardens to the northwest.
Not that Mirt could gaze on those amenities just then. All he could see was the quiet luxury of the paneled, bedchamber-lined upper passage in which he and Tauniira stood. At that spot in its long, curving run, it briefly became a balcony over shy;looking the central courtyard. Though the sun was quite gone, its light shining through stained glass skylights had earlier dappled the yard with spectacular patterns. The courtyard held a well surrounded by three soaring darm-fruit trees-and Mirt loved darm. They looked like rose red oranges but had soft, sweet red flesh like the watermelons of the Tashalar. Five darm had vanished from those trees already. Mirt had tossed the peels down among the knee-deep mint that grew thickly along the outer wall.
Mirt looked grim. Tauniira tried to cheer him by leaning in to kiss his neck, just under his jawline. He stood as unresponsive as a statue, so she lightly patted his codpiece.
"Not now," he growled promptly.
"No?" she pouted teasingly. "Well, before morning?" Mirt's sudden grin seemed to crack his face. "Of course."
"Yet the wheel will turn," Harlo Ongalor said smoothly, emerald eyes flashing in the candlelight as he leaned forward to smile down the glittering feast table. Nothing seemed to keep the vizier from smiling his habitual tight little smile.
"When orc hordes come, yes, war rages until one side or the other is exterminated. Yet in lands held by men, there's a time for the sword and a time when every belly wants to be full, and coins are to be made. Amn knows war well, but will not be consumed in war. Soon, now, this strife will all be over."
"This strife," Imril Morund drawled meaningfully. The sly, sophisticated dealer in perfumes-and, so rumor insisted firmly, poisons-wasn't quite the most sleek or handsome of the wealthy Amnians dining more or less as captives of the Rightful Hands. Yet he was undoubtedly the most urbane, glib, and confident. "It remains to be seen if any of us here will live to see another."
"Oh, but surely-" Lady Roselarr started to purr.
"Oh, but surely nothing," Ralaerond Galespear interrupted, lounging in his chair to strike a pose, long fingers raising his full tallglass to catch the light. He was the most handsome man in the room, and his every movement proclaimed as boldly as any herald that he knew it. A notorious womanizer, Galespear was the young and spoiled heir of a horse breeding family who owned many buildings in every city of Amn and grew ever fatter on the ceaseless flow of rents. "War claims lives," he pointed out bitterly, as if personally insulted by what he was imparting, "and we sit here in the heart of bloody war, with armies on the march all around us. If one turns this way, we can muster barely enough blades to offer them a few breaths of entertainment ere we die."
"As men of Amn," Larl Ambror snapped, "I have no doubt that we will die valiantly." The thin, dark wine merchant's face betrayed nothing, which surprised no one. Day after day it seemed carved of unchanging stone.
"Oh?" Morund asked. "Tell me now: How exactly does a valiant dying scream of agony outshine any other dying scream of agony?"
"Enough," Darmon Halandrath rumbled, his voice as deep and as oily as ever. "This is hardly fitting feast-talk." The fat, indolent, and decadent heir of a very successful family of moneylenders and city builders nodded at the three diners seated beyond him; splendidly garbed Amnians who had turned pale and leaned back from their platters, wincing or shuddering. "Amn has a bright future and is awash in rightful wealth. Talk less gloom and more of the opportunities and good things that await us all."
"Indeed," Gorus Narbridle agreed smoothly, his freshly waxed bald head gleaming in the candlelight. "I recall from my own youth the dire talk of bloodshed and doom that younglings then reveled in-and where are they now? All grown fat and rich and older, given to talking fondly-wistfully-of their youthful darings. Some doom!"
"Yet I do have a concern, Saer Ongalor," Lady Helora Roselarr said, "about remaining here in Ombreir-we few, with so many armed foes abroad in the Dauntir-after the rest of the Rightful Hands have galloped off on some mysterious mission. Why do we tarry? Are you hoping to hide here unnoticed? Or are we waiting for some meeting or other you have not yet seen fit to inform us of?"
The three Amman heirs seated beyond Halandrath's grossly fat bulk suddenly stopped looking fearful and glared at her in unison.
Harlo Ongalor, however, spread his hands and smiled broadly, for all the world as though Roselarr was a daughter he was deeply fond of. "I harbor no such sinister secrets, Lady Roselarr. It was in fact your safety I thought most of-though I was mindful of the importance to Amn of these other fair scions of the land around this table, too-when I sent most of the Hands a few days' ride from us, into sword-strife and bloody danger, so Prince Elashar could make himself personally known to the elder nobles of Amn who are rightfully suspicious of all so-called 'heirs' of the royal line, and so win their support. It is peril he must face, but I thought it cruel folly to hazard all the rest of you. Moreover, it will look best if I am not with him, so no one can deem me his captor or mind-master. So here we are, enjoying this excellent repast."
Narbridle quietly rose from his seat, nodding silently to the vizier.
"Fleeing from doom?" Morund asked lightly.
The bald man gave the perfumer a sour look. "The doom of an overly full bladder, yes. Not that I saw need to proclaim this. Polite folk do not speak of such things."
"Oh?" Imril Morund asked. "Are there 'polite folk' at this table? I thought we were all of Amn."
Surprisingly, it was Narbridle who chuckled. A moment later, the deep rumble of Darmon Halandrath's mirth began.
"Nothing," Hargra said wearily, caressing the hilt of her wicked-looking cleaver. "Yet I've got that bad feeling I get-got it strong. I'll wager none of us'll score much sleep this night."
"Then get started," Mirt said fondly, patting her shoulder. He was one of very few males-and the only human one-who could do that without the half-orc whirling to sever their offending hands. Scarred and toad faced, Hargra was both surly and very swift with her weapons.
Tonight, she merely grunted and ducked away, her large lower tusks gleaming as much as brown and broken fangs can. Her slap startled Tauniira almost as much as the growled words that followed it.
"He's as much on edge as I am," the half-orc told her, jerking a thumb in Mirt's direction before striding on. "Service him."
Larl Ambror's shout of horror plunged the table into startled silence. The wine merchant reeled back out of the archway that led to the garderobes, his face white-and spewed his meal violently all over the floor before fainting.
Imril Morund sprang to his feet, dagger drawn, but Ralaerond Galespear was faster, darting through the archway and reappearing again just as Morund and-surprisingly-the Lady Roselarr reached it.
"Narbridle is dead," the horse breeder told them. "Magic."
The vizier lifted a disbelieving eyebrow. "Magic? Are you an expert in the Art, Saer Galespear?"
The handsome young heir gave him a stony stare. "I don't
have to be. How else but with a spell can you blast a man's head to bloody pulp, in utter silence?"
The utter silence that descended on the feast hall then was chill with foreboding.
Mirt lifted his gaze from what was left of Gorus Narbridle, his face carefully expressionless. "This would seem to be a matter best investigated by a wizard."
There was glee in the vizier's smile.
Mirt looked past Ongalor's shoulder at the three Amnians behind him. They would be the wizards, ready to blast him as they'd served Narbridle.
"I have every confidence in your abilities, Mirt of Waterdeep," the vizier said smoothly, his crooked smile broadening and making it as clear as if he'd shouted it that he knew very well the why of the murder, as well as the who and the how-and wasn't going to say.
The wave of magic was like a creeping in the air, an invisible tingling tension that rolled silently up to Mirt, washed over him in a moment of utter chill. . and rolled on down the passage, as swiftly as it had come.
Mirt stood still for a long breath or two, listening hard for crashes, screams, or… anything.
When he heard nothing, moment after long moment, he relaxed, shrugged, and stalked on.
Seven strides later he heard an abrupt, angry whisper out of the empty air, and froze again, listening intently.
Nothing.
Slowly and warily he started walking again, frowning at what he'd heard. A woman's voice, out of the empty air, distant and yet near at hand, calm yet furious, asking: "Who dares to kill the Weave here?"
Mirt looked sourly around the room. "So the vizier is readying my neck for the noose now. I am charged to uncover Narbridle's murderer-and he and I both know he ordered the killing."
"So it's starting," Hargra growled.
At about the same time Elgan snarled, "What by the Nine Hells are we going to do?"
"Aye," Brindar spoke up. "Why don't we just sword the vizier and get out?"
Tauniira sighed. "At least three-likely more-of the Amnian family 'captives' are really Ongalor's wizard friends, in magical disguise. Swording the vizier, or just trying to flee, would be hurling ourselves straight into our graves."
Elgan exploded. "Then what, by the untasted charms of-"
The door boomed, driving Targrath into a sword-ready crouch beside it, as he glared at the door bar as if expecting it to spring treacherously up out of its cradle and yield passage to whoever beat his fists on the door.
"Mirt!" a young voice called, high with fear and excitement. "Mirt, open up! You're summoned! Another killing!"
Mirt sighed. "Unbar the door," he ordered Targrath with disgust. "Can't we even plot our own dooms in peace?" Striding forward, he asked calmly, "Who's dead now, Torandral?"
"Another heir! The vizier would not let me see but said the man was lying in his bed, called by the gods but without a mark on him."
"Everyone stay here," Mirt ordered. "Awake, boots back on, armed and ready. No need to go creeping anywhere. Any violence will probably soon come calling at this door."
Sword drawn, he flung the door wide. Torandral stood alone in the passage, fairly hopping in excitement.
"Just along here! In the-"
"Bedchambers, yes," Mirt said. "Get back to your post. Strangely enough, I can find my way along this passage without a guide." Then he added gruffly, "My thanks, Torandral. Diligently done."
The crestfallen young armsman smiled uncertainly, then rushed back down the passage to his post.
Watching him stumbling along, Mirt shook his head and wondered how few breaths Torandral had left in life.
Or would the jesting gods leave the young fool alive, in a day or two, when all the rest of them were dead?
Imril Morund was lying on his back, sprawled naked across the grand bed. The vizier had cast the dead man's tunic across his face, but the rest of him did indeed lack signs of violent struggle. There was a faint, sharp tang in the air, like the aftermath of a lightning storm.
Harlo Ongalor stood beside the bed, looking agitated. "Another slaying! Mirt, you must find this murderer quickly, before…" He waved both hands expressively.
Mirt frowned. The vizier wasn't feigning; the man was truly upset. He plucked away the tunic to lay bare the man's face.
As he'd expected, it wasn't Morund.
Mirt looked at the vizier. "A clue you wanted me to discover for myself?'' he asked calmly.
Ongalor glared at him murderously for a moment, then recovered his usual smooth near smile. "But of course. This must be Morund-or at least the man we thought was Morund-but I don't recognize the face. Do you?"
"Yes," Mirt said, watching the vizier closely." 'Tis the mage Klellyn. One of your longtime trading partners, I believe."
The vizier blinked, then stared at Mirt just an instant too long. Accustomed to lording it over everyone within reach, Ongalor wasn't quite the smooth actor he believed himself to be. Looking down again at the dead face, he frowned. "Is it? No, surely… but yes… yes, it is!"
He looked up again at Mirt as sharply as any snake. "So how do you know of Klellyn and my dealings with him?"
Mirt shrugged. "I was one of Klellyn's longtime trading partners, too."
The vizier's look of astonishment required no acting. "But-but he never discussed one of his, ah, associates with another."
"Didn't he?" Mirt kept his face as expressionless as the dead man's. "Well, I suppose there were those he trusted enough to talk freely with, and… others."
The vizier went red, then white. "You will uncover the killer of Klellyn, sellsword," he snapped, "if you want to remain ali-in my employ!"
Mirt turned away, heading for the door. "But of course," he said over his shoulder, in perfect mimicry of the vizier's own habitual, softly mocking voice.
Mirt had barely dozed off when the scream awakened him.
Tauniira tensed, bare and warm against him but awake in an instant. Mirt rolled away, growling, "You stay here, and keep the bed warm. I won't be long."
"Said the man stepping off the cliff," Tauniira hissed at him in the darkness as he buckled on his breeches and stamped his feet into his boots.
Mirt gave her a friendly growl by way of reply as he shrugged on his mail shirt and made for the door, sword in hand.
Deln and another two sentinels were waiting in the passage as he came trotting up to the row of closed bedchamber doors.
One opened momentarily, farther along, but closed again just as swiftly. It was Larl Ambror's door, though Mirt could have sworn the momentary slice of face peering out into the passage had belonged to the Lady Roselarr.
Well, such doings were none of his concern. Deln and the others stood guard over another door.
The door of Harlo Ongalor's bedchamber.
Mirt put his hand on the door ring. Locked. He leaned against the door. Barred, too.
"Begone," the vizier said curtly, from the other side of the door. "Get hence."
"You screamed," Mirt said.
"It was nothing. A nightmare."
"You've charged me to investigate two murders," Mirt replied, "and I'm doing that. Operating under Hawkwinter orders, not just yours. I insist on entering your room now, to see matters for myself. Open your door or I'll break it down-with great satisfaction."
There was a long moment of silence, then the gentle thumping of the bar being lifted could be heard, followed by the scrape of the bolt and the rattle of the lock. The door swung inward.
Deln stepped forward in perfect unison With Mirt, the points of their two swords entering the dimly lit room first. The vizier gave way before them, drenched with sweat and staring-eyed, as white as his own bed silks. . but there was no body to be seen, nor anything disarranged in the room. Ongalor was fully dressed, and his bed had been turned open for slumber, but not slept in.
"Satisfied?" the vizier snapped, his voice thin and high with fear.
"What happened?"
Ongalor shrugged.
"You screamed," Mirt said. "What happened?"
Mirt walked slowly around the man, peering intently at him from all sides, then turned away without a word and strode out, Deln standing as rearguard as if they were on a battlefield.
"Back to posts," Mirt ordered wearily, and the sentinels trudged away.
The moment no one else was within earshot, Deln muttered, "I saw what befell."
"You fail to surprise me," Mirt murmured. "Speak."
"Ongalor was out in the passage, creeping along like a sneak thief, listening at every door. He went past Marimbrar, then me, ignoring us like we were furniture, so we tailed him. 'Twasn't hard; he never once looked back-until he got his fright, and turned to flee. What scared him was just seeing two men, standing calmly talking to each other, away down the end of the passage."
"And these two men were…?"
"Prince Elashar's double, and a second double. So alike you couldn't tell one from the other, but neither of them the so-called 'real' Elashar. Neither had that little scab on his cheek from where he cut himself on that hanging lamp."
Mirt nodded slowly. "They'll both have fled long since, of course. So our vizier is worried that someone else is playing little games in this house. Or that wizards he thought he had under control are doing what wizards always do: getting up to mischief of their own."
The strong morning sun did not seem to shine on the dust churned up by the horses trotting hastily out through the gates. Vizier Harlo Ongalor and the three Amnian heirs who did everything in unison seemed in a great hurry to be elsewhere-and Mirt suspected the sun was avoiding their dust for the same reason it couldn't reach into the stables on so bright a morning: magical barriers conjured by Ongalor's wizard allies. This one would be to keep arrows and crossbow quarrels from Ombreir striking them down from behind as they rode away, and the stables' barrier to keep anyone else from taking a horse to flee the mansion before the Just Blades came slaying.