by Ed Greenwood
If they had come back to Bladesemmer House this early, little doubt they'd be chasing the maidservants. Later returnees often entered the forecourt hall on litters carried by menservants of the house. Snoring or moaning out the sickness in their stomachs, such sons had had too much fiery wine and too little sense.
In earlier days, when sterner Bladesemmer men had ailed the House, no such unruly merriment would have been permitted. Time changes all things, and its unending march had carried away those stern brothers, uncles, and cousins, Tamaeril's husband among them. The younger folk laughed more and grudged less. They cared less about piling up gold coins and grimly holding to old traditions and old feuds. So the world turned again, and who was Tamaeril to stop it?
A lady of a noble line, yes, and a lord of great Water-deep to boot, though her lordship was a secret to all but a few. Still, age had relegated her to these spell-guarded chambers and a role of dispensing advice, approval, and disapproval that went gently unheeded alike.
Tamaeril sat back in her chair and remembered parties and suitors long ago. She reached for the tall, slender drinking jack on the table beside her. Its sinuous silver-shea died length caught trie candlelight. She raised it in age-dappled hands and looked thoughtfully at her gray-haired reflection.
Not four nights ago, Mirt had spoken to her of mounting one last adventure. "One last toss of us old dice." He'd been restless in his lord's chair a long time and had said such things before, but never had she felt such quickening, eager excitement at Mirt's talk. Perhaps…
There was a sudden flickering of cold, white light beyond the drinking jack-light where there should be none. Tamaeril lowered her wine to look.
An expanding oval of white, shifting light stood in midair, flickering as if it were a ring of flames that gave off no heat. A gate! A portal to span distance, perhaps even to link this plane with another, stranger one. Danger enough, and an effect that should not be able to form here, within her wards!
Tamaeril set down her jack and shifted to rise. Her hand went to the ornamented knife at her belt-but she v, as old and slow.
Too slow for the slim, gleaming blade that leaped at her out of the flowing flames of the gate, driven by an eager gloved hand. It slid into her soundlessly, with shocking ease. Its kiss was so cold that all the breath went out of Tamaeril's old lungs. Half-disbelieving, she felt the shock of the blade's tip biting into the chair behind her.
She stared at the masked face of her slayer-a young one, a man by his scent and build, gloved and clad in gray shadow-leathers. He smiled down at her fiercely, a smile cold with hatred.
Letting go of the sword that pinned her to the chair, the man reached with his sword hand to the cuff of his other glove, where several small pieces of silver gleamed.
"Don't you know me, Lady Tamaeril?" he asked in a soft, almost purring voice. Tamaeril knew she'd never heard it before. Tin surprised. Ladies, by and large, seem to know nothing-but you are both lady and lord. And lords of Waterdeep-or so I'm told," he added mockingly, "know everything."
The gloved hand was approaching her breast now, reaching over the blade that transfixed her even as the numbness of death crept swiftly outward from it. Helplessly Tamaeril watched it bring a small silver pin toward her, a pin in the shape of a harp.
A harp? He was pinning it to her gown now, gently and delicately, taking care not to prick her with the pin. Tamaeril smiled at the irony of that, even as she felt strength ebbing away. Blood slid into her lap and down her thighs, ruining her favorite gown….
"Why are you smiling, Lady Tamaeril?" came that soft voice again, this time with an edge of rising anger in it. "Do you find me amusing?"
There was a brief silence as Tamaeril swallowed and found she could not speak.
The masked man seemed to master himself. When he spoke again, his voice was once more soft and controlled. He stepped back a long pace to study her, wearing the pin, and seemed satisfied with what he saw.
"Know, Lady, that you must die to atone for the shame done to my family. You had no hand in it, true, but you are a lord, and you could have undone it. You did not, and so you die. More sudden than I would have preferred, perhaps, but I'm still learning this 'revenge.' As the bards say, it's rather sweet."
The gloved hand went out again as he approached. "They tell me that you were once beautiful," he said almost approvingly, as he picked up her drinking jack and swirled the wine left in it. He stepped back again, toward the cold fire of the portal, and added, "You look pretty now, with your color back. My apologies for the gown… but you wouldn't want anyone else wearing it after you're gone, would you? No common born or outlaw"-his voice went momentarily steel-hard- "should be seen in die streets in Lady Tamaeril's fine gown!"
Tamaeril's murderer sipped her wine thoughtfully. "I'll stay until you're quite dead, of course. Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"
Tamaeril sat helpless in her high-backed chair, strength failing. A venturesome ribbon of blood was sliding coldly down her ankle now. Talk… hadn't she grown weary enough of talking? And yet-you are a lord, and could have undone it. She was no more powerful than any other lord, and-I'm still learning this revenge. This one would slay as many lords as he could!
Most lords had Art or strength or skill at blades far more than her own to command, yes, but most were old or very busy or both. They were apt to sleep soundly when they retired to chambers warded against magic and guarded with loyal swords. How many would he kill before he was stopped?
A tiny, chilling voice asked within her, Would he be stopped? One last adventure, Mirt had urged. Well, she had not chosen it, but it, the Lady of Luck willing, had chosen her… both the "last" and the adventure.
Tamaeril smiled wryly, even as the drowsiness of her last great slumber stole up behind her eyes. Spells she had still, though none to harm this one or anyone. She must use them, for the sake of Mirt and Durnan and the others, even young and stern Piergeiron….
Tamaeril worked her lips to speak, even as she exerted her will in a silent command. A door she could not see, behind her chair-a door she would never see again- swung open by itself, in answer to her will.
"Wh-who…?" she managed to say, as the blood poured down her ribs more slowly.
The masked man lifted the drinking jack again.
Her night hound smelled the blood and the unfamiliar man and Tamaeril's fear all at once and came through the door in a silent bound. The shrieking howl of warning and battle rage was still rising in its throat as its jaws opened wide to tear out the intruder's throat. Borgul's front paws raked down the arm that the man threw up to ward off those jaws.
They fell together in front of Tamaeril. She tried to raise her hand to the blade that held her there. Her hand trembled and fell back. Numbly she bent her will again, to the crystal stopper of the wine decanter on the table beside her. It shifted, just a breath. Yes!
Borgul's jaws closed on the drinking jack, thrust between them for the crucial instant as he and the masked one rolled together on the floor. The intruder hissed one word. Many small lights pulsed, and Borgul stiffened without another sound. The man he'd sought to kill rolled free and found his feet.
The great hound lay spread and still as the masked man, breathing heavily, faced Tamaeril. "Have you any more pets, Lady? Anything else I can slay before your eyes? Well-can you no longer speak?"
Tamaeril turned weary eyes to him. "Young man," she said, raggedly, breast rising and falling with the effort of breathing as blood filled her lungs, "I would know who you… are… and… why-why-" She coughed, a racking agony that forced her head down and made her eyes flood with red tears.
Through it all she heard her killer say softly, "Tell you who I am? When I can let you die never knowing? Why, Tamaeril, gracious lady, I find I cannot afford you this satisfaction. Pray accept my deepest apologies." He laughed, a mirthless rasp that made her shudder.
Tamaeril forced her head up again and watched him through dulling eyes. Her will carried the cry
stal stopper silently on, on across the room. She would have only an instant once he discovered it. She dare not look until the very last moment.
Tamaeril forced herself to shudder again-it was not difficult, but the pain it brought was sickening-and turned her head, as if in agony. There. There it drifted, straight on, inches away from the servants' gong. Goddess, aid me.1
Tamaeril turned her head back to look at him. The gong rang.
He smiled. "Oh, by all means, Lady, summon aid. I want eyes to see you and loyal retainers to strike down with my Art! I want to enjoy this to the full! My thanks!" There was a sudden rustling behind him.
He spun with that thin-lipped smile still on his face. A spray of magic missiles darted from his hand to blast away the life of her just-awakened songbird, in its cage. Her tormentor hummed merrily as they heard the thud of a maid's slippers on the stair below.
Tamaeril raised a hand and spoke a cantrip of her own devising; the first magic she'd created for herself, under the tutelage of the one called Elminster, long ago. The elegant carpet beneath her slayer's feet jerked suddenly, sending him stumbling off-balance, back toward his flickering gate. Her other hand, slow and trembling, found its way to the cold steel in her breast.
When he regained his feet, the masked man was snarling with rage. "Enough, old cow!" he snapped. He strode forward and wrenched his blade free, twisting it savagely in her breast as he did so.
Tamaeril gave a little scream and doubled over, spitting blood. The hand that had been climbing past the blade found its destination by accident. Her convulsing fingers grasped the amulet about her neck. Dimly Tamaeril was aware of her murderer backing up to his gate. The door of her chamber swung open. The wards shone suddenly bright across it. Her maid's thin scream rose shrilly. Shouts and pounding feet came in answer.
The amulet glowed, faint and blue-green and soothing. Pain ebbed as Tamaeril stared into the light and lost herself in it. She scarcely felt the magic missiles mat tore into her old and broken body, lifting her back up into a sitting position in the high-backed chair. Tamaeril made a gift of the last of her strength. With the few fading instants of her life, she whispered a warning to her colleague and friend Mirt. Mirt, Beware! Masked one… comes slaying lords… has Art… took me, Tamaeril….
And so, with the pride of accomplishment, Tamaeril, oldest Lord of Waterdeep, slid into the embrace of death. The crystal stopper shattered as it struck the floor. The chamber was silent for a moment before the small, grieving wail of Tamaeril's favorite cat began.
[Somewhere in Hell, the fallen human-sprawled on rocks drenched with his own blood-sinks hungry and yet sick, parched and yet awash, into waiting oblivion-]
Don't you faint on me, treacherous human! We'll just taste the mindwokm together again, shall we? You were finally going to show me some magic, after a tour though all the Dying lords of Waterdeep as i recai.l…
[mind lash, mental pincers clamping down furiously, images streaming]
Mitt the Moneylender, who had once been called Mirt the Merciless, stared around the darkened wizard's parlor and swallowed. "Gods take us all," he rumbled, broad blade already gleaming in one hairy fist. "What are we coming to, that lords of Waterdeep can be struck down in blood, in their own cozy-rooms? And a wizard, too!"
He glared about the room like an angry hawk, bristling. A battered hand-axe seemed to find its own way from his belt into his other hand.
"Keep close now, lass," he added. "I can't protect you if I can't reach you, as some smart-tongued prince or other said to his concubine, just before I spilled his brains out…. I forget me just where that was, now. Gods, but I must be getting old!"
"Now, my lord," Asper reproved him softly, her own slim blade in her hand as she put her back to his, eyes darting warily about the room, "remember that ballad of Randal Morn's: 'You're only as old as the one who feels you'!"
Mirt grunted, and then chuckled reluctantly. "Aye. Aye, I recall. But hush, now, as we prowl a bit. If any buck's going to try and gut me, I want to hear him coming!"
They stood together in the dim, cluttered parlor of Resengar called the Whitebeard (and, by some of his apprentices, Old Baldpate), a lord of Waterdeep and one of Mirt's friends. Or rather, he had been.
Not the width of a hand from Mirt's battered, flapping old boots lay Resengar, eyes gleaming sightlessly up at the star-decorated ceiling above. The old wizard's hands were drawn up as if to ward off a foe. His mouth was open in disbelief. Just beneath it, someone had opened another mouth in his throat, a red sword slash that still leaked blood onto the dark furs underfoot.
Looking down at him, Asper almost expected Resengar to cough his dry little cough, look all about with beard bobbing, as he always did, and apologize for having nodded off. But as silent moments followed, one after the other, he did not move. Those staring, sightless eyes grew dull. Resengar would never cough again.
Mirt had liked the shy, fussy old wizard perhaps best of all his fellow lords, after Durnan. He'd been looking forward to swapping ancient tales over even older wine tonight with the aging fusspot, watching Resengar stare longingly at Asper as he treated her with elaborate courtesy-until the wine took him and he began to snore, whereupon they'd quietly leave. As usual.
Now someone had cut Resengar the Whitebeard down in the middle of his cozy-room, his most private chamber, amid all his wards and defenses of Art. Someone who had left a silver Harper's pin behind on the breast of the wizard's robes. Resengar-who had never worn his own rune, let alone any other insignia-did not even own such a thing.
Someone was going to pay. Pay in blood, if Mirt the Merciless had anything to say about it. He hadn't realize he'd snarled that aloud until he heard Asper's soft but firm, "Yes, Lord. I am with you and will stand with you in this."
Mirt turned to smile at her, and Asper saw tears glistening in his angry old eyes. He met her understanding gaze, saw her expression, and tossed his head, turning away quickly. "Well, then," he said gruffly, "let's be looking about, then! We won't be finding anyone while we stand here, growing old!"
Asper only smiled and nodded as her lord turned and stomped away into the dim corners of the chamber, weapons raised. He had been a lion of a man once, Iron shoulders swung axe and long sword from the saddle on many a battlefield in those days, with force enough to cleave armor and bone. Or so the old warriors' tales told, in the taverns.
Men had called him Mirt the Merciless, and when he rode, fear rode before him. The Wolf, lie was, and his men the Company of the Wolf. They looted and slew with grim efficiency. Butchery was never their mark, except against those who did not pay the Wolf his promised fee, or dealt him treachery. Those he hunted down and slew-mercilessly.
No man can stop the seasons, it is said, or escape their slow but certain claws. Winters pass, uncaring, and with them strength seeps away. The Wolf became the Old Wolf; Mirt grew old and gray-and rich. Men no longer feared his name. He rode no longer to war. The coin he had won by the hire of his sword lie lent out, at fair rates, in the city of Waterdeep. Those who tried to cheat him learned that his sword had not grown so slow as all that, and that over the years he had learned a trick or two and picked up a useful magical bauble or three.
When honest debtors could not repay loans, he lent them more in return for a share of this and a share of that. In such a way he saw many old war companions to comfortable graves, who would otherwise have starved or frozen, homeless, in winter gales. Min said prayers over their failing foreheads or unhearing remains, paid for the burials, and turned over what they had left to their descendants. What he owned a share of-hovels, shops, or ships-he bought outright and took as his own.
In this patient way Mirt the Moneylender grew richer without making over-many enemies, and became as well loved as a moneylender can. Well loved? Aye, and in the end a lord of Waterdeep, for many small kindnesses revealed in his grayer years, and one greater one.
The homeless girls of the city were always welcome at Greygriffon House, once the quarters
of Mirt's mercenary company. Mirt spent much gold hiring good women to see to the girls' upbringing and tutelage, and himself sponsored them to apprenticeships as they desired or gave them dowry when they were taken to wife.
"Mirt's Maids" were always to be seen wearing gowns as fine as any goodwife when out in the streets. When of seventeen summers, they were free to take their weight in silver and gold and make their own way in the world. Some stayed happily at Greygriffon House. Others asked Mirt to sponsor them as apprentice smiths, or warriors, or ship captains. The Old Wolf proved to have a heart as soft as his pockets were deep, and did so.
If he grumbled and bristled and blustered through his days, those who knew him saw past that and valued his friendship for what it was. Mirt grew fat and wheezing from hours at the flask and belly-up to well-laden tables, but he never laid aside his weapons or let clown his guard of wary eye and sharp wits.
Asper looked at her lord now and saw wrinkles and stubble, his paunch and wild-flowing, mostly gray hair. She saw too the anger smoldering in his eyes as he looked around die room with drawn sword raised, and loved him all the more.
She had always loved him, since that day many years ago when he had come loping through the streets of a burning city, while his troops looted and slew all around him, and scooped her up from under the wild hooves of a riderless horse.
Hardened fighting men had looked on amazed as their general, the cold and deadly Wolf himself, caught up the crying toddler. He had held her close against his stubbly cheek as he snatched the reins of the terrified horse, hauled it near enough to grab a brutal fistful of mane, swung into the saddle, and spurred out of that ruined place.
Women he had taken, that night and many nights later, but always he bathed and cuddled his stolen child before he slept, telling tales and hoarsely whispering coarse songs to her in the night.
"Asper" was all she remembered of her name. Asper she was to him. She rode to battle strapped to his back, wrapped to the chin in thick, sweat-stained leathers, A great steel shield covered him from shoulder to shoulder and kept her safe, if half deafened and much bruised, within.