A deep sigh, again. “As you wish, sir.”
That evening, after breaking open the wand, I turned to Ampi and said, “How do I look?”
The genie frowned, canted his head to one side, and asked, “Something’s wrong.”
“Wrong? How can anything be wrong?” I turned back to the mirror. Looking out was a rather dapper-looking dark elf in my clothes. My hair was ghost white, and my skin the color of night, a purple verging on ultraviolet. I smiled and primped for a moment.
“I think its the smile,” said the genie at last.
“Too flashy?” I asked.
“Too present,” replied Ampratines. “I can’t think of any drow smiling, unless the situation dealt with accidental dismemberment. Try to frown.”
I attempted a scowl.
“Better, but not quite,” said Ampi. “You don’t look angry, only petulant. Try to look more tragic. More angst-ridden.”
I scowled harder.
Ampi let out a sigh, “I suppose that’s the best we can do. Here, take these.” He handed me several long strips of white cloth.
I gave the genie a quizzical look and he explained, “The drow often communicate by a language of signs. Should you be challenged on the matter, you can complain you have been wounded and unable to respond.”
I looked at the bandages, and took them from him. At least he had stopped trying to convince me to abandon Drusilla and was trying to be constructive. As I wound the bandages around my wrists and palms, he continued. “I’ll summon a carriage. I would keep the hood of my cloak up while in the Wyvern, though. I don’t think the Upper City gets much in the way of underground conqueror races and might not appreciate your continence, and I will not be there to aid you.”
I blinked at the genie. “You aren’t coming? I was looking for someone to ride crossbow on this adventure. Just in case things go wrong.”
“I will be along presently,” said the genie. “I asked the sage Prespos for a particular item, and will be along myself as soon as I retrieve it.”
And with that I was off for the L.C. again, bundled in the back of the carriage, my face hidden beneath a voluminous cloak. The illusion had provided the cloak, along with a pair of ridiculously curved long swords. The latter were extremely dashing, but made sitting properly impossible. I ended up sprawling across the back of carriage, wondering if this inability to sit was what made dark elves so surly.
Night had fallen in the Lower City, which meant the gray of the day had surrendered at last to the smoky blackness of the evening. There was a haifling guard posted outside the Burrows this time, vetting the various individuals. Traditional revelers and regulars were being turned away at the door, along with a few angry humans. I waited my turn in the queue, practicing my scowling. Being made to wait helped my acting immeasurably.
Finally the party ahead of me was turned aside, a group of dwarf laborers bitterly disappointed that their evening game of “toss-the-darts-at-the-elves” had been interrupted. The halfling at the door scowled at me and said, “Private party tonight.”
“I know,” I said, trying to out scowl him. “There is an item up for sale. I wish to be included in that bidding.”
“Name?”
My mind went, for a tragic moment, blank.
“Ziixxxita” I snarled at last, trying to string as many Z’s and X’s together as possible.
“How do you spell that?” he asked.
“You spell it how it sounds,” I said, spreading my cloak and resting my hands on the hilts of the blades.
The halfling looked at the curved blades, then at my face again. Then he nodded toward the door. I gave the small humanoid a sullen snarl and passed within.
I was a late arrival. The half-orc barbarian was there, along with the fancy-dressed southern dwarf and a drow woman dressed in a low-cut gown that denied gravity, morality, and several local zoning ordinances. There were no less than seven mages of various nonhuman types in the room, and a few creatures that were wrapped in thick cloaks, species unknown.
Most of the tables had been cleared to the sides of the room and the chairs organized in a rough line facing the bar. A buffet table had been thoughtfully set up at the opposite end. As I entered one of the halflings was standing on the bar, thundering a large stave against the top and calling for order.
As I scanned the room my eyes locked on those of the drow woman. She looked as imperious as drow women were reported to be, but was not fully a drow matriarch. A drow debutante, then, but still one that could expose my masquerade.
She raised a hand, and her fingers drew intricate patterns in the air. I froze for a moment, suspecting a spell, but realized immediately that she was greeting me in her unknown language. I raised my bandaged flippers and gave the best dourful look I could manage. She in turn gave me a frosty glare, but nodded.
I exhaled slowly, mentally thanking both the gods and Ampi, and took a seat on the far side of the room from the drow woman. I did not trust my disguise against a true native of the Underdark, and did not wish to press my luck. I ended up next to the half-orc.
“Whaddya bid onnit?” said the half-orc, without preamble or greeting.
I thought for a moment. Actually, if the bidding brushed the crystal sphere, I was planning on just noting who had bought the box and approaching them later. Would be better than dealing with halflings. Still, a reply was called for. “Whatever it takes,” I said, and scowled deeper.
The half-orc gave a deep chuckle. “Yagreed. Whativer i’takes,” He pulled a barbed dagger. “Just don’ git’n m’way, eh?”
“Take your seats,” said the halfling. As our motley mob took our places, he thumped his staff thrice more and the show got on the road.
The back door swung open and a procession emerged: one of the ogres, a pair of halfling guards with spears, a well-dressed halfling with a serving dish, two more halfling guards, and the last ogre. Any of the halflings could be Big Ugly. Or all of them.
The well-dressed halfling climbed up behind the bar and set the serving dish on it. The two ogres took up positions on either side, also behind the bar. The halflings guarded the doors. The halfling with the staff said, “We are the representatives of the owner of this establishment, known to the humans as Big Ugly. We thank you for coming on short notice. A foolish fop of a human has approached us in regards to an item that we have in our possession. While we wish to be rid of it, we want to give our non-human brethren”-and with this he waved a small paw at the assemblage-”the opportunity to bid on it first. Many of you have had the chance to examine the item in question, though not all. Therefore, there will be a brief examination session before we begin to accept bids.”
The halfling with the serving dish lifted the lid and the assembled group milled forward in roughly two adjacent lines down the center of the room. I could not see the box itself from the back of the pack, but the group was generally orderly, like mourners at a funeral. Each paid their respects and then returned to their seats.
I let the half-orc pass ahead of me, but ended up alongside the drow woman. “Where are you from?” she said with a cold smile. She was looking ahead, but her question was obviously for me.
I mumbled something indistinct, then said, “Water-deep,” at last.
“Skullport, you mean, the city beneath the city?” she nodded, “I’ve heard of it but I’ve never been. Who are you?”
“I’ll tell if you will,” It was almost our turn up to the box.
The drow looked at me, and it was a curious look. Apparently drow males were not so forward, but she said “Fair enough. I am Marinanta, loyal follower of the Demiurge of Despair, faithful to the Maiden of Pain. And you?”
“Ziixxxita,” I muttered, keeping to my original story. Then the mage and the half-orc in front of us parted and I got my first look at the box.
It made me think of Drusilla immediately. It had that same sort of purity, a radiance that seemed to embody the young woman. It was a cube of translucent yellow gold, only about three inches on
a side. The faces were incised with numerous carvings and mystic wards, simitar to the walls of the Burrows themselves. I daresay that this little number would give Ampi a nasty head-pain as well. There was no obvious latch or hinges. Within the translucent box, something indeterminate seemed to glow of its own power.
In a moment I knew why Drusilla wanted the box, or at least thought I knew. It was one of the most splendid things I had seen in my life. I also knew in a moment that I could not afford what the others would bid on this.
I looked up at the drow in the low-cut gown next to me, expecting to see in her eyes the same look of wonder and appreciation. Instead, I saw a set of narrowed eyes that pierced me to the core.
“Ziixxxita is a woman’s name,” she hissed, “Who are you, really?”
Had I been thinking about my mystoricals I could have toughed it out, have thought of some glib explanation, but in truth I had been wowsered by the beauty of the box. I did the one thing a drow never should do. I smiled.
Her eyes flew open in recognition immediately. “You’re not a drow,” she snarled. Louder, she shouted, “We have an impostor among us!”
I spun on my heel immediately, looking at the shocked faces of the others. “We have an impostor!” I agreed loudly, “And that’s him!” I pointed at the back of the half-ore barbarian, who was at the moment ensconced at the buffet table.
I had chosen a perfect target, if only because the barbarian had at the moment a mouth full of roast beef and could not defend himself verbally. Instead he dropped his plate and reached for his blades, which was as good as an admission of guilt. Both ogres vaulted the bar, while around the room there was the sudden, deadly whisper of blades, wands, and spellcasting materials being pulled from sheaths, holders, and pockets.
The drow woman shouted, “No, not him, the other drow!” But by that time I made my move. As everyone was turning toward the half-ore, I lunged forward and grabbed the amber box. The artifact felt warm to the touch, and that warmth comforted me to the core. I felt a need to protect it, to take it back to Drusilla.
There was an explosion from the side of the buffet table as one of the mages decided that the half-ore was guilty of something, if not of being an impostor. That half of the room was bathed in a shining radiance, followed by the smell of singed ore-flesh and the cries of temporarily blinded non-human mages. By the time the drow woman had shouted her correction, I was already halfway to the door. I intended to vault the two halfling guards and make my escape into the night.
That was the intention. Instead I found an overturned chair and got tangled in its legs. With a shout I pitched forward and downward, still clutching the box in my bandaged hands.
The fall probably saved my life. Over my head there were a scattering of lightning shards, fire bolts, and other magical missiles. The ward-covered walls glowed as they were infused by the energies, then began to smoke as the mystic wards themselves were overloaded by the assault.
I picked myself up as everyone was reloading and charged for the door. The two now slightly-singed ogres had reversed direction and were bearing down on me, hammerlike fists raised in assault.
The first time I fell was by accident. Now I did it on purpose, tossing myself behind an overturned table. The ogre fists slammed into the wall behind me. Then I was up again, making for the door as ogre curses berated my back.
The haft-end of a spear swung upward from out of nowhere and caught me in the face. My brain would have recognized it as belonging to one of the halfling guards, and would have realized that was why halflings would carry spears. The better to swat tall thieves with. Instead my brain was concentrating on getting back off the floor. If it had any spare room from that task, said brain would note that I had regained my true Tertius form.
My spinning sight came to rest to reveal an ugly tableaux. Five angry halflings. Two ogres with broken hands. An enraged female dark elf. A badly burned but still standing half-ore. And all manner of non-human mages. None of whom seemed particularly happy with me at the moment.
I was dimly aware of the fact that I still held the box, and stumbled to my feet. I held the box high, intending to threaten to smash it unless they let me leave.
I intended to make the threat, really, but that was when the wall collapsed.
The wall had been spell-smashed and ogre-bashed, and now was crumbling of its own accord. Long cracks crawled up the remains of the masonry, and the plaster began to give way under the damage it had suffered. There was a moment of silence, then the entire west half of the building collapsed with a roar, and the night wind blew the dust into the Burrows.
Something else came in with the dust. Something tall and proud and very, very dangerous. At first I thought I recognized the form, but convinced myself I was just confused by the sudden disappearance of the wall. Then I cleared the dust from my eyes and saw that it was indeed Drusilla who glided into the room.
Indeed it was Drusilla, if Drusilla had grown another foot, had her back stiffened, and lived through several bad wars. Her clear eyes were now filled with fire, and her button nose and bee-stung lips were twisted in a snarl. Her golden locks of hair extended in all directions, as if she had just shaken hands with a lightning bolt.
Her voice was no longer quiet, but still in perfect pitch as she said, “I have come for my property. Your wards no longer protect you. Give me what is mine!”
One of the elven mages choked out the first two words of a spell. Drusilla barked out a few unhuman words and the entire assemblage was treated to the sight of an elven skeleton, standing for a moment after the flesh had been blasted off. I thought of Ampi’s warning about the Vermeers being magicians and inwardly groaned. Drusilla might be of that family after all. I noted that she was not taller, but rather floated a foot above the debris.
The disintegration of the elven mage was enough to convince most of the other guests, and the haiflings as well, to abandon the entire business. They fled through both doors and the new aperture in the wall. Drusilla was more than willing to let them go. Instead she turned to me and snarled, “Fool!”
Not the best of greetings, I must admit. I said, “We missed you for lunch. We were worried. Well, I was, anyway.”
Sparks seemed to glow from Drusila’s eyes, and flames danced from her fingertips. “If you had not bumbled so badly, I would have regained the amber box quietly. Now I must take it. Give it to me.”
I nodded and was about to hold it out. “Don’t do it!” said a nasal voice from the doorway. “You are protected from her as long as you hold it. Give it up and she will kill you.”
The small human, the collector from earlier in the day, stepped through the gap in the wall as well. Drusilla gasped and stepped backward, toward the remains of the buffet table, “Go away!” She snarled. “This isn’t for you.”
“I’m afraid it is,” said the short, balding human. “And we both know it.”
“Hold on,” I said, fed up with the smoke, noise, and danger. I held the box out. “What’s in here that’s so important?” I reached to try to pry the box open.
Drusilla screamed and flung herself at me. I had the good sense not to drop the box, but instead clutched it to my breast like a precious talisman and stood my ground. Drusilla hovered before me, her face slightly above mine. “You promised to recover it,” she said, “to give it to me. What about your promise?”
“A promise made under false pretenses is not binding,” said the small human calmly, as if he conducted all his business dealings in a ruined bar with a floating, frightening looking woman. “Don’t hide behind that.”
“You’re the one hiding, Collector,” snapped Drusilla, floating a few paces back and turning toward to the short human. “Why not show your true self?”
The small man stared at the floating woman for a moment, then gave a thin smile and nodded. “As you wish,” he said, and as he spoke the words he began to grow.
The Collector’s skin turned reddish and erupted with ridges of black. His hands and a
rms elongated, ending in yellowish talons. The nondescript face grew fangs, and horns sprouted from his forehead. There was a tearing noise as ebon bat wings sprouted from his back. Ridiculously, the thin glasses remained perched on his broad nose, making his eyes look like great yellowish platters.
“Look at him!” cried Drusilla, “Look at what wants the box!”
“A Baatezu!” I shouted, aware that my voice cracked as I spoke, and for the moment not caring.
“A Devil, if you please,” said the creature in the same nasal tone as before, “I don’t stand on ceremony, and its a much clearer, simpler, and concise word. And speaking of hiding, you haven’t told your minion here what was in the box, have you, Drusilla?”
The floating woman hissed and retreated a few paces. The devil pulled up the wreckage of a chair and sat down. “You see, young mortal, ‘Collector’ is not a hobby, or even much of a name. Its more ofajob description. It is my task to collect on old debts, regardless of age. This one has been outstanding for over a hundred years.”
I clutched the box to my chest and could only nod, A hundred years? Then Drusilla was more than the descendant of magicians. She was probably one of the original Vermeers herself.
“Feel the warmth of the box, mortal?” said the Collector. “That is Drusilla Vermeer’s soul. She traded it away years and years ago, but hid it before we could collect. She studied necromancy in order to keep herself alive until such a time she thought we would forget. But we,”- he pushed his glasses back up on his nose-”never forget.”
Drusilla said “He’s lying. He’s a devil. They’re evil creatures. They’ll do anything to get what they want. You know that. You know me.” As she spoke she drifted slowly to the ground. Her face, contorted with anger moments before, now smoothed itself back into pouting lips and wide, angelic eyes. “You know he’s lying. If it were not mine, why would I ask for your help? I didn’t want to get you in so much trouble. You know he’s not telling the truth.”
The fact was I did not know. I scanned my memory for every one of Miss Rodigar-Glenn’s mystoricals and nowhere did I find a situation anything like the one I now faced. Miss Rodigar-Glenn was woefully mute about the subject of devils and necromancers.
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