Crown of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

  “Where to?” Mirt rumbled.

  “We’ve got to get her out of the city,” the other pleasure-queen said. “There’s no place to hide a woman in a house of pleasure.”

  “Don’t ye have cellars?”

  “The busiest places of all,” Belarla told him crisply. “Too many men like to pretend they’re in a dungeon—gods know why! No, Oelaerone’s right, Old Wolf. We’ve got to move her from here. Half the soldiers in the citadel will be in and out of here by next morning. My younger girls start coming in just after evenfeast—and the first customers hot on their heels.”

  “Or something,” Oelaerone said quickly before Mirt could. “I’ve been in better places to defend against the Zhentarim than this old breeze-box, too.”

  “If the Zhentarim discover Shandril’s here,” Belarla responded, “it’s not defending the place we’ll have to worry about—it’s dying well in the few breaths we’ll have left.”

  A chill ran through Shandril. Here were yet more folk she’d pulled into danger. Mirt must have followed her to the citadel, somehow, and rescued her … she had hazy memories of seeing him running toward her after the last beholder had finally gone down. He’d brought her to a house of pleasure.… Typical of Mirt.

  Her lips quirked, but she was too horrified to smile. These two ladies could be dead before night fell if the Zhentarim found her here.… And who can hide from the magic archmages wield?

  The voices downstairs went on. As quietly as she could, Shandril swung her legs over the side of the couch. She felt empty and weak inside, and her arms and one hip were stiff, but she was whole and everything moved properly. Someone had sponged her face and hands clean, but she was still dressed. Experimentally, she held up a hand and gathered her will.

  A dull ache instantly smote the back of her head from within—but her hand flamed with spellfire. She was ready for a fight. Stretching and wiggling her fingers, Shandril gathered her courage and slipped out of the room. If she could help it, she’d never bring death to any friends again … the way Delg had found death. Her lips moved in a soundless prayer: gods will it so.

  With the air of a man who had expected to ruin a task but had triumphed instead, Mirt passed warm, fluffy towels to Oelaerone. She merely raised amused eyebrows, and Mirt harrumphed at her and reached for the bottle of wine they’d brought him. He took a swig of the ruby red Westgate vintage, sighed lustily, and took another. His lips were still at the mouth of the raised bottle when he saw movement out of the corner of one eye—Shandril, passing the doorway like a wind-driven ghost, on her way to the front entrance.

  Mirt choked, coughed good Westgate Ruby all down the front of his clothes, and bellowed, “Shan! Stop!” The answering bang of the door told him she was out onto the street. Mirt groaned, pulled on his boots, stamping in haste, and snatched up his saber as he hurried for the door. “She’ll be needing me,” he said.

  Belarla looked at the drawn blade and reached under the table.

  There was a snapping sound as she twisted something free, followed by a grating noise as she slid a long, needlelike blade into view. It gleamed blue in her hand. “Where are we bound?” she asked calmly.

  “The Wizards’ Watch Tower,” Mirt rumbled from the doorway.

  Belarla raised her eyebrows and sighed. “Ah, well,” she said, as they hurried out. “I was getting tired of Zhentilar men, anyway.”

  “A good life, while it lasted,” Oelaerone agreed, slamming the purple door behind them. “Lead on, Old Wolf.”

  The time for secrecy was past. Fzoul strode across the antechamber. By the flickering light of the gate behind him, he pushed the eyes of the gasping maiden carved on the wall. Her ivory tongue slid out from between the parted lips, and he pressed it down with one finger. There was a dull grating sound, and the rest of the carved wall—satyrs, nymphs, and all—slid inward and sideways, revealing a dark opening. Fzoul snapped his fingers, and glowfire swirled into being around that hand. Holding his arm high like a torch to light the way, he set off down the secret passage, excited underpriests hurrying behind him.

  The passage was long, cold, and damp. Where it dipped in the center of its run, shallow puddles glistened on the floor. Fzoul ignored them, and the illusion of the lich rising from its coffin to stare at the intruders. He strode on past it—and right through the stone wall behind it. The passage continued into a round room somewhere beneath Wizards’ Watch Tower.

  Fzoul set off briskly up the spiral stair there, passing the many closed doors that led off its steps. He climbed round and round until he was quite out of breath—and the stair ended at a door inset with a palely glowing white orb. He touched the door, hissed the word that opened it, and the light in the orb faded away. When it was dark and the door was safe to open, he waved a silent order to the priests behind him. Strong, eager hands slid the heavy stone sideways, and Fzoul stepped into the spell chamber he’d met Manshoon in, once or twice.

  A man, the only occupant of the room, turned from studying glowing symbols on the floor. Orbs of shimmering glass floated above the runes, drifting in slow orbits above the symbols they were linked to. Fzoul came to an abrupt halt and said coldly, “I did not expect to find you here, Sarhthor.”

  Sarhthor nodded, not smiling. “I could say the same of you, Lord Priest.” He waved at the floor. “I’ve been working spells, trying to trace the maid Shandril—she must be in the citadel still, cloaked by the scrying defenses we’ve built up so carefully. Otherwise, I’d surely have found her by now.”

  “Have you set the magelings to searching in person?”

  “That’s why you find me alone,” Sarhthor replied calmly. “My time for spitting orders is past.”

  Fzoul gave him a sharp look but said nothing. The high priest looked down at the winking runes inset into the floor, and up at the orrery turning ponderously overhead, and finally said, “Well, I suggest we begin to work together, tracking Shandril by magic.” He turned. “Ansiber—you and all other Brothers of Striking Hand rank and greater, attend here to me. The rest of you—split into sixes and eights and search the citadel. Instant elevation to the Inner Ring awaits any priest who brings Shandril to me alive. Rouse the citadel against her!”

  There was an excited murmur and a rushing of robes until only a dozen or so priests remained. Fzoul looked at them, nodded, and said to Sarhthor, “Have you any water?”

  “The quenching-pool, there; the drinking-ewer, there—and, somewhat used, in the chamber pot behind that screen.”

  “The pool will do.” The Master of the Black Altar turned to the priests. “Attend!” he commanded, and they hastened to his side. He pointed at the pool and ordered, “Prepare it for scrying.”

  The priests bent to their work, and soon a thin, dripping disc of water as large across as the span of seven men’s arms floated at waist height in the spell chamber, rippling and glowing faintly.

  As he stepped forward to look into it, Fzoul smiled.

  “She cannot escape us now,” he said in satisfaction.

  Beside him, Sarhthor shrugged. “I’ve thought that before. Yet perhaps this time, we can make sure.”

  18

  SEWERS, SWORDS, AND SPELLS

  Gone to the city to seek great adventure, is he? I wager he’ll see more of stinking sewers and swords in the dark than ever he does of splendor and spells.

  Overheard in a tavern, and quoted by

  Tasagar Winterwind, Scribe to the Guilds of Selgaunt

  Talk of the Taverns

  Year of the Lost Helm

  By the time he caught up with Shandril, three streets away, Mirt was puffing like an old and irritated walrus. He came around a corner to find her surrounded by wary Zhentilar warriors. A patrol, by the black backside of Bane! Well, he reflected sourly, the best thief that ever lived couldn’t wander the streets of the citadel and avoid them forever.

  The soldiers must have stepped out of doorways and side alleys; they’d managed to form a ring around Shandril. She was walking unhurri
edly on, toward two anxious-looking Zhentilar whose blades were raised. The others were drawing in around her as she walked, their swords ready.

  Finally one of the warriors in her path said uncertainly, “We have you, woman. Kneel and surrender, in the name of the Raven!”

  Shandril raised a hand and burned him like a torch. The other soldiers backed away, blanching. Oily smoke rose up from the huddled form in the street—and then Zhentish boots echoed on the cobblestones as they broke and fled. As they went, they tugged horns from their belts, and ragged calls went up, echoing off the grim towers around.

  “By my halidom!” Mirt snarled. “Now ye’ve roused the whole place.” He laid a hand on Shandril’s shoulder.

  She whirled. Spellfire blazed before his eyes, and he danced away with a startled cry. Shandril looked stricken. “Sorry, Mirt—I didn’t mean to …”

  “But you almost did, anyway,” he growled. “Come on, lass—we’ve got to get out of here before all the Zhentarim in Faerûn come down on us.”

  Shandril shook her head, her face white to the lips. “I’m not running anymore. Go if you wish—I’ll stay and fight, as long as there’re fools to challenge me.”

  Mirt rolled his eyes. “Ye’ll find no shortage of battle, then.” He looked over his shoulder at the two Harper women and moved his fingers in a certain sign.

  The pleasure-queens traded glances. Belarla swallowed, looked at Oelaerone with an unspoken prayer in her eyes, and glided forward with silent speed. From behind she slid one slim, skilled hand over Shandril’s nose and mouth, and her other arm around Shandril’s throat.

  Shandril stiffened. Spellfire flashed, and Belarla hissed in pain as it cooked her arm and fingers. She was sobbing by the time Shandril’s eyes dimmed and she went limp. The Harper made sure she was senseless, and then lowered her gently to the street.

  The Old Wolf bent over Belarla. Tears of pain ran down her cheeks as she knelt on the cobbles, Shandril across her lap. Mirt handed two steel vials to Oelaerone, gesturing for her to pour it down Belarla’s throat. “Healing potions,” he said gruffly. “See that she drinks them both—every drop.”

  Then he scooped up Shandril, grunted as he heaved her onto his shoulders, and said gruffly, “Thanks, Belarla. Myrintara should be able to set things right for you again, if we can reach her.”

  Belarla swallowed, shuddered as the potions took effect, and said faintly, “I—I can manage.” Then her gaze rose from an empty vial to fix Mirt with a different pained expression. “ ‘By my halidom’?”

  Mirt spread his hands. “Eh … heroes say it in all the best bardic tales,” he said sheepishly.

  Belarla made a rude sound. Oelaerone pointed silently.

  Mirt glanced along her arm and saw perhaps twenty—no, more—Zhentilar warriors approaching warily down the street. He eyed them and asked quietly, “Know you any hiding-holes? They’d come in mighty helpful, about now.”

  “Isn’t it a bit late to be thinking about that?” Belarla asked him, but Oelaerone pointed again—this time, at the stones under their feet.

  “The sewers,” she said simply, then turned. “This way.”

  They hurried after her shapely form. She led through a short alley and then across a broad street. Another alley led them out onto a long, winding lane. Oelaerone turned down it, ducked into a warehouse, and slipped through a dim maze of high-stacked crates and curious men, to yet another street.

  Mirt shifted Shandril over one shoulder, drew his sword, and trotted after her.

  Belarla watched behind.

  As Oelaerone crept into another alley, Belarla said in satisfaction, “We must have lost them by now—nicely done, Oelae.”

  They were all startled when a tall, burly Zhentarim mage appeared in their path on the next street. In addition to robes rolled up at the sleeve, the wizard wore a single metal gauntlet that winked with spell lights. For a moment, Mirt and the pleasure queens blinked abruptly at him. The street had been empty moments before.

  The mage took one huge step and viciously swung his studded gauntlet backhanded at Oelaerone. She dived headlong to avoid being struck. He ignored her, striding on toward the Old Wolf and his burden.

  Mirt raised the tip of his sword, but the wizard darted to the Old Wolf’s burdened side, keeping Shandril between himself and Mirt’s blade.

  “It’s past time for you to lie down and die, old man,” the Zhentarim snarled contemptuously, leaning in to smash Mirt across the face with the gauntlet. The enchanted weapon was hard, and its magic numbed and froze the victim for an instant so that the full force of its blow struck home. Mirt staggered.

  Belarla’s blade sang in at the wizard. The sudden sparks of a protective spell spat and shimmered where the blade touched the wizard, then the knife tumbled away. The Zhentarim stiffened, hissed a word, and a web of radiant bolts flared out. Belarla reeled back, clutching her breast in pain, and fell heavily to her knees, her sword clattering on the cobbles.

  Then the Zhent turned and ran after Mirt, grabbing at Shandril’s dangling throat with the gauntlet. Mirt snarled and thrust with his blade, but Shandril’s body hampered his weapon; he could not get a good strike at the mage without carving her, too. He lowered her to the ground so that he could battle this wizard—but the Zhentarim already had his gauntlet locked around her throat in a strangling grip, and had begun to mouth the words of another spell.

  Mirt dropped both Shandril and his sword. His fist crashed into the man’s mouth—and the wizard’s head snapped back, spun, and slumped. Sightless, fading eyes swung past him as the man dropped to the street.

  “Getting old, am I?” Mirt growled as he hoisted Shandril onto his shoulders again. With great satisfaction, he kicked the Zhent’s body, hard.

  Oelaerone was helping Belarla up.

  “How much farther is this way to the sewers?” Mirt snarled, looking around for other Zhents. He saw none—only curious citizens glancing up from their daily business. Thank Tymora for that. Oelaerone was pointing again, and Mirt anxiously lumbered in the indicated direction.

  “I’ve run down more streets in the Realms.…” he muttered as they turned another corner. This street was narrower, and it smelled; strewn garbage and pools of water were frequent, and Mirt’s boots skidded more than once.

  “Not far now, Old Wolf,” Belarla said from somewhere near his elbow.

  Mirt looked around at the squalid street and replied, “You know this area? I just hope he was worth it, Belarla—whoever he was.”

  “If you weren’t carrying the most important being in Faerûn right now,” Belarla replied calmly, “I’d trip you into that next pool.”

  Mirt grunted, swayed, and managed to get through it upright. “I always wondered what pleasure-queens did for entertainment.”

  “Go down sewers, of course,” Oelaerone said sweetly, from just ahead. “After all, folk say our morals belong in the sewer—why shouldn’t our bodies keep them company?” She led the way into a short, stinking alley and, with a grand flourish, indicated a pile of dung.

  Mirt set Shandril gently down in the crook of his arm, and stared at it. “I was picturing something a little closer to a door,” he rumbled.

  Belarla sighed and dug into the pile with both hands. “Come on,” she said over her shoulder. “We’ll have plenty of chances to wash all this off, down below.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Mirt growled, handing Shandril’s limp form to Oelaerone.

  Water dripped, echoing somewhere in the dim distance. The archways overhead were old and cracked and covered with slimy growths. Here and there, the ends of pipes dripped filth down into the thick, oily brown waters they toiled through. The muck was chest high.

  Mirt ducked under a sagging pipe and muttered, “No sneezing, now.”

  Belarla struggled along at his elbow, helping to keep Shandril’s face out of the grime. “Could this be the world-famous Mirt the Moneylender I see? Lord of Waterdeep? Harper Lord? Scourge of the Sea of Swords? Mirt the Merciless, Old
Wolf of the North? This same old man, plastered with excrement?”

  “I’m in disguise,” Mirt growled, squeezing under another pipe. The smell was indescribable; as far as he could tell, the sewers here never drained out except during snowmelt. This would be a great place for a gulguthra lair … and as soon as that thought occurred to him, he wished it hadn’t.

  He peered around in the gloom; light drifted down from street-gratings high overhead—sometimes accompanied by brief deluges as citadel folk dumped chamber pots or washtubs.

  “Are we heading anywhere in particular—” he asked “—besides toward our graves, I mean?”

  “You mentioned Myrintara, earlier,” Belarla answered carefully, keeping her chin up as she walked over an uneven spot and the filth rose to her lower lip. Bubbles broke on the dark brown surface all around her, and she gagged.

  “Not in my direction, thank you,” Oelaerone told her, edging away. “Ah, we’re getting into the older part.”

  Ahead, a noisome waterfall carried the waters they were sloshing through down a short cascade to plunge into the blacker waters of a larger channel. A mist hung in the air. As they went down the falls Mirt exclaimed; the darker water, at the bottom, was noticeably colder. Much colder, in fact.

  On his arm, Shandril stirred. “Not now, lass,” Mirt growled at her. “If you make us fall in this filth, I swear I’ll take my hand to your bottom.”

  “Uhmm?” her sleepy voice responded. “Is that you, dear?”

  The Harper ladies giggled; Mirt snorted, and shook the weight in his arms. A moment later, Shandril’s eyes fluttered, opened—and met his. Then she looked around.

  “Where are we?” she asked and frowned. “And what happened?” Then—the Old Wolf could tell by her face—the smell hit her.

  “We’re with friends,” Mirt said, “in the sewers of the citadel.”

  “I’d worked that much out already,” Shandril replied, wrinkling her nose.