by Ed Greenwood
“Now this,” Vangerdahast said, carefully clipping a new pendant onto the old one, “will protect you against some rather nasty spells that I’m afraid our latest crop of traitors will try to fell you with. It’s … it’s …”
“Wizard?” Alusair snapped, putting out a hand to steady him. She’d never seen Vangerdahast’s face go so grim and ashen before. He looked afraid and old. Afraid and … ashamed.
“Vanj,” she murmured, shaking him as she stared into his eyes, “what is it? What ails you?”
With a growl, the Royal Magician broke free of her and stepped back. “I—nothing that need concern you. It’s a wizardly matter.”
“Oh, I see. Like a knight staggering into his hall with two swords through him. That’s a ‘warrior’s matter’?”
“Alusair,” Vangerdahast said heavily, with signs of personal distress, “leave me. Please. You cannot help in this. No one can.”
Alusair stared at him, clapped his arm wordlessly, turned, and strode out. In the next room he heard her murmur, “Jalance, lace this up for me, will you? And this time, try to keep your fingers on the thongs, hmm?”
Several men laughed, and the old wizard heard them moving away. He stood alone in the center of the room, feeling close to tears.
“Mystra save me,” he whispered, “but I cannot. I’m old. I would not have lasted five breaths in Avernus at the height of my reckless youth. My place is here, in Cormyr, where I am needed for a little time more. Oh, Lady Mystra and Lord Azuth, forgive me. Elminster, forgive me.”
He looked wildly around the deserted room and saw the brief glimpse that had been twisted into the fading edge of that second memory. The sharp rocks of Hell jutted like dark teeth against a blood-red sky. A broken thing crawled, the sharp ends of bones protruding from its tortured limbs. A shaggy face drooled and bled and wept, with deep-set eyes he knew. His old teacher, Elminster.
The Old Mage of Shadowdale was trapped in Hell, his magic gone or captive, reaching out with his mind to those he hoped could aid him. It must be all he had left.
Vangerdahast took two swift steps across the room, shaking his head. Those eyes … with an effort he banished that image from his head. It had been wrested from the gaze of some lesser creature of Hell, to be sure, who’d been watching Elminster. That meant El was probably dead by now, half-devoured. Yet he should make sure, should try to do something to aid the old meddler. He should … should what?
“Mystra, Mother to Wizards,” he whispered, the words of a very old prayer, “what should I do?”
Silence was his only answer.
“What should I do?” His shout rang around the chamber ceiling and brought startled servants and Purple Dragons alike running.
When they reached the room, it still echoed with anguish, but the Royal Magician was gone.
Six
ANOTHER WARM DAY IN AVERNUS
It seemed he’d been crawling forever, in pain forever, wandering in Hell with an archdevil tramping through his mind.
MY, MY. NEITHER THE USEFULNESS NOR THE ENTERTAINMENT I’D EXPECTED—OR BEEN PROMISED. SHOW. ME MORE! SHOW ME WHAT SHAPED YOU, LITTLE BEING OF SILVER FIRE! SWIFTLY; BEFORE I GIVE IN TO THE GROWING URGE TO MAKE THINGS MORE ENTERTAINING.
[mindworm thrusting, mental fire, bearing down, tightening]
[shriek, welter of images, howling failure to flee]
A grim man in black strides warily through a dripping wood, his hand on his sword hilt. His cloak, drawn up around him, is pinned with a brooch in the shape of a silver rose. From time to time, his alert and peering eyes seem to flame with silver.
YES! MORE SILVER! GET TO THE SILVER THAT FLOWS AND BURNS! SHOW ME!
A silver harp pin, bobbing on the breast of someone running, in shadowed darkness where hounds howl and men curse, close behind …
DON’T TWIST AWAY FROM ME, WIZARD! SHOW ME THE SILVER MAGIC AT WORK, NOT EVERY LAST CURSED SILVER THING THAT HOLDS MAGIC! YOUR MIND IS LIKE A LIBRARY WHERE EVERY TOME’S BEEN SHREDDED, AND NOW YOU HURL HANDFULS OF TORN PARCHMENT IN MY FACE!
SHOW ME SILVER AND MAGIC TOGETHER. NOW.
A silver-handled cane, black and slender, hangs in the hand of a fat, bearded mage. Heavy-lidded and sighing, he trudges down gleaming marble-floored halls, past high-arched windows whose uppermost glass is worked into stained reliefs: images of a purple dragon in flight. The Purple Dragon of Cormyr.
“Honored Vangerdahast,” a voice murmurs from ahead, “the queen has need of you, and in some haste.”
The mage glares at the unseen speaker but quickens his pace.
NOT THAT DODDERING FOOL! I WATCH OVER HIM MYSELF!
Another bearded man in robes, taller and grimmer, strides through a room of many beds where young lasses are hastily dressing. Robes, sashes, high boots, and garters form a flurry. He sees them not, though he snaps orders obviously meant for them. He paces on, his gaze intent on a small blue sphere that floats in the air before him, flying slowly and smoothly elsewhere.
KHELBEN OF WATERDEEP IS NOT UNKNOWN TO ME EITHER. IS THIS LEADING SOMEWHERE, ELMINSTER? OR ARE YOU BUT WASTING MY TIME ONCE MORE AND COURTING FRESH TORMENT?
The two bearded faces, together, wear expressions of irritation as they whirl down a rainbow-hued well.…
A slender feminine hand reaches with firm, unhurried confidence through blue moonlight to touch the black-robed shoulder of Khelben Blackstaff Arunsun. The wizard stiffens, wonder warring with apprehension on his face. The hand dissolves into a flurry of small stars that swim and dance and spin to become a circle of nine stars.
Khelben goes to his knees in reverence, his eyes never leaving them. The nine stars race around in their circle to become seven, and the seven one. One that’s not a star, after all, but a single blue-black eye, shot through with many racing motes. It winks coyly, once, then is gone.…
NO! NO MORE TEACHINGS OF MYSTRA! WHAT’S THIS, OVER HERE—WHAT YOU’RE DWELLING ON BEHIND THIS CAVALCADE OF SNATCHED GLIMPSES THAT AVAIL ME NOTHING! SHOW ME WHAT YOU’RE RUMMAGING THROUGH!
[whirl of images, swept aside]
THAT’S BETTER. I’LL JUDGE WHAT I SHOULD SEE, CAPTIVE.
[bright scene unfolding]
THIS LOOKS INTERESTING. I’LL SEE ALL OF IT.
The news spread through the city like wildfire. The Company of the Wolf was riding into town. The Wolf himself would be at their head, fresh from defeating the armies of Amn in battles at far Sixtrumpets and the banks of the Winding Water. Behind that grim war captain would be horse after horse laden with plate, coins, and other booty of far-off wars: Calishite silks, spices, wines, and all manner of strange things. They would come to spend and carouse, and forget fallen friends and much hard riding and spilled blood. That was good for the girls who frequented the Slipper.
Mirt the Merciless, slayer of a thousand thousand, took his usual route from South Gate through the twisting streets of Dock Ward, at the head of a proud procession of battered men on battered horses. Men who had stared down death eye-to-eye two days before rode wearily into the shadow of Castle Waterdeep and turned at last into their usual stopping place: the old and rambling inn known as the Scarlet Slipper.
The Wolf sat patiently on his saddle while the wounded were carried to hire-nurses in South Ward. Three trusted captains rode to buy fresh horses, food, and drink. Others arranged rooms for the yeomen of the company. Only then did Mirt dismount, with a creak of protesting leather. He strode stiff-legged into the dimness of the Scarlet Slipper to call for his first jack of wine.
BAH! MORE LOVE AND TENDERNESS! WEAKNESS! IS THAT ALL THIS WIZARD IS FULL OF?
THIS IS AN UTTER WASTE OF MY T— BUT HOLD. THIS CANNOT BE FROM YOUR OWN REMEMBRANCE. IT MUST HAVE COME FROM MYSTRA? PERHAPS IF I FOLLOW IT, I CAN TRACE OTHER LEAVINGS OF HERS, UNTIL AT LAST—NESSUS, AT LAST—I REACH SOMETHING USEFUL.
The Scarlet Slipper was well known in Waterdeep, City of Splendors. Hither came many night maidens of the less expensive sort—young or old, fat or thin, from near-beauties to heavily painted
exotics of all eccentric descriptions. Those female citizens whom merchants called “ladies of the evening” kept to the gentler wards of the city. The Scarlet Slipper had a less exclusive reputation.
As the day drew down and dusk crept catlike along the alleys, they began to appear—night maidens strolling alone, in pairs, or even threesomes. Like softly scented shadows, they stole down from their upstairs rooms everywhere in Dock Ward—and a surprising number from wards farther afield. Word of the company’s arrival had brought out what sailors called “a full hunt,” well endowed with perfume, furs, and gowns of silk, satin, and musterdelvys. Inside the inn, wine flowed apace, and the gathering night grew loud.
HUMANS SEEM TO SPEND A LOT OF TIME FEASTING … BUT SO WOULD I IF AVERNUS WERE NOT A PLACE WHERE TO LINGER OVER A MEAL IS TO BECOME A MEAL? HMMM …
Scarred and hardened warriors laughed and roared and tossed dice. Some, emboldened by wine or youth or great need, took to dancing with tavern-girls amid the crowded tables. Others disappeared up dark stairways or into side alleys before full dark was come.
In the center of the tumult, silent and watchful, the one called the Wolf sat nursing a jack of wine. He ignored calls and caresses and flirtatious displays. Several men who sat with him looked interested. With a curt nod, Mirt allowed each in turn permission to leave duty behind for a time and join the frolics.
The burly, hawklike leader of the company sat warily at his table, hand never straying far from his blade. He took no companion from the many who approached him. His eyes no more than flickered once or twice.
So the evening passed. The Slipper’s regulars trickled in, emboldened, to join the merriment and broad minstrelsy of the house. Ale and wine flowed freely. Others came, too; watch officers and urchins, passers-by and sailors. They stood quietly along the walls near the doors, watchful and curious. Mirt returned their stares, calmly and quietly, but nodded to few and spoke to none.
The less bold night maidens, too, drifted in by the door to stand staring, timid and yet hopeful. One or another was whirled away for a dance, or caught the eye of a favorite and left escorted. Most just stood, watching longingly.
Mirt looked at them all, expressionless, as the wine in his jack grew steadily less. Young or old, short or tall, buxom or slim—he’d seen them all, or their like, many times before. Sooner or later he’d choose one—who or why he did not know, for none had yet caught his interest—to spend the remainder of the night with. He was in no hurry. Wolves can seldom relax.
Then, with quickening interest, he noticed a new arrival among the night maidens. With the quiet grace of a lady, she slipped in behind louder, bolder wenches. She stood with the others in the shadows. He noticed her because she was far plainer than the rest.
Her gown was simple and gray. She wore no face paint, made no gesture, and took no preening or beckoning stance. Mirt looked at her again, meeting her eyes squarely. She seemed momentarily taken aback at his interest, then returned his gaze with steady calm.
Mirt looked at her more closely. She was much older than most of the girls. He watched her move aside serenely as a warrior pushed past. She had a beaklike nose that would have sat better on a man’s face than on the serene visage whose gray-green eyes met his so steadily. Unexcited, yet not derisive or uninterested. Faintly curious, faintly—something else, but hiding all behind a steady mask.
Without hesitation Mirt rose. As he passed, he skirted bolder hands that stroked and plucked at him and ignored familiar entreaties husky and shrill alike. In a few strides, he was among those women who had hung back. Some were shy, or affected to be so. Some were young and unsure, or intimidated by more experienced rivals. The one he sought had as yet spoken to none. Most of the other girls thought her a wife or creditor come to seek one man of the company, not a night maiden at all.
Eyes widened in surprise and dawning hope at his approach. “Mirt,” whispered a dozen excited throats. “Mirt the Wolf!”
There was shifting to straighten hair or best display a shapely leg, but the lady in gray moved not at all, nor spoke. Something flickered behind her eyes, but her expression did not change.
Girls moved aside, looking more surprised still, as the object of the Wolf’s attention became clear. He came to a stop, hand on belt, and raised an eyebrow in silence.
This one was old indeed for the Scarlet Slipper. He had never seen her before.
In like silence, the lady nodded her head, once. Mirt stepped forward smoothly and took her arm as though they were old friends of high station at a dance in Piergeiron’s Palace, not strangers in the course of an old trade at a rundown inn. The amulet around the Wolf’s neck remained still and cool; there was no magic here.
“Whither?” was all Mirt asked as they stepped out into the moonlit street.
Amid the shadows, dark figures drifted a step or two closer, saw the scabbarded sword ready beneath the man’s other hand, and moved away again.
“This way,” was the cool reply. “It’s not far.” They walked slowly up the street toward the castle, looming high above. Mirt seemed in no hurry; he was intrigued.
“How much, milady?” he asked, in a gently neutral tone.
“I am no lady, sir,” was the tart reply. “Two gold—one before my door … and one in the morning.”
Mirt’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve not done this long,” he said flatly.
“Is the price too high?” came the cool challenge from beside his shoulder. But she walked on as before.
Mirt shrugged. “ ’Tis not that,” he answered. “You spoke of morning. Long indeed for but one gentleman-guest.”
“I have not been doing this long, sir.”
Mirt stopped and turned to look over his shoulder. His companion made as if to draw free, but he held her arm firmly.
“Have you changed your mind, sir?” she asked, slowly.
Mirt shook his head, raised his hand, and made a sign. Two men who followed them returned it and turned away, one raising his drawn sword in silent salute.
“Nay,” Mirt replied. “My men,” he added, and began walking again. “They’ll follow us no more.”
“Why—no, you need not answer that,” his companion of the evening replied. “It is just here, sir. Your gold?”
Wordlessly Mirt opened the hand whose arm was linked through hers. In it gleamed a gold piece.
AND HUMANS CALL US EVIL! AT LEAST WE MAKE NO PRETENSES ABOUT THE EVIL WE DO!
What, is Nergal telling me there’s no deceit in Hell? No lies? Hmm?
THE LITTLE HEALED ONE WAKES! WELL, WELL … ENJOY THE RIDE I’M OFF THROUGH YOUR MEMORIES AGAIN, LITTLE MAN, THOUGH I’M BEGINNING TO FORGET WHY!
Ah, my spell’s working!
[SNORT, MIND LASH, GROAN OF PAIN, DIABOLIC CHUCKLE] IDIOT HUMAN, SHOW ON …
“Still awake, milady?” Mirt asked gently later, into the darkness. She turned from the window where she had been watching the moon sail above the harbor, laid down something long and thin that gleamed in the moonlight, and came back to bed.
“Yes,” she said very softly, getting in. Mirt put an arm around her and drew her to him, to warm her. After a moment or two she relaxed, and lay still against him. Mirt traced the fall of her hair past her shoulder.
“How are you called, milady?” he asked.
“Nalitheen,” she replied, a curious tightness in her voice.
“I am Mirt,” Mirt said. After a moment, she chuckled.
“So half the girls in the Slipper said, when you came over.” She lay against him, warming, unmoving. “The Wolf, they call you. Slayer of Thousands. I had thought to find you more—savage.”
Mirt shrugged. “Why so? If I am angered, my trade is battle.… I get my fill of lashing out.” He coughed, and stared into the night in his turn. “Some of my men are cruel, aye, and will always be so. Some bluster and swagger because they are too young to know better.”
“I have hosted some of those,” Nalitheen agreed, in neutral tones.
“Those who have fo
ught longer,” Mirt added, patting her shoulder, “would never treat you ill. The greatest thing a woman can give a soldier is safe rest, so that he can sleep deeply and relax, not fearing a knife in the ribs.”
“I know that,” Nalitheen said quietly. “My husband was a soldier. He was killed two summers back, near Daggerford. Borold was his name. He rode for Waterdeep and was well thought of. He was slain by mercenaries sent to seize the city’s bars of silver that he was guarding. Every man in his command was cut down, and the lords were very angry.” Her voice was thin and bitter as she added, “Angry for the loss of their silver.”
Mirt lay still, looking into darkness. A small chill of sadness added its weight to earlier sorrows, deep within. The Company of the Wolf had taken that silver, under hire to the merchants of Amn. If Borold had commanded the guards that day, Mirt the Merciless had slain him. A stout man, with bristling sideburns and eyebrows. He had been fast enough to get his saber into Mirt’s arm before he died. He stirred, and almost spoke—but Nalitheen’s voice had been so bitter.
“Men who swing swords have no idea how many women go hungry because of them or are left behind, forever alone. Many I know here will never know if they’ve been abandoned or how their lord died,” she said softly.
“How is it that you heard of your—of Borold’s fall?” Mirt asked.
“They told me; soldiers at the palace, when they summoned me there and gave me his pay.” She shrugged. “I know not how they learned it, or even if it is the truth. They gave me forty pieces of silver for the life of my husband.”
“Then why, milady,” Mirt asked softly, “sell yourself? Is it—forgive my blunt asking—loneliness?”
Nalitheen shrugged again. “I have two daughters. They must eat. For myself, I don’t care anymore, now that Borold is gone. I used to think I’d hear him call, and he’d come up the street again as he always did, singing. But I know he won’t now. Ever again.”