Elminster's Daughter

by Ed Greenwood

  In the dim lamplight, Elminster peered about for the noble lass he’d seen dancing earlier, but she was now—perhaps wisely—nowhere to be seen. There was something about her that made him think of fathering little wizards. Ah, well …

  Three

  THE BRIGHTNESS OF THE LURE

  I put out my hand, and the fish swam right into my net—as they always do. It’s all in the brightness of the lure you offer.

  Fzoul Chembryl, High Lord of the Zhentarim

  Conquering What I Want of the World:

  Words For All the Brethren to Live By

  (text of speech, circulated amongst the Zhentarim)

  Year of the Unstrung Harp

  Some of the revelers were really drunk now. Narnra stepped around folk who were sprawled senseless, or busily being sick—some with watchful bodyguards standing over them—trying to catch sight of the old wizard, or someone who might be him.

  She’d managed to snatch just one tart—with a leap that had drawn more than one appreciative eye, curse the luck—and it had been good, very good. There’d been lamb kidneys and a touch of venison in its rich gravy. The rich aftertaste rested warm and comfortingly in her mouth even now.

  This couldn’t be fabled Skullport, for none of these folk looked familiar, and their speech was subtly different. They seemed to be discussing rebellion against a king who was barely a king, or some such—could they really be so bold, or foolish? She had a bad feeling that a lot of royal warriors were going to charge out of doorways and arches she hadn’t even found yet and slaughter everyone here—wandering thieves from Waterdeep included.

  Like a wide-eyed fool, she’d stepped through some sort of magical door and right into an adventure that might slay her in short order. Gods spit, she had to find that old wizard!

  He might have slipped away somewhere else, of course, and have nothing to do with all these drunkards. He might be rallying the force that would burst out to slay them all, even now. He might even be leading this conspiracy—though after the way he’d treated her, why hadn’t he marched right into the center of the lamplight and enspelled everyone to quivering obedience?

  Whatever that old man was up to, if Narnra Shalace was going to save Narnra Shalace’s smooth but unlovely hide, she’d best scout where each cellar went and which archways led out into the open air. Twouldn’t do to get trapped down here. By the smell, this place might well be below sea level, and some wall-shattering spell or sluice-gate could flood it at will. That would save the authorities even the chasing and shouting.

  Many of the revelers seemed to be drifting away from the shoulder-jostling crowd under the lamps, now. On all sides, little groups of excitedly plotting folk were seeking this or that dark corner for privacy. Wary bodyguards were everywhere, and Narnra took care not to seem too interested in anyone as she threaded her way along through side-arches and around pillars, seeking ramps or steps leading up.

  “That’s the beauty of it, you see—”

  She ducked away from that merchant and his chortling, reeling-drunk friends and on into the next room.

  “Ah, my lord, at last,” a woman’s voice growled, as its owner tore at the robes of a man who looked more bewildered than ardent—as three bodyguards stood in an impassive little ring around the amorous pair, facing outwards with arms folded. Narnra kept going.

  Four fast-striding men were crossing the next cellar, one calling out from behind the others.

  “Sorval? Is that Sorval Maethur?” The speaker sounded delighted, as he caught up to three merchants.

  One turned. “Aye, I’m Sorval. And you might be—?”

  “Delighted to bring you death!” was the snarled reply, as a dagger was plunged into a throat, a lamp was tossed into the face of one of the victim’s companions, and the other fled with a terrified shout. Bubbling as he struggled to speak and spraying much blood from an opened throat, Sorval slumped to the ground. His slayer stepped back and strode unconcernedly away from the twitching corpse and the moaning man clawing at his burned eyes.

  So did Narnra, steeling herself to look just as unconcerned—because any moment now, the killer was going to turn and look around for witnesses who might have to be slaughtered, too, and her life would depend on … yes!

  Sorval’s slayer cast her a dark glance. Narnra pointedly ignored him, murmuring aloud as if to herself, “How did that spell go, again?” as she kept steadily walking.

  Dagger still dripping in his hand, the man hesitated briefly, glaring at her, but then decided ducking away was wiser than tackling someone unknown. A masked woman, his widening eyes told the Silken Shadow, at that.

  Several groups of men were converging in a far room, lanterns glimmering in their hands … and those lights were bobbing upward. Narnra headed that way, striding purposefully—and letting Sorval’s slayer see her dagger flash in her hand as she drew it.

  She waved the fingers of her other hand over it in a flourish, hoping he’d think she was working some sort of magic, and swallowed hard. She’d seen throats slit before, but Sorval had given the world so gods-blessed much blood …

  Sorval’s slayer hurried in another direction, and was lost behind pillars and through archways. Narnra kept going, trying to forget Sorval’s last horrible moments. Whoever he was, he hadn’t … but enough!

  She waved a hand as if to banish the memory and looked back once more. No slayer creeping back to follow her. Good.

  Another amorous couple were locked together in half-seen urgency in a corner of the next chamber she crossed, and on the other side of the same room some furious men were trying to stab each other with daggers. They were too falling-down drunk to do much more than snarl incoherent threats and curses at each other, fall on their faces, roar and rage some more, and fall over again. Yes, a “Rightful Conspiracy” indeed.

  Dancing was still going on here and there, though the piping and drum-thumping seemed to have stopped back behind her. The men ahead were chattering tirelessly, words flashing back and forth between them like slung stones: lots of excited speculation about how riches would come to them once “those bastard Obarskyrs were all dead.”

  Narnra frowned. Obarskyrs? They were the royal family of some realm way east of Waterdeep—a good, trustworthy, law-abiding place. Some place with a strange name … Cromyar? Cromeer? Cormeer—Cormyr, that was it!

  Gods, she was halfway across the world!

  Well, that’ll teach you to follow wizards through glowing archways, she told herself savagely. Idiot.

  Dagger in hand, Narnra joined the men climbing the stairs. No one paid her the slightest attention, as they wallowed in their own excited schemes and conclusions and get-even-richer dreams. Twice men stopped to strike dramatic poses and declaim things to their fellows, only to get shoved from below with calls of, “Move along!” and “Stand aside!” and “Don’t hold up the Conspiracy!”

  The steps were old, broad, and well-worn, but there were a lot of them, in little short flights that led to landings that gave onto more little runs of worn steps. As she ascended, Narnra felt the dampness increase, and tendrils of mist started to drift in around the busy stair.

  Quite suddenly, she was in a many-pillared portico, on a dock that looked at the glittering lights and darkened spires of a sizable city—across mist-wreathed waters that stank. Skiffs and lantern-hung pleasure-barges bobbed against the dock, anchored to metal struts of many rings that were nothing like the great bollards of Waterdeep Harbor. This was the sea, all right—a sea—but … oh, so different from the City of Splendors.

  A stone arch bridge linked the land she stood on to a small islet crowded with rotting, leaking buildings with slate-tile roofs that sagged alarmingly and railings that were fire-brown with rust. No lamps were lit anywhere on it or on what seemed to be a second island beyond the first, where half-sunken barges lined crumbling, bird-dung-streaked wharves.

  Instinctively, Narnra stepped away from the rush of chattering men proceeding over the bridge or strolling to barges
where the patient faces of crewmen could be seen surveying the arrivals. Along the covered dock she went, seeking to be alone. There must be some way up to a vantage point where she could look around and see more of this new place … but where?

  Behind her, someone fell into the water with a splash, and there were shouts of drunken merriment. Someone else on a nearby barge took advantage of the tumult to slit a throat and shove the body over the side. Narnra watched it slip head-first beneath the inky waters without a sound.

  A third someone lit a hand-lamp and hauled the drunken man roughly aboard another barge, and by its light Narnra got her first look at the water, as the man’s pale robes burst up through it: peat-brown and reeking even more strongly now that it had been disturbed. She curled her lip, turned away, and froze.

  At the end of the dock a quiet company of men was standing, eyeing her steadily. All of them wore dark leathers, and some held blades and capture-nets ready in their hands, others hand crossbows of the sort Narnra had seen all too many of in Waterdeep. Still others held delicate sticks of wood: wands!

  It had been a wave of one of the wands that had rolled back a thick bank of mist to reveal these men—and women, too, Narnra noticed—and now they were starting purposefully forward, keeping together in a menacing band.

  From behind her came more laughter, new splashings—and a shout of alarm.

  There was a clang of steel aboard a drifting barge, the ring of blades crossed in anger, and a sudden cry: “Betrayed! The War Wizards are here!” That shout ended in an ugly, wet gurgle, which was followed by another clash of swords—and a scream.

  One of the men striding along the dock toward Narnra had his head cocked to one side, as though listening to someone who wasn’t there, and was muttering a steady stream of orders as he came.

  “Horngentle, Lord Blackwinter’s been seen here: arrest him. Thoaburr: one of us, the novice Beltrar Morgrin—yes, a War Wizard, everyone; keep clear!—has turned traitor and is still down-cellar … he mustn’t live to see the morning, but take him quietly. Constal? Constal, it seems the Regal Lady Mistwind turned her nightly manhunt hither. Put a scare into her, but let her win free. Bereldyn, I’ll need you to find me that wizard someone saw arriving—Khornadar of Westgate, he’s calling himself, but Laspeera thinks he may be someone more powerful posing as an ambitious lackspell. He’s …”

  This flood of—gods, they looked like Harpers, and, yes! That one was wearing a little silver harp pin at his throat, and that one sported an identical pin on an eyepatch—grim folk was only paces away, now, and Narnra was standing right in their path. It just wasn’t possible that they’d failed to see her, though as yet no one had aimed a handbow or drawn back a blade in menace.

  The Silken Shadow stood stock-still. Whirling and running now would probably earn her swift death in a volley of quarrels. “The Cormaerils all seem to be here,” she announced calmly. “Beware also Mathanter of Sembia.”

  She wouldn’t know a Cormaeril if she fell over one, and she’d never seen or heard of this Mathanter before tonight—but he’d brought along more than a dozen fully armored bodyguards and impressed her.

  The nearest Harper gave her a sharp look and without turning his head or taking his eyes off her asked, “Armeld?”

  The man snapping orders swivelled an eye to scrutinize the masked Silken Shadow as he strode past—they were all streaming past her now, on both sides, save for the one Harper facing her—and replied, “Never seen her before. Not one of yours?”

  “Remember,” an earnest man in dark robes was saying on Narnra’s other side to an elderly man holding two wands, “some we arrest, some we slay as quietly as possible, and some we just scare—so don’t go blasting anyone you see! For once? Please?”

  “No,” the Harper said slowly, shaking his head and raising his blade. Its blackened point hung just below her breasts. Narnra swallowed and tried not to look at it again.

  “I am not,” she told him almost severely, “a member of this ‘Rightful Conspiracy.’ I abhor conspiracies.” She’d heard an old, wrinkled noble matriarch dressing down a captain of the Watch once, and she tried to make her voice sound just like that old, highborn Waterdhavian’s: imperious, disgusted, and somehow pitying.

  The Harper’s eyes flickered, and he asked quietly, “Caladnei?”

  “No,” Narnra told him in the same tones, not knowing what else to say, “I am not she.”

  “That’s good,” said a dry voice from behind the Harper, “considering that the last time I looked at myself in a mirror, I remained fairly certain that I was Caladnei.”

  A wryly smiling, dusky face came into view behind the Harper’s shoulder. Dark eyes surveyed Narnra coolly from under startlingly dark brows. “So … have you a name of your own, Hooded One?”

  A tingling of magic washed over Narnra before Caladnei was even finished speaking, and without thinking the thief from Waterdeep crouched tensely, as if facing battle.

  “I am the Mage Royal of Cormyr,” the woman behind the Harper said gently, “and that was a truth-reading spell—nothing more. My word here is law—’tis a crime to evade or deny me. Please answer fully.”

  Narnra trembled, eyeing the Harper’s steady blade and the purposeful look in Caladnei’s eyes. The Mage Royal stepped to one side, gesturing to Narnra to keep looking at her—and forcing her to take her eyes off the Harper menacing her.

  Narnra sighed, drew herself up, and turned smartly to do as she was bidden. The Mage Royal wore boots and a warrior’s leathers, and her long black hair was gathered behind her shoulders with a ribbon. Her belt was crowded with pouches interspersed with daggers, and she wore no proud insignia or touches of wealth.

  “Look at me.” That gentle voice came again, and Narnra knew what was meant. She lifted her gaze to meet Caladnei’s eyes directly and found herself caught and held, staring into two dark flames.

  There was a high scream, a thunder of hard-running booted feet, and another splash, but none of the trio standing at this end of the pier paid the slightest attention.

  “I asked you a question. Surrender to me your full name.”

  “I … I am called Narnra. Narnra Shalace, of Waterdeep.”

  “Are you conspiring against the Crown of Cormyr?”

  “Lady, I don’t even know who the Crown of Cormyr is—and until you just said that to me, wasn’t even certain I was in Cormyr. I—I’ve never been in your land before tonight.”

  “So how came you to be on this island?”

  Narnra sighed. “Well, there was a wizard …” She hesitated, not knowing how best to say things. In Waterdeep, to openly admit one was a thief was to be punished regardless of what one might or might not have done.

  That was when the Harper standing beside her made a queer sort of grunt—and was suddenly slamming into a distant pillar, his body aflame. Caladnei staggered and clutched at her head as if someone had shrieked in her ears, and the dock-stones under Narnra’s boots rippled as if some gigantic bulk was swimming past in the solid stone, close beneath her feet. She saw stones heaving and falling all over the dock and spun around and was running hard away from her interrogators even before the ceiling above her cracked, a pillar toppled far ahead and the bridge of shouting, shoving men that linked the dock and the next island broke in a dozen places … and slumped into the harbor with a crash that sent walls of reeking water crashing across the dock. Narnra dived to a pillar and clung to it to keep from being washed away.

  The waters were still roiling around her when blinding-bright lightning cracked through the mists, heralding many screams. Someone blew what sounded like a war-horn, and from here and there crossbow quarrels started to hum out of the night, snarling across the docks like hunting hornets.

  Cursing, Narnra ran away—she knew not where, just away.

  Small armed bands of Harpers and War Wizards were everywhere, and many of the pillars along the dock were festooned with slumped, sleeping folk in torn and now drenched finery, who’d been tied to the
pillar and each other at the wrists, ankles, and throats—presumably by the Harpers who stood watchfully by.

  One such challenged Narnra with a shout, gliding to intercept her with his blade held ready, but she snarled, “Caladnei sent me! Out of my way!” and he put up his steel to let her run past.

  There was little dock left to her, and several Harpers watching. She had to enter one of the darkened archways. These must lead into cargo-rooms, and what urgent business could she have there? No, it must be back to the cellars she headed. Not only did she not like the look of the stinking harbor-water at all, but with so many crossbows and hurlers-of-lightning about, that way would be almost sure death. That stair to the cellars was directly in line with the bridge that was no more, so despite the fact that no water seemed to have splashed hereabouts, this archway would be the right one.…

  “Hah! Another rat scurrying back to the bolt-hole!”

  More than a dozen men were crowded around the stair-head, conferring—and two of them already had blades almost into her.

  Narnra spun aside rather than slowing. “Caladnei’s orders!” she snapped, trying for her Waterdhavian matriarch’s voice. “Out of my way!”

  “Armeld?” one of the men moving smoothly to bar her path called, over his shoulder.

  “She was talking with the Mage Royal. Let her past, and go with her—just you two. See where she goes, what she does.” Armeld turned back to the men who’d been reporting to him, and as she hurried down the stairs with her unwelcome escort hard on her heels, their voices resumed. “Dozens of nasty little stabbings and drownings—scores settled, I’d judge—a lot of sex and drunkenness, the usual cliques …”