by Ed Greenwood
Starmara Dagohnlar, whose sidle toward the door had already ended in the firm grip of a Watchman, sighed and said loudly, “My apologies, Watchcaptain. Our enemy’s spells must have affected my husband’s wits.”
“Indeed, Lady Dagohnlar,” the officer agreed politely as Durexter was gagged with his wife’s discarded nightrobe and hustled to the door. “How many decades ago did they take effect?”
* * * * *
Glarasteer Rhauligan was no longer in anything remotely resembling a good mood. He’d lost a lot of blood, was in great pain, and thanks to the needs of the Mage Royal and this little fool of a thief now lacked any swift means of quelling that. The hasty violence he’d just been forced to do to a small but enthusiastic band of launderers had done nothing to help matters, but at least he was now largely dry—thanks to a lot of formerly clean clothing that was now, unfortunately, smeared and stained with his blood—and was now sporting a bandage of sorts: a very large someone’s freshly laundered bloomers tied around the wound in his shoulder.
It had all taken far too long, and if that little bitch had managed to give him the slip whilst …
Rhauligan reached the street, where a man lay groaning and twisting outside the laundry door, ignored him as being in no condition to have seen where Narnra Shalace had gone, and glared around in all directions. ’Twas bad enough having to hunt anyone in wet, hostile-to-the-Crown Marsember, bu—there!
Gods, give the girl a wall to run along, and she’s happy! The taller the better, it seemed … and she’d obviously managed to leap from another building onto a corner turret of the wall, because she was hurrying away from that turret now as fast as she could. Rhauligan sprinted across the street to get out of view before she looked back to see if he’d seen her.
Well, now. That was quite a wall she’d chosen. If Narnra ran all the way around it, she’d trot for nigh on a mile. Rhauligan happened to know that it kept the prying world out of an estate known as Haelithtorntowers, the abode of one Lady Joysil Ambrur.
That same wider, prying world knew the Lady Ambrur to be a wealthy Sembian merchant noble, a tall, demure, sophisticated patron of bards and singers, who was—correctly—said to pay handsomely for dancers to be enspelled to fly, so they could engage in her particular pleasure: elaborate aerial ballet dances performed as they sang for her, in her parlor.
“We Harpers, however, know rather more about Lady Joysil,” Rhauligan murmured aloud, recalling Laspeera’s crisp words at a certain private meeting in a tiny, little-used upper room of the palace.
“She’s not from Sembia at all. Unearthing her true origins will be another of your little idle-time tasks, gentlesirs.”
“That’d be task four thousand and seven, Lady,” Harl had murmured, like a bored steward announcing the date and time.
“Indeed, Harl? Then you’ve missed three,” Laspeera had replied with a smile, “or neglected to tell me of their accomplishment, more likely. Now, Lady Ambrur secretly employs her favorite visiting bards as information-gatherers. She then discreetly resells the lore they bring to traitorous nobles, local merchants, and anyone else willing to pay for it.”
This practice was what had led local Harpers—including, from time to time, one Glarasteer Rhauligan—to keep watch over who visited Joysil Ambrur and to try to discover just what learning their coins to her bought them.
It was doubtful this Narnra of Waterdeep knew about Lady Ambrur. She’d probably just gone looking for a place aloft to hide and sleep and spotted the tallest wall around that wasn’t bristling with vigilant Purple Dragon posts.
Rhauligan knew yon wall was quite wide enough to comfortably walk along, between its street-edge spikes and its inner plant-trough, which housed flourishing clumps of sarthe. Unless it’d been trimmed recently, the edible trailing plant spilled down clear to the grounds far below.
Narnra was running along inside the spikes, merrily trampling sarthe-stalks with each step, and Rhauligan knew he had no choice but to follow or lose track of her.
With a sigh, he chose a building he’d scaled to reach that same corner turret once or twice before and started to climb.
Caladnei and Narnra, know this: You both owe me!
Nine
A WIZARD’S PLOTTING IS NEVER DONE
Heed me, Lord Prince: After nobles with too much time and coin to resist working mischief, the wizards are the ones you must watch. The schemes of mages are as tireless as waves crashing upon a storm shore—and every bit as destructive, too.
Astramas Revendimar,
Court Sage of Cormyr
Letters To A Man To Be King
Year of the Smiling Flame
The central hall of Haelithtorntowers was a high, soaring, darksome space of stone, its vaulted spire lost in the gloom more than a hundred feet overhead. Torches had been lit in the old braziers all around the promenade balcony that ringed the hall, and the great hanging lamps on their chains were left unlit and drawn up high, out of the way of the soaring dancers.
The last few high, mournful notes of song soared into the gloom of gathering smoke high above the torches, floating to a wistful end—and the sweating dancers descended to earth, saluting their lady patron gracefully.
There was applause from the guests seated at ease in the great reclining seats around the crescentiform high table, and their hostess rose and returned the dancers’ salute with a happy smile. The performance had been memorable, the emotions evoked very real. Tears glimmered in the eyes of many guests, even those who were stifling yawns at the lateness—or rather, earliness, as dawn had quite come outside the slit windows high in the spire overhead—of the hour.
“And so, my friends,” the Lady Joysil Ambrur announced with a smile, “our evening together must come to an end, as a new day awakens around us. Our time, I fear, is quite gone—and I’m sure we must all, like the dancers who have worked so hard for our pleasure, seek slumber now.”
She raised one graceful arm to point east, toward the great double doors that most of her guests had entered by, hours—it almost seemed days—ago. “Your coaches have been made ready, and my servants await beyond those doors to escort you to them. You are all most welcome when next I open my doors for an evening of friendly converse and entertainment. Rest assured I shall send personal invitations well in advance. Now, I pray, leave me to find my own waiting bed.” She yawned prettily. “See? It calls, even now.”
There was a brief chorus of tittering, and the various grand ladies of Marsember and divers other cities—from the Lady Charoasze Klardynel of Selgaunt to the Lady Maezaere Thallandrith of Alaghôn—arose in a shifting of silks and shimmerweave and delzelmer to kiss the hands and cheek of their hostess and take their leave. Many and aggressive were their perfumes, especially among the newest-money merchant spouses of Marsember, who were known for their barely veiled viciousness and their often-jarring etiquette and fashion sense, but the Lady Ambrur smiled fondly upon them all and somehow—by a trick of true nobility, perhaps—made each one feel personally welcome and special even as she hastened their departure.
One of the last beauteous ladies to leave was the bare-shouldered, emerald-gowned Lady Amantha Indesm of Suzail, who possessed both the smoldering eyes of a restless tigress and the tinkling smile of an innocent. She embraced her hostess impulsively, the tears the last dance had awakened in her still bright on her cheeks, and swept out to the waiting servants, leaving the Lady Ambrur alone with her very last guest: the Lady Nouméa Cardellith.
They both stood quite still until the doors closed behind the Lady Indesm. Nouméa said softly, “Forgive me, Lady Joysil, but a spell was just laid upon you, a spying magic, and I should break it.” She raised a hand then halted, awaiting permission.
Her hostess smiled and nodded. “Please do so. Amantha is a dear friend but also a Harper spy—and is loyal to them first. She always tries this little trick, knows I cause her spells to fail … and we both ignore the matter.”
“She’s done this before? You know her
purposes and yet invite her?”
“I like to clasp my foes close and look into their eyes,” the Lady Ambrur replied serenely, rounding the table again to sip from her tallglass. Lifting it in a lazy salute to Nouméa, she smiled a little smile and added, “They see and hear only what I want them to, I think.”
The two tall, slender ladies—Joysil the larger and older, but both bearing worldly wisdom in their eyes—regarded each other thoughtfully. There was clear liking and trust between them, though this was their first meeting, and after a silence Nouméa asked curiously, “You let me cast that shatterspell when I might have worked any magic on you. We’ve barely met, yet you trust me. I am honored but I must confess also curious: why does Joysil Ambrur trust this unknown, when true trust is almost unknown among these—forgive me—overpainted eels and vixens of Marsember?”
Joysil burst into merry laughter, all trace of weariness gone. “They’d never forgive you for describing them so, yet your words are apt indeed: They are rapacious, sly eels and snapping little vixens.”
Nouméa waited and when her hostess said no more asked very softly, “I mean no offense, but please let me know the reasons for your trust. You’ve barely met me.”
“Indeed,” Joysil replied just as gently, “but I know all about you.”
“Oh?”
“Born Nouméa Fairbright, quite a keen-witted, spirited beauty. Attended a finishing school for daughters of the very rich in Sembia run by the Lady Calabrista. Tarried with none other than Elminster in Shadowdale after a school trip to visit his tower—and did not return to Calabrista but instead astonished a series of tutors with mastery of magic. Married Lord Elmarr Cardellith of Saerloon, a rich, ruthless Sembian merchant lord, and bore him four daughters. Survived two attempts paid for by him to have you poisoned because he wanted no girls but only sons. Escaped to Marsember and were paid to ‘stay away’ whilst he changed faiths and remarried in his new church, annulling your union. Now twenty-six winters old, and cynical, jaded, bitter—and bored, therefore hungry for adventure. The sort of woman the Obarskyrs are apt to regard as dangerous: one who could so easily drift into aiding rebels or illicit intrigues—then try wildly to make up for it. Lady Nouméa Cardellith, do I see you truly?”
Nouméa had gone quite pale. She swallowed slowly and deliberately, lifted her head, looked the Lady Ambrur straight in the eye, and said firmly, “Yes. Every word right, whether I like it or not. To fill in the gaps in my tale about which some have speculated: no man but Elmarr has ever touched me. Not Elminster, nor Lhaeo, nor have I entertained any affairs of the heart or lusts with anyone here or in Sembia. The extent of your knowledge can only be described as impressive, and I shall not ask how you came by it. Yet I am curious: Why do you bother to learn so much—about me, the Harper who just left us, and … everyone? I’ll wager you know as much about all the rest of your just-departed guests as you do about me.”
Joysil smiled again. “Knowing secrets … being part of the shady doings and intrigues that seem to be at the heart of what it is to be human … is meat and drink to me, the very wine of life. Believe me, I can live no other way. And yes, you would have won that wager.”
A bell chimed, somewhere behind her chair, and she set down her glass and asked, “Does our agreement stand? You sent back the coins I offered but spoke of acceptance.”
“It stands, but I need no payment. I consider you my friend.”
“Even so. Our guest—just arrived, that bell tells us—is a Red Wizard of Thay. Being in attendance to protect me may well involve some personal danger and being marked as a foe henceforth by all Thayans, even if no outward unpleasantness ensues this morning.”
Nouméa nodded. “Even so,” she echoed. “I thought you spoke earlier of three guests.”
“I did, but two of them are merely local villains, possessed of more dishonesty and empty ambition than anything else. Yet I’m pleased to have you remain with me, ‘just in case.’ Shall I introduce you as a student of architecture, visiting Haelithtorntowers to see its features?”
Nouméa Cardellith grinned suddenly. “Certainly. Spires and turrets I can talk glibly and emptily about for half a day. Elmarr thought almost nothing else was a fit subject to share with a woman—even his woman.”
“See me standing unsurprised,” Lady Ambrur replied in dry tones and pulled a tassel hanging by the arm of her chair.
The double doors opened at once, and her servants bowed three men into the room: two merchants trailed by a lone figure.
One Marsemban was tall, thin, and hard-faced, the other stout, a little battered-looking, and clutching a grand hat as if shredding it would somehow carry him unscathed through the meeting now unfolding. The two parted to let the third man through: a young, darkly handsome man in black and silver shimmerweave, looking every inch a capable, quietly swaggering noble of Suzail or fullblood merchant prince of one of the foremost families of Sembia.
“Be welcome, sirs,” the Lady Ambrur said warmly. “We stand in privacy, here, armed with the information you’ve been seeking.”
“Ah,” the wizard said, eyes darting from Nouméa to Joysil and back again. “That is good. We are well met, Lady Ambrur and Lady—?”
“Cardellith, sir,” the unfamiliar woman replied for herself. “Nouméa Cardellith, now of Marsember.”
“A student of architecture,” the Lady Ambrur put in gently. “Here to see every last crenellation and carving of Haelithtorntowers.”
The Thayan smiled. “Architecture?”
The Lady of Haelithtorntowers smiled an almost identical smile. “And other things.”
“Ah,” the wizard said, and sat down in a seat without waiting for an invitation, leaving the two merchants standing uncertainly behind him.
“The merchants Aumun Tholant Bezrar and Malakar Surth,” Lady Ambrur introduced them, waving them toward seats as she did so. “This is Harnrim ‘Darkspells’ Starangh, one of the most diplomatic Red Wizards of Thay it has ever been my pleasure to entertain.”
“And have you entertained many of us, Lady?” Starangh asked softly.
The Lady Ambrur smiled again. “Yes, indeed, Darkspells. Szass and I, in particular, are old friends. Very old friends.”
The Thayan sat as if frozen for an instant then said even more softly, “You must tell me about that some time. Some other time.”
“Of course. When the time is right, as you say,” was the silken reply.
Nouméa repressed a shiver. How soft and yet sharp with menace the words of both her hostess and the Thayan. She flicked a glance at the two Marsemban merchants and saw in their faces the same tightly masked fear as she knew her own held: not knowing all that was going on here but knowing enough to be certain everything hidden was bad. And dangerous.
Darkspells spread his hands. “Have you learned what I desire to know and offered twelve thousand in gold for?”
“Twelve thousand six hundred,” the Lady Ambrur told her tallglass demurely.
“Twelve thousand six hundred, as you say,” the Red Wizard agreed.
“Yes. Precisely what Vangerdahast, the retired Mage Royal of Cormyr, is ‘up to’ in his retirement, precisely where he is, and precisely what his magical defenses are.”
Starangh smiled softly, his eyes glittering bright and hard, and purred, “If you can give me half an answer to those things, Vangerdahast will stand far closer to his doom—the doom he has so richly earned and that I shall take such delight in visiting upon him. Soon.”
* * * * *
This damp, fish-stinking city wasn’t Waterdeep, but at least it had walls and rooftops, and she could feel just a bit more like home.
Narnra grinned without feeling the slightest bit amused. So here she was running for her life, pursued by some sort of law-agent bent on slaying or capturing her.
Oh, yes. Just like home.
* * * * *
The Queen of Aglarond wrinkled her nose. “Ah, Marsember! Always damp cold stone, colder people, and the everpresent reek of
dead fish and human waste. For entertainment, storms rage ashore and intrigues rage behind closed doors.” She smiled. “Well, it serves one good purpose: to firmly remind me what I must never let my capital Velprintalar come within the full length of a large kingdom of resembling!”
Elminster stroked her bare shoulder then kissed the smooth flesh his fingers had been tracing. “Sorry,” he told her. “ ’Tis not my favorite place in all Faerûn either, but it happens to be where Caladnei bides at this moment.”
The Simbul sighed. “Mystra’s will be done,” she murmured then turned suddenly, caught hold of his beard, and brought his lips to where she could kiss them fiercely.
As she always seemed to, she moved hungrily against him, melting into him …
“Take care of yourself,” she whispered when they were both breathless and lack of air finally forced her to draw back. “I waited so long for you—don’t leave me lonely now.”
Elminster blinked at her. “Lass? Ye waited for me …?”
“To notice and then to love me,” she replied, eyes very dark. “For myself and not as one of Mystra’s daughters.”
She shaped a spell that called darkness, outlined by a sprinkling of tiny stars, out of the air in front of her. “I loved your mind for centuries before you knew who I was, Old Mage. Now I love your character, too.” She made a face, and added, “Your body, however: that you could have taken better care of, to be sure. Old wreck.”
Elminster lifted his eyebrows, held up his hands with an airy flourish, murmured a swift incantation—and melted into the shape of a tall, broad-shouldered young man of rugged good looks and raven-black hair. He gave her a sparkling grin.
She snorted, struck a breathlessly excited hands-to-mouth pose like a young lass about to swoon—and slid back out of it to wink at him. Stepping back into her darkness, the Queen of Aglarond murmured, “My old wreck,” and was gone, taking her rift with her, stars and all.
The transformed Elminster smiled fondly at where she’d been for a moment, shaking his head, then made a face of his own. “In those centuries of loving my mind, did she watch where my wandering body went and with whom, I wonder?”