by Ed Greenwood
Across suddenly empty space, Vangerdahast and Myrmeen stood gazing at each other.
Coldly he looked her up and down, from her drawn sword to her patched and battered leathers, and a slow sneer crawled across his face.
Myrmeen surveyed him from head to toe with raised eyebrows, shook her head, gave Vangerdahast a derisive grin, and strode right past him.
“Don’t touch anything,” the wizard snarled, whirling around to see where she went and what she did.
Which was three paces away, to stand with hands on hips and slowly turn to witheringly survey the state of his kitchen.
Swiveling slowly around to face him, the Lady Lord of Arabel wrinkled her nose. “Is this what you’ve been eating? No wonder your wits are so addled!”
Twelve
DRAGONFIRE
Come storms, great waves, earth-cleaving, god-smiting lightnings, and dragonfire, Faerûn shall abide. Us smaller creatures on it? I’m not so sure.
The character Blind Nars
in Scene the Second
of the play Four Bloody Swords
by Corsour Hamadder of Waterdeep
first performed in the Year of the Nightmaidens
The torches were guttering out now, one by one, leaving the great soaring hall of Haelithtorntowers noticeably darker. Two long-frozen figures in leather moved in sudden unison, both drawing back cautiously from the balcony rail—and lifting their heads to regard each other.
Narnra Shalace did not give her pursuer her usual angry glare. Like Rhauligan, she knew unfolding treason and disaster when she heard it. This was the sort of softly menacing talk she was sure went on inside the spires of the wealthy and nobility of Waterdeep all the time—though she’d never been foolish enough to try to enter and lurk in such places, with their alarm-magics, wardings, and enthusiastic guards.
No wonder nobles didn’t want anyone close enough to hear what they were saying. Caethur the moneylender would have had to double-deal for years to reach the point of openly plotting ambitions like these.
She stared almost thoughtfully across the ring of emptiness at Rhauligan, knowing that she’d just gained one more reason to elude the Harper without being seen by others in this house. A very good reason.
Keeping herself alive at least a few nights longer.
* * * * *
It was a bright and breezy morning in Candlekeep. The sea-breeze blowing ashore could better have been called a strong wind. In front of the Lady Nouméa Cardellith, as she walked the last stretch of the Way of the Lion, the banners of a minor noble of Tethyr flapped and streamed in a constant fury. The rearguard of that personage—six riders in gleaming armor who rode with great spiked long-axes gripped in their gauntlets—were eyeing Nouméa narrowly, at least two of them always crossing to opposing sides of the noble party so as to keep full watch on her.
And no wonder. Through the wonders of magic Nouméa may have looked like a lone, bespectacled male merchant from Lantan, afoot and bearing only a leather carrysack slung over one shoulder—but she’d arrived out of nowhere, just suddenly there, in mid-step. And Tethyrian house guards who hadn’t seen teleport spells in use before had certainly heard of them—and knew well enough to be wary in the presence of what must be an accomplished wizard or sorcerer.
Or something worse.
Wherefore they turned to present Nouméa with a leveled row of glittering spike-points when the party reached Candlekeep proper and stopped to parley with the monks of the gate.
Nouméa came to a halt, nodded to them politely, and waited calmly enough. When it was her turn at the tall gates—spell-shrouded vertical bars as thick as her forearm, bearing the castle-and-flames device of Candlekeep and a guard of five purple-robed priests—she gave the expressionless monk who approached her a book from her sack and waited while he carefully stripped away its wrappings.
“The Life of the Sembian Woodworm,” he read aloud, his voice devoid of judgment. With gentle fingers he opened the tome, glanced at a few pages, stopped to peer at what were unmistakably the glyphs of spells—minor wardings effective also against paper-worms, he noted with an audible sigh of excitement—then looked up and said, “A notable, valuable gift. You are most welcome within our walls, seeker of wisdom. What’s your name, your land, and your intent within?”
“I am Roablar of Lantan, come from trading up and down the Sword Coast and most recently Sembia to examine certain texts. I’m most interested in Thelgul’s Do Metals Live? and Bracetar’s Notes On Preservation of Foodstuffs and Oils.”
The monk smiled for the first time. It transformed his face, leaving Nouméa with the impression that it was not an expression he assumed often. “Be welcome here, Roablar, so long as you treat books with the reverence they deserve, eschewing fire, damp, the torn page, and the removal of lore from the eyes of others. Cross the yard ahead of you to the green-hued door, and give your name to the Keeper of the Emerald Door. You’ll be provided with food, a bath, quarters in which to sleep, and a moot with the monk who will escort you on your first visit to the rooms of the tomes.”
“I thank you, sir,” Roablar replied, bowing slightly and favoring all the monks with a beaming smile. He was waved in through the gap in the partly open gates and set off across the courtyard shifting his sack on his shoulder, as all travelers do.
“Well, Amanther?” the monk who’d dealt with him asked, glancing at the next supplicants—a large party of horsemen, still some way off down the Way of the Lion.
The oldest, tallest monk of the five smiled faintly. “A mage—human female, not old—wearing a very good spell-spun disguise. I daresay the books she mentioned are already familiar to her; I doubt she needs to peruse them again. Slyly learning spells is of course the aim of most who enter covertly, but she feels different to me, somehow. She’ll bear close watching.”
The other monks nodded. “Thaerabho already answers your signal,” one of them said, pointing at a monk strolling across the courtyard to casually follow Roablar of Lantan up to the Emerald Door.
“Good,” another grinned, rubbing his hands. “A new mystery to dissect at table this night. One can never have enough delving and prying. It keeps the soul young.”
“A tongue more deft, Larth,” Amanther admonished. “Say rather: Inquiry into all things keeps a mind bright.”
“That too,” Larth agreed with a chuckle, which was echoed by the other monks.
“Well, then, clever dissembler,” Amanther said, waving at the approaching cloud of dust and sun-flashing armor. “Deal you with these next seekers!”
“With as much pleasure as humility,” Larth replied cheerfully. “I’ll wager they’ll proffer a family history or perhaps a text on the genealogy or heraldry of their immediate region.”
“Nay,” said another monk, squinting at the banners. “I expect another copy of Navril’s History of the Parsnip, with some obscure local collection of plays or minstrels’ sayings to serve as their entrance-gift when we reject old Navril one more time.”
The chorus of chuckles was hearty but brief, for it was not proper for monks of Candlekeep to be anything less than politely grave when first greeting supplicants.
Across the Court of Air, the monk Thaerabho gazed at the shoulders of the Lantanna talking to the doorkeeper and had to suppress an urge to stop, cross his arms, and rub his chin in eager anticipation.
This was going to be one of the interesting deceivers. He could feel it.
* * * * *
Lady Joysil Ambrur stood sipping wine and watching her servants reluctantly depart. Before ringing for them, she’d downed an entire bottle of potent vintage without any apparent effects at all and begun a second by the rather daintier means of filling (and refilling) her tallglass. Though she still stood by her high-backed seat behind the table, a new piece of furniture had made its appearance, in accordance with her orders, in the hall nearby: a broad, simple bed covered with luxurious linens, cozy-blankets, and pillows. Though it lacked a high headboard carved with her coat-
of-arms, it was a bed for her.
Silence deepened in Haelithtorntowers around Lady Joysil as she sipped, regarding the rubies on the table—which lay undisturbed in their own little oval of light dust in the only part of the table that (again at her orders) had not been cleared and dusted.
The Lady of Haelithtorntowers was wearing a slight smile. She’d also ordered all the servants to take a day off from their duties, and the night to follow, in the luxurious guest apartments in the farthest tower of her mansion, Firewyrm Tower. They were not to disturb her or return until the next dawn for any reason.
Their obedience had been doubtful—wherefore, after their going, the Lady Ambrur had taken a scepter from the hollow leg of a particular piece of furniture and magically sealed the door that walled off the lone passage linking Firewyrm Tower to Great Tower.
At the heart of Great Tower was the hall in which she stood, and as the torches failed it was rapidly growing dark despite the brightening day outside. Appropriate for a weary noble lady taking to her bed alone—and Lady Ambrur did that now.
She took her glass and bottle with her, still showing no signs of being tipsy, and retained all her garments, from her jeweled slippers and glittering tiara to her rows of sparkling dangledrop earrings. In the deepening gloom she kept her eyes on the table and sat on the edge of her bed in calm silence, waiting.
Quite soon and suddenly ruby fire flashed from the gems—and four black-clad men appeared on the table above those stones, crouching with weapons ready as it groaned ominously under their weight.
Joysil daintily climbed up to stand in the center of her bed, spilling not a drop of wine—and as she did so, soft white-and-green radiance blossomed in the air around her, illuminating her bed, the table, and all points between.
“Greetings, unknown guests,” she said calmly. “I didn’t think your master would wait until nightfall. Red Wizards are so impatient.”
The four hooded men in battle-leathers stiffened, beholding the calm noblewoman. She was tall, large-boned, and lush of figure in her magnificent gown, and a spectacular flood of slightly wavy, honey-hued hair descended her back, to that point where a back begins to swell out and become a behind. The nether tips of her tresses deepened to a coppery flame-hue. The calm eyes surveying her visitors were steel-gray, the slightest of age-wrinkles lurking at their corners. She held her goblet-sized tallglass in one hand—and a wand had now somehow appeared in the other.
The four snarled silently and hurled the daggers they held. The flashing steel spinning through the air bore vivid crazings of purple that cried “Poison!” to any astute observer.
They did not have to throw far, and their target showed no signs of movement, but the whirling knives vanished a handspan from the Lady Ambrur.
A bare breath later, two of the men in black grunted, gasped, and pitched forward from the table, to crash down through a chair to the floor, and lie unmoving. Their own daggers stood out of their backs. Another knife spun past the ear of the man who’d hurled it and back toward the noblewoman again—only to vanish as before, snatched by the loop teleport she’d cast, and reappear behind its hurler again, sinking and spinning more slowly.
No one watched its next journey. The remaining pair of slayers burst forward from the table, racing to the attack. The Lady Ambrur’s only reaction was to take another sip of wine.
One of her attackers plucked blades from all over his clothing as he came, snatching and hurling a storm of steel. Daggers bit at empty air, spinning over the bed to clatter and slide on the floor of the great hall—for the Lady Ambrur all of a sudden wasn’t there.
She appeared by the table, glass still raised to her lips, and coolly triggered her wand. Its silvery beam lashed out to become a crimson blast of exploding head and brains where it touched the slayer who hadn’t yet lightened his load of weaponry.
Headless and staggering, that black-garbed corpse wobbled forward to a loose-limbed collapse onto the floor.
The surviving slayer whirled with a snarl—and sprang aside as the wand fired again, leaping and rolling free of harm.
Swift and agile, he launched himself into an attack that dodged this way and that, avoiding another wand-blast. Like the wind he raced forward, to bring himself within reach of the noblewoman—
—Who blinked away once more. The black-hooded slayer did not freeze but kept running and dodging as he looked for her, and that saved him from the next bite of her wand, which blew apart a large wyrmtongue-leaf plant with its urn as he darted aside.
The wand spat again, striking aside a dagger he’d hurled in a flash of sparks. Tasmurand the Slayer put his entire shoulder and balance into another swift throw, right behind that first fang.
His reward was a burst of silver sparks. Lady Ambrur gave him a nod and a smile as she let the ruined wand tumble from her hand. She saluted him with her nearly empty tallglass and … blinked into nothingness again.
She reappeared on a landing of the ornate stair that swept up from beside the high table, linking the vast floor of the hall with—he glanced up—a promenade balcony that encircled the entire chamber high above where he stood.
“Shall we dance?” she asked archly, for all Faerûn as if she was the hunter and not the hunted. With a snarl Tasmurand leaped for the steps, still dodging and darting in case she snatched out another wand and sprayed the stair.
Lady Ambrur worked a spell instead, performing the gestures with flourishes like a cat at play. It bathed her slayer in purple flame when he was still four running strides from putting his blade through her.
Tasmurand roared in fear and frantic effort—but no pain came, and nothing seemed to happen except … she vanished again, leaving him rushing onto an empty landing. He slashed furiously at the empty air anyway, cleaving nothing with raging speed.
“I’m up here,” she called pleasantly, as if guiding a guest who was a long-established friend, and the slayer looked up again to see the noblewoman smiling down at him over the balcony rail. He set his teeth and sprinted up the second flight of steps because it was all he could do, really. Tasmurand gasped for air as he sped upward, wondering fearfully what that purple glow magic had been and when he’d feel its effects.
The Lady of Haelithtorntowers watched his approach calmly, relaxing so far as to cross her arms on the balcony rail and lean forward to watch, like a Marsemban lass appraising the sweaty brawn of stripped-to-the-waist dock-loaders at work.
To Joysil’s eyes, her last spell had worked just fine. Right now it was telling her that her visitor bore precisely three enchantments upon his person: two on daggers—one at belt, one in right boot—and a third within a metal vial inside his left boot. Almost certainly a potion of healing.
Fair enough. Unhurriedly Joysil Ambrur twisted one of the rings she wore and let its power sing out to enshroud her in a protective shield that could be heard—as the faint, high-pitched singing continued—more than it could be seen. She shifted around to sit at ease on and along the rail, bringing a shapely leg up and lounging back on one arm like an avid lass seeking to lure suitors, tossing her head to let her long hair tumble free.
Tasmurand’s eyes widened at such craziness, but he neither hesitated nor slowed. Breathlessly, he reached the stair-head and burst onto the balcony, running hard around its promenade. Daggers flashed as he snatched them from their sheaths, never slowing as he bore down on the smiling lady.
He threw the first at just the right moment to spoil any spell she might be waiting to complete until his arrival—and she unconcernedly threw herself to one side, letting the dagger flash past … and pitching herself over the rail!
It would be a killing fall to the floor of the great chamber, but no doubt she’d magically whisk herself elsewhere again, ere striking the smooth stone below.
But no! The Lady Ambrur flung out her other hand to grasp the bottom of the rail as if frantically trying to catch herself from falling—but used that grip only to swing herself upright in the air … ere she let go and dro
pped.
Slowly, drifting down in a slow, gentle sinking that did not even lift the hem of her skirts.
Tasmurand’s mouth tightened. Was the woman such a fool as to trust in a feather fall magic? Did she think he’d run out of blades yet? He flung a dagger at her throat, which if she went on gently descending would mean her mouth met it upon its arrival. It struck something unseen in the air before her flesh and clanged to one side, tumbling harmlessly away down to the floor below.
With a growl he plucked forth one of his enchanted daggers. The spell this one carried was designed for just one thing: to shatter wardings, shield spells, and similar barriers. An instant after it left his hand, another—non-magical—dagger followed it, so that when the first stripped away her defenses, the second would sink home in her breast. Done. He’d shortly be looking at the corpse of just one more noble who trusted overmuch in her expensive toys.
Tasmurand’s hand was already on the hilt of his last enspelled dagger, just in case. This woman was, after all, in her home and seemed not fearful at all, though they’d been assured she was alone and no sort of mage nor sorcerer.
She’d been lucky thus far, that was all. Yes, nimble and overtrusting in her little tricks, possibly wearing yet another ring that commanded some minor magic or other. Tasmurand started back toward the stair he’d ascended, weaving from side to side of the deserted balcony and varying his pace out of sheer habit. If he could get down to the floor before she did and snatch down one of those tapestries, he could swing it beneath her and then jerk her from her feet and drag her helplessly to beneath his pounce—just one dagger-thrust would do such a one as this, if he could drive it home where he wanted …
There was a sudden shuddering of the air, a building thunder that shook his run into an unsteady sidestep and sent the smoking torches flaring back into last flames of life. In their sudden, bright tongues a silver-blue, scaled wall seemed to soar past his gaze, expanding up and out into—