Blackstaff Tower w-1

by Steven E. Schend

  "Like those smugglers the other night? Ralnarth caught a good reward there, he did."

  "And we both know he doesn't deserve the promotion, Morrath. He's a bully with coin and a noble name behind him, that's all!"

  "Aye, lad, but he's connected in the right places, so he moves up the ladder. Besides, for his faults, he serves a purpose."

  Renaer smirked at the Watch captain. "Someone for you to laugh about back at barracks?"

  Morrath snorted and said, "No. He's vain, so his uncle's money gets him and his Watchmen better equipment, but ultimately that's only good for the city. Don't worry-we both know why he's got his recruits chasin' you. That'll die down in another day or so, assuming you and your friends stay out of his nose. Kahlem won't bring things to the notice of your father. Not while I'm about."

  "Thanks, Morrath," Renaer said, clapping the watchman on the shoulder.

  "Boy, your rat-scampers are handy for training the young 'uns or punishing those who've o'erstepped their places. I just wish you or your friends would join the Watch to train them directly. You'd be a farsight better officer than Ralnarth."

  Renaer winked and said, "You can't afford me, Morrath."

  "Well," Morrath said, "can't blame a man for trying. Just keep yourself from trouble, boy."

  Renaer and Morrath both clambered down a stone rose trellis from their rooftop perch. Renaer dropped the last few feet, landing in a crouch onto Swords Street again.

  "Do you want to share a carriage?" Renaer asked, but when he turned in Morrath's direction, the man had disappeared. "Well met, Morrath. Have to learn that one some time. "

  Renaer stepped out of the shadows at the mouth of Scarlet's Well and flagged down a carriage. The single horse and its young driver both started from his sudden appearance. He didn't blame them, for the area was known to be haunted, albeit by a harmless woman's spirit still weeping bloody tears for her lost love. The boy got over his fear quickly when he saw the quartet of taols Renaer held up. The boy reached eagerly, but Renaer closed his hand around all but one of the square coins. "The rest are yours if you get me quietly to the Grinning Lion in less than two songs."

  The boy nodded enthusiastically as Renaer slipped inside the carriage. Renaer found no comfort inside, as the matted cushions provided little relief from the hard bench or lurching ride.

  Renaer enjoyed the chases with the Watch, but he bristled when the law enforcers-including his father the Open Lord- flaunted power over him and others. Dagult and Kahlem Ralnarth's abuses of authority showed the people that the Watch did not work always for the greater good of the city-just the whims of officers or the Lords. Worst of all, he didn't know what his father wanted, other than obedience and for Renaer to only act within the limited confines of Dagult s imagination. Renaer heard his father's words often enough-"You're a dupe, a wastrel, and you're throwing money away at every church across the city! I won't have my son waste his life!"

  Renaer whispered, almost in prayer, "I want more for my father and for Waterdeep. This used to be a city where dreams came true and gods walked the cobbles. Now, the grime of commerce and greed covers everything, including the once-shining helms of the Lords. The Crown of the North still rules all commerce and politics, but it can't remotely claim to be the City of Splendors. This city needs heroes to bring back its life and luster. But gods know if I have it in me to be one."

  Many hours later, Renaer crept quietly up the stairs to his rooms, a task not terribly difficult given the stone steps and carpets. He expected to be alone, but lights still blazed beneath the door to his father's study.

  "The man is the Open Lord," Renaer muttered. "Why in the gods' names doesn't he use his offices at the palace?"

  Despite his aggravation at the delay in sleep, Renaer smiled. He discovered years ago that he learned more when folk didn't know there were others within earshot. He slipped silently into his room, closed the door, and stripped for bed. Folding his clothes neatly on a side dresser, he shivered from the cold despite the small fire in the fireplace near his bed. Renaer burrowed beneath the furs and quilts, all the while keeping an ear cocked to the voices carried through the chimney shared with the next room's fireplace.

  "We've not learned nearly enough, Dagult." Renaer didn't know this thin reedy voice, nor did he like-what the man had to say. "She is as stubborn as her master was."

  "We know the Blackstaffs have always had access to unknown magic," another unrecognized voice said. "I got her talking about the masked Lords of the past, but she would not say how they controlled them."

  The thin-voiced one said, "The secret of long years, of course, is the most profitable of secrets we could glean from her. I always suspected they bargained with elves or dwarves for those secrets."

  "Three tendays! That's what you told me! And it's been seven!" Dagult slammed his hand down on a table. Renaer knew his father's temper well, and Dagult's roar meant he was frustrated but not yet angry. That's when he'd get very quiet. "You claimed I would have the Overlord's Helm to help me uncover my fellow Lords' secrets. That is what you claimed would make this gambit worth it! Well?"

  The second voice joined in again. "We can't get her to focus. She's been mad ever since-"

  "Focus?" Daguh snapped. "What do you think you have Granek for?"

  The thin-voiced man coughed and said, "Yes, well, his methods are "Only slightly more successful than your magic, apparently," Dagult said. "Now, when are you going to deliver what you promised? You've already received far more reward than what you've delivered in return, but I'm still prepared to bring you into the fold, should you gain results before the solstice."

  Just who was Dagult conspiring with here? Renaer wondered. He never put more on the table unless he could hang someone with the other end of the deal. And to deal with wizards…

  "We shall celebrate together before another tenday passes, milord Neverember," the reedy voice replied. "The three of us shall free the city from the Blackstaff’s interference for the first time in two centuries-or at least ensure the Blackstaff is aligned in full with the Open Lord's policies."

  Renaer heard the door open, and the men wandered out of his earshot. He saw three shadows pass his doorway, and one returned back to Dagult’s office. Renaer heard the thud and hiss of another log being tossed on Dagult's fire grate. The bluster and volume had dropped away, and the cold quiet tone chilled Renaer despite the fire and the furs. "Just make damned sure that this never soils my hearth, wizards, or you'll find out I've more power than even your wizards' guild can muster."

  Dawn nearly reached his windows before Renaer fell into a fitful sleep.

  CHAPTER 2

  It's a trip neither pretty nor pleasant, but delve the sewers if you truly want to learn what goes on in Waterdeep.

  Orlar Sarluk, Down the Drain: A Life in the Guild of Cellarers and Plumbers, the Year of the Worm (1356 DR)

  9 Nightal, Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)

  Laraelra Harsard knew she needed help and needed it quickly. She looked over the assembled crowds milling around Heroes' Garden. Over the past few decades, each ward seemed to adopt its own unofficial gathering places for swords for hire, where Caravan Court, the White Bull, and Virgin's Square once sufficed for mercenary hiring. The snow-covered hillocks of the garden were already soiled from foot traffic, even though it was barely past sunup. Laraelra wove her way around the statues of heroes of Waterdeep's past. Scanning the crowds, she noticed someone had knocked the right foot off of Lhestyn's statue. Above a skinny man in black leathers, the outstretched stone arms of Lords Oth Ranerl, Tanar Hunabar, and Cyrin Kormallis held only broken blades or sword pommels. Laraelra moved deeper into the Heroes' Garden, searching for strong-backed hirelings but only finding jokesters had stolen the head of Rarkul Ulmaster for the fifth time that year.

  If more people respected what it takes to work stone, Laraelra thought, they'd not be so quick to ruin it.

  Laraelra had dressed for the weather and the task ahead of her. Her heavy
woolen cloak covered her oiled leather tunic, pants, and her sealskin boots-necessities for mucking about the sewers. The black color of her clothes made her seem even paler in the morning cold. Despite her thick garments, Laraelra hugged herself to stay warm. As she rounded the back-to-back statues of Mirt the Merciless and Durnan the Wanderer, she patted their knees and thought, Milords, help me find men of your mettle before it's too late. Then she spotted the largest group of sellswords in the Garden-or more properly, they spotted her.

  "Right here, Milady Harsard!" A stylish young bravo rushed ahead of the pack, his spotless purple cloak flaring behind him. He swept off his large feathered hat and bowed before her.

  Behind him thundered a muscled tree stump of a young braggart, his first beard coming in thin patches and barely covering his pimples. "Ignore that fool. I'm your man, Laraelra!" To prove his point, he kicked the bowing man over on his way to intercept Laraelra.

  "Hardly," she replied, striding past with a twitch of one arched eyebrow. Laraelra pulled her cloak closer to ward off the breeze and the light snow on it. Scanning the crowd, she looked for men at least her height, then winnowed down candidates by how strong or capable they seemed.

  Finally, she approached one man leaning against the statue of some centaur hero. The contented young man was more interested in his roll of sausage and onion than in catching her eye. Blond hair avalanched across his shoulders and brow. Until she got close to him, Laraelra did not see the few days' growth of pale blond beard on his face. When she stopped in front of him, the man was in mid-bite, though he smiled close-mouthed at her around the steaming food.

  "You'll do," Laraelra said, "assuming you can focus on a task as much as your meal."

  She smiled as the man hurriedly chewed, swallowed, and then choked and coughed in surprise. He stood two hands taller than

  Laraelra, his shoulders twice hers, and his arms were as large as her legs. Strapped to his back was a great-axe, much-abused but serviceable, like the dagger pommels she saw in his boots. Despite the cold, his cloak was open, exposing well-worn leather armor over a broad chest.

  She pressed three silver pieces into his hand and said, "You'll get that much every bell you have to accompany me today, if that's acceptable to you."

  The man nodded and coughed a few more times while he tucked the coins into his boot.

  Laraelra motioned for him to follow, then turned her back and headed for the copse of trees at the southern end of the Heroes' Garden. "You'll want to finish that before we enter the sewers, I wager."

  She half-expected him to stop walking once she mentioned the sewers, but the young man gamely followed her without hesitation.

  Laraelra extracted a ring of keys from her belt pouch as she approached the stone hut that covered a sewer shaft among the trees. After she unlocked the access shaft and cracked the door, she turned to her companion. "In case you didn't know, I am Laraelra Harsard. And you are…?"

  A broad, beaming smile spread over the man's massive jaw. "Meloon Wardragon, at your service, mistress. What'll need doing this morning?"

  Laraelra grabbed a torch off the wall inside the access hut, and lit it as she talked. I am investigating a problem for the Cellarers and Plumbers' Guild down in the sewers. I simply need you in case anything or anyone tries anything untoward." She raised her eyebrows as she looked Meloon up and down. "You'll be a snug fit in some of the tunnels, so you might want to unbelt that axe of yours ahead of time. Never hurts to be prepared, after all."

  Meloon nodded and pulled his axe free while Laraelra descended the rung ladder in the floor shaft.

  "Just curious, mistress, but why choose me when all those other swords wanted your attention?" Meloon asked. He wrinkled his nose a bit at the overwhelming smell wafting up the shaft, but sighed and took a few deep breaths to acclimate himself to the odor.

  The shaft and tunnel beneath Laraelra added a hollow echo to her words. "Most of those bravos up there dressed to impress and would balk at a morning spent in the sewers. Those who weren't dandies were trying to impress me and get in good with my father. I'd rather have someone who's more attentive to the job at hand. Besides, your boots were already covered with dung, so you're obviously someone who worries more about the work than appearance." Laraelra stepped off the rung ladder to the side of the tunnel before she looked up to see Meloon clambering down. "At least it's warmer down here than it is out on the streets. Wetter, but warmer."

  Meloon said, "My father used to say, 'Never trust a man what's not got a little stuff on his boots. If a man's worried about where he's stepping, he's not working hard enough.' Glad to see that wisdom's alive in Waterdeep."

  Meloon stepped onto the side ledge that lined the central sluice, and his left boot slipped in slime and slid sideways into the muck. Meloon sighed, looked up at Laraelra, and shrugged, a sheepish grin on his face. Laraelra wrinkled her nose as she smiled at him, then she turned and moved a bit up the path to allow him to shake the offal from his boot.

  The pair stood at an intersection of three tunnels, all equally foul in appearance and stench. Walled all around in stone, the passages were twice as far across as Meloon's broad arm span, though the tunnel behind them leading southeast was smaller than the others. Laraelra spotted light flickering at an oval tunnel entrance outside of their torchlight long before she heard the voice.

  "If ye and yer new lad're done exchangin' pleasantries, we've need of a strong back, lass!" A gravely voice echoed up the tunnel.

  Laraelra darted forward with her torch."Harug, is Dorn still all right?" she called out.

  "No, he's far from that, lass," Harug replied. "He's trapped under rubble in a puddle of rising filth."

  Laraelra and Meloon moved to the left side of the passage, as the ledge continued only on that side. They turned into the lit entrance of the smaller tunnel, the close confines of which concentrated the stench. The light of their torch merged with that of two others, and they could see the situation.

  Part of the side wall had collapsed inward, though the ceiling arch overhead remained intact due to support pillars on both sides of the collapse. Sewage flowed out of the gap in the wall, cascading atop the pile of loosened stones and dirt. A makeshift shield of rocks kept most of it from splashing onto the two dwarves. The mobile one worked to move rocks while the other laid still, his legs trapped beneath the fall.

  "About time ye made it back, lass," Harug snapped. "It's getting deeper around me nephew there, and I can't stop the flow long enough to redirect it."

  The old dwarf seemed exhausted, his shoulders sagging, but he kept moving, barely facing them before he returned to repairing the crude screen that kept the worst of the sewage off his fallen companion. He kept darting glances up at the dark recess that had opened in the wall above him.

  Laraelra's eyebrows arched in surprise and anger, and she felt a flare of heat flush across her face. "Why aren't Parkleth and Narlam here helping you clear rubble?"

  Harug turned and shot her a knowing look.

  "Those tluiners just left you here?" she said. "Oh, when I get my hands on those parharding wastes of air!"

  "How 'bout me first, Elra?" The trapped dwarf opened his eyes briefly and chuckled. "The cowardly bigots can wait."

  Her temper cooled, and she dashed toward her old friends. "To be sure, Dorn."

  Laraelra knelt by her friend, brushing some mud away from his eyes. She hoped her face didn't betray how concerned she was about the gash on his forehead or the muck rising around him. To hide her worry, she talked over her shoulder at the other men. "Meloon Wardragon, meet Harug Shieldsunder, the most cantankerous dwarf in the city and one of our guild's best tunnel workers. The muddier one here is Dorn Strongcroft, his vastly more pleasant nephew. How can we help?"

  "Move yer skinny self out of our way and get the lad to brace his back against that pile," Harug said. "If he can lift that main pair o' rocks for a trice, we should be able to pull Dorn free without the whole thing crushing all of us. Can ye do that,
lad?"

  "Aye," Meloon said, as he leaned his axe against the wall and ledge. He stepped over and straddled the fallen dwarf, making sure his footing was secure. He squatted and reached behind his back to grab the two largest rocks. He nodded at Laraelra and Harug, who grabbed the groaning Dorn by the arms. The three of them nodded in unison, and on the third nod, Meloon grimaced and lifted, using his legs and arms to pull the weight of the pile off of the dwarf. Rocks and sluice water, now free of the temporary dam, engulfed the tall man, and he gasped at both the stench and the cold water as it soaked him from head to foot.

  Laraelra and Harug yanked Dorn free of the rubble, the wet muck making a sucking noise as he slid free. The dwarf himself only made a perfunctory grunt, then his head lolled back as he passed out. Laraelra and Harug pulled Dorn more than three body lengths away from the collapse and up onto the ledge before they stopped.

  Sighing in relief, Laraelra called back, "Meloon, you can let go now," and heard him groan as he lowered his burden. The rocks and dirt rumbled slightly as they settled into the space where Dorn once lay. More rocks tumbled from the broken wall, widening the dark gap.

  Laraelra focused on Dorn, whose crushed, mud-encrusted legs were twisted unnaturally. She shuddered, remembering the far-lesser pain of a twisted ankle, and she thanked Tymora that

  Dorn had fallen unconscious from the pain. She needed to keep his wounds clean and determine if any bones broke through his skin. She closed her eyes, focused on the image of a sunbeam becoming a rainbow, and summoned her power. She opened her eyes and spread her fingers in a fan over his legs. The mud shimmered and separated, the water flowing away and the dirt and offal falling off of Dorn's legs in chunks. After a breath or two, she relaxed, not seeing any blood staining his now-dry clothes.

  Within the piles around Dorn's legs, Harug spotted the glint of one gold and one silver ring, and he snatched those up. "Delvarin's daubles," he grunted at the sorceress, pocketing the jewelry.