by Ed Greenwood
“I’d say,” the shorter man replied in dry tones, “that he was more interested in providing dashing fresh faces to dally with jaded nobles.”
“Faces,” Voskur echoing meaningfully, and added a rather dirty chuckle. The other man chuckled, too.
“So, Omin Dran,” Voskur said briskly, raising his goblet in salute, “I came here to take my measure of these adventurers, and see if I liked the looks of any of them—I’m speaking seriously, now—to hire them to protect me.” He lowered his voice and thrust his head forward, until Jalester was certain he’d be seen, and added, “Seeing as someone in this city certainly seems to want Hidden Lords to greet early graves. So, fellow wearer of the Mask, are you here to hire yourself some bodyguards, too?”
Omin Dran took a calm sip of his wine. “You think it’s come to that?”
“Well, I’m not waiting until they come for me. It’s, what, three of us, so far? How many blaring war horns of warning do you need, man?”
Dran shrugged. “More than three, evidently,” he murmured, raised his goblet in salute, and strolled away.
Voskur stared after him, then drained his own wine in one long pull, shook his head, and hastened back the way he’d come.
Back toward the din of chatter in more brightly lit chambers.
Jalester let out his long-held breath again, in a great gasp, and had just about regained his poise enough to dare to step out from behind the tapestry once more, when the alcove was again invaded. Swift and pantingly, this time, bustling into the farthest dim back corner. Right beside him.
Young, strong, and ardent they were, richly dressed—nobles both—and already busy kissing and caressing.
“Hurry, Narvel,” the woman urged, between gasps. “My Ilander’s getting jealous—and watchful.”
“Oh, I can be very quick,” the man growled, tearing at her gown. As cloth of gold tore, she tugged just as vigorously, baring Narvel’s shoulder—and sinking her teeth into it.
Narvel growled like a lustful wolf and buried his head against the woman’s chest.
Now, thought Jalester; this is my chance!
And as he darted out from behind the tapestry, ducking low to slip past, he was so close that he couldn’t help but notice what dangled from the tip of the woman’s nearest exposed breast.
A tiny black-and-red pendant clearly displaying the three triangles of Asmodeus.
Well, now. Decadent, these nobles of Waterdeep …
• • •
“OH, HO, HO, ho!” Ondreth Tolvur’s eyes widened with delight at the bared breasts offered to him, and his hands shot out.
“Ohhhhh,” Tasheene groaned in feigned delight, submitting to his fondling. In apparent surrender she bent her knees and collapsed against him, rubbing and purring, taking care to make enough noise that the Masked Lord wouldn’t hear Darleth take the last two steps up behind him and get a firm and careful grip on Tolvur’s stout golden neck chain, a twisted ornamental rope of wrought gold that would hopefully prove strong enough, for long enough …
And if it didn’t, Darleth’s garrote hung ready from his wrist, its dark waxed length ready.
The chain tightened, Tolvur’s eyes went wide with surprise and dismay, and Tasheene left off purring and clamped firm hands over the man’s nose and mouth to stifle any outcry. Then she devoted herself to keeping her fingers there even as he tried to bite them, and his hands tightened in her soft flesh in desperate claws, hauling her down as Darleth rode him to the floor ruthlessly, knee to the back of Tolvur’s neck and the chain pulled so tight it vanished between folds of purpling flesh.
Masked Lord Ondreth Tolvur struggled for another frenzied instant, then kicked and writhed all over like a landed fish flopping on the docks—and went limp, his eyes staring fixedly at nothing at all.
When they let go of him, he lay still, except for his mouth. It fell open limply, and a trickle of blood ran out.
Tasheene, her chest smarting from his dying clutch—oh, but she’d have bruises tomorrow—drew the slender dagger from inside her left boot, sliced open the dead man’s ruffle-bedecked shirt, tore open his belt, and on his bared and hairy belly carved the symbol of Asmodeus.
For it was high time the tongues of Waterdeep wagged about the foul deity so many of their nobles worshipped and the sort of dark things that were done in that fell Lord’s name.
She wiped her blade clean on Tolvur’s shirt, resheathed it, then rose, pulled the overlapping folds of her bodice back into place, retightened the sash that would keep them there, and followed Darleth. Who was already strolling unconcernedly away as if he hadn’t noticed so much as a shadow of the dead man lying on the floor right behind him.
He slowed and offered her his arm, and she took it and they strode on in easy unison, in two steps becoming just one more affectionate couple strolling the shadowed upper floors of Nandertowers as the revel wound down. Walking without the slightest haste to the back stair that had brought them here.
If for some reason it was blocked, Tasheene vaguely recalled two other back routes down from this floor—and she knew that Darleth, who’d spent hours studying the plans of the rebuilt Nandar villa that the mysterious man who’d hired Tasheene had given her, had memorized no less than four ways, in precise detail.
Yet the stair was dark and deserted, and there was no tumult or outcry behind them as they strolled out the back doors of Nandartowers onto Brondar’s Way, where the street lanterns shone on an empty block and the noise of the revel was faint behind them.
They slipped away west, through almost-deserted streets, seeing nary a Watch patrol.
And walked unhurriedly on into Sea Ward. It seemed they’d done it.
Murdered the Masked Lord Ondreth Tolvur, and as the broadsheets liked to put it, “gotten clean away.”
• • •
JALESTER SLOWED IN his hurrying way through the splendors of Nandartowers, stared, and then stopped dead.
Oh, he definitely needed wine now—but not enough to get one step closer to the dead man on the floor. The very recently slain man who had something freshly sliced into his belly, from which glistening blood was still spreading out around him.
This dead man looked noble, or at least rich and important, whereas he, Jalester, was an outlander and an adventurer, and being halfway handsome wouldn’t keep him from being blamed for murder. He turned and fled, trying not to run.
There’d been an ascending stair back here, somewhere, not all that far. The floors above looked down on this one, through an open central well—gods and Walking Statues, but this place was big—and he’d get safely up there and find a place he could look down on the body from, and from that safer distance watch what happened when it was found.
On that upper floor he came across a serving table set with several decanters and many goblets, and through a half-open door behind it heard the bubblingly delighted giggles of—he peered—yes, the maidservant who was supposed to be dispensing this wine, half-buried under …
None other than Gingerwhiskers. Who whuffled when he was busily trying to cover someone all over with kisses, Jalester found himself discovering, with a shudder. So he helped himself to the largest decanter, then shrugged and took it with him along with his brimful goblet, strolling with as much idle lack of concern as he could feign to the right spot along the rail.
When he looked oh-so-casually down, he was just in time to see men crowding around the corpse. Balding and overweight men in magnificent clothing, who had to be nobles.
“Asmodeus, that is!” one exclaimed, peering at the bleeding carving on the corpse’s hairy stomach.
“Who is he, d’you know?”
“That’s Tolvur, Ondreth Tolvur. Used to deal in exotic beasts, and had his own smokehouse for boar, halfway to Amphail, back before he started buying up buildings and fancying himself someone important. Some say he’s one of the Hidden Lords, but I don’t believe it myself. I mean, look at that clout—and those boots! Lords of the City, even commoners, have some ta
ste … don’t they?”
“Dashed rude of these lowlifes, coming to our revels to settle their sordid little scores!”
“Well, we’re not having a scandal! Not on good old Elegal’s head! Bad for business, what? This body must simply disappear, right away!”
“Well, but how? I’m not carrying it! I mean, I didn’t even know the man, and I’ll get blood all over this—”
“Oh, for Sune and Ilmater’s sake! Yon carpet will do! Grab it, Forstal! We’ll roll him up in it and just carry him out of here and tell anyone who sees us that we’re in the middle of a prank and we’ll explain it all later. Look, it’s plenty long enough to hide him; even if he has his arms together over his head, it’ll jut out long at both ends by a good measure!”
“Hah! Man of action, you are, Lestrus! Good man! This’ll be fun!”
“Wait a bit, wait a bit! What will we tell them, about the prank, when the body is found?”
“It’s not going to be found. It’s going straight into the sewers. When they were rebuilding their villa into this mansion, they kept the old sewer-shaft. You can drop horses down it!”
“And you’d know this how, exactly?”
“Hah! I’ll tell you that after you come up with a tale to tell for our prank! A good one, mind! Now help me roll him, and pluck out that ridiculous scarf he’s wearing—we’ll need it to mop the blood off the floor and then roll in with him!”
Jalester drew back from the railing, just in case one of the puffingly excited nobles should happen to look up. He would, if he were down there right now, busily rolling that body into a large, expensive and—presumably—Nandar-treasured carpet.
Interesting. This was the third time he’d heard of “villas” being rebuilt into larger, grander “mansions.” It seemed that over the last few decades these grand castles had increasingly become year-round residences rather than mere Summertide homes. Perhaps the wealthy who’d bought up titles had something to do with that—they were here and wanted to lord it here and never go anywhere else. Hmm. Interesting place, this City of Splendors. Murders and high prices and all, he liked it.
Jalester risked another peek over the railing, in time to see that the nobles had bundled the dead man into the carpet and were now carrying it off.
Off and down a short flight of white marble steps, and turning to their right, about to pass out of his view.
He decided he wanted to see and hear more, and hastened back to the stair that had brought him here.
It was some time before he caught up to the carpet-laden nobles, but they obviously knew their way down through the Nandar mansion, floor after floor, heading for what was probably a servants’ cellar where they could access the chute that dropped the Nandar dung into the sewers.
They encountered a door, and one of them looked back—and Jalester only escaped discovery by looking bored and striding across a passage rather than continuing along it in their wake.
Finding himself in another unlit alcove full of furniture and paintings, that reconnected with that passage via an archway, he hastened through it.
And almost ran into the nobles; it seemed the door was binding in its frame, and they were having to haul hard on it to get it open.
“Don’t think they use this end of the house much,” one commented. “Not since Amalra married and moved south to Amn or Tethyr or wherever she went; some barbaric and hot excuse for a city, I forget which one it was.”
“That’s got it!” another grunted, as the door juddered open with a groan.
“Someone in Downshadow will find the body,” another noble hissed.
“Haven’t you heard? They’re dying down in Downshadow like flies caught out in a downpour. Abandoning the place in droves.”
“And having buildings crash down on their heads isn’t helping,” another muttered, as another door squealed open and a certain smell became evident.
Jalester risked the briefest of peeks, and was in time to see the nobles tip the rolled carpet over a waist-high half wall, into darkness, and then lean to listen for a splash below.
Jalester looked for another carpet to hide behind, but settled for a doorway he could duck through, into an unlit servery.
“My, but we live in interesting times,” Forstal commented. “Bloody Waterdeep.”
“Always has been, always has been—so there isn’t anywhere else in all the world I’d rather be,” Lestrus said, almost merrily.
And then came the splash, and the nobles turned away, sighing in relief.
“Long way down, that.”
“Urrgh. Good thing, considering. Anyone get blood on them?”
“If you did,” Lestrus offered, “find an Asmodeus-kisser and they’ll lick it off for you. They do that in their rituals.”
“And you know this how?”
“Well, one can’t but help hear a lot of things, whilst trying to get into certain ladies’ beds,” was the reply.
“I’ll bet,” came a dry response. “I’ll just bet.”
CHAPTER 7
All Wizards Are Crazy
Looking back over the last three centuries of Sword Coast history, it is simply bewildering why wizards aren’t ruling everywhere. They have the power, despite all the resentment—and ready swords—of those who do not. Yet time and again they make mistakes, or do wildly foolish things, and either lose grip on thrones, or miss seizing them in the first place. And in the end, I can find only one possible reason: all wizards are crazy.
—from Tathaero’s Short Sword Coast Chronicle by Aldreth Tathaero, Scribe for Hire of Athkatla, published in the Year of the Rune Lords Triumphant
TASHEENE FOUGHT TO STEADY HER BREATH. SHE DOUBTED ANTLER would be impressed by a fearful and panting agent.
She’d parted from Darleth at their agreed-upon place, but once out of his sight had needed to sprint like a thief to have time to dodge through her usual two club cellars, to make sure he wasn’t following her.
To arrive at this meeting disheveled and huffing would be bad, but to arrive with a tail would mean both their deaths.
So here she was, a little breathless but not late, at least, on the Blue Jack side of the upright sewer grating, in the near pitch darkness and reek she was getting used to.
“Tolvur is dead,” she murmured through the grating, without greeting or preamble.
“Good,” came the familiar deep, slow voice from the sewer side of the rusty old lattice. “So continue. With the Lords I’ve selected, and only the Lords I’ve selected. In order. If you must butcher a guildmaster or adventurer or Watch captain or anyone else to keep the Palace off your tracks, do it, but when it comes to the Lords, let’s have no freelancing. I have my reasons for a precise sequence of deaths.”
“You have to steer the surviving Lords into selecting the right individuals to replenish their ranks,” Tasheene was bold enough to reply.
“Precisely. And I have only enough mindstones to protect one candidate Lord at a time. As Lady Silverhand is a Chosen, whatever that means these days, and may have ways of mindscrying we’re unaware of.”
“Does she name new Masked Lords?”
“She proclaims them. Only a Hidden Lord of Waterdeep can nominate replacements to their ranks, and we vote on every candidate in secret, before they even know they’re being considered. The Open Lord only participates in such votes to break ties—not that such an occasion has ever happened in my time.”
“The Watchful Order doesn’t spy on your proceedings?”
“They are forbidden to, and I very much doubt that in the time of the Blackstaff—Khelben the Inflexible, who forbade them so publicly, and all the independent mages of the city, too—any of them dared to. Twice.”
“Khelben has been gone from the Deep a long time,” Tasheene ventured quietly.
“And Laeral—this Laeral—is but his shadow,” Antler agreed. “Yet Neverember had some sort of magic item that created a backlash and almost slew the Blackstaff Vajra, the one time she tried to read what he was up to; I dou
bt any of the weak-kneed and pettish ditherers who populate the Order now would dare to scry the Hidden Lords to know if they’re conspiring with prospective future Hidden Lords or guildmasters or anyone else, to choose particular new Lords or indeed to decide anything at all.”
“Have you any preferences as to the rate of demises,” Tasheene asked carefully, “as I follow the list?”
“No. The swifter the deaths follow, the more alarm will spread—but a slower rate will give the Watch more time to prepare and the surviving Lords to guard themselves. I do not want them to have time to sequester themselves behind fortress walls and vote and debate by magical means, through the Order’s assistance. That will mean, in time, that the Order rules this city, not any Lord or Lords at all. And the faster you strike, the faster my other agents can snatch away the bodies before someone can get them to a temple and try to bring them back from death to report what they saw of their slayers—and resume their seats as Lords. Now go, and eliminate Lords for me.”
“I hear and obey,” Tasheene gave the expected response, and turned and walked away, never once having sought to look through the grating. Antler was never pleased when his orders were tested.
She went back the way she’d come. Through the damp tunnel that was lit only by the faintly phosphorescent muirvramm, the claret-hued moss that grew wild on old stone almost everywhere beneath the Deep. Up into the cellars of the Blue Jack, and around a tumbled pile of spongy-rotten old furniture that stank of mold and at first glance to anyone entering into this cellar from above filled the back of this room, entirely hiding the tunnel she’d just used.
Only the boldest inquisitive intruder would get this far, because they’d have to come through the low-ceilinged cellar room and pass the moldering body of an outlander with a smashed-in head, a long-ago tavern brawl victim—not to mention an iron cage periodically replenished with meat scraps that attracted rats.
Rats that didn’t bother to flee or squeal when she walked through them now. They just gave Tasheene dirty looks, and one of them tried to run up her ankle, so she scraped it off with her other foot, tromped on it hard, and strode on.