by Ed Greenwood
He came down his steps humming, and allowed himself a jaunty little swagger, flourishing his silver stick, as he set out along his path and the arch-topped stone gate that would open into the waiting city beyond.
Only to come to an abrupt halt and goggle in astonishment at the sight of a beautiful flame-haired young woman kneeling nude on his garden path, praying.
Happy dancing hobgoblins!
She didn’t look like a trull. She looked … highborn. Unblemished. And gods above, beautiful.
He’d never laid eyes on her before, he was fairly sure. He’d have remembered a body like this one.
He hastened over, summoned his wits, and after peering in all directions to make sure his garden wasn’t full of watching lurking assailants—the juniper offered ample concealment, and it was clear he hadn’t seen Tasheene or Cuthbarrel—said to the upturned face of the nude kneeling maiden, with her murmuring lips and closed eyes, “Ah, goodlady? Well met! I am Oszbur Malankar, and this—well, this is my garden. Not that I mind your intrusion, but how came you to be here?”
The young lady opened gorgeous eyes, gave him a dazzling smile, stood up and spread her arms wide as if to embrace him, and said rather dreamily and vaguely, “The goddess Eilistraee led me here, for there is to be a dance on this very spot. A holy dance.”
Malankar was dumbfounded. “Drow? Here in my garden?”
He’d heard the Dark Dancer had been seen dancing, and speaking to mortals, at several places up and down the Sword Coast, but—but here?
Again he peered swiftly all around, looking in vain for accomplices or approaching trouble. Seeing nothing, he asked sharply, “Who are you, young miss?”
“I—I—” The fire-haired woman had a haughty, patrician face, legs even longer than her glossy fall of hair, and a figure that … that … Malankar swallowed, acutely aware that he should be keeping his eyes on hers, because she was staring at him blankly.
Bewildered fear rose into her eyes, and she whispered, “I—I don’t know.” And sprang forward, flung her arms around him—crushing his nose against her bare bosom—and begged, “Protect me! Oh, great Saer, whoever you are, take pity on me! Protect me, will you?”
Half-suffocating—her deliciously rounded skin bore the faint, lingering scent of a very expensive perfume that he’d smelled before at one or two of the rare revels nobles in need of coin had invited him to—Malankar managed to assure her he would, and somehow managed to get free of her grasp and take her by the hand.
He dragged her off the path—where anyone passing in the street could glance in and see them together—and up a grassy bank into his garden.
Specifically, to the curved marble bench there, that stood in front of a thick row of junipers, where he sat her down to comfort her.
And as he feared, his kindness made her shoulders shake, and sobs come. She nestled her head against him, and just when he felt his ardor begin to stir and started to worry that she’d notice, she started crying in earnest and swung the other way, so she was facing away from him. He stroked her hair awkwardly and said a little helplessly, “There, there …”
And that made her turn and embrace him fiercely—around the waist. Her head was in his lap as she clung to him, and he was acutely aware of her beauty, and now, yes, he was getting aroused.
Which was when something heavy and dark and smelling of old dirt and potatoes descended and blotted out the world.
A sack. It must be an old sack. The girl’s weight on his lap and thigh was suddenly gone but he felt a sharp pain in his crotch, then her hands were at his throat, thrusting in through the sack and choking him, and other strong hands were pinching his nose closed through the sack, and …
And … and …
• • •
MALANKAR KICKED AND writhed for a surprisingly long time in Cuthbarrel’s grimly firm grip before he went limp.
The guildmaster didn’t let go, even after Tasheene had drawn three breaths—and counted them aloud, panting only slightly. Cuthbarrel’s wordless response was to make sure by yanking the sack off, carrying the limp Sembian to his own fishpond, and plunging him in.
He held him under until that last of the bubbles stopped.
“That was a distinct pleasure,” Cuthbarrel announced, rising, dusting his hands, and staring down at the body. “I owed him a lot of coin.”
After a moment, he turned and looked at the mansion. “Now, if we get our hands on his wine cellar …”
“The servants will all see you and be able to identify you, guildmaster,” Tasheene told him sharply, as she took him by the hand and towed him back toward the path. “Let’s be gone, now. Zaraela, don’t leave any clothing behind.”
The other woman, still unconcernedly bare from head to toe, sneered at her. “Think you’re the only one who’s ever murdered anyone, do you?”
“No,” Tasheene replied, as they all came out onto the path, “that’s just what I don’t think. This is a city of murderers; we’re surrounded by experts. And experts spot things. Let’s move.”
And at that moment, as she looked at the gate, she found herself looking straight into the eyes of a passerby—a well-dressed man—who was out on the street and gawking at them along Malankar’s path.
Even before she could swallow, Drake dropped on the man from above, hands taking hold and then jerking brutally.
Tasheene smiled. Neck broken with a deft twist, as the two men crashed to the cobbles together. Just like that.
Drake bounded up from the body, opened the gate, and heaved the man he’d just killed through it. Then he closed the gate again and hurried toward them, dragging the dead man with him.
“Watch patrol, five blocks east along Hassantyr’s Street but coming this way at their normal trudge,” he puffed, and pointed the other way along the path. “So we’ll be leaving—right after you help me arrange this carrion with his hands around Malankar’s throat, both of them underwater in the pond, there.”
“Your job, Cuthbarrel,” Tasheene ordered briskly.
Her tone had him hastening to help Drake in an instant, but as he got his hands on the dead man’s collar, he turned and gave her a hard look. “And just when did I become your lackey?”
Tasheene rolled her eyes. “Not now, guildmaster! Have my apologies, and let’s get this done and get gone.”
She saw that Zaraela was dressed again. Hmmm. Exhibiting a speed and precision that suggested she’d robed and disrobed in efficient haste many a time before.
“Blast and bebolt,” Cuthbarrel muttered, eyeing the Raelantaver heiress as he and Drake lugged the dead merchant past. “I’d’ve liked to have seen more of that.”
“You can,” Zaraela told him cheerfully, “when we need another Hidden Lord distracted so you can kill him. And the one after that. There’s quite the list still to do, isn’t there?”
“So many killings,” Drake murmured, hauling Malankar back out of his own fishpond by one ankle and rolling him over, “and so little time. No wonder assassins charge so much.”
Zaraela strode back to the gate to peer down the street at the approaching Watch patrol. She turned, hastened back toward them, and announced, “We’ll be leaving now.”
And they did.
The two face-to-face bodies with arms now at each other’s throats settled slowly down through the disturbed waters of the fishpond. Only a few bubbles rose in their wake, and by then the fish were drifting unconcernedly about again.
And the Watch patrol tramped on past without a glance.
• • •
LAERAL WAS BEGINNING to get just a little tired of Masked Lords arriving unannounced to have urgent private meetings with her.
But only a little. No matter how unpleasant the meetings, they interrupted her paperwork, and she was beginning to see that as a very good thing.
There were only six of them this time: Voskur, Hrimmrel, Haelhand, Heirlarpost, Maremthur, and Cazondur. The six Hidden Lords she was beginning to grow very weary of. This morning, it seemed,
they were worried by the latest murders. No, more than worried. Fearful.
It was Lammakh Heirlarpost who voiced their urgent request, scarcely waiting for the courtiers to close the doors of the Lordsmoot before he started thundering.
“The Open Lord must call all the Hidden Lords together and vote in new members, without delay!”
“Is this is the right and prudent thing to do, at this time?” Laeral asked, keeping her face and voice neutral. Here it comes. The power grab.
“It is essential. The city stands endangered.”
“And,” Braethan Cazondur put in, “the Open Lord and the Hidden Lords all have one vote each. We are not alone among the Lords in wanting new Lords installed, so you can agree to this now, or we shall force it at our next all-Lords meeting. If you seek to delay that moot, we shall hold it elsewhere, without you.”
Laeral nodded calmly. “I did not say I was opposed; I asked what I asked. So you feel strongly that we need new Lords in their chairs immediately. So, my Lords, who are the candidates?”
“Ah,” Heirlarpost said, blinking in surprise at her ready acquiescence. “Uh, well …” And then, of course, he looked to Cazondur.
Laeral carefully did not look in that direction as she spread her hands and said softly—but icily, “I’m going to be more than suspicious if I find you six have agreed on just one convenient list of candidates to replace the same number of slain Lords.”
That brought Heirlarpost to his feet again, to sputter that no one had told him who to propose as replacement Lords. He then suggested that each of the Masked Lords present propose one name.
“Not you,” he said curtly to Laeral. “You’ve not been in the city long enough.”
She merely nodded, in silent agreement.
Heirlarpost gave her a smile and a nod, looking relieved, and went on, “We shall then discuss the names, followed by a vote. If a suggestion receives four or more votes, that candidate makes the list. Any that don’t will be dropped. Then all of we six Lords here now will suggest a second name, and so on, until we have a list of six. Agreed?”
This seemed reasonable to everyone, but Laeral did not fail to notice that twice as he’d spoken, Heirlarpost had glanced briefly at Cazondur.
Almost as if checking that he was saying the right things.
Laeral let herself sink into closer commune with the Weave, to make sure no one was using magic at the table—and in an instant found an obvious blockage in the flow around Cazondur.
The man was … bearing a mindstone!
The oldest, most powerful elven-made variant of a ring of mind shielding. Once, it would not have been able to keep her at bay, but now …
Laeral only just kept her grim frown off her face.
Mindstones, now … enspelled gemstones, their making once a secret of the High Mages of the elves. Opals or moonstones, usually, their enchantment requiring seven spells, and of those seven, two cast simultaneously to begin the process and another two cast on the stone at the same time later in the sequence. It was all much easier if a baelnorn oversaw the process and steered and steadied the settling magic. If done carelessly, or by someone impatient or just unaware of how slowly and delicately certain of the castings must be made, the result was an explosion of the gem and a momentary flare of wild magic.
So they had always been rare and precious, and had become more so with the passing centuries. Senior priests of most churches had access to one, kept in a major temple of their faith somewhere in Faerûn, but they were otherwise held by elves.
With one exception …
Here in Waterdeep, there might well be a score or more of the treasures scattered about the mansions of Waterdeep’s nobles. Each one could have completely shielded a mind during the Spellplague and probably had—for if worn or kept close, they could protect an unwitting mind.
So how had Cazondur—?
Well, a matter for another time. He definitely had one now. Laeral studied him more closely while trying very hard not to seem to do so.
The man was smiling faintly, his eyes two hard nail heads as he watched her. Laeral was reminded of a deadly snake, awaiting the moment when prey wanders just a bit too near …
He was wearing quite a few things that might be enchanted. And if even a quarter of them were, and had the powers they most likely did, some of them would only work for him if he was attuned to them.
Which meant he was a wizard.
Well now, as Elminster would say. Well, now …
She’d never heard of Cazondur having any aptitude for the Art, and he certainly wasn’t a member of the Watchful Order or written down on their “keep a watch over” list as an unregistered citizen spellcaster … but there were such things as untrained wild talents, and Waterdeep was full of folk with little secrets and pasts they didn’t talk about.
Perhaps this Cazondur was a sometime dabbler, never trained but wealthy enough to acquire items and even pay passing adventurer-mages to assist him in learning their use and attunement.
Or perhaps he was something more.
She had already fallen into the habit of using the Weave very lightly at all meetings of the Lords, at the ready to detect covert castings any Lord might make, so she knew Cazondur had made no use of the Art at all in her presence since she’d been named Open Lord and started meeting with the Hidden Lords.
And that, of course, meant nothing.
Nothing at all.
And this Cazondur could just be a sly and wealthy man who feared magic, and could afford to buy magic items to protect himself against it. Waterdeep was home to many of those. Yet somehow, she doubted that.
The Lords made their suggestions, and readily agreed on four of the six candidates to be named.
One man they all agreed upon was Daerrask Querreth, a busy veteran investor and shipping fleet owner whom Laeral had heard—mere rumor, she had to admit—was seriously financially overextended. And therefore owed many favors.
Not a strong candidate, in her opinion, but as she’d been told she had no say in this, she kept silent. The six Lords across the table from her easily agreed on two more candidates from among their second round of suggestions.
Then she did speak up. “In my opinion, Lords, if we are to be fair …”
“Yes?” Heirlarpost asked sharply, ready to do battle.
“You six have had your picks,” Laeral continued. “So if any of these candidates should fail to be voted in by a majority of all the Lords, your fellow Lords who aren’t here at this table now should be the only ones nominating more candidates.”
Her words fell into a little frowning silence, but it was broken by Kassalra Maremthur, who thrust out her chin and announced firmly, “That seems fair to me.” After that, the other five Hidden Lords murmured their assent, and before Heirlarpost could take the floor again, as he was clearing his throat to do, Laeral asked, “In light of the murders, how should voted-in candidates be informed of their new status? And what do you intend to do if any of them refuse?”
“Oh, I doubt any of them will do that,” Heirlarpost said dismissively. “The power, the prestige …”
“The yawning waiting grave,” Laeral murmured. Cazondur looked at her sharply, but said nothing, and another little silence fell.
“As the orcs say,” Hrimmrel commented lightly, before the moment could become uncomfortable, “let’s burn that bridge when we’re standing on it.”
“Very well,” Laeral replied. “Deferred until the meeting of all Lords to elect replacements—and again, in light of the murders, when and how do you propose that this general vote of all Lords be held?”
“On the morrow,” Cazondur rapped out, obviously voicing a conclusion already reached. “Tomorrow evening, to be precise; a supper here at the Palace, as we often do for major meetings, followed by an assembly in this room to vote.”
And so it was agreed.
After the Lords had all departed, and Laeral had watched them go, she turned and walked the Palace back rooms and passages
until she laid eyes on a particular kitchen drudge. Taking the maid off alone in a back pantry, Laeral closed the door and said crisply, “You like to harp. Go tell the Shepherd to send someone trusted here to me. He’s to tell the guards he’s found out who now makes the tarts I used to love so much, in the days when Khelben and I were Lord and Lady Mage of the city—that way, I’ll know he’s from Tam. I will need four people told they’re new Hidden Lords of the city without my sending known Palace agents to their doors. Oh, and please alert me swiftly to the slightest hint of a giantess or disguised giantess, anywhere in or near the city.”
The kitchen drudge nodded, plucked an empty and waiting pie plate from the nearest counter, and flung it hard to the floor.
The crash was impressive, and as the shards rocked on the flagstones between them, the maid murmured, “I dropped and broke a plate, and you were so furious that you sent me home for the day. I flee!”
And she flung her apron in Laeral’s face, turned, crashed out the pantry back door, and was gone.
Laeral smiled, went and closed the door in the Harper’s wake, and started picking up shards.
As the door behind her banged open and a frowning cook, having heard the crash, came rushing in.
• • •
THAT DOOR WAS swinging so violently that it banged shut again behind the cook, so Laeral never saw the man he had been talking with. An individual who was now standing and listening to Laeral’s explanation of the crash.
That listener was Masked Lord Braethan Cazondur, and his face was … thoughtful.
CHAPTER 9
Progress Through Diplomacy
And though to many a sword seems a sharper, simpler, and more decisive an argument, there is, if one consults historical record with an open mind, free of passion and preconception, an argument to be made for solid progress through diplomacy. This has happened too often for it to be a miracle or mere chance or mistake, yet—men being who they are—does not happen enough.
—Garandal the Chancellor, in Chapter 7 of The Rise of Randral: A Chapbook Adventure by Sandreth Yendrel of Neverwinter, published in the Year of the Striking Hawk