Death Masks

by Ed Greenwood

  “WE’RE USING A CONVEYANCE BECAUSE SOME OF THOSE WHO SOUGHT thy life got away, and because whoever hired them is still out there, and we’re off to Ulbrinter House because I want ye to hear something.”

  “All right,” Jalester agreed, as the hired way coach bounced over a particularly rough stretch of cobbles, almost bouncing him into a nose-first encounter with the old wizard’s chest, “but what and where is Ulbrinter House?”

  “ ’Tis the city mansion of the Ulbrinter noble family,” Elminster told him, “and stands on Delzorin Street, in North Ward. Soaring towers, nice conical turret-tops; splendid architecture. Not half the howling architectural monstrosity many of the Waterdhavian seats of the nobility have ended up as.”

  “Ah,” Jalester said to that. “Understanding Waterdhavian architectural standards is important to my cultural education, to be sure.”

  Elminster gave him a sharp look. “Ye have the blood of Jhaele in thy veins, ye do for sure. Not to mention the sharp tongue of thy mother Jalestra. That’s going to make convincing ye to wear a disguise harder.”

  “What? A real unwashed Dales bumpkin isn’t good enough for the Ulbrinters?” Jalester flared.

  “Nay, a recognizable Jalester Silvermane remains a target to be slain, for persons still unknown. The nobles and guildmasters we’ll meet at Ulbrinter House don’t bloody know who ye are—or care.”

  “Ah,” Jalester replied, as the coach slowed and rumbled around a corner, the coachman calling a cheery greeting to a colleague passing in another direction. “That makes me feel so much better.” And then he leaned forward and added earnestly, “Forgive me, Saer. I should be all over you in gratitude for saving my life, and I do feel that way, but I’m still angry, and fearful, and … tend to lash out when I’m unsettled.”

  El smiled. “And would ye still be human, are ye not? Young and foolish and headstrong, aye, which is why few adventurers live to be old and successful and wise. Ah, but I see we’ve arrived. Thy host is the Lady Haventree—‘Remi’ to most, but greet her as Lady Haventree to begin with.”

  The coach rumbled to a stop, Elminster clambered out and handed the coachman the second half of the fare, and Jalester was right behind him, peering alertly all around. Up and down a fairly busy street in which no one seemed to be paying them any attention at all. Here in North Ward it was quieter than more southerly reaches of the city; there was chatter and even music wafting out of high windows, but almost none of the crashes and bangs of heavy labor or the unloading of crates and casks.

  And at the gates of Ulbrinter House, right in front of them, there was only watchful silence. Tall guards in smart armor standing to attention flanking the gates—Jalester was glad his dagger was stowed away again—and liveried servants on the inside of the bars, expressionlessly surveying anyone approaching.

  They stayed expressionless as Elminster waved Jalester forward as if he was a courtier and the scion of the Silvermanes was of high birth, and escorted him in through the gates.

  And into the waiting, soaring bulk of Ulbrinter House, that Jalester would have liked to stand back and admire but was given no chance to do so.

  Well, at least he was still alive, to have the chance to step out and look at it later.

  • • •

  THE SEA BREEZE was as salty as it was cool. When it blew around the north side of Mount Waterdeep and scudded southeast across the poorer wards of the city, Waterdhavians called it “the Thief Breeze” because it stole away words, snatching what was said and whipping it away out of hearing.

  Which made the north-facing slope of Castle Spur, this lowest arm of the mountain, an ideal place for a private chat. Low enough down not to be silhouetted on high and so attract notice, yet just high enough to see anyone approaching. And thanks to the Thief Breeze, any eavesdropper would have to be standing within arm’s length to hear a normal-voiced word properly.

  Which was why two men were on the mountainside overlooking the foot of The Street of Silver right now. The one climbing it was slender and nondescript—and had been hired for his forgettable looks, as well as his ability to quietly use a knife to murderous effect. The other, who stood waiting for him, was taller and burlier, with the scars and broken nose of a longtime sailor or docker turned menacing thug. One of his ears had been sliced off long ago, leaving a hairy hole on that side of his bald head.

  The earless man was good at being menacing, even when he wasn’t trying to be. Shrikegulk was also a man of few words, so he wasn’t bothering to tell the shorter, thinner man that he was late.

  He doubted the man would live long enough for it to matter.

  • • •

  “MOUTH SHUT,” ELMINSTER had said firmly. “Ears open. Learn.”

  Jalester was fine with that. They were sitting side by side in the middle of a row of elegantly high-backed chairs at the very back of a wide balcony, where they couldn’t be seen by anyone in the large and impressive room below. On either side of them sat Harpers bristling with weapons. Twice since they’d entered this mansion Harpers had closed in on them, frowning and with weapons half-drawn, only to draw back with grave nods when they recognized Elminster.

  From down below, voices floated up to them. Lady Haventree was meeting informally with five overpainted old noble matriarchs dripping with jewelry, four old noblemen who looked to be the heads of their houses, and eight guildmasters, so far as Jalester could gather.

  And Elminster had just wordlessly leaned toward him and pointed down over the balcony railing meaningfully, to underscore what one husky old woman’s voice had just said rather sharply to a guildmaster, interrupting his claim that the nobles of this city were all too selfishly decadent to even see the troubles afflicting Waterdeep at the moment—

  “Oh, pish, Saer! Pish! You say you have Waterdeep’s best interests at heart, and I believe you—but now I need you to believe me, too. When I say all of us here want our city renewed and flourishing again—we just don’t all agree on how to achieve that. None of us has a monopoly on being clever, or virtuous.”

  “I did not mean to imply that any of us did,” the guildmaster gave dignified retreat, but before he could say more, someone loud and old and male and probably noble growled, “Remi, what’s this I hear about some fool-head scheme to knock down a block in North Ward and plant a little forest, so lasses who like to take their clothes off and dance can go and worship Eilistraee there?”

  Jalester could hear Lady Haventree’s smile. “North Ward now, is it? All I’ve been approached about is possibly sponsoring a proposal to establish such a ‘temple’ at the north end of the former Field Ward.”

  “Oh? And what’d you tell them?”

  “That I’d love to see more trees in the Deep, whatever the reason or cause! Wouldn’t you?”

  “Hmmph. Trees are just handy firewood to me.”

  “Trees,” a nasal male voice put in dismissively. “Trees take years; we can talk about trees later. We’ve got a hrasted floating castle just outside the harbor! And if the storm giant who lives in it—if There’s a storm giant living in it and not some cabal of mighty wizards, or a dozen undead dragons, or worse—decides to prey on ships sailing in and out? What then? How long does Waterdeep remain the busiest port on the Sword Coast—the world—then, hey?”

  “A pressing matter, indeed,” a mellifluous and cultured old voice observed, “and at any other time it would and should be what most occupies us. But not now. Not when lords of the city are being murdered right and left—”

  “And guildmasters!” someone heatedly pointed out, and Jalester didn’t have to get up and go to where he could look over the balcony rail to know that the “someone” was a guildmaster.

  “That’s, what, four lords down, now? Someone must be after them all. For four to be murdered all by different foes, in a handful of days … what’re the odds on that?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I do not wager with people’s lives,” a matriarch said icily.

  “Oh? Well, what do you think y
ou’re doing when you invest in this venture or that one? Do you truly understand causes and effects so little? No wonder you feel no responsibility!”

  “Feel no—? Sirrah, I have nothing further to discuss with you!”

  “Good.”

  “Murders or floating castles or knocking down houses to raise temples, it all comes down to what it always comes down to,” another matriarch rasped. “What decisions our Open Lord should make. We should not deceive ourselves; we sit here doing what they do in the lowliest taverns in Dock Ward: second-guessing Lady Silverhand.”

  “She sent me a note yesterday, asking me if she should refound the navy—”

  “Why, she sent me that note, too!”

  “And me! Asking if she should refound the navy rather than continue to rely solely on Mintarn; she said she’s leaning strongly toward doing so but wants to hear any objections I may have, before she goes ahead.”

  “That’s how my note read, too!”

  “Well, now,” a matriarch said, in tones of pleased wonder. “An Open Lord asking us for counsel, before decreeing rather than after, when we complain? That’s progress!”

  “Hmmph,” sniffed an old nobleman—Lord Andalar Helmfast; Jalester had been introduced to him by Elminster at their arrival, and his rough old whine of voice was certainly distinctive—“Time was when Open Lords did what we nobles told them to do. That’s how it’s supposed to work.”

  “A long time before your time, was it?” a guildmaster asked skeptically. “As in, lost in legend and the nostalgia of never-was?”

  Old Lord Helmfast erupted with an angry roar—but Lady Haventree overrode him, her voice ringing out like a trumpet, “Loyal Waterdhavians all! I don’t expect us to agree or even to like each other, but can we not make and keep common cause, on behalf of our families and homes, in the city we all love so much? Lord Helmfast?”

  “I’m still here, aren’t I?” he retorted.

  “Well, I think that though we decide and vote on nothing, we can get more done here than they can in the Palace because we can speak freely,” another guildmaster offered. “Be blunt, honest, and plain-spoken. So let us rise above wrangling over things where we are in bitter dispute, and see how much we can cover swiftly, so we at least know where we all stand. I brought along a list.”

  That evoked a chorus of chuckles and snorts, but the guildmaster went on, “Dismiss lists as for servants if you must, but without them things get forgotten in the heat of tongue wagging, and never get talked over at all. We always have lists at our guild meetings.”

  “We are not,” snapped a noblewoman whose voice sounded ancient indeed, “going to run this city like a guild.”

  “That,” the same guildmaster said flatly, “is something I can’t reply to properly without descending into wrangling, so let it pass.”

  “Say on, then,” Lord Helmfast growled.

  “I shall. I believe I speak for all of us who represent our guilds in this room when I say we want Field Ward and Downshadow and Mistshore all rebuilt, so the city can hold the maximum number of people—that is, customers.”

  “No,” several matriarchs said at once. Another distinctive noble voice—Lord Dolpherus Thongolir—put in, “They were all slums or well on the way to becoming so, and it’s better to tear down old and build new, only higher, more floors, all over the city. So the poor are everywhere, not clustered in a slum.”

  “Oh,” the skeptical guildmaster inquired nastily, “and will you be paying for the raising of all these expensive new buildings, only with lots of low-rent rooms for the laborers rather than high-rent suites for the wealthy?”

  “Yes,” Lord Thongolir replied, firmly, and several other nobles echoed him before he could add, “It’s got to begin with us.”

  “Well, now,” said the guildmaster who’d brought the list. “If you recognize that, and stick with it, we’ve done something here today. That’s a big first stride toward a brighter future, if you ask me.”

  “Writing a speech, are you?” the skeptical guildmaster commented.

  Jalester couldn’t help himself. He got up and stole forward to where he could look over the balcony rail, barely noticing that Elminster was rising to leave. One of the Harpers rose and went with Jalester, but said nothing, and he reached the rail in time to see the guildmaster with the list turn to his nasty colleague and say, “If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head, Raevrel, I’ll start knocking teeth out of that head until your tongue learns silence or politeness—I care not which. You can stay and help, or you can go. But don’t be surprised if I start telling all your guild members what a disgrace they have as a guildmaster, and perhaps they should start thinking of replacing him.”

  “You’d not dare! Meddling in guild affairs is—”

  “Not done? A lot of things are ‘not done,’ but time and again some folk in this city go ahead and do them, good and bad, while the rest of us sit and cluck disapprovingly. Am I not right, Raevrel?”

  And Gundor Raevrel of the Watermen opened his mouth, closed it again, blinked, started to say something, and then just nodded—and dropped his gaze to the tabletop in front of him.

  Whereupon one of the nobles silently slid a goblet full of expensive wine under his nose.

  And when Raevrel took it, he looked up and managed a nod of thanks, and then the weak beginnings of a smile.

  Progress.

  • • •

  “THEY’RE WITH ME,” Mirt said menacingly. “And I’ve paid you well for this room, so bring the food and keep your disapproval a trifle more silent.”

  And as the housemaster flinched back, looking sullen, the fat old Lord of Waterdeep dropped a generous handful of silver coins into the man’s grimy palm, turned on his heel, and lurched into the private back room he’d just rented for half a day.

  It was the only privacy on offer in The Hearty Platter, a dingy and less-than-memorable eatery in Dock Ward that had been a tavern fairly recently—until the third brawl in as many nights had bankrupted its proprietor and left every stick of furniture in the place broken. Dreary place, but its name had made Mirt smile. “The Rake’s Reputation,” it had been called.

  Gone now, leaving Net Street the drearier. Aside from the lack of loudly profane and vomitus destructive drunkards brawling, this replacement establishment was not an improvement.

  The new owner had made do with tables and benches made of old crate-sides nailed to barrels, and hadn’t done even the briefest lick of cleaning, but at least the smells wafting from the kitchen were hearty.

  Mirt sat himself down where he could see the room’s lone door, and faced the trio of dirty and underfed young street girls a few tossed coins had managed to lure in here with him.

  Ravva, Drella, and Waratra. Not their real names, of course, but what they wanted to go by, and that was good enough for him. He still had a few secrets, too.

  Their looks as they sat down—sullen sneers and pouting poses that thrust their little chests forward as they parodied fine ladies preening—told him as plainly as if they’d shouted it that they believed the last thing he really wanted to buy from them was information.

  Yet for the coins he’d already given, and the promise of food (he’d ordered hot eel pie, and when he heard it could be had, venison pie, too) they were obviously ready to be molested atop this excuse for a table in a filthy Dock Ward back room. With an old, wheezing, and overweight wreck like him.

  Oh, and the drink might well have been as strong a lure as the food. He’d called for the best wine, which would almost certainly be terrible, but even so likely much better than the sour rainwater beer (which was what the poorer wards of Waterdeep called the watered-down combined dregs left in tankards in better establishments of the city, and bought in barrels by places like this) that the likes of these alley rats could customarily afford.

  “So, Saer … which of us first?” Ravva was the darkest-haired and quickest, but also the dirtiest. She might in time become a bit of a beauty. Might.

 
; The three of them eyed him and traded swift side-looks, no doubt judging who would try to rob or garrote him while the least fortunate of them got crushed under his lust, but Mirt sat back and rumbled, “I’m so overwhelmed by yer beauty, the three of you, that I’m unmanned. And my knees are all a-tremble. What you offer might just stop my vitals, to be sure, so let me cleave to what I said the deal was, back in the alley: information. Just information. In short, let’s talk. Food and drink as pay, plus coins when I think you’ve earned them—and mark well: I pay better for truth than for fancy tales you think I might want to hear.”

  He was playing the flatterer. They were clever enough, and keen wits and flashing eyes and smoldering looks and a glib tongue got lasses far, but he wasn’t all that partial to fleas and ribs standing proud through scrawny flesh, and even less interested in girls who were far too young to be this worldly and ruined.

  If he closed his eyes and just listened to their sauciness, they’d sound alluring enough—but he wasn’t drunk or foolish enough to ever close his eyes within reach of lower ward lasses.

  The housemaster, silent and sullen, brought the eel pie, setting the battered metal tray down with a thunk in front of Mirt. Who pushed it across the table with his fingertips. The three girls looked at him, then pounced on it, and made an astonishing amount of it disappear before the wine arrived and they could wash it down.

  Mirt waited patiently. They were even more ravenous than he’d thought they were. And, they promptly demonstrated, could belch like sailors. The pie dish was empty already.

  Waratra, the oldest-looking wench, pushed it away, fixed Mirt with defiant eyes, and asked, “So … which of us first?”

  Mirt shook his head. “I need what you know, lasses, not yer bodies.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You with the Watch, or summat?”

  “Summat,” Mirt agreed, and slid a shiny new nib across the table to her.

  “Oooh,” she sneered. “Shiny. Made it yerself, did you?”