by Ed Greenwood
Face burning, Nelvor got up glaring, and tried to circle a table to stalk toward Elminster, but Eraskyn intercepted him.
The big warrior was stronger and faster than Nelvor, and they both knew it. Nelvor turned away with a hiss.
“Bring him,” El said mildly. “All of ye, come and sit. I’m buying latesun for all of ye Steel Shadows. Thy coin is running out, and ’tis time to talk.”
Silence fell as every Shadow turned to stare at him.
And then, with one accord, they converged on the table and sat down.
“Nelvor,” Elminster said quietly, “order anything ye’d like. Let us have peace.”
Dunblade shook his head at that, and El noticed and asked him, “So, now, have the Steel Shadows reached the end of thy road together?”
And at those words, none of the adventurers wanted to look at him.
As El looked around the table at one face after another. Six faces in all, including the two silent holy folk—priestess of Tymora and priest of Tempus—he’d not heard the names of, yet.
“Likely, aye,” Eraskyn mumbled at last.
“I can probably find ye all work,” El told them. “Hired by day-end or on the morrow—but not as the Shadows, all of ye together. In pairs, or alone, or trios at most … I know some badly frightened folk in this city who want personal bodyguards, right now.”
“You?” Nelvor asked sullenly.
“Nay,” Elminster replied. “I have the skull.”
Nelvor gave him a dark look, but no one laughed, and the moment passed.
“You do?” Eraskyn asked, a moment later.
“That importer,” Nelvor said suddenly, “who just wanted one of us …”
“Run to him now,” Elminster suggested, “and if he doesn’t want ye to start tonight, this table and my offer of food and drink will still be here when ye get back.”
Nelvor stared at him for a moment, then nodded, and was up and hastening out of the room in a trice.
“So ends the Steel Shadows,” Eraskyn announced sadly. “Ah, well; ’twas a good ride while it lasted.”
“You mean none of us got killed,” Jalester said ruefully. “What coin have we made, really? What treasure gained?”
“We have pleased Tempus!” the priest of the war god declaimed—at the precise moment that the priestess of Tymora sitting beside him said, “Tymora has been pleased at our bold foray into adventure!”
They traded glares, followed slowly by rueful smiles and shakes of their heads.
“I saw some devout of Tempus at the hiring fair today,” the war-priest added, a moment later. “I can cleave to them.”
The priestess looked down the table at Elminster. “And I’ll take you up on your offer to find me employment, kind wizard. Thank you.”
“And for the meal,” Eraskyn said, and Dunblade and Jalester echoed him.
El grinned. “Don’t stint,” he said. “Eat like hungry boars while ye can. Heh; there’s an adventurer’s lesson for ye.”
The Tymoran’s stomach rumbled so loudly then that she clutched at her belly, winced, and said, “I think we’d already started learning that one. By the Lady, I’m hungry!”
There was a general roar of agreement at that, a din that brought table maids and a cook bustling over, and for a time everything but food and drink was forgotten.
Steaming dishes were rushed to the table, decanters brought and emptied at astonishing rates, and replenished as swiftly. In the midst of it all, Nelvor returned, looking triumphant, and fell upon the nearest dish of roasted wildfowl like the proverbial starving wolf.
And there was much merriment, and belching, and old tales retold, and in the hot and noisy heart of it all Elminster leaned close to Jalester and asked, “Which of the Shadows would ye prefer at thy back in a battle?”
Jalester looked back at the old man, suddenly sober, and murmured, “You’re looking to hire me, aren’t you?”
“Aye. For the Palace.”
“The Palace?”
Elminster waved his fingers in a shushing gesture. Jalester nodded and quietly answered, “Faerrel, here.”
“That’s good,” Dunblade piped up from beside him, “because I wasn’t planning on leaving your side. No matter what.”
Jalester shot him a look, and he returned it, and El forbore from rolling his eyes. He nodded instead, and said to Faerrel Dunblade, “Jalester has a talent for getting himself into trouble, here in the Deep; watch his back, will ye?”
“Oh, I shall,” came the reply. “Have no fears on that score, Prince Aumar.”
That lifted both of Elminster’s brows. “ ’Tis a long time since I’ve been called that; student of history, are ye?”
“Some of us, Lord, look back so we know where we stand now, and can stride forward accordingly.”
El found himself smiling. “Well said, lad—well said!”
• • •
AND SO IT was, not all that much later, that Jalester found herself hip-to-hip with Dunblade as they strolled. Back and forth, back and forth, loitering along the edges of the open plaza in front of the Palace. Aside from their worn and travel-stained leather jacks, unadorned with any blazon, they were unarmored, but both bore long swords and several daggers.
They watched everyone approaching or passing the Palace, and both the Palace door guards—duty Watch guards in full plate armor, with the crescent moon of Waterdeep etched on chased plaques melded upon their gleaming breastplates—and passing Watch patrols watched them. Balefully and tirelessly.
“Nice to feel so wanted and popular,” Dunblade muttered, under the weight of one particularly hostile gaze.
Jalester shrugged. “Being disliked I can handle. I’ve grown so used to it.”
A few slow traverses of the arc they’d chosen to patrol later, the Palace guards were relieved by a fresh shift, and the departing trusties didn’t try to hide their pointing out of the suspicious armed couple to their replacements.
Who got out their own best stony glares, dusted them off, and leveled them at Jalester and Dunblade. Who traded rather mirthless smiles.
“This work,” Dunblade complained, “is going to become very boring, very soon. And then stay that way for a good long stretch between now and forever.”
Jalester grinned. “It’s easy coin, Faer. Easy coin, so belt up and enjoy the entertainment. Notice the small things—what people do with their hands, for instance—and try to guess more than you can see, and it’s all good fun. Until, of course, something bad happens, the sort of thing we’re here to react to, and the real work begins.”
“The real fun,” Dunblade murmured. “I’m treasuring the thought of it right now, Jess.”
Only he dared call Jalester that. To the rest of the Shadows, he was “Jaless,” or worse things.
What Elminster was paying them for was boringly simple. All they had to do, during the hours of daylight, was stay near the Lady Laeral Silverhand. Outside the Palace or any building she visited while she was within, and close enough to keep her—or her coach—in view while she was in the streets. They were to look for nearby threats, like archers on balconies or rooftops, or someone who might hurl something from on high.
They were to be disrupters, extra blades to rush to Laeral’s aid if her bodyguards or the Watch were taken down, thwarted, or not on the scene. And once engaged with any threat, they were to be loud, so as to lure witnesses and perhaps nearby Watch patrols. And try to get a good look at anyone who was part of an attack on Lady Silverhand, or seemed to be there by prearrangement to watch such an attack but who then fled. Not pursue, but mark.
“Standing waiting for trouble,” Jalester commented. “The life of a guard.”
“Rushing about making trouble,” his fellow former Steel Shadow gave him sardonic reply. “The life of an adventurer.”
“So what, O student of history, is the life of a king, then, or a ruling lord?”
“Sitting in one place spouting orders, and making trouble that way,” Dunblade said. “A
nd history tells us again and again that some of them are oh, so good at it.”
• • •
“IN ACCORDANCE WITH the voted will of the Lords of this city,” Laeral told the Warden of Waterdeep crisply, “I sent for the Lord Defender of the Harbor to see to the re-establishment of our own navy, and the building of proper inner harbor dry docks and provisioning slips for them where the ashes of Mistshore now are—only to discover that there was no Lord Defender of the Harbor any longer. When did this happen?”
“After we came to rely on Mintarn for naval protection,” the head of the Watch replied rather stiffly, “someone at the Palace decided it was no longer necessary to have such a post—or the office that reported to him. A substantial savings in coin, I believe.”
Laeral sighed. “Well, Warden Drayth, it seems the Lords now deem spending from the city coffers to the tune of a dozen ships and skilled crews desirable. If we purchase and refit the first four, we can have them in the water by year-end, but training crews to the standard we’ll need will take longer—unless we have trusted Watch guards who happen to have naval skills. Do we?”
“It has not been my business to know, Lady Silverhand,” Ezender Drayth said carefully, “but as the refounding of our navy is hardly something that can be kept a secret, I see no reason why I can’t summon each Watchguard in turn and ask them. Privately, of course.”
“Do so.” Laeral nodded, but added a frown. “In my day, when there was a City Guard, they knew all about the lives, backgrounds, lovers, escapades, and ongoing suspicious behavior of every Watchguard, and kept records—and the Watch did the same for every Guardsword. So as Warden, you would know naval backgrounds, if any. When did that change?”
Ezender Drayth said curtly, “Before my time above civilar ranks, Lady.” He let out a sigh of exasperation or anger from under his close-clipped gray moustache and added, “Times change, and the Watch must needs change with them.”
Laeral nodded again. “As it happens, I agree. Things have evidently changed much since I was last a daily resident of the city. So, Warden, pray enlighten me, as if I was an ignorant child: with the Guard gone and the Griffon Cavalry with it, and no standing army any longer, what are the ranks of the Watch? And do the Watchful Order still serve on every patrol, as before?”
“They do, Lady. Low to high, we have: blade, armar—“sword” to most citizens—swordcaptain, rorden, orsar, guardsword, commander, watchlord, of whom we have eight, and then the high command.”
“Who are?”
“Five equal ranks. The Seneschal of Castle Waterdeep, who should not be confused with your own Palace seneschal, Lady. The Lord’s Champion, commander of the Watch who defend the Palace. Then there are the Lord of the South Towers and the Lord of the North Towers; now that we lack armies, they see to the gate guards, stabling, and escort of prisoners to hearings—and the Lord Armorer, who is master of our armories and quartermaster. There was a sixth, the Lord Defender of the Harbor, and of course shall now be again. Above them, me: Warden of Waterdeep. And I should add that the Watch includes members of most civilized races welcome in the city, and both genders.”
Laeral smiled. “How many females, just out of curiosity?”
The Warden reddened, but had obviously anticipated this question. “Just under two in every ten, Lady, out of a total strength of twelve hundred sworn—and of that, eleven hundred full-trained and serving. The trainees are confined to the Castle except when on exercises out in the wards. Usual patrols these days are six strong plus a Watchful Order mage, and a trainee to serve as a message runner only—save in Dock Ward, where we patrol nine strong, plus mage and trainee. Oh, and we still have two skulks; day duty and night.”
“And in your personal and private opinion, Warden, knowing this will go no farther, are these dispositions acceptable to you?”
“Lady?”
“If I take it into my head, as a new and foolishly headstrong Open Lord, to change the structure or strength or resources of the Watch, or the size of patrols, or any of that, what decisions would you like me to make?”
Drayth blinked. “Well, ah, none, Lady. Beyond this: please let us have coin and time enough to properly hire and train naval personnel in addition to our current strength, rather than leaching our ranks.”
Laeral nodded. “And if the Griffon Cavalry were to be restored, they too should be new hires rather than thinning your current standing strength.”
“Indeed, Lady.”
“Thank you, Drayth. I shall be guided by your counsel. Yet I must warn you that a possibly temporary reassignment of some duties is coming in a day or so that will take some patrols off their usual beats.”
“Oh?”
“It should come as no particular surprise to you that the murders of several Lords have reminded the rest of their own mortality. They haven’t yet openly demanded personal escorts and to be watched over, but they will. Particularly if another Lord should fall.”
“Lady, if they vote in replacements promptly, that will mean twenty we must watch. Plus yourself, of course. We’d have to almost strip the streets of patrols to watch them all—and Dock Ward for one is a smoldering fire that will flare up into ruination for all the south end of the city if our boots tread its cobbles too lightly!”
“Then don’t. Patrol where you must, but safeguard every Lord.”
“Lady, with our current strength, we can’t run around guarding and keeping watch over every last Hidden Lord of the city!”
“Oh? Why not? At the rate they’re being slain, there’ll soon be only a handful left!”
• • •
FULL NIGHT HAD fallen, so they could begin—but they’d come this early, and were now moving in such haste, because the winds had changed and a storm was blowing in off the Sea of Swords, heralded by the familiar iron-tang sort of salt reek every Waterdhavian knew. Lashing rain would come soon, making climbing and rooftop work perilous.
Yet Tasheene and her co-conspirators took time enough for stealth as they clambered up an old and sturdily braced drainpipe toward a third-floor window at the back of the Meiril workshop. Drake was already at the window, and as they’d agreed beforehand, they all stopped at various heights along the drainpipe, where they could reach out, cling to, and transfer their weight to iron balcony railings, projecting windowsills, and ornamental brickwork.
Having the entire drainpipe peel off the building to crash down to the street below because it wasn’t strong enough to bear all of them at once would be a fool’s death, to be sure …
“Masked Lord Dathanscza Meiril,” Tasheene whispered to herself, one arm wrapped around a balcony railing, “here we come. Prepare, as the chapbooks say, to meet thy doom.”
Unless their quarry had made major changes inside her workshop for no good reason Tasheene could think of, the window Drake was working on should open into a tapestry-storage room on the floor above the workshop where the half-elf should be hard at work casting spells on her glass, to make it flow into swirl-tinted sheets from which she’d later cut the shapes she needed.
Except that there wouldn’t be a “later” for Meiril. Not now. Not if they accomplished what they’d come here to do.
Hard luck for the clients awaiting the beautiful stained glass windows they’d ordered, but necessary for a brighter future for Waterdeep.
She was still sure of that, no matter what else Antler was up to.
Drake was still working on the window, calmly and carefully using a short iron pry bar of his own making to crush the weathered wood of the sash enough so he could get the narrow end of the bar, the end that resembled a mortar trowel for the very good reason that it was a mortar trowel, in between two bits of the frame to the catch beyond, and shove … just so.
And the window sighed open.
Drake leaned back with the satisfied air of a master craftsman—just as a lantern blossomed around the corner, and moved into Flint Street.
“Farruk,” Zaraela swore, under her breath, peering at it as
it bobbed nearer.
“Farruk indeed,” Tasheene whispered, almost soundlessly.
A Watch patrol, happening along at precisely the worst possible moment, what with the four of them clinging to the drainpipe at various heights, in dark clothing, on obviously unlawful purposes bent, with nowhere to hide and no way to move to hiding in time. Not to mention a killing fall to the cobbles far, far below.
The patrol came on, not all that far from the mouth of Pharra’s Alley, now—and the workshop was only four doors south of that moot; they couldn’t fail to see Tasheene and the others.
Who were “in for it” now, unless they could surrender to the patrol without being recognized or trussed in capture-hoods, then somehow escape. And it was a full patrol, too, trotting along looking fresh and enthusiastic and alert, not bored or sullen or half-asleep and inclined to overlook anything, like some of those who drew Dock Ward duty in the chilly dead of winter nights.
And then, with Tasheene’s heart in her mouth and despair worming its icy way up to take hold of the back of her throat from within, a miracle happened.
Back behind the patrol, from around the same corner with Ivory Street that the patrol had come, there was a sudden loud crash and flare of flame.
The Watch guards whirled around, taking their scrutiny and attention with them. And beheld not just the flaming crate that someone had just hurled into the mouth of Flint Street but the masked figures who burst past it and fled, east along Ivory Street.
The patrol gave chase, sprinting back the way they’d come. Away from the workshop.
And Tasheene dared to breathe again. As a thought struck her. This was Antler’s doing. Her mysterious employer had sent others to watch over them, and provide certain aid—such as this distraction—if the need arose. Sensible. It was only after she’d accepted the window Drake had just cut out of its frame and let down to her on a cord, and slid it carefully onto the balcony between the upright wrought-iron baluster she was clinging to and the next one, that a cold thought struck her.
That aid might well include crossbow bolts to the throats of Tasheene or her fellow conspirators if they were captured by the Watch.