Death Masks

by Ed Greenwood

  “Lady,” Mirt told her, “Mayhem and bluster and wild adventure in the streets isn’t just old days in Waterdeep—it’s right now. It always has been. Have you forgotten?”

  “Yes,” Laeral said softly, “yes, I have. My mind has been on other things.”

  “Oh? Magic, and such?”

  “Mourning my Khelben,” she whispered. “He is everywhere around me in this city!” Fighting back sudden and fierce tears, she whirled away from him and wrenched open a part of the wall he hadn’t known was a secret door. It slammed in his face, with her on the far side of it, a moment later.

  Mirt drew in a deep breath, let it out again in a wheeze, wrenched the secret door open again, plunged through it after her, and yanked it closed.

  It boomed shut—a bare instant before another secret door opened in the wall right beside it, and a worried-looking old Palace servant hastened into the office through this adjacent way, with Swordcaptain Mraekur of the Watch right behind him.

  “As I told you, Saer,” Izkrel Blount said, waving his hand at the bolted door, “this door has no bolts, nor even a lock, so it can’t have been held shut against you! None of the—”

  He stopped abruptly, gaping in surprise, and stared at the bright new bolts.

  “Obviously,” the swordcaptain said dryly, “there are secrets in this Palace you aren’t privy to. Now, what rooms open off this one?”

  Blount indicated every visible door in succession and rattled off their destinations; as he did so, Mraekur quickly peered into each one. “So where is the Lady Silverhand most likely to have gone?”

  Blount shrugged helplessly.

  The Watch officer took him by the throat of his livery-jerkin, shook him, and snarled, “Tell me! That’s an order!”

  “I-I know not,” Blount replied.

  “Oh, come, come! Don’t lie to me! You expect me to believe you’re unaware of the lady’s habits and this day’s schedule?”

  Blount glared into Mraekur’s face and snapped, “Obviously, there are secrets in this Palace I’m not privy to.”

  “Bah!” the swordcaptain spat, letting go of the servant, turning on his heel, and rapping on the wood-paneled walls to try to detect the presence of an open space beyond.

  Blount turned away before the wry smile within him rose onto his face. There was a secret door behind every last panel of the walls, all around. They would all sound the same.

  Senior Palace servants were professionals. By the time the Watch officer accidentally discovered how to open the doors in the walls and started flinging them all open, to reveal empty darkness beyond in every case, Blount’s face was politely and placidly expressionless once more.

  And no matter how much this swordcaptain snarled and blustered and throttled him, he intended to keep it that way.

  • • •

  THE DART GUN fired almost before Tasheene saw the servant was holding it, but Drake already had his dagger up, and moved like lightning.

  The streaking dart and his blade met with a sharp sound, and the missile sprang away to rattle along a ceiling and fall.

  That might have been the only dart gun, but its wielder was far from the only servant; the narrow hallway they were in suddenly seemed full of angry men and women in Stravandar livery, filling it from wall to wall, and they didn’t just have their anger and feather dusters—they brandished knives and at least one spear.

  There was no way Tasheene and Drake could snatch the daughters through this.

  “It’s a trap,” Drake snarled. “Get back and out!”

  Tasheene needed no encouragement; she spun around and fled.

  Another servant loomed up outside as she burst through the door they’d come in by, back out into the street, but Tasheene had practiced throwing knives until one of the walls of her bedchamber had needed replacement from floor to ceiling, and no matter how large and fierce a man may be, when he’s sprouting a long-bladed dagger in one eye, he goes down.

  Tasheene charged into him and rode his toppling body to the ground to get him out of the way of Drake’s escape route—and to get her favorite dagger back.

  Drake burst out amid a ragged roar of triumph from the Stravandar household servants, but he’d killed two and maimed another, and their falling bodies slowed the headlong charge after him. He and Tasheene were off down the street before anyone made it out after them.

  Not that there was no pursuit at all. Long-limbed, grimly smiling figures darted out of alley mouths after them; Drake peered at a few faces and spat, “Harpers! Run!”

  Tasheene swallowed a curse and devoted that breath, and all her energy, into a frantic sprint to keep her partner in view.

  He was blazing along, ducking and dodging around the street traffic, dwindling into the distance as grinning Harpers swiftly gained on Tasheene, and she felt her lungs starting to burn and her legs getting heavy; her next dodge around a pull cart left her staggering and fighting for both balance and wind enough to go on. They were going to catch her, they were going to—

  Adventurers in motley gear but bristling with good weapons suddenly spilled out into the street around her from every side street and alley. Tasheene raised her daggers in weary desperation, but they ducked nimbly away from her to let her run past, then closed in behind her to pounce on the oncoming Harpers. The clang and squeal of fiercely plied swords ringing off hostile steel arose behind her, and when she saw Drake, in the distance, turn around and look back, she dared to do so, too.

  Just in time to see the adventurers ringing the Harpers and overwhelming them, hacking and stabbing viciously.

  It seemed Antler, or someone, didn’t want the world to lose Tasheene Melshimber quite yet.

  Or welcomed this opportunity to rid Waterdeep of as many Harpers as they could.

  Or both.

  • • •

  THE MAN THAT darted past their coach was running faster than most they’d seen, but one look at him had Elminster flinging the door wide heedless of what he might do to the faces of others in the street and bellowing at the coach drover to stop.

  The horses were still just beginning to slow when a woman ducked around the coach door and kept on running, and El gave her a long hard look and then spun around to Jalester and Dunblade and snapped, “After her! And that man running ahead of her, too! Take them both alive if you can, see where they go if you can’t catch them! Out, out, go!”

  Dunblade burst past him and down onto the cobbles in a pratfall and roll first, with Jalester right on his heels. They roared in pain as they rolled to their feet, knowing the bruises would come, then took off down the street with a right good will. Finally, foes they could see and hope to meet with steel!

  The shapely woman with the daggers in both hands they could keep in view through the street traffic, but the man ahead of her was gone, as swift on the cobbles as some galloping horses back in Shadowdale.

  The woman, though … Dunblade and Jalester put their heads down and devoted themselves to catching her. Dodging this bewildered pedestrian, ducking around that dray cart, putting on a burst of speed to dart between loaded handcarts being trundled by guild deliverers …

  They’d pursued for more than two blocks before they saw it.

  Plunging down out of the sky larger than many a tall Waterdhavian mansion, huge batlike wings spread wide and jaws agape, a fat, rippling-muscled behemoth of a dragon, scarlet with glowing flame where it wasn’t crimson, a red wyrm with yellow-white fire blazing in its throat and eyes, plummeting down. With a robed and bearded man riding its head by means of some sort of rein and a saddle, one arm raised in a triumphant fist, a wand in that hand coming alive with sparks that trailed out behind as the mighty death swept down …

  Jalester shouted in fear, and Dunblade was cursing, but all around them now was shrieking as Waterdhavians screamed in utter terror, fleeing wildly in all directions. Windows shattered as suddenly rider-less carts crashed into shop fronts, barrels bounced and rolled, and frantic shoppers slipped and fell, dropped wha
t they were carrying, and struggled up to run on leaving what they’d dropped strewn on the cobbles unheeded.

  “Keep after them!” Elminster commanded, his voice loud and firm and sounding as if his lips were right at Jalester’s ear. The startled young adventurer turned to see if El really was beside him, lost his balance in his haste, stumbled, and—still peering at empty air where Elminster wasn’t—fell over, skidding along the cobbles painfully.

  “Oh, for Mystra’s sake!” Elminster’s exasperated voice said out of the empty air just above Jalester’s nose.

  He blinked in astonishment at still beholding nothing, and a moment later blinked at seeing Elminster coming down the street atop the turned-around coach, feet planted wide like some sort of daredevil drover as the expensive conveyance rumbled along, hands spread wide in gestures of spellcasting that looked like some sort of emphatic dismissal, eyes on the sky—

  Dunblade cursed again, this time in an astonished whisper, and Jalester spun around in time to see the source of his amazement.

  The great dragon, wizard rider and all, was fading to nothingness even as it rushed down upon them, wide-open jaws just about to scoop up everyone on the street now turning translucent, then less visible than that, about to race right into Jalester and Dunblade in uncanny silence—

  And then was gone, washing over them in a singing tinkle of dying magic.

  “Catch me!” Elminster bellowed, as the coach swept past—and jumped.

  The force of his fall smashed Faerrel Dunblade to the ground, in a grunting, thudding, and untidy roll of boots slapping cobbles and tumbling limbs. That ended with Dunblade sagging to a stop and groaning in a heap, and Elminster springing to his feet, pirouetting to face back the way he’d come, spreading his fingers to let loose a volley of blue-white streaking bolts, the same magic missiles Jalester had seen so many Harpers let loose when training in Shadowdale. This, however, was a bright volley that raced down the street and struck adventurer after adventurer amid the distant fray of Harpers and adventurers.

  Jalester gaped as he saw those bright bolts strike home, and a second volley streak down the street after them, followed by a third. Which was followed by Elminster turning his head and barking at him, “Did I say ye could stop chasing those two? Get after them!”

  “But-but—” Jalester couldn’t find words, but ran to his partner. Dunblade was trying to get up but failing, blood all over him and jagged ends of bone protruding from his side and one leg.

  Elminster rolled his eyes, went to the man struggling on the cobbles, laid hands on his injuries, and—the very air seemed to turn bright, all sound went away for a moment, and Jalester felt this flowing in the air as everything seemed to fall downhill toward Faerrel.

  “Right,” Elminster said curtly, “I did this, so ’tis on me to Weave-heal ye. But for the love of Mystra! Banishing dragon illusions, fighting private hired armies, healing younglings who sure aren’t as hardy as young adventurers were in my day—do I have to do everything myself? Next I’ll have to be moving louts off my lawn, I will!”

  And Faerrel Dunblade convulsed under him, writhing wildly, then sprang up sobbing, bouncing and leaping on the cobbles as if afire with glee and boundless energy, and cried, “I don’t hurt! I’m whole!”

  “Well, ye won’t be in a moment,” the Sage of Shadowdale snarled at him, “if ye don’t get going after those two!”

  Dunblade gaped at the old archmage—and then Jalester sprinted past him, plucked at his sleeve, and dragged him into a run.

  On down the street, after the fleeing man and woman who were far, far ahead of them now but caught in the usual knot of traffic choking the High Road between its moot with the Way of the Dragon and its meeting with Waterdeep Way. The ground rose enough between where the two former Steel Shadows were now and where the woman they were chasing had gotten to, that they could clearly see both her and the still-hastening man she’d fled with, who was now well ahead of her.

  Jalester looked back at Elminster, seeing Dunblade do the same—but the old man had turned his back on them to hurl more magic missiles down the street.

  “I’m sure there’s a law against that,” Dunblade commented, as they started to run north again, side by side.

  “I’m sure there is,” Jalester agreed, “but I wouldn’t want to be the Watchful Order mage who tried to arrest Elminster, or face him down in a spell duel.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be a mage trying to do that if the entire assembled Watchful Order tried to do it together!” Dunblade agreed. “Now, if we can just keep the woman in sight …”

  • • •

  “I AM THE Blackstaff, yes,” Vajra said gently. “And who are you?”

  “Ah, uh … an interested citizen.”

  “A citizen interested in the beholder Xanathar and the Blackstaff of Waterdeep, whose tongue has slipped at least once in a manner that leads me to believe he met Khelben Arunsun in the flesh at least once,” Vajra said calmly. “Which would make you rather older than you appear. So, care to share your name with me? Your real name?”

  Volo flushed. “Uh, no. I’d rather not.” Squirming under the weight of her regard, he asked, “Promise you won’t do me harm?”

  “Does your name often make wizards do you harm?”

  Volo winced. “Not often, but for long periods. That is, I get transformed, sometimes for decades … a few times, longer. I’d—rather not, again.”

  “So the prudent thing to do would be to avoid wizards, not follow them and pepper them with questions.” Vajra hefted the fragment of the Blackstaff, and added dryly, “And don’t tell me you had no idea I was a wizard. This is just a trifle obvious for me to believe that.”

  “Yes,” Volo admitted unhappily. “I knew who you were before I asked. It was a way of … getting to talk to you.”

  “So are you secretly a mighty mage in disguise, trying to catch me close and unguarded so you can smite me? Or one of those who swoons with arousal in the presence of those who wield powerful Art?”

  “No,” Volo replied. “Neither. I … I hoped you’d know whether something I’d heard is true or not.”

  “Saer, everything in life has a price. If someone gives you something for free, they’re paying the price for you. So, my price for honestly answering you about whatever it is you’ve heard is your honest answer to my request for your name.”

  Volo eyed the dusky-skinned woman with the very direct gaze, sighed unhappily, and asked, “No chance of that promise?”

  “Man, I will not harm you or transform you because of your name. I may do both, if you attack me or do something sufficiently heinous … but telling me your name, whatever it is, is safe enough.”

  “Right, then,” Volo said. “I’m Volo.”

  “And my name is Vajra Safahr,” the Blackstaff replied. After a moment she asked, “The Volo? As in, Volothamp Geddarm, author of some notorious guides and sometime transformed guest of Elminster of Shadowdale?”

  “And several other mages, yes,” Volo answered. “I’ve been visited often by Mystra in my dreams, these last few years.”

  “So,” Vajra told him dryly, “have I. Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me about what I know about the truth of this matter you’ve heard about? You’ve earned an honest reply.”

  “I, ah, I have recently had occasion to move in some rather dubious circles, here in Waterdeep …” Volo faltered.

  Vajra looked amused. “Go on.”

  “And, uh, well, certain persons I’ve talked with—over drinks, in dockside taverns, you understand—have had … dealings with those who have dealings with, or work for, the Xanathar.”

  “Volo, I am familiar with the circumlocution you’re employing right now.” The Blackstaff’s voice was dry again. “And I don’t bite. Often. Say on.”

  “Well, there’s a widespread rumor among these, ah, certain persons that many of the Hidden Lords of Waterdeep do foolish, even reckless things because they�
�re under the thrall of the Xanathar.”

  “Blackmailed? Or magically charmed?”

  “Ah, the latter. They say the Xanathar has some gewgaw or other that an agent can carry, that can carry the effective end of its eye ray—the one that charms—anywhere, to stab out of the item and affect the minds of folk. And over the years it’s used this to influence the lords of this city. So sometimes they send their bodyguards away or go walking without them, and right now, even with all the lords’ deaths, they are staying in Waterdeep and not hiding or walling themselves up in fortresses because … the Xanathar won’t let them.”

  Vajra nodded, her face now very sober. “I have heard the same rumor more than once, these last few years. At first I dismissed it as the Xanathar’s way of making more of the populace fear it, but increasingly, I’m wondering if it can be true. The gewgaw bit, I mean. That the Xanathar has some Lords under its influence is, I believe, very likely. My attempts to do something about that over the last few years are why I now find myself rather isolated. Both the former Open Lord of the City and the Watchful Order rebuffed me in rather sharp manners. Leaving me wondering just how much they may be under the Xanathar’s influence, frankly.”

  “Oh,” was all Volo could think to say.

  “So there’s your honest answer, Volo: ‘I don’t know’ wrapped up in strong suspicions. So tell me, now. Armed with what I’ve just told you, what do you intend to do?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. What does Volothamp Geddarm intend to do? Write a scurrilous broadsheet to inflame the city?”

  “No!” Volo said hastily. “No, I’ve learned prudence. A little; I still let myself be led by my curiosity, but I don’t rush to publish. No, I … I have a little Art, and I’d like to get better at wielding it.”

  “You do not want to be my apprentice,” Vajra said flatly.

  “No, no, I wasn’t fishing!” Volo said hastily. “I … lying low seems wiser, right now. But if I may dare farther by asking, and meaning no disrespect, truly, what are you going to do, Lady Safahr? If a beholder is magically mind-controlling the rulers of the city, and they’re getting murdered by the streetful, and the Watchful Order won’t help, isn’t it time for the Lady Mage of Waterdeep to step in, and protect the city?”