Death Masks

by Ed Greenwood

  She was a pitiful excuse for the Blackstaff, a mere echo of the great Khelben, and she was fumbling and ignorant of this Weave-work, this huge world of surging power she’d avoided until now, avoided when she should have dared to master it before the city stood in such need, before she—aaaAAAAAIIIIIEEEEEE!

  Out of North Ward like a fist hard into her face came a tidal wave of raw screaming agony that smashed into her and washed over her and raced on.

  She was dimly aware that the Blackstaff had crashed into the far wall, she was on the floor writhing on her back, with the chair she’d been sitting on riven into shards and splinters far away from her, and she was arching in agony that wasn’t even hers. Someone had died up in North Ward, someone of great power, someone she knew, some—Laeral!

  And gradually Vajra also became aware that her throat was afire, and the long, raw keening she’d been hearing, the throat-stripping screaming, was coming from her own throat.

  A moment later, through swimming eyes, someone appeared above her—where there had been empty air up to the ceiling only a moment before.

  That should be impossible. No one should be able to teleport into Blackstaff Tower when she had the wards up. No—

  From somewhere she could hear a man of mature years singing. It was wild and carefree but somehow she knew it was not drunken song, that ended abruptly when the man above her turned his head, long white beard swirling, and said, “Mordenkainen, must ye? I’ve got the lass here shrieking in my face, and …”

  The singing stopped, and Elminster bent down and asked gently, “What’s wrong, lass? What’s happening now?”

  Vajra could only find tears for an answer.

  • • •

  THE ADVENTURERS WHO’D collected their coins and their crossbow bolts earlier were startled to see him, and no wonder. They’d probably thought the bit of wall he’d just stepped through was solid.

  “Help me into my armor,” Cazondur snapped at them, nodding at a closed closet door across the room and tossing its key to the nearest gaping man.

  They looked amazed for a moment longer, then all scrambled to obey, rushing the closet as if it was a foe. Ah, the power of shiny golden coins!

  With their help, he donned his gleaming suit of armor in a trice. It’d had been expensive, but worth it; though he lacked a helm and gauntlets, he felt shielded against the world, yet still able to move easily—and he knew he looked grand. Scragglebeard, for one, was looking at the armor enviously.

  Best not to give him any time to get ideas. Not that he had time to spare right now. “Time to use those poisoned bolts,” he told them, “and make no mistake when you do. Surround him before he realizes his peril, then feather him well; he’s a formidable wizard.”

  “Qasmult, yes?” Scragglebeard asked. It was always Scragglebeard …

  “Qasmult,” Cazondur confirmed, making it as curt as he could. “Then get away back here, shaking all pursuit, for I may need you to dispose of another wizard for me. If I do, you’ll get paid double, and I’ll provide new poisoned bolts. If you don’t, I’ll pay you what I’ve paid you already, over again—for nothing but your silence.”

  He was gambling that the adventurers wouldn’t get to Qasmult until after Qasmult had killed Glenmaur. He had to.

  He took his leave in haste, through the secret door that had the strongest bolt on its other side to discourage any explorations, and took the fastest way to the Palace, emerging into the open only when he had to.

  Shopkeepers and carters and a Watch patrol gave his gleaming armor curious looks, but his lack of weapons forestalled any Watch guards questioning him—wealthy citizens did buy armor, and walk about trying its fit and comfort, after all—and he made good time.

  He was mere steps from the open plaza in front of the Palace, with Ahghairon’s Tower looming up before him, when he found himself passing the Dragon’s Head tavern. Struck by a sudden thought, he ducked inside.

  • • •

  THE WORDS TUMBLED out of her. Laeral’s fate, what she’d felt—all of it.

  She was still stammering out her explanation when Elminster’s face, which had been looking increasingly grim, suddenly swirled, and she was staring at—Laeral.

  Vajra gulped.

  Before she could find the right words, Laeral’s beautiful lips moved, and a higher, gentler version of Elminster’s voice told her sternly, “Stay out of what is to come, Vajra Safahr. Do not try to follow me. Bide here in Blackstaff Tower—because if I fall, lass, and Laeral has truly fallen, ye must survive to hold Waterdeep together.”

  Half afraid and half angry, Vajra started to protest. “As the Blackstaff, I should be part of any battle to—”

  The stern face staring into hers turned disgusted. “Duty,” El snapped. “Time for ye to learn what it really is.”

  He waved a hand—one of Laeral’s shapely hands, waved almost as Laeral herself did—and the Blackstaff came hurtling from the far wall, slammed into Vajra, and raced her in a bewilderingly whirling, elbow-banging instant out of that room and—

  The next thing Vajra knew, she was sitting on the old stone seat she’d always thought of as Khelben’s “throne,” with the Blackstaff across her lap and holding her there as solidly as any iron bar. Manacles of crawling blue-white magic were holding her wrists and ankles to the stone, rushing strands of the Weave that touched her not, yet held her limbs to the chair as securely as if she’d been wired there.

  She fought to free herself, and it was like struggling against the entire world.

  • • •

  HEADS TURNED ALL over the taproom of the Dragon’s Head as Cazondur strode in, magnificent in his gleaming and ripplingly bright, unblemished coat-of-plate armor. He let a confident half smile ride his face as he sought out the faces he was seeking. Aha! There they were.

  A bored table of adventurers, all boredom dropping from their faces as they looked up and recognized him.

  “Took you long enough to remember us!” one of them called, just as Cazondur exclaimed, “There you are! Stand up, all of you!”

  They stood in hasty union; the power of the coin, again. He peered at them all, gauging their height, then pointed. “You and you, come with me. Leave your swords and axes behind; bring daggers only. You’re posing as my bodyguards, but say as little as possible. Come!”

  “Where?”

  “Bodyguards don’t ask questions,” Cazondur snapped over his shoulder, already back toward the street.

  The adventurers looked at each other, shrugged, and rushed after him.

  • • •

  THANTILVUR INVESTMENTS WAS now a ruin. Or at least the front two-thirds of it was. Glenmaur surveyed the frost-caked tangle of riven beams, rubble, and huge blocks of stone with some satisfaction. He’d hurled two more spells at whatever was left of Laeral’s body, pulverizing the rubble that had buried her, and could see a severed hand—lying still, thank the gods—a lot of scorched dark wetness that had once been blood, and not much else.

  Now, aside from dust and a little smoke lazily curling up from the rubble, all was still and silent in front of him.

  It seemed he’d just destroyed a Chosen of Mystra and gotten away with it. “Forgive me, Mystra,” he murmured, just to be safe, but couldn’t keep a wide smile from his lips while doing it.

  Cazondur had fled during the battle, of course. Coward.

  Still, the man wasn’t the sort of audience a mighty wizard wanted to preen in front of, anyway. Glenmaur turned away, finally allowing himself a gusty sigh of mingled smugness and, yes, relief.

  He managed to take just a single step before the Open Lord of Waterdeep, Lady Laeral Silverhand, appeared right in front of him, intact and looking … less than pleased.

  Glenmaur gaped at her, dumbfounded. How could she have survived that? Her body was destroyed! How?

  He wasn’t going to have time for any speculations. Laeral was already saying bitterly, “Traitors have never impressed me!”

  The air filled with a racing s
warm of blue-white bolts. Magic missiles, that should have been absorbed off by his ward-spell, but he already knew, somehow, that they wouldn’t be. Eleven, twelve, he hadn’t time to count them all as they slammed home, through a tingling of the air that could only be the Weave, risen and raging.

  They were followed by a kick to the crotch that sent Imindur Glenmaur flying, writhing in agony.

  • • •

  THE PALACE DOOR guards gave way when Cazondur told them curtly, “Laer—the Lady Silverhand has requested my presence here for an important vote. I’ll be in the Purple Audience Chamber, awaiting her.”

  He led his bodyguards into the Palace, murmuring to certain Palace staffers and courtiers, “It’s time” as he passed them. In every case they nodded, looked anxious, and hurried away.

  Cazondur turned aside from the route that led to the Purple Audience Chamber, to step through an unmarked door into a linen closet. One end of it was hung with replacement draperies rather than fitted with shelves for sheets and towels, and Cazondur ducked through them to slide open a concealed door in the back wall, and step into a dark space beyond. The moment the door had been slid shut behind him again, a driftglobe began to glow, illuminating the small room Cazondur and his bodyguards now stood in.

  All around them were racks and shelves crowded with the helms and vestments of the Hidden Lords of Waterdeep. Kept ready here for the use of Lords desiring to enter the Palace as themselves, and robe up in private. Cazondur selected those he’d long ago set aside for himself as the best fit, and directed his two bodyguards to don the complete regalia themselves.

  Once their identities were concealed by the “Mask” helms, gauntlets, and floor-length vestments, he led them at a swift pace to Castle Waterdeep, where he ordered the gate guards, “It is imperative that we speak with the most senior Watch officers on duty here, without delay. Assemble them.”

  In a surprisingly short time he found himself facing a grizzled old veteran of a Watchsword whose name was Hawkguard or some such, one of the two women who were Watchlords—Taeliia Hammaerhart, as it turned out—the Seneschal of Castle Waterdeep, Hardaunt Maskridge; and Lord Armorer Belarkyn Vanjelarr.

  “The slayer of Masked Lords has been found and caught,” he told them, without any greetings or courtesies, “and is being detained at the Palace. It’s imperative that all of the Lords of Waterdeep, including those newly voted in, be gathered in the Lords’ meeting chamber in the Palace right now to decide the fate of the guilty party and to restore the stability of the city.”

  “I know not how quickly we can—” the Watchlord started to say, but Cazondur interrupted her.

  “Arrest them and carry them in bodily if you have to,” he snarled, “but get them there!”

  And then he turned to hasten away again, the two adventurers posing as Masked Lords hastily joining him, and snapped over his shoulder, “We also require an armed and ready Watch patrol to accompany us, right now. There’s treason afoot!”

  • • •

  EVEN BEFORE HE spoke, the girls knew from his face and slumped shoulders that the news would be dark. Mirt stepped back out of the unicorn-horn-surmounted front doors of Unicorn Hall, followed by a downcast Jalester and Dunblade.

  “This lot won’t even try to bring Drella back, either,” he growled. “No matter how much coin I offer them. All they say is, ‘The Hallowed Horned Dancer now frowns on returns to life, except for resurrections that enjoy Her personal blessing.’ But they’ll see Drella washed and made whole and buried as befits a lady, with full reverence, in the City of the Dead.”

  “Well,” Ravva quavered, through fresh tears, “that’s something. Drella a lady!” And she tried to laugh. It turned into a snort, and she ended up crying again.

  Waratra hugged her, tears streaming down her own face. “Strong, Ravva, be strong. Nothing we do now will bring her back; she’s gone.”

  “But I don’t want her to be!” Ravva bawled. “Let me pretend a little longer, Wara—please!”

  Both girls stiffened as Mirt suddenly grabbed them, and said in a voice that sounded distinctly like Elminster, rather than his own, “Get ye to Tarnath Street in North Ward, three doors east of the High Road, to Thantilvur Investments. Go around the back way—and hurry. Laeral has urgent need of ye!”

  Ravva, Waratra, Jalester, and Dunblade all stared at Mirt. The fat old man was staring off into the distance, his eyes not fixed on them or the just-finished temple of Lurue beside them, or Rainrun Street around them.

  “That’s Elminster’s voice!” Jalester snapped. “Come on!”

  And he turned and started to sprint.

  Dunblade slapped Mirt’s face and barked, “Come, Old Wolf! Run!”

  They all started to run.

  “Whatever befalls, we must not split up!” Jalester shouted. “I’m not sure Dunblade and I can find this place speedily without you locals!”

  “Watch patrol, ahead!” Ravva called, “and they’re pointing at us and waving! They want us to stop! We’re in Castle Ward, remember!”

  “Scatter!” Jalester snapped. “Split up, hrast it! Mirt, deal with them!”

  “Oh, aye, give me the fun tasks!” Mirt growled, as they saw no less than three Masked Lords, in full helms and vestments, striding among the Watch guards. One of them pointed right at the four and declaimed in a loud, deep voice, “Those are the slayers of Lady Laeral Silverhand, the Open Lord of Waterdeep! Arrest them! And if they flee, cut them down in their own blood!”

  “Oh, dung!” Ravva gulped—as she, Waratra, Mirt, Jalester, and Dunblade all scattered, running in different directions.

  • • •

  AMID THE RUBBLE of Thantilvur Investments, the Laeral who was not Laeral fell to his knees, fire raging in his head.

  Whoaah, the pain!

  He had to abandon his Weave-boosted attempt to read Glenmaur’s mind; it was simply hurting too much to keep his will bent on forcing his way in to a pain-wracked, dazed, and hostile mind.

  “Sorry, Mystra,” he murmured.

  There came an immediate silver-and-blue flood of soothing energy through the Weave by way of a reply.

  El sighed in relief and resignation. “So,” he mumbled aloud, “we’re to stay out of minds, no matter what.”

  The blue-silver surge flared up at him—and then winked out. A definite affirmative.

  El sighed again, nodded, and carefully cast a force cage around the huddled and writhing Glenmaur.

  The last word of the spell had just left his lips when the meteor swarm crashed into him.

  • • •

  VAJRA YAWNED. AGAIN. Upset she might be, and Waterdeep might stand in great peril, but she was trapped in this stone chair, and now all the worry and haste and rushing about were catching up with her.

  It would be so easy to just let sleep take her, and let Elminster the Almighty deal with his own messes, if he was so bound and determined to hurl orders and cry “Duty!”

  This throne was by no means comfortable, but Vajra had slept in worse conditions, and … what was this?

  To her astonishment, the Weave bonds were loosening … fading! Her excitement leaped—and they tightened again, rushing faster and glowing brighter. Oh, ho …

  It took her a seeming eternity and all the self-discipline she could muster to relax into a deeper calm than she’d felt in … days. Yes, it was days.

  And as she grew calmer, the bonds binding her to the throne loosened and faded. When at last she relaxed entirely, telling herself nothing really mattered, in the grand march of the gods’ scheme of things, the bonds … let her go.

  Vajra got up, and stepped away from the throne as gingerly as any cat burglar. When she was a safe six strides away from it, she put her hands on her hips and told the empty air, “If this was some sort of lesson, Elminster, I don’t appreciate it. Chosen of Mystra or not, don’t decide my duty for me. Old ways are for old days.”

  The Blackstaff promptly rose up in front of her nose.

  “Don’t you
start!” she snarled at it. “Am I to be forever hindered by the schemes of old men?”

  The Blackstaff went dark and fell to the floor.

  Leaving her staring down at it, dumbfounded.

  Then she hastily bent and scooped it up. For the first time ever, it felt lifeless in her hand. Just an old stick of wood.

  “I didn’t mean it!” she pleaded in sudden fear, shaking it.

  And then lifted her chin and told Blackstaff Tower around her as calmly as she could, “Yes, I did. I am the Blackstaff. I walk my own road.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Treason

  Keep and deliver me, warded bright

  Against treason, fang, and blight

  For I would see the morning hale

  And know the bliss of deep sleep’s vale.

  —from “Warding the Fifth” in the chapbook Volo’s Guide to Rhyming Incantations by Volothamp Geddarm, published in the Year of Rogue Dragons

  INTO EVERY LIFE, A LITTLE CEILING MUST FALL.

  Or a lot.

  ’Tis my time for a lot, again, it seems.

  El couldn’t move, and much of him was broken.

  He only just had strength of will enough, through the agony, to call on the Weave to flow hard through him and deaden the pain he was feeling. A little.

  His shattered body—still in the slender and shapely likeness of Laeral—was pinned under shattered tiles and heavy roof-timbers and masonry. The thunderous roar of the building’s roof coming down had ended, but dust still roiled thickly. Not that his rib-pierced and blood-full lungs would let him breathe—and damned if this mage who’d laid him low wasn’t casting acid splash spells on the bits of him that weren’t buried.

  One, and then another. Followed by an angry scream of, “Die! Why won’t you die?”

  Wizards, these days!

  “Arrrraaaww!”

  That inelegant battle-cry was Mirt, whooping enough breath into his straining lungs to try to dissuade Qasmult from hurling yet another spell. Windmilling his arms for balance, the fat man came lumbering into the ruined building like a team of galloping, snorting horses, with Jalester and Dunblade and Mirt’s young Dock Ward wenches—only two; what had befallen the third? Had he lost one already? Careless, careless—followed by red-faced and huffing Watch guards, with two … Masked Lords?