by Ed Greenwood
“Why?" Shandril asked, keeping her voice hard.
He shook his head in silent dismissal or exasperation, tapped gently at Narm's cheek, and then said, "He's coming around. That water-!" He pointed at an ewer of wash-water standing in the sink of a battered washstand. Shandril fetched it, and Marlel dipped his fingertips in it, nodded at its icy temperature, and drew a line of it down Narm's cheek.
The young mage's eyes flickered.
"Back with us. Narm?" Marlel asked loudly and jovially, throwing up a hand toward Shandril's face in a "be silent" gesture. "Ready to have a good look out at the lovely ladies of Hethbridle Street?"
Narm looked up at him dully, and the Harper waved airily at the window. "Hmm? Ready to buckle your swash, strut like a cockerel, and roar like a dragon?"
"Oh, gods," Narm muttered, "it's Torm's brother!"
Shandril exploded into giggles, a flood of mirth that dissolved into happy tears, and then her arms were around her man, shouldering Marlel aside.
The Harper drew back with a strange expression. His hand stole toward*the dagger at his belt-then fell away again, as he lifted his head and stared at the wall… in the direction of the two rooms full of wizards that Shandril had so swiftly blasted.
He swallowed and took a careful step back from the young couple. That movement was enough to bring Shandril whirling around to face him again, eyes sharp-and Marlel raised his eyebrows and his fingers in unison, waggling all of his fingertips to show that they were idle and that he meant no harm.
Shandril let her face show that she believed him not for a moment. "And now, Sir Harper?" she asked him softly.
Marlel gave her his quick, crooked smile. "Well, now. This room is yours for the night-I've paid for it, no need to thank me, all who carry the little badge you saw are paragons of flowering honor-and you'll have to give three silvers to Pharaulee by highsun tomorrow if you need it for another night, and so on. I should tell you a little trick we use: Take some of the soot from-back there-on a finger and run it around your eyes, and just here and here on your cheeks. Then wipe most of it away again, so it looks like shadow and not black face-paint, and gods above, but the shape of your face changes! Effective, if you don't want to be recognized straightaway, hmm? But I fear I must soon disappear on other business. Is there anything else you need me to do?"
"Yes," Shandril said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. "Tell us the truth."
Marlel raised his eyebrows, and refrained from smiling. "Ah. Well. That would be a grave mistake in style, here in Scornubel." He spread his hands, still unsmiling. "Anything else?"
Narm and Shandril exchanged glances. "Marlel," Narm said faintly, wincing at a hurt remaining in his head, "we're supposed to find and meet a man named Orthil Voldovan here."
The Harper nodded. "And join his next caravan to Water-deep? You're just in time and had best get down to the taproom and find him right now. He leaves on the morrow." He waved at the double-barred door.
Shandril looked at Narm, who winced again, then nodded. She turned her head and gave Marlel a commanding look.
That crooked smile touched his lips for a moment and went away again. "Leave nothing of value here," he said. "In Scornubel, without bars and bolts and guards whose loyalty you are certain of, locks are not to be trusted." He put a hand on the uppermost bar he'd so recently slammed down into place, and added, "Come with me now, and I'll point out Orthil to you."
Shandril nodded and came toward him. Narm followed, a little unsteadily.
In the darkness of the room next door, a watchful eye drew back cautiously from a spyhole nigh the floor, and its owner lay still on the soft fur he'd brought with him. When he heard the keys jingle in the lock and the soft, swift footfalls of the three moving along the passage to the front stair he stood up, stretched in the gloom, plucked up his fur, and cautiously opened his door. The passage was empty, and the man wrapped in the fur cloak slipped out into it and headed for the third stair. They were the two he'd been watching for, right enough, and he knew where they intended to go, now.
He hurried to deliver that news to those who'd promised to pay well for it. There'd be a slight delay while he picked up his own bodyguards-but without them, this was one meeting he probably wouldn't have survived. No messenger grows very old without knowing which clients are the dangerous ones.
These were the very worst, which was why his bodyguards included several mages and over a dozen other men he hoped these clients didn't yet know about. The alleys of Scornubel had seen all-out battles before.
The broad stair Marlel took them down this time opened onto a landing overlooking the deafening, smoky din of the taproom. The Harper put a hand on Shandril's arm to bring her to a stop-then snatched it away as if he feared she'd burn him, and pointed.
"That's your man," he murmured into her ear, making sure her finger was pointing at the same man his was, "and I'd rather he didn't see me or hear about me." He rose, and slipped back up the stair past them. "We have," he murmured as he went, raising his hand in a farewell salute, "painfully unfinished business between us."
Shandril returned his wave-then he was gone into the shadows. She traded looks with Narm. They sighed in soundless unison, gave each other rueful grins, got up, and went boldly down the stair.
Orthil Voldovan sat facing their stair in the corner seat of a booth with his back to one of the stout pillars that held up the taproom ceiling. Even seated, he was tall and straight-backed, as broad as many a door at his shoulders, and with forearms like hairy tree trunks, massive, gnarled, and seemingly more solid than the stout, weathered tavern table they rested on. His eyes were like two dark daggers beneath the largest shaggy white eyebrows Shandril had ever seen, and his square-jawed face was fringed all around with a short but ragged tufting of white beard. He was not young but looked as if he could assume mighty displeasure in a moment with anyone who dared to delve into his age, and speculate on its effects. He also seemed the sort of a man for whom "mighty displeasure" might mean something on a hastily founded battlefield or something far less formal in the nearest alley.
With Voldovan sat half a dozen men in worn, stained leather armor hung about with daggers and swords and throwing axes-caravan guards, battlefield veterans, or outlawed warriors, perhaps all three. There were two eyepatches among those six men and perhaps thrice that number of visible teeth. Scars could be seen-half-hidden among bristles and tattoos-everywhere. Many coldly calculating eyes were raised from a forest of empty and half-empty tankards as Narm and Shandril approached, and out of habit hands ' dropped to the hilts of favorite weapons.
"Well, well," Voldovan remarked, looking Shandril up and down with a frank eye that made her-despite inner raging to the contrary-blush crimson, "they're letting children out after dark in Scornubel, now. Or are ye for hire as a pair, hey?"
"Orthil Voldovan?" she asked crisply. "I'd like to hire you- or rather, your protective professional company to Water-deep, on the caravan you're leading thither on the morrow. Tessaril Winter recommended you."
Mention of the Lady Lord's name made those bushy brows shoot right up to crown Voldovan's hard face, and several of the guards stopped glaring at Narm and Shandril every breath and exchanged swift, dark looks.
"Well, now," the caravan master said slowly, leaning forward to look narrowly but thoroughly at the young couple. "Well, now. How is Tess, anyway?"
Shandril kept silent. "Well enough when last we saw her," Narm hastily filled the silence. "With King Azoun riding hard up to her door."
"Aye, her back door, I'll be bound," Orthil said meaningfully. "As if all his kingdom doesn't know what he's up to. Bah-kings! Overfed rogues, the lot of them!"
"So you eat rather more lightly?" Shandril asked silkily. "What, then, is your fare to Waterdeep?"
"Ten gold pieces," the caravan master said gruffly. "Full coins, mind, like lions or highcrowns-not trade-tokens or those little gilded copper shards they use suth'rds."
Southwards, Shandril
interpreted mentally.
"Payable in full before we leave, not 'half now and half there.' I'm not pretty, but I'm worth it. My caravans get where they're going."
"Well, that's a good start," Shandril said calmly. "Seven gold, did you say?"
Orthil gave her a sharp look, and one of his guards laughed.
"Eleven, I said," he told her with a grin. "Ye should listen better, dearie."
"Evidently so," Shandril said, perching herself on the table in front of him and shoving his most recent tankard aside. "I could have sworn I heard you say four gold for the pair of us."
Orthil regarded her coldly, and she leaned forward to stare with great interest right back into his gaze. Two tiny flames kindled in her eyes. From behind her, knowing what must be happening, Narm sighed and murmured, "Try not to kill anyone yet, love. They all seem to be such-gentle people."
Cold glares were lifted the young mage's way, and the oldest and most grizzled guard in the most patched and scarred leathers chuckled and leaned back to watch the unfolding fun, lifting a finger to signal a bet to his fellows.
"Four gold for the pair of ye 'tis, then," Orthil said quietly. The chorus of gasps and tiny clanks that followed came from his guards: the sounds of many jaws dropping open.
"The spellfire wench? You're sure?"
Belgon Bradraskor looked up from his littered desk with eager hunger catching fire in his pale eyes. His movement lifted the ample folds of his jowls from their customary resting place on the descending mountain of flesh that was his torso.
Standing safely in the shadows beyond the lamplight, Tornar the Eye shuddered delicately. Belgon had a wife-a tall, splendid woman-and half a dozen daughters. How they survived seeing that unclad was beyond him; as it padded around the house, it must seem like some sort of pale, quivering monster…
Still, the Master of the Shadows could move swiftly* enough when he had to-and his wits were as keen as any dozen caravan masters put together. For over a decade he'd seen through their every swindle and had always had a response ready ere it was needed; a very hard thing to do in the roaring, ever-lawless city of Scornubel.
"Yes, Master," Tornar said firmly. "I saw flames flare in her eyes, and she had a man with her who matches in looks, voice, and manner this Narm Tamaraith we've been told to watch for. She was with Marlel when they went upstairs but not when they came down. His trap failed. She fried all his hired mages-and perhaps him, too, though I've not seen his body."
"No, the Dark Blade of Doom has been seen not ten breaths ago, slipping out of town by the looks of where he was headed and what he was carrying." Bradraskor's tone dripped with scorn for Marlel's self-assumed title. "And she's sitting with Voldovan in the Tankard right now?"
"Making a deal with him," Tornar confirmed. "If they agree, she'll be part of his caravan up to the Big Brawl on the morrow."
"Hmm. 'Tis a long way to Waterdeep," the Master of the Shadows said thoughtfully. "I wonder how many accidents Voldovan will have on this run."
Tornar waited for the huge man behind the desk to say more, but silence stretched until he felt moved to ask, "We're not going to try for…?"
"No," Bradraskor said slowly. "No, I don't think I want to die badly enough for that."
Tornar nodded, as relief flooded through him and quite drove away his fleeting disappointment. He made for the door with his usual soundless tread.
"Eye of mine," the Master of the Shadows said softly, freezing Tornar in mid-step with his gloved hand reaching for the bolt, "not quite so fast. Something occurs to me."
Tornar waited. Something always did.
"We dare not try to seize spellfire because of what would certainly befall us if we tried to hold it," Bradraskor said slowly, "when all the vultures came down with their talons to tear us apart-but by not trying for it, and lurking like a vulture ourselves, we could do some handsome harm to any of our rivals who dare to snatch at it."
Tornar turned, excitement stirring in him. "And so?"
"So I think you'll be on your way to see Bluthlock right now," the Master of the Shadows said with a soft smile. "Tell him that he can spend freely, with my backing, to thin the ranks of anyone Scornubrian he's grown tired of. There are some faces about town that we can all easily miss."
Tornar matched the Master's smile and asked, "What about Andor?"
"You mean the shapeshifter who's gosing as Andor?"
Tornar the Eye stiffened. "What?"
"Andor was found in Old Ornrim's nets in the Chionthar a little over two months back, with a goodly part of his face eaten away by the fishes."
"I never heard about this," Tornar murmured, leaning forward in frowning interest. "Ornrim went missing about then, as I recall."
The Master of the Shadows nodded. "The one who's now posing as Andor saw to that."
"And how-?"
"Do I know this? Someone saw Ornrim's neck being broken."
Tornar did not voice his question, and Bradraskor grew a slow smile. "No, not one of my other Eyes. A visiting noble, as it happens."
Tornar's lip curled. '"You've found a noble who can be trusted?"
"Do you recall the lady who put a sword through Ulbegh last summer?"
"Tessaril Winter of Eveningstar?"
Belgon Bradraskor smiled. "Faerun is such a small place, sometimes. It's comforting, how all the spiderwebs draw together in tangles and most folk don't even notice. Haste now, Tornar-I can feel someone about to tug on this most interesting of webs."
The informant nodded, went out, and carefully drew the door closed before he shivered. The last thing he'd seen had been those two pale eyes, watching him. Yes, exactly like a pale, quivering monster, padding softly through the darkness…
Fallen By The Wayside
Ah, yes, spellspun gates. Portals, some call them. "Death-doors" is the term I prefer. The reason? Well, each step through one is a step closer to the time when your death is standing waiting for you on the other side-with a big cold grin on its face and a sword in its hand you'll have no time nor chance to avoid. 'Tis like any adventuring life, but shorter.
Bharajak Steelshar, Warmaster For Hire from a lecture at The Swords Club in Elturel,Year of the Bright Blade
"As I see it," Hlael said gloomily, "we're doomed if we face spellfire-and just as doomed if we fail and our superiors hear of it. Unless we can change our shapes and hide so well as to never be traced or found-or win spellfire for ourselves, and with it remove every last one of our superiors from the unfolding tapestry of life without anyone else in all Faerun seeing or guessing that we have spellfire… we're dead men. Somehow neither of those events seems very likely."
"Enough," Korthauvar Hammantle snapped. "Move carefully, as we agreed to do, avoid mistakes, and see what befalls. Slowly and carefully, not like the ever-growing army of fool-headed magelings all falling over each other to impress Manshoon! Some of Fzoul's upperpriests have been working on tasks he set them for years and have thus far accomplished nothing that the rest of us can see-and yet live still and hold their places in councils!"
"Places we've never been offered," Hlael returned, slamming shut a spellbook in a momentary show of anger.
"Hlael! Bane take you! You've enough gloom in you for any dozen old men in a tavern! Have we not woven a splendid plan-brilliant enough to please old Iceglare himself? Have I not just recast no less than four spells of power and had all of them w.ork successfully? Just one more, and we're on our way!"
"Hear my joy and rejoicing," Hlael Toraunt of the Zhentarim told the ceiling, quiet sarcasm dripping from every syllable.
Korthauvar gave him a glare as hot as any red dragon's baleful regard, and lowered his head once more to the old and crumbling grimoire in front of him. Its theft had cost six men their lives-blood well spent, as far as he was concerned, and what use had those dolts of Candlekeep for such lore anyway? 'Twas not as if they ever used it for anything useful… Now, if this incantation was twisted thus, and that awakening borrowed from the farscry spell cra
fted by Ilibrin of Old Impiltur, so-he scribbled a few notes and circled the word haethin; 'twould be necessary to work that into the unfolding of the enchantment, after the charge to… yes.
He read over his notes, rewrote them into something formal, nodded in satisfaction, and began to gather candles, several powders, two small stones he'd carried in a pouch whilst teleporting, and another, slightly larger piece of stone that had once formed the threshold of a gate in Teshwave. This should work. It might fail against certain gates, depending on the portal enchantments, but should do no harm in any event.
"Hlael," he said gently, "I believe we're ready. Read you this."
The shorter wizard shook himself all over, perhaps to hide a shiver. He stepped forward, read Korthauvar's newly drafted incantation in frowning silence, then nodded. "After the third candle?"
"Yes. Shall we?"
Hlael nodded again, and the casting began. Quiet, careful, and slow-paced the spell-weaving went, as the two wizards spread powders in a careful design around three closed circles. Placing the fragment of former threshold in the central one, they took up positions on either side of it, in the outermost circles, held up their written incantations, and began to chant- at first in unison, then in turns.
"Haethin drur athaumalae, ringra don'' With a flourish Korthauvar finished, drawing his hand gracefully closed. In slow magnificence, his newly crafted magic spread out from his circle, along the pattern of powders.
Hlael breathed a deep sigh of relief and satisfaction as the spellglow rose around them. "Well done," he said, and meant it. Blood of Bane, five new magics crafted in a day! All of them cobbled together from existing spells, to be sure, but nonetheless newly honed and focused, like tools no one had ever made before, forged from chisels by a blacksmith to do specific tasks.
Korthauvar beamed like a lion that has made a kill he's hunted for a whole season, his smile bright in the gloomy chamber, and spread his hands.
"Now let us see what we shall see," he said delightedly. "This may all be so much wasted time, but I can't think Lady Lord Winter would dare to send the wench and her bumbling mage of a man right into our clutches in the Stonelands, or through Tunland, alone-or even risk them on a caravan to Amn or Iriaebor, where they know our watch is vigilant."