by Ed Greenwood
* * * * *
It was dark at the bottom of the stairs. The only lights were lanterns and torches moving to and fro with grim bands of searchers-humans all, men and women who bore either blades, handbows, and silver harp pins, or wands and the vacant expressions of folk listening to conversations only they could hear, raging in their heads.
Narnra paused, not sure at first which way to go. She knew roughly what direction led to the archway-but without that wizard it was closed, and she'd probably not be able to even find its exact location. Moreover, with all the corpses and spilled blood down here, it would be a horrible thing to have all the searchers depart and leave her groping in utter darkness with the rats. Her best chance lay in somehow joining a band of searchers, being accepted as one of them, reaching the city beyond the broken bridge with them . . . and, she supposed, starting a new life. With nearly nothing in a strange realm where she'd already been marked as a possible traitor by a royal wizard.
"Thank you, merciful gods," she muttered sardonically-then stiffened as two things happened at once: she remembered the silhouette leaping down the stairs, presumably chasing her but somehow not yet upon her . . . and a Harper suddenly veered away from a passing group and thrust a flaming torch at her. "Yours," he said shortly. "Caladnei's orders."
Narnra gaped at him then numbly, because she could think of nothing else to do, took the torch. It spat pitch, as they all did, and burned with a brilliance that warmed her cheek-very real and with enough hard-nailed cloth on it to last for hours. Of course, it made her a beacon in the dark cellars . . . but really, with a Mage Royal casting spells on her, wasn't she that already?
The Silken Shadow sighed heavily, spread her hands in exasperation-for so accomplished a Waterdhavian snatch-thief, she wasn't much of a strategist, thank you, Holy Mask-and set off briskly through the cellars, toward where that archway had been. There was the slimmest of chances the old wizard had returned there or would do so, and she had to at least look or forever gnaw at herself for having failed to do so.
Her way took her through almost a dozen cellars, and she saw almost a score of sprawled corpses and many, many more huddled, sullen prisoners. The Rightful Conspiracy, it seemed, was reduced to its mysterious masters and perhaps a few fugitives who'd managed to slip away.
Yes, this was the right place, here . . . and the passage she'd arrived by would be this one, and . . .
There was a sudden cold flare of magic off to the left, through another archway-and Narnra thrust the torch as behind her as she could manage and sidled nearer to see who was casting what down here-quite away from the bands of grim searchers.
Then she stiffened once more, and turned around very slowly. Why had all the searchers veered away from this area as she walked between them . . . and why was there now utter silence behind her?
Her torch showed her nothing but pillars and dark emptiness.
With a sudden snarl she flung the torch as high and as far back along her trail as she could.
The ceiling was high, and the beacon whupp-whupp-whupped end over end quite vigorously, trailing sparks and flame, to bounce with a flare of fire that sank immediately down to a few fitful flames. They were quite enough, however, to show her the shapely leather-clad legs of a lone figure who'd been following her.
That person lowered one hand to point at the torch-and it rose smoothly into the air, fires quickening once more . . . and came floating upright back to Narnra. At the beginning of its journey, its flickering radiance was quite sufficient to show the Waterdhavian thief the half-smiling face of the Mage Royal of Cormyr.
Narnra swallowed and raised her hand in salute-and caught the torch in her other hand, hoping Caladnei wasn't so spiteful with her Art as to make it explode into a thief-incinerating inferno or some like doom.
The torch stayed a torch, and with a sigh of mingled relief and resignation Narnra turned back to those strange flickerings of magic.
A few paces onward she spun around again to see if Caladnei was following her. She could see nothing but shifting darkness, but a very dry voice murmured in her ear, so seemingly close that she couldn't help but jump: A beacon indeed, Narnra Shalace of Waterdeep. Lead on, and together let us see what unfolds.
Narnra turned her face to the unseen ceiling overhead and flung a silent curse at Mask and Tymora, hefted the torch despairingly in her hands . . . and stepped forward again.
The archway was very close now, perhaps a dozen paces ahead to her left. She held the torch as low and as far to the right as she could, walked in that direction, then crept along the wall toward the edge of the arch. Yes, she was carrying a blazing beacon-but perhaps there was light and strife enough in the cellar to keep attention away from one closer torch among many. Perhaps . . .
Going down to her knees and ducking her head as low to the cold stone floor as she could, the Silken Shadow of Waterdeep peered around the edge of the archway.
The cellar held only two men-and their magic. One was the old wizard, her only way out of all this peril. The other was a younger man who hung gabbling fearfully in midair, gripped in a glowing, swirling cloud of enchantment.
So she was caught between the slowly and carefully advancing Caladnei of Cormyr-herding her as deftly as any drover crowding oxen into a caravan-pen-and the old mage who'd so casually defeated her. No doubt the Mage Royal was walking with spells upon spells raised like shields around her . . . and the power of the old wizard was obvious.
The very air glowed and throbbed with it, a pulsing so mighty it almost hurt the ears.
"Ye could have done this the easy way, ye know," Elminster told the sweat-drenched, trembling man trembling in the air above him. "I'm a gentle tyrant and require only a few breaths of thy precious time-a hindrance in thy scheduled rush to world domination, I grant ye, yet 'twill give thee a chance to practice gloating and shouting clever jests and phrases about thy puissance to come . . . but no, Thauvas, ye had to struggle. And I thought Thayans understood the proper roles of master and slave. Ye disappoint me." His voice sharpened. "So speak. Ye are-?"
"T-Thauvas Zlorn, Red Wizard of Thay."
"Thank ye. So, Thauvas, ye came all the way to damp Marsem-ber-not the nearest port of call from Thayan shores-merely to enjoy a revel with some strangers in a cellar, is that it?"
"Y-y-yes-uh-ah-I mean no!"
"Thy mind wavers and is troubled; bad traits for one who seeks to master wizardry." Elminster shook his head. "The day of thy becoming any sort of zulkir seems distant indeed. Ye came to join or at least scout this Rightful Conspiracy, did ye not? Or is Thay already behind it, and ye were but carrying out an assigned mission?"
Zlorn's face rippled and contorted as he fought against the horribly strong prying that stabbed into his memories and thoughts like a cook jabbing a skewer into a quace-fruit. Unwillingly, his lips moved at the bidding of a second inexorable magic to blurt out the truth. "Y-y-yes."
"Yes which, most eloquent Thauvas? Speak loudly, for all to hear!"
Narnra froze at the old wizard's words-then spun around to look at Caladnei. The Mage Royal's face was as wryly astonished as her own.
"Yes," the Red Wizard gasped hastily, "I was assigned this task . . . many rising Red Wizards involved … a test for each of us … Sembians sponsoring this conspiracy . .. begun by exiled malcontents of Cormyr, of course … we of Thay are keeping hidden, as much as possible, thus far . . ."
As Elminster's fiercely tightening will penetrated thought after memory after precious secret, peeling the Thayan's mind as some folk strip an onion, layer by layer, Thauvas Zlorn began to sob forth phrases more and more freely.
"And your jovial mention of using the Stalwart Adventurers?
This is part of the plot? Under way or a future effort?"
"I-I-I-'twas my own idea . . . Velmaerass very pleased . . . praised me . . ."
"I'm most warmed to hear that," Elminster said in dry tones. "He might even give ye a tharch or two, if ye're still alive by then."
Thauvas was al
ready weeping in fear, bright lines of tears streaming down his cheeks. His teeth now began to chatter, and the Old Mage sighed, waved a hand, and said scornfully, "Sleep then-for now-and keep thy wits, such as they are. All this fainting and gabbling . . . when will these puppies learn that being a mage means facing the possible consequences beforehand, and weighing them, and acting mindful of their weight? Or is thinking before one goes merrily blasting off into red war left only to wise old fools, these days?"
He spun around suddenly, and an unseen, irresistable force took hold of Narnra's throat and wrists and plucked her off her feet, torch and all, before she could so much as gasp.
"And ye, little Masked One? How much did ye think, before ye plunged through that gate on my heels, hmm? Or are ye so young that adventure dazzles ye into plunging after it?"
Narna Shalace found herself hanging in the throbbing air, faint white mists of sheer power roiling around her, looking down at the wryly smiling, bearded face of the old wizard.
She gasped for breath, finding herself suddenly sweating all over. Was that creeping numbness around her neck and ears his magic sliding into her mind? Was she going to end up sobbing and helpless, teeth chattering, tongue not her own? Would he slay her or leave her a half-wit, ruined by his magic?"
"I-I-I-"
"Are far too upset, Lady of the Night. I've no particular desire to work spell-murder right in front of the Mage Royal of Cormyr, who would then feel a duty to do something that could only get her hurt. All I want is something that should please us all: a sharing of the truth."
Blue-gray eyes gleamed up at hers. "The truth, lass, is a precious thing. Sharp, yes, all too rare in daily use, aye . . . and therefore all too precious. Are ye willing to deal in it?"
Narnra swallowed helplessly, stared down at him, and struggled to reply.
The Old Mage gazed back up at her and asked softly, "Or is it death ye'd prefer?"
Four
TRUTHS AS SHARP AS RAZORS
Nothing wounds so deeply as unwanted, unblunted truth.
Thauloamur Reerist, Minstrel, Clever Words From A Failed Jester Year of the Prince
"That's not much of a choice to hand me-or anyone-is it?" Narnra snapped bitterly, anger rising in her to roll back the fear … a little. "Do as I say, or I'll blast you to ashes or leave you forever drooling. How can you trust any 'truth' handed you under such menace?"
The old wizard shrugged. " 'Tis the same cruel choice most folk of power in this world hand to everyone else. Ye seem a bit too old, lass-especially considering the nature of thy nightly trade-to yet believe Faerun is a fair place. If ye truly do, ye're already a drooling idiot, whether ye admit it or not. I simply make choices blunter and clearer than many when I'm not in the mood for wasting overmuch time on tongue-fencing or frivolity. I'm not in the mood right now. I like Cormyr and have seen so many of these idiot rebellions in the making: the 'making' always seems to involve the deaths of many good and even some innocent folk. As to how I can trust thy truths, my magic will tell me when ye lie and when ye speak true."
"And that's supposed to make me willing and obedient?" Narnra snarled.
"Nay, but a hope to survive this night should. 'Prudence,' I believe 'tis still called. Ye came back down here seeking my gate and a way home out of all this, did ye not? I'm the only way through it ye know, am I not? I'll be a trifle more willing to be helpful to someone who tried to rob and slay me in a dead-end alley not so long ago if she now tries to deal with me in at least a civil manner, will I not?"
The Waterdhavian lass drew in a deep, defeated breath. Despairing yet still furious, she sighed, took another shuddering gulp of air, and growled, "So ask your questions. I'll try to keep to the truth."
"Prudent," the wizard agreed calmly. "If, that is, ye wish to keep me to truth-reading and not mind-forcing ye, as I started to do to Thauvas, there. He learned wisdom quickly."
Narnra tossed her head. "Ask," she repeated quietly, hanging helpless in midair.
The mists around her glowed with sudden light, a flash of radiance that died away as abruptly as it had come.
Her captor turned his head quickly to look out into the darkness. "Caladnei, please just watch and listen and pretend ye're not here for a bit, eh? Vangerdahast will be most annoyed with me if I destroy his replacement without good cause-and ye may as well know now that thy reckless testing of my shield-spells is doomed to fail."
From the darkness came only silence, but after a long, motionless time the old bearded mage added quietly, "Thank ye."
He turned his head to look up at Narnra and asked, "Thy full, proper name, lass, is-?"
Gods, his nose is an even sharper hawk-beak than mine. Narnra looked down into those bright blue eyes-more blue than gray now, as his magic surged around them-and said steadily, "Narnra Shalace. My mother was Maerjanthra Shalace, a jeweler of Waterdeep. My father I never knew."
Bushy brows arched. "Maerjanthra, eh? I knew a Maerjanthra Shalace of Waterdeep, years back-a sorceress for hire, not a jeweler." He regarded his floating captive thoughtfully. " 'Tis not a common name. Describe her, as she is today."
Narnra let him see her fury as she spat, "A few bones, some dust, and probably a tangle of what's left of her hair-in a bonepit outside the walls of Waterdeep. She's dead, wizard."
The old wizard's face was unreadable. "I see. Yet in life, she had dark hair and eyes like thine?"
"Yes," Narnra said flatly, volunteering nothing more.
"How did she die?"
"I don't know. Murdered with magic, I think, but by whom, I've no idea-or they or I would be dead now."
"I see. Have ye kin?"
"No. Unless my father yet lives."
"And what know ye of him?"
The thief shrugged. "He was a man. A powerful wizard, I was told."
"By whom?"
"My mother's apprentices-gemcutters, all long fled. They were drunk when they said that."
"Mother dead, apprentices fled-where d'ye live now?"
Narnra shrugged. "The rooftops. By the warm chimneys in winter. The City of the Dead, mostly, in summer."
"Alone?"
"Alone."
"And ye earn coins enough to eat by-?"
"Stealing. As you know."
"For or with anyone?"
"Alone."
"Any friends?"
"No."
"Folk ye sell stolen things to?"
"Many."
"Name some of them."
Narnra stared into the old wizard's eyes and said evenly, "Dock Ward holds many men who ask no questions about where something came from-and take care that they know nothing about whoever's selling it. If the Watch confronts them, they always say they just found it, tossed into their yard-or window-that morning. In turn, I take care not to ask or know their names. "Tis the accepted way of such business dealings."
The mage nodded, as if remembering things far away and long ago. "Truth rides on thy tongue well."
"So reward me."
"With?"
"My freedom. The way back."
The old wizard smiled. "High payment for a few civil answers. I'll have more before we advance so boldly into rewarding, hmm?"
Narnra shrugged again. "The power to dictate," she observed flatly, "remains yours."
The wizard below her grew a sudden grin, and from beyond the mists came a faint, swiftly suppressed sound that might have been a Mage Royal's chuckle.
"Are ye a member of any guild?"
"No."
"On any rolls?"
"No."
"Pay taxes?"
Narnra made an incredulous sound. The old wizard grinned again and asked, "D'ye know who I am?"
"No. I can see and hear that you're an old man and a powerful mage, yes, but no more."
The old wizard nodded, strolled a few paces away, spun around, and snapped, "What do ye do with thy days?"
"Steal. Sleep. Spy on folk to steal from. Steal. Sell what I've gained and use the coins to buy food. Eat. F
lee the Watch. Steal some more."
"What happened to your mother's shop? House? Goods?"
"Snatched, seized, and spirited away, the moment the city knew she was dead, thank you for asking," Narnra said coldly. "Some slave-seeking noble sent his men after me."
The wizard nodded slowly. "I find myself unsurprised."
The mists suddenly boiled up into a gigantic, looming serpentine head, all scales and great jaws, parting to menace her-
Narnra screamed-and so did the Mage Royal.
The world burst into blinding brightness in a great roaring flood of force that swept the dragon head away and the Silken Shadow after it, tumbling end over end unseeing into-surging flows of power that caught and clung and held her, drawing her down out of roiling chaos into . . . hanging upright in midair once more.
The mists churned and whirled around her with more force than before, trailing sparks here and there, but otherwise, the cellar was much as before-except that the senseless Red Wizard now floated head-downwards.
The old wizard was standing just as before, but his gaze was now bent on the cellar entrance arch. "I did warn ye, Mage Royal," he said quietly. "Know ye not an illusion when ye see one?"
Narnra found that she could turn her head and did so. Caladnei was on her knees, struggling against what looked like ropes of crawling fire that held her wrists down and away from her sides, looped around her neck, and snarled around her spread knees and her ankles behind her.
"Will ye stand peaceful, and work no magic?" the old wizard demanded.
The Mage Royal of Cormyr glared up at him over the crackling flames and said flatly, 'Wo."
The wizard shrugged and turned back to Narnra-and in a chilling, throat-choking moment the dragon head loomed in front of her once more.
She knew what it was now and managed to keep from screaming but could not help staring at it, trembling, as those great jaws yawned once more. . . .
"Lass, did ye ever see anything like this before now?" the white-bearded wizard asked gently, from below.
"N-no," Narnra managed to hiss. "Take it away!"