by Ed Greenwood
"Eh? What kind of a 'business associate'?"
The tall, thin shadow silhouetted in the nightgloom of the doorway murmured, "Bezrar, the time for silence is come. Of my associate, let's just say, his spells are darker."
* * * * *
Narnra swallowed, or tried to, but seemed to be floating in calmness, in the midst of glory, enthralled by that great yet gentle voice. So this is a god. . . .
Slack-mouthed in awe, most of the War Wizards went to their knees in the cellars as the thunderous voice of their goddess rolled and echoed around them. The Harpers stood staring wide-eyed at the two Chosen, in hopes that they'd see something-however brief and fleeting-of the Mother of All Magic.
Something awakened in Narnra's mind as she crouched, trembling in awe, something that seemed to find and sort through seven blue-white stars curiously . . . then smile in an echo of the earlier smile that had washed through the Silken Shadow.
Narnra Shalace wept inwardly, frozen like stone, as Mystra regarded her personally and let new blue-white fire flood into those stars, leaving her quivering. . . .
Which was why she was the only person in the room who did not hear every syllable of Mystra's mind-voice:
AS A SMITH TESTS AND TEMPERS A BLADE, THE DESIGNS OF THE MAGES OF THAY CAN AND SHOULD BE RESISTED AT EVERY TURN-YET IT IS MY WILL THAT THAY'S INCREASED MERCANTILE SPREAD OF MAGIC CONTINUE, FOR NOW. YOU WERE RIGHT TO SLAY THESE, ALASSRA, BUT TO JOURNEY NOW TO THAY AND INDULGE IN SLAUGHTER OF OTHER RED WIZARDS WOULD BE WRONG. THEY'LL OFFER YOU SPORT IN AGLAROND ITSELF SOON ENOUGH.
A MORE IMPORTANT CONCERN IS FOR YOU, ELMINSTER, TO DEAL WITH: YOUR ONETIME PUPIL, VANGERDAHAST. HE'S NEITHER AS FEEBLE NOR AS FORGETFUL AS HE'S LED CALADNEI TO BELIEVE. MAKE SURE, EL, THAT HE'S TRULY CONSIDERED ALL IMPLICATIONS OF HIS UNFOLDING PLANS AND ISN'T JUST BEING SELFISH. FOR ME TO PRY WOULD BE TO RUIN HIS WORK-AND FURTHER ENDANGER CORMYR.
Most of the Cormyreans in the cellar were cowering or shaking with awe at the sheer weight and power of Mystra's presence, as her mind-voice thundered on. They were too enthralled to faint or become numbed. The mere contact made every mind alert and afire-but Mystra's last sentence was the first that made the Mage Royal of Cormyr go pale.
The greatest state secret of the realm, laid bare before all.
She swayed, feeling sick, and fought down the sudden urge to cry. After all the secrecy, innocent folk mind-blasted or slain to make them forget what they'd seen, and the torment of facing nobles and War Wizards and courtiers, all hostile, before she was ready … all that work swept away in an instant.
Whereupon two gigantic eyes opened out of nothingness behind Elminster and the Simbul and stared right through them at Caladnei. RECKLESS IDIOCY, PERHAPS, BUT BRAVELY DONE, CALADNEI OF CORMYR. MOREOVER, YOUR SUSPICIONS OF NARNRA ARE WELL FOUNDED. NO SECRET CAN BE KEPT FOREVER, AND YOU HAVE SHIELDED IT-I HOPE-JUST LONG ENOUGH.
Caladnei stared into those great glowing orbs, fighting to find words as exultation rose in her, her face awash in sudden, silent tears. . . .
A lone, hooded figure in leathers sprang out of her crouch and was away like the wind, sprinting across the cellar floor as swiftly as any arrow. A few blue-white stars seemed to curl around her heels, just for an instant.
Glarasteer Rhauligan shook himself like a wet dog and burst out of his own trembling rapture at a run, slapping something into Caladnei's hands as he went.
She stared down at what she held, not comprehending what it was for a mind-whirling moment: a gleaming steel vial.
Drink, his firm, warm mind-voice came to her, along the spell-link that hadn't yet expired, and be healed. Worry not; I carry two more.
Only one other Harper scrambled to intercept the racing Silken Shadow. Narnra flung her last purse of sand into his face, vaulted a trembling War Wizard, and was gone up the stairs, panting for breath.
The older, stouter Rhauligan lumbered along in her wake at a slower, grimmer speed, threading a less bruising way through the enthralled crowd of Cormyreans.
Through the mind-link of tumbling stars, the amusement of a goddess crashed over them all in a vast flood, forcing most in the cellar into helpless, gasping laughter.
As they rocked and slapped thighs and shouted helpless mirth, those giant eyes winked out, Elminster and the Simbul vanished along with all their mist-curling radiance-and the overwhelming presence of divinity was suddenly . . . gone.
Laughter died swiftly, as half-dazed War Wizards and Harpers clutched at each other for support, blinked, and sighed their various ways down from rapture. Many started swearing, and not a few bent over to brace themselves like winded soldiers and collect their wits.
"That . . . that was something," a grizzled Harper said weakly, grounding his sword. Beside him, two War Wizards turned and embraced each other, their uncontrollable shudderings slowly slackening into tremblings.
Standing alone still facing the dark emptiness that had held two Chosen and their goddess, the Royal Magician of Cormyr stood shaking and silent, clasping the vial to her breast and weeping uncontrollably.
A woman in trim dark robes slipped out of the crowd of Cormyreans and went to Caladnei. She was careful to circle around the Mage Royal so as not to startle her by clasping her from behind-but never slowed in her advance.
Without really looking up Caladnei saw a lock of hair that had recently gone white amid many tresses, and its owner's erect and graceful walk, and knew as gentle arms went around her that her comforter was Speera.
Laspeera. She wasn't sure she quite dared to call Laspeera In-thre Naerinth, the second-in-command of the War Wizards for many of Vangerdahast's years of service, by the nickname the royal family used for her. Laspeera, the lady she'd been afraid would resent and attack an unknown adventurer from Turmish, anointed out of nowhere by the increasingly difficult and much-feared old Vangerdahast . . . but who'd instead become a firm friend, remaining a loved and trusted diplomat and a cheerful tower of strength and moral guide for the War Wizards and the nobility of the realm alike.
Not for the first time, she wondered what Laspeera's true thoughts were, behind her unfailing graceful politeness. Many a courtier could act and speak one way and believe and covertly advance quite another, and far too many kings had fallen by trusting the wrong smiling face for too long.
Yet she could not stop crying, and Speera's arms were warm around her, rocking her as affectionately as an older sister might.
"One of the high points of any life, yes," Laspeera murmured, "and so of course devastating when it's over . . . but Gala, life goes on, and there'll be others-if you work to make them happen."
That jerked Caladnei upright, to stare at the older War Wizard. "Speera?" she blurted. "You called me 'Gala'!"
Laspeera winked at her. "Mystra take me," she murmured, "so I did. How presumptuous and graceless of me. My tongue must have run away with me."
She kept hold of Caladnei and so was ready to catch her when the Mage Royal collapsed into sudden, snorting laughter.
Six
A KNIFE IN EVERY HAND
There's one sure way to know ye've reached a city where merchants rule: ye'll see a knife clutched ready in every hand. If the merchants have gone so far as to practice the misrule of kings, some of those hands will no longer be attached to bodies.
Sabras "Windtrumpet" Araun One Minstrel's Musings Year of the Highmantle
One of the highest peaks of the Storm Horns, that great shield-wall of mountains that defend Cormyr's western flank, is Tharbost. "The Lord of Storms," some call it, and it glares eternally out over Tunland, so high and wind-shrouded that few creatures lacking wings know that the lofty tip of its spire was broken off in dragon-battle long ago, leaving behind a small, flat high table. A rampart of teethlike rocks at the western lip of this lofty perch affords a little shelter against the full raking fury of the winds, so when breezes slacken, humans who somehow reach the summit of Tharbost might hope to stand thereon for a short time before the tireless wind-talons pluck and whirl them down a
gain.
Two humans were standing there now: figures that had simply appeared there out of what minstrels were wont to call "empty nowhere" moments before, without any fuss of flowering magic or deadly struggles of climbing.
The wind moaned in a deadly rising, whipping the tattered black robe one of them wore up into a most immodest flapping, but she stood unconcernedly-showing no signs of struggling for balance or feeling the icy wind-chill-side by side with a figure who spat out the end of his beard for the third time and muttered a small, sharply worded magic to keep it down.
The Simbul grinned at him. "Strange, how you worded your cantrip to tame your beard but not my dress."
"Presume to alter the fashion statement of a woman who's also a queen? I'm widely considered a meddling fool, Lady Fire, but I'm not that much of a meddling fool."
Though the sorceress no more than smiled fondly, merry laughter rolled around the summit, shaking Tharbost and setting some of its rocks to singing out echoes.
THIS IS WHAT I MISS MOST ABOUT LAYING ASIDE MORTALITY, Mystra told them a trifle sadly, when she'd mastered her mirth. NO ONE TEASES ME.
Elminster lifted his head, grin widening-and his beard promptly flew up into his face to forestall whatever he'd been going to say.
NO, OLD MAGE, THAT WAS NOT A REQUEST FOR YOU TO START DOING SO. HEAR AND BELIEVE. As a coda to that emphatic statement, Elminster's beard slapped down to its tamed position once more.
The Simbul promptly burst into laughter at his revealed expression, so it was left to the long-suffering onetime Prince of Athalantar to observe, "Ye cannot have snatched us here, Divine One, just to hear us banter. Ye've more to impart, eh?"
OF COURSE. WHENEVER POSSIBLE-ALASSRA SILVERHAND, HEED ME TRUE!-YOU ARE TO SUBVERT RED WIZARDS RATHER THAN SLAUGHTER THEM.
The Simbul lifted an eyebrow. "'Subvert'?"
LAY DEEP-MIND SUGGESTION SPELLS TO GENTLY NUDGE THE THAYANS INTO ACTING AS I DESIRE THEM TO. SOME WILL YET HAVE TO BE SLAIN, BUT TOO MANY HAVE A CAPACITY TO CRAFT NEW MAGICS AND EXPAND MORTAL USE OF THE WEAVE, TO LOSE THEM ALL.
"I hear and obey," the Simbul said formally, bowing her head. "In truth, my … bloodlust when it comes to Red Wizards increasingly frightens me. I'll stay my hand and do as you command. Guide me as to the actions you want them steered into."
"I hear and obey," Elminster echoed, "and will do the same. Command and guide us."
I SHALL. THANK YOU.
The rising wind whistled around them, heard but unfelt. It whipped away their breath in long, fleeting plumes as the Chosen waited, finding themselves after some dozen plumes had raced away east still standing on the desolate mountaintop, beneath a sky of uncaring stars.
"There's more, Divine One," Elminster observed calmly, not leaving it as a question.
The rocks around them seemed to sigh. YES.
YES, THERE IS. The wind moaned higher. MOMENTS LIKE THAT MOOT IN THE CELLARS MAKE ME FEEL VERY . . . MORTAL AGAIN. UNCERTAIN. UNSETTLED.
The wind slackened, and after a moment Mystra spoke again. HOW WELL … IN YOUR HONEST, BLUNT JUDGMENT, BOTH OF YOU, SPEAKING FREELY WITHOUT FEAR OF … REPRISAL . . . HOW AM I DOING?
Elminster and the Simbul turned their heads and traded sober glances, there in the whistling wind, and it was Elminster who spoke, his voice gentle.
"In this we are both agreed, Most Mighty," he told the empty, echoing air around him. "Considering how we two, who have wielded some measure of the power ye hold for hundreds of years longer than ye have existed, so often mess up: fine. Just fine."
* * * * *
A bobbing barge saved her. She leaped, landed hard, and skidded across its damp roof just slowly enough to kick up … and out . . . gaining the height she needed to cross a widening stretch of inky water and crash heels-first onto the already-battered rail of a barge littered with heaps of rusty chain, garbage, crab sink-cages, and a tangle of rotting nets-startling into cursing wakefulness the three filthy beggars sleeping thereon-and vault over its massive dragger-arm, onto the next island.
Where the Silken Shadow ducked into an alley and raced along, crouching low and coming to a cautious, creeping halt at its far end, which-as she'd correctly guessed-was also the other side of the isle. The bridge onward, to a much larger island that would give her a choice of routes toward the true shore, was only a few running paces away, but it would be guarded-and one or perhaps two warriors she could burst past, but more, or sentinels who had handbows or spells, would be quite another matter.
She crouched tensely, knowing she hadn't much time before the pursuit caught up with her. Mantle of Mystra, but she couldn't even count how many teleporting War Wizards and as-good-as-she-was-probably-better Harpers were down there-what if that Mage Royal sent them all after her?
Ironically, it was Glarasteer Rhauligan himself who saved her. He came bounding up to the top of the steps, puffing a little, and called an alarm to the guard, asking if he'd seen a lone lass in dark leathers and a mask running his way.
The startled guard stepped out to make reply. Narnra darted from behind him like an eager arrow and was halfway across the bridge before Rhauligan saw her and roared a warning in earnest.
A lantern glimmered as it was raised at the far end of the bridge-a simple, mist-slick stone arch-in the gloved hand of an armored guard who seemed to have brought several dozen of his fellows along with him. Narna cursed and sprang over the side of the bridge without slowing.
The water was as icy as it was filthy, and she came up clawing her way free of floating debris better not seen, and hauled herself around the bow of a barge that had been moored so long that weeds had grown themselves a curtain on its chains. Something nosed against and nibbled at her boot underwater. She kicked out in fear and revulsion, felt something solid flinch away, and clambered up out onto another dock as if all the gods themselves were clutching at her.
A guard called out to his fellows, somewhere nearby in the mist-curling darkness. Narnra cursed savagely and silently-and swarmed up the nearest crumbling wall, moments before a spear-point came jabbing after her.
Loose, rotting shingles slipped and slid under her feet, pulling something in her thigh with a sickening jolt of pain, then she was away through an exhausting and seemingly endless labyrinth of slick rooftops, mist, more rooftops, more crumbling walls, and desperate leaps across narrow, stinking canals.
When a particularly long leap drove her breath from her and left her curled and gasping around an ornamental stone spire someone had thoughtfully carved jutting up from a roof-edge, Narnra Shalace took the time to catch her breath, rub at her leg, wince, and turn to notice two things.
At some point in her frantic flight, she'd well and truly reached the mainland, crossing several streets of what must be the city of Marsember. More importantly, the Harper who'd dared to bandy words with that fearsome Queen of Aglarond-Glar-something Rhauligan, that was his name-had followed her in her mad leaps and sprints all this way across the rooftops and was in sight of her now, jumping easily across an alley not three rooftops back!
"Mask and Tymora, aid me!" Narnra hurled that snarled prayer up at the few stars she could see glimmering through the chill, thickening mists, and ran on, kicking her leg to loosen the muscles, within, that were giving her pain. Yes, it was hurting less, but . . .
She scaled a roofpeak and slid down the far side, noting grimly just how far she'd have to leap to avoid a bone-shattering fall into the street below.
In mid-leap she had a momentary glimpse of a sleepy apprentice reaching out to fasten the shutters of his high window, seeing her, and freezing the moment he got his mouth open to gape at her-then she was past, slamming into the roof above the dumbstruck apprentice with her knees and elbows. Tiles broke and skittered away down the roof under her as she slid a little way, got her boot onto the dormer root just above the apprentice, stopped her fall, and doggedly climbed back up and over this roofpeak. As she went over, she risked a glance back over her shoulder.
There was Rhauliga
n, their eyes meeting for a brief, thoughtful moment ere she dropped out of view and slid down the far side of her roof toward a lower one, beyond. Belonging to a small building, it was narrow, relatively flat, and of wooden shingles streaked with thick and probably slippery moss-but it led to another steep roof, not far away, and the short distance between the two peaks gave Narnra an idea.
She could spare a dagger-a dagger. If she could get to that second roof in time . . .
She could, and-thank you, Mask and Tymora both!-the far side of this Marsemban mansion sprouted a side-wing whose lower roofpeak gave her something to stand on, below the one that looked back at the way her pursuer should be coming. And high-ranked Harper in the service of Cormyr or not-what'd the Simbul called him? "Highknight"?-he'd not chase her half so well once he'd stopped a steel fang in the face!
Rhauligan's head was suddenly there, bobbing up over the edge of his roof-and she set her teeth, rose up, and threw her second-best belt knife as hard and as fast as she could.
It bit home and stuck, quillons-deep in … well, he must have slipped on a hood, or a mask. His head-if it was his head-sank down out of view, leaving the Silken Shadow to stare across at the rooftop, briefly moonlit, now, as the mists parted momentarily . . . and breathe heavily . . . and wonder if she'd just killed the man.
When the mists came back and returned the rooftops to smoke-like shadow, several long breaths later, Narnra drew in a deep, shuddering breath, turned, and went on.
* * * * *
"Starmara? Starmara, my love, are you awake?"
Her husband's voice was a throaty growl-the tone he fondly believed was some sort of irresistible amorous purr-and Starmara Dagohnlar stared drowsily at the luxurious rubyweave draperies of their bed-canopy, high overhead, and managed not to sigh.
Durexter Dagohnlar could certainly rake in the coins when she urged him on. He might be a thoroughly dishonest, ill-smelling brute and boor of a mightily successful-and widely hated- Marsemban merchant . . . but before all the gods, he was her thoroughly dishonest, ill-smelling brute and boor.