by Ed Greenwood
The Harper burst out of the cookshop door into the wet mists in time to see Narnra halfway up the wall of the building, clinging to a drainpipe. She was slipping often in the wet and going slowly as she tried to work her way past a balcony jutting out from the floor above the cookshop-but she was already well out of his reach, and he couldn't climb any faster than she could. To say nothing of whether or not any drainpipe would prove sturdy enough for the weight of two, all the way to the roof. . . .
Just inside the cookshop door, in the open space in front of the serving-counter, was a side door. It would be the way up some cramped, dark stairs to the loftier levels of this building.
Rhauligan turned and raced back inside, frightening a fresh howl of alarm from the kitchen. The side door proved to be locked, but Rhauligan carried a prybar-good as a cudgel, stouter than a sword and boasting some saw-teeth besides-sheathed to one leg, and he took out the frustrations Narnra was building in him on that door.
The defenseless wood offered little resistance, and the Harper boiled up the stairs like a storm wind and put his shoulder to the door on the first landing.
It cracked like a thunderstroke, broke in half, and gave way inward, spilling him onto a half-asleep man and his only-slightly-more-awake wife who lay on a straw mattress on the floor. Their sons were already awake and peering out the lone, filthy window at the gloomy mists of slowly brightening dawn. They whirled, wide-eyed, as Rhauligan's stumbling boot came down on their father's stomach. The winded man sobbed for breath, flinging out his arms convulsively-one of them across his wife's throat, silencing her in the first meeping moment of an emerging scream.
"Morning!" the Harper rapped grimly, never slowing in his charge across the room. "Balcony door! 'Way in the name of the King!"
One boy gawked mutely, and the other, eyes shining, shot a bolt and flung wide the balcony door. Rhauligan thanked him with a fierce grin and plunged out into the mists, whirling to face the drainpipe in time to see Narnra's boot lifting just out of reach.
He grabbed for it anyway, knowing as he did that he was going to be about a fingerlength short. He was.
Well, he'd almost laid a hand on her. He slapped it onto the pipe instead and swarmed up it after her, grunting at the pain each pull stabbed into his cloven shoulder. He had to get close enough that she wouldn't have the time to turn on the rooftop and dagger his face or hands-aye, he had to be that close to her, or …
Narnra glanced down, hissed out a curse-he was close enough to almost feel her breath, as he clawed his way hastily upward-and wasted no time on trying to kick at him or deal him any wounds. Instead, she fled up the pipe like a little girl running from all the nightmares life could muster, panting and clawing with almost frenzied speed, and raced across a roof of loose and shifting tiles to spring out and down onto the roof of the next building.
She landed hard, knocking her breath from herself, and spun around on one knee to keep an eye on her pursuer as she panted to get her wind back.
Rhauligan was hauling himself up onto the roof she'd just left. Narnra snarled 'wordlessly, fought her way to her feet as he straightened-then thought of something and bent to her other boot to snatch another knife to hurl at him. Its sheath was empty.
Either she'd lost it during this chase, or he'd taken it while healing her. Hissing a curse at him instead, she spun around, ran, and leaped onto the next roof through the thickly rising, scented steam of someone's laundry, coming up from a skylight.
Beyond, the roof was flat, all of metal sheets sealed and patched with thick pitch, ankle-deep in slippery, bird-dung-dotted water- and . . . and Narnra found herself with nowhere she could safely leap to, on a building with wide streets on two sides, Rhauligan grimly approaching on the third, and a barge heaped high with spear-like, jagged salvage-wood on the last side that it would be sheer suicide to jump onto. She glared around at treacherous Marsember for a moment in the lightening dawn, then spun around and raced back to the open skylight.
Rhauligan was just launching himself at her over its billowing murk. Narnra sat down in her run and skidded over the edge moments before his boots crashed down through where she'd just been.
Her fall was a short one, onto stout metal poles draped with someone's damp tapestries. They gave way like a sling, dropping her down through a roaring stream of air. Chains were clanking all around her as racks of clothes hanging from them were rocked forward and back, forward and back, by levers that vanished down through the floor. By the loud, rhythmic hissing, the Silken Shadow guessed that there was a gigantic bellows in the room below, presumably being worked by the same grunting, sweating coin-slaves who were tugging on the levers and feeding the fire that was warming all this rushing air. My, but the world of laundry was an exciting place. . . .
Or certainly would be, if she didn't get out from under where Rhauligan was sure to land in the next few moments. She debated drawing her belt-dagger and plunging it through the tapestry when he landed in it … but no, she wasn't here to slay Harpers, just to get away from them. Yonder was a row of trap-doors that must offer access to the levels below-probably through shafts nearly dry clothes would be pushed down.
Someone shouted at her as she raced between the swinging racks of garments, and she had a glimpse of a startled old man whose bare arms were a riot of varicolored tattoos waving angrily at her. She gave him a nod and a smile and kept right on running to the trap-door at the . . . right end.
Flinging it back, she smelled hot fabric and saw light far below-and in it, neat stacks of what looked like folded cloaks or blankets. It was the work of but a moment to launch herself feetfirst down to join them.
Behind her, she heard another shout followed by a grunt and a thud. That would be Rhauligan paying his respects to old Many-brands. It seemed she'd been right: the world of laundry was an exciting place.
Narnra plunged past a room full of all the noisy, sweating activity she'd envisaged and landed gently in a large, brightly lit room below that, toppling and scattering hot, fluffy cloaks in all directions. No one was near, and Narnra rolled enthusiastically, trying to get herself mostly dry ere she waded out to find footing and run on.
Along the way, she snatched up a cloak, shook it open in her hands-and when Rhauligan crashed down into view, she flung it over his head, managed to tug him over into a cascading fall of piled laundry to where she could get a hard knee into his blinded and muffled head, then sprang away, not daring to stay and try to smother him because enraged launderers were approaching at a run from various directions now, all shouting furious curses she couldn't tarry to hear properly. She left them closing in on the thoroughly entangled Rhauligan, sprang over some sort of sorting table where women cowered away from her behind wicker baskets . . . and found another handy, waiting door. This one was even open.
Still, she was losing count of doors she was having to blindly rush through and had long since lost her patience with being hunted all over this strange city. It was waking up now, and soon she'd be dodging frequent Watch patrols and carters in the streets and watching eyes, watching eyes everywhere. She doubted there even was such a thing as a dry rooftop to try to sleep on in Marsember, even if she knew this grim, tireless Harper was safely taken away from his hunt. Narnra was beginning to think the only way to do that was to make sure he was dead.
Well, she certainly wasn't wading back into the land of enraged launderers to see to that. Perhaps they'd take care of it for her, though she was beginning to doubt an army could stop Glarasteer Rhauligan, let alone a few angry Marsembans.
She fled down a short stair, through another door-smashing flat an unsuspecting man passing by as she crashed it open-and out into the streets, wondering when it would be prudent to slow down and walk as if she belonged here-in black leathers, aye-rather than running like a thief and catching every interested eye.
When Rhauligan was . . . yes, yes, yes! With a growl of anger Narnra saw two Watch patrols coming together at a street-moot ahead and dodged aside. She had
to get aloft again before he saw where she went and-
Then she saw it. A street over, behind a wall of old buildings that sprouted balconies and rickety outer stairs above their shopfronts, beyond their lines of dripping clothing-imagine hanging clothes out to dry, in night-mists like this!-and water-cisterns . . . water-cisterns? Well, rainwater would almost have to be cleaner than canal-water, and a little less salty. . . .
There was a high stone wall in superb condition with trees rising behind it. Some sort of noble's walled garden, if Marsember was anything like Waterdeep. Yes, there was the row of spikes most nobles seemed to think a wall needed, atop a stretch of buttressed stone that must overtop a two-story building and run longer than six or seven of the shops nearer to her.
Narnra stopped looking at the wall and hurried to get closer to it, looking now for some way to get up onto it.
* * * * *
Durexter Dagohnlar drew himself upright with as much dignity as a naked, bound, and overly fat man can muster whilst sitting on his own bedchamber floor and fixed the Watchcaptain with a coldly disapproving gaze.
"There was no need to push past my wife and invade our home, sir," he said stiffly, as his steward hastened to cut his bonds, "no matter how many overexcited servants came running to summon you. No need at all. I-that is to say we " he amended hastily, catching sight of the dagger-laden look his wife was favoring him with, from behind the Watchmen, "Starmara and myself, ahem, vanquished a very old foe here this night-a foe who came to slay us with magic but was forced to flee. I'll not reveal his name even to War Wizards, because uttering it will awaken some very dangerous spells he left behind. So let's just forget th-"
"You can write it down for me, then, Lord Master Dagohnlar," the Watchcaptain said calmly, the mouth under his grizzled mustache carefully expressionless but his eyes every bit as wintry as the merchant's. "To save the strongest War Wizards in the city the time 'twill take to come and empty your mind of everything of interest to the security of the city . . . and adherence to all of our laws."
Durexter opened and closed his mouth in trapped bafflement for a few moments then said triumphantly, "I'm sorry, Watchman, but I can't write. I never learned how."
The Watchcaptain didn't bother to order his men to step forward and forcibly take Durexter Dagohnlar into custody. He was too busy rolling his eyes. His men moved forward anyway, their snorts of derision almost as loud as those from various gawking servants.
Starmara Dagohnlar, whose sidle toward the door had already ended in the firm grip of a Watchman, sighed and said loudly, "My apologies, Watchcaptain. Our enemy's spells must have affected my husband's wits."
"Indeed, Lady Dagohnlar," the officer agreed politely as Durex-ter was gagged with his wife's discarded nightrobe and hustled to the door. "How many decades ago did they take effect?"
* * * * *
Glarasteer Rhauligan was no longer in anything remotely resembling a good mood. He'd lost a lot of blood, was in great pain, and thanks to the needs of the Mage Royal and this little fool of a thief now lacked any swift means of quelling that. The hasty violence he'd just been forced to do to a small but enthusiastic band of launderers had done nothing to help matters, but at least he was now largely dry-thanks to a lot of formerly clean clothing that was now, unfortunately, smeared and stained with his blood-and was now sporting a bandage of sorts: a very large someone's freshly laundered bloomers tied around the wound in his shoulder.
It had all taken far too long, and if that little bitch had managed to give him the slip whilst. . .
Rhauligan reached the street, where a man lay groaning and twisting outside the laundry door, ignored him as being in no condition to have seen where Narnra Shalace had gone, and glared around in all directions. Twas bad enough having to hunt anyone in wet, hostile-to-the-Crown Marsember, bu-there!
Gods, give the girl a wall to run along, and she's happy! The taller the better, it seemed . . . and she'd obviously managed to leap from another building onto a corner turret of the wall, because she was hurrying away from that turret now as fast as she could. Rhauligan sprinted across the street to get out of view before she looked back to see if he'd seen her.
Well, now. That was quite a wall she'd chosen. If Narnra ran all the way around it, she'd trot for nigh on a mile. Rhauligan happened to know that it kept the prying world out of an estate known as Haelithtorntowers, the abode of one Lady Joysil Ambrur.
That same wider, prying world knew the Lady Ambrur to be a wealthy Sembian merchant noble, a tall, demure, sophisticated patron of bards and singers, who was-correctly-said to pay handsomely for dancers to be enspelled to fly, so they could engage in her particular pleasure: elaborate aerial ballet dances performed as they sang for her, in her parlor.
"We Harpers, however, know rather more about Lady Joysil," Rhauligan murmured aloud, recalling Laspeera's crisp words at a certain private meeting in a tiny, little-used upper room of the palace.
"She's not from Sembia at all. Unearthing her true origins will be another of your little idle-time tasks, gentlesirs."
"That'd be task four thousand and seven, Lady," Harl had murmured, like a bored steward announcing the date and time.
"Indeed, Harl? Then you've missed three," Laspeera had replied with a smile, "or neglected to tell me of their accomplishment, more likely. Now, Lady Ambrur secretly employs her favorite visiting bards as information-gatherers. She then discreetly resells the lore they bring to traitorous nobles, local merchants, and anyone else willing to pay for it."
This practice was what had led local Harpers-including, from time to time, one Glarasteer Rhauligan-to keep watch over who visited Joysil Ambrur and to try to discover just what learning their coins to her bought them.
It was doubtful this Narnra of Waterdeep knew about Lady Ambrur. She'd probably just gone looking for a place aloft to hide and sleep and spotted the tallest wall around that wasn't bristling with vigilant Purple Dragon posts.
Rhauligan knew yon wall was quite wide enough to comfortably walk along, between its street-edge spikes and its inner plant-trough, which housed flourishing clumps of sarthe. Unless it'd been trimmed recently, the edible trailing plant spilled down clear to the grounds far below.
Narnra was running along inside the spikes, merrily trampling sarthe-stalks with each step, and Rhauligan knew he had no choice but to follow or lose track of her.
With a sigh, he chose a building he'd scaled to reach that same corner turret once or twice before and started to climb.
Caladnei and Narnra, know this: You both owe me!
Nine
A WIZARD'S PLOTTING IS NEVER DONE
Heed me, Lord Prince: After nobles with too much time and coin to resist working mischief, the wizards are the ones you must watch. The schemes of mages are as tireless as waves crashing upon a storm shore-and every bit as destructive, too.
Astramas Revendimar, Court Sage of Cormyr Letters To A Man To Be King Year of the Smiling Flame
The central hall of Haelithtorntowers was a high, soaring, darksome space of stone, its vaulted spire lost in the gloom more than a hundred feet overhead. Torches had been lit in the old braziers all around the promenade balcony that ringed the hall, and the great hanging lamps on their chains were left unlit and drawn up high, out of the way of the soaring dancers.
The last few high, mournful notes of song soared into the gloom of gathering smoke high above the torches, floating to a wistful end-and the sweating dancers descended to earth, saluting their lady patron gracefully.
There was applause from the guests seated at ease in the great reclining seats around the crescentiform high table, and their hostess rose and returned the dancers' salute with a happy smile. The performance had been memorable, the emotions evoked very real. Tears glimmered in the eyes of many guests, even those who were stifling yawns at the lateness-or rather, earliness, as dawn had quite come outside the slit windows high in the spire overhead-of the hour.
"And so, my friends," the Lady Joysil
Ambrur announced with a smile, "our evening together must come to an end, as a new day awakens around us. Our time, I fear, is quite gone-and I'm sure we must all, like the dancers who have worked so hard for our pleasure, seek slumber now."
She raised one graceful arm to point east, toward the great double doors that most of her guests had entered by, hours-it almost seemed days-ago. "Your coaches have been made ready, and my servants await beyond those doors to escort you to them. You are all most welcome when next I open my doors for an evening of friendly converse and entertainment. Rest assured I shall send personal invitations well in advance. Now, I pray, leave me to find my own waiting bed." She yawned prettily. "See? It calls, even now."
There was a brief chorus of tittering, and the various grand ladies of Marsember and divers other cities-from the Lady Cha-roasze Klardynel of Selgaunt to the Lady Maezaere Thallandrith of Alaghon-arose in a shifting of silks and shimmerweave and delzelmer to kiss the hands and cheek of their hostess and take their leave. Many and aggressive were their perfumes, especially among the newest-money merchant spouses of Marsember. who were known for their barely veiled viciousness and their often-jarring etiquette and fashion sense, but the Lady Ambrur smiled fondly upon them all and somehow-by a trick of true nobility, perhaps-made each one feel personally welcome and special even as she hastened their departure.
One of the last beauteous ladies to leave was the bare-shouldered, emerald-gowned Lady Amantha Indesm of Suzail, who possessed both the smoldering eyes of a restless tigress and the tinkling smile of an innocent. She embraced her hostess impulsively, the tears the last dance had awakened in her still bright on her cheeks, and swept out to the waiting servants, leaving the Lady Ambrur alone with her very last guest: the Lady Noumea Cardellith.
They both stood quite still until the doors closed behind the Lady Indesm. Noumea said softly, "Forgive me, Lady Joysil, but a spell was just laid upon you, a spying magic, and I should break it." She raised a hand then halted, awaiting permission.