War in Tethyr n-2

by Victor Milán

  "Crisis?" The duke was too polite to sneer.

  "Crisis. I think Zazesspur's due for a dose of civil disorder, sooner rather than later. Something that will make the people cry out for a strong hand to restore order." She tipped her head to the side and tapped one finger against her cheek. "I think he'll use Ravenak's ruffians. They're like boulders balanced precariously on the very brink of a precipice, wanting only the tiniest zephyr to bring the whole mountainside crashing down."

  "Preposterous!"

  "You think so? Try this thought on for size: did anyone encounter a single darkling on Zazesspur's streets before Hardisty began his climb?"

  "Woman, I will not stand to hear our new lord's name besmirched. Good evening. Officer of the watch, I wish to be let out at once!"

  Immediately bolts began to slide back on the far side of the door. "All I ask," Zaranda said, "is that you remember what I told you."

  He gave her a lambent-eyed look of disgust and went out.

  Beneath her the bed turned to viscous blackness; without chance to react, she was swallowed up. And then she was falling, endlessly, endlessly-but not endlessly enough. Below her, vanishingly small but somehow clear, a shadowed shape writhed, greater black against blackness.

  No matter how you fight it, no matter what you do, you will come to Me, that hated voice hissed. Why struggle against the inevitable? You might spare yourself no little pain.

  Still she fell. As she fell, she seemed to glimpse scenes flashing past: a seething caldron whose contents she did not dare examine; foul creatures opening a grate that led to the streets from the sewers beneath the city; a procession of wailing children, yoked together neck to neck, shuffling forward toward a black galley lolling at anchor in some vast flooded cavern… And always the blackness below, yearning for her, reaching for her with tentacles of black…

  She was dashed into consciousness as if by a plunge into icy water. For a moment she lay gasping, so coated in sweat that she seemed in imminent danger of slip ping off the bed onto the floor. Then her ears resolved the sounds that had brought her out of sleep.

  Bells. And a faint murmur, as of many distant voices raised in anger.

  She rose and walked to the window. No planets were visible, and the moon and its bright attendants were absent. But by pressing her face hard against one wall and staring as far to one side of the window as she could, she could see orange light staining the sky, as if Selune were trying to rise in the south.

  Zazesspur was burning.

  Zaranda sat back onto the sill. The morning sun lay warm on her back, despite being filtered by overcast. The smell of rain, past and future, came through the open window.

  "I'm sorry," she said, "about your shop, and most of all, about your father."

  Simonne Soiltender — "White Eyebrow" had been her father's nickname — sat on Zaranda's stool looking very small. She wore a leather jerkin over a saffron blouse and sand-colored hose. Her voluminous black hair was done up in a bun and covered by a bandanna whose gaiety clashed with her demeanor.

  "You of all folk are the last who owe apology," she said. She was turning her toothed-wheel holy sign of Gond over and over in strong, capable fingers. It was finely milled of steel, which the god held the noblest of metals, preferring its utility to the showiness of silver, platinum, or gold. "You warned him time and again."

  "And yet I might have helped precipitate his murder, by facing down those ravers in his shop last year."

  "Just as likely you forestalled it. Such folk want victims, not confrontation; it's weakness that arouses their bloodlust. My father's confirmed passivity marked him as a target. Once we mustered opposition, ill-armed and untrained as it was, the rioters fell back smartly enough."

  She let the medallion drop and buried her face in her bands. Tears leaked between the fingers. "Oh, Father, Father. If only I'd had the strength to disobey you before it was too late!"

  Zaranda came to her and laid an arm around shaking shoulders. "Grieve, for you must. But don't burden your soul with regrets. You won't serve your father's memory by crippling yourself with might-have-beens."

  The priestess clung to Zaranda, and her slight but sturdy frame was racked by great, silent sobs. Zaranda gently stroked her friend's head. Her blue-gray eyes leaked a few tears of their own, but silently; she would do her grieving for White Eyebrow later, if she were still alive.

  At last the tremors dwindled, and Simonne pulled away. "You're right," she said. "Gond teaches us ever to took to the future."

  "Well said, my friend." Zaranda sat down in her chair across the desk from her visitor. "What do you see the future as holding?"

  "Extinction for the gnomes of Zazesspur," Simonne replied, "unless we fight back."

  Zaranda smiled. "Fighting back is a commodity I specialize in."

  Simonne nodded. "I know. I didn't come just to bear news of my father's death." She sat upright. "I wish to engage the services of Star Protectives to teach us how to defend ourselves. My father left some treasure hidden where the marauders couldn't get to it, and I have some small wealth of my own."

  "You needn't concern yourself-" Zaranda began.

  The priestess held up a hand. "Please. Followers of Gond give charity, but do not accept it. Nor is it wise for gnomes to come to you larger folk as supplicants; my father was right about that, as about so many things."

  "Indeed, your father was a wise gnome. And you're a worthy daughter. But let us leave the matter of payment for later; I'll trust you to pay, and if you so choose, you will trust me not to gouge you."

  "So let it be done," Simonne said with a businesslike nod.

  "Now, my freedom of action's a bit curtailed right now, so when it comes to training, you're best advised to try to reach my people outside the city. In fact, since you insist on giving recompense, your so doing would be of great service to me, and go far toward repaying whatever help I render you."

  "We can do that. We prefer to live within the laws as much as possible, but as you know, we're not slavish. When the law becomes intolerable, it is our way to slide around insofar as we can."

  "I know."

  "So rest assured that we shall quickly contact your friends outside; walls and patrols cannot contain us."

  Zaranda gripped the table's edge for support; the flood of relief made her dizzy. Though her people could do nothing to help her, though the rumors of dissension and dissolution might well be true-still, what a relief to know how her friends fared.

  "Thank you. Now, you managed to extemporize a self-defense force to rout the Hairheads. That's an excellent start. I can tell you-"

  "A moment, please, gnome-friend." Simonne's large eyes were solemn. "The council-or at least Baron Hardisty-looks askance at attempts by the people to defend themselves. Can we safely discuss such matters, here in the heart of city hall?"

  Zaranda laughed out loud. "Of all my visitors, you're the first to question that. The powerful and the putatively wise have been tramping through my humble abode by the hour, working their jaws with never a thought that anyone might be eavesdropping!" She shook her head. "There are tricks I've heard of, speaking tubes built directly into a building to convey conversations to secret listeners. I've found no sign of such in my cell, though I'm far from expert enough to guarantee we're safe. And I've sensed no dweomer play directed against me-but again, a sufficiently puissant wizard could cast a clairaudience spell and I'd never feel it."

  She shrugged. "But among my ever-so-candid visitors have been almost all the council. They saw no reason to guard their speech. Perhaps neither their intellect nor wisdom are such as to astonish all Toril, but I trust them to be astute in the matter of keeping their own hides intact."

  "Fair enough," the priestess said. "Now, what can you tell me?"

  For an hour Zaranda sketched out a plan for whipping up a serviceable self-defense force. "Now," she con-eluded, "a show of force-more, of determination-will most likely deter would-be pogrom-makers like the ravers; as you said, they s
eek sport, not the chance to see their own blood spill. But if you face organized aggression-" she meant the bronze-and-blues, but saw no reason to tempt fate by being unnecessarily explicit "-it's' paramount not to confront them directly. Never meet strength with strength; instead give way like water, and like water flow around and in behind them. And, like water, you can erode them, given patience and resolve."

  The priestess rose. Tour words are sound. I will remember them. Thank you. Now I must go. I'll get in touch with your people as soon as I can."

  She turned to go. "One thing," Zaranda said. "I've been having… disquieting dreams…"

  "As have we all."

  "During one especially bad one I had a vision: a black galley, moored in some half-flooded cavern beneath the city, taking on a load of stolen children."

  "I've heard the rumors," Simonne said.

  "Fell things go on beneath any city; that's the way of Faerun. But my dreams… they seem to come from below."

  "The darklings come from the sewers."

  "So they do-but stay clear of them; you'll not have the strength to meet them on their own ground. The black galley, though-"

  "We can deal with its crew and accomplices, if indeed they're down there. Such evil must be stopped." The priestess showed a distinctly nongnomish grin. "And who knows? We may bring some fascinating bits of knowledge to light."

  Come to me, the Voice sang, dry and insistent as desert wind. Join me. Think what I have to offer: the power to make of things what they ought to be.

  Lying on her back, Zaranda moaned and thrashed her head from side to side. There was no escaping the sibilant caress of that Voice.

  Come to me, Zaranda. You are mine already. Come to me and know the power; come to me and spare yourself the pain.

  The opening of her cell door was like the breaking of a spell. She sat up, clutching sweat-sodden sheets to herself, throwing up a palm to ward off lantern light that seemed to pierce her eyes like spears.

  Shapes resolved from the glare as her eyes adjusted: Duke Hembreon, tall, cloaked, and grave, backed by city police. Others filed in until the small chamber was packed-Lord Hardisty, Armenides, Shaveli Sword-Master, the latter carrying a large leathern bag.

  "To what do I owe the honor?" she asked.

  The duke shook his magnificent white head. "Ah, Zaranda, to think that I believed you when you said you intended no treachery. Poorly have you served my faith."

  She slid her legs over the bed's edge and sat all the way up, winding the sheet more carefully about her. "What are you talking about?"

  "We have brought you a small present, Countess Morninggold," Armenides said unctuously. The baron nodded. Shaveli opened the sack, thrust his hand in.

  It came out holding the head of Artalos the armorer by the topknot.

  The Sword-Master's specials caught him attempting commerce with the enemies of Zazesspur and Tethyr," Hardisty said. "We have had a most enlightening conversation."

  The severed head opened its eyes. "Zaranda," it croaked. Tm sorry. I thought I could help. Please-"

  Armenides clapped his hands. Artalos's eyes rolled upward in their sockets, and his long jaw hung slack.

  Gods! Zaranda thought. Simonne! Blood began to seep into the wad of sheet clutched in her right hand, where the nails had bit clean through linen into the palm. "Why have you done this to him? Even if he sought to reach my friends, they're no enemies of Zazesspur."

  Shaveli laughed. "I loved the look in your eyes when he opened his. Have you missed me, then, my pretty little countess?"

  "Faneuil, silence your cur!" snapped Hembreon. The Sword-Master looked poison at him. Ignoring him, the old duke stepped forward to stand gazing down at Zaranda with pain in his deep-sunk eyes.

  "Your Star Protective Services are encamped before the city," he said. "They swear to free you by force. A thousand strong they are-"

  Zaranda's laugh rang like a brazen gong of Thay. "A thousand against a city such as Zazesspur? What kind of threat is that? They might as well be a thousand children for all the harm they can do to you behind your walls!"

  "— and more march hourly to join them, from all over Tethyr."

  She stood. "But that's absurd. If nothing else, Shield of Innocence knows better than to lead such troops against fortifications so strong, manned by regular troops."

  "Our intelligence indicates the orog no longer leads," Hardisty said.

  "And if we required further proof of your perfidy, consorting with a great-ore of the Thighbone-Splitter tribe would suffice to condemn you," Armenides said.

  "He's been accused of treachery in what these miscreants choose to regard as your 'kidnapping,' " the Lord of Zazesspur continued. "He is transported in chains. A mute ranger leads the rebels, and a half-elf bard speaks for him."

  Zaranda sank back to the bed and covered her face in her hands.

  "We should welcome the advent of all the rebels in Tethyr," Armenides said. "When they have conveniently gathered together in the open country around Zazesspur, Lord Faneuil will muster the civic guard and the knights of the city, and behold!" He held up his hands and flung open his fingers with the air of one unveiling a major miracle. "No more rebellion."

  "Zaranda Star," Duke Hembreon declared, "your treason is manifest. Therefore, not without regret, the city council of Zazesspur has decreed that you must pay the penalty. At noon tomorrow-that is, the day following this morning's sunrise-you shall suffer death by breaking upon the great wheel of justice in the midst of the plaza. At the same hour shall the lord of the city be crowned King Faneuil I of all Tethyr."

  She looked up. Her eyes gleamed with wetness, but her cheeks were dry.

  "Nothing your executioner can do," she said in a low voice, "will cause me half the pain of the tidings you've brought me."

  Shaveli's ugly face split in a sunny smile. "Don't count upon that, Countess," he said. "For I'm the one who'll do the honors."

  26

  "I can't believe they're going to put Countess Morninggold to death tomorrow," the gangly, pimple-faced youth whispered loudly. The stinking water that lapped their ankles and the slimy sewer walls took his words and cast them in all directions, in the faces of the little party and bouncing down the passageway. "Is there nothing we can do?"

  A drop fell from the low-groined ceiling onto the back of Simonne's neck and rolled down it like an ice slug. She forced herself not to think of what it was.

  "Yes," she said more softly. "We can try to be quiet and not get caught. Beyond that-Gond teaches us to make the best use of what fortune places in our hands. We can but trust to his providence and our own resources."

  By jittering torchlight she surveyed her doughty band: gnomes interspersed with youthful humans and even a smattering of half-elves, faces green-tinted at the stench and knowledge of what was gurgling about their boots. Some of the nongnomes were fellow Gond followers, others the priestess's friends. The way they clutched their motley collection of knives, clubs, swords, and short bows showed far too plainly for Simonne's taste that none of them was a fighter by training or experience.

  She looked to the figure by her side. It was even shorter than she, clad in a dark brown cloak with hood thrown back to reveal a head of chestnut curls. It held a hoodwinked bull's-eye lantern in one small hand.

  "You're sure this is the way, Nikdemane Birdsong?"

  The halfling nodded, a trifle impatiently. "Down this path, through the narrow passage that forks off to the left there yonder. It's the back way into a subterranean lagoon that feeds into the Sulduskoon and thence to the sea. There's an ancient stone pier where we used to smuggle goods whose makers didn't care to purchase guild stamps or ask a syndic's leave to do business."

  "You'd not steer us wrong?" she asked, wondering what she would do if he did.

  He gave her a look of fine halfling disdain. "I'm a thief, tinker priestess. But I steal goods, not children. Not even bigfeet deserve to be served so."

  She nodded. She wondered at her own moti
vation in undertaking this mad caper. She suspected with a touch of chagrin that she and her followers shared a reason: the creed of their red-bearded smith god was Action counts! Yet they all did far more talking than acting.

  Here was their chance to take action that would truly count.

  Father, she thought, I don't think even you could disapprove. But withal, I do this for you.

  She gestured with her three-shot repeating pistol crossbow, recently invented by a fellow priest of Gond Wonderbringer. "Let's go. And please keep it quiet!"

  Lying side by side on their bellies, Simonne and Nik Birdsong inched forward up a sloping passage uncomfortably low even for the gnome woman, although the halfling had walked insouciantly upright until both went prone for the final stretch. Gaining the lip first, the little thief gave Simonne a quick grin of vindication. As he turned back, the priestess saw his expression change to disgust. She writhed up beside him.

  The tunnel mouth opened twenty feet above the floor of a vast torch-lit chamber. The black galley bobbed gently alongside a mossy stone pier, tied fore and aft to protrusions that might once have been winged statues, but had long since worn to amorphousness — an indication of their age, securely hidden as they were from the erosive forces of wind and weather. The black square-rigged sail hung limp from the yardarm, but there was no mistaking the stylized black nail and Z rune against a white circle — the emblem of the Zhentarim.

  Simonne's breath caught in her throat. There was also no mistaking the identities of the men busy herding a coffle of weeping, stumbling children up the gangplank and into the slave ship.

  All wore the pure-white robes of the priests of Ao.

  Angry murmuring and clatter awoke Zaranda from a fitful but blessedly dreamless sleep. She rose from the bed, feeling as she did so an internal blow to the heart: this is my last morning. She sought to pass the shock off with a joke, murmuring, "Need they make such racket raising the wheel of justice?" as she shuffled to the window.

  Dawn was turning an overcast sky the color of sour milk. Down on the plaza men fought. Some wore the bronze armor of Hardisty's civic guard. Against them strove men in tradesman's garb, with here and there a black-shelled city policeman among them.