The Siege

by Denning, Troy

  “You let the Chosen speak for themselves,” Brian said. He turned his helm toward Piergeiron. “There may be more to this than is apparent … or less.”

  “What are you saying, Lord?” Piergeiron asked. “That the prince misled us?”

  Brian shrugged. “I’m saying it’s possible. He could have shown us an illusion as easily as a scrying.” The helm turned briefly toward Thyriellentha, who could only shrug and spread her hands, then he demanded, “How do we know those dragons aren’t tearing Laeral’s army apart right now?”

  “Because you must have half a wit somewhere inside that helmet,” Aglarel said, growing exasperated. “Why would we save the army at the High Moor, only to summon a flight of dragons to destroy it later?”

  “I don’t pretend to know the ways of shadow,” Brian said, “but I do know better than to trust those who bargain with dracoliches.”

  Aglarel rose, then—to Piergeiron’s amazement—responded in a civil voice. “Your point would be better taken, Masked Lord, had Shade Enclave not proven more reliable than any of your other allies.”

  “Reliable?” Brian scoffed. “We have seen how reliable you were in your dealings with Elminster.”

  Aglarel’s hand knotted into a fist, and Piergeiron realized that he was allowing his own dislike of the Shadovar to interfere with his judgment as a diplomat.

  “My Lord,” he began, “your caution is well placed, but in truth the Shadovar have done nothing but serve our mutual cause.”

  Brian would not be called off. “No?” he demanded. “And what of Blackstaff’s disappearance? How do we know they didn’t send him to the hells with Elminster?”

  “Because we were not even here when Khelben vanished,” Aglarel said, not unreasonably. He turned to Piergeiron. “Milord, this really is too much. I demand an apology.”

  Piergeiron almost let his chin drop. He had no authority to make a Masked Lord apologize, and—even were he sure that Brian was wrong—he knew what the brusque weaponsmith would tell him if he dared suggest such a thing openly.

  “Prince Aglarel, there are those in this room who have relatives in the relief army,” he began. “You can understand their concern. When our own mages have confirmed what you showed us, I’m sure the Masked Lord will reconsider his opinion.”

  Brian started to object, but Aglarel spoke over him, his raspy voice seeming to reverberate from all corners of the room at once.

  “You will allow this insult to stand?”

  “It is not my place to speak for another Lord,” Piergeiron said, reminding himself not to look away. “Any more than it would be yours to speak for another prince.”

  “Were a Prince of Shade to insult a guest in that manner, he would be a prince no longer,” Aglarel said. He turned to Brian and bowed stiffly. “I thank you for your candor. You have shown me that I am wasting my breath in Waterdeep.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Brian said. Even the helm’s magic was unable to conceal the smugness in his voice. “Though I wish you luck in your alliance with the dragons and scorpions.”

  Aglarel’s eyes flashed, then he turned to Piergeiron. “With your permission, I will remain in the city long enough to purchase some things that have caught my eye.”

  “Of course,” Piergeiron said. “All are welcome in Waterdeep. I’m sure this will blow over—”

  “Please, Lord Paladinson, I think it is time to be honest with each other,” Aglarel said, raising his hand. He stepped away from the table and crossed to the door, then turned and executed a formal bow. “In that spirit, it is only fair to warn you that the attention of Shade Enclave is required elsewhere. Your relief army will be receiving no more protection from us.”

  With the soft footfalls of the Guards Most High rustling in his ears and his own hands thrust in his cloak pockets to hide how they were trembling, Galaeron followed Telamont down into the murky passages beneath the Palace Most High. As they descended staircase after staircase, Galaeron was sometimes almost able to recognize the strange tinklings and odd raspings that resonated from the dark sanctums of each level and was sometimes unsettled by eerie gurglings and ominous rumblings too macabre for an elf’s ear to discern. Though he had no idea where they were going, or why the Most High had picked the last hour of darkness on the same night as Vala’s departure to have him fetched to the palace, Galaeron refused to ask. If his plan to leave the enclave had been discovered, he refused to give Hadrhune—walking a bare two paces behind him—the pleasure of seeing him squirm. If the summons concerned something else, any questions he asked stood a risk of revealing his intentions to Telamont.

  They were twenty levels deep when the leading guards finally left the stairwell, then led the group down a winding tunnel through a large archway into a vast chamber with a high vaulted ceiling. At one end of the cavern lay a hundred-yard slit through which the purple light of the predawn morning could be glimpsed outside. Several dozen Shadovar were pulling a large, comblike device back toward the slit. Closer by, several dozen more were folding a huge section of shadow blanket into a compact bundle similar to several others stacked neatly along the near wall.

  When the laborers saw Telamont Tanthul and his party in the room, they immediately dropped to the floor and pressed their brows to the floor. Though this hardly seemed the sort of place where the Shadovar confined their prisoners, Galaeron’s heart beat no easier. Malik and Aris had left Villa Dusari before Hadrhune arrived with the Most High’s summons. Once Aris had collected his supplies, Malik would stage a diversion to make it easier for Galaeron and the giant to slip away from the enclave unnoticed.

  “One of our shadow looms,” Telamont explained. He waved a sleeve toward the comblike device being drawn toward the slit at the opposite end of the room, then motioned his guards onward. “Not what I brought you to see.”

  They followed the guards around the edge of the room, then stepped through another archway into an even larger chamber where hundreds of Shadovar were busy sewing sections of blanket together with strands of shadowsilk. Again, the laborers stopped work to press their brows to the floor as Telamont entered. This time, the Most High turned to Hadrhune, his platinum eyes flaring with displeasure.

  “We cannot have this,” he said.

  “I shall see to it.” Hadrhune left the group and went over to the edge of the work floor. “Return to your work, lazy ralbs! Do not dishonor the Most High by shirking your duty in his presence.”

  The workers scrambled to return to their sewing, though all were careful to keep their gazes fixed on the area directly in front of their noses. Telamont motioned Galaeron to his side, then led the way along the edge of the work floor through a broad archway at the far end. In the room beyond, Prince Escanor stood on a bronze flying disk, holding a folded shadow blanket, while Vala, suspended by a new pair of magic wings, flew a line over the top.

  “This is what I brought you to see, Galaeron,” Telamont said, crossing to the disk. “I thought you might wish to say farewell.”

  “Is that so?” Galaeron asked, trying to sense whether there was a double meaning behind Telamont’s words. Did the Most High know what had passed between he and Vala at Villa Dusari the previous night? Or was he only trying to gauge the depth of Galaeron’s feelings for her? In either case, his answer had to be the same. “Why would I want to do that?”

  Telamont’s eyes brightened beneath his cowl, then a breeze brushed Galaeron’s face as Vala swooped down to land. Escanor came to stand beside her, saying nothing but absentmindedly running his dark fingers along the feathers of one of her magic wings.

  “We’ve said our good-byes, Most High.” Her green eyes flashed, hard and cold, over Galaeron’s face, then she directed her full attention to Telamont. “I’m sorry you put yourself to such trouble.”

  “No trouble, my dear.” Telamont tipped his cowl in her direction, then turned and studied Galaeron for a moment. Finally, he said, “You surprise even me, elf. I had not expected you to release your emotions so easily.”


  “I doubt it was as difficult as you think, Most High,” Vala said, with enough bitterness in her voice to bring a pain to Galaeron’s heart. “As it happens, they ran more shallow than any of us thought. I’m glad to be rid of him.”

  “Indeed?” The purple line of a smile appeared in the shadows beneath the Most High’s eyes. He turned to Hadrhune, then said, “This one may someday rival even you, my servant.”

  “Yours to see, Most High—but we must remember that only one of us serves the enclave.” Hadrhune allowed his glare to linger on Galaeron just a second too long, then turned to Telamont and said, “I am afraid I must beg my leave, Most High. There is a disturbance in the Trades Ward that requires my attention.”

  “Of course.” Telamont had barely raised his hand to dismiss Hadrhune before the seneschal melted into the darkness and was gone. The Most High turned to Galaeron and said, “If you will allow me a few moments, the battle with the Myth Drannor phaerimm is going to be a difficult one. I would like a few words with Escanor before he departs.”

  “Take all the time you need, Most High.” Though Galaeron’s voice was calm, his heart was pounding. The disturbance in the Trades Ward was Malik’s diversion. Aris would be expecting Galaeron at the Cave Gate within a quarter hour. “With your permission, I can find my own way home. The route was not complicated, and the company here is not to my liking.”

  He cast a meaningful glance at Vala, who smiled cruelly and brushed the edge of her new wing against Escanor.

  Telamont took all of this in with his metallic eyes, then raised a sleeve in dismissal. “Perhaps that is wise,” he said. “I shall need you at the world-window by midday tomorrow, rested and alert. When Escanor lays the shadow blanket over Myth Drannor, we will need all of Melegaunt’s wisdom that you can summon.”

  “As you command, Most High.”

  Galaeron bowed, more to hide his smile than to show subservience, then turned and left. He did not say goodbye to Vala or even wish her well in combat. He could think of nothing but of how she had betrayed him for Escanor, how Escanor had stolen her from him, how Telamont had permitted it … and, most especially, how he was going to make them pay.

  All of them.

  The greatest danger, Malik realized, was not that the witch’s stolen haik would slip through his grasp—though it might—or even that the merciless winds would beat him unconscious against the enclave’s stony underside—though they might. The greatest danger was the lazy vultures who spent their lives in search of easy meals from the city rubbish chutes. Already, one creature was perched atop his right shoulder pecking at his fingers, and two more were circling above his head fighting over the left shoulder, and a dozen more were circling beneath his dangling feet, ready to snatch up any bloody morsels the others let fall.

  “You are sure this is a good idea?” Aris called down.

  “Undoubtedly one of my best.”

  Malik craned his neck and ran his gaze up ten feet of camel-wool haik to the jagged breach they had punched through the exterior wall of the workshop. Aris had carefully sculpted the hole to look like the crater of a powerful blasting spell, ingeniously fashioning two cragged teeth into the edge to bind the upper end of the cloth.

  “Who would believe I would dangle myself here on purpose?” Malik asked.

  “I’m more concerned that you still be there for them to find,” Aris said. “It is a long way to the ground.”

  Malik did not look down. He had already done that once and through a hole in the murky haze glimpsed Anauroch’s sands drifting past a thousand feet below.

  “I will be here,” he called, taking one hand off the haik to swat at the vulture pecking at his fingers. “Just sprinkle the sand and be gone. By the time this is sorted out, you and Galaeron will be far away.”

  Aris did not withdraw. “You are certain Ruha will not suffer for this?”

  “Did she not say she wished to help?”

  Aris nodded. “Yes, but—”

  “Then let her help. No harm will come to the witch—I am not that lucky—and you know I cannot lie.” Malik struggled to hold his tongue but was compelled by Mystra’s curse to add, “Except by my silence, and when have you ever known me to hold my tongue for more than two minutes?”

  Aris considered this, then said, “Only when you are sleeping.” He tested the haik to make certain it was securely wedged in place, then waved. “Fare you well, my friend … and thank you.”

  Before Malik could reply, the battling vultures obscured his view, and Aris was gone by the time he could beat them aside again. He spent the next few minutes fighting off birds and cursing all creatures with feathers as the wind slammed him into the enclave’s rocky exterior time and again. Though his body ached from a hundred horrible bruises and his cramped muscles burned like someone had pushed hot pokers into them, Malik did not worry that his strength would fail him. As the Seraph of Lies, he had been gifted with the ability to suffer any amount of pain and still perform his duties to Cyric, and while helping Aris and Galaeron escape the city did not necessarily serve the One, the second part of his plan most assuredly did.

  When he judged he had allowed the giant sufficient time to leave the trade warrens and be on his way to the Cave Gate, Malik began to scream for help.

  “Save me! Help!”

  After a few minutes of screaming, someone finally poked her head out of the hole. She had long sable hair, dark sultry eyes, and, above the veil that covered the lower part of her face, a dusky complexion. The face was the last one he had hoped to see.

  “So there you are,” Ruha said. She squatted above the teeth where her haik was caught, scared the vultures off, and reached down to grab the cloth. “And with my haik, no less.”

  “Meddling witch!” Malik said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you, of course. And now that we are alone, I think the time has come for us to take our leave of this flying city.”

  Still holding onto the haik, she held her free palm in front of her face and blew on it lightly, then began the incantation of one of her Bedine nature spells.

  “Stop!” Malik began to climb the haik hand over hand. “Shrew! Harpy!”

  Ruha finished her spell, then wrapped her hand into the haik and looked down, a smile in her dark eyes. “Is that how you talk to the one who holds your life in her hand?”

  “Who will feed my poor Kelda?” Malik cried. He was halfway up the haik, almost within striking range. “I am going nowhere with you!”

  “You prefer to fall?” Ruha twisted around, reaching back to collect something behind her. “Because that is your only choice.”

  “Not my only choice.” Malik wrapped a hand into the haik, then reached under his aba and grabbed the hilt of his jambiya. “I have another I like much better.”

  Pulling her kuerabiche shoulder bag around with her, Ruha spun around to face him, exposing her throat just as he had hoped, and started to reach for her own dagger—then she fell backward as a swarthy Shadovar hand caught the strap of her kuerabiche and jerked her away from the edge.

  Malik shoved his jambiya back in its sheath and began to scream. “Help! I am down here!”

  Hadrhune’s amber eyes peered over the edge. “I know where you are, Malik.”

  The Shadovar whispered some barely audible shadow spell, then Malik floated up through the hole into the goodshouse that had been serving as Aris’s workshop. The place was crowded with Shadovar warriors but still looked as though a troop of bugbears had crashed through it. Statues lay toppled on their sides, some—mostly half-finished pieces that had little value anyway—shattered or irretrievably broken. The walls were marked with streaks of soot and pocked with hollows the size of a giant’s head, and a broad smear of Aris’s blood ran along the wall, pointing out the huge hole through which Malik had just been retrieved.

  After taking all this in, Hadrhune turned to Ruha. “Did I not warn you what would happen if you violated our guest guard?”

  Eyes w
idening, Ruha looked around the workshop and shook her head. “This is not my doing.”

  “Do not lie to me, Harper. With my own ears, I heard you give Malik the choice between death and leaving in your custody. That is violation enough.” Hadrhune looked to Malik. “Where is the giant?”

  Biting his tongue lest he speak and give himself away, Malik simply turned and looked out the big hole where he had been dangling.

  “I see.” Hadrhune flicked a hand in Ruha’s direction, and suddenly she was swaddled in black shadow web. “You will be executed as soon as the Most High pronounces your sentence. What do you wish done with your property?”

  “Nothing. I killed no one, and he knows it.” Ruha glared at Malik, and in her stare he felt the unspoken threat to reveal Galaeron’s escape plans. “Ask him. He has no choice but to tell the truth.”

  Hadrhune considered this for a moment, then nodded. “A reasonable request.” He turned to Malik. “Did she kill Aris?”

  “I have no wish to see her executed,” Malik said.

  “You don’t?” This from Ruha and Hadrhune both.

  “Not at all. It will be enough to banish her from the city.”

  Hadrhune frowned. “I didn’t know Cyric-worshipers were so merciful.”

  “Oh, we are not,” Malik said, allowing a half-smile to crease his lips, “but I can think of no greater torture for Ruha than to know I am living like a king in Shade Enclave while she is sucking the dew out of sand down in Anauroch.”

  “That is not how justice works in Shade Enclave,” Hadrhune said. “Tell me if she killed Aris or not.”

  Malik shook his head—truthfully.

  “If I banish her, Aris’s life will be your responsibility,” Hadrhune warned. “Tell me now, or the weight of her crime will rest on your head.”

  “On my head?”

  This was something Malik had not planned on. He glanced at Ruha and found her smirking at his predicament—that he had to either exonerate her or be executed for the crime he had accused her of. He shook his head in despair.