by Victor Milán
“I hope so as well. But why do citizens and constables battle blue-and-bronzes in the streets?”
“An hour before dawn, even as the last of the murderous youths and maidens were being subdued, darklings poured forth from the sewers in unimaginable profusion and began to slay. The civic guard got orders not to fight them. Many deserted; others tried to disarm citizens and constabulary and became embroiled in the fighting you saw. A number are fortified up with the usurper Hardisty. Most have barricaded themselves in their barracks and wait to see which way fortune’s winds blow.”
He shook his head, like an old lion who has found temporary shelter from a pack of hounds who have harried him near death. “The hinges are blasted off the gates of all the hells. Earl Ravenak’s swine rampage against nonhumans and foreigners. Artisans battle the syndics of their very guilds. The supposed forces of order fight one another. The scions of Zazesspur’s finest families are turned to monsters by some means none can divine, have slaughtered the leaders of our city and been slaughtered in their turn. And all must be overthrown if the darklings are not stopped.”
He raised his head as if he had a tombstone yoked to his neck and looked at Zaranda. “It seems we are to know the Ten Black Days of Eleint again, all compressed into a single day.”
She went to the stool, sat down, and began to massage her temples. “So,” she said. “The evil ran deeper than I imagined … than I could have imagined.” She looked up at the duke. “What do you want of me?”
“I have myself just come from fighting the darklings. We are sorely pressed. The issue—the very survival of Zazesspur—remains in the gravest doubt.”
“You want my help.”
“I beseech your help, Countess Morninggold. Though I fear that all the help you can possibly provide might not suffice to stem the evil tide.”
She spread her hands. “I’d love to oblige, Your Grace, but I have an appointment to be spread out on a giant wheel and have all my bones broken in a few hours.”
Hembreon moaned. “You are pardoned. Your sentence of death is overturned and rendered null. We were deceived.”
“Has the council voted to nullify my sentence? You said yourself that most were unaccounted for.”
With surprising alacrity the duke whipped up his sword. “Whoever tries to gainsay me, I will strike down with my own hand. I warrant your life with my own. This I swear on my honor.”
“Very well.” Zaranda nodded briskly. Turning to the table, she took up pen and parchment. “Send a patrol to convey this message beneath a flag of truce to my friends. Needless to say, you must also alert such forces as remain loyal to the council that we’re on the same side now.”
The duke was too soul-weary to take umbrage at being ordered about like a scullery whelp by his erstwhile prisoner. “It shall be done.”
“It’ll take time for our reinforcements to arrive. See if you can scare me up some spellbooks. I’ll memorize such spells as I can while we wait.”
“You will not join the fight at once?”
“You flatter me, Your Grace. Would my single blade make that much difference against numberless hordes of darklings? Especially since I’m without my magic sword?” She shook her head. “As it is, I don’t know what good my few paltry spells might do, either. But I’ll seize any advantage I can with both hands.”
The duke sighed, rose heavily. “I had hoped—” His voice trailed away, and he blinked back tears.
Zaranda looked up from her writing. “Out with it.”
“My daughter … I had hoped—if there is any hope—that you might rescue her.”
“What if she doesn’t want to be rescued?” The look of agony that washed over the old man’s features brought her instant shame.
“Don’t worry, Your Grace,” she said quickly. “The first item on my agenda is breaking into the Palace of Misrule over there and cutting King Faneuil the First and Last’s black heart right out of his chest.”
She finished writing, signed the parchment with a flourish, and held it out to him. “After my friends get here.”
A knock at the door roused her from a surprisingly deep sleep—surprising in that she had simply lain down to rest her eyes while waiting, and was not plagued by nightmares. Perhaps she was too tired to dream. Or perhaps the owner of that dry and loathly Voice had more pressing claims on its attention.
She woke with a fearful start: they’ve come to take me and break me! By the time she remembered that those festivities had been called on account of reign—the reign of evil, to be exact—the door had opened and into the city hall clerk’s office, which she had commandeered after her release, came Nyadnar.
“It speaks well for your presence of mind that you can sleep under these circumstances,” the sorceress said.
“What surprises me is that I could sleep last night at all,” Zaranda said, rising from the makeshift cot. “What can I do for you?”
Day turned the pallor of Nyadnar’s features marmoreal, giving her the weird, poignant beauty of an ancient statue brought to life. She wore her customary robe of midnight-blue velvet, and over it a gray cloak to shield her from the sporadic drizzle. From beneath the cloak she produced a bundle of books and age-yellowed papers, bound up by a purple ribbon. These she laid on the table.
“My early spellbooks,” the enchantress said. “Any spells known to you, you will find therein.”
Zaranda stared at the bundle as if it might at any moment transform itself into a raging dragon. “The world must be spinning seriously out of balance,” she said, “for you to take such measures on my behalf.”
“Don’t leap to conclusions; that displays a lack of mental rigor,” Nyadnar said. “It might be necessary that you fail spectacularly.”
“Then I’ll have to try my best to disappoint you,” Zaranda said with a she-wolf grin. “In the meantime, though, I thank you.”
The sun was setting when another knock roused Zaranda from her studies. “What is it?” she called, knuckling sand-blasted eyes.
A policeman opened the door. “His Grace the duke sends his regards, milady. He bids me tell you your friends approach.”
“Well met, Zaranda Star!” called Farlorn the Handsome, waving jauntily from the back of his dapple-gray mare. “Your beauty is most resplendent, all things considered.”
Mounted on his dark bay, Stillhawk met her eye and nodded greeting.
It took all her strength to keep her knees from buckling right there on the city hall steps. The pressure of tears unshed stung her eyes.
The two men swung down from their horses and walked up to her. When Zaranda made no move to embrace them, the half-elf cocked an eyebrow inquisitively.
“Where are the others?” she asked quietly. “Where are Shield, and Chen? Where’s Goldie?”
The sky was gray as a gull’s back, save near the horizon where fire held sway. The air was thick with the smells of death and burning and decay. The darklings stank like dead things even when alive, if alive they were. Even if Zazesspur survived, it would take time to eradicate their stench.
“I thought you’d have heard,” said Farlorn. “The beast betrayed you to the baron’s men; we clapped him in irons and have kept him there ever since. The girl has been in a most powerful sulk since you vanished. She refused to accompany us today.”
Have I done wrong? Stillhawk signed.
Zaranda touched his arm. “If so, not intentionally. I suspected Shield for a time myself. But I feel as if a wrong has been done.”
Farlorn tut-tutted and shook his head. “Ah, Zaranda. Once again, you’re letting the softness of your heart weaken that hard head of yours—”
“Hey! Zaranda! Randi!”
Zaranda turned. Trotting across the plaza from the south came Goldie, bearing Chenowyn on her back.
At their side loped Shield of Innocence.
“You’re sure this is the way into the palace?” Zaranda asked.
Farlorn’s beautiful features assumed a long-suffering look by torch
light. “I didn’t spend our previous sojourn in the city cutting out paper dolls. Naturally the palace attracted my interest, as a monument to elephantine bad taste if for no other reason. I made inquiry, and explored some on my own. That’s one nice thing about trying to infiltrate buildings built less than an eon ago; it’s a lot easier to buy a workman a jack of good ale at a tavern than it is to summon up his shade.”
Zaranda’s party was recapitulating Simonne’s sewer-crawl of the night before, which had precipitated today’s crisis. Zaranda’s group, while smaller, was much more seasoned. Farlorn led the way with a bull’s-eye lantern in one hand and his rapier in the other, eschewing any armor but the leather jerkin he wore over a white blouse with lace at throat and cuffs. Beside him walked Stillhawk with an arrow nocked to his elvish longbow and long sword belted at his hip; as was his custom, he too wore no armor, though his heavy leather tunic gave some protection.
Next came Zaranda, armed with a splendid if nonmagical long sword from Hembreon’s armory and a long-bladed dagger with a knuckle bow for parrying. Unless mounted, she hated a shield’s encumbrance; her left hand held a torch. Her only armor was a steel cuirass. Chen followed, unarmored in loose blouse and trousers, with a dagger thrust through her belt, primarily for effect. She refused to be left behind, and given her service in springing the great orog, Zaranda didn’t argue.
Shield of Innocence brought up the rear. The orog was magnificent and fearful in armor which, like the scimitars in his taloned hands, he had crafted himself under the guidance of Torm, whose gauntlet was inlaid in gold in the center of his breastplate. He wore a helmet close-molded to his head with cheekpiece flanges that left his pointed ears clear to facilitate hearing, and steel greaves and vambraces, all polished to a mirror shine. His expression was serene. If his imprisonment had engendered resentment in his mighty breast, it didn’t show on his face.
The tunnel running under the palace was high enough that all save Shield could walk without stooping. The smell was no less appalling for the comparatively short time the sewer had been in use, but Zaranda had endured worse. None of the others wasted breath on it either. Chen, who was not normally slow to speak up if things were not to her liking, had always been indifferent to smells, most notably her own, in the days before Zaranda brought her around on the hygiene issue. Farlorn, most aesthetically sensitive of the lot, displayed the loftiness of his contempt by not deigning to complain.
The tunnel began to branch to serve the various parts of the vast structure. Zazesspur, with its wealth of innovative and assiduous artisans, had enjoyed running water and indoor plumbing longer even than most great cities of Faerûn; it was a simple enough technic, involving no magic, unless one were Calishite and simply had to have one’s needs served by a bowl of water summoning. The half-elf led them left, right, left again down passages that diminished at every fork, so that even Chen, shortest of the group, had to double over, and Shield had to waddle in a painful-looking squat. His placid look never wavered.
“ ’Ware upward,” Farlorn called back over his shoulder. “Anything falling from above is unlikely to be the manna of the gods!”
“Thanks so much for reminding us,” Zaranda said in a low voice. Farlorn laughed musically. “And could you please be quiet? If Hardisty hears voices floating up out of his commode he’s not going to think it’s an angelic chorus come to sing his praises.”
The half-elf grinned at her and, maddeningly, laughed aloud. His olive cheeks were flushed, eyes fever-bright. From experience, Zaranda knew that when the manic mood came upon him there was no containing him. She likewise knew that, while in such an exalted state he might take risks that seemed insane, he had never brought disaster on himself or his comrades. Yet.
Just when it seemed Zaranda’s thigh muscles were going to split straight across, Stillhawk and Farlorn straightened. Zaranda came up alongside them and found a round passage rising straight up.
“What’s this,” she asked, “a giant’s oubliette?”
Farlorn shone the beam of his bull’s-eye over metal rungs running up the tube’s side to a circular wooden hatch ten feet up. “An access passage, so that workmen can enter the sewers in case of blockage.”
Zaranda drew in a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips. “Once we’re up, there’ll be no turning back.”
She turned and embraced the others in turn. The rest exchanged handshakes and hugs. This might be the last chance to say good-bye.
Stillhawk came to Shield of Innocence, paused, stuck out his hand. The great orc gripped him firmly, forearm to forearm. Then the orog turned to Farlorn.
The half-elf sneered and turned away.
Zaranda looked at him, then up at the hatch. “Locked?”
“Of course. Did you think this would be easy?”
“I thought it would be harder already.” She shut her eyes and concentrated. It was difficult to summon the dweomer; fatigue dragged her down with leaden fingers. Get through this and you can rest all you want, she told herself. One way or another.
She spoke the spell. The squeal of metal on metal sounded through the thick wooden disk as a bolt withdrew. Farlorn sheathed his rapier, swarmed up the rungs like a squirrel, and tested the hatch.
He spat a curse in Elven. “Still locked!”
The words struck Zaranda like a fist in the belly. The breath chuffed out of her, and she bent over as if in physical pain, resting hands on thighs. She had had but the one knock spell memorized. “Farlorn, it’s not like you to do so slipshod a job of scouting.”
“No one else did any kind of scouting at all.”
“That’s fair enough,” Zaranda said. She straightened and scrutinized the disk. Its blank, rough wood suggested nothing.
“I can try to open it,” Chen offered.
“You haven’t learned the knock spell,” Zaranda reminded her.
“Maybe I can use my other powers.”
“No. They’re too unpredictable. And I’ve a feeling there are things within the palace for whom such a concentration of dweomer would be like tocsins ringing. I’m uneasy enough about the puny little spell I cast.”
“The great Zaranda Star, admitting defeat?” said Farlorn. “I don’t believe it.”
“Don’t,” Zaranda said. “Yet. Still—we go in here, or try to batter down the front door.”
“Let me,” Shield of Innocence said. He strode toward the ladder. Farlorn flowed down like a cat, jumped clear so as not to let the orog near him. Sheathing swords across his back, Shield climbed up. He tested the disk with his hand, then braced his feet on the rungs, laid the side of his head and his shoulder to the wood, and heaved.
Veins bulged from forehead and great corded neck. His spine creaked loudly. Wood groaned like a soul in torment, and with a twang and a crash the hatch popped free.
“So much for stealth,” Chenowyn said.
“We had few choices,” Zaranda said, “and now must play out the game we chose. Up, now, and quickly.”
The orog had already disappeared through the hole. Yellow lamplight streamed down into the sewer. Farlorn swarmed up, then Stillhawk with bow slung over his shoulder. Zaranda let Chen go next, keeping long sword ready, then followed
She found herself in an octagonal chamber of about the same dimensions as Hardisty’s receiving room on the topmost floor. Four shadowed passageways led out of the chamber. A pair of thick columns flanked each entrance about six feet in. Each pillar was fitted with a black-iron sconce in which a torch flared.
The hatch was three feet across and six inches thick. Shield picked it up as if it were a serving tray and fitted it back into the hole. Two heavy brass slide-latches had secured it. One was neatly opened, the other a twisted ruin.
“Put them back in place,” Zaranda said. “We’ll just have to hope nobody chancing by gives them too close a look.”
The orog did as he was bid.
Which way? signed Stillhawk.
“This way lies the rear of the palace,” said Farlo
rn, indicating a corridor.
“As good a way as any,” Zaranda said, and led the group that way.
There came a rumble, a friction squeal, and a thunderclap crash. Zaranda dropped to her knees, ears ringing. She snapped her head around.
A five-foot-thick column of stone had dropped from the ceiling to seal the hatch.
“Trapped!” she cried. “Farlorn, you’ve led us into a thieves’ foyer!” In the Empires of the Sands it was customary for dwellings of pretense to be built so as to offer prospective thieves a means of ingress—not too easy, just enough to challenge the skills of a self-respecting rogue. The covert entrances led not to treasures but to traps, of varying degrees of lethality.
This one was obviously designed to capture, not kill. Feeling the dull throb of failure beginning in her temples, Zaranda gathered herself to dash for the corridor.
“Correct, Countess Morninggold,” a familiar voice said cheerily. “But not just any thieves’ foyer.”
In the entryway before her appeared Armenides, white-robed and smiling. Armed men thronged the passage behind him. At the same time blue-and-bronzes stepped out from behind the pillars, leveling crossbows at the group.
Zaranda stopped. She flicked a tiny pellet at the false Ao priest, murmuring height and range, and flung herself backward to escape the fireball’s blast.
The pellet struck the archpriest’s sternum and bounced. It fell to the floor by his sandaled feet. He knelt, picked it up, sniffed it.
“Bat dung and sulfur.” He smiled. “Why, Countess, I do believe you’ve just tried to incinerate me.” He laughed delightedly. “Did you not think other walls than the dungeon’s might be imbued with the god bones of Tantras?”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Now I’ll trouble you to put down your weapons,” Armenides said.
Someone walked past her. She opened her eyes to see the half-elf approaching Armenides. She scrambled to her feet. “Farlorn—no!”
The bard walked between two crossbowmen, turned, and smiled. “Your concern is touching, Zaranda, my love. But quite misplaced. I have nothing to fear from my friends.”
