The yak-woman’s eyes opened wide at the invitation, and she ducked her head down. A long yak tongue emerged from between the creature’s stumpy yellow teeth and licked wetly across the rat’s face.
Piergeiron recoiled. The woman’s head was no mask. She was a Zakharan yak-woman, wearing only a small black mask as her costume. She was a real beast.
The Open Lord staggered away from her, gracelessly breaking contact. He glanced dizzily around; nearly half the creatures in this horrific zoo wore small eye masks. Perhaps they, too, were real. Perhaps every last fang, whisker, and horn in the place belonged to real gnolls and wyverns, drakes and sphinxes. Perhaps the staggering, stumbling Open Lord had stepped through the wrong doorway, and this was an infernal and endless dance through the Abyss.
He drifted as if drunk. The dance churned around him. The deadly whirlpool of monsters flung him one way, then another, shouldering him up and dragging him down….
And then, Eidola’s hand found his.
“It’s you,” said the rat-headed paladin.
“At last,” came the sharp reply from the lizard-headed woman. “What’s wrong with you? Are you drunk?”
Piergeiron shook his head, and his whiskers rattled against boar’s teeth. “I’m just flustered. That business with the maidservant and all, and now this dance….”
“Shake it off,” Eidola responded. “The maidservant situation was a huge bungle, and it’s over. We’ve got to move ahead. We’ve got to be ready for midnight.”
“Yes,” Piergeiron said, still stumbling. “I’ll try, but even being near you flusters me.”
“Let’s get out of this,” she suggested. She led him in the dance toward one corner. “The others are waiting.”
Piergeiron laughed once, vaguely, searching for some meaning in her words. His misgivings deepened.
Eidola’s strong hand pulled him past a gaggle of geese and a line of appraising canines, through a pillared arch, and to a dark cluster of masked creatures.
A sheep turned toward them as they joined the group. “It’s about time you two arrived. You’d think you wanted to dance the night away and leave the real danger to the rest of us.”
“Shut up. We’re here. What news?” snapped the lizard-headed Eidola.
“Nothing new,” said the sheep. “The imposter disappeared before the bodyguards could do anything about it. Piergeiron’s acting as if nothing’s happened, and the ceremony proceeds apace.”
“Good,” said the lizard. Only then did Piergeiron notice the odd, Calishite burr in her voice.
This was not his bride. This was the leader of a group of conspirators.
Still holding Piergeiron’s hand, the woman pushed past the sheep. In one insistent motion, she drew Piergeiron after her and shaped the other six into a circle. She directed the Open Lord into the center of the ring and said, “Listen, now.” To the rat, she commanded harshly, “Report.”
The others leaned toward the sewer rat and turned ears of wire mesh and papier-mâché his way.
He muttered, “Well, there isn’t much.”
“If there isn’t much, tell it fast,” the woman snapped. “You’re wasting time.”
He coughed. Masquerading as a noisome rat was difficult enough for the paladin. Doing so when he knew the present company thought him to be someone else was nearly intolerable. But doing all these things and lying atop it all would be too much.
Still, this was a conspiracy. Perhaps he could learn what they were up to by playing along. He would not lie. He would only stall….
“Everything’s in place,” he said evasively.
The woman’s scowl was apparent in her voice. “It’s been in place for a tenday, now. Surely you have more than that.”
Piergeiron ventured, “The Open Lord suspects something.”
“Damn,” said the sheep. “I knew it.”
“How much does he suspect,” the lizard pressed.
“He knows there is a conspiracy.”
“Damn, damn,” the sheep said. “The whole thing.”
“Shut up,” the woman advised. “Not the whole thing. Not even the beginning. Of course he knows that much. After the whole fiasco with the maidservant, even the Thickskull could figure out that Eidola was in danger. But what does he know about us, about our plot? What specifics?”
“What specifics?” asked Piergeiron hopefully.
“Who is conspiring. Does he know who, and what the plan is?”
“Who?” Piergeiron replied, knowing he was against the wall.
“Us, you idiot,” snapped the sheep.
“Well, he suspects you, for one,” Piergeiron responded to the sheep. “He is planning to tell the guards to keep an eye on you.”
“Damn, damn, damn!” growled the sheep.
“That’s it, then,” the woman said. “Terr, you’re compromised. Check your head at the door and get out of Waterdeep before dawn.”
“There’s more,” Piergeiron ventured, trying to keep the group together. He hoped to steer the conspirators toward a smaller, less-public place, where he could corner them and force them to remove their masks. “But not here. There are too many listening ears….”
“Like these?” the sheep asked, dragging a smallish tiger into the circle. “I thought he’d been listening.” He yanked off the head mask to reveal Noph of the family Nesher. The thin nobleman struggled uselessly in the rogue’s implacable grip. “Ah, a rich-boy fink. I’ll take him with me, slip a knife between his ribs, and dump him in the sewer.”
In a rush of hand-stitched fur and gray robe, Piergeiron flung off his costume and was Open Lord once more. Mended peace strings snapped as he drew the long sword. The knight rose to his full, impressive stature and brandished Halcyon threateningly overhead.
“Release young Noph and drop to your knees!” the Open Lord commanded.
The sheep flung the lad into the belly of Piergeiron and darted for the door.
Piergeiron caught Noph in his free arm and meanwhile swung Halcyon down to block the man’s path. The sheep did not stop; nor did the blade. Where they met, sword cleaved through muscle and gut to bone.
In the sudden spray of gore, Piergeiron drew back.
The lizard woman was already gone, as were four of her comrades. Noph flung a hand out to snag the fleeting robe of the last. His fingers caught fabric, not the gray robe but the hem of a red shawl beneath. The conspirator ripped free, unstoppable, and in a single step disappeared among the boiling crowd. Noph suddenly was released from the paladin’s grasp. He staggered, falling to his knees and tightly clutching the clue in his hand.
Piergeiron knelt beside the slain man, and both were shadowed beneath Madieron, who had appeared out of nowhere. The pixie held back a gathering crowd.
Piergeiron pulled the sheep’s head mask from the dead man. He gazed down at a white, hair-lipped visage with blond curls and a hawkish nose.
“Terrance Decamber—undersecretary to the Master Mariner’s Guild,” said Piergeiron heavily.
Chapter 3
A Meeting with the Lads
With shapeshifters at large in the castle and nobles and guildmasters plotting on all sides, Piergeiron could confide in very few. Eidola reduced the possible ranks even further. She routinely balked at Piergeiron’s overprotectiveness, and even now she would certainly forbid him to enlist the aid of others.
But enlist he would. She did not need to know of her defenders until she needed their defense—which might be soon enough.
First, of course, was the inimitable Blackstaff. Khelben was no shapeshifting imposter; the Lord Mage of Waterdeep had a way of dispensing with imitators. He had already been aiding in security; his cursory scans at the gates had turned up plenty of weapons and minor magics. Now Khelben sought much greater and subtler sorceries, the sorts of elaborate wards that usually go undetected. Such protections might hide a shapechanger, or a whole platoon of them. The Lord Mage was even now combing the crowd of guests, servants, and guards.
Next
came Madieron Sunderstone. Most shapeshifters could not imitate creatures his size. Even to try, they would have to overcome the blond-haired man-mountain—no small feat. Besides, the man’s combination of dull wits and deep wisdom would defy duplication. Piergeiron was confident that the Madieron who had greeted him in his apartments this morning was the same man who stood by him now—and would stay at his side until he met Eidola at the altar.
Then, there was Captain Rulathon, Piergeiron’s second-in-command of the city watch. This black mustachioed warrior was no imitation, either, for Khelben himself had teleported him in for the briefing. His expertise at subtle reconnaissance was matched only by his knowledge of the folk of Waterdeep. Few impostors could sneak past him.
And, last—Noph Nesher. No shapeshifter would have thought to take his form, and the noble youth had already proved his worth. He had eavesdropped on various conspirators and had gathered the first hard evidence—a bit of fabric torn from one of them.
Piergeiron, Madieron, Rulathon, and Noph met in a small vestibule off the palace kitchens. It was just the sort of unfinished and unwelcoming space that often hatched conspiracies, whispered plans that would shake continents.
Rulathon listened closely, his black hair flaring wildly about his intent face. Noph tried to look equally focused, though a thin film of sweat glistened on his white brow. Madieron’s expression was ponderous and a bit vacant amid the dark and rough-hewn rafters.
The Open Lord recounted what he had learned from the conspirators. “There is treason in it. It is no simple matter of impersonating a maid or whispers in the corners. It is a kidnapping plot, or assassination, or some such. And as yet, I still do not know who precisely is behind it all. At best, the shapeshifters are chaotic creatures working on their own, and Decamber was acting outside the orders of the mariners. At worst, these conspiracies might reach deep into the ranks of Waterdeep’s nobles and guilds.”
“The mariners have plenty of reasons to block an overland trade route,” Captain Rulathon noted grimly.
“Yes,” agreed Piergeiron, “but so would many other folk. Whoever is behind it all, I am convinced that the trade route to Kara-Tur is key.”
“I came to the same conclusion,” Noph interrupted. The other three turned their attention on him, as he smiled sheepishly. “It’s where the money leads. Somebody wants to prevent the signing of the pact—prevent it or control it. I personally suspect the Master Mariners above all others.”
Piergeiron regarded the youth keenly. “Even if there weren’t shapeshifters running amok,” he said, “I would have had to be very selective in whom I put my trust. Out of all Waterdeep, I have selected you three, and Khelben.”
“But any of us could be…” Noph began. He broke off with the shaking of Captain Rulathon’s head.
“Be assured we are not, son,” said the watchcaptain. “Be assured and be glad. Our forms may not have been stolen from us yet, but watch out! I imagine that before the night is through, we will be running into ourselves walking down the hall, or fighting ourselves on some stair somewhere.”
Noph swallowed loudly, simultaneously relieved and dismayed.
Piergeiron picked up the thread of the discussion. “I need each of you, my ears and eyes where I cannot be. Rulathon, first and foremost, you must guard my bride and see that no harm comes to her. Noph, you must watch the guests for telltale signs of treason. Madieron, of course, will be watching me. Khelben is already at work, scanning the crowd. All of you have been doing these things. Now I make your commissions official.”
The Open Lord paused. A wave of exhaustion, unexpected, swept over him. “Friends, this is a maze from which Eidola and I cannot escape alone. With plots upon plots upon plots, perhaps we will not survive, even with your aid.”
“So you will still marry Eidola tonight?” Captain Rulathon asked.
“I will,” Piergeiron replied, resolute. “Whatever these plots, they are wrapped up in the wedding and in this trade route. The conspirators’ work would already be done if I canceled the ceremony now.”
“I imagine your bride is of like mind,” said the captain. He turned. “Perhaps I should make certain of it.” Bowing once in farewell, he headed away, toward Eidola’s chambers. “I go to watch.”
“Good,” Piergeiron said. His very serious gaze spoke a silent thanks to the tall warrior.
Then Piergeiron turned those same eyes—those that had gazed into the abyss of Undermountain and across at the glorious panoply of Waterdeep—upon Noph. “Rulathon’s work is begun—and Madieron’s and Khelben’s, also. I count on yours, too. If you help Eidola and me win our way out of these traps, the whole of Waterdeep will owe you a debt of gratitude.”
The lad nodded seriously. In respectful imitation of Rulathon, he said, “I go to watch.” Noph turned and slipped away down the hall, toward the sounds of dancing.
“Your autographs here, Gentles,” said the Open Lord of Waterdeep.
He leaned over his large mahogany desk and placed the much-signed trade pact before the last holdout delegates: the Boarskyrs.
The two red-faced and burly brothers, Becil and Bullard, had inherited title and lands from a great-great-great-great-grandfather Boarskyr—the man who’d built the first Boarskyr bridge. Each succeeding generation that descended from this extraordinary man, though, had lost another “great.” Becil and Bullard were the inevitable result. They could not be truthfully called good, let alone great.
The brothers had not inherited their ancestor’s enterprising spirit or even his common sense. Uneducated and mired in penury, Becil and Bullard could use the opportunity and money the trade route would bring them. Unfortunately, they liked their backward backwater and wanted to keep it as it was. Perhaps it was the only place they truly fit in.
Here, in Piergeiron’s cherry wood-paneled study, the two looked and smelled as out of place and nervous as sheepdogs caught in the slaughter chute.
Their mood was not helped by Madieron’s looming presence and his unscheduled groans of disapproval.
“Look here, Your Fecundity, Laird Pallid,” began Becil, the slightly redder, burlier, and more verbal of the brothers.
“Lord Paladinson will suffice,” corrected the Open Lord gently.
“Look here, Laird Pallidson,” Becil continued, “we’ve got a histrionical and advantageous bridge—that’s sure. You’ve got a compounded interest in it—that’s sure, too. And, if it comes to it, Your Feckless Personage is asked to cross our bridge whensoever that you as an individuality would like to do so, as would make us indeed felicitatiously happy. Really.”
“Thank you very much.”
Bullard interrupted, “How about I have a look at your sword?”
“How about you let us finish our business first?” Piergeiron replied.
“But as to Your Immensity going off and inviting the rest of the world to circumnavigate our bridge,” Becil continued obliviously, “well, now that’s a pickle. And, you know, even an Enormous Egregiousness like yourself can make a pickle from a cucumber but not a cucumber from a pickle, apples and peach pits marching to a different kettle of fish altogether, if you follow my thinking.”
“I do not.”
Bullard scooted his chair to one side of Piergeiron’s desk, and then pretended to be intensely interested in a corner of the ceiling. His feverish eyes slipped for a moment down to Piergeiron’s long sword, and his fingers twiddled in anticipation.
Madieron’s own fingers did a little twiddling.
“Well, for one thing,” Becil prattled on, “it’s not so great a bridge, Your Obesity. I’d say even with you and that pony of yours—Deadheart, is it?—
“Dreadnought.”
“—Deadweight, right, thanking Your Monstrosity, well, that much weighty preponderance might make the whole thing go over into the river. Then we’d not have our hysterical and advantageous bridge and you’d not have your compounded interest, neither. You see, my brother Bullard was the archipelago of the current edifice, a
nd just because he’s got piles doesn’t mean he knows about pilings….”
“I’d hold my tongue, Becil—” Bullard advised as he shifted his chair around beside Piergeiron.
“I’m sure our hieratic bridge would break under Your Ponderous Propensity and your pony, Dreadlocks, not to mention your bodyguard Matterhorn—”
Madieron growled, splitting his disapproval equally between the brothers.
Into the tense silence that followed this vocalization, Piergeiron ventured, “The agreement allows for a whole new bridge, one you two wouldn’t need to build yourselves. And the bridge would have a toll, to enrich your family into perpetuity.” Piergeiron thought but didn’t add that they could and should use that toll for educating future Boarskyrs.
“But like we extrapolated,” Becil continued, “we could care less about the future. We could care more about the present.”
“Once you go changing the present, all you’ve got left is the future,” Bullard noted, nodding enthusiastically. “By the way, how about I get a look at your sword?”
Madieron folded his arms over his chest and let out an unappreciative hiss.
“No,” Piergeiron reiterated. He turned to Becil. “You said you would sign.”
“We said we’d not sign,” Becil corrected, “until you’d been nuptualized to Eidola of Neverwinter—”
“—our kin.”
“—and with kin of ours ruling Waterdeep—through the allspices of Yours Truly (no, I mean Yours Truly as in Yours Truly, not Mine Truly)—we know you will promulgate a present-tense orientational direction for our little village, Great High Commissary.”
If ever the mouse held the elephant at bay, thought Piergeiron….
He said with a bit more exasperation than he had intended, “But I am marrying her!”
“You’re not married yet,” Becil pointed out.
Madieron released a moan that sounded as though it came from a tree on the brink of toppling.
Piergeiron felt a sudden insistent tugging at his swordbelt.
“Peace strings!” Bullard proclaimed angrily where he yanked on the hilt of Halcyon. He was about to brace a foot on Piergeiron’s back, but Madieron’s own foot removed the man as though he were a dog and Halcyon an unappreciative leg.
Forgotten Realms - [Double Diamond Triangle Saga 01] - The Abduction Page 3
