As Bullard tumbled to the floor, he said, with no sign of rancor. “Until the Brothers Boarskyr see gold on your finger, you won’t be seeing their Xs on your paper.”
“A lot can happen between here and the altar—the viscerals of life in the big city,” Becil said. “No ring, no sign.”
“How about I have a look at that sword—”
“No!” shouted Piergeiron and Madieron in chorus.
Becil slapped his brother’s hand away, whereupon the unflappable Bullard flapped. “Hands off, Im-Becil.”
“Im-Becil,” murmured Madieron, and he chuckled to himself. “I get it. Im-Becil.”
“Shut up, Dullard!”
“Im-Becil and Dullard,” Madieron repeated, chortling.
As the blond giant laughed and the Boarskyr Brothers engaged in a spirited slap-fight, Piergeiron thought once again about building a five-mile loop around Boarskyr Bridge and letting the town wither to nothing in the shadow of the great caravan way. Still, Grandfather Boarskyr had built in the best spot for fifty miles up or down the river. Circumventing it would be more costly, more time consuming, and more galling than even these negotiations.
The Open Lord’s musings were interrupted by Bullard, who was seated and therefore had won the fight. “After ail, Laird Pallidson, we didn’t become Boarskyrs by being idiots.”
Piergeiron couldn’t help himself. “You became idiots by being Boarskyrs.”
Red-cheeked, Becil struggled up from the floor. He regarded his brother darkly. “Pinky flicker.”
“How about I have a look at that sword?”
“Dullard, ha ha,” Madieron said, struggling to squelch his giggles. “Ha ha.”
When Eidola emerged from her latest session beneath the sharp-nailed fingers of hairdressers and face powderers, Captain Rulathon was waiting. He merged more deeply with the shadows of the hallway. His always-intent face was especially grave.
The watchcaptain was not blind to Eidola’s beauty. Her gown was exquisite, her makeup flawless. The fortress of hair, flowers, lace, and pins atop her head was a construct worthy of any siege engineer. The gem that hung from a silver chain round her slender throat glowed and sparkled in the candlelight.
Yes, she is beautiful, Rulathon thought, but artificially so. She is cold calculation instead of warm wildflowers. Every face she stares into is a mirror. When she seems to gaze lovingly into Piergeiron’s eyes, she admires only her own reflection.
Beside and behind Eidola came a flock of chattering manicurists and hairdressers—the attendants who had worked the magic over her. They were each garbed in the ceremonial satins and laces that marked them as the retinue of the bride, though the ivory shade of their dresses showed that they lacked her white virtue. The women pranced and laughed excitedly as they moved along.
In a shimmering rush, they were past. Rulathon waited a breath before he started out from the recess. A frisson of intuition ran up his spine, and he drew back. A last attendant came scuttling up behind. She called out for the others to wait and ran on toward their oblivious backs.
As she flapped past, the watchcaptain thought for a moment he glimpsed, beneath the ruffle of skirts, a trailing tentacle.
A tentacle, he thought. One would think a hairdresser would know enough to tuck away so telltale a thing.
He stepped from the crevice, and pursued them through the darkness of the corridor.
Just before the wedding ceremony began, Noph cornered Jheldarr “Stormrunner” Boaldegg, First Mariner of the Master Mariners’ Guild. The sea dog stood in the narthex of the palace chapel, and like the other guests, waited to be seated for the ceremony.
Noph casually approached the man. “An honest to goodness sea captain,” he said admiringly.
The old seaman stared out from behind a fleecy white mask of beard and eyebrows. Around a battered pipe, he drawled, “Aye.”
“This is the closest I’ve ever been to real adventure,” Noph pressed. “As the son of a nobleman, I read plenty of stories of the briny deep, but have never gotten to sail out on it myself.”
“Aye.”
Noph’s demeanor suddenly changed from casual excitement to focused desire. “I want to go to sea.”
Captain Boaldegg fixed him with a stern look.
“I wouldn’t need a commission,” Noph said quietly, all the while glancing over his shoulder. “I know you give officer commissions to some nobles—but I’d be willing to holystone decks and haul sheets.”
The white-bearded sea dog blinked in consideration, his scarred red face looking for all the world like a hunk of granite. At last, he let go the blue pipe smoke he’d held in his lungs and said, “Deck hands are abundant. We’ve got plenty of them straight from jails and flophouses. They don’t ask much pay, try to avoid trouble, and know their trade. Why should I bump one of them seasoned seamen to take on a load of noble trouble?”
“Trouble?” asked Noph in an injured tone. “I wouldn’t make any trouble. Besides, I heard there’s going to be need for plenty more hands once… once the trade pact falls through.”
Though before, the seaman’s eyes had seemed glassy and amused beneath his eyebrows, now they were sharp as arrowheads. “What makes you think the pact is jeopardized, lad?”
Noph returned the man’s steely glare. “I know about what you have planned. I know about… Eidola.”
Suddenly, the man’s old hand—steel bars and cables—seized Noph’s arm. “You’re coming with me, lad.”
“Oh, no he’s not,” interrupted Laskar Nesher. From behind his son, he pried the captain’s hand loose. “No son of mine—no heir of mine—is going to waste his life with a bunch of thieves and bilge rats. Get gone, old Boaldegg. Troll the gutters and prisons for your shipmates.”
With that, Laskar Nesher drew his son away from the glowering sea dog. For once, the merchant’s eyes were focused on his son—focused and intent. “What’s this all about, Kastonoph?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Noph said truthfully.
Laskar managed to look angered, hurt, and understanding, all at once. He gripped his son’s arm harder than had the captain and dragged Noph to the relative privacy of the crying room, behind the narthex.
“I know you think me a copper-coddling miser, a fool preoccupied with the flash of coins and unable to see true riches,” said the man earnestly. His eyes were feverishly bright. “I often think so, myself. But the reason for it all is that I’m trying to build a dynasty for you. Yes, I am a fool. In the process of amassing a fortune, I’ve made you despise anything you might inherit from me.”
“It’s all right, Father,” began Noph. “You don’t have to—”
“But don’t give up on me now, Son. At last, my frugality has paid off, has put me in a place where everything will change for us. And it is all wrapped up in this wedding, in the Lady Eidola herself.”
The nobleman paused, expecting another interruption, but Noph was as silent and still as a statue.
Laskar gingerly began again, as if poking at a wound. “I have certain… information about the Lady Eidola—about her past… information she desperately wants to keep from her husband.”
“Father,” said Noph in alarm. The momentary empathy he had felt for the man fled. “Blackmail? Is this the future you have planned for me?”
“Don’t think of it as blackmail. I’m not asking her for money—just for the assurance of work. There’s going to be lots of wood needed for bridges and corduroy roads once this trade pact is finished, and I want us to supply that wood.”
Noph’s usually white face was now blotched with red—disappointment and, worse, pity. “What have you become? You’d commit extortion? And against the Lady Eidola?”
“It isn’t extortion,” his father blustered. “We’ll be working for every copper we make off this. And if you knew about her what I know—”
“Enough!” cried Noph in a sudden rage. “I can’t stomach another word from you. I can’t stand to breathe the same air as you.” La
skar tried to interrupt, but Noph swept his hand up before the man “Speak, and I will empty my stomach on you, I swear it. You nauseate me. I nauseate me—the very fact that I am your son makes me sick. Let it be punishment enough that I have inherited your looks—do not add the burden of your deceits.”
He turned and stalked back toward the narthex, where guests were lined up to be shown to their seats. At the arched entrance to the crying room, he said, “I hope you have enough honor to disown me.” And with that, he left.
Noph growled inwardly. No, his father was not in league with the malaugrym or the mariners, or anyone else seeking to stop the wedding. No, his father was not a traitor or a murderer. Laskar Nesher was merely a petty criminal in times that called men to greatness.
Father has chosen his own road, Noph thought. I need to do the same.
“Sir, your name?” asked the liveried attendant by the door.
Noph hesitated, unsure what to say. At last, he murmured, “Put me down simply as Freeman Kastonoph, friend and loyal servant of the groom.”
Interlude
The Silver Margin
Midnight has come. The time for worry about plots is done. Let the traitors do their worst. They will have to reckon with me. They will have to fight Madieron and Captain Rulathon. The Blackstaff guards us, too, and even young Kastonoph.
Whatever comes, I will marry Eidola; the Boarskyrs will sign the pact; all the world will be forever changed.
For better or for worse.
I am already dizzy with change.
I cling to the wooden chancel screen, fashioned of burled walnut. Walnut has its swirls. Disease twists these into burls. We carve the burls into flourishes and filigree.
One chaos is carved from another.
I gaze through the screen. The chapel is carved into pieces by it.
I see fragments of a bright, crowded sanctuary. I see dark pieces of the gathered guests. I see empty sections of blackness where my bride will appear.
Fragments and pieces…
Rock to sand to dust to nothing at all….
The sanctuary is slowly listing over.
It will capsize before my bride stands beside me.
We will be married on the ceiling.
Cold sweat stands on my white cheeks. I am glad Sandrew gave me this bucket.
I see a piece of my young spy. Noph strides solemnly through the screen spaces. He fits himself onto an already loaded bench.
There is something different about him. His swagger is gone. Even he is changed. He suddenly seems a man.
“Tomorrow, I am a man.”
I spoke those words long, long ago. The memory is as strong and stinging as distilled spirits.
Shaleen is a silhouette against the dim gloaming.
She stands framed by a rugged wood doorway. Beyond her hangs a hay hook. It is tangled with its block and tackle. The barn slats glow with predawn.
I rise. Hay drops from me. I shiver, feeling the cold against my bare skin. I shiver again, with something else.
This is a mistake. Nothing will be the same now. Nothing. She will forever be different. I, too. A yearning shoots through me. I wish to return to the day before, to our young and simple lives.
I search in the hay for my breeches. The sound of my hand is loud in the morning.
“Come here,” Shaleen whispers.
I look up to her. She stands there, bare as the morning.
“Come see.”
I nod. I try to rise, but my legs tremble. The loft’s planks are rough under my feet.
I reach her.
She, too, trembles, but her shoulders and back are warm and solid in the darkness.
“Look,” she says. Her hand points outward.
Beyond the turbulence of the autumn forest, a slim curtain rises in the night. It is the silver margin between dark and day. “Tomorrow.”
The sound of that single word makes my heart break.
“Tomorrow,” I echo.
Apologies and fears well up inside me, but no words. There is only gushing emotion—shame, longing, regret, passion, hopelessness….
’Tomorrow, I am a woman,” Shaleen says.
She nestles against me. At her touch, the dread and fear amalgamate into something greater, something new. My trembling stops. I draw a long, contented breath.
“Tomorrow, I am a man.”
The music begins, unstoppable.
The trump sounds.
The drums cadence like thunder.
The fragmented sanctuary returns around me.
I am dizzy.
I am lost, here in my own palace, my own wedding, my own life.
It is tomorrow.
Everything has changed, for better or for worse.
Chapter 4
What Once Bound All To All
The sanctuary glowed with the light of a thousand candles.
They stood ensconced along the limestone walls. They topped candle stands, lit aisles, and flickered in votive constellations at the feet of statued heroes. They bathed everything at the human level in suffused light, but left the heads of the statues, the vault above, and every other heavenly thing in darkness.
Benches of black walnut bent ever so slightly beneath the burden of nobles, guildmasters, ambassadors. The sanctuary was full, and only half the guests had been seated. The others would stand in the narthex, craning to hear and see.
Pipes, trumpets, and drums blasted out the bridal march. The ceremony had begun.
It was too late to stop the shapeshifters.
By the time Captain Rulathon had found Khelben in the wedding crowd and warned him that one or all of the bride’s attendants were shapeshifters, Eidola was walking down the sanctuary aisle.
Khelben cast quick magics to win past the elaborate wards that masked the women.
“You are right. She is accompanied by eight monsters,” said the Lord Mage of Waterdeep, incredulously watching the attendants sashay down the aisle.
The shapeshifters glided along beside the bride. None was more than a claw’s length away from her, a breath away from their prey.
“What do we do?” Rulathon whispered. “Can’t you flash them all away into sifting soot?”
Khelben grimaced. “No. They are too close to the bride, and the guests. Still, we might have a chance if….” His words fell to mutterings.
Rulathon gazed intently at the mage’s face.
“It’s a long walk up the aisle, girls,” Khelben thought aloud. “If I can’t beat you, I may as well join you….”
He murmured something else and swept an arcane gesture down his torso. With a pop that was barely audible over the pipes and trumpets, the black-robed and gray-bearded mage was replaced by a slim, ivory-garbed attendant.
The lass gave Rulathon a very Khelbenesque wink. She hurried forward, her stride somewhat more businesslike and determined than those of her comrades. She caught up to the smiling cluster and began her own smile.
It was a toothy grimace. Through it came a growled warning, magically sounding in the ears of the attendants:
Hello, shapeshifters. This is the Blackstaff speaking to you. Congratulations for living this long. Stay in your current forms and fall back behind the bride’s train, and you will live longer, still.
There was no sign, that the creatures had heard him, except that their pace slackened. Eidola moved forward, out of arm’s reach.
Unfortunately, thought Khelben, shapeshifters have a knack for growing things longer than arms.
Very good, Sisters, the Blackstaff hissed to them. You’ve no doubt felt the spell blades I’ve conjured within your bellies. As long as you make no sudden moves and stay in your current forms, those daggers probably won’t cut anything vital.
The pace of the party slowed even more.
Khelben’s smile deepened.
Now, let’s chat about who you are and what you are doing here. Piergeiron thinks you are malaugrym. I have a notion you are somewhat worse. Am I right?
Eigh
t coiffured heads nodded on their lovely necks.
I thought so. And as to what that something is… let’s repair to the crying room for a little talk….
Bagpipes shrieked their solemn songs, drummers cracked sticks against skins, corpulent and decadent nobles turned about in their seats to gawk at the spectacle of flower-decked maidens and flag bearers. The bride and her attendants glided down the aisle. Benches groaned when Waterdeep’s powers-that-be rose on their own legs to nod benevolently….
Standing among them, Noph saw his father a few rows back. Laskar’s sycophantic smile was worst of all. His teeth seemed to spell out the word blackmail.
Noph felt ill. He looked away from his erstwhile father, and also from the bride. Her secret past, whatever it was, made her white gown a travesty. Surely there was some place in the sanctuary he could stare without getting sick.
The Eye of Ao. The ancient panel of stained glass hung high in the wall above the chancel. The huge eye was a splendid piece of craftsmanship, backlit by a loft of flickering candles. The eye was luminous, alive. Even its pupil glinted with capricious light.
Its pupil? The Eye of Ao was supposed to have an empty pupil. The hole symbolized the place of dark mysteries through which all mortals flew after death.
How could an empty space reflect light?
Then Noph saw: the triangular glint of light came from an arrowhead poised in the opening.
“Damn,” Noph swore aloud.
The nobles around him turned and glared. Noph turned the curse into a cough. The guests blinked and looked away. Noph continued coughing, sputtering, gagging. He pulled out a kerchief and tried unsuccessfully to contain the fit.
“Excuse me,” he muttered hoarsely, and pushed his way toward the side aisle.
Nobles happily let him pass, some shying from him as though he carried a plague. In moments, Noph was free. He hurried down the side aisle toward the nearest door. It led to a set of stairs going up.
Forgotten Realms - [Double Diamond Triangle Saga 01] - The Abduction Page 4
