by Mark Anthony
Cormik gave a rumbling laugh. “I know very well—and always have—that Maderon meant to kill me. He simply owed me too much money to let me live. I had everything planned and taken care of. And then you had to meddle in my affairs. How like a Harper.”
“What does it matter who killed him?” Caledan asked with a shrug. “Dead is dead.”
“Quite,” Cormik said dryly, sipping his wine. “Except that I had devised a little scheme to relieve him of the rest of his fortune before I relieved him of his ability to go on breathing. You cost me quite a bit, you know. And don’t try to tell me you only did it to protect me. It would be very touching, but it would also be untruthful. You had your own reasons for doing away with Maderon. I know that, even if I don’t know what those reasons were.”
“Believe me, it’s a tale you don’t want to hear.” Caledan sighed, fidgeting absently with the braided copper bracelet on his left wrist.
“Fair enough,” Cormik said, then he changed the subject. “Perhaps now you can tell me what brought you to my doorstep this time. I’d like to think it was because you’ve missed me, but I suppose that would be another one of my ‘delusions.’ ” He looked at Dario pointedly. Cormik motioned his apprentice over, and whispered something into Dario’s ear. After a moment the young man nodded.
“It was nice to meet you,” he said, smiling as he bowed to Caledan and Mari. Then he exited the chamber by way of a secret passage concealed behind a bookcase.
“Very well, Cormik,” Mari said after Dario had gone. “We came because we need information about Ravendas and the Zhentarim.”
Caledan rolled his eyes. There went their chances of getting anything out of Cormik for free. The Harper was going to have to learn how to be more clever when bargaining with someone like Cormik.
“All right, Cormik,” Caledan grumbled, “how much is it going to cost us?”
“For you, Caledan, the standard fee.” Cormik’s gaze swept over Mari. “But for the enchanting Harper, there’s no charge.”
“Why, thank you,” she said huskily, treating Caledan to a look that was insufferably smug.
They spent the next hour listening to Cormik describe the steady decay of the city since Ravendas had ensconced herself in the tower. “Things are dire enough as it is, and I’m afraid they’re only getting worse by the day,” Cormik said grimly. “The stalls in the free market are practically bare. Half the folk in the city are bordering on starvation. Almost everything that comes to Iriaebor by ship goes out again in caravans to the east. And there isn’t a business that’s not under her control. She keeps the Council of Lords in her pocket and has the Merchants’ Circle dangling by their purse strings. The terms of her trade agreements are anything but profitable, but inexplicable things keep happening to the ships and caravans of merchants who don’t sign on.
“There’s only one rule in Iriaebor these days. Serve Cutter or perish.” Cormik sighed. “None of it is good for business. And it gets even worse when your customers keep disappearing daily.”
“Disappearing?” Caledan asked. He felt his hair prickling on the back of his neck.
Cormik nodded. “Every day dozens of cityfolk leave their homes in the morning and don’t come back at night. Men and women, even children. Anyone out on the streets, especially at night, seems to be fair game. The Zhentarim are kidnapping them and spiriting them away to the dungeons below the tower. Why, I’m not entirely certain. There are rumors that Ravendas is pressing them into work gangs and forcing them to toil on a series of excavations deep in the heart of the Tor itself. However, if that’s really the case, I have no idea what she thinks she’ll find by digging beneath the tower.”
“Gold?” Caledan ventured.
Cormik shrugged. “Maybe.”
Mari stood up and began pacing on the thick carpets strewn across the floor. “This can’t go on,” she said, striking her palm with a fist. “Why have the people of Iriaebor put up with this for so long? There can’t be more than a few hundred Zhents in the city, but there are tens of thousands of citizens. Why don’t the people of Iriaebor rise up against Ravendas?”
Cormik shook his head ruefully. “I wish it were that simple, Harper. At first a few people—merchants, guild masters, and lords of the council—did stand up to Ravendas. It didn’t take long before every one of them was swinging by the neck from a gibbet. Ravendas makes an example out of anyone who opposes her.
“Of course, there are still a few bands of folk who are trying to work against Ravendas,” Cormik went on, his tone purposeful. “I hear reports about them from time to time. They meet in secret here and there about the city, in basements and abandoned towers. But there are only a few of these groups, and they’re small. They need weapons, hiding places, a way to transport messages and supplies, and more recruits. These things cost money. Lots of it.”
Caledan stood up, a roguish expression on his face. “All right, Cormik. Use your scouts to start making contact with a few of these resistance bands. The Harper and I will get you the gold you need to arm and organize them.”
“That sounds well and fine, Caldorien,” Mari said in a scathing voice. “But how do you propose we get this gold? Shall we just go begging at Ravendas’s money house?”
Caledan snapped his fingers. “That’s not a bad idea, Harper.”
“Careful, Caledan,” Cormik said seriously. “You’d do well if you didn’t underestimate Ravendas. Or the Harper here. Get the gold if you can, and I’ll do my part. But try not to get yourself killed in the process.”
Caledan was about to reply when a light knock came at the hidden entrance behind the bookcase. The shelves swung to one side, and Dario stepped through. Caledan gaped at the young man. He was dressed identically to Caledan, in black leather breeches and jerkin over a white shirt.
“Ah, I see you’re ready,” Cormik said, smiling.
“What’s going on?” Caledan asked suspiciously.
“You’re going on a little trip, Caledan. You see, in my eminent mercifulness, I decided not to run you through on the sole condition that you leave Iriaebor—and don’t come back. That should keep up my appearances.”
“But I’m not leaving Iriaebor,” Caledan said angrily, clenching his big-knuckled hand into a fist.
Cormik groaned. “Must you be so dense, Caledan? That’s where Dario comes in.” He eyed the young man critically. “You’re not a bad match for size, Dario. Of course, you’re not nearly as ugly as Caledan is, but that would be almost impossible, wouldn’t it?”
Mari laughed with amusement.
“I’ll pull my hood up,” Dario said with a wink at Caledan. “Assuming you’ll allow me to borrow your cloak to complete the disguise, of course.”
“Here, take it,” Caledan growled petulantly, handing Dario his patched, midnight-blue cloak. The young man donned the cloak and pulled the hood over his head.
“Perfect,” Cormik pronounced. “Are you ready to ride? Excellent. Have Jad and Kevrek throw you out—not too roughly. Just enough to let my patrons see how much I still despise Caledan the Harper. There’s a gray mare similar to Caledan’s tied out front. Make certain the guards see you riding out of town. I want all who might be interested to believe Caledan Caldorien is gone for good.”
“As you wish, Master Cormik,” Dario said, bowing with a flourish. He turned and disappeared through the hidden doorway.
“Do you trust him?” Caledan asked after Dario had gone.
“Better yet, I care for him,” Cormik replied. “He’s the son I never had, Caledan. But then, I don’t suppose you’d care about such sentimental things.”
Caledan grunted but said nothing.
* * * * *
“I want the Harpers out of my city!”
The Zhentarim Lord Ravendas was not in a pleasant mood. She prowled like a cat about the topmost chamber of the tower of the city lord. The chamber itself was a den of luxury. Snow white furs were strewn across the floor of dark, polished marble. Exotic tapestries woven with gold and
silver draped the walls, and expensive incense scented the air. Ravendas spun to fix the lord steward with her ice-blue gaze.
“Do I make myself clear?” she hissed, her voice as chilling as her eyes. “I will not have their meddling undermine my control. I want the head of any Harper that dares to set foot within the walls of this city delivered to me on a silver tray.”
“Including Caldorien’s?” the lord steward, Snake, asked in his dry, sibilant voice. His tone was utterly deferential, but Ravendas’s pale cheeks flushed with sudden rage.
“I should have you flogged for that impertinence, my lord steward,” she snarled. She sat upon a velvet divan, smoothing the wrinkles from her crimson gown. “And perhaps I will do just that,” she mused. “You know very well that I want Caldorien delivered to me undamaged.”
Snake’s expression remained impassive. “But pain is acceptable, my lord?” Snake inquired.
“Oh, yes,” Ravendas crooned. Sudden fire sparked in her eyes. “Pain is quite acceptable when dealing with Caldorien.” Her delicate hands clenched unconsciously. It had been seven years since she had last faced Caledan Caldorien, but the memory had if anything grown more vivid with the passing of time. Seven years ago she had raised an army to conquer a town called Hluthvar, but Caldorien and his Harper friends had defeated her, making a mockery of her power. That was an affront she would dearly love to repay.
Fate must favor her, she thought, to have brought Caldorien back to Iriaebor, practically to her doorstep. At first, when the reports of a troublesome stranger reached her, she had not thought of Caldorien. Then came the sudden, violent death of one of her captains on the Street of Jewels. Her lord steward was not without his uses, and by means of a magic created from the dead warrior’s blood, Snake had conjured an image of the captain’s killer. She had recognized the angular, wolfish face instantly. It was Caldorien. He was in the city—her city. But where?
She would find him. The intervening years had made her more powerful than she would have once dared to imagine. Caldorien would not defeat her again. No, this time he would become her slave.
“You are dismissed, my lord steward.” She spoke harshly. “Do not forget your orders.” The thin, almost skeletal man bowed deeply, then turned to leave the chamber, his green robes hissing against the marble floor. “And, Snake,” Ravendas called after him, “send my son to me. I wish to hear him practice his music.”
“Of course, my lord. I shall send for him immediately.” The door shut, leaving Ravendas alone. She poured herself a goblet of crimson wine and gazed out the window, surveying the city that she had vanquished. Every building, every stone, every life down there was hers, hers to exploit or destroy as she saw fit. But even that was nothing to what was next. Soon, very soon, the other lords among the Zhentarim would quail before her. It was Ravendas’s destiny to rule them all.
She heard the door open softly behind her and set down her goblet, smiling with lips stained red by the wine. She turned to see a boy standing in the doorway, his skin as pale as moonlight, his hair as dark as shadows. He regarded her with wide green eyes, clutching a set of reed pipes in his small hands.
“Come in, my son,” Ravendas whispered. “Come in.”
* * * * *
Dario rode through the pearly, predawn light. The dim silhouette of Iriaebor rose behind him in the misty air, like a spectral city. Cormik’s plan had gone well. The little scene with Jad and Kevrek had caught the eye of a Zhentarim officer who had followed Dario until he rode out the city’s north gate. After that, the guard had turned around and ridden back into the city. Dario had no doubt that a message would make its way to Lord Cutter’s tower that Caledan Caldorien had been driven out of Iriaebor. Dario would ride a bit farther and lie low for a day or so before returning—without his disguise, of course. There was a small village a few leagues to the north. Dario had made the acquaintance of a certain farmer’s daughter there a few years back, a fair-haired young woman named Adalae. Dario wondered if she would remember him.
“Caledan the Harper?” a voice spoke suddenly from the mist.
Dario’s mare spooked, rearing. He fought with the reins, managing to bring the horse to a stop. Its hooves skittered nervously against the cobbles of the road.
“Who’s there?” Dario called into the thick fog. His dagger was ready in his hand.
A tall figure, clad head to toe in a black, concealing robe, stepped out of the swirling mist.
“Caledan the Harper?” the stranger asked again, in a voice that was both cold and dry. It sent a shiver up Dario’s spine.
“Who wishes to know?” Dario asked, confused at the fear he felt rising in his throat.
“I wish to know,” the black-robed figure said. Dario began to lift his dagger in alarm, but with dizzying speed a long arm reached out and, with terrible strength, pulled Dario from his horse. The mare neighed in terror and galloped away. An icy, strangely smooth hand closed about Dario’s throat. His eyes widened in terror, but he was unable to move.
Another hand pulled the hood of Dario’s cloak away from his face. A cold finger traced a line down his cheek. Dario tried to scream, but no sound escaped his throat.
“No, you are not the one,” the attacker hissed.
Cold fingers closed about Dario’s neck. There was a wet, snapping sound, and the young man fell limply to the ground, dark eyes staring lifelessly into the silvery light.
The black-robed stranger hesitated a moment. This was odd. The man’s cloak had smelled right, but there was no scent of the shadow magic.
Of course—there could be only one answer. This man was a decoy. Caldorien must still be within the city’s walls.
This was troublesome. The stranger dared not enter the city. No, the stinking streets were too much. Their scents were too overpowering. They would cause torment, resulting in sure madness. There was nothing to do now but wait. Yes, wait. Eventually Caldorien would set foot beyond those walls, and when he did, the stranger would be there to greet him.
Silently the black-robed figure drifted back into the veils of mist from which it had emerged just as the first rays of sunlight set fire to the tops of the city’s towers.
Five
The crimson fire of sunset was fading to ash-gray behind the dark silhouette of the Tor when Mari heard the clatter of horses’ hooves and the creak of wagon wheels. She waited in the shadows to the side of one of the New City’s broad, tree-lined avenues, trying to slow the beating of her heart. She could only hope that Caldorien was ready. He had done little enough to inspire her trust these last days.
Mari had been elated when Belhuar Thantarth, the Master of Twilight Hall, had given her the task of finding Caldorien in Iriaebor. It was her first important mission as a true Harper, and she had been anxious to prove herself. Now she was having second thoughts. This cynical, ill-mannered, scruffy-looking scoundrel was not the legendary Harper she had been led to expect.
Old Master Andros, the Harper who had been her mentor, used to tell her stories of Caldorien’s adventures: how he had destroyed the Cult of Bane’s plan to seize the throne of the Empire of Amn; how he had freed an army enslaved by a bloodthirsty Calimshite sorcerer; how he had rescued hundreds of children who had been kidnapped from Waterdeep and forced to work in a goblin prince’s mines. As a child, such tales had enthralled Mari. But she was no longer a child, and Caldorien obviously was not the hero he once was.
A wagon appeared on the dusky avenue, drawn by a pair of dark horses. On it sat two men. One held the reins, the other rested a hand comfortably on the hilt of his short sword. Zhentarim soldiers. The wagon itself was a box-shaped rig, like a gypsy wagon, and Mari knew that within it was a valuable cargo. Mari and Caledan had met with one of Cormik’s countless spies that morning. The woman had told them that a wagon entered the city’s east gate every evening bearing stiff tariffs that Cutter’s men had extracted from caravans that tried to bypass the city on their journey toward Cormyr.
Unfortunately, the information
about Cutter’s tax collectors wasn’t the only news Mari and Caledan had learned at the Prince and Pauper. The body of Cormik’s apprentice, Dario, had been discovered that morning on the north highway outside the city.
“I suppose it was brigands,” Cormik had said, his round face haggard. “Gods know the roads are crawling with ruffians these days, what with no guards riding out on patrol. It’s Ravendas’s fault the highways aren’t safe anymore.”
Caledan felt responsible and tried to say something, but Cormik had waved his words away. “No, Caledan,” he said wearily. “It was I who devised the little charade, not you. Besides, the culprit couldn’t be Ravendas. You and I both know that Ravendas would prefer you alive, not dead. No, Dario has always been lucky—until now.”
Despite his grief, Cormik had been ready to help plot this night’s adventure. He was eager to help organize a resistance movement against Lord Ravendas. And for that they needed gold.
As the wagon drew close, Mari lifted the hood of her tattered gray cloak and gripped her stout walking stick tightly in one hand. Back bent, she hobbled out onto the avenue, directly in the wagon’s path. The driver swore loudly, pulling back on the reins. The wagon clattered to a stop just short of Mari’s shambling form.
“Hey there, old woman!” the driver shouted. “Make way, unless you want to spend the night in Cutter’s dungeon.” Mari just stood there, muttering under her breath as if she were some simpleminded old crone.
“Gods, Brim, get the old witch off the road, will you?” the driver snapped. “Cutter’ll have our heads if we’re late to the countinghouse.”
“All right, all right,” the other Zhentarim said in annoyance, climbing off the wagon. He swaggered toward Mari. “You’re in our way, hag. Be off with you, before we do something to you that you wouldn’t like.” He flashed a lurid grin at his partner, but in the moment his head was turned Mari hefted the gnarled walking stick and swung it in a whistling arc. It struck the Zhent’s jaw with a resounding crack, and the guard sprawled to the ground.
