And for good reason. While the Upper City basks in the relatively warm sun of those climes, the Lower City is usually draped in a miasma of morning fog, noonday drear, and afternoon industrial smoke. Down below are the tin foundries and the ironmongers, the steelworks and the lime bakers, the tanners, hide-men, hat-makers, coach-works, stables, and working offices of the various trading costers, with their attendant collection of stables, wagons, warehouses, hostels, festhalls, and all manner of entertainments for the laborers, teamsters, stevedores, and other haulers. The Lower City, in short, operates under a continual cloud, both figuratively and literally, as far as those of the Upper City are concerned.
At the time I was lodging at the Wandering Wyvern, highly-touted in the guide books for its view. Unfortunately the view is mostly of the aforementioned L.C., as it was situated directly above the tanneries. As a result, I kept to the Wyvern’s drawing room for the most part of my stay, and broadened my horizons primarily by reading.
At that time of my life, I was moving eastward, slowly but unyieldingly, seeking to put as much of Faerun as possible between myself and my home city of Waterdeep.
The wondrous City of Splendors has a special place in my heart, and I would choose to reside there, if not for the presence of my assorted relatives in the Wands family. The fact is that the vast bulk of said relatives are mages. Powerful mages. The most powerful of them is my great-uncle Maskar, who is cause enough to make any young man showing no more interest in spellcraft than he does in killing dragons for a living, head eastward. I had earlier thought that Scornubel was far enough, but recent encounters there convinced me that relocating further inland from the Sword Coast would be a wise decision. At the time when all hell (or hells) was about to break loose, I was comfortably ensconced in the drawing room of the Wandering Wyvern, with my nose in a book.
At this point, I can hear the reader saying to him- or herself, “Aha! some fell tome of magic, wrested from some elder crypt.” Actually the book I was reading had been penned the previous spring by an aspiring young author, Allison Rodigar-Glenn, published by Tyme-Waterdeep, and sold by the august offices of Aurora’s mail-order catalog. It was a historical mystery book, or “mysthricals” as they were called, and I must confess I could not get enough of them.
“I say, this Miss Rodigar-Glenn pens an excellent tome,” I commented to Ampratines, my djinni and personal manservant.
“If you say so, sir,” responded the djinni, replacing my expired drink with a fresh one. “I wouldn’t know.”
For a creature as large as Ampratines was he moved with a silence and a grace that were almost as valuable as his drink serving abilities. He was, of course, the tallest being in the room, tipping the yardstick at ten feet and change. However, he was dressed not in the flowing desert robes so common to his kind, but rather a respectable and immaculate servant’s jacket and trousers, with an unfilled shirt beneath. The most remarkable thing about him-other than being a powerful native of the plane of elemental air, which is remarkable enough-is his head. I swear its larger than most others of his breed, if for no other reason than to contain the masterful brains within. There are greater treasures beneath his broad forehead than beneath all the domes in Calimshan, and his visage is more sage than any vizier’s.
However, while Ampratines remains one of the most puissant of the air elementals I have ever met, he has an unfortunate tendency to under appreciate much of the culture of this plane of existence. This marked disdain for the more interesting things in life often creates rifts in our otherwise illustrious relationship.
“No, I’m not jesting,” I said, perhaps a little too loudly, for a few heads in the drawing room turned our way. “These mystoricals are filled with derring-do and secrets revealed and all manner of goodly material. The stuff of adventures and heroes, with a fine eye to the details. This current mystorical centers around ‘Who Put the Galoshes in Madame Milani’s Stew?’”
“Riveting,” said Ampratines, who set the remains of my early-afternoon cocktail down on the tray, “I can understand why they are so popular, with such deep subject material.”
“Joke not,” said I, “This is classic stuff. Miss RodigarGlenn is a master at her craft.”
“It is my understanding,” said Ampi, “that Miss Rodigar-Glenn is really an entire family of halflings living in the basement of the Tyrne-Waterdeep building, churning these books out at a clip of one a week.”
“Churning? Churning?” I said indignantly. “These books are obviously not churned. They are lovingly crafted and carefully scribed. They speak to the heart of the matter, as it were.”
“If you say so, sir,” responded Ampi, with that resigned sigh that never fails to infuriate me. It bothers me greatly that such a big-brained djinni as Ampratines would be so small-minded at times. “These books do have one advantage, sir,” he said.
“And that is?”
“Why you are reading about them,” said the djinni, “You have less of a tendency to go out and do anything dangerous.”
I scowled up at the djinni, looking for some sign of humor. As usual, that response was missing from Ampi’s stony features. Instead I said, again a trifle too loudly, “I believe another shipment of books is coming in today at Aurora’s. You will check this out and retrieve them. Else I might just go out and do something. And don’t think I’m not capable of something adventurous.”
If it were possible for a djinni to deflate in defeat, Ampi would be leaking air at that moment, “As you wish, sir.” And with that he wafted out, as silent as a church patriarch leaving a festhall past midnight.
I don’t remember muttering aloud to myself about Ampi’s lack of good taste, good sense, and a goodly amount of other attributes, but I probably did so. I tried to fling myself back into the book, but was interrupted by another voice, this one soft and sweet and gentle. A sudden ray of light in the darkened drawing room of the Wyvern.
“Did you mean that?” said the voice, in a tone that was halfway between a crystal bell and a silver dinner chime.
I looked up from Madame Milani’s Stew and into wide, open eyes of the purest sky blue. It took a few seconds to recognize that the eyes were set into a heart-shaped face, marked by a button nose hovering above a trembling set of bee-stung lips. The entire assemblage of facial features was framed by curled locks of honey blond hair.
I must have gurgled something along the lines of “excuse me?” though I could not be sure. She repeated, “Did you mean what you said about being a capable adventurer?”
The components of my brain, shattered by her beauty, quickly scrambled to re-combine into a generally operating form. Fortunately, Waterdhavian manners do not require an operating brain, and I was already on my feet, taking the young lady’s offered hand and bowing deeply while I re-gathered my wits. My brain was just catching up with my mouth as I said, “Tertius Wands of Water-deep, capable adventurer and world traveler, at your service.
Actually my brain wanted to say “I said I was capable and adventurous, but not necessarily a capable adventurer.” But brains are like that, coming up with the right thing to say right after you’ve said something completely different.
“Drusilla. Drusilla Vermeer,” she said simply, replying with a perfunctory curtsey and almost stumbling in the process. At once I leaned forward to steady her, and caught the scent of honeysuckle in bloom. She seemed faint and I walked her to the chair facing mine. The ultimate gentleman, I offered her my untouched drink. She sniffed at the mixture (one of Ampi’s specialties), then waved it aside with a delicate hand.
“Sorry, so sorry,” she said, even the wrinkle of concern that lined her eyes making her all the more beautiful. “I shouldn’t bother you, really, but I need a capable adventurer for a matter of some delicacy.”
I returned to my seat and nodded, then half-turned to order Ampi for some hot tea or some other suitable nostrum. But of course the djinni had already left for my new shipment of books, so I turned back to the young and beautiful Dr
usilla.
“I fear I’ve done a terrible, terrible thing,” she said, “And I need someone to help me.”
“There, there,” said I, unsure of what the terrible thing was, but confident that it would be no more than a lost pet or a misplaced locket.
“My family is one of the investing households that provides capital for the various traders. I was entrusted with a family keepsake, an amber box containing an heirloom belonging to my great, great grandmother.” She pulled out a lace handkerchief at this point and held it to her lips. I wondered if she was going to go to pieces entirely. In a small voice she said, “Its about three inches on a side, like a cube. I’m afraid I’ve lost it.”
I nodded, and realized I was nodding altogether too much, “How did you Jose-”
“I was such a fool!” she sobbed, “I was careless. I shouldn’t have trusted…“ She snuffled again, and even her snuffling was musical and sweet. “The fact remains that I lost it, and it is my responsibility to get the box back. It is very important!” She buried her lovely face in the handkerchief.
“So,” I said, reprising the situation so far. “You’ve lost the family thingummy, an amber box. You need to find the box, and need a capable adventurer to retrieve it.” This was the sort of thing the heroes of Miss RodigarGlenn would say. Repeating exactly what someone has just told you in hopes of gaining more information.
“Then you’ll help?” she said, blinking back the tears at me. Not quite the response I had anticipated.
Despite myself, I fell back on an earlier mannerism and merely nodded. Her face blossomed in a flower of relief and she warbled sweetly, “I knew I had chosen the right man.”
She made to rise, and I fought to regain control of the conversation. “This box, I have to say… if you lost it, we’ll have to spend a long time looking for it.”
“Oh, I know where it is,” she said brightly, canting her head to one side as if to reassure me. “It’s in the hands of a terrible person. I’ll need you to retrieve it from him.”
And then she smiled and gave me his name.
“‘Big Ugly,’” said Ampratines later as I recounted the story to him. “Not the most reassuring of appellations.”
“He’s a crime lord, apparently, in the Lower City,” I countered, trying to determine which set of trousers was appropriate for a meeting with the aforementioned Mr. Ugly. “Crime lords are not supposed to have reassuring names. The truly evil ones put a lot of X’s and Z’s in them.
Sort of like a verbal ‘beware of dragon,’ sign, or ‘no peddlers.’”
“Indeed,” said the djinni, holding out a dependable set of leather riding pants. I shook my head and chose instead my red satin trousers. I would send my own message to the crime lord, I thought, that we Wands are both stylish and not to be trifled with.
I hopped into the trousers while continuing, “Said B.U. operates a tavern as a front for his various nefarious operations, a place called the Burrows. That’s where I’m going to meet him.”
“And this Master Ugly stole the amber box?” said the genie.
“Unclear but likely,” I said, thinking back about what Drusilla had said specifically. “She said that she had lost it and this Ugly fellow had glommed onto it, and she wants it back. Money is no object, but this Ugly has refused to budge. I’m supposed to place the offer on the table and, as they say in the parlance, ‘put the lean’ on him.”
“And a lean fellow you are,” said Ampi without the merest of smiles. “And I suppose you’ll want me to attend you in this madcap mystorical escapade?”
I blinked at the genie and fastened the clasp of my cape (the dark one with the red satin lining that matched the pants). I had not thought about it one way or another, but had merely assumed that Ampratines would be tagging along. Still, there was something in the genie’s tone that bothered me, as if this were some adventure he’d rather watch from a safe but discrete distance.
“If you’re not too busy,” I said simply, the frost in my voice wilting the nearby potted ferns.
Ampratines merely nodded and we set out. Hiring a carriage outside the inn, we started the long descent into the Lower City. Ampi was silent for most of the trip, apparently brooding in thought. Only when we were deposited at the Burrows, a small tavern built into the hillside itself, did he speak up.
“I’m afraid I cannot accompany you,” he said, in a matter-of-fact manner.
“I say,” I responded, “If this is about your not liking my choice of reading materials, I…”
But the genie was already shaking his head, and motioned toward the door of the Burrows. There was an ornate squiggle of pounded brass over the door, surrounded by arcane markings. The markings covered the entire frame of the doorway, and, I noted in the flickering street-lamps, extended along the entire building. It looked like unruly scribes had targeted the tavern’s outer walls as an impromptu scriptorium.
“Mystic wards,” he said simply, “Magical symbols that keep creatures from other dimensions at bay. Master Ugly must be very worried about such beings, from the looks of things. With these wards in place, the tavern is proof against all manner of demons, devils, devae, archons, undead, elementals, efreet…”
“…and djinn,” I finished.
The tall genie gave a small shrug which he turned into a bow of admission. “I cannot enter. Indeed, I must confess that this many wards in one place give me a rather intense headache.”
“Very well,” I said, trying to imagine Ampi with a ripper of a hangover, “You’ll just have to keep an eye out on the street then. That happens in the books all the time, anyway. One of the investigators goes in, while the other one stays outside ‘riding crossbow,’ as it were. Do you have a crossbow on you?”
“I neglected to pack one,” said the djinni, “But I could scare one up if you thought it necessary.”
I waved off the suggestion, “It matters little. Stay out here and keep your orbs glued to the building. If anyone suddenly leaves I want you to be ready.”
“As you wish,” said Ampi, again with a small bow. He took two steps backward and disappeared among the shadows of the buildings directly across from the tavern.
I straightened my cape and climbed the six low stairs leading to the door in two large strides. I took a deep breath and plunged into the bar.
Now I had been in taverns from Waterdeep to Iriaebor, oftimes wearing something similar to my red satin cape and trousers. Usually, upon entering, there is a brief lull in the conversation as some of the resident bar flies check out the newcomer, and, once ascertaining that the new individual meant no immediate threat, turn back to their ales.
Not this time. The noise level dropped to an imperceptible level. One moment it was a typical tavern noise, the next it was dead silence. The last time I had witnessed something like this was when cousin Halian did his impression of grand-uncle Maskar while the old goat had suddenly appeared, unseen, behind him.
In this case, however, it was my own arrival that had squelched the conversations. I took the opportunity to look around. If the outer walls were decked with mystical wards, the inner walls were positively festooned with arcane designs. No wonder Ampi was getting headaches, I thought. The crisscrossing lines and whirls were enough to give anyone without sufficient alcohol in their system a splitting migraine, and was probably an inducement for those within to keep drinking.
But it was the patrons that were the clue to the sudden silence. There were about thirty of them altogether-a trio of halflings on high stools alongside the bar, a gaggle of gnomes plotting in a booth, a morose-looking dark elf (male) at the end of the bar, and a clutch of dwarves playing cards in the far corner. A pair of large, scaly ogres who apparently did the heavy lifting, and who were converging on my location at flank speed.
I put my finger on the problem at once. There were no humans present. Or to be more correct, there were no humans other than myself.
“You’re in the wrong place,” said the slightly taller of the two ogre
s, his words lisping around his oversized lower fangs.
I looked the ogres up and down (more up than down), and thought what the mystorical heroes would do in such a situation. I decided to grab the conversational bull by the horns and responded, “This is the Burrows, is it not?”
The ogre blinked, apparently unused to such a direct approach. He nodded.
“And there is someone named Big Ugly in charge around here?” I continued, arching an eyebrow most archly.
Another nod.
“Then I am in the right place,” I said, stepping down toward the bar. “Please inform Mr. Ugly that Master Tertius Wands, of the Wands of Waterdeep, is present and wishes to converse with him.”
All thirty sets of nonhuman eyes followed me as I strode to the bar (at the far end from the drow), pulled out a stool, and sat down. Or at least tried to sit down.
The stool disappeared beneath me, snatched by one of the ogres. The other one, the slightly taller one, simultaneously grabbed me by the collar and breathed hotly in my ear, “this way.” He propelled me toward a door in the back of the tavern, keeping me slightly above the ground so could only graze the floorboards with my flailing toes.
Beyond the door lay darkness. Most nonhumans have some form of ultra-, infra-, or arcano-vision that allows them to see in the dark. Unfortunately that gift was not extended to the human race, so I merely strained my eyes against the ebon blackness. I was set down and found a chair in the darkness.
There was movement about me in the dark, followed by a sharp clicking noise. Then there was light, all of it funneled in my direction. I held up a hand against the brightness, and was vaguely aware that the two ogres were now flanking me.
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