Crown of Fire ss-2

by Ed Greenwood

  "If we can ever scrub this stuff off us, that is," Oelaerone said ruefully. "The last time we traveled the sewers, we had a boat."

  Mirt looked around, "Folk have boats down here?" "Yes-rafts, and mushroom beds, and lots of little caches where they hide things, too."

  "Treasure?"

  "Aye, and the bodies of rivals or rich older relatives, and suchlike."

  A sudden outflow from above drenched them all, They gasped and sputtered and swore; the Harper ladies proved they knew expressions every bit as colorful as Mirt did.

  "If we ever get out of here, Shandrl-my-lass," Mirt said through clenched teeth, "I'm going to give ye a few choice words about what it means to be a Harper-notably, of considering consequences before ye act."

  Shandril leaned against the comforting bulk of his shoulder as he forged on through the stinking muck, and she said in a small voice, "I guess you mean I shouldn't have come here at all."

  Mirt shrugged. "Well, not so fast, lass-'twas high time someone gave the Zhentarim something to think about. And ye've certainly found the knack of giving everyone around a wild time, indeed."

  Shandril grinned, a little lopsidedly-and then Delg's agonized, dying face swam into her mind, and she burst into sudden tears.

  Mirt rolled his eyes and wrapped his excrement smeared arms more tightly around her, murmuring soothingly.

  Oclaerone turned and reproved him mildly. "You've certainly cultivated an expert boudoir manner, Mirt of Waterdeep."

  "Only a little way, now," Belarla added, turning into a side channel, It was shallower; as she went along it, her body rose out of the water as far as her waist Her robes, plastered to her, glistened brown and yellow.

  Shandril looked at Belarla, down at her own body hidden under the roiling brown sludge, and involuntarily glanced back at the pleasure-queen's robes-she gagged.

  Mirt threw her expertly over his shoulder, but she struggled free and glared at him, "I'm not a little girl!" "Aye," he said dryly. "I'd noticed. Little girls are never this much trouble."

  Belarla came to a stop, waters swirling around her, and looked up at the vaulted stone ceiling just above her. "This is the one," she announced, pointing at a rune burned into a dark wooden hatch overhead.

  Dripping, she and Oelaerone reached up and hauled on its heavy bolt together, their hair plastered down their backs and matted with filth, The door fell open, suddenly, and they splashed and staggered in the water, struggling for balance.

  Mirt blinked sewer water from his eyes, thanked the two Harpers gravely, and then heaved himself like an angry whale up out of the water and through the hatch. Grunting, he caught hold of the lowest rung of an old, massive iron ladder. "This must have been used as a well, long ago, " his voice echoed back to them.

  "No wonder they all died of fevers back then," Oclaerone said disgustedly to Belarla.

  "No doubt folk an age from now will wonder at all the barbaric things we do, too" Belarla replied.

  "Going through the sewers ranks right up there," Oelaerone agreed, as they boosted Shandril up the ladder, "Hmmm," Belarla responded, "'rank' is the right word, yes!"

  After a short, unpleasant climb, the three ladies found themselves facing a closed door in a small, round room crowded with old buckets, Mirt's arrival had evidently awakened some magic here: a faint, yellow-white glow was emanating from the door and growing steadily brighter.

  Mirt rapped on the glowing door with his fist, snatched his hand back, and shook his fingers to clear away the tingling pain, "Strong wards," he commented, eyeing it and wondering if he'd have to knock again.

  A breath or two later, the center of the door began to glow brightly, and then something swam out of that radiance, spun together, thickened like rising smoke, and suddenly coalesced into a floating, glowing eye.

  The orb regarded them all, bobbing slightly as it turned, Mirt held up his Harper pendant in front of it. The eye blinked, peered at it for a moment, and then drew back to look around at them all again. Then it abruptly swooped back to the door, vanishing into the radiance once more.

  Almost immediately, they heard bars fall and chains rattle, and then the door grated open. A young lady in a dark court dress with full skirts, a low bodice, and high shoulders stood looking at them, A wand was held ready in her hand, and her eyes were dark with fear. "Who are you, and why have you come here?" she asked.

  Mirt was dripping sewage only a pace away from her.

  He bent in a low bow and said gravely, "It grieves us deeply to trouble you at this hour and in this manner, great lady, but we are in desperate straits, and beg immediate audience with thy lady master."

  The apprentice stared at him in disbelief for a moment, and then stifled a sudden giggle. "Lady!" she called over her shoulder, and a moment later, another face appeared.

  It belonged to a tall, very beautiful lady with huge dark green eyes and glossy black hair.

  "Ladies," Mirt said to Shandril and the Harpers, as he went to one knee, "may I present to you-Myrintara of the Masks."

  Those beautiful eyes looked at the bedraggled old merchant and blinked in sudden recognition. She groaned, Not you again!"

  Mirt grinned wolfishly and replied, "Just get us out of here."

  "To do so speedily will be my distinct pleasure," Myrintara replied. ushering the filthy foursome up narrow stone steps. Her apprentice, eyes still wide with wonder, stood at the far end of the cellar they emerged into and held a lamp to light their way,

  As they ascended from the cellar to the floor above, a richly decorated dwelling opened around them. A floor higher up, Shandril amended that first judgment to 'palatial.' She tried not to look back at the interesting trail they were leaving in their wake, all over the carpets.

  You're sure you don't want to bathe?" Myrintara asked as she ushered them up another broad, gilded flight of stairs.

  Mirt shook his head. "Not unless you feel like fighting off all the Zhentarim in the citadel."

  Myrintara leaned her head to one side as if considering his suggestion rather longingly, and then shook her head with regret. "We'd never get the place cleaned up again before business hours."

  On the upper landing, several men were cleaning and polishing the marble and carved, gilded railings. They broke off their work to stare at the four filthy guests.

  Shandril's eyes widened. So far, she'd counted sixteen servants in their brief climb through the house.

  "You must be very rich," she said.

  Myrintara laughed, "My girls often say that, too-usually just before asking for money."

  "She's generally thought to be the most successful pleasure-queen in all the Moonsea North," Oelaerone told Shandril.

  Myrintara looked pleased, "I'm also a Harper and a sorceress, though I'd prefer if both those things were kept from the ears of the Zhentarim."

  "How do the masks come into it-in your name, I mean?" Shandril asked curiously.

  "She's an expert at cloaking magic; such spells used to be called 'masks' in the Old Empires," Mirt said. Shandril looked at him, "How is it you know all about her?"

  Myrintara laughed again, "We were lovers, girl, Years ago." She looked fondly at Mirt, and added, "Before he got fat."

  Mirt looked injured; Shandril giggled at his expression, Myrintara glanced teasingly at him and sang a snatch of an old song: "Go upstairs, take off your armor…"

  "No time now," Mirt growled at her, "But if there were, Myrin, ye'd have to watch sharp-or I'd slide ye down the stair rail again."

  Shandril looked back down the long, gleaming bannister of the stairs in wonder, At her expression, both Mirt and Myrintara exploded in laughter.

  They were still laughing when Myrinlara ushered them through an arched doorway into a small room that was bare except for what looked like a massive stone coffin filled with water, Then she turned, face suddenly serious, and asked, "My dear, will you submit to one of my masking spells?"

  "Will it make me subject to someone else's will?" Shandril asked quietl
y.

  "No," Myrintara assured her, and Shandril nodded, "Step into the tub," Myrintara directed, "and lie down." Belarla and Oelaerone looked down at their soiled clothes and peered longingly at the water but said nothing.

  Shandril looked up at Myrintara. "Like this?" Myrintara nodded, "I'll cast the spell on the water and then push you under the surface. Hold your breath and don't be alarmed; Ill let you rise very soon."

  A few breaths later, it was done, and a dripping Shandril rose from the tub, Its once-clear water was now a muddv brown; Myrintara looked at it and sighed as she helped Shandril out. "Immersing you ensures you're completely covered," she said, "cloaked from all detecting magics. When you use spellfire again, my mask will be destroyed, but until then-no magic can find you, or see you if it is bent on someone or something known to be with you."

  She led them down a passage and through an ornate archway into a chamber that took Shandril's breath away, Under her dripping feet were white fur rugs-whole pelts of northern snow bears. Each one stretched a good six paces in length; they formed a path toward a shallow stairway. The steps led to a raised area where a circular bed floated in midair. Polished, curved mirrors floated around it and spells made stars seem to glimmer in a night sky, Belarla whistled, looking up, "That's nice."

  Myrintara smiled, "The moon rises to match the real Selune in the sky outside-Tears and all."

  Oelaerone made an acquisitive, purring sound in her throat, and turned on her heel to survey the rest of the room-a gleaming, luxurious array of smooth-finished chairs, dangling chains, restraining rings, and statues that were astonishingly lifelike, exquisitely beautiful, and breathtakingly explicit. Mirt was looking around with a sly smile and a raised eyebrow.

  "See something you like, Old Wolf?" Myrintara asked him challengingly, an eyebrow raised.

  "I should have stayed," Mirt said regretfully.

  Myrintara laughed again and left them to a screen at the back of her huge boudoir. Behind it, another archway led into her wardrobe, Shandril had never seen so many clothes in one place before-racks and racks of them, some hanging on wooden forms that dangled from the ceiling on chains. She stared around as Myrintara took them briskly through the corridor of clothes into dimness at the back of the room. There, for the first time, they found a few discarded chairs, with folded draperies piled atop them. Beyond was a small, plain door, Myrintara swung it open; it led into a small, dusty, empty closet.

  "My quick way out," she said with a smile. "Touch the back wall and you'll be taken to my favorite inn, where I go to rest from time to time, I fear the trip, for you, works only in one direction."

  "We can force ourselves to be content with that," Mirt assured her sagely, "I'd kiss ye farewell, Myrin, but ye might catch something," He waved at her, and stepped into the closet, The others followed.

  The world seemed to blink for a moment, then Shandril found herself standing on a grassy bank with trees all around her. The sun was high and warm; it was just before highsun.

  "Where are we?" Belarla asked before Shandril could, Mirt waved an expansive hand. "Step around those trees, ladies, and cross the road."

  They all went together, Shandril found herself looking at the village of Eveningstar, at the spot where the overland roads met, by the bridge over the River Starwater. Across the way rose the friendly, ramshackle bulk of The Lonesome Tankard, its signboard creaking slightly in the breeze.

  "Ah, the Tankard," Belarla said with pleasure, "Well, Myrintara certainly knows the good places to stay."

  "A hot bath," was all Oelaerone said, fishing around for her purse in the bodice of her soaked, stained, ruined gown.

  Mirt chuckled. "We've business with Tessaril, ladies," he said. "My thanks-perhaps well talk, this even or on the morrow."

  The Harper pleasure-queens rolled their eyes, "Just don't knock on our doors and demand aid or a rescue," Belarla said. "We've done our share for a tenday or so."

  "Or so, indeed," Oelacrone echoed. "Gods smile, you two," They waved farewell, crossed the road, and went into the Tankard.

  As they went up the road together, Shandril tried not to smell the reek coming off them both. She looked at Mirt curiously and asked, "Why didn't you stay with Myrintara, Old Wolf?"

  Mirt looked at her sidelong, "I was young and restless, lass, Besides," he added, "did ye not notice-she never stops laughing! In bed, at table, in the bath-my ears grew sore, in the end."

  Shandril stared at him-and then started to laugh helplessly.

  Mirt looked hurt, "I don't look that funny," he complained. She was still laughing as they came to the porch of Tessaril's Tower.

  One of the guards looked at them, peered a second time, and then turned and called "They're back! And-" He staggered hastily out of the way as a white-faced Narm and a broadly smiling Storm charged out of the tower to embrace the two, heedless of the stench and dirt Narm kissed Shandril repeatedly. "Gods, I was scared, Shan. Are you all right?"

  Shandril found herself suddenly crying into his chest. "I–I don't know," she managed to say, between happy sobs.

  "Well. come in, and we'll find out," Tessaril said from the doorway, and wrinkled her nose, "And you can both have a bath-or three."

  Nineteen

  Spellstorm Coming

  Dragons, lad? Let me sleep… no, I'm not impressed-not even if the sky was full of 'em, I've seen a spellstorm, lad and I'd have to see gods walking the Realms to top that.

  The character Nimrith the Old Warrior, in the play Much Ado in Sembia, Malarkin Norlbertusz of Ordulin, Year of the Prince

  Tessaril's bathroom was surprisingly luxurious. Shandril sighed blissfully as the warm, scented water sluiced away the filth of the citadel's sewers, She ran weary fingers back through her hair, opened her eyes, and found Belarla grinning at her in shared contentment from the next tub, soap suds sliding slowly down her front.

  "What made you choose to become Harpers?" Shandril asked curiously.

  Belarla smiled. The two Harpers had been delighted at Tessaril's invitation. Across the room, Oelaerone was soaping her hair with quick, expert motions. She flung her head back to keep soap out of her eyes, turned, and said, "We wanted a taste of adventure."

  "Adventure? But you're"-Shandril fumbled for words for a moment-"pleasure-queens." Belarla raised an eyebrow, "Any task grows boring, Shan, if you do it over and over again." With a contented sigh she settled back down into the water and added, "How can we make others excited and give pleasure if we're not excited and enjoying it ourselves?" She nodded at the floor they'd entered the baths by, "-Tessaril casts spells, We're pleasure-queens; we work magic of another sort."

  "And who's to say which of us makes the most changes in Faerun?" Tessaril put in as she swung the door open, hung her robe by it, and joined them.

  A moment later, Shandril was groaning in satisfaction as the Lord of Eveningstar scrubbed at the small of her back. Tessaril looked over at Belarla, and drew down her brows in a mock frown. "Going to the Tankard when you could have come straight here to me! I'm hurt."

  Belarla spread her hands. "Lady-oops, Lord; I'll never get used to that-you have a lovely bath, here, My heartfelt thanks. We needed a dip in the river first, though. and a horse trough-and Dunman's inn has both of those."

  Tessaril chuckled, "So," she said to Shandril, as her skillful fingers kneaded knots and sore spots on the maiden's back, "are you going to tell me what happened in the citadel?"

  "Start with the beholders," Oelaerone teased, soap running down her shoulders.

  "Well," Shandril said, taking a deep breath, "I'm going back."

  The echoing chorus of groans that greeted this was so loud the servants came running to see if anything was amiss.

  Sarhthor and Fzoul wearily turned away from the watery scrying disc. The high priest gestured, and there was a collective gasp from the white-faced, exhausted underpriests as they released their concentration.

  The disc collapsed, Water crashed to the floor, and smoke rose where it hit som
e of the runes, Sarhthor and Fzoul strode through the resulting sparks and dancing radiances without even looking down. The wizard wiggled a finger, and a pair of stools glided out from the corners of the room. The two rulers of the Brotherhood sat down, not happily.

  "We lost all trace very suddenly," Sarhthor said.

  Fzoul nodded grimly. "Someone aiding her, more likely-has used magic to cloak her." He turned to the underpriests, who leaned wearily against the walls of the room, and demanded angrily, "Why hasn't the roused might of the citadel brought Shandril to us yet? This is our fortress, not an open city-no one here should defy us." He glared around at them. "Thousands of Zhentilar, scores of priests-and we haven't even brought her to bay, cornered somewhere?"

  Priests traded unhappy glances and spread their hands helplessly, not daring to speak.

  "Must I do everything myself?" Sarhthor and Fzoul snarled in unison, They stopped and looked at each other in the sudden silence. Then, very slowly, they traded cold smiles, and strode to the door together.

  "Are you resolved then, lass?" "I am," Shandril said firmly. Narm looked at her with pleading eyes. "You've killed Manshoon and other Zhentarim galore and half a hundred beholders. Isn't it time to stop?"

  He looked around Tessaril's audience chamber for support, but found none, Mirt sat with a friendly arm about each of the Harper pleasure-queens. Tessaril was behind her desk-and Shandril sat on it in their midst. Her long hair tossed behind her as she shook her head and leaned forward.

  "I want to stop, love-you know how much I do-but they'll never leave us alone as long as they can put this defeat down to a mageling's carelessness, that defeat down to ill luck, and everything else down to Elminster's aid," She waved one hand in exasperation. "None of them saw Manshoon die-even Mirt and Tess keep telling me he'll be back from the grave in a few days, And all of them still think they can get spellfire if they can only catch me asleep or worn out or with my pants down in a privy. The worst of it is, they're right. I've got to strike at them first, before they can spin another dozen traps and plans for me."