by Ed Greenwood
“Any more wizards now that Lightning-Dolt’s dead?”
“There should be, but …”
Someone cursed in the darkness below—lamps were noticeably fewer, now—and the rushing Narnra was out of earshot of the stair-head by the time those oaths—and the skirl of steel and choked-off groan that swiftly followed—had died away.
“—got clean away!” someone said suddenly, almost in Narnra’s ear, as she skidded around a corner and raced toward the next flight of descending steps. “Ho!”
“Stop her!” another voice snapped. There was a heavy crash as someone stepped into the path of the two Harpers racing after her. Men bounced and rolled down the steps in a heavily thudding, cursing, and ultimately groaning bundle in her wake. Narnra dared not look to see what had befallen, but as she turned at the next landing she got a momentary glimpse of what looked like the lamplit silhouette of a man leaping over tumbling bodies on the stairs to keep after her.
She slipped in something sticky—probably blood—and almost went into a tumble herself. Slamming into the wall instead with force enough to drive away her breath, she skidded painfully along it to a gasping halt and felt for the stone rail she could not see. All was in darkness, here, though she could see the glimmer of torches bobbing somewhere far below.
“Well,” a man’s voice came nastily out of the nearby darkness just below her, “if they got aboard that skiff, they’re at the bottom of one of Marsember’s fabled fetid canals right now. That was the one—”
“Hold!” another man snapped. “I thought that was a corpse rolling down the stairs, but someone’s panting—and so, yet lives.”
“Touch left,” the first voice muttered, and—as she crouched low, mastering her balance for a desperate spring—Narnra heard stealthy movements.
Light flared, below her: a soft blue magical glow arising from the pommel of a dagger held out over the center of the steps at full arm’s-length by someone in dark leathers who was crowded against the wall to Narnra’s left. Someone else was crouched right ahead of her against the right wall.
“A lass!” the one on the left said, sounding startled.
“In a mask,” the other responded, in tones that made it sound like mask-wearing was the most dire crime possible in Cormyr.
“We’re on the same side,” Narnra snapped, sounding very much like an irritated Waterdhavian noble matriarch. “I was hurrying down here on Caladnei’s orders when I slipped on these damned stairs.”
“Why the mask?”
“My face is no longer very attractive, sir,” she said, making her voice sound bitter. “One price of my loyal service.”
“Oh. I see. Ah … sorry. Have you no lamp?”
“None, nor permission to use it. My orders are otherwise.”
“Armeld, that’d be,” the other man said disgustedly. “Always fancies himself battle-lord riding into doom-glory.” He moved aside. “Pass, lady—but use the rail; it runs right through the next landing, at least. Damned luxurious warehouses these Marsemban nobles built themselves, I must say. Makes you wonder what sort of goods they stored here, eh?”
“Yes, it does. My thanks, sirs,” the Silken Shadow replied cautiously and hastened past, using the rail.
* * * * *
“No, Thauvas, that’s not the way,” Nameless Cormaeril said pleasantly, the tip of his sword already—but only just—through the skin that had until now covered the place where the Red Wizard’s throat joined the back of his jaw. “Why must you Thayans always make things so complicated? Business, all business, remember? Let me put it again, simply: I ask a few questions, and you give me a few honest answers—something you’re unaccustomed to, I know, but it doesn’t hurt much once you get into the habit. A little truth spills, I let you go free, and you’ll have plenty of time thereafter to plot my doom … simple, no?”
“Idiot noble,” the Red Wizard hissed, his sweating face as pale as a bleached skull. “Do you know what risk you place upon fair Cormyr by this overbold action? Or how terribly you doom yourself?”
The tall, scarred man at the other end of the grand rapier smiled. “Yes,” he told Thauvas sweetly.
Behind his back, the Red Wizard finally completed the intricate gesture he’d been tracing. “Sssardamar!” he said triumphantly—and twisted away from the sharp sword-point, shouting, “Die, fool! To dare to threaten a mage of Thay so! Down-country dog!”
Magic flared up around the man who’d called himself Khornadar of Westgate with a roar, hungry flames that thrust out at the raven-haired noble.
Who did not scream and shrivel and die but instead lost sword and dark hair and clean-shaven chin to stand smiling through the flames as a hawk-nosed, white-bearded man with busy brows, stained old robes—and even brighter fire in his hands.
“Ah, but it seems fools dare just about anything, these days, doesn’t it?” he asked merrily. “Do ye know me now, Thauvas Zlorn? Do they still, in Thay—amidst all their swaggering and gleeful counting of as-yet-unhatched chickens, as they scheme to rule all Toril a dozen times over—mention the name ‘Elminster’ from time to time? Just to warn young wizards of the natural perils of this world?”
Blood trickled down Zlorn’s throat as magic that sliced through his own as if it were mere false conjurer’s fancy-feathers lifted him into the air and held him dangling there. He swallowed, managed the nigh impossible feat of growing even more pale, and fainted.
“Mystra mine,” Elminster murmured disgustedly, “but they let just about anything swagger out of Thay these days, don’t they?”
* * * * *
It was dark at the bottom of the stairs. The only lights were lanterns and torches moving to and fro with grim bands of searchers—humans all, men and women who bore either blades, handbows, and silver harp pins, or wands and the vacant expressions of folk listening to conversations only they could hear, raging in their heads.
Narnra paused, not sure at first which way to go. She knew roughly what direction led to the archway—but without that wizard it was closed, and she’d probably not be able to even find its exact location. Moreover, with all the corpses and spilled blood down here, it would be a horrible thing to have all the searchers depart and leave her groping in utter darkness with the rats. Her best chance lay in somehow joining a band of searchers, being accepted as one of them, reaching the city beyond the broken bridge with them … and, she supposed, starting a new life. With nearly nothing in a strange realm where she’d already been marked as a possible traitor by a royal wizard.
“Thank you, merciful gods,” she muttered sardonically—then stiffened as two things happened at once: she remembered the silhouette leaping down the stairs, presumably chasing her but somehow not yet upon her … and a Harper suddenly veered away from a passing group and thrust a flaming torch at her. “Yours,” he said shortly. “Caladnei’s orders.”
Narnra gaped at him then numbly, because she could think of nothing else to do, took the torch. It spat pitch, as they all did, and burned with a brilliance that warmed her cheek—very real and with enough hard-nailed cloth on it to last for hours. Of course, it made her a beacon in the dark cellars … but really, with a Mage Royal casting spells on her, wasn’t she that already?
The Silken Shadow sighed heavily, spread her hands in exasperation—for so accomplished a Waterdhavian snatch-thief, she wasn’t much of a strategist, thank you, Holy Mask—and set off briskly through the cellars, toward where that archway had been. There was the slimmest of chances the old wizard had returned there or would do so, and she had to at least look or forever gnaw at herself for having failed to do so.
Her way took her through almost a dozen cellars, and she saw almost a score of sprawled corpses and many, many more huddled, sullen prisoners. The Rightful Conspiracy, it seemed, was reduced to its mysterious masters and perhaps a few fugitives who’d managed to slip away.
Yes, this was the right place, here … and the passage she’d arrived by would be this one, and …
The
re was a sudden cold flare of magic off to the left, through another archway—and Narnra thrust the torch as behind her as she could manage and sidled nearer to see who was casting what down here—quite away from the bands of grim searchers.
Then she stiffened once more, and turned around very slowly. Why had all the searchers veered away from this area as she walked between them … and why was there now utter silence behind her?
Her torch showed her nothing but pillars and dark emptiness.
With a sudden snarl she flung the torch as high and as far back along her trail as she could.
The ceiling was high, and the beacon whupp-whupp-whupped end over end quite vigorously, trailing sparks and flame, to bounce with a flare of fire that sank immediately down to a few fitful flames. They were quite enough, however, to show her the shapely leather-clad legs of a lone figure who’d been following her.
That person lowered one hand to point at the torch—and it rose smoothly into the air, fires quickening once more … and came floating upright back to Narnra. At the beginning of its journey, its flickering radiance was quite sufficient to show the Waterdhavian thief the half-smiling face of the Mage Royal of Cormyr.
Narnra swallowed and raised her hand in salute—and caught the torch in her other hand, hoping Caladnei wasn’t so spiteful with her Art as to make it explode into a thief-incinerating inferno or some like doom.
The torch stayed a torch, and with a sigh of mingled relief and resignation Narnra turned back to those strange flickerings of magic.
A few paces onward she spun around again to see if Caladnei was following her. She could see nothing but shifting darkness, but a very dry voice murmured in her ear, so seemingly close that she couldn’t help but jump: A beacon indeed, Narnra Shalace of Waterdeep. Lead on, and together let us see what unfolds.
Narnra turned her face to the unseen ceiling overhead and flung a silent curse at Mask and Tymora, hefted the torch despairingly in her hands … and stepped forward again.
The archway was very close now, perhaps a dozen paces ahead to her left. She held the torch as low and as far to the right as she could, walked in that direction, then crept along the wall toward the edge of the arch. Yes, she was carrying a blazing beacon—but perhaps there was light and strife enough in the cellar to keep attention away from one closer torch among many. Perhaps …
Going down to her knees and ducking her head as low to the cold stone floor as she could, the Silken Shadow of Waterdeep peered around the edge of the archway.
The cellar held only two men—and their magic. One was the old wizard, her only way out of all this peril. The other was a younger man who hung gabbling fearfully in midair, gripped in a glowing, swirling cloud of enchantment.
So she was caught between the slowly and carefully advancing Caladnei of Cormyr—herding her as deftly as any drover crowding oxen into a caravan-pen—and the old mage who’d so casually defeated her. No doubt the Mage Royal was walking with spells upon spells raised like shields around her … and the power of the old wizard was obvious.
The very air glowed and throbbed with it, a pulsing so mighty it almost hurt the ears.
“Ye could have done this the easy way, ye know,” Elminster told the sweat-drenched, trembling man trembling in the air above him. “I’m a gentle tyrant and require only a few breaths of thy precious time—a hindrance in thy scheduled rush to world domination, I grant ye, yet ’twill give thee a chance to practice gloating and shouting clever jests and phrases about thy puissance to come … but no, Thauvas, ye had to struggle. And I thought Thayans understood the proper roles of master and slave. Ye disappoint me.” His voice sharpened. “So speak. Ye are—?”
“T-Thauvas Zlorn, Red Wizard of Thay.”
“Thank ye. So, Thauvas, ye came all the way to damp Marsember—not the nearest port of call from Thayan shores—merely to enjoy a revel with some strangers in a cellar, is that it?”
“Y-y-yes—uh—ah—I mean no!”
“Thy mind wavers and is troubled; bad traits for one who seeks to master wizardry.” Elminster shook his head. “The day of thy becoming any sort of zulkir seems distant indeed. Ye came to join or at least scout this Rightful Conspiracy, did ye not? Or is Thay already behind it, and ye were but carrying out an assigned mission?”
Zlorn’s face rippled and contorted as he fought against the horribly strong prying that stabbed into his memories and thoughts like a cook jabbing a skewer into a quace-fruit. Unwillingly, his lips moved at the bidding of a second inexorable magic to blurt out the truth. “Y-y-yes.”
“Yes which, most eloquent Thauvas? Speak loudly, for all to hear!”
Narnra froze at the old wizard’s words—then spun around to look at Caladnei. The Mage Royal’s face was as wryly astonished as her own.
“Yes,” the Red Wizard gasped hastily, “I was assigned this task … many rising Red Wizards involved … a test for each of us … Sembians sponsoring this conspiracy … begun by exiled malcontents of Cormyr, of course … we of Thay are keeping hidden, as much as possible, thus far …”
As Elminster’s fiercely tightening will penetrated thought after memory after precious secret, peeling the Thayan’s mind as some folk strip an onion, layer by layer, Thauvas Zlorn began to sob forth phrases more and more freely.
“And your jovial mention of using the Stalwart Adventurers? This is part of the plot? Under way or a future effort?”
“I—I—I—’twas my own idea … Velmaerass very pleased … praised me …”
“I’m most warmed to hear that,” Elminster said in dry tones. “He might even give ye a tharch or two, if ye’re still alive by then.”
Thauvas was already weeping in fear, bright lines of tears streaming down his cheeks. His teeth now began to chatter, and the Old Mage sighed, waved a hand, and said scornfully, “Sleep then—for now—and keep thy wits, such as they are. All this fainting and gabbling … when will these puppies learn that being a mage means facing the possible consequences beforehand, and weighing them, and acting mindful of their weight? Or is thinking before one goes merrily blasting off into red war left only to wise old fools, these days?”
He spun around suddenly, and an unseen, irresistable force took hold of Narnra’s throat and wrists and plucked her off her feet, torch and all, before she could so much as gasp.
“And ye, little Masked One? How much did ye think, before ye plunged through that gate on my heels, hmm? Or are ye so young that adventure dazzles ye into plunging after it?”
Narna Shalace found herself hanging in the throbbing air, faint white mists of sheer power roiling around her, looking down at the wryly smiling, bearded face of the old wizard.
She gasped for breath, finding herself suddenly sweating all over. Was that creeping numbness around her neck and ears his magic sliding into her mind? Was she going to end up sobbing and helpless, teeth chattering, tongue not her own? Would he slay her or leave her a half-wit, ruined by his magic?”
“I—I—I—”
“Are far too upset, Lady of the Night. I’ve no particular desire to work spell-murder right in front of the Mage Royal of Cormyr, who would then feel a duty to do something that could only get her hurt. All I want is something that should please us all: a sharing of the truth.”
Blue-gray eyes gleamed up at hers. “The truth, lass, is a precious thing. Sharp, yes, all too rare in daily use, aye … and therefore all too precious. Are ye willing to deal in it?”
Narnra swallowed helplessly, stared down at him, and struggled to reply.
The Old Mage gazed back up at her and asked softly, “Or is it death ye’d prefer?”
Four
TRUTHS AS SHARP AS RAZORS
Nothing wounds so deeply as unwanted, unblunted truth.
Thauloamur Reerist, Minstrel
Clever Words From A Failed Jester
Year of the Prince
“That’s not much of a choice to hand me—or anyone—is it?” Narnra snapped bitterly, anger rising in her to roll back
the fear … a little. “Do as I say, or I’ll blast you to ashes or leave you forever drooling. How can you trust any ‘truth’ handed you under such menace?”
The old wizard shrugged. “ ’Tis the same cruel choice most folk of power in this world hand to everyone else. Ye seem a bit too old, lass—especially considering the nature of thy nightly trade—to yet believe Faerûn is a fair place. If ye truly do, ye’re already a drooling idiot, whether ye admit it or not. I simply make choices blunter and clearer than many when I’m not in the mood for wasting overmuch time on tongue-fencing or frivolity. I’m not in the mood right now. I like Cormyr and have seen so many of these idiot rebellions in the making: the ‘making’ always seems to involve the deaths of many good and even some innocent folk. As to how I can trust thy truths, my magic will tell me when ye lie and when ye speak true.”
“And that’s supposed to make me willing and obedient?” Narnra snarled.
“Nay, but a hope to survive this night should. ‘Prudence,’ I believe ’tis still called. Ye came back down here seeking my gate and a way home out of all this, did ye not? I’m the only way through it ye know, am I not? I’ll be a trifle more willing to be helpful to someone who tried to rob and slay me in a dead-end alley not so long ago if she now tries to deal with me in at least a civil manner, will I not?”
The Waterdhavian lass drew in a deep, defeated breath. Despairing yet still furious, she sighed, took another shuddering gulp of air, and growled, “So ask your questions. I’ll try to keep to the truth.”
“Prudent,” the wizard agreed calmly. “If, that is, ye wish to keep me to truth-reading and not mind-forcing ye, as I started to do to Thauvas, there. He learned wisdom quickly.”
Narnra tossed her head. “Ask,” she repeated quietly, hanging helpless in midair.
The mists around her glowed with sudden light, a flash of radiance that died away as abruptly as it had come.
Her captor turned his head quickly to look out into the darkness. “Caladnei, please just watch and listen and pretend ye’re not here for a bit, eh? Vangerdahast will be most annoyed with me if I destroy his replacement without good cause—and ye may as well know now that thy reckless testing of my shield-spells is doomed to fail.”
