Elminster's Daughter

by Ed Greenwood

  Surth stood up, admired the glittering tip of his own knife, then lifted his eyebrows, looked down at Starmara as if only now remembering her, and said softly, “Ah, Lady Starmara! With your beauty, perhaps we could arrange a pleasanter punishment … or, on the other hand, perhaps you might unfortunately lose that beauty.” He watched his knife gleam as he turned it, slowly, and smiled.

  “By S-shar herself,” Durexter whispered, as the slender merchant bent swiftly to put his knife to Starmara’s cheek, “what’re you doing, man?”

  “Hold still, dear,” Malakar Surth said fondly—but unnecessarily, as Starmara had just fainted—and deftly sliced through the belt of her robe, to remove her gag. He turned his head to smile at Durexter and replied, “What am I doing, lord? ‘Leering triumphantly’ is the appropriate phrase, I believe.”

  As he felt Aumun Bezrar’s rough hands at his ankles and the prickle of coarse rope, it was Lord Durexter Dagohnlar’s chance to faint. Enthusiastically, he seized it.

  * * * * *

  She was panting, now, almost as loudly as the man so close behind her. They were both scrambling on the rooftops in the clinging mists, perhaps the length of a long wagon apart—and Rhauligan was gaining.

  Narnra doubled around a buttress of vomiting gargoyles—vomiting birdnests, it seemed, and she slipped and almost fell when they suddenly erupted in black, squawking, fluttering gorcraws or the like—and silently cursed the man. He seemed to know every roof and façade and alleyway, where she did not, and twice now had almost cornered her with no place to leap to, and no safe place to climb down.

  Almost, and—blast! Again!

  At the far end of the roof she’d just landed on—one with a drenched little rooftop garden, reached through a door protected by a massive, chased iron gate that might have given an army trouble, let alone one thief armed with a few fangs and her fingernails—was … nothing.

  A canal, with a near-impossible long leap across it to a grand mansion … and not the roof of that ornate turret-sprouting fortress of stone, either, but a lone dark and open window, high above the dark waters below. Narnra snatched a glance back over her shoulder and saw just what she’d expected: Rhauligan smiling grimly as he gained her rooftop, ready in a crouch for any desperate rush she might make at him … leaving her no place to go.

  No place but the desperate fool’s leap.

  The Silken Shadow clenched her fists, threw back her head to gulp air, chose her path across the garden between the great tubs and barrels of dripping plants—and ran for all she was worth, gaining speed and veering at the end just enough to hurl herself up … up … high into the night, tumbling once … twice …

  Glory of glories! She was going to—

  Crash into the window-sill hard enough to numb her arm and shoulder or break them outright, smash all the wind from her lungs, and somersault her helplessly into the darkness beyond, to thump, bounce, and skid along on a thick, fur-like carpet.

  Colored glass in two decorative side-panels shattered and sang around her as she burst them wide, to bounce and swing in her wake, and …

  There was a great bed in the ornate room. A naked man and woman lay bound hand and foot beside each other by the foot of it—and turning from them, two dark-clad, hooded figures with curved, gleaming knives in their hands!

  Winded and in pain, Narnra could do no more than twitch and writhe as she came to a halt—and black-clad bodies blotted out the light.

  Steel flashed down and bit into her, so cold and sharp that she couldn’t have screamed even if she’d had breath enough to do so. Narnra rolled away, or tried to, mewing in pain, as those knives bit down again and again.

  Seven

  INTRIGUE IS A FINE DARK WINE

  Making coins and crushing rivals is a fine day’s feasting—but the dance of intrigue that leads to such things is a fine dark wine.

  Andratha Thunbarr

  My Days As A Merchant Queen

  Year of the Wandering Wyrm

  “Get her! By Shar, a hired slayer! Durexter, you’ll pay for this!” Surth snarled, stabbing for all he was worth. He promptly slipped on the bunched-up carpet for the fourth time and fell heavily across the newcomer, leaving Bezrar no safe place to stab.

  “Not mine!” the trussed merchant cried frantically, from the floor. “Not mine!”

  “That’s true,” another voice roared, as someone else burst through the window, sending fresh shards of glass bouncing and singing across the bedchamber, “because she’s mine!”

  Gasping, shuddering, and pawing feebly for her own knife, Narnra Shalace sobbed in the grip of worse pain than she’d ever felt before, searing and wet and—emptying. She was emptying out, flowing …

  Struggling atop her, Malakar Surth set the point of his knife into the floor, drove it down hard through a gap in the tiles, and used it as a handle to drag himself off of the heaving, slithering night-slayer beneath him. Such folk often carried poisons—possibly ones he himself had supplied—and he wanted to be well away from this one before—

  Glarasteer Rhauligan ducked under Bezrar’s wild slash, slammed a balled fist into the fat merchant’s rotund chest—above the belly and below the heart, forcing Bezrar into the wild battlecry of “Eeep!”—and ran on, slamming hard into Surth and smashing him back against the nearest wall, which happened to sport a glass-fronted wardrobe.

  More singing shards rained down amid the bouncing of Surth’s bruised limbs, and Rhauligan found his feet, snatched Narnra by the shoulder, and was away toward the window before the wardrobe wavered, shivered all over as Starmara Dagohnlar screamed for the fate of her finest frilled lovegowns and nightrobes, and began its ponderous but inexorable thundering topple to the floor.

  Malakar Surth, head ringing and hands smarting from dozens of small cuts, got himself dazedly up onto one elbow, coughing for breath, in time to wonder why what faint light there was in the room was so swiftly disappearing … for all the world as if black night was coming down from above like a solid ceiling …

  The crash of the wardrobe slamming down with force enough to snatch everyone off their feet—or in the case of the trussed Dagohnlars, into the air—was loud enough to deafen Surth, even before his head burst through the flimsy back panel of the piece with a loud splintering sound. Had the wardrobe possessed stout wooden front doors, on the other hand, he might never again have heard anything at all.

  This was not a consideration he was presently in any fit condition to entertain. Wearing a rough cap of splinters, Surth’s hooded head lolled and sagged to one side.

  Bezrar caught a glimpse of his partner’s fate as he fetched up against the window-frame and for one sickening moment thought he was going to go canal-diving right out through it.

  When he found his feet again, he reeled across the room with more speed than skill, suffering a bruising punch from the second night-slayer as he rushed past—and was gone out the bedchamber door and down through the dark and silent house.

  A few frightened servants peered at him through the little peep-panels in the doors of their rooms, but no one ventured forth to see what was causing all the tumult. Dagohnlar business was Dagohnlar business, and Dagohnlar privacy was Dagohnlar privacy. These rules had been made firmly clear years ago and upheld several times. It was very clearly understood that any servant who dared to intrude upon the Lord and Lady Masters before they were summoned by the gong could expect immediate dismissal—if not worse.

  Ignoring the frantically pleading and squirming couple on the floor, Glarasteer Rhauligan dragged his quarry over to the window where the light was best and roughly unhooded her.

  “Right, lass,” he growled, shaking her, “let’s be having your blades—hilt first, mind, and—”

  Narnra Shalace threw her arms around him—and collapsed.

  Rhauligan held her in one encircling arm and peered at her pale face. Blood was running freely from her mouth, her beseeching eyes were sliding into darkness … and the front of her leathers, where she was pressed
against him, was dark and slick with her own welling blood.

  * * * * *

  The brazier spat a larger flame than before. This gout of fire did not fade as most do, but grew and curled as it rose, brightened, pulsed once more, and expanded into … a floating head. A long-bearded, thin, and human male head, that turned to give the young wizard standing alone in the room a sharp look.

  Harnrim “Darkspells” Starangh smiled. “I am here, Lord Tharundar, and quite alone. My meeting with Lady Ambrur is but hours away.”

  “You know your orders, and have satisfied me as to your reasons for meeting this person; why, then …?”

  Starangh inclined his head. “I know you’ve many important workings active, Lord, and presume on your time only in this one wise: my measure of the Lady Joysil Ambrur has thus far been taken purely through hearsay—the testimony of others. All deeds and entanglements and wealth, rather than personality. It would help greatly to successfully accomplish my task for you if I knew anything you can tell me about this woman’s character, ere I meet her.”

  The spell-spun head smiled just as thinly and coldly as the real Tharundar, half of Faerûn away at this moment, was wont to, and replied, “You, Harnrim, have perhaps a third of the competence with spells that you think you do. However, I value you very highly among my tools, because you are that rarest of Red Wizards: one who combines youth, what are so glibly called ‘good looks,’ ambition, slyness, the clever tongue and iron self-control of a veteran diplomat, patience, superb acting skills, and a talent for handling powerful magic.”

  The spectral head drifted a little closer. “And you defer to me and call on my wisdom where most others would be too proud to do so. Keep yourself alive, young Starangh, and you’ll rise high indeed. As for the Lady Ambrur, tell me first your judgment of her—briefly, for you’ve no need to impress me further.”

  The man who was pleased to be called “Darkspells” spread his hands in a gesture of amused bafflement. “I believe, so far as I believe anything, that she’s a bored noble utterly fascinated by intrigue and being ‘in the know’ and at the heart of secrets and conspiracies. In other words, she does it all for fun.”

  The head of flames seemed to nod slightly. “Your conclusions, so far as the wider world has been able to tell, are correct. Yet let me lay this warning beside them: There seems to me to be more to the Lady Joysil than mere money and sophisticated boredom. Intrigue is like a drug to her, yes, but … there’s something more to her as well.…”

  “Hidden depths?” Starangh smiled. “We all have them, Lord.”

  * * * * *

  Rhauligan blinked in astonishment, shot swift glances across the bedchamber to make sure no stealthy foe was readying a blade to throw or some other mischief, and lowered the woman he’d been hunting gently to the floor. One of the trussed couple rolled over to watch.

  Gods above, how could such a slender thing have so much blood to lose? If she was to be taken alive, there was no time left for thinking of such things!

  Kneeling over her, he reached past the spreading river of dark, wet stickiness to his left boot, and drew out the steel vial he kept sheathed therein. Its bottom sported a spike for planting it ready in the ground, and he used that spike and his fingers to part her clenched teeth, ramming a knuckle into the corner of her jaw to keep it open as he bit the cork off the vial.

  Under his finger, Narnra’s eyes flickered. As Rhauligan spat the cork away into the gloom, they flashed open—and she twisted feebly under him, making no sound but a ragged hiss of pain. One hand lifted to strike at his face, wavered far from its target, and fell back as a groan escaped her. The Harper brought the vial down with his thumb over the end, thrust it between her teeth—and held it there, collapsing forward onto her to pin her where she lay.

  The usual choking and coughing erupted almost immediately, but Narnra was too weak to do more than quiver and thrash … for the first few moments.

  Rhauligan rode her bucking, arching body grimly through the wilder moments that followed, knowing the restless pain that such healing brought—then rolled her over with brutal efficiency and snatched out what he carried in his other boot: lengths of dark, waxed binding cord.

  By the time her wrists were bound together and secured to the back of her own belt, Narnra was fully healed, and twisting with a furious energy that brought a wry smile to her captor’s lips.

  “None of that, lass,” he told her merrily, as he spun Narnra around by the elbows and hauled her to her feet. “You’re off to the Mage Royal for questioning. You can, of course, thank me for your life later.”

  Narnra’s answer was to turn her head as sharply as she could and spit at him, kicking wildly at where she thought his nearest leg must be. She’d guessed rightly, but Glarasteer Rhauligan had suffered much worse than being kicked and spat on before and merely chuckled and shifted his stance.

  “Come on, lass,” he growled. “The chase is up, and Caladnei’s not so bad as all tha—auuoo!”

  Narnra sat down suddenly, thrusting out her behind into him—and the overbalanced Harper put out a foot to brace himself, brought it down on the edge of the toppled wardrobe, turned his ankle, and toppled helplessly. The Silken Shadow jerked, elbow-thrust, and twisted desperately to free herself from his grasp, and so bounced atop him but out of his hands when he crashed down onto the already-split back panel of the wardrobe.

  “My clothes!” Starmara Dagohnlar moaned—as Narnra Shalace sprang up off the man who’d saved her life like a dark whirlwind and made for the window.

  Rhauligan roared in pain and self-annoyance and rolled himself upright, ignoring the sudden cries from the floor of, “Rescue! Sir, a rescue! We’re rich, we can pay! Help us, please!”

  He was in time to see the faint rectangle of light at the window blotted out by Narnra’s rushing body—then clear again. A moment later, there was a mighty splash from below.

  The canal. She was going to drown herself in the gods-rotting canal.

  With a growl of rising rage Glarasteer Rhauligan ran across the room, bounded once—and plunged through the window cleanly, heralding his own, mightier splash.

  Durexter and Starmara Dagohnlar exchanged bewildered glances, but their bedchamber, as long moments dragged and passed, remained empty of suddenly appearing, charging and knife-waving hooded assailants … or any other unexpected new arrivals, either.

  They regarded each other again … and in unspoken accord, stirred into action in unison, rolling and wriggling closer to one another.

  “The gong-pull!” the lord merchant snarled, when he caught his breath. “Can you get upright and reach it?”

  “I can’t even feel my feet,” his lady snapped, “and if you think I’m going to summon the servants in with the both of us mother-naked and bound like fowl for the roasting-spit … gods, Durr, don’t you realize? They’d probably slit our throats with glee! Now, roll over so I can get my teeth to your wrists!”

  A sudden groan from the wardrobe made them both freeze in fear. The hooded head thrusting up through splintered ruin turned groggily and groaned again.

  “Hurry,” Lord Durexter Dagohnlar snarled, knocking his forehead against his wife’s in his urgency—and plunging her into a head-pain worse than she’d known for years. His breath was … even more fearsome.

  Starmara’s thoughts, as she rolled away from him and reared up, kicking her bound feet until she was sitting on the rucked and folded carpet, were murderous. For that, husband mine, you die. Not yet—not until we’re safely next in Westgate—but you … you utter pig, Durr.

  “Hurry,” Lord Dagohnlar said again, almost pleading. “If we can kill Surth, we’re safe. That fat fool Bezrar won’t dare do anything without him. If Surth wakes and gets to us before we’re free, it’s us who’ll be feeding the eels before dawn! So start gnawing!”

  “You make me sound like a rat,” Starmara hissed and started tugging with her teeth.

  Wisely, Durexter did not reply.

  * * * * * />
  The tireless wind whistled past Tharbost, whipping the Simbul’s robe up nearly over her head.

  THERE’S A SIMPLE CANTRIP …

  “Highest,” the Queen of Aglarond replied with a smile, tossing her hair unconcernedly, “I try never to waste magic on unimportant things. ’Tis so easy to fall into the habit of trying to steer every last little detail of Faerûn, from where shadows fall to the color of turning leaves … and every use of the Weave has its consequences. I care little for garments, am comfortable in this torn old thing, and what matters it if you or El see my rump? We all have one, after all.”

  I STAND CHASTENED, Mystra’s thunder came more quietly. YOUR VIEW IS THE RIGHT ONE. NEVER HESITATE TO SAY SUCH THINGS, EITHER OF YOU, FOR I HAVE A GREAT MOUNTAIN OF MUCHNESS STILL TO LEARN.

  Elminster groaned. “Don’t let thy priests hear that phrase, or they’ll be falling off mountainsides all over Faerûn.”

  Mystra’s startled laughter sang around them with force enough to shatter small shards of rock from old Tharbost.

  THANK YOU, OLD MAGE. I FEAR I CAN ONLY OFFER YOU POOR REPAYMENT: MORE ORDERS.

  Elminster went to one knee. “Command me, Lady of Mysteries.”

  GET UP, OLD FRAUD [confusion] … AND ACCEPT, I ASK, MY APOLOGIES: YOU MEANT THAT, IN TRUTH.

  “I did indeed.”

  Any deity has the power to bear down and open out any mortal mind like a book, to lay bare and read every last thought, feeling, and memory—but to do so in any manner but the slowest and most subtle way ruins the mind being examined.

  Moreover, the Chosen of Mystra held a measure of her own power. It flared whenever She thrust into their minds, until to proceed was like staring into the sun, searing and being seared, harming both and learning nothing. So Mystra—the new Mystra—had swiftly learned not to pry beyond what thoughts and memories her Chosen willingly shared.