"We'd rather hear the story about how you got here," Renaer said, narrowing his eyes.
"Oh, enough about me," Osco said. "What are you doing here?"
"Uh-uh," Vharem said. "This little one's got a talent for avoiding questions-usually because he's filched something or stuck you with his tavern debt."
Osco clutched his hands over his heart and fell on his knees.
"Oh, such barbs from one I called fellow and comrade!" Vharem rolled his eyes.
"Answer me, Osco, or Madrak'll hear where you've been trespassing without invite."
Osco rolled his eyes and sat down hard. "You're no fun anymore, Ren. Just because I found out how you get here doesn't mean I'm going to take anything. There's no trust anymore."
Vharem cleared his throat, produced three silver forks, and waved them at Osco, who patted a belt pouch and then scowled at the slender human. He crossed his arms and sulked, muttering, "Just needed a place to lie low for a few days. Figured you'd not be here until spring. Sorry for intruding where I'm not wanted."
"Who're you hiding from, Osco?" Renaer said. "And how did you find out about this place and how to get here?"
"You and Gradam are always plotting," Osco said, "and I just made it a point to follow you around, quietlike. I watched you disappear from the garden and you returned the next day, so I figured, wherever it was, it was a safe place. I got Sharal to pour the water for me and ended up here three days ago. Three miserably uncomfortable days, mind you, as there's no fireboxes of wood around here. How'd you guys get this fire going?"
"Magic," Laraelra said. "I know you, little halfling, or at least I've heard of you. Someone matching your description posed as a cellarer and stole a lot of gems a few tendays ago from a client in Trades Ward. My father's still. fighting with the Gralleths over that, and the only thing keeping it out of Lords' Court is the indisputable fact. that there are no halflings in the Cellarers and Plumbers' Guild."
"You wound me, Lady Harsard," Osco chided, clasping his hands over his heart. "Besides, it could have been anyone shorter than him, as Malaerigo and Lord Chalras can't tell a halfling from a gnome or a dwarf, let alone identify any hin among hin."
"While that might be true," Laraelra said. "I never said which Gralleth was robbed."
Osco grimaced and then shot a wink and grin up at Meloon. "Women with brains. They'll be our downfall in every way, eh?"
Meloon looked down at the halfling and said, "And so the wagons roll, little friend."
"Enough!" Renaer yelled, and everyone started and looked at him. Vajra stirred a moment on her couch before settling back into unconsciousness. "Osco, you're coming back with us tomorrow when we leave. Stay with us, and maybe we can help you with whatever problem had you hiding out here. If you don't want to come back, good luck, but you're not staying here without someone to watch you."
"But it just got more comfortable," Osco whined. He shot a sly glance at the two women and said, "And it just got far better looking than it's been."
Vharem said, "I vote we just chuck him out in the snow. He'll only draw down more trouble on us."
"Oho! Renaer and Vharem are fleeing from trouble?" Osco's face lit up. "Did you get hired to help them out, big axeman, or are you all conspirators, kidnapping the Tethyrian over there?"
"No!" Meloon said.
Laraelra snickered at his shocked look. She snapped her fingers to get Osco's attention and said, "You're very good at deflecting attention off yourself, aren't you, little hin?"
"Yes, he is," Renaer said, "but I know him well enough to know when he's lying. Osco, help us out when we return to the city, or we'll just let Laraelra turn you over to her father and let the taols fall where they may."
"You'd betray a childhood friend, just like that?" Osco said. "Is that why that overgrown hin Faxhal isn't with you now? You left him to his creditors or something?"
Laraelra and Vharem gasped at the halfling, and Renaer felt like he'd been slammed in the stomach again. While others turned away, he met the halfling's gaze, his eyes watering, and Osco realized something truly bad had happened.
"Faxhal's dead, Osco," Renaer whispered.
Osco cleared his throat and said, "Sorry, Ren. Really."
For a few long moments, the only sounds were the crackle of flames in the fire grates. Then Renaer stood, opened a bottle of wine, and took a long drink. He passed it on, and Vharem, Meloon, Elra, and Osco each drank, then held the bottle toward the fire, silently saluting Faxhal. Osco returned the bottle to Renaer, who drained it. "Sleep, friends, and we'll leave come dawn."
Osco, his voice softer, asked, "Ren, why leave at all? This place is stocked well enough to keep us a while. Some of us can hunt for food too. Can't we hide out here until spring?"
"We must help Vajra. She's been tortured for the past month or more."
Osco's curly eyebrows shot up, he shot a glance toward Vajra, and then shrugged. "She looks fine to me. Must not have been too bad. They torture her with feathers?"
"I've had healers cure her body, but they can't repair her mind. She's the Blackstaffs heir, and there's someone back in Waterdeep posing as Samark the Blackstaff. He and Khondar 'Ten-Rings' Naomal, the Watchful Order's most arrogant guild-senior, are up to something, and they need her secrets."
"Why?" Osco asked. "What could she tell them? And why should we get involved in the Blackstaffs mess? It'll just lead to us being tortured-the kind without feathers!"
Vajra sat bolt upright on the divan, leveled steel blue eyes at the halfling and said, "You know many secrets that lie beneath black stones, Osco Salibuck. Do these deeds for me, and know the Black-staff rewards his friends well." Her tone was grave and stern, but then she looked quizzically at Osco and asked, "When did your eye get restored?"
When Osco just looked at her strangely, the blue-eyed wizard stopped speaking, and then she collapsed back onto the couch, unconscious.
Osco looked at her, then Renaer, and the others, and said, "Bet she's fun at parties. I've never met her before in my life, so I don't know how she knew my name. And I've no idea what else she was blathering on about."
When Vharem shot him a disbelieving look, he pleaded, "Honestly!"
"She does that," Renaer said, "but she rarely speaks as clearly. Normally it's like there's a bunch of folk fighting to talk through her. I think if we take her to Blackstaff Tower, it might help her. At least it'd be a safer place for her to hide."
"So how does that make it our problem?"
"Because they knew we're aware that they're up to something, fool," Vharem said as he sliced off a large hunk of cheese from the wheel he'd brought with him. "Besides, if someone else steals her power as the Blackstaff, they could kill Renaer and all of us far too easily. Not to mention anyone else associated with Renaet, like a certain family of hin servants?"
Osco blanched, his connections to the trouble made clear. "Depending on where we can- return to in the city, I can probably keep us all hidden from anyone looking for us. Anyone human, at least."
"How can you do that?" Meloon asked.
"Yes, how do you plan to help us avoid being caught?" Renaer said. "We're not even sure who our pursuers are other than Ten-Rings."
"I'll lead you through the Warrens beneath the city. It'll help me avoid others meself."
"Do the Warrens lead anywhere near Blackstaff Tower?" Renaer — asked.
Osco's brow furrowed, and he said, "Not that I know of, but I'm sure we can get close."
"Is that easier than using the streets?" Laraelra asked.
"Easier?" Osco said. "Not for you tall ones. Safer? Yes. The Watch and most humans never had much presence in the Warrens beyond a few token gnome and hin Watch. Mostly because the
Lords're too big and too arrogant to think that things among the small folk are worth noting. That's why there's a lot of things going on down there that make me gradam think I'm up to no good."
"Well, you skulk in the shadows pretty well," Renaer said, "and you always seem to be in
trouble or fleeing from one moneylender to the next."
"And that hardly makes me worse than most of the young nobles and nigh-nobles of Sea Ward now, does it?" "He's got a point," Laraelra chimed in, smirking.
CHAPTER 10
Blessed are those enfolded by the Cloakshadow, for their enemies shall see them not, know them not. Things entrusted to the Illusory remain secret, until the time comes to draw back the cloak and reveal what Baravar held dear.
Ompahr Daergech, Pantheonica, Volume IV, Year of the Guardian (1105 DR)
10 Nightal, Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)
Master Ompahr," Roywyn yelled, "we need your help!" She hated trying to talk to the nigh-deaf elderly priest. Even her shouts barely penetrated his awareness.
"You can't have my heart, curse you!" The bald, white-bearded gnome half-sat up against a mound of cushions and pillows at the back of his somewhat sumptuous burrow. His quarters filled the back of the subterranean temple to Baravar Cloakshadow, his honored presence as the elder high-priest of the order apparent from the richness of the trappings about his personal burrow. Ompahr Daergech himself was a frail, wizened gnome who almost disappeared amongst the pillows.
Instead of answering, the young priestess took a helmet off a nearby shelf and handed it to him. It was a curious object-a metal skullcap with two ram's horns mounted over the ears. In opposite fashion from some overdone fighter's helm, the points of the horns went toward the ears and the open ends of the hollowed horns faced outward. The old gnome grudgingly took the helm and grumbled as he put it on. "What are you disturbing my meditations for, granddaughter Ellywyn?" His voice dropped as he realized how loudly he had been speaking.
"I'm Roywyn, Grandsire Ompahr-Ellywyn's granddaughter," she explained in a lower voice, now that he could hear better.
"Well, what do you want, whoever you are?" Ompahr's growl was now more playful. Both she and her ancestor knew each other, but continued the game nonetheless for their own amusement.
"There's someone here bearing your seal-your green seal," Roywyn said. Her hands communicated even more to Ompahr that would not be overheard in the tunnels. She knew their guest was wrapped in at least three spells-one illusion, one transmutation, and one divination spell-and that he was impatient and not terribly respectful. His hands also glowed brightly of magic, even though they appeared bare. The child continued talking while her hands flew fast to tell her great-great-great-grandfather all this. "He is a halfling who has come to pay his respects and asks a boon of you." Her final hand-signals elicited much giggling out of the aged gnome, as she explained that if he was truly a halfling, she was a hill giant-after all, he turned down their standard offer of something to eat when he crossed their threshold.
"Send the lad in, then," Ompahr said, "and leave us be." Ompahr's silent hand-signals told Roywyn to stay close but hidden, along with two other priests who could overpower their foe-or at least dispel his active magic and any more he planned to use.
When Roywyn returned, she escorted a male hin. He wore a nondescript cloak and leathers, his hood thrown back, and a pair of short wands tucked into his belt. He bowed, and Omphar looked at him with spell-enhanced sight. He saw who the man was beneath his transformations and illusions-a completely bald man with merged eyebrows and a thin salt-and-pepper goatee and mustache. He noted the ten rings on his fingers-only two of which glowed magically-and saw an additional wand strapped to his inner right forearm. Ompahr didn't know who he faced, but he grinned nonetheless. He hadn't had any fun with strangers in quite some time.
"Greetings, honored Ompahr Daergech," the halfling said as he stood up. "I bring you this-"
"Don't waste my time, boy!" Ompahr roared at him, far louder than he needed for his own hearing. "I'm too blasted old! Show me what you've brought, silly fool of a hin! And give me a name, or I'll call you Puckerpaws and make you match the name!"
The hin coughed once, nervously, and said, "Call me Harthen," and held out his left hand, palm up, to show the gnome priest a rolled scroll closed and impressed with a green wax seal. Written in the old Common trade tongue on the outside of the scroll was, "Take this to Ompahr Daergech or his heirs. They will guide you to your rightful legacy."
Ompahr wiggled his ring finger and the scroll levitated off Harthen's palm. "Hold your palms up to me, Harthen," he said.
Ompahr saw nothing, either on Harthen's palms or on the man's real palms beneath his spells. Well, he didn't find these himself or he'd have the mark on one of his hands, Ompahr thought. I wonder how he found an honest person to do so. The priest wiggled his index finger, and the seal popped off the scroll, the ancient parchment unrolling and brittle edges cracking as it did so.
Ompahr saw an empty scroll for a moment, and he whispered a prayer to his god. "Baravar, draw open the curtains of deceit over this and let me see what secrets we hide from ourselves and others."
Words shimmered inro view-words in a strong hand, written in Gnomish. "Your oath is fulfilled, friend. Give the bearer the right hand passkey, if my marks are on him." In Ompahr's own hand- written so long ago there was no tremble or waver in his lettering, the scroll read, "Grant the scrolls bearer the keys of the left hand, if he should come ablustering without the marks to show he passed Khelben's test."
"So be it," Ompahr whispered. "No marks. No mercy."
"What does it say, wise one?" The halfling asked, lowering his unmarked palms.
Ompahr did not answer for a few breaths, and it amused him slightly to see his guest get increasingly agitated. While Ompahr loved playing games, he suddenly felt tired as his mind washed over memories of friends long fallen and oaths nigh-forgotten. Finally, he snorted. "Well, at least you're as properly impatient as a hin, I'll give you that. Your disguise is lacking, as is your subterfuge, wizard."
"How did you-" the figure exclaimed, then shook his head. "It matters not. Just tell me what the scroll bids, and I'll be back on the streets above where I belong."
"Unless we choose to cancel your magic." Ompahr leaned forward, his hand aglow with his threat. "You'd hardly be able to cast effectively or move easily, once your full form unfolded in my warren."
"Don't threaten me, gnome," the wizard said. "I've bested every challenger I've ever faced in arcane combat or otherwise. Some newcomers digging beneath my streets don't worry me, no matter their age or god."
Ompahr's smile drew tight and thin, his bushy eyebrows rising. "Supercilious shapeshifter. The Warrens have been here longer than ye know. Some existed long before there were human buildings up above us-well, aside from Hilather's Hold and a few temples. We just knew how to hide them better in days past. Once we told the hin about them, though, they invited everybody down here. Our secrets held for centuries among us and the dwarves, but once you tell a halfling a secret, it's a rumor in a breath and a fact by next highsun."
Ompahr's guest drew back, a confused look on his face.
"Did you think the dwarves and humans were the only ones drawn here to this upland?" the old gnome continued. "Every race in Faerun feels the call of this place, one time or t'other, one road or t'other. Not all roads lead to Waterdeep, but precious few lead to more worthy destinations. Magic-not just a good harbor and defensible highland-drew folk here, till they fulfill their purpose on or under the shadow of the mountain. Me, I have a role to play yet. That's why I'm still here after so long-my oath to that scroll and him what wrote it with me."
Confusion danced across his enemy's face, shifting into anger every other moment. Ompahr delighted in toying with the intruder, and he chose to play his hand out in full now and see whether his foe would reach for the prize given or seek out more.
"The scroll talks of keys. Keys to power. I am bound to give them to the bearer of the scroll-save when that bearer brings false face and false name to me. Tell me a name I can believe, and they will be yours."
"Give me the keys, old fool!" His hands fidgeted and two of his rings glowed.
"Yer spells will avail ye little here, boy of
ten hidden rings." Ompahr enjoyed the look of shock on the false halfling's face, but continued, making his voice its most serious in decades. "I've not used my sorcery in three times your lifetime, and I can still shrug off your worst with that and the Cloakshadow's blessings."
"I doubt that you understand my full measure, gnome," the man said. "Call me Ten-Rings, then. You'd not be alone in that."
Ompahr chuckled, then broke into a hoarse coughing. The ancient gnome fell back and turned away on his cushions, a wet phlegmy cough ending his seizure. When he regained his wheezing breath, he looked with one eye back at the man. "Ten-Rings," mused Ompahr. "So a senior of the Watchful Order comes scraping for the BlackstafPs power, does he?"
"You know of me, then?" Ten-Rings asked. "Then you know I work toward the city's good, not my own."
"I hear tell of a wizard whose pride and paranoia has him wearing ten rings to hide his magic and show it off at the same time," Ompahr said. "Some of my kin are among your guild, 'tis true, and they speak of your arrogance and magic."
"I am not proud. I simply acknowledge my own abilities. Unlike many others, I do not hide them."
"Why do you seek the keys, then?"
"The city has no Blackstaff nor heir," Ten-Rings said, "and I would put that burden on myself for the sake of the city."
Ompahr snorted and began a great long belly-deep laugh. When he finished, he wiped tears from his eyes and locked them on Ten-Rings. "You might fool others, but ores make better lies to my face than you just did. You're after power, plain and simple."
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