Death Masks

by Ed Greenwood

“Shall I ask the servants to fetch in a larger trough?” she inquired gently, but Mirt was on his second tall tankard, and waving away her words with one pudgy hand. When he came up for air at last, gasping, it was to launch himself into a swift flurry of speech. “Nay, lady, not me, I’m not the man you seek, better you make a noble and guildmaster work together on this refounding, to show the rest it can be done and to get them used to talking with each other rather than about each other—but in the meantime use the need to refound the Griffons as a delaying tactic in dealing with yer fulminating sailors and shippers, until you can find a good opportunity to talk with the cloud giant.”

  Laeral nodded. “Agreed. You have done this before, haven’t you?”

  Mirt made a flourish of both hands, in mimicry of a deep courtiers’ bow, and caught up another tall tankard to drain it.

  “However,” Laeral added, and he chuckled.

  “Now, why did I just know there was going to be a ‘however’?”

  “However,” Laeral went on, reaching for her wine, “refounding the Griffons is going to take some time, and we have needs that must be met right now. Perhaps I need to hire some adventurers. Covertly, of course.”

  Mirt snorted. “ ‘Covert’ like that lot who showed up at the mansion for you the other night?” He reached for another tall tankard. “But aye, of course you do. So I’ll go out and take a good look at who we might wind up with if we go hiring.”

  “If things get worse, we may not be able to afford to be all that choosy,” Laeral warned.

  “Ho, you say!” Mirt retorted. “Why don’t we refound Force Gray—or the Gray Hands, or whatever they’re best called—while we’re at it?”

  Laeral lofted an eyebrow. “Easily said, but less easily done. Folk that powerful are a weapon that can turn on the wielder swiftly indeed, if they aren’t unshakably loyal. That loyalty will take much time to forge.”

  Mirt set down his drink, face somber, and said quietly, “Lady, there was a part of me that very much wanted to refuse when Elminster bade me come here with him. He said I would be needed, but my Waterdeep is the Deep of a century ago. Part of me wanted to cling to that, to hold to my memories so I could pretend my Asper was still alive, all the shopkeepers I traded jests with, my old rivals, and …”

  He waved a hand as if to sweep many memories away, and then said more briskly, “Yet I found I couldn’t stay away. I had to be back here again, to smell the salt air and the smoke of thousands of chimneys, to be home. No matter how much ‘home’ has changed while my back was turned. So here I am. I was no diplomat back in the old days, and I’m certainly not one now, in a city that’s forgotten me, or knows me only from wild old tales of my worst misbehavior. What I know about the Deep is more than a hundred years out of date, but …”

  “I was waiting for that ‘but,’ ” Laeral told him softly.

  “But some things—where alleys run, old feuds and rivalries, the skeletons in certain closets—don’t change all that much. The back rooms, the alleys, the corners where shady work is talked over; they’re my world, where one glimpse of you approaching will shut mouths and make men drift back into the shadows. So I hear things. Just in the brief time I was … ah …”

  “Foraging,” Laeral supplied helpfully.

  “Foraging,” Mirt agreed with a grin, “I learned some things. The Zhents are growing more numerous in the city, these last few seasons. Skulking so the Watch won’t notice, but there are more and more of them, and they’re settling in. Buying businesses, becoming landlords, taking their places.”

  “That, I’ve noticed myself,” Laeral agreed. “Deeds and contracts and purchase agreements may be less exciting than dark alleys and dark back rooms, but they hold their own revelations.”

  Mirt nodded. “I’ve confirmed something that was a suspicion of mine a century back, too. The Xanathar.”

  “The Xanathar, our resident beholder crime lord, not very far beneath the city—busy in Skullport right now, I believe,” Laeral responded. “What of the Xanathar?”

  “I know now for certain that ‘the Xanathar’ is a post or title taken by one eye tyrant after another, not a lone and long-lived beholder.”

  “We Chosen have known as much for centuries,” Laeral said gently. “Halaster found having such a distraction very useful, in—”

  Two men burst into the room, striding fast, and snapped to attention even before Mirt could snatch up a morningfeast knife to hurl. It was Seneschal Talen Telfeather of the Palace, and right behind him a grim and grizzled Watch officer in full armor that bore the insignia of a guardsword.

  “Lady, I apologize for the interruption,” Telfeather said smoothly, “but this is Hawkguard of the Watch, with news he informs me cannot wait.”

  “Then proceed,” Laeral urged, giving the guardsword her full attention.

  “Lady,” the veteran said gravely, “I beg leave to report to you that another Lord of the City has been murdered. Barkeld Haelinghorse, at his home last night. Beheaded, and the head carried off. No one saw his slayers, and we have as yet no idea who they were. Thus far, the Watchful Order’s best efforts have yielded nothing—but they are still at their castings; I came straight here to inform you. The news is spreading fast, and the people are in an uproar.”

  “Three Hidden Lords down, now,” Laeral murmured.

  “I fear,” Hawkguard added grimly, “that the city is on the verge of erupting into a tumult of killings and response-killings.”

  Laeral nodded. “So,” she said quietly, “am I.”

  • • •

  “YOUR NOSE! WHAT’S wrong with your nose?”

  “Plenty, some say, and I’ve broken this hawk beak a time or three, but ’tis the one I was born with,” Elminster replied, reaching out to catch Mordenkainen’s wrist.

  The archwizard of Oerth stared back at him, wild-eyed, then blurted out, “Such brightness; ’twas blinding, blinding! I scarce—”

  He broke off into barking like a dog, then a swift and frantic panting as Elminster wrestled him back against the nearest wall and held him there.

  This should be over soon. Mordenkainen still flared up into ravings often, but they were less and less frequent, and lasted for ever-shorter periods.

  Thank Mystra.

  “She watches us!” Mordenkainen roared suddenly, right into El’s face, as he erupted into a fierce struggle to be free of El’s grip. “As gleeful as the dead king lording it over his city of vipers, as they glide through the jaws and empty eye sockets of countless skulls—she watches us, I tell you!”

  “So you do,” El agreed calmly, holding the raving wizard against the wall with some difficulty. The man was strong. “Which usually means it’s time for some more tea. Tea?”

  Mordenkainen erupted with a string of swift profanity in which profound dislike of tea in any form was prominent, and that colorfully suggested several energetic ways in which tea could be forcibly introduced inside various tender and private areas of Elminster’s anatomy, and how many dragons and slithering monsters and many-headed slimy creeping things he could enlist to help him apply tea to Elminster’s most sensitive internal areas—and then he went silent, in mid-word, and stared at nothing, his lower jaw flapping loosely and then hanging limply, his tongue falling down to keep it company.

  Elminster held the burly archmage of Oerth against the wall for long enough to catch his own breath and then led the oblivious and staring Mordenkainen across the room to a high-backed, padded bed, and sat him on it.

  Storm Silverhand was curled up on the other end of that bed, and had been frowningly watching the wizard’s eruption.

  When Mordenkainen’s distant gaze moved across her, he refocused, blinked, and said to her, “But … but you’re a woman!”

  Storm followed his gaze down to her ample breasts, and then raised her eyes to meet his and said mildly, “Why, so I am. That explains a lot of things.”

  Mordenkainen looked bewildered. “I, ah … it does?”

  Elminster rolled
his eyes at Storm from behind Mordenkainen, and she replied with a gentle, “Sorry. Not helping, am I?”

  El shook his head. “Daren’t use the Weave to try to heal,” he murmured, pointing at Mordenkainen’s head, “but he’s doing it himself.”

  He helped settle the wizard of Oerth into position, propped up against a small mountain of pillows, and said soothingly, “I’ve found an interesting book I’d like your opinion on, old friend. Here. Have a look.”

  From under the bed he drew forth a large, shining, heavy tome, opened it to the first page, and put it into the seated wizard’s hands.

  Mordenkainen leaned forward eagerly, eyes lighting up like lanterns, and moved his fingers along the lines of writing and symbols without quite touching them.

  “What is that, El?” Storm murmured in Elminster’s ear. “Metal pages? And an alloy I don’t recognize—and I’ve seen more than my share of metals down the centuries.”

  El put the tip of one finger delicately into her nearest ear, and through that link thought: An old Netherese tome. Many of the spells are flawed. ’Twas bound away with Telamont’s childhood things; if this is the sort of magic he learned, that explains much.

  Storm shook her head rather grimly, and thought back, And if Mordenkainen learns the wrong spell from it and starts blasting things? What then?

  I doubt he will, El thought, but if he does, I’ll just have to stop him.

  Oh? What if he starts his blasting with you?

  Ah, lass, ye say the most helpful things, El replied fondly. By way of reply, Storm pointed silently. He turned to see what she was pointing at—and beheld Mordenkainen, the Thultanthan tome set aside, down on the floor peering under the bed in the spot where El had hidden the book. The wizard of Oerth seemed to be trying to see if there were any more books under there.

  Elminster looked back at Storm, and gave her a shrug and a rueful grin—and Storm flung her arms around him and kissed him.

  Her mouth was as warm and sweet as ever, and El lost himself in her for a few blissful moments before she gently disengaged herself and said warningly, “I must get back to my work. You be careful, now. Neither Toril nor I need yonder archmage to be happy—but we both need you for our happiness, even if most of Toril doesn’t know it.”

  “What?” Elminster protested. “Start being careful after all these centuries? Lass, I don’t know how!”

  In reply Storm turned back to face him, a bare stride before she entered the glowing gate she’d just made visible with a wave of her hand, and demonstrated that she knew at least one of the lewder hand-gestures currently in vogue in the streets, taverns, and clubs of Waterdeep.

  And could perform it with a deft and insolent flourish.

  • • •

  THE LORDSMOOT WAS one of the most impressive rooms in the Palace. It lacked the soaring ceilings of the main central rooms of state, but was large enough to have quite a roomy open space all around its central wooden table—an oval expanse of gleamingly polished wood that could seat twenty-nine.

  Laeral had no idea if Waterdeep had ever had that many Lords at any one time, but she knew a full roster-count of Masked Lords, these days, was twenty. No more than sixteen ever customarily assembled in public, fully masked, so most of the populace of Waterdeep “knew” there were only sixteen Hidden Lords.

  Like every Open Lord, she was supposed to know who they all truly were, behind their masks, and the sixteen Lords who’d attended her induction had shown her a roster list of all twenty. She was fairly sure that list had been honest and complete, but only fairly.

  Most Lords of Waterdeep knew each other’s identities, but there were—and had always been—a few who loved their privacy. That handful kept their selves secret to all but the Open Lord and perhaps one or two of their fellow Lords.

  Right now, most of the identical seats around the table were empty. It was clear that one seat, flanked by empty spaces immediately to either side of it rather than chairs, was intended for her.

  Nine Lords had already taken seats across from it, faces hidden behind their identical, impassive Masks. Which were not really masks at all but full metal war-helms with impressive outthrust two-tiered armored collars, and mere arrays of holes to see, hear, and breathe through. Enchantments on those Masks turned back many spells and altered the voices of all wearers into slightly buzzing, echoing low tones.

  Yet despite the Masks’ enchantments, she thought she knew most of the nine who faced her now, by their gestures, their gaits as they’d walked in, and the way they held themselves.

  That lean, tallish one on the right was Landarmyn Voskur, a wealthy ship fleet owner and investor in properties up and down the Sword Coast. The stouter one beside Voskur was Gruthgar Hrimmrel, a retired shipwright very active as a landlord in the Deep. Next to Hrimmrel was a broad-shouldered mountain of a man, Belgantur Haelhand, a retired swordsmith who owned several gnome and halfling iron-smelting and casting businesses in Secomber that shipped to Waterdeep nigh daily.

  Next along the arc of Lords, moving steadily left, was the sardonic, purring Oszbur Malankar, a fabulously wealthy wine-seller and investor from Sembia whose family had relocated to Waterdeep when “the troubles with Netheril” had started. Next to him was Lammakh Heirlarpost, a loud, dominant, take-charge sort who’d inherited his mother’s importation business that had grown very profitable specializing in connecting guilds with the right bulk raw ingredients or components at lower prices than competitors could offer. Then came Kassalra Maremthur—the only female Lord among these nine, a shrewd woman of few words who’d grown very rich making and selling ointments and philters in beautiful blown glass vials that caravan merchants crisscrossing the Heartlands couldn’t get enough of.

  Of all twenty Lords, Laeral reflected, only five were women. And of the twenty, only four weren’t purebred human. All were wealthy. Narrow representation; narrow thinking.

  On the end, beside Maremthur, sat deep-voiced Braethan Cazondur, who was something profitable in discreet investments and as a city landlord in the northerly wards of the city. Slow and deliberate of speech but not of thought, he at least seemed relaxed—unlike Voskur and Heirlarpost, who leaned forward over the table like two hounds straining at the leash in their eagerness.

  Well, now, let the tethers slip, and the fun begin.

  “My fellow Lords,” Laeral greeted the Hidden Lords facing her across the table, “you requested this meeting, and I am happy to host it, but in the interests of expediency would ask you to begin by unfolding to me why you wished to meet. What urgency compels this break with routine?”

  There were no servants in the room or in any of the antechambers adjoining the Lordsmoot; her nine visitors had been most insistent about that. Palace servants or courtiers would come when respective bell-pulls summoned them, but failing that, Laeral was alone with her fellow Lords in this magnificent room.

  The walls of the Lordsmoot were pierced by many magnificent closed doors, and between them the paneling was adorned with large, framed, enchanted-to-glow magnificently detailed maps of each ward of the city. The floor—unlike the polished marble of the audience chambers or the smooth flagstones of the grand entrance hall—was of well-oiled, smooth-polished wooden planks. The room smelled of that oil, and more faintly of a sharper, nuttier oil that had been used, far longer ago, on the table.

  Laeral breathed in that smell and kept herself calm as Lord Heirlarpost shot to his feet and thundered, “Lady Silverhand, word of rank villainy has come to our ears! Shoddy workmanship that endangers us all! Some who charge coin to do work in this city are, it seems, quite willing to sacrifice the lives and safety of honest, upstanding citizens just to make a few nibs faster and with less effort! And then there’s the matter of this giants’ castle, hovering almost over us! That could be home to an army that could descend upon us with fire and sword and fell magic at any time! Yet nothing has been done about it!”

  “My lord,” Laeral said gently, “please, sit. And let us have calm. The ca
stle is home to a peaceful family of cloud giants, whom I have met. They have come to Waterdeep to trade, so we should welcome them—and let them go about their business unhindered—as we do almost all other merchants. Our demonstrated tolerance is our prosperity.”

  “That old maxim,” Voskur muttered. “You received assurances?”

  “I did,” Laeral replied. “They do not plan to be here long. A tenday at most. Now as for your concern about workmanship … I have, as you know, personal memories of an earlier Waterdeep, so I can say with certainty that it has long been locally fashionable to think of noble lords and ladies, and the guildmasters of this city, too—not to mention rising wealthy entrepreneurs and those workers not part of guilds—as self-serving, decadent villains whose ruthlessness is only exceeded by their vices and their greed. In short, proudly unscrupulous crooks and murderers. Well, as with almost any collection of sentients, a handful of them are those things—but the great majority of them genuinely love their city and want to do what’s best for it. I just wish there was wider agreement on what is best for it—not to mention better judgment all around.”

  She might as well have tried to douse flames by smiling at them. Heirlarpost sputtered as he sat, and kept right on roaring, until other Lords interrupted him to have their own rants.

  Laeral kept her face looking gravely earnest and interested as she listened in silence, taking her measure of the nine. She could feel the uneasy undercurrent of fear; these nine Lords were beginning to get scared by the murders, but that was not why they’d interrupted her routine morning signing of contracts and examination of the city accounts.

  Not that she minded. A bell ago, she’d been mired in the usual approval of expenditures, and murmuring, “Ship Street again? What sort of slapdash job did they do last time? Those cobbles aren’t laid on prunes, or icing, nor yet wheels of overripe cheese—or shouldn’t be!”

  No, they’d shown up and insisted on this emergency meeting and vote to get her to issue an immediate edict.

  The murder of Haelinghorse hadn’t been the only overnight excitement. There’d been a subsidence, a collapse in Castle Ward that had taken down three shops—and all the folk restocking and cleaning them and living above them. Down into the depths—into Downshadow.