by Ed Greenwood
“Oh, we’ll do it, all right,” Ravva said quickly, “if you’ll buy us all better clothes, so we don’t look like alley beggars and get moved along by the Watch.”
Mirt blinked, but before he could say anything Drella added very quietly, “We’re not trying to take you, Saer. These are pretty much our wardrobes, what we’re wearing now; we know from trying to loiter in particular places in this city that these rags won’t pass muster with the Watch.”
Mirt waved a dismissive hand. “Fair enough, but you’ll have to bathe. Elegant ladies don’t—” He waved his hand again.
“Stink like we stink?” Waratra asked archly. “True enough. But we’re lying little sluts, Saer—you’d better take us to a festhall and bathe us yourself, just to be sure.”
Mirt leered. “Very well, if I must. And I’ll take you to some good gown shops up Castle Ward way and pay for suitably pretty rags, right now.”
He was astonished to be answered by sudden clenched-fists squeals of delight. A moment later Ravva was standing up on the worn leather of the booth benches so he could clearly see what she was revealing as she pulled up her torn and stained breeches to bare a stretch of thigh that was high up indeed—and a wicked little dagger, and a stabbing needle beside it, sheathed there ready for use.
“I’ll need a gown that covers these, but is slit so high, so I can get at them,” she ordered briskly.
Mirt grinned. “But of course. Now, let’s get started. With full and hearty meals for you all. I could sure use one.”
“Old man, are you sure your meals don’t all come out of tankards and flagons?”
Mirt’s response was a rude gesture that made all three alley girls shake their heads.
“You are old,” Waratra informed him. “No one does that one, any more. Now we do this.” She licked one finger, crooked it upward in a hook, and pulled sharply up and back, toward her mouth.
“I see,” Mirt said dryly.
“Oh,” she purred, “you will, when we’ve time, Old Wolf. You will.”
• • •
“THERE’S AN ART to being, ah, covert, lads,” Elminster informed them, “and it’s not sneaking about peering over thy shoulders every third step and sneaking. It’s striding or strolling as if ye’d every right to be wherever ye are and are a mite weary and bored as ye go about normal business.”
Jalester and Dunblade started eating fast, and the Sage of Shadowdale started to grin. There was nothing wrong with their wits, either of them; they’d figured out in an instant that he wanted them to get headed somewhere right now.
“So,” Jalester said, swallowing a too-large mouthful and wincing, “where are we headed? Covertly, of course.”
“With me, both of ye,” Elminster replied, “to Castle Waterdeep.”
Dunblade, mouth full, could only look astonished, but Jalester spoke for them both. “The castle? Isn’t that the main jail?”
“ ’Tis,” El agreed calmly, “but this is no trick to get ye into cells. We’ll just be visiting for a few breaths. Just long enough to get down to the tunnels that connect to the Palace, and use them—so as to be in position as a strike force, if trouble erupts at the Lords’ meeting tonight.”
“And when we come up to the castle gates, they’ll just let us stroll in?” Jalester asked skeptically.
Elminster made a show of ducking his head and looking furtively all about before he leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m a wizard. We know magic.”
Dunblade rolled his eyes, and stood up to brush away crumbs off the front of his leather jack. “Let’s get going.”
• • •
“I CONFESS I was surprised when your name was brought in to me,” Halangrym Ornbrand, Guildmaster of the Most Diligent League of Sail-makers & Cordwainers, admitted, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers beneath a concerned frown. “Forgive me, Lord Husteem, but I had not heard that you harbored any great love for any guild of this city.”
“Lord Ornbrand,” his guest replied with a smile, “I have lived my entire life in this fair city, and so have seen a distressingly high number of Waterdhavian summers—”
His pause for breath was short indeed, but Ornbrand seized it, smoothly and politely. “Forgive my interruption, Lord, but I am no Lord. Merely a guildmaster.”
“Ah. Indeed. That’s why I’ve come, as it happens.” Lord Erland Husteem tendered an affable smile and added, “But to continue: in that not inconsiderable span of years, I have come to learn that a noble who seems too friendly with guildmasters finds himself scorned by his fellows and hampered by tradesmen of every guild, out of their deepening suspicion that he’s Up To Something that can bode no good for the honest workers of Waterdeep—and that every guildmaster who seems too friendly with any noble finds himself under attack from his or her own guild, and belittled in their estimation as having accepted bribes or becoming a lickspittle to blandishments. So I make it my policy to remain aloof—publicly rude, even—for the good of both sides. However, that prudence must be set aside when the fate of the city we both love stands imperiled.”
“It does?”
“My lord, I count you among the shrewdest of our current guildmasters. You know your profession, you know your clients, you know Waterdeep—and you are no fool. All of which means it cannot have escaped your notice that certain Lords of Waterdeep have abruptly departed the ranks of the living during these last few days.”
Ornbrand nodded, a trifle warily.
“What you may not know,” Lord Husteem swept on, “is that the Lords who’ve so sadly perished are being purged because their greed and lack of honesty led them to, ah, double-cross ruthless criminal elements with whom they had been covertly dealing. You may have noticed that these fallen Lords were in the main very wealthy, self-made successful citizens, who aspired to nobility; now you know how they were able to become so rich and so successful in such a short time, whereas so many highborn of Waterdeep skimp and scrape for coin. Honesty brings lesser rewards than corruption.”
“Yet from time to time,” Ornbrand said dryly, “corruption hands out a rather final reward.”
“Indeed. And in this case, creates a sudden shortage of Masked Lords in our city. A shortage that certain so-far-surviving corrupt lords are even now rushing to try to fill with their cronies—more corrupt and ruthless criminals to vote on our laws and guide all of our futures and restrict our freedoms. A prospect that makes me shudder.”
“Ah,” Ornbrand nodded, “and so?”
“And so, being the sort of noble that thinks it is wrong and repeating the errors of past centuries to put more nobles—whose personal probity may or may not pass temple-muster, and whose worldly wisdom may be feeble indeed, but whose breeding at least guarantees revulsion at casual corruption—into the masks of the Hidden Lords of our city, I have been talking with other nobles who are of like mind, and we have hit upon a plan. A plan that involves guildmasters we see as capable, honest, and good leaders for Waterdeep ahead. Guildmasters like you, Lord Halangrym Ornbrand. If I may be so bold as to call you ‘Lord” before you’ve agreed to take the mantle and before the sitting Lords have voted you to join their number. Which of course they may not, particularly if the corrupt ones have their way. Yet I think most of Waterdeep would prefer the Hidden Lords of the city to represent the full rich array of our citizenry, not a small clique who welcomes in only their cronies.”
“And what if the, ah, corrupt Lords resort to violence?”
“The Watch are even now assembling armed guards for every Lord. Once in place, these ever-present hounds are going to make it more than a trifle difficult for the bent incumbent Lords even to contact their unsavory alley-knives. Nor shall any credible candidate for Lordship be without their own bodyguards, thanks to my resources. I’ve no desire whatsoever to send the best guildmasters of the city to any untimely doom. I want you hale and hearty and leading our city. By enjoying long and successful careers of outvoting the crooked Lords.”
> “Will I have to give up being guildmaster?”
“Gods, no! The Lords have no rule requiring it, and any guild member with an ounce of sense will see the advantages of having the head of their guild voting on city laws and regulations. And you’re the third guildmaster I’ve visited this morning who’s reacted favorably to my suggestion, so if you say yes you’ll not be standing alone under any suspicion or ridicule.”
“The third?”
Lord Husteem’s smile was warm and friendly. “You’ll appreciate that it would be less than polite of me to share names just now—but I doubt a Lord of this city who votes with pure intentions and untainted judgment will scorn any of you. So, now, Guildmaster Halangrym Ornbrand! Are you with me?”
The head of the Most Diligent League of Sail-makers & Cordwainers looked as eager and excited as a small boy trembling on the verge of being handed a splendid toy that might yet be snatched away from him. “W-why, yes,” he managed to blurt out. “I believe I am.”
“Good,” Lord Husteem purred. Not that he’d doubted for a moment that a man as greedy and grasping as this one would decline a Hidden Lord’s mask if offered one. Now, to extricate himself gracefully and head for the next quarry. Or target, or whatever the best term might be.
Dolt. Dolt would do fine.
“I, ah, what happens now?” Ornbrand almost squeaked.
Lord Erland Husteem managed not to roll his eyes. It wasn’t hard at all. He had been noble all his life, and well schooled; not a subtlety of expression nor hint of tonal inflection betrayed anything he didn’t want it to. ’Twas the breeding that did it.
• • •
THE REEK OF the sewers was particularly aromatic tonight. Something highly spiced on serving-platters in the Blue Jack above was hurrying patrons’ bowels with more than the usual enthusiasm.
Tasheene leaned close to the grating, straining to hear Antler’s slow, deep, quietly voiced words over the gurgling flow of filth.
Not for the first time, she thought about how swiftly and easily a needle-blade could take her life, sliding through the grating into her ear and on and in …
She fought down a shudder before she lost too many more of the words meant for that ear. If she did the wrong thing …
“Tonight’s meeting of the Lords will provide ideal opportunities for eliminating Lords, either as they approach the Palace or when they depart,” Antler was observing calmly. “You may remove these three lords in any manner and order that will prevent your being seen or otherwise traced by the Watch or any hired bodyguards: Ieirmeera Stravandar, Khaliira Arhond, and Sarathlue Serendragon. All females, so even the most dunderheaded spy should be able spot them, and Serendragon a half-elf, to boot.”
Tasheene wanted to ask if avoiding being traced trumped making sure the deaths occurred as soon as possible, or the other way around, but she was too wise to ask in the moment of silence following Antler’s words.
A moment later, he spoke again, in tones that hinted he was wearing the same wry smile that set her lips to curving.
“Not being identified or successfully followed takes precedence over successful elimination. If any or all of those three are too well guarded to take down, their daughters—Dalarrla Stravandar, Ildathe Stravandar, Naelvala Arhond, and Laelyra Serendragon—are to be kidnapped instead. Once you take them, change the plant hanging in your window, and I shall know and contact you again.”
Antler did not have to say the words to make it clear the daughters would be used to lure the target Lords to meetings where they would be slain. A moment later, however, he added casually, “Their entire families will be gone by month-end.”
And into the silence that followed, he said, “Now go, and do your best.”
“I hear and obey,” Tasheene murmured, drawing back from the grating as swiftly as she could.
She made her way up through the cellars with worry riding her mind. Zaraela was still recovering at the temple, and wasn’t to be trusted anyway. That murderous look in her eyes when Drake had brought her back so charred held a clear meaning that even a simpleton could have read very clearly; she blamed Tasheene for her burnt agonies and wanted to get even, somehow and somewhen.
So for tonight, it was just her and Drake.
She had to go talk to Drake.
• • •
“SHOULD YOU BE telling me this?”
That earned him a disgusted look, on a face that hadn’t been lovely to begin with, but one didn’t last long as a thug in the darker corners of Waterdeep without being cautious, and he was used to disgusted looks.
Usually from doxies, not a fellow employee of the Lord of the Sewers, but …
“This far down from the Xanathar, Thalagh, what matters is doing things right, not what someone may overhear of our jabber. I don’t pick these places for their lovely views, now, do I?”
“You do not,” Thalagh confirmed, leaning in closer so Lundur’s next words could be growled in an even quieter whisper.
“Right,” Lundur said, “latest orders are that the Eyelord wants us to covertly aid and abet a Zhentarim assassination attempt that’ll happen tonight, as the Masked bloody Lords of Waterdeep all converge on the Palace for a meeting.”
“Whew,” Thalagh observed, “the Lords are really catching it, these last few days, hey?”
“The Zhents,” Lundur continued, growling out his words more deeply, in heavy reproof, “are trying to kill particular Lords, the ones who’re their fiercest foes, and the word coming up from the Eyelord is we’re to help them take those particular Lords down by firing crossbows from afar at their bodyguards—and at the Watch guards and Watchful Order mages who’ll be adorning the rooftops of the Palace and sundry nearby buildings.”
“And?”
“And the usual: if we get caught, we’re on our own—and may even get silenced by other hands of the Xanathar.”
“Of course,” Thalagh said laconically. “Always the way.”
“I’ll go get extra crossbows out,” Lundur added, and lurched away.
Thalagh watched him go, shook his head, and muttered to the slimy stone wall right beside him, “And no matter what Lords are behind the masks, we get the dirty jobs, and nothing ever changes.”
The night-slug that had been flowing unhurriedly down the wall stopped for a moment, as if considering Thalagh’s opinion, but resumed its journey without offering a comment.
Even slugs knew what was safest, in the darker corners of Waterdeep.
• • •
“LORD HUSTEEM,” LAERAL greeted the nobleman. “Such an unexpected pleasure!”
“Your candor, Lady Silverhand, is exceeded only by your beauty,” was the dry reply.
The twinkle in his eye grew as Laeral gave him a real grin.
“Pray enlighten me as to your hunger to taste both,” she replied, waving him to a chair.
He bowed his head and smiled by way of thanks, but remained standing. “We are both pressed for time, as it happens, and as yours involves the business of the city, I want to do nothing at all to keep you from being rested and in as contented a frame of mind as possible. So I’ll be brief.” He plucked a scroll from a belt-tube and unfurled it. “If you would be so good,” he said gently, “I would like you to nominate this list of five willing guildmasters to be Lords. At last.”
Laeral lifted an eyebrow. “These five would seem to have an unusual champion. The guilds are already represented among the Lords.”
“Guild members, yes, but masters—twice only, I believe, and in days gone by. I believe it’s high time for change. Balance. Fairness.”
“And what is behind this most noble desire for change, my lord?” Laeral asked dryly. “Care to be candid?”
Lord Husteem was openly wearing a ring that bore a mindstone, and he lifted that hand now to draw her attention to it as he smiled and said, “Loyalty to Waterdeep, and a hope that its Open Lord is wise and worldly and fair enough to embrace change as I do, for a brighter and stronger future for our City
of Splendors.”
“You, my Lord,” Laeral told him, “should write speeches.” And she held out her hand to take his list.
The scroll was placed in her grasp as reverently as any faithful of Mystra had ever treated a shining Chosen, and to it Lord Husteem added the sudden brilliance of a wide smile that had every seeming of being genuine.
“You have my promise that your suggested nominees shall be put before the assembled Lords,” Laeral assured the tall noble. “Of their decisions to come, I can of course not even guess, let alone make any promises at all.”
“Lady,” Lord Husteem told her, bowing and reaching to kiss her hand, “we all do what we can. In mortal life, that must be enough.”
• • •
TASHEENE LOOKED DOWN from the window that commanded the best view of the lamplit gates.
Ah, there was Drake now. He would report on Zaraela’s condition, and then they could plan tonight’s—
Uh-oh. Trouble.
She whirled away from the window, sprinting fast.
• • •
“HOLD!”
Drake had slipped into the grounds of Melshimber House so often that there was no longer the slightest trace of furtiveness about his movements. Avoiding the pool of lamplight in favor of the nearer of the two flanking—and unlit—side-archways, he strolled in with an air of casual unconcern.
Until two hard-faced bodyguards stepped out of the night-shadows of the neatly clipped trees and shrubs to block his way. One had a loaded crossbow trained on him.
“This is a private residence,” the other added sternly. “Hold, man, and state your name and business!”
Drake sighed, shook his head, and kept on walking. Toward them, as his fingers surreptitiously slid the catch on his up-the-wrist sheath to let its dagger drop into his hand. He gripped the weapon, drawing that hand in enough to conceal the blade gleaming up his arm. If he headed that way, the one fool would end up blocking the aim of his fellow’s crossbow …
It would be a wild and risky few moments, but he could take them both down. Leaving would be far more prudent, considering that he had to return here repeatedly in the future, but Drake didn’t trust the truculent face of the guard with the crossbow. Likely as not, that one would let fly at his back if he tried to leave, and he was too far inside the gates now for cover.
