by Ed Greenwood
FOR MORE THAN A CENTURY, THE NORTHWESTERN CORNER OF THE untidy Dock Ward moot of Snail Street, Shrimp Alley, and Presper Street had been occupied by an even untidier tavern known as The Bloody Fist. The name referred to the knuckles of the most habitual brawlers among the wagoneers and carters who’d parked their conveyances and camped overnight to drink around night fires on this spot before someone had thought to turn three rotting-past-further-travel wagons into the first version of the tavern. Over those long years, the Fist had grown—and so had the mold that now furred the walls, ceilings, and all too much of the floors of its damp and darkness-drenched cellars.
As was all too common in the less respectable parts of Waterdeep, cellars of older structures had a tendency to sprawl and intersect with cellars belonging to other buildings, forming ill-lit labyrinths harboring too many secrets for them to be anything close to safe to explore. And even in Dock Ward, home of the lawbreaking and imprudent, men wished to keep their heads.
Wherefore when a dark-cloaked figure slipped from room to back room of the Fist and then down a certain narrow stair, no one followed her. Nor did anyone bother a revel-mask-enshrouded man bundled up in a horse blanket who shuffled down another stair in another establishment.
Both stairs descended into the same cellar room, along opposite walls. The female came to a stop when she saw the masked personage arriving, and waited.
She was rewarded with a nod of greeting, and the removal of the mask and blanket. They revealed to her someone she was coming to know well. One Suthool, a thoroughly villainous trader who also happened to be an illithid from the Underdark. His trade was in drugs, ointments, poisons and their antidotes, and potent mushroom liquors such as rethret and glarjool that had recently become the rage among Waterdeep’s nobility and aspiring-to-nobility. Such was his publicly known employment, at least.
Suthool beheld the one human in the world he’d become fond of and had come to trust as far as he trusted anyone—which wasn’t much. A dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-skinned woman who delighted in being mysterious; a masked, purringly sardonic agent of Asmodeus who called herself Belvarra. The surname “Bowmantle” was an obvious fiction, but for all he knew, so was her first name.
They had come here to meet with a third conspirator. Their only contact with him would be by means of a small, window-like opening in the end wall of their cellar.
“I’m here,” that man said now, the distinctive deep, plodding-gait voice coming from somewhere in the unlit darkness on the other side of the cellar wall.
“May we meet in peace,” the mind flayer offered, through the speaking stone he wore mounted at his throat like a gorget.
“Peace prevail between us,” the agent of Asmodeus added, approaching the little window.
“I desire neither conflict nor enmity among us,” said the unseen deep-voiced man. “Such strife would profit none of us.”
“Indeed,” Suthool agreed. “So, are we met because you desire fresh assurances? Or have matters altered enough that we need to debate some fresh scheme of yours?”
“I need your guidance as to whether or not I should give in. To an increasing temptation.”
“Ah,” said the illithid. “You are wise to seek it, and so keep our alliance strong.”
“I am of like mind,” Belvarra put in, then turned directly to Suthool. “Please do not think this rude, or an attempt to discount your abilities or counsel, but I must confess that I have from the first been curious as to your willingness to make common cause with two Waterdhavian humans—when your usual ways are more secretive, making business contacts at advantageous terms to yourself, rather than taking allies.”
“That is the usual way of my kind, yes,” the mind flayer confirmed, “and my own preference. Things are becoming too perilous down below, so I decided to experiment with making stronger and better contacts here.” He turned to the window. “I would hear more of this temptation.”
“It would seem easier to achieve political mastery of the city,” the deep voice came out of the darkness, “with our current Open Lord gone from the scene—and the Chosen and Harpers and sycophants of Mystra she can call on with her.”
“No doubt,” Suthool responded, the voice generated by his enchanted stone sounding dry indeed. “Yet she does not seem to me to be in any hurry to renounce the title and duties she has so recently taken up, and conveniently remove herself from the Palace. Or for that matter the city.”
“I don’t see her doing that, no. I was thinking more of her sudden, unforeseen death.”
“Ah. So the temptation you’ve mentioned is that of assassinating her.”
“Yes.”
“She’s a Chosen of Mystra,” the agent of Asmodeus pointed out. “Killing her will bring down the fury of the Goddess of Magic on us—and that will mean Harpers running around slaying as well as spying, and other Chosen hurling spells right and left, and we’ll likely all be too dead to profit from our alliance, all too soon.”
“Perhaps so, if we were meeting here a century ago,” came the deep voice from beyond the wall, speaking more swiftly now, as if these words had been decided upon before, “but I’ve had more than a few casual conversations with upper priests of many faiths, and not a few powerful mages, too, this last decade. They are all of the opinion that not only is the returned Mystra far weaker than she was before the Spellplague, and less interested in meddling with mortals, but her Chosen are but shells and echoes of their former selves, too. They are fallible, aging mortals with fewer spells, less resolve, and much less divine support. In short, old dogs who bark and bluff because their bites are far less dangerous than before. The Harpers are their usual meddling selves, yes, but Mystra and her shining minions are now more a temple fiction than truth. I have been paying palace staff and courtiers well to keep me informed of all they see of the new Open Lord, and she seems a normal woman—and often a weary one, at that—to all of them. Not a demigod, or even any sort of an archwizard, mighty or otherwise. I believe Laeral Silverhand stands alone.”
“And if your belief is wrong, we shall all pay with our lives,” Suthool murmured thoughtfully.
“I am aware of that,” the deep voice said dryly. “Wherefore my request for your counsel.”
“Then hear mine,” Belvarra put in firmly. “I believe it would be a mistake to assassinate Lady Silverhand at this time. Let us assume your guess—and admit it, it’s no more than that—is correct: Laeral Silverhand is a mortal wizard essentially alone in the Palace. So you cut her down, your own involvement unseen—and then? It is my belief her slaying would create unhelpful turmoil, precipitate a power struggle that would blunt our attempts to craft a council of Masked Lords in which we control a comfortable majority of the votes, and even give the likes of the Zhentarim and Neverember opportunities for power they may not be able to resist attempting to seize. If they do so in haste, not wanting to miss the chance, their efforts are likely to be both clumsy and violent—and clumsy violence leaves lingering effects that could well taint the prize we are all interested in. What price a restive, feuding Waterdeep?”
“More restive and feuding than now, you mean,” Suthool murmured swiftly.
“Indeed,” the agent of Asmodeus agreed. “Far better to succeed more slowly, behind Silverhand’s back and under cover of her respectability—while she still has some, and the cynical citizenry haven’t yet settled into the habit of blaming her for everything. Patience can be both a very useful armor and a weapon.”
“I concur,” the illithid agreed. “Killings not only engender fear, they remind everyone that a swift murder can be a handy solution. And when there is death after death, increasing boldness follows among those who would otherwise seethe and dare not—for they begin to think ‘My slaying will be seen as one more among the rest, and can be blamed on those who ended those other lives.’ And behold, we have our swift string of killings.”
“You disapprove?” the deep voice from beyond the wall asked flatly.
The ill
ithid shrugged, tentacles starting to curl and lash like the tails of irritated cats. “My approval or disapproval would be as inappropriate as it is immaterial. The climate I was describing now exists, and the emboldening is even now taking place. It may yet erupt into nobles taking up old feuds with nobles, guilds skirmishing with guilds or warring internally, and other greater unrest. Lady Silverhand’s death is unnecessary for us, and may usher in strife that harms this city as a trading center for decades, perhaps diminishes it forever. Not all conflagrations should be touched off just because the fuel is piled high and waiting—unless we are young and irresponsible vandals. I am a trader; irresponsibility is a needless cost I can very rarely afford. Is it not also so for both of you?”
“Yes,” Belvarra purred. “Even in the spreading of sin, irresponsibility is a luxury not worth the price.”
“Yes.” The deep voice spoke even more slowly than usual, and held clear reluctance. “You have convinced me. Laeral lives.”
The agent of Asmodeus shrugged. “Unless any of the half-dozen cabals in this city who want her dead succeed. Some of them will likely try to empty the Open Lord’s throne soon.”
“You know this, or merely anticipate?” The deep voice was sharp.
“My spies are better than yours,” came the calm reply. “I have followed their preparations with interest. Two are ready. Three others—” She turned and gave Suthool a steady look. “—have recently engaged adventurers to try to bring about Silverhand’s demise. Using the same hiring contact.”
“Business,” the murmur from the illithid’s speaking stone was almost whimsical. “Merely business.”
The deep voice from beyond the wall ignored that comment. “Ready, yes, and arming up, but likely to succeed?”
Belvarra shrugged again. “Life is fleeting and fragile. Which is why we all gathered here so loaded down with protective magic that their warring powers are making me itch.”
“You can feel magic? I did not know that.” The deep voice sounded thoughtful.
“Almost as well as I can feel—and enjoy—pain,” she purred. “Which is why Suthool here once had me flogged. Yet lives.”
“Nor did I know that.”
It was the illithid’s turn to shrug. “Business, citizens of Waterdeep. Merely business. And a miscalculation. It was meant as brief torture, to terrify and elicit information. It was some time before I discerned that what I’d learned was false. I did not know until now that I’d failed to instill fear, or that you’d enjoyed the experience.”
The agent of Asmodeus smiled. “I reveal what I desire to, and no more. As you say, it was business. Merely business.”
• • •
AS HE LURCHED down a street bright with the early rays of the morning sun, the actor’s mask he’d put on starting to slip and chafe the bridge of his nose, Mirt checked that the Ironguard ring was still on his finger one last time, and thought back to the last he’d seen of Laeral, late the night before. She was changing. Waterdeep was … sharpening her, as it did so many.
Hone or break, hone or break. It seemed Chosen of Mystra were very much like other mortals, after all.
Laeral had left them to their investigations, requesting—nay, ordering—that Mirt handle Ilvastarr, and find out what he could. Then she’d departed, as quietly as she’d come.
“What’s a Lady Open Lord of Waterdeep doing in the Succubus?” Drella had asked, amazed.
“Festhall!” Waratra had replied brightly, and the three girls had then shared the dirtiest chuckle Mirt had ever heard.
Later, the three lasses had reported back that the murderous adventurers had gone to Ilvastarrgates, and not emerged; they were evidently living there.
Wherefore this masked social call that now took him up the front steps of Lord Ilvastarr’s aging and tall-pillared mansion, where he doffed his mask and announced himself as “Lord Mirt of Waterdeep.”
Sleepy servants took that name to Lord Ilvastarr, who was lingering over the last of a decidedly enjoyable morningfeast in his many-windowed morning room.
The title so intrigued Lord Ilvastarr, whose grandfather had made a lot of coin by investing in various schemes “run” by the infamous Mirt the Moneylender, that he abandoned the last scraps of boar fry, got up, and went to see who had the effrontery to call himself after such a colorful Waterdhavian of the past.
When the seneschal grandly announced, “Lord Felhaerond Ilvastarr!” the nobleman who swept into his own lofty white-marbled and liveried-servant-thronged entry hall ringed by his private bodyguard—the same adventurers who’d been so murderously active in Dock Ward the night before—stood tall and haughty, his person shimmering with a variety of ostentatious protections against hostile magic.
“Lord Mirt of Waterdeep,” the seneschal announced to his master, managing to sound both dignified and dubious.
“Really,” Lord Ilvastarr sneered.
“Well met, Young Vasty,” Mirt made jovial reply, causing servants to stiffen all over the room, and at least one hastily repressed snigger to erupt.
“The only ‘Lord Mirt’ I’ve ever heard of flourishing in this city was Mirt the Moneylender, who held sway here in the Deep a century ago,” the nobleman said coldly, “and as you’re obviously not—quite—that old, perhaps you’d do us all the courtesy of informing us as to who you truly are.”
“Heh. I’m still Mirt, after all these years. The same Mirt the Moneylender yer father was close friends with, and yer grandsire and great-grandsire did business with, too.”
“Oh, come now! Man, you strain all credulity! To have known my great-grandsire, you’d have to be at least six score years old!”
Mirt nodded. “Magic.”
Lord Ilvastarr’s exasperated wave sought to wave away this annoying visitor. “I appreciate my morningfeast being interrupted by neither liars nor madmen. Which are you?”
“Neither, Felhaer. But as I don’t want to waste any more of yer time or mine, suppose I prove to you that I am who I say I am.”
“If this is a prelude to hurling spells at me in my own home—”
Mirt’s snort was impressive. “If I could do that, why would I have to stand here listening to you sneer at me? Nay, lad, let’s be about it.”
“How?”
“Well, to begin with, have you ever laid eyes on me before?”
“No.” Ilvastarr still sounded scornful.
“And so far as you know, I’ve never set foot in this house?”
“Of course not.”
Mirt nodded at that, and grew a wide smile as he lurched across the tiled floor to a striking bronze finial: a statuette of a lightly clad and curvaceous maiden that adorned the top of the newel post at the bottom of the great stair that ascended one side of the hall. Jabbing an indelicate fingertip into her navel, he held his finger there and used his other hand to turn her metal head around on its shoulders.
There was a loud clack, but nothing else seemed to happen.
As Lord Ilvastarr gaped at him in amazement, Mirt lurched back across the hall to its far wall, did something to one of the joins between its stones—and a secret door sighed open beside those stones, letting out a puff of dust.
Mirt indicated it with a flourish worthy of a well-trained doorjack. “Shall you go first, or shall I?”
Frowning, Lord Ilvastarr strode forward to join Mirt, drawing his belt dagger as he came. “You go first,” he ordered, “and I’ll be right behind you.” Mirt nodded and led the way into the darkness.
“ ’Ware,” he added about ten paces later, as he started up a steep and narrow stone staircase. “There’s a trip step here.”
“A what?”
“Trip step—it’s lowered, rather than raised, then has a higher step after it. Kick your boots forward with each step, and only step up when you run your toes into stone. Where there isn’t stone but should be, that’ll be the trip step.”
“But why—?”
“Your great-grandsire had it made, so if he ever had to flee this
way, up or down, someone racing after him would come a great dragonsnout-down-tumble, and he’d get away,” Mirt explained.
“Stay right where you are,” the dumbfounded Lord Ilvastarr said hastily, and bawled back over his shoulder for a lit night-lantern.
It was delivered to him by the bodyguards, who all came crowding into the passage, and followed them. When Lord Ilvastarr reached the top of the stair, Mirt was waiting and muttered into his ear, “You might want to leave yer bullyblades behind. You’ll soon see why.”
Lord Ilvastarr regarded him uncertainly.
Mirt sighed. “You hired them, aye? They’re here for coin, not love of you? So they love the pay more than you, yes?”
“Well, ah, yes, I suppose so.”
“You’ll want to send them away,” Mirt said flatly.
“And risk myself alone with you?”
Mirt shrugged. “I don’t kiss lords on first acquaintance. Not even you.”
Lord Ilvastarr flushed, harrumphed, then turned and curtly dismissed his bodyguard.
“They’ll come looking, when you’re not watching them,” Mirt told him, watching them go whilst giving him many dubious looks. “If you’re wise, Felhaer, you’ll tell them about the bones, but not the gold.”
“The what?”
By way of reply, Mirt strode on, beckoning the nobleman to follow. On this upper level, the passage ran straight and narrow, and Lord Ilvastarr frowned as they walked along it, looking up and down it and obviously trying to judge what rooms of his mansion it ran behind.
All too soon, it came to a dead end—where a decaying human skeleton hung facing them, manacled to the wall.
“Who—?”
Mirt shrugged. “Long past telling, now. All for show, this. The skeleton cost yer grandsire six shards—and they had to be shiny new minting, too, as I recall.”
“So this is the ‘bones’ you spoke of?”
“Aye, so we can start counting now, and get you yer gold. If, that is, you’ll give me an honest answer to a question I’ve come to put to you.”
“An answer?”
“Aye. Just words—and I promise whatever you say won’t come back to bite you.”
