Samark touched the scars on his own cheek and said, “I wish I could be surprised, Khondar. Your betrayal was inevitable—though, I confess, sooner than I expected.”
Khondar “Ten-Rings” Naomal said, “Blackstaff, this reckoning has been coming a long time. I’m glad you know it was me who ended your life and that of your strumpet.”
“And how do you plan to do that?” Samark stepped closer to Vajra and his fallen staff. “Far better than you have tried, you know.”
Khondar Naomal’s response was an angry slash of his scimitar while he uttered an incantation. The blade resonated with magic and a slash of midnight shredded the air between the two wizards. The dark energy shattered the blue shield Samark had around himself, much to the Blackstaff’s surprise.
“You’ve gotten better toys, Ten-Rings,” Samark said, “but you’ve always relied too much on them.”
Samark braced himself and summoned energy around his hands and arms as Khondar rushed forward. Ten-Rings chopped downward with his glowing scimitar, and Samark clapped his hands, trapping the blade in mid-chop. Both men stood eye-to-eye, their hatred as powerful as the magic that trapped them together.
“You should have stayed in Sundabar, Khondar. You’d have been the big wizard there, rather than fighting your betters over imagined slights every tenday.”
Samark couldn’t move or cast without disrupting his active spell and releasing the blade. Luckily, Ten-Rings also could not move without losing his weapon.
Three amber pulses slammed into Khondar’s side, and he howled in anger. Taking a quick look to the side, the Blackstaff saw the still-paralyzed Vajra had collapsed facing their battle. Her eyes glowed with arcane power and anger.
Samark chuckled, “Vajra can harm you even when paralyzed, Ten-Rings. Having an ally helps, but having some one who loves you … well, that makes all the difference.”
Khondar’s grin disarmed Samark. “Very true, Blackstaff. I couldn’t agree more.” The ten-ringed man let go of his scimitar and backed away. “Don’t you, Father?”
Samark saw his foe’s gaze wander past his own left shoulder toward the tomb. Samark said, “Father? Then you’re—”
“My son, and your doom, fool,” Khondar’s voice rang out behind Samark.
An energy ring blinked into existence around Samark and clenched shut around his midsection, teeth biting into him as it contracted. Samark’s last word was a pleading “Vajr—”
Then the spell rent him in two.
Khondar moved quickly behind Vajra and clubbed her on the back of the head with his scimitar’s pommel. As he did so, his form blurred and shimmered. Rings faded from his hands, as did his mustache. His hair darkened, and his robes became a black tunic and breeches. The younger man, who shared the singular eyebrow of his father, looked up and said, “She’s out at last.”
“Thank you, Centiv,” Khondar said to his son, as he floated off the ivy-covered tomb toward him. “Your illusions, as always, are excellent. I’m glad Samark’s trick only removed your invisibility. It kept him focused on you. Now, stay back. There’s going to be power in play here that should keep her from being a bother.”
As if on cue, the two halves of the Blackstaff’s body sizzled with energy, darkening the gory remnants even further. A tempest of dark lightning crackled out of Samark’s remains and arced in two directions—into his staff and into Vajra, who arched her back and legs as if screaming before she fell into spasms. In one breath, the energy cascade ended, and the meadow lay still again. The only sounds were Vajra’s uneven breaths and the triumphant howl of Khondar’s laughter.
“Rejoice, Centiv! She’s the last obstacle we have to conquer, and her secrets will lead to our joining the Lords and ruling the city!”
Vajra lay unconscious, but Khondar approached her warily. He nudged her with the toe of his boot. He gestured and her garments rewove themselves, binding her arms and hands. He looked up briefly and scowled at his son’s rapt leer at Vajra. “Centiv, I don’t need your help right now. Go chase down Kessik and make sure he cannot talk about this to anyone.”
Centiv nodded and cast a spell before he leaped across the landscape in the same direction Kessik fled.
Khondar turned to the remains of Samark. His eyes shone as he reached for the blood-spattered amulet on Samark’s chest. He patted down the pockets and body. As he wrenched a gory gold ring off Samark’s finger, he muttered, “The power of the Blackstaff lies nearly within reach. Soon, the tower will be mine … and I’ll gain the secret of long years so far denied humans. I shall become the Blackstaff, and Waterdeep shall know its savior! The rightful rule of wizards is at hand for the Crown of the North again!”
CHAPTER 1
The Watch is for our people’s safety, not solely his Lordship’s security or whims, and should be used thusly.
Open Lord Piergeiron Paladinson to a Masked Lord,
Lords’ Court Transcripts,
21 Uktar, Year of the Helm (1362 DR)
8 NIGHTAL, YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
The tavern was hardly his first choice of venues, but it had grown on him after Faxhal first dragged him here last month. Renaer Neverember liked that the usual hateful, conceited social climbers and all-but-nobles that constantly badgered him for his attentions and his friendship rarely came here. This tavern at the edge of Sea and Castle Wards was well-kept and honest, and its patrons were a wide array of Waterdhavians, not just one group or social stratum. Renaer appreciated that, as he did its dark brew and its night black loaves. Atop all that, another small part of it made Renaer agree to meet his friends here repeatedly. Tucked back in the eastern corner away from the doors was a small sheltered nook with shelves on the back wall. Mostly empty, the shelves held a random assortment of broadsheets at all times, though often a few days out of date. Renaer managed to read a few of the more recent issues of The Vigilant Citizen and The Blue Unicorn before his first friend arrived.
Lord Torlyn Wands tossed a heavy oilskin-wrapped bundle on the table in front of Renaer. “The weather’s getting that winter sting to it,” he growled as he tugged off his soaked half-cloak. The clasp on his cloak snagged his light gray linen shirt, pulling it out of his belt and exposing his slender yet exceedingly hairy chest.
A few patrons whistled at the young noble, while a passing serving maid ran her fingers across his chest, making him blush. When she looked up and locked eyes with him, she blushed even brighter and stammered, “My apologies, Milord Wands,” and rushed away.
Torlyn turned his attention back to Renaer as he tucked his shirt back into his breeches. “Damned shirt! My sister keeps replacing my functional clothes with these ‘things that are in style,’ and they drive me mad!” He slumped into the seat opposite Renaer and put his boots up on another chair. “Look at these soaked boots! All the trouble to dye the calfskin blue, but they didn’t bother to waterproof the blasted things!”
“Ah, the costs of noble fashions and the maintenance of social airs.” Renaer smiled, tipping his flagon toward Lord Wands in mock salute. “You have my sympathies, milord. Bad form, really, to not treat the leather well, I agree. I can suggest a few cobblers who can fix those up for you or make you better ones right away.”
Torlyn laughed, his irritation at fashion forgotten. “Speaking of better leatherworking, I’m amazed you didn’t dive on that parcel the moment it left my hands. I wanted to show you my latest acquisition, since few appreciate a good book more than you.” Lord Wands’s broad grin was not concealed in the least by his long mahogany locks or full beard. He whispered thanks to the still-blushing tavern maid who brought him a large tankard of the tavern’s dark ale, and then Renaer’s attention shifted from his companion to the parcel. Two sharp tugs undid the leather lacings and he opened the oilskin wraps around a large book.
Renaer ran his fingers over the ornate leatherworked cover and the bindings, his eyebrows rising in appreciation. He gingerly opened the volume to its initial page and let out a low whistle.
“The Compleat Dragonhunter?” Renaer asked, looking up at Torlyn without letting go of the page or the book.
His companion laughed. “Had it for two days now, along with Gold Amid Dragonfire. They were hidden among a lot of dross I picked up when I absorbed the last remnants of the Estelmer and Melshimber collections last month.”
Renaer chuckled. “You and your dragon books, Torlyn. Are you rebuilding your family’s library or gathering a hoard?” Renaer flipped through a few pages, nodded at the good workmanship and calligraphy, and rewrapped the book to protect it.
“Very funny, Ren.” Torlyn smiled, swallowed some ale, and asked, “You’re one to talk, he who snaps up every book on Waterdeep’s past that’s been written. Say, did you find Folk of Renown yet?”
“No. Well … yes and no,” Renaer replied. “I found a copy on the market up in Longsaddle last month, but I bought something else.”
Torlyn shifted his blue boots off the chair, then stood. From the way Torlyn tugged at the bootcuffs and then shifted how he sat, Renaer could tell Torlyn’s clothes and boots were too new and uncomfortable. He noticed Renaer’s attention, shrugged, and cleared his throat before sitting down again and asking, “Why? For Oghma’s sake, you’ve wanted that book forever, Ren.”
“I know, I know,” he answered, amused to see his audience taking the bait. “Instead, I discovered the final pieces for my Savengriff collection.”
“You found a complete copy of A Palace Life?” The young lord slammed his tankard down in disbelief. The dark-stained table shined with the newest sluice of spilled ale, though neither man cared, save to move the wrapped book to a drier, safer spot.
Renaer leaned back. “I bought all three volumes with an identically bound copy of Piergeiron as I Remember Him thrown in for good measure!”
“Nice. ’Tis no wonder you’re the new sage of local obscure lore.”
“Sage?” Renaer asked. “I’m a mere dabbler and an inveterate reader, ’tis all.”
“Still, I’m impressed. The only known library with every mundane work of Aleena Paladinstar and her wizardly husband Savengriff.” Torlyn Wands looked down in dismay, then raised his eyes with a smile. “At least my collection still has the only full set of nonmagical books by the Seven Sisters—or at least it will when you return my copy of Lifelong with Regrets to me.”
“Soon, Torlyn, soon. It’s a fascinating read, and I’m grateful for the loan. Laeral’s handwriting and her inscription to your great-great-grandfather add a whole new understanding to her.” Renaer drank and waved a servant over to their table. “Another round, please, Arlanna.” He flipped a taol toward the tavernmaid, and turned back to Torlyn. “When are Faxhal and Vharem due to join us?”
“Patience, Renaer, patience,” Torlyn said. “I hear Vharem spent most of his day chaperoning the youngest Phullbrinter sisters in their shopping for the Gralleth feast.”
“Ah, what that man does for his coins,” Renaer said. “He’ll need stronger drink than this, then.”
The door to the tavern opened, and two of his oldest friends entered. Renaer stood and waved them over to the table. Faxhal smirked a perfect mimicry of Renaer’s own grin back at him. Faxhal resembled Renaer in many ways—broad-shouldered and brawny, clean-shaven, shoulder-length brown hair, square-jawed with chiseled features—but his claim that he was the better-looking of the two urged Renaer to remind him he was shorter and had thus concentrated Renaer’s charisma. Vharem wore an expensively tailored night blue cloak in contrast with his unkempt blond beard and scuffed brown boots.
“The Watch is hunting for you again, Renaer. We had to shake a patrol on our way here.” Vharem rolled his eyes along with Renaer as he related the news. The tall blond man signaled Arlanna to bring two more tankards as he shrugged his dark cloak open and sat down next to Torlyn. The two men traded nods as greetings.
“What have I allegedly done this time to displease his Open Lordship, my father?” Renaer sighed, rising to let Faxhal get past him to a seat.
The shorter of the two men shook his head, then rushed forward and vaulted over the table, using one hand to catapult himself onto the bench in the corner of the tavern. Renaer grinned and muttered, “Show-off,” as he sat down again.
Faxhal said, “Not a thing, so far as we know. It’s just a few new shieldlars and their patrols trying to impress their new captain and tonight’s valabrar—and unfortunately, tonight’s overseer for the Watch in Castle and Sea Wards is Kahlem Ralnarth.”
Torlyn choked on his drink and coughed. “How did that inbred noble idiot get promoted? What have I missed the past two tendays?”
“Only a marvelous chase across Field and Sea Wards not three nights ago,” Vharem said with a snicker. “A dash across the Northbeach is not something I want to repeat before spring.”
“Yeah,” Faxhal said. “You’d think he’d be grateful we led them right to those smugglers at the Lancecove. Capturing a septet of forgers and smugglers was shine on his sword, to be sure. His promotion from aumarr should have made him more grateful.”
Renaer looked up, dropping his sly grin quickly, as he said, “I think he’s worried his superiors will regret that promotion if they find out he only caught them due to chasing and trying to arrest us for assaulting a city official and defiling a holy place.”
Torlyn gasped, and Renaer and Faxhal chortled. Vharem draped an arm across Lord Wands’s shoulder and whispered, “Kahlem staggered into us after leaving his favorite festhall—er, ‘newest shrine to the Red Knight’—and took offense that we happened to be using the midden abutting its wall after a night at Raphen’s tavern on Imar Street.”
Torlyn’s eyes widened, and he said, “Don’t tell me …”
Vharem nodded. “He pushed Renaer and me to one side, and this one”—he jerked his thumb toward Faxhal—“turns and asks, ‘What beems to see the broplem, occifer?’ as he finished relieving himself on the man’s boots!”
“Kahlem’s not a bad Watchman,” Renaer said, “but his water-headed ideas on how to investigate crimes—”
Faxhal interrupted, “—led the fool to believe we’re smugglers too!” He punched Renaer’s shoulder and laughed. “Now get ready. I’ve got time for one drink before we give them the run-around.” Faxhal grabbed and downed Renaer’s drink in one gulp, and then belched loudly. He pulled two hooded mantles out of his bag and tossed one to Renaer. “Let’s give them the old seeing-double bit, yes? I’ve needed a good run all day.”
Renaer marveled at his friend’s desire to intervene for him and said, “You know, I could actually let them take me in for a change. Clear the air and settle things with Kahlem?”
To their credit, the four men kept straight faces for nearly two full breaths before snickering. Renaer and Faxhal pulled the stylish dark blue hooded mantles over their heads and atop their black cloaks.
Vharem said, “We’ll meet you at the Grinning Lion by the next bell, then?”
Lord Torlyn Wands groaned and asked, “Gods, why does it have to be that place?”
Faxhal asked, “What’s the matter with it? Argupt always has a table for us. Besides”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“the food’s better there than here.”
Torlyn groaned, “It’s become a watering hole of late for the Thongolirs, and I’d as soon avoid their ilk until the solstice balls where I’ve no excuses to avoid them.”
Vharem said, “Sacrifices must be made, milord, in the name of friendship. Besides, you’d have no problem if the Lady Nhaeran would give Lord Terras an answer on his suit.”
“Which, as you’re all aware, is an unequivocal no, and you know my sister cannot tell him that until after we clear up the debts that Hurnal set up with the money-grubbing old bastard.” Torlyn sighed. “My cousin’s even opened up our old hunting lodge for rent by hunting parties a tenday at a time. Our family’s private hunting lands have become just another asset for him to exploit.”
“I’d be happy to help, milord Wands, truly,” Renaer said, his face losi
ng its smile as he locked eyes with his friend. Faxhal, for his part, adjusted Renaer’s hood so the two of them looked nigh identical.
“Appreciated, but impossible, sirrah.” Torlyn shook his head, avoiding Renaer’s eyes. He cleared his throat, then chuckled nervously and said, “Be off with ye, nigh-noble rogues. Your sport awaits and the night is young! Vharem and I can’t wait to hear about the latest ways you two’ve found to avoid Watch pursuit.”
Renaer and Faxhal looked at each other, sketched salutes at their friends, and bolted for the door. Before they even reached it, Renaer heard Vharem shout, “Ten taols says the Watch comes up empty again tonight! Do I have any takers?”
Renaer looked back once to see Toryln raise his tankard in salute before he was lost behind the quickly massing crowd around their table, all gambling men eagerly betting on successful escape or pursuits.
Renaer and Faxhal found Darselune Street relatively empty. The slate-roofed wood-and-stone buildings across the way had been cleaned by the past night’s sleet and ice thawing that day and rinsing soot off the buildings. Ice and frost returned with sunset, and moonlight twinkled on slate and slats alike. The two men passed a carriage tied up in front of the Slaked Sylph, and Faxhal shrugged toward it, his eyebrows rising in question.
Renaer shook his head. “Why actually do something illegal to add merit to their pursuit of me in Lords’ Court?”
They jogged across Gulzindar Street, their boots scraping the frost-rimed cobbles on the road. They saw a Watch patrol heading west toward the Field of Triumph, their backs to them.
Faxhal belched loudly, and then bellowed, “Have you no manners, Renaer?” The man grinned and then sprinted south toward the Spires of the Morning, leaving Renaer a few steps behind.
Blackstaff Tower Page 2
