Blackstaff Tower

by Steven E. Schend

  “They’re right, master!” Varkel cried. “You have to flee! Shrunk-shanks and I ran as fast as we could, but we’ve not the speed nor the longest of legs to stay ahead of a battalion of Watchmen.”

  A loud pounding reverberated from downstairs, a mailed fist against the solid oak door.

  Varkel hopped up onto the seat by the bay window, looked out, and said, “There’s about a dozen Watchmen outside, and they’ve brought a battering ram to get through the doors.”

  “It doesn’t look like they’re going to use it,” said Meloon. “They’re talking to someone at the door.”

  “Nolan has gone down to stall them,” Madrak said, “and while he is capable of confusing them awhile, he cannot stop them, should they lose patience.”

  “Right,” Renaer said. “If they’re in the front entry hall, we can’t go back the way we came.” The young Lord Neverember moved to the window to confirm Meloon’s observation, talking over his shoulder to the halfling. “Madrak? The garden path?”

  “I understand,” Madrak said. “I’ll fetch what you need.” He shuffled out of the room just as a loud boom signaled the end of the Watch’s patience.

  Renaer sighed. “They’ve thrown Nolan into the street and started using the battering ram. Here’s what we have to do. Meloon, look under those window seats there and there”—Renaer pointed to the bay windows across the room—“and grab as many furs as you can. We’ll meet you upstairs once you have them.” He put his finger to his lips and then pointed at Vharem. “Can you dash to the kitchens and have Ellial put together some quick provisions for the five of us? Meet us up in the garden. Elra, with me, please.”

  Renaer motioned for Laraelra to join him and they half-ran out of the room. They turned down the hallway and entered the library. Laraelra breathed in the smell. She loved the scent of tanned leather and vellum and that slight hint of mildew and dust common among old books. Bookshelves lined the north wall from floor to ceiling, but there were large gaps among the books in them. Two tables at the room’s center held large piles of books, some opened and some stacked haphazardly. Renaer moved to the large fireplace on the eastern wall. He grasped the corner cornice and slid it upward into the mantle. The nearest bookshelf clicked, and its lower half swung open, revealing a hidden area behind it.

  “We’ll need these. I don’t have time to check which ones, so we’ll take them all.” Renaer pulled the bookcase open further and he and Laraelra knelt down. Set into the stone wall was a recessed shelf on which were five books bound in black leather with ornate silver clasps. Renaer pulled them out and loaded them into her arms.

  “Whose books are these, and why do we need them now?” Laraelra asked. The books thrummed beneath her touch—she could feel there was magic within them. The drumbeat of the battering ram echoed through the mansion.

  Renaer shouldered the shelf back into place and headed for the door. “I’ll explain later. Right now, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Let me guess—there’s a hidden slide in the walls that’ll whisk us to the alley out back?”

  “Even better, but we need to hurry.”

  Loud retorts joined the battering ram’s blows as the door started to crack. Renaer heard someone yelling down in the entry hall, “The door’s cracking! Get the bar up here now!”

  The two of them ran from the library and up the stairs to the third floor. They met Meloon, his arms piled high with various bear, wolf, and ermine pelts.

  Laraelra asked, “Renaer, why aren’t you carrying something? The rest of us—”

  “Fine,” Renaer snapped as he opened the door to his room. “I’ll let you carry Vajra, then, and I’ll take Varad’s books.”

  He crossed the darkened chamber to his desk, pulled open the right-hand drawer, and pocketed a large ring of keys. He then moved over to the bed. Vajra lay beneath a heavy fur cloak, which Renaer kept on her as he picked her up gingerly. She groaned and threw an arm around Renaer’s neck without coming fully awake.

  Renaer whispered, “Head back out into the hall and turn right. Look for a stone rosebud on the wall.”

  The four of them moved quickly out of the room and down the passage, soon followed by Vharem, who ran up the stairs with two armloads of parcels, from one of which jutted two long loaves of bread. The hallway past Dagult’s office ended at a deep curved recess in the wall, stone roses carved in relief all over the back of it.

  Meloon chuckled. “First the sewers, then a secret door privy, and now a garderobe. Lovely smells follow our adventure at every turn.”

  Renaer smirked, and nodded to the sorceress. “Elra, turn that last stone rosebud on the right-hand side toward us, please?”

  Laraelra shifted the books into one arm, and she did as directed. Above the pulse of the battering ram, they heard the grinding of stone as a circular stair descended from the ceiling down into the garderobe. A slim pillar of stone rose from the floor of the garderobe to add support to the center of the stairs as well. A chill breeze came down with the stairs, as did Madrak’s voice. “Hurry masters and milady, the Watch is almost inside!”

  They mounted the spiral stairs, Renaer having to choose his steps gingerly and make sure Vajra’s head did not hit anything as they ascended. When they reached the top, they found themselves greeted by Madrak, all wrapped in a heavy cloak. Once all of them were up the stairs, Madrak shoved a metal bench over the stairwell, and the stones recoiled back into place.

  “I’m not seeing a way out of here, Renaer!” Laraelra looked over the rooftop garden, its plants in decay or wrapped in burlap to help them survive the coming winter. The entire roof was a meticulously designed garden with tiled paths and a walkway around the perimeter that might have an arbor of roses arcing overhead in summer. With the winter, the terraces and flower beds and arbors were bare mausoleums of dead vegetation. “Do you mean for us to jump down to the roofs of your neighbors?” Laraelra saw the look of excitement on Meloon’s face and frowned at him. Despite the strong sunlight, the slight wind made it bitterly cold.

  “Be quiet and follow me, all of you. Madrak, if you please. We’ll meet you later, if or when you can join us. If Father or the Watch continues to hunt for me, tell him or them I’m off with some lissome young priestess learning about yet another god and its promises—and no hinting at malefic gods this time, mind you.”

  Renaer and Madrak each winked and smiled at each other, and then moved across the roof. Meloon and Laraelra hurried to keep up with the short butler.

  His white hair whipping in the wind, Madrak stopped in one corner in front of a small statue of a kneeling elf maid, her hands cupped as if drinking water. The halfling whispered, “While I pour water into her hands, the gate remains open. Go quickly, and may Brandobaris grant your feet speed.”

  Renaer nodded and stepped inside the arbor, cradling the still-unconscious Vajra. As Madrak poured water into the statue’s hands, Renaer stepped forward and was gone. Meloon stepped back in surprise, while Laraelra said, “Fascinating. Not even any flash or hint of magic.”

  “Get moving and follow him!” said Madrak. “This only works once a day and only with one stream of water. Now hurry!”

  Vharem smiled and followed Renaer’s footsteps exactly. “Thanks, Madrak!” he said as he vanished into thin air.

  Laraelra stepped under the arbor and along the same path as Renaer. She also rushed into nothingness. Meloon timidly followed suit and vanished just as Madrak’s bucket poured the last of its water into the statue’s hands.

  Madrak smiled as not one drop of water remained to betray what he’d been doing. He quickly walked back to the servants’ exit, hugging himself for warmth. He left his cloak on a peg just inside the three-foot-high hidden exit. When he descended through the passage down to the kitchen, he stopped and peered through a spyhole and found exactly what he expected—a cadre of Watchmen bullying the staff for information.

  Time to buy the young heroes some time to do some good, Madrak thought. ’Tis about time someo
ne did.

  Inside the door, he had left an empty slop bucket to explain what he’d been doing—throwing kitchen scraps onto the compost on the roof. As he had done exactly that, there was no way for anyone to claim he lied. Now he simply had to stall for time and keep the Watch from asking too many questions about his lord.

  CHAPTER 8

  More has been lost in Waterdeep’s City of the Dead than the innocence of youth. Its shadows hold far worse than a chill. Its stones cover more than bones and ossuaries.

  Savengriff, Swords, Spells, and Splendors,

  Year of the Harp (1355 DR)

  10 NIGHTAL, YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  Khondar nearly jumped out of his chair when an unexpected knock on his door disturbed his inadvertent nap. The tome he had been reading before he fell asleep tumbled to the floor. Already, his dream of a wizard in charge of each ward of the city faded to obscurity.

  “Who dares disturb me?” he snapped. He picked the tome off the floor as he adjusted his chair. He placed the tome inside his desk and closed the drawer.

  “The Blackstaff,” came the reply.

  “Come in, come in,” Khondar said. “I’m honored by the Blackstaff’s presence.” Behind the closed door, Ten-Rings grimaced at the irony of what he said, given his hatred of the man whose guise his son wore.

  The man entered the chamber and closed the door behind him. “Can we talk here?” the Blackstaff asked. “Is it safe?”

  “Yes,” Khondar said. “One of the few benefits of this poor office location is that a previous tenant set rather durable spells to prevent anyone from hearing anything from without.”

  “She finally gave up some secrets, Father.” The Blackstaff’s form shimmered, and the bearded face of Khondar’s son smirked at him.

  “What are you prattling about, boy?” Khondar said. “She’s been out of our grasp since last night—thanks to your and Granek’s failures.”

  Centiv frowned at the reprimand, his shoulders slumping, and he said, “I’ve already apologized for that. There was nothing I could do, short of being captured myself. I stabbed her to keep her from talking and hid her as best I could in short time.”

  “They’re children and amateurs, Centiv,” Khondar said. “You should have just blown them all away.” Khondar turned away and stared out his window.

  “In those tight corridors? I’d have roasted myself!” Centiv growled. “Not all of us can hide behind so many magical rings to protect us from spells blowing back on us.”

  Khondar’s face blazed with tight-lipped fury, but he kept his temper when he asked, “What was it you came to tell me? How does Vajra spill her secrets now?”

  Centiv beamed. “I had a tome and quill magically recording everything said within her cell. I’d hidden it behind an illusion in the cell across from her. After I left Roarke House with those records and books just ahead of the invaders, I used one of my other illusory guises and went to her chambers we keep over on Keltarn Street. I spent much of the night reading the transcript. Vajra had babbled a few things—names, locations, dates, item names, and the like—but we never thought they were anything more than random thoughts or words to stall Granek’s next wound. She repeated them at night when Granek and we were gone, as if she were talking to herself. When you look at them all at once, they have a pattern—”

  Khondar got up from his chair slowly, glowering, and asked, “You recorded everything?”

  “Yes, and when I found—”

  “Everything? Centiv, you fool! That’s now evidence of our direct involvement!”

  “I already destroyed the evidence, Father—once I confirmed she spoke the truth.”

  “What?”

  “I found a pattern in a few passages of the transcripts. Each place she mentioned also corresponded to a person’s name she blurted out. I’ve spent the day looking at every place she mentioned and found every person she named. Once my status as the Blackstaff cowed people out of my way, I could search for secret chambers or compartments in their locations. I found a few scraps of parchment hidden in each location. By themselves, the parchment scraps are nothing but trash. But together … well, here.”

  Centiv tossed the dozen fragments up into the air and cast a minor spell on them as they floated. They fell into place as one scrap on Khondar’s desk. They spelled a single name: Sarael.

  Khondar looked up at his son, irritated, and raised an eyebrow in question. Centiv smiled and motioned with his hand to flip the parchment over to reveal Elvish script on it.

  Khondar sighed. “You know I don’t read Elvish, Centiv. Stop showing off and tell me what you know.”

  “It says, ‘The first heir of his body points the way to a new heir of his spirit. The Tears light the way.’ I am certain this refers to Khelben Arunsun, the first Blackstaff. His first son was Sarael Arunsun, whose mausoleum resisted the Spellplague, unlike many others. We simply need to wait for moonrise and visit the tomb of Sarael Trollscourge in the City of the Dead. There, we should find what we seek.”

  Khondar thought long and silently, his fingers steepled in front of his face, his gold and silver rings all glistening. He nodded finally and looked up at Centiv. “Very good work, Son. I’ll send Eiruk Weskur with you in case you run into trouble. He’s loyal to a fault and will just assume this is guild business. He’ll meet you at the gates of the cemetery at nightfall.”

  “I don’t need his help on this,” Centiv said. “I could have done all this without telling you, after all. I might have just brought you the secrets after the fact!”

  “Well, you didn’t, and this isn’t the first time you’ve had the chance to show initiative and failed me. I’m not going to let your tendency to panic when confronted with the unexpected ruin our plans. Now take Weskur with you and we’ll mind-wipe him later if we must. Just get whatever the Blackstaff has hidden in that tomb.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Enough!” Khondar slammed his hands down on his desk. “I will not be questioned by my own child! We’ll meet at Roarke House when you have the secrets.”

  Centiv wrapped himself in the illusionary guise of Samark “Blackstaff” Dhanzscul. His illusions did not disguise his anger, though, and he slammed the door behind him. Khondar shook his head. He and his third son shared so much, like the magic that drove them from the superstitious backwater of Sundabar more than two decades ago. Unfortunately, they also shared a temper, and Khondar wondered how much longer their scheme would hold up before someone’s temper lost it all.

  “Of course, I know that,” the Blackstaff told the guard. “My predecessor was the one who created that law. Now step aside. I mean to honor that predecessor’s son this night, on the anniversary of his greatest victory. Worry not. Only benefit shall come from blind eyes toward us.”

  He levitated a large bag of coins at the guard, who took it, then nodded at his younger compatriot who unlocked the gate.

  “Come along, Weskur,” the Blackstaff said, waving his companion forward.

  Eiruk Weskur complied, following the older wizard through the gates. He shuddered despite himself, knowing full well that there were many reasons why people were locked out of the City of the Dead at night. He shivered beneath his heavy wool cloak and hood, wishing he’d not recently cut his black hair to a short skullcap. Still, to work directly with the Blackstaff was worth the discomfort. He just wished he knew what they were doing, as he had only the spells he’d already prepared that day and two wands given to him by Guildsenior Khondar Naomal before he was told to meet the Blackstaff here two bells after sundown.

  The two of them left Mhalsymber’s Way through the Weeping Gate, so named for an unidentified ghost whose sobs could be heard only on the night of the new moon. Eiruk was glad Selûne shone nearly full and bright tonight, if only to keep that ghost at bay. Inside the gate, the moon shone brighter still, as the interior walls were mirror-smooth and reflected the light, even though they remained worked stone blocks on the street-side. Eiruk had not been i
n the City of the Dead in quite some time, and he was shocked at how ill-tended it seemed to be. The wide paths, cobbles that had become glazed smooth slabs under the Spellplague chaos, were cracked, and weeds jutted out everywhere along the avenues among the mausoleums. The once-carefully manicured lawns lay untended, rife with weeds and badly in need of trimming. More than a few trees were obviously dead, while others grew out of proportion or unnaturally. The shadowtop in their path looked like a wooden fountain, its trunk shattered and spreading out to fall back and reroot in fifteen different points around itself. That tree proved healthy and strong, even if it did grow over a small tomb, which now lay in rubble beneath its boughs.

  Worse yet were the mausoleums and tombs. Eiruk knew they used to hold portals built by Ahghairon the Open Lord himself, allowing more burial space in uninhabited dimensions. The dangers of those portals had been put on display when the Gundwynds buried three of their own shortly after the Spellplague first hit Waterdeep. All those who entered the family’s tomb and went through its portal were transformed into trolls or giants. All were maddened by the pains of transformation and rampaged through the city. While they were stopped by the Blackstaff and a contingent of the Watchful Order, no one could be restored, which led to the end of the Gundwynd Waterdeep clan in 1388. Ever since, scouts did extensive magical reviews before anyone entered any of the tombs—especially those warped by the Spellplague. At least a dozen tombs either winked out of existence or exploded in the magichaos of that time, while others morphed or shifted, their stone melting like butter at highsun. Only a handful remained utterly unchanged by that time, and the pair of wizards approached one of those now.

  An adamantine statue of a warrior stood proudly atop its blue Moonshavian marble base, as it had since its creation more than three centuries ago. Eiruk liked the look and strength of Sarael the Trollscourge, his face clean-shaven, strong-jawed, and smiling triumphantly, his hair flowing in a breeze and frozen in metal. The warrior wore chain mail from shoulders to toe, his shield resting upside-down on its straight top, the point of the three-sided shield resting on his left knee. His arms held two battle-axes crossed high above his head, and as clouds passed over the moon, reducing the light, a slight blue glow shimmered around the axes. Eiruk remembered an old dwarven forge-magic called blueshine that might explain that. What he couldn’t explain was why he was following the Blackstaff as they walked two complete circuits around the base of this small memorial. He had been busy looking at the statue, while the older wizard stared at the marble base. The Blackstaff swore when the moon’s light faded, as if he were looking for something by moonlight.