“So how does that make it our problem?”
“Because they knew we’re aware that they’re up to something, fool,” Vharem said as he sliced off a large hunk of cheese from the wheel he’d brought with him. “Besides, if someone else steals her power as the Blackstaff, they could kill Renaer and all of us far too easily. Not to mention anyone else associated with Renaer, like a certain family of hin servants?”
Osco blanched, his connections to the trouble made clear. “Depending on where we can return to in the city, I can probably keep us all hidden from anyone looking for us. Anyone human, at least.”
“How can you do that?” Meloon asked.
“Yes, how do you plan to help us avoid being caught?” Renaer said. “We’re not even sure who our pursuers are other than Ten-Rings.”
“I’ll lead you through the Warrens beneath the city. It’ll help me avoid others meself.”
“Do the Warrens lead anywhere near Blackstaff Tower?” Renaer asked.
Osco’s brow furrowed, and he said, “Not that I know of, but I’m sure we can get close.”
“Is that easier than using the streets?” Laraelra asked.
“Easier?” Osco said. “Not for you tall ones. Safer? Yes. The Watch and most humans never had much presence in the Warrens beyond a few token gnome and hin Watch. Mostly because the Lords’re too big and too arrogant to think that things among the small folk are worth noting. That’s why there’s a lot of things going on down there that make me gradam think I’m up to no good.”
“Well, you skulk in the shadows pretty well,” Renaer said, “and you always seem to be in trouble or fleeing from one moneylender to the next.”
“And that hardly makes me worse than most of the young nobles and nigh-nobles of Sea Ward now, does it?”
“He’s got a point,” Laraelra chimed in, smirking.
CHAPTER 10
Blessed are those enfolded by the Cloakshadow, for their enemies shall see them not, know them not. Things entrusted to the Illusory remain secret, until the time comes to draw back the cloak and reveal what Baravar held dear.
Ompahr Daergech, Pantheonica, Volume IV,
Year of the Guardian (1105 DR)
10 NIGHTAL, YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
Master Ompahr,” Roywyn yelled, “we need your help!” She hated trying to talk to the nigh-deaf elderly priest. Even her shouts barely penetrated his awareness.
“You can’t have my heart, curse you!” The bald, white-bearded gnome half-sat up against a mound of cushions and pillows at the back of his somewhat sumptuous burrow. His quarters filled the back of the subterranean temple to Baravar Cloakshadow, his honored presence as the elder high-priest of the order apparent from the richness of the trappings about his personal burrow. Ompahr Daergech himself was a frail, wizened gnome who almost disappeared amongst the pillows.
Instead of answering, the young priestess took a helmet off a nearby shelf and handed it to him. It was a curious object—a metal skullcap with two ram’s horns mounted over the ears. In opposite fashion from some overdone fighter’s helm, the points of the horns went toward the ears and the open ends of the hollowed horns faced outward. The old gnome grudgingly took the helm and grumbled as he put it on. “What are you disturbing my meditations for, granddaughter Ellywyn?” His voice dropped as he realized how loudly he had been speaking.
“I’m Roywyn, Grandsire Ompahr—Ellywyn’s granddaughter,” she explained in a lower voice, now that he could hear better.
“Well, what do you want, whoever you are?” Ompahr’s growl was now more playful. Both she and her ancestor knew each other, but continued the game nonetheless for their own amusement.
“There’s someone here bearing your seal—your green seal,” Roywyn said. Her hands communicated even more to Ompahr that would not be overheard in the tunnels. She knew their guest was wrapped in at least three spells—one illusion, one transmutation, and one divination spell—and that he was impatient and not terribly respectful. His hands also glowed brightly of magic, even though they appeared bare. The child continued talking while her hands flew fast to tell her great-great-great-grandfather all this. “He is a halfling who has come to pay his respects and asks a boon of you.” Her final hand-signals elicited much giggling out of the aged gnome, as she explained that if he was truly a halfling, she was a hill giant—after all, he turned down their standard offer of something to eat when he crossed their threshold.
“Send the lad in, then,” Ompahr said, “and leave us be.” Ompahr’s silent hand-signals told Roywyn to stay close but hidden, along with two other priests who could overpower their foe—or at least dispel his active magic and any more he planned to use.
When Roywyn returned, she escorted a male hin. He wore a nondescript cloak and leathers, his hood thrown back, and a pair of short wands tucked into his belt. He bowed, and Omphar looked at him with spell-enhanced sight. He saw who the man was beneath his transformations and illusions—a completely bald man with merged eyebrows and a thin salt-and-pepper goatee and mustache. He noted the ten rings on his fingers—only two of which glowed magically—and saw an additional wand strapped to his inner right forearm. Ompahr didn’t know who he faced, but he grinned nonetheless. He hadn’t had any fun with strangers in quite some time.
“Greetings, honored Ompahr Daergech,” the halfling said as he stood up. “I bring you this—”
“Don’t waste my time, boy!” Ompahr roared at him, far louder than he needed for his own hearing. “I’m too blasted old! Show me what you’ve brought, silly fool of a hin! And give me a name, or I’ll call you Puckerpaws and make you match the name!”
The hin coughed once, nervously, and said, “Call me Harthen,” and held out his left hand, palm up, to show the gnome priest a rolled scroll closed and impressed with a green wax seal. Written in the old Common trade tongue on the outside of the scroll was, “Take this to Ompahr Daergech or his heirs. They will guide you to your rightful legacy.”
Ompahr wiggled his ring finger and the scroll levitated off Harthen’s palm. “Hold your palms up to me, Harthen,” he said.
Ompahr saw nothing, either on Harthen’s palms or on the man’s real palms beneath his spells. Well, he didn’t find these himself or he’d have the mark on one of his hands, Ompahr thought. I wonder how he found an honest person to do so. The priest wiggled his index finger, and the seal popped off the scroll, the ancient parchment unrolling and brittle edges cracking as it did so.
Ompahr saw an empty scroll for a moment, and he whispered a prayer to his god. “Baravar, draw open the curtains of deceit over this and let me see what secrets we hide from ourselves and others.”
Words shimmered into view—words in a strong hand, written in Gnomish. “Your oath is fulfilled, friend. Give the bearer the right hand passkey, if my marks are on him.” In Ompahr’s own hand—written so long ago there was no tremble or waver in his lettering, the scroll read, “Grant the scroll’s bearer the keys of the left hand, if he should come ablustering without the marks to show he passed Khelben’s test.”
“So be it,” Ompahr whispered. “No marks. No mercy.”
“What does it say, wise one?” The halfling asked, lowering his unmarked palms.
Ompahr did not answer for a few breaths, and it amused him slightly to see his guest get increasingly agitated. While Ompahr loved playing games, he suddenly felt tired as his mind washed over memories of friends long fallen and oaths nigh-forgotten. Finally, he snorted. “Well, at least you’re as properly impatient as a hin, I’ll give you that. Your disguise is lacking, as is your subterfuge, wizard.”
“How did you—“the figure exclaimed, then shook his head. “It matters not. Just tell me what the scroll bids, and I’ll be back on the streets above where I belong.”
“Unless we choose to cancel your magic.” Ompahr leaned forward, his hand aglow with his threat. “You’d hardly be able to cast effectively or move easily, once your full form unfolded in my warren.”
“Don’t threaten me, gnome,” the wizard said. “I’ve bested every challenger I’ve ever faced in arcane combat or otherwise. Some newcomers digging beneath my streets don’t worry me, no matter their age or god.”
Ompahr’s smile drew tight and thin, his bushy eyebrows rising. “Supercilious shapeshifter. The Warrens have been here longer than ye know. Some existed long before there were human buildings up above us—well, aside from Hilather’s Hold and a few temples. We just knew how to hide them better in days past. Once we told the hin about them, though, they invited everybody down here. Our secrets held for centuries among us and the dwarves, but once you tell a halfling a secret, it’s a rumor in a breath and a fact by next highsun.”
Ompahr’s guest drew back, a confused look on his face.
“Did you think the dwarves and humans were the only ones drawn here to this upland?” the old gnome continued. “Every race in Faerûn feels the call of this place, one time or t’other, one road or t’other. Not all roads lead to Waterdeep, but precious few lead to more worthy destinations. Magic—not just a good harbor and defensible highland—drew folk here, till they fulfill their purpose on or under the shadow of the mountain. Me, I have a role to play yet. That’s why I’m still here after so long—my oath to that scroll and him what wrote it with me.”
Confusion danced across his enemy’s face, shifting into anger every other moment. Ompahr delighted in toying with the intruder, and he chose to play his hand out in full now and see whether his foe would reach for the prize given or seek out more.
“The scroll talks of keys. Keys to power. I am bound to give them to the bearer of the scroll—save when that bearer brings false face and false name to me. Tell me a name I can believe, and they will be yours.”
“Give me the keys, old fool!” His hands fidgeted and two of his rings glowed.
“Yer spells will avail ye little here, boy of ten hidden rings.” Ompahr enjoyed the look of shock on the false halfling’s face, but continued, making his voice its most serious in decades. “I’ve not used my sorcery in three times your lifetime, and I can still shrug off your worst with that and the Cloakshadow’s blessings.”
“I doubt that you understand my full measure, gnome,” the man said. “Call me Ten-Rings, then. You’d not be alone in that.”
Ompahr chuckled, then broke into a hoarse coughing. The ancient gnome fell back and turned away on his cushions, a wet phlegmy cough ending his seizure. When he regained his wheezing breath, he looked with one eye back at the man. “Ten-Rings,” mused Ompahr. “So a senior of the Watchful Order comes scraping for the Blackstaff’s power, does he?”
“You know of me, then?” Ten-Rings asked. “Then you know I work toward the city’s good, not my own.”
“I hear tell of a wizard whose pride and paranoia has him wearing ten rings to hide his magic and show it off at the same time,” Ompahr said. “Some of my kin are among your guild, ’tis true, and they speak of your arrogance and magic.”
“I am not proud. I simply acknowledge my own abilities. Unlike many others, I do not hide them.”
“Why do you seek the keys, then?”
“The city has no Blackstaff nor heir,” Ten-Rings said, “and I would put that burden on myself for the sake of the city.”
Ompahr snorted and began a great long belly-deep laugh. When he finished, he wiped tears from his eyes and locked them on Ten-Rings. “You might fool others, but orcs make better lies to my face than you just did. You’re after power, plain and simple.”
“No!” Ten-Rings said. “Our city fares better beneath the rule of wizards like Ahghairon or Khelben, and I willingly shoulder that burden. I only seek to restore the city to its rightful stature again—with the rule of magic as well as law.”
“Khelben never ruled outright,” the gnome corrected. “And you hardly compare to Ahghairon either, wizard or no.”
“I am mighty in magic and wise in the politics of the city,” Ten-Rings said, “and I know I can serve the city better than that coin-pincher Dagult.”
“That might be, child,” Ompahr said, “but that neither makes you Open Lord nor Ahghairon, and I should know. He and I were students in Silverymoon together. I helped him make the first Lords’ Helms.”
“Challenge me to a duel of wits or spells. I shall prove my worth!”
“I’m too old and tired for such games,” Ompahr said, “and a gnome has to be plenty aged to be saying that, to be sure. I have naught to prove, and you need nothing other than that scroll and your bearing it to me.”
“Then why bother with this pretext? Why follow an oath to those over a century dead?”
“Across five centuries, I have been many things, but never oath-breaker,” Ompahr said. He gestured, and the entire dais on which his pillows and cushions rested rose. In a recess beneath the platform lay a small chest. Ompahr sighed. “Take what I have held for long years, and remember that you took this burden on yourself.”
Ten-Rings held his ground, casting a spell or two, and then said, “No protections on it, no illusions, no traps. I thought gnomes kept things hidden better than this.” He leaned forward and grabbed the chest, pulling it close to his torso.
“Hidden better?” Ompahr said, “You’re the first to come looking for it since I took the oath with Khelben twenty-three decades ago, so I consider that well-concealed and protected. May you deserve all that that coffer brings you.”
Ten-Rings clutched the strongbox tight to his torso, nodded to Ompahr, and said, “We shall talk again, old one, when I am the city’s archmage and you can tell me more of our Firstlord and the city as it once was.”
“No,” Ompahr said. “I doubt I shall survive to see the year out, with my oaths now fulfilled. Should you need my wisdom, commission a copy of my journals from my temple—if you have both the coin and the shelf space for seventeen volumes of lore.”
The old gnome’s final smirk and dismissive wave sent Ten-Rings out of the temple of Baravar Cloakshadow in the Warrens.
Roywyn returned and said, “Grandsire Ompahr, do you feel ill?”
The old gnome cackled until he was overcome by another fit of coughing. When he regained his breath, he smiled and said, “Child, I feel better than I have since Caladorn’s investing as the Open Lord. Ready my litter and the acolytes. There’ll be fireworks on the mountain tonight we have to see!”
“How do you know?”
“Khelben the Blackstaff was the only human I ever knew with a sense of humor to best a gnome’s. I swore to hide two coffers and give one to him who asked for it and bore his hidden mark on his palm. Since Ten-Rings did not, I gave him the second coffer, but I never knew what either held. By the gods, I’d even forgotten about them entirely until I saw that scroll! Good thing I used the green seal on the scroll; that reminded me to give him the proper reward.”
“But why risk going uptop? The way you talked, I’m worried you don’t expect to live long!”
“Pish-posh, Roywyn,” Ompahr said with a broad grin. “You think I’d tell him the truth? I’ve got a few more years left in me than teeth, by the gods’ blessings. Besides, I may not know all that the Blackstaff had planned, but his pranks were only ever exceeded by Baravar himself!”
In his entire life, Centiv doubted if he’d ever seen Khondar as angry as he was upon his return. Khondar slammed the door and roared, “If I ever set foot in the Warrens again in my lifetime, it shall be to raze them!”
Centiv hovered over the burden his father set down, only half-listening to the rant. The strongbox’s outside was nondescript, a brass chest with iron banding on its edges. He could not detect any magic on the small chest itself, having examined it from every angle and picking it up easily with one hand. Some weight shifted inside but made no noise against the metal. Khondar’s tirade proceeded unabated.
“The mongrel races that pollute our city weaken and reduce Waterdeep to a stew of problems. Were we to winnow out all but the most useful of them, we would have no problem restoring prominence a
nd greatness to this city!”
“Father, you’re overstating,” Centiv said, “and you’re losing your focus. Just because some old gnome rattled you doesn’t mean—”
“Do not accuse me of losing focus!” Khondar raged, grabbing a handful of Centiv’s robes. “That gnome laughed at me—despite all I plan to do for—”
“Yes, Father,” Centiv said in an oft-repeated litany. “He didn’t recognize all you do for us, for the city.”
Centiv knew Khondar’s temper flared whenever he felt old or belittled. Centiv wondered if Khondar sought the Blackstaff’s mantle for the secret of long years, or if it was simply his hatred of Samark. Still, he needed to calm Khondar down and get back to the task at hand. He kept his voice neutral and only fed his father what he wanted to hear.
“Father, you can address those insults later. For now, let’s see what that gnome gave you. The work is old and well-done, but I’m no smith. All I can tell you is that there are no spells on the chest itself or its locks. It should open easily and safely. Let’s do this, please?”
Khondar’s face drained of its red rage, and he exhaled loudly, his shoulders dropping. “Very well. Time enough later to deal with disrespectful dirt-grubbers. Let’s see what they kept for our city’s archmage.”
There was an emblem at the front of the chest and Khondar rotated that sunward until it clicked and the chest’s lid popped up. He opened the lid, and inside lay a bundle of red kid leather. Khondar unwrapped it to expose a small garnet-pommeled dagger in a silver sheath set with three more garnets and two large heavy iron keys covered in runes with wolf’s heads for their handles.
“Yes,” he whispered. “The book you found talked about keys to Blackstaff Tower, worn as amulets rather than wielded, for there are no locks on the tower—just locks in the mind.”
Blackstaff Tower Page 14
