Blackstaff Tower

by Steven E. Schend

  Osco realized he had paced around the chamber while he talked, and the ghost did nothing more than puff on his pipe and remain facing one direction. His eyes did trail on Osco when he was in front of him, but he never made any move to turn and watch him when he walked behind.

  “Say something, ye parharding spook!” Osco threw a handful of the gems through Khelben’s head. Each made a small hole in his features, trailing wisps of green smoke. When the mists coalesced again, the ghost’s front had shifted toward him. Osco found it even more unnerving to have the ghost of an archmage smile at him.

  “Silence always makes hin nervous, I have found,” the ghost said, with a wink, “and they tell more than they should. That seems the same since my time. When did you realize this was merely a testing, not an actual looting of Blackstaff Tower for your benefit, Osco Salibuck?”

  “Well,” Osco said, “Vajra’d said something about the tower testing me, and it didn’t stop me. Not all hin’re greedy and stupid—count on dwarves for that. I figured the only way to help myself is to not help myself, and when I saw those statues, I figured out that all these temptations were just that—to tempt me away from where I’m supposed to go.”

  One eyebrow rose over the wreathing cloud of smoke from his pipe. “Oh really? And where is it you are supposed to go, little halfling, filcher and spy?”

  “This way,” Osco said, walking directly through the green ghost with a wicked grin. He felt the wall a moment before triggering the secret door, and stepping through. Where the door deposited him was unexpected, windy, bitter cold.

  And Osco wasn’t alone there.

  CHAPTER 18

  Tonight I test my theories under the darkmoon. I have the keys, I have the will, and I have the knowledge. Tonight, I shall penetrate the innermost sanctuary of Ahghairon himself, and tomorrow, I shall penetrate the old wizard’s secrets.

  Melkar of Mirabar, Journal,

  Year of the Shattered Wall (1271 DR)

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

  The Goreclipse sheds its crimson light over Faerûn one night every 784 winters, and it also sheds light on many a legend. Learn, too, that those things that suffered ’neath Ahghairon’s hand unlock many secrets. Should ye gather as many ’neathmountaineers he battled when Selûne and her tears wept blood in his lifetime, ye shall then gain the Tower Impregnable.”

  The words from his studies haunted him and goaded him on. I need more keys, Khondar thought, and Dagult has them. He doesn’t deserve them—no one untouched by the Art deserves them.

  On his best day, Khondar “Ten-Rings” Naomal was one to avoid in the streets, his kindest face a glowering warning to those in his way. Today, even the dogs and cart traffic stayed out of his way as the wizard stalked his way up the Street of Silks to the Palace. Despite the strong highsun glare, the wizard’s disposition wove the cold of the early winter more tightly around him, and folk shivered with his passing.

  Khondar passed a steaming food cart, its vendor hawking hot buttered payr nuts, the smell of which reminded him of Centiv, who loved the snack. Khondar’s step and face tightened as he thought of his last view of his son in Blackstaff Tower, the fearful face, as green mists and blue imps swarmed over him.

  I just need those keys, he thought, and I can re-enter Blackstaff Tower as the Open Lord, not an intruder. Then my son can find himself my most favored of children again.

  What snapped him out of his reverie were the overheard rumors. “They say the Open Lord’s son killed the Blackstaff’s heir!”

  Khondar’s attention snapped back to the nut vendor, who passed on the latest gossip to his customers, a pair of servants wearing the star-headed mace atop the green banner seal of House Korthornt. One of them responded, “Aye, his love of history has got the better of him, what he tries to steal the secrets of Blackstaff Tower itself.” The woman elbowed her companion and whispered a response Khondar did not hear. Still, he smiled as his distracting rumors kept the gossips busy and everyone’s attention away from him. That would make this easier, and also serve to keep the current Open Lord off his guard—an advantage Khondar would exploit.

  Ten-Rings had fled Blackstaff Tower last night, slipping invisibly back to Roarke House to recover his energy. He tried to sleep, but to no avail, so he buried himself in research all night, specifically the books from Samark. The items they took from Samark’s corpse glowed with a new light after Khondar’s trip through Blackstaff Tower. He now saw a minor enchantment he’d previously ignored as merely a signature of sorts by the items’ makers. He realized each of these was a key. Ahghairon and anything he himself enspelled acted as a key to pierce the fields around his tower—and Khondar already had five of the six keys he needed in the amulet, the ring, the dagger, and the two wands he pulled from the grasp of the Blackstaff’s Tower.

  That realization forced him through the streets on a frosty morning with flurries in the air. All that time he and his son had researched spell fields and protections around Blackstaff Tower had paid off—and now the Ten-Ringed Wizard would pierce veils unbroken for centuries. He would claim far greater prominence as Ahghairon’s Successor and the new Open Lord. All he needed was one last key—and he knew that more than one was in Daugult’s grasp. First he would take the keys from him, then the Open Lord’s throne, and then the city would see the munificent rule of wizards again.

  Khondar turned slightly off the main street toward the palace, but he stopped to stare at Ahghairon’s Tower. The slim stone pinnacle rose four stories high. It had a conical roof and very few windows—a very plain and most common of wizards’ towers. Were it not for its location or its builder’s prominence in Waterdeep, few would ever give it a second’s pause—until they noticed the slight glow around it and the skeleton that floated within that glow at street level. While most others had never known much about the failed invader, Khondar smiled. One of the books Samark brought out of Khelben the Elder’s tomb named that invader—Melkar of Mirabar. Why Samark sought the book was unknown to Khondar, but he learned from it nonetheless. He reread it in the early morning, seeing it in the same new light he now saw the items he claimed from Samark.

  Melkar had failed more than two centuries before because he musinderstood the legend. While many still talked of Ahghairon and his deeds to this day, those tale-spinners corrupted things in the telling. Details were lost and secrets obfuscated, either by accident or design. Most Waterdhavians learned “The Ballad of Battle Ward” by repetition and sing-alongs at taverns in any ward, its simple refrain praising Ahghairon’s holding the line against Halaster and his pet demons. Most people assume that this long-ago battle involved only two demons and Halaster himself, as few bards bother to learn more than nine verses of the song, three verses per battle. Khondar knew that Melkar believed in that, which is why he only penetrated the first three barriers around Ahghairon’s Tower when he attempted his entry. The legend he’d learned suggested the number of keys should match the number of monsters Ahghairon fought during the Goreclipse, a celestial event where Selûne went fully eclipsed and dark but the Tears of Selûne were stained red.

  Khondar’s deeper researches and his torture of Vajra taught him that he needed not three—the number of foes assumed by most—but six. That clue came from Love at Llast, a rather insipid volume of love poems with the full version of the ballad written in with footnotes detailing what spells Ahghairon used against them. Khondar knew he needed six keys—one for each of the five demons to pierce the barriers, and a sixth key representing Halaster to enter the tower itself. According to the poet Malek Aldhanek, Ahghairon slew the demons on the very spot he built his tower, sealing an otherworldly portal with their blood and sinew.

  Khondar felt the two keys he carried with him—the ring and the dagger—thrum with power as he passed Ahghairon’s Tower. “Soon,” he whispered, “soon, I will claim that as my own. For now, my power is enough to force the Open Lord’s attentions—and to claim from him something he’s taken for himself.” He
masked his eagerness and impatience as he mounted the long and deep steps leading up to the palace.

  Standing in the central reception hall of the palace, Ten-Rings drifted over to one of Ahghairon’s more amusing creations—and one more easily noticed if moved or lost. Resting on a chest-high base, the crystal globe contained a miniature diorama of Waterdeep as it had stood when Ahghairon founded the Lords of Waterdeep. The weather depicted in the globe had accurately predicted the weather as seen at highsun the following day for more than three centuries. Khondar stared into the massive crystal ball, watching the snow swirl around its confines. As he peered closer at Ahghairon’s Tower within the globe, a page approached and cleared his throat.

  Standing at attention, the sandy-haired lad had the usual face-rash of early adolescence but the stance and voice of someone trained in diplomacy and courtly manners. “Milord Naomal, I am Milluth. Please forgive my delay. It took us some time to track down the Open Lord, as he oftimes strays from his official schedule, much to our dismay.”

  “Never mind that, boy,” Khondar said. “Just take me to him.”

  “I can’t do that, milord,” Milluth replied. “Milord Neverember is in a meeting and cannot be disturbed. If you’d care to make an appointme—”

  “No,” Khondar said, putting magical compulsions and spells behind his clipped whisper. “You’ll find you can, Milluth. Let us go find and interrupt your precious Open Lord.”

  Ten-Rings was grateful the alcove in which Ahghairon’s Globe rested kept any from seeing him cast the spell on the boy, whose glassy-eyed response revealed the spell held him in thrall.

  Milluth quickly crossed the chamber, leading Ten-Rings out of the palace proper and to the southeastern tower of the palace—the Parley Tower, where the Lords met with any envoys or ambassadors from lands east of Anauroch. As they crossed the courtyard, Khondar noticed the clouds growing darker overhead and Ahghairon’s Tower looming beyond the curtain wall of the palace. He knew it would snow before too long, and he wanted to be inside, preparing his spells and meditating before it did. The pair crossed to the heavy door with its pair of flanking guards. Milluth led them through the door, across the entry chamber, and up three levels. As they climbed, Khondar planned his next move, and with a thought, two rings among his ten blinked with light, and were replaced with a different pair of rings. He looked at his hands and smiled, confident in his protections and magic.

  They stopped at the landing and the ornate double doors that topped the stairwell. Flanking the doors were two pairs of guards—two in Lords’ livery and two bearing badges with a raven holding a silver piece in its mouth. Khondar recognized the badge and smiled grimly. As Khondar and Milluth approached, all four guards put hands on their weapons but did not draw them. Khondar whispered a spell, unleashed it ahead of the boy, and paralyzed all four guards. He pushed the boy forward and said, “The door, Milluth.”

  When Milluth hesitated, Ten-Rings concentrated and willed the boy to forego knocking and simply open the doors. Milluth’s hand jerkingly reached for the key ring at his belt, and he unlocked the doors and opened them in one smooth motion. Khondar cast one spell on himself, in expectation of trouble.

  Inside the room, wide windows covered with expensive glass let in much light and allowed guests a good view of Castle Waterdeep, the spur of the mountain, and southern Castle Ward. Dagult sat facing the doors with his back to the windows, both allowing his guests the view and showing he worried little about having his back exposed. Many described Dagult Neverember as a “lion of a man,” and Ten-Rings could see how he earned that ascription. His pumpkin-brown hair flew around a furrowed brow, deep-set dark eyes, and an angry mien like a mane. He looked every bit the impressive and forceful ruler, even when taken by surprise. He wore a gold velvet overtunic emblazoned with the Lords’ mark, and his black linen shirt and black-bear pelt cape broadened his already-wide shoulders impressively.

  Chairs shrieked as people shocked by the intrusion stood or shoved their chairs back from the door. Khondar’s reaction was equally swift. From the guards outside and at least two old acquaintances at the table, Ten-Rings knew this was a Sembian trade consortium—Concord Argentraven—meeting with the Open Lord. He rushed to the table at one man, half-risen from his chair, and he punched him hard in the throat. The man fell back into his chair, choking, and Khondar put his left fist to his mouth, uttering a low syllable. Ice erupted into the man’s mouth, surged out his nose, and engulfed his entire head.

  “What is this?” Dagult yelled. “Guards!” as he snapped a dagger out of his sleeve and into his hand.

  Khondar saw all the other delegates in the room had minor weapons in hand. Their attention was on Khondar and his victim, who had suffocated in the ice and now wore a different face than the white-bearded one he wore moments before. The corpse had no beard, but his skin and hair were varying shades of ash gray. It told those assembled much.

  “A shade!”

  Khondar turned to face the assembly and said, “Forgive my intrusion and attack, milords, but haste was the best course of action here—lest our Open Lord and you be further duped by a cunning shade seeking to undermine our fair city.”

  Tradelord Amhath Dessultar cleared his throat and said, “How did you know that he wasn’t who he appeared to be? I’ve known Markall Silverspur for more than thirty years, and you dispatched—”

  “—a traitorous being who’d impersonated him for more than three years.”

  “How can you know that?” another Sembian howled, one Khondar had never met.

  “Because,” Ten-Rings replied, raising his rings, “it’s my business as a Guildmaster of the Watchful Order of Magists and Protectors to know.”

  “Not good enough, wizard,” a third Sembian said. “Explain or hang.” The woman was the only person without a dagger at hand. She held a small diamond-studded rod in his direction, and her eyes crackled with magical energy thanks to a diadem at her brow.

  Khondar glowered at the woman, then said, “I slew Markall Silverspur years ago in Yhaunn when I caught him blackmailing my guild and stealing thousands from our coffers. I had heard of his recent rise in fortunes and rumors had placed him in the city again. Whether grave-risen or replaced by an imposter, the man’s insults were enough to garner a second spot of revenge on my part. Just how well did you all know Markall?”

  Khondar fought a smug smile as he let that news sink in, the coin-grubbers wondering how much gold or influence they’d lost to hidden subterfuges of the now-dead shade.

  “Khondar,” Dagult said in a low voice, “I trust what brings you here is of the utmost importance to disturb these negotiations.”

  “It is, Open Lord Neverember,” Khondar replied, sketching a barely respectful bow. “It is only a surprising gift of fate that I was able to prevent the shades from gaining any foothold in trade or other concessions with our fair city. After all, we welcome fair Sembia and its trade, not its insidious back-shadow rulers.”

  “Watch whom and what you accuse, Naomal,” Amhath said. “We know each other and do business, but we are hardly friends.”

  “True enough,” Ten-Rings said. “My business with the Open Lord is crucial for the city’s welfare and must be private.”

  Khondar had been pacing around the table, past the slumped shade corpse, and when he finished talking, he stood at Dagult’s right shoulder. He touched him on the shoulder, and the diamond ring on his right hand flared bright. When everyone’s sight cleared, both the wizard and the Open Lord were gone.

  Madrak ran his feather duster over the collected bric-a-brac on the ledge around the bay window seat in Dagult’s office. As he brushed away a tenday’s accumulation of soot and dust, he gazed out the window at the light snow falling.

  “Auril,” he whispered, “be kind to the young master, and use your snows to hide him from his foes, who seem to lurk closer than he knows.”

  Madrak hopped off the window seat and was picking up dishes and remnants of meals half-consumed off th
e three tables, the desk, and the floor when four feet suddenly appeared on the carpet in front of him. He stepped back, startled, and looked up into the cold gray eyes of a wizard glaring down at him. Dagult’s back was to him, and he seemed to be sitting in a phantom chair. The halfling butler stepped back just in time as the very surprised Dagult let out a roar and fell solidly on his back. The stream of invectives and swear words coming from Dagult as he rose were directed solely at the wizard, who Madrak learned was named Naomal or Khondar and who had questionable parentage concerning lower animals and even lower planes.

  Madrak cleared his throat and said, “Er, welcome, milords. Would you care for anything to drink?”

  Years of practice kept any hint of amusement or terror off his face as the halfling flicked his glance from Khondar to Dagult. The wizard, however, made his disdain and dismissal of both Madrak and his master quite plain, at least to the butler’s eye. Dagult, as usual, blustered and abused those under him privately, despite all his public demeanor painted him an unmatched diplomat and shrewd negotiator.

  “By all the gods, when I tell you to stay out of my office when I’m not here, I mean it!” Dagult, having risen to his feet, aimed a powerful kick at the old halfling, who ably dodged the attempt and retreated through the hidden door just barely tall enough for him in the office wall.

  “Thrice-damnable halflings!” Dagult roared after the retreating butler’s door clicked closed. He spun back to Khondar and said, “Always rooting around, sneaking about the house through secret doors I can’t fit through.”

  “Good help is hard to find, indeed,” Khondar said, and he found himself remorsefully thinking of Centiv, left to his fate inside Blackstaff Tower. He paced the room to cover his sudden emotional response, and remembered his goal. The key! Unfortunately, getting a word in edgewise around Dagult proved difficult.