Elminster's Daughter tes-5

by Ed Greenwood

  Joysil daintily climbed up to stand in the center of her bed, spilling not a drop of wine-and as she did so, soft white-and-green radiance blossomed in the air around her, illuminating her bed, the table, and all points between.

  "Greetings, unknown guests," she said calmly. "I didn't think your master would wait until nightfall. Red Wizards are so impatient."

  The four hooded men in battle-leathers stiffened, beholding the calm noblewoman. She was tall, large-boned, and lush of figure in her magnificent gown, and a spectacular flood of slightly wavy, honey-hued hair descended her back, to that point where a back begins to swell out and become a behind. The nether tips of her tresses deepened to a coppery flame-hue. The calm eyes surveying her visitors were steel-gray, the slightest of age-wrinkles lurking at their corners. She held her goblet-sized tallglass in one hand-and a wand had now somehow appeared in the other.

  The four snarled silently and hurled the daggers they held. The flashing steel spinning through the air bore vivid crazings of purple that cried "Poison!" to any astute observer.

  They did not have to throw far, and their target showed no signs of movement, but the whirling knives vanished a handspan from the Lady Ambrur.

  A bare breath later, two of the men in black grunted, gasped, and pitched forward from the table, to crash down through a chair to the floor, and lie unmoving. Their own daggers stood out of their backs. Another knife spun past the ear of the man who'd hurled it and back toward the noblewoman again-only to vanish as before, snatched by the loop teleport she'd cast, and reappear behind its hurler again, sinking and spinning more slowly.

  No one watched its next journey. The remaining pair of slayers burst forward from the table, racing to the attack. The Lady Ambrur's only reaction was to take another sip of wine.

  One of her attackers plucked blades from all over his clothing as he came, snatching and hurling a storm of steel. Daggers bit at empty air, spinning over the bed to clatter and slide on the floor of the great hall-for the Lady Ambrur all of a sudden wasn't there.

  She appeared by the table, glass still raised to her lips, and coolly triggered her wand. Its silvery beam lashed out to become a crimson blast of exploding head and brains where it touched the slayer who hadn't yet lightened his load of weaponry.

  Headless and staggering, that black-garbed corpse wobbled forward to a loose-limbed collapse onto the floor.

  The surviving slayer whirled with a snarl-and sprang aside as the wand fired again, leaping and rolling free of harm.

  Swift and agile, he launched himself into an attack that dodged this way and that, avoiding another wand-blast. Like the wind he raced forward, to bring himself within reach of the noblewoman-

  – Who blinked away once more. The black-hooded slayer did not freeze but kept running and dodging as he looked for her, and that saved him from the next bite of her wand, which blew apart a large wyrmtongue-leaf plant with its urn as he darted aside.

  The wand spat again, striking aside a dagger he'd hurled in a flash of sparks. Tasmurand the Slayer put his entire shoulder and balance into another swift throw, right behind that first fang.

  His reward was a burst of silver sparks. Lady Ambrur gave him a nod and a smile as she let the ruined wand tumble from her hand. She saluted him with her nearly empty tallglass and . . . blinked into nothingness again.

  She reappeared on a landing of the ornate stair that swept up from beside the high table, linking the vast floor of the hall with-he glanced up-a promenade balcony that encircled the entire chamber high above where he stood.

  "Shall we dance?" she asked archly, for all Faerun as if she was the hunter and not the hunted. With a snarl Tasmurand leaped for the steps, still dodging and darting in case she snatched out another wand and sprayed the stair.

  Lady Ambrur worked a spell instead, performing the gestures with flourishes like a cat at play. It bathed her slayer in purple flame when he was still four running strides from putting his blade through her.

  Tasmurand roared in fear and frantic effort-but no pain came, and nothing seemed to happen except . . . she vanished again, leaving him rushing onto an empty landing. He slashed furiously at the empty air anyway, cleaving nothing with raging speed.

  "I'm up here," she called pleasantly, as if guiding a guest who was a long-established friend, and the slayer looked up again to see the noblewoman smiling down at him over the balcony rail. He set his teeth and sprinted up the second flight of steps because it was all he could do, really. Tasmurand gasped for air as he sped upward, wondering fearfully what that purple glow magic had been and when he'd feel its effects.

  The Lady of Haelithtorntowers watched his approach calmly, relaxing so far as to cross her arms on the balcony rail and lean forward to watch, like a Marsemban lass appraising the sweaty brawn of stripped-to-the-waist dockloaders at work.

  To Joysil's eyes, her last spell had worked just fine. Right now it was telling her that her visitor bore precisely three enchantments upon his person: two on daggers-one at belt, one in right boot-and a third within a metal vial inside his left boot. Almost certainly a potion of healing.

  Fair enough. Unhurriedly Joysil Ambrur twisted one of the rings she wore and let its power sing out to enshroud her in a protective shield that could be heard-as the faint, high-pitched singing continued-more than it could be seen. She shifted around to sit at ease on and along the rail, bringing a shapely leg up and lounging back on one arm like an avid lass seeking to lure suitors, tossing her head to let her long hair tumble free.

  Tasmurand's eyes widened at such craziness, but he neither hesitated nor slowed. Breathlessly, he reached the stair-head and burst onto the balcony, running hard around its promenade. Daggers flashed as he snatched them from their sheaths, never slowing as he bore down on the smiling lady.

  He threw the first at just the right moment to spoil any spell she might be waiting to complete until his arrival-and she unconcernedly threw herself to one side, letting the dagger flash past . . . and pitching herself over the rail!

  It would be a killing fall to the floor of the great chamber, but no doubt she'd magically whisk herself elsewhere again, ere striking the smooth stone below.

  But no! The Lady Ambrur flung out her other hand to grasp the bottom of the rail as if frantically trying to catch herself from falling-but used that grip only to swing herself upright in the air . . . ere she let go and dropped.

  Slowly, drifting down in a slow, gentle sinking that did not even lift the hem of her skirts.

  Tasmurand's mouth tightened. Was the woman such a fool as to trust in a feather fall magic? Did she think he'd run out of blades yet? He flung a dagger at her throat, which if she went on gently descending would mean her mouth met it upon its arrival. It struck something unseen in the air before her flesh and clanged to one side, tumbling harmlessly away down to the floor below.

  With a growl he plucked forth one of his enchanted daggers. The spell this one carried was designed for just one thing: to shatter wardings, shield spells, and similar barriers. An instant after it left his hand, another-non-magical-dagger followed it, so that when the first stripped away her defenses, the second would sink home in her breast. Done. He'd shortly be looking at the corpse of just one more noble who trusted overmuch in her expensive toys.

  Tasmurand's hand was already on the hilt of his last enspelled dagger, just in case. This woman was, after all, in her home and seemed not fearful at all, though they'd been assured she was alone and no sort of mage nor sorcerer.

  She'd been lucky thus far, that was all. Yes, nimble and over-trusting in her little tricks, possibly wearing yet another ring that commanded some minor magic or other. Tasmurand started back toward the stair he'd ascended, weaving from side to side of the deserted balcony and varying his pace out of sheer habit. If he could get down to the floor before she did and snatch down one of those tapestries, he could swing it beneath her and then jerk her from her feet and drag her helplessly to beneath his pounce-just one dagger-thrust woul
d do such a one as this, if he could drive it home where he wanted . . .

  There was a sudden shuddering of the air, a building thunder that shook his run into an unsteady sidestep and sent the smoking torches flaring back into last flames of life. In their sudden, bright tongues a silver-blue, scaled wall seemed to soar past his gaze, expanding up and out into-

  Tasmurand the Slayer gaped up at the most splendid sight of his life-and his last.

  Filling the great height of the hall above him was a slim, lithe dragon-if something the size of a Marsemban tallhouse could be said to be slim. Most of that bulk was two great, batlike wings, spread in a great V-shape that raked sharply back to end in the curling tail they were rooted in, all down their lengths. Muscles akin to those of a great cat shifted under iridescent silver-blue scales as talons spread wide in the air, a long neck snaked down, and eyes of glowing turquoise gazed at Tasmurand the Slayer as if they could pierce his leathers and see him naked.

  Above those deep, riveting eyes the dragon's head swept back in two great horns, and below them two cheek fins flared forth. Spiky, membranous "beards" beneath these fins quivered as the great jaws parted-and a great, glowing cloud of gas gushed forth, sweeping over Tasmurand with force enough to pluck him from his feet and hurl him back against the wall. He screamed, or thought he did, but the spicy, flickering gas was alive with darting, swirling bolts of lightning, so cold and yet so fiercely hot as they stabbed through and through him . . . the smell of his own cooked and blackening flesh like roast boar as darkness crowded in, his eyeballs sizzled, and he realized he could move nothing . . . had nothing left of his limbs to move anyway, as his fading, failing vision showed him crisped fingers crumbling away . . .

  A blackened torso fell to the balcony, trailing thin plumes of smoke, and the cause of its owner's death towered over it.

  "Tell the gods," a great hissing voice informed the ears that were no longer there to hear anything, "that you were slain by Amma-ratha Cyndusk, a foolish dragon-but one not nearly so foolish as the humans who thought to slay her."

  Thirteen

  BUSINESS MEETINGS, BATHS, AND SUBVERSIONS

  Looking back over all the years, I can't decide just which memories are most important to me: the slayings, the midnight meetings of plotting treasons and rule over all the Realms, the few fumbling moments of lovemaking, or the even fewer really hot, uninterrupted, contented baths. I can still recall the little floating dragon bathtoy my aunt gifted me with, one spring… .

  Thamdarl "the Wizard Unseen" From Tyrant's Throne to the Arms of a Goddess: My Road To Mystra Year of the Broken Blade

  The carpet was as soft as tomb-moss under her boots. The tomb-moss of the City of the Dead… which was right where Narnra Shalace would end up, or at least in the Marsemban equivalent-one of the canals for all she knew!-if she didn't get clean away from here.

  By Mask and Tymora, of all the deadly foolish mistakes . . . literally leaping into this unknown mansion, full of nobles plotting treason and lady mages who spoke so casually of shattering spells laid covertly by others who'd just left… or had they really left?

  Flaming fury of Mask! She had to get away from here, had to …

  Narnra went down that dark and unfamiliar passage like a racing wind, as stealthily as she could at full run, trusting in its straight, uncluttered path to keep from crashing into anything. Statuettes and plants on marble pedestals occurred often on both sides, but the central rug stretched out clear and arrow-straight, on into the darkness, on to … an ending.

  The wall ahead was adorned with a huge statue, pale white and gleaming. An elf female standing amid sculpted ferns like a queen-if, that is, queens went outside wearing nothing but their crowns and haughty expressions-with various naked male elves entwined around her legs and torso, long whipswords in their hands. Their faces, like hers, stared endlessly down the passage in eternal challenge. To either side of this great carved group of elvenkind was a closed door. Narnra drew in a deep breath and without hesitation opened the one to her right as quietly as she could. It opened into-darkness, and steps leading down. Thank you, gods!

  As she crept down the unseen steps in a crouch, fingertips brushing one wall, Narnra shook her head. A Red Wizard conspiring against the Crown of Cormyr with this Lady Ambrur! Oh, there must be folk in Suzail who'd pay well to learn about this! Why-

  Something caught hold of Narnra's throat and slammed her back against the wall. It was a hand, reaching brutal and unseen out of the darkness below her-and a second hand dug brutal fingers into her elbows and slammed them against the wall too, one after the other, leaving her arms all fiery numbness.

  She couldn't snatch at her daggers, couldn't. . . The hands were at her throat and the scruff of her neck, now, dragging her leathers up in a grip that left her whistling and struggling for air.

  "You, my little hare with long teeth," the voice of Glarasteer Rhauligan muttered in her ear, "are coming with me."

  Narnra's head swam, and she struggled weakly as deeper darkness crept in … but the fingers never loosened.

  * * * * *

  The heavy, jarring fall woke her. She was hooded in something that smelled of sweaty man and jolted on Rhauligan's shoulders. The Harper grunted under Narnra's weight, stifled a curse then added in a curt whisper, "Sorry."

  Apologizing? To me? A bit late, you bastard!

  He broke into a run, hard and swift, bouncing and bruising her but somehow keeping his balance. His boots were on cobbles, now, with the sounds of Marsember all around. More echoes, the distant rumble of cartwheels, some chatter, and a growing din.

  Rhauligan carried her into somewhere quieter that stank of dung, rotting fish, and other decaying things, turned a few corners, scraped her boots once against stone, and set Narnra down on what felt-and groaned-like a rickety wooden cart.

  She sat still as he fastened something around her neck then set her on her feet and kicked away the cart. Its wheels set up a protesting squeal that ended in a crash of wood against stone. Narnra heard the familiar sound of a rat scuttling through refuse.

  His hands were at a buckle, and . . . she was unhooded and blinking in the sudden light of day, gasping as none-too-fresh air was hers once more for the taking. Rhauligan shook out the hood, which proved to be a vest. His vest.

  Narnra drew in deep breaths, looking around. She was in a garbage-strewn Marsemban alley, hobbled and with her thumbs and fingers wired together behind her back . . . and the cord around her waist and thighs led up to-she turned, lifting her head to look, and discovered she wore a choke-leash-the underside of a rusty iron outer staircase. The leash led there, too. It looked like the back stair of a warehouse that saw little use but presented an unfriendly, rotting fortress face to Faerun anyway.

  Rhauligan, of course, stood not far away-but out of any possible reach, no matter how furiously she might try to strangle herself reaching him.

  "Important folk seem very interested in you," he said thoughtfully as their eyes met. "I wonder why."

  Narnra shrugged at him through her tangled hair. "I know not," she snapped, "but I do know that I'm not yours nor your Mage Royal's to take and confine like some sort of pet or bauble-just as I was not Elminster's to give!"

  "I can scarce believe, she-thief, that you've not yet learned that if anyone can do a thing to you, they've the right to do it-if they stand for law, and you do not."

  Rhauligan cast quick glances up and down the deserted, refuse-heaped alley and added, "Brutal, yes, but outlanders like you who deal with the Lady Ambrur are buyers and sellers of information . . . and the whereabouts and doings of Vangerdahast is information that could make you very rich and doom Cormyr at the same stroke. Had the Mage Royal not commanded your capture, I'd be slaying you now, not bandying words with you. I dislike slaying young lasses, but if I must choose between spilling the blood of just one of them and saving a bright realm full of them, my choice is clear."

  Narnra glared at him, straining against the wires until her fing
ers burned, and spat, "So you can sell the information yourself, no doubt, or we'd not be in this alley. I know Waterdeep, not Cormyr. I couldn't even find my way to a gate out of this city unless you let me search for a bit. Who'm I going to sell anything to? And how'm I supposed to know anything useful to sell to a realm full of folk I don't even know?"

  Rhauligan's only reply was a wordless, crooked smile.

  "So what's going to happen to me now?" she snarled. "Why'm I here?"

  "Business meeting," Rhauligan said, looking up and down the alley again. "Important business."

  "With?" Narnra demanded, staring around at the deserted, garbage-heaped alley with a skeptical eyebrow arched.

  A sensation broke over her then, a creeping and tingling quite unlike anything she'd ever felt before. It was energetic, swift . . . and magical.

  Narnra tried to curse, but her tongue seemed huge and heavy, and her suddenly slack mouth not her own. She tried to toss her head and-with a sudden leap of fear-found herself still standing motionless, still gazing just where she'd been looking before.

  The invisible, paralyzing force was streaming into her from off to her left, about six paces away . . . where a heap of trash suddenly shifted and rose up with a little grunt of effort, falling away untidily to reveal a woman in trim dark robes, a gentle but noble face, and long flowing auburn hair-one lock of which had gone white.

  "With me, as it happens," the woman said gently but firmly. "I believe we've seen each other recently. I'm Laspeera of the War Wizards."

  Narnra glared at her, or tried to. War Wizards again, she thought, and I can't even move my mouth to ask, or protest, or …

  Laspeera cast a smiling glance at the Harper. "I'd like to hear what's so urgent that the smooth and urbane Glarasteer Rhauligan races across Marsember like an overeager dog, toting smart-tongued street thieves."