The Lost Library of Cormanthyr

by Mel Odom

  Placing a knee in the creature’s back and pinning it, Baylee slammed home the point of his dagger into the base of the ghoul’s skull. The blade grated against bone and undead flesh. The ranger twisted, severing the creature’s spinal column. All the limbs went dead at once, though the ghoul continued to cry out in rage.

  Baylee stood on trembling legs. He wiped his mouth and blood streaked his arm. He glanced at the azmyth bat hanging from the ceiling. Thank you, Xuxa.

  The bat chuckled warmly, then dropped and flapped its wings, flying back up out of the well.

  Jaeleen looked pale as she walked toward the ranger. She held her lamp high. “Is it dead?”

  “Dead or dying,” Baylee growled. Every shadow stubbornly clinging to the inside of the chamber looked suspicious now. He picked his torch up from the ground. “Help me gather some of the clothing that still covers these hapless souls.”

  In a few moments, with Baylee doing the bulk of the work because Jaeleen was busily stripping whatever jewelry and coin purses she found among the dead, they had a pile of clothing in the center of the chamber. The ranger tossed the stub of his small torch into the clothing, then lit another.

  The clothing burned quickly, throwing out heat that made the chamber suddenly sweltering and filling the air with eye-burning and throat-searing smoke. They worked quickly, without talking.

  Baylee tried to keep track of what prizes the woman gathered, but found himself unable to. Her hands moved as quickly and skillfully as any thief s. And the items she procured disappeared, he noticed, not only into the bag she carried, but into her clothing as well. Baylee soon saw that her clothing was littered with concealed pockets he’d never known about.

  The ranger’s own searchings were more limited. The object he sought wasn’t jewelry or made of gold or silver or precious gems. In truth, he was surprised at how much remained to be claimed among the victims.

  It was a sacrificial well, Xuxa intruded into his thoughts from above, and Vaprak is a jealous and vicious god. He would have known if the trollkin stripped their victims of their wealth and claimed it as their own. It probably only took Vaprak killing a semi-loyal follower or two before his displeasure was made clear and the others fell in line with his demands.

  Going through the accumulated bones took more time than Baylee had at first guessed. From the mention in the herbalist’s book, he had come expecting to find a number of victims. The section in the book had been written before Lord Woodbrand had broken the hold the trollkin had on the land. The ranger had figured some families of the deceased would have exhumed the bodies for proper burial.

  Perhaps there were other magicks at work, Xuxa said. It is possible that not even Lord Woodbrand knew of the well. Not all of the trollkin were as devout as the ones who built and maintained the well.

  True. When we get back to Waymoot, I’m going to mention the location of this well to some of the town criers, and to Woodbrand himself. Finished with the current pile of bodies, Baylee started back among the ones Jaeleen had gone through.

  The woman straightened, rubbing her back as if it ached. Dust stained her face, but Baylee found even that alluring.

  “I’ve already gone through those,” Jaeleen stated. Her eyes covetously roved over the bodies Baylee had examined. “You won’t find anything of worth there.”

  “I look for different things than you,” Baylee replied.

  “What? A scroll with a treatise on philosophy? A map concerning trade routes that have long been discarded for one reason or another? The pathetic scribblings of some farmer who learned to compose his thoughts and put them down in ink?” Jaeleen snorted her disbelief. “Treasure are items you can trade. Gold, silver, gems, maybe an occasional magic item that you don’t have a use for yourself, those are treasures.”

  It hurt Baylee to hear the woman speak so. When he had been younger, still protectively under Fannt Golsway’s wing, to listen to her talk of the places she’d been, the things she’d seen, had seemed the pinnacle of achievement any young man with adventuring on his mind could hope for. He’d heard the tales of others, men with the same drive as Jaeleen, but Jaeleen had been hardly more than a girl then. Already in those days she’d seen more than he thought he ever would, and she’d done so many incredible things. Her education was self-made and very thorough. Golsway himself had said she could teach archeology at any of a number of universities. Except that Jaeleen never got past the greed that so tainted the profession.

  “There are many lessons to be learned that are contained in the objects you ridicule so easily,” he said.

  You are wasting your breath, Baylee. She has only deaf ears for the perspective you offer.

  Jaeleen pounced on a silver necklace with a trio of very nice emeralds Baylee had passed up. He’d only taken a few coins, some coppers and some silvers to tide him over on his journey to the Glass Eye Concourse in the coming tendays, in case he wanted to lie in a bed for a change and eat something another person had prepared.

  “By Tymora’s bountiful breast,” Jaeleen exclaimed, “how could you have missed this?”

  “I didn’t,” Baylee assured her. His heart beat rapidly as he spied an embossed leather pouch. He pulled it up from the tangle of bones and opened it.

  “You left this here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fool.” The necklace disappeared into one of Jaeleen’s hidden pockets. “Do you know how much Algan One-Thumb will give you for something like this down in Suzail?”

  Baylee looked into the pouch and found a thick sheaf of papers inside. He glanced swiftly through them, finding they were only a collection of letters. Evidently one of the victims of the trollkin had been a mail carrier. He stuffed the parchments back into the pouch and slung it over his shoulder. “Do you remember how Algan became known as ‘One-Thumb?’ He was a butcher who always tilted the scales in his own favor when no one was looking. Till someone did look, and removed that thumb for him.”

  “He has a fat purse.”

  “And a way of keeping it that way,” Baylee agreed. Algan was known among the explorers and adventurers who brought back whatever booty they could from their expeditions. The moneylender was even good for an occasional loan to some who were willing to ferret out the truth of a rumor he’d chanced upon.

  “I know how to deal with him,” Jaeleen replied. “He doesn’t dare short-change me. I always bring him quality merchandise, and there are others I could deal with.”

  Though none with a faster purse, Xuxa said. That’s why Jaeleen will always deal with Algan’s kind, and take quick money over good money.

  Jaeleen continued her searching, crying out in small, surprised yelps that Baylee knew were designed to needle him. He ignored them, concentrating on the prizes he turned up. The elven quill and ink pot looked more like refuse than treasure, but the style to his trained eye identified it as being little more than a hundred years or so past the fall of Myth Drannor. He put it into his bag of holding. With luck and a proper diviner, he could get a sense of who had owned it and perhaps fit another piece of the historical tapestry of the area together.

  He added a gray coral mariner’s good luck charm that looked like a hunk of broken rock no bigger than his thumb. It took closer inspection to see the symbol of Selûne, the circle of seven stars surrounding two feminine eyes, carved into the coral. It was a delicate piece of work, worn by time and by rubbing so that the carving was barely visible. He judged it to be of Turmish origin, and a few characters—probably a prayer—on the back of the rock confirmed that it was from the Vilhon Reach, off the Sea of Fallen Stars. There was no apparent reason why a mariner would be in the area. The mystery intrigued him, and perhaps a historian would be able to place the time period by the writing on the back.

  Only a little while later, he found what he came looking for.

  The book was small, hardly bigger than his unfolded hand, surely no wider, not even as thick as his forefinger. Baylee took it from the waterproof pack strapped to the back
of a skeleton. The foodstuffs in the pack had long since ruined, though pots with wax seals somehow remained miraculously intact amid the packed clothing. He took them from the pack and set them gingerly aside. Probably they contained wines or mendicants, but all of them would have long ago gone bad. Accidentally breaking them open in the enclosed space of the chamber would have been a foul experience.

  Baylee rocked back on his haunches, put his torch aside, and held the book in both hands. He ran a finger down the straight spine, noting that the title was inked there, not put there in gilt or stitched. In its day, even though books were prizes, it would not have caused most people to take a second look.

  Which was exactly its purpose, Xuxa said.

  Yes, Baylee responded. He turned so that the torch light fell better across the pages when he opened the book. The smell of the parchment pages and the ink was strong, letting him know the book had never seen much use and had been well protected in the pack. The other items were not so well kept by comparison.

  It was warded, Xuxa confirmed. You have found the prize you came seeking.

  Maybe, Baylee said. If there is a secret page spell placed upon this volume as the old herbalist’s book recorded. And if that magicked page really contains the agreement by two Cormyrean nobles with the Zhentarim to arrange King Azoun’s assassination in Waymoot, there could be some political upheaval when the news is released.

  Jaeleen crossed the room, her pouch bulging. “What have you got?” With the excessive heat in the chamber, her hair had become damp and stringy.

  “A book.” Baylee held it up to her, surrendering it easily so she wouldn’t assign any real worth to it.

  She took the book and read the title from the spine. “Seeds, Cuttings, and Transplants: A Gardener’s Tome for All Seasons.” She passed the book back. “This is worth something?”

  “To an herbalist,” he said, “yes.” Or to a ranger or druid, and Jaeleen was neither. Baylee wrapped the book in protective leathers, then shoved it into the bag of holding.

  “I’ve never even heard of the author.”

  Baylee knew that despite her greedy nature, Jaeleen was well-read. That had been the only chance he’d taken in letting her see the book. “You’ve never read any of Iwann’s herbologies?”

  “Why would I read something like that?”

  Baylee had only read the single volume he’d found that mentioned the book in the sacrificial well, but there had been a monograph on the man. “To learn.”

  “About plants? I’ve got more discriminating tastes than that. Are you done here?”

  Baylee stood and nodded.

  “Then let’s be off,” Jaeleen said, “before those damned orcs decide to gather again.” She looked around the chamber. “And staying down among the dead when they no longer have anything of worth is more than I can stand.” She grabbed the rope and started up with sinewy grace.

  The words stung, but as Baylee watched Jaeleen climb the rope above him, watched how the fabric of her breeches tightened over her hips, he minded less. Jaeleen had a good side; a person just needed to know where to look for it. He smiled, and started up the rope. He’d found his prize, and the night was still young.

  5

  “As your friend, Fannt, you know I have only your best interests at heart.”

  “You, my dear Keraqt, only have my best interests at heart when it is good for your purse.” Fannt Golsway chuckled at the embarrassed look he saw in the other man’s face. They sat at a circular table out on the balcony of Golsway’s home. The balcony was festooned with a dozen different flowering boxes. The sweet aroma of the moon blossoms circumvented the wind blowing over the Sea Ward of Waterdeep from the Dock Ward. “But, of course, that very predictability about you is what makes you so endearing. I’ve always found a man should know what motivates those he keeps company with. Would you care for some more wine?”

  Thonsyl Keraqt shifted uncomfortably in the plush chair on the other side of the crystal table. He was a broad man gone to fat with his successes. His robe appeared voluminous, cut of lightweight blue and white silks. His round face beaded with perspiration in spite of the cooling breeze. Long red hair striped with gray hung to his shoulders, echoed in the short beard. He motioned to his nearly empty wine glass.

  Golsway poured. He knew Keraqt was only there visiting to find out what he could regarding the old mage’s recent renewed interests. It was amazing that Keraqt’s lackeys within Waterdeep had discovered the new venture so quickly.

  “I’ll not bother to respond to your taunts,” Keraqt announced, lifting his glass in a silent toast. “Not when it is the only price I have to pay for imbibing of such an excellent vintage.”

  “You like the wine?”

  “Most definitely. I’ve never had this at your home before.”

  “No. It is new.”

  “A new vintner?” Unbidden, Keraqt leaned forward with considerable effort and grabbed the wine bottle’s neck to check for a label or a wax seal bearing the bottler’s crest.

  “Actually, yes.” Golsway said nothing about the other man’s ill manners. Those who knew the merchant ignored his failings if they intended to use his skills or his resources. What was sad to think for the old mage, was that a merchant who could be as churlish as Keraqt came close to being his best friend in all of Waterdeep.

  That was of Golsway’s own choosing, however. With his home base of operations in Waterdeep, he had never allowed many into his home. He neither needed their pandering or their questions. Usually there were too many maps and books and little-known documents scattered throughout every room and on every conceivable surface to permit anyone to come visiting. As a result, usually the old mage went calling, or a meeting took place in an agreed-upon tavern or inn.

  Despite his years, Golsway remained a lean, tall man. Age had not stooped his back yet, nor robbed him of his vigor. His silver hair lay forward on his scalp, coming down to a widow’s peak, cropped close in a military-styled cut. He wore a goatee that scarcely covered his chin, then tucked neatly under to come to a point. His ears lay back against the sides of his head, though the right one had a notch bitten out of it. He had never had the wound properly tended to in order that it might be made to look more presentable. He chose to wear it to remind him that he was not infallible. His hooded eyes and narrow face made him resemble a hunting falcon to a degree that he could never deny. He wore a brilliant red robe with a field of stars that announced his fealty to Mystra.

  “And who is this new vintner?” Keraqt asked.

  Golsway cocked an eyebrow, a move that was known to send those who knew of him into conniption fits. “Do you press me on this matter?”

  Keraqt shook his head then laughed. “Press you about a vintner, you say? You have always had the tongue for pretty thoughts, haven’t you?”

  Golsway turned a hand over. “The new vintner is myself.”

  “You jest.”

  “Should I show you the basement where I have casks fermenting now?”

  “No. I believe you. What I find hard to believe is that boisterous Fannt Golsway, self-appointed re-discoverer of Toril, should spend his days raising and pressing grapes.”

  “You admit that the wine is good?”

  “Readily.”

  “Then my efforts are not met with failure.”

  “But to be squashing grapes when you should be putting expeditions together, my friend?”

  “Things have changed. I no longer run willy-nilly through the forests and deserts and mountains seeking the truth in some frivolous tale of wonder or drunkenness. There are books that must be written, and I have put them off far too long if I hope to inspire another generation to seek out the mysteries of the ancients.” Golsway shook his head. “Too many of them are only grave robbers, destroying priceless relics for the gemstones and beaten gold before they know what they hold in their hands.”

  “It is the times,” Keraqt lamented. “You remember the brand of fleeting youth. How it drove us to do things t
hat we should never have done.”

  “But my agenda was always clear,” Golsway replied. “Never did I destroy anything that would advance our knowledge of the past.”

  Keraqt kept silent.

  Golsway knew the other man could not make that claim. Though in recent years, the merchant’s tastes had changed. He had enough money and riches now to be more discerning about what he did with objects that came within his grasp. Many times Golsway had learned that Keraqt had taken less of a profit from some items to place them in the proper hands rather than break them up. It was one of the things that had convinced the old mage to open up his friendship more than it had been.

  “Getting back to the wine,” Keraqt said. “Do you have any flasks ready for sale? I’ll send a boy around in the morning. With a fair price only, mind you, and not one copper more.”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  Keraqt spluttered in denial. “Everything is for sale. It’s only a matter of finding the proper time to buy.”

  “Send a boy around in the morning,” Golsway invited with a smile. “I’ll send him back with a few flasks I can spare.”

  The merchant sipped his wine again and smacked his lips in appreciation. “What an evening this is turning out to be. First you invite me over for one of the best meals I’ve had in five tendays or more, then you promise me free wine, and offer to send it to my door.” He linked his fingers in front of him, his elbows resting on the table. The candlelight from the sconces in the corners of the balcony splintered from the jeweled rings on his fingers.

  “I am glad you accepted my invitation to share eveningfeast.”

  “Bah! I invited myself and you were gracious enough to accept me into your home. We both know that.”

  It was true, but Golsway didn’t acknowledge the statement. He took his pipe pouch from a pocket of his robe and worked the dottle out in anticipation of using it. Keraqt was a talker; the mage doubted the man would be gone before the morning cock crowed.