by Mel Odom
“Put your bag away,” the merchant said, producing a pipe bag of his own. “I’ve only this tenday found a new blend I fancy. A trade ship I had owned part of a cargo in brought this from Beregost and I’ve found it quite pleasing.”
Golsway took the bag and performed a quick spell to detect magic. If Keraqt noticed, he gave no sign. Finding the pipeweed free of any spells or wards, the mage quickly filled his pipe from the bag, packing the bowl tight.
“Allow me.” Keraqt offered a light from one of the nearby candles. When both pipes were going, curling streamers of smoke about their heads that vanished into the night stretching out over Waterdeep, the merchant replaced the candle. “So tell me about the latest venture you are planning.”
“What do you not yet know?” Golsway asked.
Keraqt grinned. “I know that you received a man in your home only four days ago. He carried a package for you that was nearly the size of a bread loaf, but was heavily wrapped and warded, so that may not be its real dimensions. I know, too, that the man spent the night and left early the next morning. You are not wont to allow overnight guests. I myself have spent a night here, but generally at this table or the one in your dining room, never as an overnight guest.”
“Your spies are very good.”
Keraqt shrugged. “They are paid generously.”
“Do you have someone in my house?”
“No. I would never do something like that.”
“You would,” Golsway argued, “if you thought you could get away with it. But go on.”
“I also know that your interest of late has been in Myth Drannor. I have people among the sages and book shops who say you’ve again been searching the histories and legends of the place.”
Golsway released a deep lungful of smoke. In truth, he found the pipeweed quite pleasing. “My interest in Myth Drannor is no secret; nor do I stand alone in that interest.”
“No, but I’ve not heard of you wasting research time in idle curiosity. It would take away time from the books you are writing. I am guessing you have turned up a new lead to follow.”
“One that no one else has followed after all these years? Do you think such a thing could exist?”
The merchant nodded his big head deliberately. “It is the only kind of clue you would follow. Probably only one that you could turn up. Remember, I’ve known you for years.”
“There are all kinds of new legends and rumors springing up about Myth Drannor. More now than at the time the city fell. You can pick and choose your illusions.” Golsway made his voice deliberately demeaning.
“I’ve heard a name,” the merchant whispered conspiratorially.
“You needn’t whisper in my home,” Golsway said. “It is well warded against those who would seek to invade my privacy.”
Keraqt held up a plump hand. “I know, my friend, but this name is not to be bandied with.”
“Tell me.”
Keraqt leaned forward, covering his wine glass in case any would use the liquid in the goblet as a scrying vessel. Golsway recognized the action immediately for what it was. He quickly checked the wards around his home and found them all intact.
“Faimcir Glitterwing,” the merchant said in an even lower whisper than before.
Golsway covered his surprise by sipping his wine. “How did you come by this name?”
Keraqt raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes. “Then it is true!”
“Answer my question,” the mage snapped irritably.
“Please, my friend, there is no reason to take your wrath out on me.” Keraqt did his best to look humble and slightly afraid, but Golsway saw only the glitter of greed in the other man’s muddy brown gaze. “Remember, the messenger should not be killed.” He paused, pushing his control of the conversation.
Golsway’s patience was near to an end. The crystal table suddenly shook between them, holding an inner vibration like a bard’s tuning fork.
“There was a man down in the Dock Ward this morning,” Keraqt said quickly.
“What man?”
“I did not know him.”
“What did he look like?” Despite all the wards on his home, despite the magical powers he had access to on demand, a thin worm of fear crawled inside the mage’s stomach and twisted. Faimcir Glitterwing’s legacy was worth an empire’s ransom, but the sheer impact it would have on education and thinking about so many fields was beyond the pale. For the first time in many months, he wished that Baylee was home with him, that the harsh words that had passed between them had never been spoken.
“A tall man, and thick of neck and shoulder.” Keraqt touched his brow with his fingers. “There was a livid red scar, bright as fresh spilled blood here. I don’t know what kind of weapon would have made a mark such as that.”
“Where is this man?”
“I don’t know. I sent two of my best men after him when I heard mention that he was seeking you. They were dead by noon, and no one has seen this man since.”
“Why was this man in the Dock Ward?”
“Asking after you, my friend.”
“Did he say what he wanted with me?”
“No.”
Golsway considered the answer. No more than a handful of people knew about the package he’d received. Only two knew the name of Faimcir Glitterwing. “And did someone direct him my way?” The mage knew there was a slim chance that the man could not have found the way to his home. He was well known in Waterdeep, but not many knew where he lived. His closest friends were ones he’d made in other lands, on other adventures. None of those would have come without an invitation.
“I could not tell you,” Keraqt answered. “But I can tell you the man is no longer on the streets of this city. I can’t even find his shadow.”
“Maybe he left.”
“After killing two of my best sellswords?” Keraqt shook his head. “You are not fool enough to believe that even for the time it takes to say it.”
“No.” Golsway stood and paced the balcony. He looked out over the city, out over Gulzindar Street where he lived in lower Sea Ward. His house was not so grand as it was carefully placed. To the north, the spire of the temple of Mystra burned like a star as moonlight caressed the beaten silver. He also spotted the lights from Piergeiron’s Palace and the Field of Triumph.
Suddenly, for the first time since he’d inherited the house almost forty years ago, Golsway felt vulnerable there. He wanted to laugh at his fears, but he knew they were legitimate.
“Fannt?” Keraqt said. “Are you all right?”
The mage steeled himself, making his face neutral. “I am fine. Perhaps we should take our pipes and the port inside. I find the night air a bit chill.”
Keraqt only hesitated a moment. “Of course.” He gathered his glass and followed Golsway through the twin doors of the drawing room.
Golsway closed the doors, taking a moment to secure the double locks. Well above the ground and warded defensively, the balcony generally presented no opportunity for thieves.
The drawing room held several trophies the old mage had gathered during his adventures. Shelves filled the walls, and small tables set up miniature exhibitions of discoveries he’d made. The room wasn’t for bragging purposes, for few had ever seen it. It held only touchstones of his life, memories that soothed him when he grew troubled with other problems or lacked a myth to track down.
“What do you know of Glitterwing?” Golsway asked as he indicated Keraqt should sit in one of the two stuffed couches.
“He was one of the best and brightest of the wood elves,” the merchant said. “A warrior at heart, with an eye always toward the future.”
Despite the tension that had arisen in the last few minutes, Golsway smiled. “You’ve been talking to Vlumir.”
Keraqt nodded. “Easily the best historian that can be had for a gallon of cheap wine.”
“He has fallen off the wagon again?” Golsway felt bad about that. Vlumir at one time had been among the most learned men in the
Heartlands, maybe in all of Toril. But he had lost the use of his legs on an expedition while still a young man. Over a handful of years he’d fallen into drinking heavily, telling stories culled from legends and literature for a few coppers to keep himself drunk.
“Has Vlumir ever been on the wagon?” Keraqt shook his head. “Never in the time I have known him.”
“There were other times.”
“One supposes.” The merchant didn’t appear convinced.
“The stories you got about Faimcir Glitterwing from Vlumir were all tainted. He weaves truth with legend, never bothering to separate the twain. All of his elven history bears checking.”
“He’s a half-elf. I guess he’s prideful about what he almost is and what he once almost was.”
“What did he tell you of Glitterwing?”
“That the man amassed a fortune before Myth Drannor fell, and that it still lies hidden somewhere in the ruins of the city.”
Golsway shook his head. “Go into any tavern, into any inn, any gathering where there are three men who want more out of life than the jobs they’re currently working at, and you’ll find as many tales like that as you’d care to listen to. In fact, you’ll hear more.”
“Then what is it that you have?”
The question, so simply put, threw Golsway off for a moment. It was silent testimony to the fact of how much time he’d spent working on the current problem. His gift for magic had never been more taxed. His need for a diversion was part of why he’d let Keraqt force an invitation into his home. “A foothold,” he answered at last. “A foothold on a path to what may prove to be the greatest find since the fall of the City of Songs.”
Keraqt leaned back on the couch, his eyes fixed on the old mage.
Golsway knew the man was carefully considering how to frame his next question. When it came to bartering, none was more shrewd than Keraqt. The merchant would take into consideration that they had shared a large meal together, had a considerable amount of wine, and the fact that Golsway himself had evidently not talked to anyone about his find.
And the fact that Baylee had not been around in months. If the ranger had visited of late, Keraqt would figure that Golsway had vented his excitement somewhere already, perhaps even sent Baylee out to look for another piece of the conundrum the old mage was working on.
Truth to tell, Golsway did feel himself weakening. There was only so much excitement that he could contain, even after a lifetime spent being close-mouthed about everything he saw fit to involve himself in. Even he could not have answered how the evening would have gone.
“Fannt Golsway.”
The old mage turned at the sound of his name, as cold and piercing as a winter wind sweeping through the Storm Horns.
A man stood on the balcony. He was tall and broad, and bore the scarlet scar Keraqt had spoken of. His dress was rough but the leather armor was serviceable. Cold gray eyes blazed under square-cut bangs.
Golsway turned to face the man, readying the spells he had at his command. “Who are you who dares invade my home?”
“My name doesn’t matter,” the man said in his cold voice. “I only bring a message.” He kicked open the balcony doors, then raised an arm. Ruby pinpoints of light in his fist refracted from the candle sconces behind him.
Golsway unleashed a magic missile at the man and watched as he staggered back, obviously in pain.
Still, the man managed to bring his hand down. The old mage had only a brief glimpse of the ruby helix that tumbled from the invader’s hand before it shattered against the stone floor. “Villayetaix!”
Golsway’s senses detected the presence of powerful magic even before the secondary explosion filled the room with curling red fog. The scent of crushed violet fungus filled the air. A figure formed in the fog, brought into sharper relief as the open balcony blew away the obscuring mist.
The old mage knew the ruby helix had been part of a succor spell even as he faced the new arrival. His eyes widened in surprise as he recognized the lissome form of a drow elf walking toward him.
6
The drow walked toward Golsway, a spiked morning star naked in her fist. A mocking smile played on her lips. She wore a piwafwi, a magical shielding cloak, and wore a white sheer silk half-shirt and matching girdle that stood out sharply against her ebony skin. A holstered hand crossbow hung at her left hip in a cross draw, leaving her right side free for the morning star. Her white hair was cropped close enough to leave no curl at all. The iris of her eyes were so pale as to possess no color at all.
“Fannt?” Keraqt called from the couch. The merchant shoved himself back, trying to get clear of the confrontation without drawing attention to himself.
“Silence!” Golsway ordered. None of the business he currently dealt in had anything to do with the drow. He had stayed clear of the Underdark for most of his career. The dark elves had more lies than truth, and absolutely no honor. To enter the Underdark was to walk with death itself.
The drow elf kept advancing. “You have something that does not belong to you, old man.” Her voice was rough, as though it wasn’t used often.
Knowing the drow communicated by silent hand code when in bureaucratic environs, Golsway guessed that this was no ordinary drow. If there was such a thing. He’d rarely heard stories of any of the creatures being encountered above the surface. “I don’t know what you’re referring to,” the old mage said, buying time to organize the spells he carried in his head.
The drow elf gestured with her free hand.
Hastily, Golsway erected a shield in front of himself, expecting her attack to come directly at him. He felt the crackle of magic in the air and knew he faced someone of considerable talent and power.
A flaming sphere a yard across formed on the stone floor in front of the female drow. Her thin lips pulled back in a smile as she directed the fiery ball’s progress. The sphere smashed into Golsway’s shield, wrapping spongily around it for a moment, then ricocheting off with amazing speed.
Keraqt never had a prayer. The flaming sphere rolled over him and engulfed him. He screamed in agony, his voice ripping through what had been the quiet halls of Golsway’s home. The fat merchant struggled across the couch as the flames sizzled the meat from his bones. Every place his hands or face touched started new fires.
Even hardened as he was by everything he’d seen in his adventures, Golsway could not stand to see a man die in such pain. He chanted quickly, sending energy to dispel the flaming sphere.
The fiery ball cooled somewhat, turning blood red just as Keraqt’s struggles ceased. The merchant’s burned and blackened body spilled to the floor, knocking aside a low table containing memorabilia from a dig site in Shadowdale. Tiny ceramic statutes shattered against the flagstones.
“Mercy,” the female drow said in her rusty voice, “is something shared only by the weak to end their miseries.” She renewed her attack, abandoning the flaming sphere as it collapsed in on itself. Her hands moved again.
Golsway prepared spells of his own, choosing them in order. The female drow was a strong opponent, one he’d not want to do combat with at anything less than his best. His staff was in his study on the third floor. Had he been outside, he would not have been without it.
Bilious yellow-green vapors formed in front of the drow and began filling the room. The gentle breeze blowing in from the broken balcony doors pushed the vapors toward Golsway.
The old mage backed away, recognizing the cloudkill spell. One whiff of the toxic vapor and he would be dead or defenseless. The spell let him know the woman didn’t intend to let him live.
Staying behind his shield, he summoned his magic, focused, said the words, and drew the tiny feathered fan from his sleeves. He waved the fan in the direction of the coiling vapors. Immediately, a huge updraft of wind surged from the floor to the ceiling high overhead. The vapor rushed up with it.
The drow took a step back as her own spell threatened to backfire on her.
While she was off-balance
, Golsway reached into a hidden pocket for the vial containing a piece of squid tentacle. He dispelled the wind wall and smashed the vial against the floor, mouthing the words of the new spell. He felt the drain of energy from his body as the spell formed long black tentacles that writhed up from the floor.
The spell for Evard’s Black Tentacles was a potent one against most foes. Golsway hated using it because getting rid of the tentacles was dangerous and time consuming, and there was no real control over them. They were just as dangerous to him as they were to the drow.
She gave ground before the tentacles. Setting herself, she lashed out expertly with the morning star, slashing hunks of the blubbery black flesh from one of the ten-foot long tentacles. It coiled away from her.
Golsway had to duck himself as he pulled a piece of gauze from his pocket and seized a fistful of smoke from Keraqt’s smoldering corpse. The sickly sweet smell of the dead man filled his nostrils as he said the words that activated the spell.
Instantly, his corporeal body became insubstantial and the weight of his flesh dropped away. He activated the ring on his right hand and rose into the air, flying quickly. He didn’t try for the door. Even though the tentacles could no longer touch him, such a move would expose him longer than necessary to the female drow’s magic.
He rose to the ceiling and focused on one of the holes he’d deliberately had installed in the house. It only took a moment for his wraith form to pass through the hole. He continued rising through the next floor, passing through one of the spare bedrooms.
In a moment, he was in his study, surrounded by his things. The staff was in its case against the wall. He returned to solid form and dropped to the floor. Crossing the room quickly, grateful that he’d arranged all the tables against the walls and left none of them in the center of the room, he spoke the word of release. The case opened, revealing his collection of higher magic; some he understood and some whose natures he had yet to divine.
The staff was seven feet long, of thick gnarled pecan that held a dark luster. Iron caps covered either end of it. He turned, feeling more confident. The staff was one of thunder and lightning and surely held enough power to handle the drow.
