The circle moved confusedly toward a pillar that was apparently encircled by a stone seat, and several of its members took the opportunity to drift away into the throng—where dancing had now broken out in earnest, imperiling several platters of savory tarts being taken around the crowded dance-floor by uncomfortable -looking, weatherbeaten-faced men who were obviously unused to serving food forth.
Elminster ducked under a platter that was well on its way floor-wards—only to see it rescued in his wake by a whooping merchant whose fat quivering chins boasted trembling chinlets of their own—and turned from that impressive sight to find himself face to face with a stunningly beautiful woman in a shimmering gown adorned with gilded badges. Or rather—El dragged his eyes with some difficulty away from an impish smile, swirling dark hair, and darkly knowing eyes—the same badge, repeated over and over in gold thread upon blue-green and clinging shimmer-weave. A seashell crossed with a trident, the arms of a Marsemban house . . . Mistwind, that was it. A very old family, very private, few in number.
Regal Lady Mistwind—for this must be the heiress apparent of the house, it could be no other—gave him an even wider smile, showing just the edges of a fine row of pearly teeth, and asked sweetly, "You look like a nobleman who's tasted the world, sir. How does our hospitality here, this night, measure up?"
Well, that was clear invitation enough. Elminster gave her a gallant smile, a bow in the elder court style to signal that he was of a long-established house, too (though of course the Cormaerils would have been scorned in such a claim by many 'true' oldblood nobles of the realm), and the words, "Most beautiful lady, I've but begun to taste what's offered here—yet confess myself impressed thus far by any measure. Perhaps we can speak more of this later?"
Her smile broadened. "Perhaps."
She danced toward him a trifle, almost concealing the hard-eyed bodyguards swaying in time to her movements beyond both of her shoulders, and added huskily, "Your discretion speaks well of you. Lady Amrelle Mistwind gives greeting to—?"
Elminster gave her a smile. "Lord Nameless Cormaeril, at your service."
One dark brow arched. "Namelessness is a matter for scorn if there's no good reason—but you must acquaint me with your reason before I'd presume to pass judgment on it. Later, as you say."
She spun away, her slit-to-the-waist gown giving Elminster a brief glimpse of a gem-studded wyvern tattooed high on her thigh—and a complete lack of undergarments—and left Lord Nameless Cormaeril facing a scowling bodyguard . . . and feeling very warm indeed. Tis these damned magical disguises; they hold the heat so.
* * * * *
Narnra glided to a stop behind another pillar. The guards and servants were growing bored and hungry, and increasingly made little forays out onto the floor to snatch tarts or fancies from platters, ceasing to be so alert for unfolding trouble. Most of them seemed to have been expecting blades drawn between conspirators, anyway, rather than attacks from intruders.
Hmm. There was that tall noble again . . . tall enough to be the old wizard, yes, but of course spell-guises need not have the stature or bulk of the person using them. Yet most men disliked being shorter than they were used to being and avoided such shapes unless they had good reason to do otherwise—and time for reflection upon the matter.
There were at least three men here who were even taller, but two were hulking bodyguards who looked to have ore blood well back in their ancestry, and they kept to the darkened outer rooms, half-dozing ... and the third claimed to be a wizard from Westgate. Would a mage disguising himself be stupid—or vain—enough to make himself into the likeness of ... a wizard? Yet wizards were vain, and this shape was far younger and more handsome than the one he'd worn back in the alley. He'd acted the Old Wise One then, but—was this his true shape? He'd been awfully fast on his feet for a white-bearded dodderer, and the Silken Shadow wasn't as clumsy as all that, if she thought so herself.
The tall noble turned his head and seemed to stare right at her. Narnra froze then looked away, leaned back against her pillar, drew her dagger, and pretended to clean and pare her nails with it. Well, he wasn't coming any closer, at least.
The smell of roasted fowl tarts wafted past, and Narnra suddenly found her mouth full-watering. A moment later, her flat stomach added its own growl of protest. Narnra sighed silently, then put away her knife, stepped around the pillar, and strode out into the chattering throng toward the nearest platter. As the saying went: Swords crossed? Then we might as well shatter realms in battle!
She was a stride away when someone grabbed at the platter, and the servant holding it quickly lofted it out of reach. A tart that had been inches from Narnra's fingertips was suddenly several paces away. With a growl that matched the sound her gut was making, the Silken Shadow stalked after it.
* * * * *
With a grin, Elminster turned away. Well, well, his playmate from the alley had been far bolder than he'd given her credit for—and was now finding, as so many farmers gone to be splendid warriors had discovered before her, that there's nothing like the taste of adventure for making the belly feel yawningly empty. Of course, all too often the meal it soon received was a goodly length of sharpened steel, but there was no need to cast down her spirits warning her of that. She was in it, now, with no going back—and by the looks of her, she had realized that for herself already.
In the dim lamplight, Elminster peered about for the noble lass he'd seen dancing earlier, but she was now—perhaps wisely— nowhere to be seen. There was something about her that made him think of fathering little wizards. Ah, well . . .
Three
THE BRIGHTNESS OF THE LURE
I put out my hand, and the fish swam right into my net—as they always do. It's all in the brightness of the lure you offer.
Fzoul Chembryl, High Lord of the Zhentarim
Conquering What I Want of the World:
Words For All the Brethren to Live By
(text of speech, circulated amongst the Zhentarim)
Year of the Unstrung Harp
Some of the revelers were really drunk now. Narnra stepped around folk who were sprawled senseless, or busily being sick— some with watchful bodyguards standing over them—trying to catch sight of the old wizard, or someone who might be him.
She'd managed to snatch just one tart—with a leap that had drawn more than one appreciative eye, curse the luck—and it had been good, very good. There'd been lamb kidneys and a touch of venison in its rich gravy. The rich aftertaste rested warm and comfortingly in her mouth even now.
This couldn't be fabled Skullport, for none of these folk looked familiar, and their speech was subtly different. They seemed to be discussing rebellion against a king who was barely a king, or some such—could they really be so bold, or foolish? She had a bad feeling that a lot of royal warriors were going to charge out of doorways and arches she hadn't even found yet and slaughter everyone here—wandering thieves from Waterdeep included.
Like a wide-eyed fool, she'd stepped through some sort of magical door and right into an adventure that might slay her in short order. Gods spit, she had to find that old wizard!
He might have slipped away somewhere else, of course, and have nothing to do with all these drunkards. He might be rallying the force that would burst out to slay them all, even now. He might even be leading this conspiracy—though after the way he'd treated her, why hadn't he marched right into the center of the lamplight and enspelled everyone to quivering obedience?
Whatever that old man was up to, if Narnra Shalace was going to save Narnra Shalace's smooth but unlovely hide, she'd best scout where each cellar went and which archways led out into the open air. Twouldn't do to get trapped down here. By the smell, this place might well be below sea level, and some wall-shattering spell or sluice-gate could flood it at will. That would save the authorities even the chasing and shouting.
Many of the revelers seemed to be drifting away from the shoulder-jostling crowd under the lamps, now. On all sides, little groups of excitedly plotting folk were seeking this or that dark corner for privacy. Wary bodyguards were everywhere, and Narnra took care not to seem too interested in anyone as she threaded her way along through side-arches and around pillars, seeking ramps or steps leading up.
"That's the beauty of it, you see—"
She ducked away from that merchant and his chortling, reeling-drunk friends and on into the next room.
"Ah, my lord, at last;' a woman's voice growled, as its owner tore at the robes of a man who looked more bewildered than ardent—as three bodyguards stood in an impassive little ring around the amorous pair, facing outwards with arms folded. Narnra kept going.
Four fast-striding men were crossing the next cellar, one calling out from behind the others.
"Sorval? Is that Sorval Maethur?" The speaker sounded delighted, as he caught up to three merchants.
One turned. "Aye, I'm Sorval. And you might be—?"
"Delighted to bring you death!" was the snarled reply, as a dagger was plunged into a throat, a lamp was tossed into the face of one of the victim's companions, and the other fled with a terrified shout. Bubbling as he struggled to speak and spraying much blood from an opened throat, Sorval slumped to the ground. His slayer stepped back and strode unconcernedly away from the twitching corpse and the moaning man clawing at his burned eyes.
So did Narnra, steeling herself to look just as unconcerned—because any moment now, the killer was going to turn and look around for witnesses who might have to be slaughtered, too, and her life would depend on ... yes!
Sorval's slayer cast her a dark glance. Narnra pointedly ignored him, murmuring aloud as if to herself, "How did that spell go, again?" as she kept steadily walking.
Dagger still dripping in his hand, the man hesitated briefly, glaring at her, but then decided ducking away was wiser than tackling someone unknown. A masked woman, his widening eyes told the Silken Shadow, at that.
Several groups of men were converging in a far room, lanterns glimmering in their hands . . . and those lights were bobbing upward. Narnra headed that way, striding purposefully—and letting Sorval's slayer see her dagger flash in her hand as she drew it.
She waved the fingers of her other hand over it in a flourish, hoping he'd think she was working some sort of magic, and swallowed hard. She'd seen throats slit before, but Sorval had given the world so gods-blessed much blood . . .
Sorval's slayer hurried in another direction, and was lost behind pillars and through archways. Narnra kept going, trying to forget Sorval's last horrible moments. Whoever he was, he hadn't . . . but enough!
She waved a hand as if to banish the memory and looked back once more. No slayer creeping back to follow her. Good.
Another amorous couple were locked together in half-seen urgency in a corner of the next chamber she crossed, and on the other side of the same room some furious men were trying to stab each other with daggers. They were too falling-down drunk to do much more than snarl incoherent threats and curses at each other, fall on their faces, roar and rage some more, and fall over again. Yes, a "Rightful Conspiracy" indeed.