Authors: Elaine Cunningham
“We’re leaving at once. We fly to Ganstar’s Creek with all haste, throughout the whole night if we must. It is imperative that we make it there before tomorrow’s dawn!”
The early show at the Three Pearls theater opened to a large crowd. Outside the large stone and mud-brick building, a queue of people stretched down Pearl Alley. Several troupe members strolled along the narrow street, entertaining those who waited. Vendors hawked oranges and sweets, and there was a hum of curious anticipation.
“Lucia, I really haven’t time for this,” Caladorn told his lady, an uncustomary touch of impatience in his voice as they edged closer to the entrance. “The Midsummer Festival is almost upon us, and the practice sessions have been plagued by mishaps and injuries. I should be at the arena.”
“I would not keep you from your work, but for something important,” Lady Thione said in soft tones. “You know that guilds or other groups sometimes hire the theater for private performances. A private party is paying for this show, yet the performance is open to all who care to come.”
“So?”
“The person behind this performance is Lord Hhune, a merchant visiting from Tethyr. The city’s bards are unhappy about attempts to censor their songs, and Hhune is paying them to air their discontent at a concert satirizing the Lords of Waterdeep, particularly the archmage.”
Caladorn stared at Lucia. “How did you come to know of this?”
The noblewoman shrugged. “Some of my servants understand the language of Tethyr. I have done business with Hhune in the past, and I trust him not, so I had him followed and watched. My servant overheard Hhune talking to one of his men. What Hhune hopes to gain from this, I cannot begin to imagine.” She lifted enormous, haunted dark eyes to her lover’s face and whispered, “You know what became of the royal family when men such as Hhune took power in Tethyr. There are many in the south who would see me dead, although my connection to the royal family is admittedly distant. Now that Hhune seeks to influence affairs in Waterdeep, I cannot help but fear.”
Caladorn’s stern expression melted, and he drew the tiny noblewoman away from the crowds. “Lucia, you are safe in Waterdeep, and with me.”
“You’re right, of course,” she said, and cast a rueful smile up at him. “I suppose I’m being foolish.”
“Your concern is easy to understand,” the young man said, and he bent and kissed her forehead. “Now, let’s leave Hhune to the city’s Lords. You can be sure they know of his activities.”
They do now, Lucia thought with dark satisfaction.
As soon as Caladorn had seen his lady safely to her villa, he hurried to the palace of Piergeiron, Waterdeep’s only acknowledged ruler. The young man was not particularly surprised to find Khelben Arunsun in council with Piergeiron. The Lords of Waterdeep met often these days, in full council and in small groups, to deal with the city’s seemingly unending problems.
“Did you enjoy the performance at the Three Pearls?” the archmage asked with a touch of wry amusement.
“I didn’t stay,” the young Lord responded. He had long ago ceased to be surprised at the extent of Khelben’s knowledge; among the Lords of Waterdeep, it was often said that no one could sneeze in his bedchamber but that the archmage inquired after his health the following morning.
“I have some information about a merchant from Tethyr,” Caladorn continued.
“That would be Lord Hhune,” Piergeiron said, glancing at Khelben.
“You two know of him?”
“Oh, yes,” the archmage said dryly. He handed Caladorn a piece of paper. “This is an example of Hhune’s brand of diplomacy. He has papered the city with these.”
Caladorn glanced at a satirical sketch of Khelben Arunsun painting stick figures, while the disguised Lords of Waterdeep looked on. He shook his head in deep puzzlement and handed it back. “What does this Hhune want?”
“That is not entirely clear. He is a guildmaster in his native Tetlryr, the head of the merchant shipping guild. To all appearances, he came to Waterdeep with goods for the Midsummer Faire. His crew, however, seem to have unusual talents. Some of them have been busy in the Dock Ward, recruiting thieves and assassins in an attempt to organize secret guilds in Waterdeep,” Piergeiron said, rubbing one red-rimmed eye as he spoke. The strain of the last few weeks showed plainly on the First Lord’s fare.
“We believe that Hhune may be a member of the Knights of the Shield,” Khelben continued, and he handed the young Lord a large, gold coin. “These are tokens given to Knights who have performed notable services. Several of these have been recovered from Hhune’s men, including some who entered the city before Hhune showed up. That suggests a larger problem,” the archmage said. “While Hhune is not exactly subtle, the influx of agents prior to his arrival suggests that he has another, more canny partner in Waterdeep.”
“None of our sources has been able to discern the identity of this agent,” Piergeiron added. “But it seems clear that the Knights of the Shield have become extremely active in Waterdeep. You know that three merchant ships were recently lost.”
“Yes,” Caladorn said quietly. “I knew the captain on one of them, and a better sailor I never met. It struck me as odd that she would fall to a pirate ambush.”
“The ships sailed from Baldur’s Gate. Harper agents there are investigating the situation. It appears that the harbormaster is an agent of the Knights of the Shield, and he has been passing information on shipping routes and schedules to an unknown source in Waterdeep. This is not the Knights’ first attempt at disrupting shipping,” Piergeiron concluded with a sigh. “It just comes at a particularly inopportune time.”
“What are you doing about Hhune?” Caladorn pressed.
“Frankly, Hhune is small fish. He is being watched in the hope that he will lead us to the Waterdeep agent.”
Caladorn seemed less than happy with that conclusion, but he bowed and hurried away to his duties at the arena.
When they were alone, Piergeiron nodded at the paper in Khelben’s hand.
“Subtle or not, Hhune’s tactics are taking a toll, my friend. I am beginning to understand your concern about the changed ballads, for they are also proving to be highly effective. Many of them seem to be aimed at you personally. Does it seem likely that the Knights of the Shield are also responsible for the spell on the bards?”
“If not, they are certainly exploiting it,” Khelben said in a weary voice. “I have a contact who may yield some information. I’ll seek her out at once.”
He murmured the words of a spell. In a moment, the tall archmage was gone, and in his place stood a young man of medium height and build. His features were pleasant, and shaded by a broad-brimmed hat. Simple, well-made clothing of dark gray linen would be deemed equally at home in
the marketplace or a North Ward parlor. In short, he was unremarkable and could pass unnoticed through most of the city. Thus disguised, Khelben took his leave of Piergeiron and headed toward the nearby Jester’s Court. It was time for the archmage of Waterdeep to pay a call on a certain lady of the evening.
Imzeel Coopercan had heard too much in the last several days for his peace of mind. Yet the half-dwarven proprietor of the Mighty Manticore listened carefully to the talk of the early supper crowd, picking out bits from the hum of conversation as he endlessly polished the bar with a rag.
“At the rate you’re going, you’ll wear clear through the wood before moonrise,” teased Ginalee, a plump, merry lass who’d been Imzeel’s barmaid long enough for him to permit such familiarity. She was more than passing fond of her employer, despite his dour personality and barrel-shaped torso, and therefore she tried to distract him from whatever woes now absorbed his attention. Resting her elbows on the shining wood of the bar, she propped her head in her hands and dimpled up at him. This posture yielded Imzeel a view of cleavage that should have rallied a dying man; he gave Ginalee a mere glance and went back to polishing the bar.
The offended barmaid snatched the rag away and draped it from the fang of the stuffed and mounted lion head that hung over the bar. That trophy, with a little creative taxidermy and a great deal of wishful thinking, had inspired the tavern’s imposing name. For a moment, Ginalee toyed with the idea of telling lamed his establishment was more commonly known as “the Mangy Manticore.” With a sigh, she decided that it wouldn’t matter to him, as long as business continued to thrive.
And thrive it did. The Mighty Manticore was located in the heart of the Castle Ward, at the busy crossroads of Selduth and Silver streets. Those who spent their days in commerce and diplomacy often stopped by the tavern to share news and to make deals over a no-nonsense supper of thick, flavorful stew, sharp cheese, fresh black bread, and hearty ale. Just as important, the back of the tavern opened into Jester’s Court. Something interesting always seemed to be happening there, and therefore those whose business was best conducted in shadows also found their way into the tavern through the back door. The result was a nice blend of information and intrigue that Imzeel found to be as satisfying as profit; the proprietor sought and hoarded knowledge as avidly as his dwarven forebears had mined for mithril.
Yet Imzeel found the day’s talk troubling. He reclaimed his rag from the “manticore” and resumed his endless circling as he listened in. There were the usual complaints about problems with shipping and theft, but such things seemed to be occurring on a larger scale than normal. Entire ships and the full contents of warehouses were vanishing, right under the noses of city officials. Even more distressing were the whispers suggesting that the Lords of Waterdeep were disappearing. Tavern talk made the godson culprit Waterdeep’s resident archmage.
It was widely accepted that Khelben Arunsun was one of the secret Lords of Waterdeep. There were some who felt the archmage had a bit too much power of his own without such a position, but most Waterdhavians had nothing against wizard rule. In fact, Ahghairon’s Tower stood nearby, a monument to the powerful mage who’d established the Lords of Waterdeep several centuries past. The city had prospered under Ahghairon’s long rule, and the consensus seemed to be that, as long as the Blackstaff
could do as well, may the gods be with him! Waterdhavians weren’t inclined to grease a cart until it squeaked. As trouble in the city increased, however, many feared that Khelben Arunsun was spending too much time dispatching his rival Lords, and not enough tending to the city and its concerns.
Imzeel noted with satisfaction that his own business seemed unaffected by the city’s troubles. The supper hour had just started, and already the barkeep was tapping a third keg of ale. The patrons even had music with their dinner, for the Masked Minstrel had wandered in from her customary place in Jester’s Court and was playing a plaintive tune on her lute. Usually the mysterious woman’s appearance engendered much interest and speculation, but this evening other matters took precedence. Few bothered to listen to her songs, and Imzeel was not sorry to see her put aside her lute in response to a whispered invitation. She and a young customer disappeared through the back door into Jester’s Court, no doubt bound for the privacy of the woods that covered the slopes of Waterdeep Mountain. Business as usual, Imzeel repeated silently, taking comfort from the thought
“The wizards you ordered are here,” Ginalee announced. She plunked a tray of empty mugs down on the counter, and tossed her head in the direction of three newcomers. “Should I tell them to go ahead?”
Imzeel nodded, and relief eased his countenance into something approaching a smile. He was a prudent man of business, and like many others he had contracted the wizards’ guild to place magical wards about his establishment
The Watchful Order of Magists and Protectors was Waterdeep’s youngest guild, and they tended to matters ranging from policing visiting sorcerers to serving on the fire watch. The guild also sought to influence andto whatever extent they couldmonitor the magical activities
of powerful, independent wizards. The bizarre occurrences in the city of late suggested that magic of some sort was at work, and this created an imperative demand for the guild’s services. All over the city guild mages were busy setting up magical wards to detect and dispel magic. This gave Imzeel a sense of security, and his patrons also murmured their approval as they watched the proceedings.
As the guild mage finished the complex gestures of a spell to rid the room of magical illusions, the Masked Minstrel came back into the taproom on the arm of her latest client A sharp blue light flared around the pair, drawing a startled scream from the woman. The room fell into silence, and every eye was drawn to the magical light. As the patrons watched, the young man’s features melted and flowed together, in an instant crystallizing into a new and familiar shape.
Standing next to the mysterious masked woman was a tall, well-muscled man, clad in somber magnificence. His features were sharp, his expression grave, and his usually keen black eyes betrayed a touch of uncertainty. The wedge-shaped streak of silver in the center of his beard confirmed his identity to those who would not have known him from his face alone.
The Masked Minstrel fell away from him, one hand clasped to her painted lips. She backed off several paces, and then turned and fled toward Jester’s Court. Whether she was surprised by the transformation, or just unwilling to be linked with Khelben Arunsun under such adverse circumstances, was impossible to say.
“So this is how the archmage of Waterdeep spends a summer evening,” Ginalee murmured to Imzeel. “And the city going, down to Cyric in a cistern, and all.”
“Hush, girl,” the man whispered fiercely, making a warding sign to stave off the ill luck said to follow when the god of strife’s name was invoked.
One of the patrons broke the tense silence. A cleric of Tymora, perhaps trusting to the legendary hick his goddess was said to grant, rose from his dinner and faced the archmage. -
“Perhaps no one in the city can stand against you and your ambitions,” the cleric said quietly, “but that doesn’t mean we have to drink with you.”