City of the Dead (21 page)

She stared down at herself, saw a colorful skirt hem and elegant shoes beneath the edge of a brilliantly embroidered cloak.

“So, are you ready to call on Stunk?” said the seemingly elderly and heavily built wizard.

Sophraea shook her head at the visual change in Gustin’s appearance. It was a good disguise. Yet, to her ear, the excited optimistic lilt in his voice revealed clearly that the man standing before her was Gustin Bone. Well, perhaps Stunk’s servants wouldn’t notice that. She resolved not to talk much when they were in Stunk’s house. His servants had encountered her far more often than the wizard.

“Let’s take the Mhalsyymber gate,” Sophraea suggested, setting off briskly, as if to outrace her second and third thoughts about Gustin’s hasty plans.

“Hey,” said Gustin, for once forced to quicken his own steps to keep up with her, “do we know where Stunk lives?”

“Of course.” She shook her head at the newcomer to Waterdeep. “He bought three mansions in the North Ward, leveled them, and built his own mansion on Brahir Street. It’s supposed to be one of the largest private houses in all of Waterdeep. It took them almost a year to build it to his’satisfaction.”

Heading to the Mhalsyymber gate, Sophraea could not remember a time when the City ofthe Dead felt so strange. The usual whispers and rustles were gone. All around her, the still hush felt like it was extending to the very edges of the graveyard, probing the wall that still protected Waterdeep from those within the cemetery.

The topiary dragon glided smoothly beside them. Just before they came into sight of the gate, Briarsting halted the leafy guardian.

“He can’t pass the wall,” said the thorn. “But I can come with you if you need an extra sword.”

Sophraea shook her head. “No, it will probably cause less comment if it is Gustin and me. But can you take a message to my family? Just don’t let them know that I’m going to Stunk’s.” The last thing she needed was Leaplow or Bentnor and Cadriffle or her uncles to decide that she needed rescuing and to storm Stunk’s mansion.

“Do you think that wise?” asked the thorn. “Better than Leaplow roaring after us,” she said. “Ah, well,” Briarsting admitted, “he’s not the coolest of heads.”

“Let my father know what the gnomes said,” Soph raea instructed him. “About disturbances below. And that Feeler and Fish should be looking for unstable graves.”

Then she had a second thought and added, “And if you see my mother, tell her that that you passed me on the way and I said I was going to the shops.”

Before she returned home, she would think of a better explanation. But she hoped that Reye wouldn’t be in the courtyard and Briarsting would only speak to her father. It was always easier to explain things later to Astute. Reye was far more skeptical of her excuses.

With a bird whistle, Briarsting sprang onto the neck of the topiary dragon, waved at Sophraea, and turned the beast back toward Dead End House. She watched them leave with a worried frown, wondering how badly things would go that night when the haunts started marching through the Dead End gate.

Gustin reached out and gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze. “It’s still morning and early morning at that,” he said. “We have plenty of time to get to Stunk’s house and find that shoe. We could stop this curse before supper.”

“I hope so,” said Sophraea, but she lacked the wizard’s confidence. A strange sense of anticipation shivered through her bones as they walked toward the gate leading out of the City of the Dead. She knew the restless dead were all around them, waiting for nightfall in their crypts, tombs, and graves.

If they didn’t find a way to stop the curse, Sophraea realized, than tonight’s parade of the noble dead would be even larger and more dangerous than before.

The streets of Waterdeep’s North Ward were almost as deserted as the pathways of the City of the Dead. Except for a few servants hustling around, well-wrapped in wool cloaks against the cold afternoon wind, Sophraea and Gustin saw almost nobody on their journey to Brahir Street.

“Do you think that the hauntings are keeping everyone inside?” Sophraea worried as they marched along. The closer they came to Stunk’s mansion, the more empty the streets. Not even a broadsheet seller was abroad, screaming about the latest scandals.

A splat of rain mixed with sleet hit the back of Gustin’s neck and slid under his collar. “I think they’re just all staying inside to enjoy hot fires, warm ale, and toasted sausages,” he said with a shiver. “That’s what I’d do if I was rich.”

“Mulled wine,” Sophraea suggested, pulling her hood even tighter around her ears. Illusion or no illusion, the tips of her ears were now burning with cold. “And spiced dark cakes. That’s what Myemaw always makes on days like this.”

“I continue to be impressed by your grandmother’s grasp of proper nourishment for the occasion,” said Gustin. “I would gladly give up warm ale for mulled wine and dark cakes. But I rather think your uncles and your brothers and your large male cousins would be with me on insisting that toasted sausages should be included in the feast.”

“And cheese melted across bread crusts. That’s their favorite in winter.”

Gustin sighed with satisfaction. “Another excellent choice. Do

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you think Stunk will serve us refreshments?”

“I’m just hoping we don’t end up being somebody’s snack,” Sophraea remarked.

They heard shouting from somewhere ahead of them. Voices rose, a mixture of noise and curses, the anger clear in the tones. For a moment Sophraea felt relief. At least there is some life out on these streets, she thought.

A large figure dashed from one dark alley opening to another, dodging out of sight. Concealed inside the usual long coat and cap, it could be anyone, but it certainly looked tall and broad enough to be a Carver.

“Something’s happening,” she said.

“Go carefully,” Gustin answered.

More crashes came from nowhere, like mallets pounding on stone. Heavy running steps, boots dashing over cobblestones, more shouts, and then the noise rose with a pattern of bangs that sounded like large children running past a fence dragging a board against the metal posts.

At guarded gates up and down the road, armed men ran out into the street. They stared and turned and yelled questions to each other.

Yet, the street ahead was clear. Guards glanced about, something almost fearful in the poses of these big men well-armored against any threat. No one lingered outside, each hustling back to their posts.

“Here,” said Gustin, plucking a broken half brick off the street. He slipped it into the basket that Sophraea carried. He grabbed another and added it to the first. “Take these. You should be prepared.”

“What do I need those for? The basket’s heavy,” she protested.

“You never know when a half brick is going to come in handy,” said Gustin, rooting around to see if there were any more on the street. He did find a couple of more broken shards of yellow

brick, obviously fallen off some builder’s cart, and slipped those to Sophraea’s basket as well.

A couple of gnomes, carrying tool bags, hurried past them. One wagged his eyebrows at the other. “Visitors to Waterdeep,” he said to his friend. “They really do believe the streets are paved with gold:”

“Come on,” said the other. “Let’s get back to Warrens.”

“Don’t you think that Stunk’s guards will be suspicious of a basket full of bricks?” said Sophraea as the gnomes rushed out of sight.

“First of all, it doesn’t look like a basket,” said Gustin. He pulled back to look down at Sophraea. “More like a very small velvet lady’s purse or amulet tied to your wrist. Secondly, I doubt they’ll look that close. If they do, we have bigger problems than what you’re carrying and we might need those bricks to help us escape.”

Sophraea glanced down at her arm and blinked. She hadn’t looked at the basket before. It was just there, as heavy on her arm as it always was when she went out. But when she looked down, all she saw was a cutwork velvet reticule dangling from two slender satin ribbons.

“But it still feels like a wicker basket,” said Sophraea.

“And you still feel like Sophraea under that illusion,” said Gustin, giving her shoulders a quick squeeze. “That’s why we don’t want anyone touching us. What they see and what they would feel won’t match.”

“Well, I don’t want any of Stunk’s servants laying hands on me,” said Sophraea with a shudder, thinking of the hairy doorjack who kept coming to Dead End House.

The streets were quiet again; the only sound the heavy rain beating against the pavement and the rush of water through the gutters. Yet Sophraea could not shake her sense of unease as they hurried past the silent mansions. The dead passed this way each

night, she thought, and that’s why all the houses seem so barricaded now. There’s fear behind those locked gates and curtained windows. No one wants to look out and see what is passing by.

“There really should be more people around,” she said, voicing her concerns out loud.

“It’s the rain,” said Gustin, repeating his earlier assurance.

“No,” she said. “It’s something more.” For the street felt to her exactly like one of the paths through the City of the Dead. She knew exactly where the noble dead congregated each night. She could feel it more clearly than the cold rain soaking her cloak.

“Stunk’s house,” she said to Gustin, pointing without error at the mansion that she had never visited before.

Unlike Lord Adarbrents enclosed courtyard and entrance directly onto his street, Stunk’s mansion was set back behind a high wall.

The massive gate of gilded irorr was firmly closed, even though it was still daylight. Through its thick bars, Sophraea could see a large courtyard rilled with well-armored house guards. Rather than lounging around or even cleaning weapons as they might be assigned at some less paranoid merchant’s house, these guards were obviously on duty, standing at set intervals and staring sternly into space.

A brick gatehouse bulged out of one side of the high stone wall surrounding Stunk’s estate. A bell rope hung down from a tiny slit opening in the wall. Above it was a shuttered window.

“Shall we ring?” Gustin strode up to the rope.

“You’re sure that they won’t recognize us?” she queried. She still felt like Sophraea. No matter what Gustin said, she wondered if a close examination would quickly reveal her true features.

The wizard pointed at a large puddle forming along one side of the wall. “Look,” he commanded.

Sophraea peered down into the murky waters. The dim reflection looked nothing like her. Instead, she saw a slender moon elf, as

pale as she was naturally dark, with elegant and distinctly inhuman features, dressed in the finery of a lady ofWaterdeep. Nothing at all like black-haired little Sophraea Carver of Dead End House clothed in her second-best winter skirt and carrying a wicker basket full of broken bricks.

Drawing a deep breath to steady her nerves, Sophraea nodded at Gustin. “Pull that rope.”

The wizard tugged and a jangle of brass bells sounded behind the shuttered window. A few moments later, the window popped open. A familiar and unpleasant face came into view. Stunk’s hairy doorjack peered down at them. With a sniff and snarl, he said, “What do you want?”

“An audience with your master,” replied Gustin while Sophraea stayed .down wind behind him. “I am a ghost banisher of great renown in Cormyr and other states far to the east. I hear that Rampage Stunk has need of my services.”

“That’s not for me to say,” said the hirsute servant.

“But can you take a message to your master and tell him that Philious Fornasta awaits his pleasure,” Gustin flipped a thin coin through the gatehouse window. The doorjack caught it with a quick snap of his hand.

“I’ll take your name to the house,” the doorjack said and slammed the gatehouse window shut.

“What do we do now?” whispered Sophraea to Gustin.

“Wait,” the wizard replied.

They huddled in the lee of the wall, partially sheltered from the chill wind and sleeting rain. A man ran past them and banged on the gate. He held a doth to his head. Blood seeped out from under his lowered hat brim and ran down his rain soaked face, then dripped from his chin to his coat. If he saw them, he chose to ignore them, which was just as well. Sophraea didn’t like the looks of him at all. He seemed familiar and at the same time, she couldn’t place him.

T hope that doorjack hurries or we’ll wash away from here,” Gustin said, shifting so he blocked the worst of the wind. She pressed gratefully against the warmth of his back.

He spoke in whispers too low for the stranger’s ears. Sophraea realized that Gustin, like herself, didn’t like the man’s appearance.

“I’d rather have someone other than that doorjack leading us to the house,” she said. “He’s been in and out of Dead End House more than a dozen times on errands for Stunk. He’s sure to recognize us if anyone does.”

“Not a chance,” said Gustin. “These illusions are good for a day or more as long as …”

“As long as what?”

“We don’t trip over any wards or guardians that dispel magic.”

“Would Stunk have something like that?”

“We won’t know until we trip over it. But if we do, I’ve got a spell ready to help us run away!” •

Sophraeasighed. This plan to enter Stunk’s mansion in disguise felt more and more dangerous. But she really couldn’t see another way around their problems. If Gustin was right, and the shoe was hidden in Stunk’s mansion, then they had to retrieve it today and end this curse. But she couldn’t help the nagging feeling that she’d forgotten some important fact, something that she shouldn’t have overlooked.

The massive gilded iron gate began to swing open. The well-oiled hinges gave out no sound. A tall guard beckoned at Sophraea and Gustin.

“You wish to see Rampage Stunk,” he said.

The other man rumbled a few words at the guard and pushed past him and hurried around to the side of the house. The guard ignored him.

“We are offering our services in ridding the house of ghosts, haunts, and walking corpses,” replied Gustin smoothly.

The guard crooked his head, gesturing them through the gate. Three more men stood close behind him. All were heavily armed and Sophraea noticed none took their hands off their sword hilts.