Death Masks Page 2

  “Not that it’s any of my business,” he added into the deepening silence. Then he asked brightly, “How about that fresh gown? You haven’t moved the robing rooms, have you?”

  “Ah, such a diplomat, most senior Lord of Waterdeep,” Laeral replied with a smile. “The nearest, left side; any of the three hanging there.”

  “Only three?” he joked, as he groaned his own way to his feet. “Are you sure you’re a woman?”

  “A witty diplomat, too,” she replied serenely—and then she looked past Mirt and her face changed. He whirled around.

  Elminster had already turned, and taken two steps toward the door he and Mirt had come in by.

  Someone had just knocked on it—and then tried it, without waiting for a response, and was now stepping through it.

  • • •

  EVEN IN THE deepest, darkest Khelben-declaiming moments of her dream, Vajra had known she would end up here.

  It wasn’t her favorite room in the Tower. That would be the room up above she’d just left in her restlessness. Unable to sleep—again—though the night was yet young.

  The bedchamber with its round bed and its domed ceiling adorned with all the stars of Toril winking down at her was her preferred room. The bed that felt so empty when she lay in it all alone, but she was never going to bring any rough docker inside the walls of Blackstaff Tower, and they were the only men she both wanted and dared taste these days, on the rare nights when the loneliness raged and she sought the docks in spellspun disguise.

  Yet this lower room, the one she was in now … it was the room she felt the most at home in, and in which she did the most work.

  The round room was dominated by a central tabletop that displayed a magnificent building-by-building map of the city of Waterdeep. Her city, now, for she was more bound to it than even its Hidden Lords, or the Open Lord in the Palace.

  Even if that Open Lord was no longer the arrogant Neverember of Neverwinter but rather the woman who’d called this tower home for so many years. Laeral of the Chosen, with her silver hair stirring about her shoulders and the little leaping silver flames in her eyes as she stared at you.

  Stared through you, leaving you feeling unworthy, weak, a charlatan in office, a slip of a lass bearing a title that belonged to the man who’d been hers, the Blackstaff, the great Khelben.

  We can none of us best the dead. For they are not here making new mistakes, for all to see. They are beyond that at last.

  Laeral had said that to her, and in a kindly voice, too, but that made it no less of a dismissal of her worth, a measuring of what little she’d done.

  Yet she was the Blackstaff now. She would show Lady Laeral Silverhand and everyone else that she was worthy of the office.

  She would do right by Waterdeep.

  This bustling city where everyone else strove to do right by themselves, and complained when the City of Splendors didn’t measure up in this small way or that, but lifted no finger to make it better.

  She, Vajra, would make a difference.

  Though if the wagging tongues in the street ever realized how alone and ignorant she was, they would hurl her down in an instant, like wolves pouncing on the weakest prey.

  She must work, and prepare, and work some more. Mustering her magic in readiness, layer upon layer, prepared item upon prepared item, as well as her spells, so that no matter what happened, she could unleash a mighty response.

  So strong an answer to foes that no sane opponent would ever think a challenge worth it.

  That was the best way. Cow them all into not daring to work their misdeeds.

  And part of that work was clearly seeing the coming threats. She’d been slow to see the true rising strength of the Cult of the Dragon, had dismissed their secret chants to Tiamat as so much wishful reverence.

  She could not afford—Waterdeep could not afford—more misjudgments like that one.

  Something was stirring among the giants now, and she hadn’t the faintest idea what. That unknowing must change. There was trouble in the Underdark, too, a part of why some of its denizens were stealing back up into Skullport—but was it no more than the usual skirmishes between and among nearby drow cities and illithids, and all those who stood against them? Or something bigger?

  And the Watchful Order was little help. Oh, Bowgentra meant well, but she and faithful Glenmaur were consumed with keeping increasingly fractious city mages like Qasmult or Lavalander, rising new masters of wizardry flush with the coins of nobles and those who wanted to become noble, and, increasingly, the demanding voices of those who paid them so well, from becoming full-fledged tyrants.

  Begin with an easy step, she reminded herself. Gain it, stand upon it, and then take larger ones, resisting the temptation to seek out more easy steps and spend time treading them all so the harder, larger tasks can be avoided for as long as possible. That is the courtiers’ way, and if we all do as courtiers do, the world is doomed, and us with it.

  It was surprising how often she recalled the advice of Elminster these days. A mischievous, lecherous old goat she’d once judged him, and a fool besides, but it was surprising how much wisdom he seemed to have learned in these latter years.

  And she could begin to take one easy step here and now, in this room. Padding barefoot on the smooth warm stone, she circled the table swiftly so her nightrobe would swirl in her wake—yes, such childish delights were her entertainment now—and looked along the Roll of Years picked out in gilt rings along the edge of the table.

  This was the Year of the Scarlet Witch, and she was come late to this table. She should have been trying to learn just who the Scarlet Witch was, and what that being would do of importance, last year, instead of waiting until now, the unusually warm and balmy middle of Mirtul. What was that orc saying? “Burn that bridge when we’re standing on it”? Yes, that was precisely what she was risking.

  She could well be trying to guide Waterdeep by seeing what lay ahead as it was already happening.

  Still, no matter when one leaps into battle, one needs arms and armor, so …

  The seers may have been mad, or the gods may have whispered all sorts of nonsense to them, and priests in their temples misconstrued it all ever since, but still—

  “The name of every year can and should guide us.” She said the old, old temple rood aloud. “None of them are meaningless.”

  So, now …

  Her gaze strayed across the sprawling city map, and then she looked up to scan the great map of Faerûn that curved around so much of the wall. Waterdeep was but a tiny dot in such a vast expanse of countryside, so the Scarlet Witch was so much more likely to arise or do whatever she was going to do out there, somewhere, rather than in the shadow of Mount Waterdeep.

  And … she hadn’t the faintest who or what the Scarlet Witch was. Had heard nothing, beyond the empty speculations of others who read the Roll of Years and wondered aloud—and of course priests who twisted every single year name into something concerning their deity and their deity alone. Priests who talked little about how distant almost every god seemed to have suddenly become, and at least here in Waterdeep were all—every last faith—more cautious and less forceful in matters of local politics. The city had noticed that all the temples were suddenly far more reluctant to try to bring the dead back to life, no matter how much coin was offered for their altars. This city held temples full of priests who probably didn’t have any better idea about the Scarlet Witch than she did.

  So, where to begin? Journeying across Faerûn in some wild, wandering search seemed pointless, not to mention irresponsible for someone whose office should mean vigilance here in Waterdeep, even if she dared to use a portal—

  Across the room, her remaining fragment of the Blackstaff flared with a sudden rich blue radiance. A thrillingly beautiful glow that faded again as swiftly as it had come.

  Vajra stared at that precious black stick, jutting up so still and silent from the stand she’d fashioned for it. What had made it do that?

&nbs
p; Was it trying to tell her to use a portal, or shun them, or had it flared for some other reason entirely? It went a more purple hue when someone was trying to use magic to force a way into the tower, but beyond that, she hadn’t the foggiest …

  Almost before she thought about doing so, she’d crossed the room and caught up the Blackstaff. Its shortened length was more of a rod or scepter for her than a staff, and the gems that had been so deeply embedded in it as to be nigh hidden down its smooth black length now stood proud up and down it, like so many glossy knobs on an old man’s walking stick.

  As she took hold of it, some of those embedded stones winked at her, tiny lights playing in their depths in a brief, welcoming pattern. It felt warm to the touch, as it almost always did, and when she closed her eyes and clutched it to her body there came the usual sensation of sinking down into it, of drawing closer to a great sleeping mind in its depths.

  Which was why she so often slept embracing the fragment, learning what she could from the dream visions it sent her.

  She would do that now.

  She shrugged off her nightrobe, letting it sigh into a silken puddle on the floor behind her, clutched what was left of the Blackstaff tightly against her, and headed for the stairs back up to bed.

  Not that she felt the slightest bit sleepy.

  Oh, Mystra forefend, let it not be another of those nights.

  • • •

  THE SLENDER, HANDSOME man in skintight gray leathers perched on the roof edge as motionless as any sculpted stone gargoyle, watching would-be murderers at work.

  The stars were out and winking down as the cool of night settled on the harbor and the sea fog started to steal in. Soon its damp and moonlit haze would cloak the docks and the moored ships in thick wet shrouds no gaze could pierce, but for now the moon and stars still reigned, and Drake could see the assassins clearly as they scaled the wall that encircled Mirt’s Mansion.

  It was still called that, yonder darkly turreted and eccentric home nestled into the rising rock flank of Mount Waterdeep, though Mirt the Moneylender had not been seen in Waterdeep for more than a hundred years. The Lords of the City had recently gifted it to the new Open Lord of Waterdeep, Lady Laeral Silverhand.

  And before this night was out, Laeral might taste the price of taking that title. No less than six assassins, by Drake’s count, were stealthily seeking her life.

  No lights shone in the sleeping mansion. The spy sat still and watched the bringers of death sidle across the slender strip of garden, avoiding the stone bridge that linked the tallest turret to a path meandering over the shoulder of the soaring mountain. It took them surprisingly little time to breach the garden doors, and they did so more quietly than he’d expected.

  Well, now. They just might succeed, after all.

  Drake sat very still, save for the tips of the fingers of his right hand. They caressed an itch he was unaccustomed to; a tiny, fresh brand burned into the side of his neck behind his right ear. A blood-bond. It would mean his doom if he betrayed the worm who’d branded him—but he was richer now, in just a tenday, than he’d ever been in his life before, and the second promised payment had been on time, and not a gem less than promised. Twelve more such payments, and he’d be wealthier than some noble lords in this city.

  And for that, he’d do many dark deeds for many worms.

  • • •

  SLEEP WAS EVERY whit as elusive as Vajra had feared it would be. The surviving fragment of the Blackstaff was its head and upper shaft, about three feet long in all, as dead black as lightless velvet and usually as cold and malignant as a yawning tomb. Even so, she clutched it when abed, learning far more than any tutor of the Art had ever shown her—and despite the unyielding authority of Khelben that lingered in the staff as if he were still alive and staring disapprovingly at her out of it, the broken remnant of the Blackstaff somehow reassured her more than any mentor had ever been able to.

  Right now, she was lightly dozing, dimly aware of the stars in the ceiling above her as the staff vividly showed her several of the Walking Statues of Waterdeep, one after another, as they stood in daylight over this past warming month, frozen just where they’d stopped their rampages after the Spellplague. Though she heard his voice in her mind not at all, she could almost hear Khelben reminding her that awakening the stone behemoths to move again was something she could do, by means of what was left of the staff. She could move them to better locations so rebuilding could occur in the places where they stood now, freeing them to be more swiftly ready to defend the city if an orc horde or more dragon attacks should come.

  A statue is awakened thus, and is commanded like this, and …

  Commanded.

  Furthering the causes that were right.

  Setting Waterdeep to rights.

  Using the rightful power of the Blackstaff, the unyielding dark strength that endures, beyond death, despite setbacks, regardless of—

  There were no eyes in the round, starry-domed bedchamber at the top of Blackstaff Tower to see what happened to her then, and no mirrors for her to see herself.

  Yet her eyes shot open as two royal blue flames, eerily lambent glows without eyeballs, uniform deep ovals of blue fire.

  And she sat bolt upright, face curiously expressionless, the Blackstaff clutched to her breast. She rose from the bed, dressed in silent, deft efficiency, and strode out of Blackstaff Tower, the fragment under her arm.

  As she stepped out into the night, it winked the same rich royal blue as her eyes—and they promptly lost their fire, leaving behind a dark-eyed, dusky-skinned woman who looked all around her in puzzled apprehension.

  Then she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and strode off through the moonlit streets with determined purpose, heading south around the Castle Spur of Mount Waterdeep. Sentries on its high battlements saw her, and wondered what urgent business took the Blackstaff out alone at this time of night.

  The more cynical among them murmured the same thought: They’d no doubt know soon enough.

  • • •

  THE SOMEONE WHO came through the door that had been Mirt’s, and now was Laeral’s, was female.

  She was short and dusky-skinned and slender, her dark hair clipped close. Her eyes were large, dark, and grim—even before they saw the sprawled and bound bodies of the assassins.

  Elminster indicated her with a flourish. “I have the honor to present,” he said gravely, with as much dignity as any herald, “Vajra Safahr, the seventh Blackstaff of Waterdeep.”

  “Well met,” Laeral offered, and the rote greeting sounded genuine. “What brings you to my door at this hour, Lady of the Staff?”

  Vajra nodded a little uncertainly, took a deep breath, and said, “Grim news. A Lord of the City has just been found murdered. Avner Ravelmark.”

  “Ravelmark? And Gorlar last night. Two Masked Lords in as many nights.”

  The Blackstaff nodded unhappily. “The talk among the Watch patrols I passed on the way here is that this is the former Open Lord’s doing. Revenge for being deposed.”

  Laeral reached out to Elminster for support, hauled herself upright by climbing the arm he offered, and gave Vajra a thoughtful frown. “Earlier this evening, I received a delegation. Two guildmasters—Scrope of the Furriers and Woolweavers and Rashenstaff of the Innkeepers—and the matriarch of a senior noble house, Lady Branathleira Estelmer, came to see me about Gorlar’s death. They were concerned by talk they’d overheard, and what they themselves suspected, of involvement by agents of the deposed Lord Dagult Neverember.”

  “And?”

  “I gave them my opinion, which is this: So far as I can tell, to blame Neverember is an unsupported step too far. The man did leave agents behind to meddle in Waterdhavian politics, as well as mere supporters, and it seems he does not wish me well or that I have an easy tenure, but all I can learn of what those agents did yesterday suggest that he is not actively involved in Gorlar’s killing.”

  Vajra took a step closer, her eyes narrowing,
and hefted the fragment of the Blackstaff. “You’ve not yet heard, I see.”

  “Heard what?” Laeral asked, that last word soft yet somehow at the same time as sharp as the crack of a whip. The Blackstaff’s head reared back as if she’d been slapped.

  “Lady Estelmer,” Vajra said flatly, “has been attacked, and her skull split. Her wits have suffered grievously, and she’s not expected to survive. Guildmaster Aldemur Scrope has been killed in an ‘accident’ involving masonry falling on him from above, in a South Ward backstreet—brickwork that somehow fell outward a good dozen feet or more farther than should have been possible.”

  “And Rashenstaff?” Laeral asked sharply.

  “Vanished. Not even his family knew, until I came pounding on his door looking for him on my way here. He went to bed with his wife, put something into her evening broth to make her sleep—she’s still drifting in and out; can’t stay awake longer than it takes her to spout a few sentences—and then got dressed and slipped out the bedroom window. Where someone was waiting for him with a knife. There’s a trail of blood on the ground outside that just … stops.”

  Laeral sighed, then took two strides so she could bring both fists down on one of Mirt’s best polished tables as thunderously as any furious fighting man, and muttered, “Waterdeep. Bloody Waterdeep. The worst of it is, I know I’m going to get used to things like this.”

  “I did,” Mirt growled.

  “You’re not helping, Old Wolf.”

  “Want me to hire some adventurers and go hunting missing guildmasters?”

  “Not yet. You’d be serving as too tempting a scapegoat for whoever’s murdering Masked Lords.”

  Mirt grinned and nodded appreciatively. “Oh, you’re going to be fine.”

  Laeral rolled her eyes. “I never liked ruling. I like wandering the wilds, breathing the fresh air and looking out over the landscape.”

  “While prowling monsters stalk you and wait for the right moment to pounce,” Elminster murmured.