The abduction

Chapter 3

With shapeshifters at large in the castle and nobles and guildmasters plotting on all sides, Piergeiron could confide in very few, Eidola reduced the possible ranks even farther. She routinely balked at Piergeiron's overprotectiveness, and even now she would certainly forbid him to enlist the aid of others.

But enlist he would. She did not need to know of her defenders until she needed their defence-which might be soon enough.

First, of course, was the inimitable Blackstaff. Khelben was no shapeshifting imposter; the Lord Mage of Waterdeep had a way of dispensing with imitators. He had already been aiding in security; his cursory scans at the gates had turned up plenty of weapons and minor magics. Now Khelben sought much greater and subtler sorceries, the sorts of elaborate wards that usually go undetected. Such protections might hide a shapechanger, or a whole platoon of them. The Lord Mage was even now combing the crowd of guests, servants, and guards.

Next came Madieron Sunderstone. Most shapeshifters could not imitate creatures his size. Even to try, they would have to overcome the blond-haired man-mountain-no small feat. Besides, the man's combination of dull wits and deep wisdom would defy duplication. Rergeiron was confident that the Madieron who had greeted him in his apartments this morning was the same man who stood by him now-and would stay at his side until he met Eidola at the altar.

Then, there was Captain Rulathon, Piergeiron's secondin-command of the city watch. This black mustachioed warrior was no imitation, either, for Khelben himself had teleported him in for the briefing. His expertise at subtle reconnaissance was matched only by his knowledge of the folk of Waterdeep. Few impostors could sneak past him.

And, last-Noph Nesher. No shapeshifter would have thought to take his form, and the noble youth had already proved his worth. He had eavesdropped on various conspirators and had gathered the first hard evidence-a bit of fabric torn from one of them. Piergeiron, Madieron, Rulathon. and Noph met in a small vestibule off the palace kitchens. It was just the sort of unfinished and unwelcoming space that often hatched conspiracies, whispered plans that would shake continents.

Rulathon listened closely, his black hair flaring wildly about his intent face. Noph tried to look equally focused, though a thin film of sweat glistened on his white brow. Madieron’s expression was ponderous and a bit vacant amid the dark and rough-hewn rafters.

The Open Lord recounted what he had learned from the conspirators. "There is treason in it. It is no simple matter of impersonating a maid or whispers in the corners. It is a kidnapping plot, or assassination, or some such. And as yet, I still do not know who precisely is behind it all. At best, the shapeshifters are chaotic creatures working on their own, and Decamber was acting outside the orders of the mariners. At worst, these conspiracies might reach deep into the ranks of Waterdeep's nobles and guilds."

“The mariners have plenty of reasons to block an overland trade route," Captain Rulathon noted grimly.

"Yes," agreed Piergeiron," but so would many other folk. Whoever is behind it all, I am convinced that the trade route to Kara-Tur is key."

"I came to the same conclusion," Noph interrupted. The other three turned their attention on him, as he smiled sheepishly. "It's where the money leads. Somebody wants to prevent the signing of the pact-prevent it or control it. I personally suspect the Master Mariners above all others."

Piergeiron regarded the youth keenly. "Even if there weren't shapeshifters running amok," he said, "I would have had to be very selective in whom I put my trust. Out of all Waterdeep, I have selected you three, and Khelben "

"But any of us could be…" Noph began. He broke off with the shaking of Captain Rulathon's head.

"Be assured we are not, son," said the watch captain. "Be assured and be glad. Our forms may not have been stolen from us yet, but watch out! I imagine that before the night is through, we will be running into ourselves walking down the hall, or fighting ourselves on some stair somewhere."

Noph swallowed loudly, simultaneously relieved and dismayed.

Piergeiron picked up the thread of the discussion. "I need each of you, my ears and eyes where I cannot be. Rulathon, first and foremost, you must guard my bride and see that no harm comes to her. Noph, you must watch the guests for telltale signs of treason. Madieron, of course, will be watching me. Khelben is already at work, scanning the crowd. All of you have been doing these things. Now I make your commissions official."

The Open Lord paused. A wave of exhaustion, unexpected, swept over him- "Friends, this is a maze from which Eidola and I cannot escape alone. With plots upon plots upon plots, perhaps we will not survive, even with your aid."

"So you will still marry Eidola tonight?" Captain Rulathon asked.

"I will," Piergeiron replied, resolute. "Whatever these plots, they are wrapped up in the wedding and in this trade route. The conspirators' work would already be done if I cancelled the ceremony now."

“I imagine your bride is of like mind," said the captain. He turned. "Perhaps I should make certain of it," Bowing once in farewell, he headed away, toward Eidola‘s chambers. “I go to watch "

"Good," Piergeiron said. His very serious gaze spoke a silent thanks to the tall warrior.

Then Piergeiron turned those same eyes-those that had gazed into the abyss of Undermountain and across at the glorious panoply of Waterdeep-upon Noph. "Rulathon's work is begun-and Madieron's and Knelben's, also. I count on yours, too. If you help Eidola and me win our way out of these traps, the whole of Waterdeep will owe you a debt of gratitude." The lad nodded seriously. In respectful imitation of Rulathon, he said, "I go to watch." Noph turned and slipped away down the hall, toward the sounds of dancing.

"Your autographs here. Gentles " said the Open Lord of Waterdeep.

He leaned over his large mahogany desk and placed the much-signed trade pact before the last holdout delegates: the Boarskyrs.

The two red-faced and burly brothers, Becil and Bullaid, had inherited title and lands from a great-great-great-greatgrandfather Boarskyr-the man who'd built the first Boarskyr bridge. Each succeeding generation that descended from this extraordinary man, though, had lost another "great" Becil and Bullard were the inevitable result. They could not be truthfully called good, let atone great

The brothers had not inherited their ancestor's enterprising spirit or even his common sense. Uneducated and mired in penury, Becil and Billiard could use the opportunity and money the trade route would bring them. Unfortunately, they liked their backward backwater and wanted to keep it as it was. Perhaps it was the only place they truly fit in,

Here, in Piergeiron's cherry wood-panelled study, the two looked and smelled as out of place and nervous as sheepdogs caught in me slaughter chute.

Their mood was not helped by Madieron's looming presence and his unscheduled groans of disapproval.

"Look here. Your Fecundity, Laird Pallid." began Becil, the slightly redder, burlier, and more verbal of the brothers,

"Lord Paladinson will suffice," corrected the Open Lord gently.

"Look here. Laird Pallidson," Becil continued, "we've got a histrionical and advantageous bridge-that's sure. You've got a compounded interest in it-that's sure, too. And, if it comes to it. Your Feckless Personage is asked to cross our bridge whensoever that you as an individuality would like to do so, as would make us indeed felicitatiously happy. Really."

"Thank you very much."

Bullard interrupted, "How about I have a look at your sword?"

"How about you let us finish our business first?" Piergeiron replied. "But as to Your Immensity going off and inviting the rest of the world to circumnavigate our bridge," Becil continued obliviously, "well. now that's a pickle. And, you know, even an Enormous Egregiousness like yourself can make a pickle from a cucumber but not a cucumber from a pickle, apples and peach pits marching to a different kettle of fish altogether, if you follow my thinking."

"I do not"

Bullard scooted his chair to one side of Piergeiron's desk, and then pretended to be intensely interested in a corner of the ceiling. His feverish eyes slipped for a moment down to Piergeiron's long sword, and his fingers twiddled in anticipation.

Madieron's own fingers did a little twiddling.

"Well, for one thing," Becil prattled on, "it's not so great a bridge. Your Obesity. I'd say even with you and that pony of yours-Deadheart, is it? "Dreadnought."

"— Deadweight, right, thanking Your Monstrosity, well, that much weighty preponderance might make the whole thing go over into the river. Then we'd not have our hysterical and advantageous bridge and you'd not have your compounded interest, neither. You see, my brother Bullard was the archipelago of the current edifice, and just because he's got piles doesn't mean he knows about pilings…"

"I'd hold my tongue, Becil-" Bullard advised as he shifted his chair around beside Piergeiron.

"I'm sure our heiratic bridge would break under Your ponderous Propensity and your pony. Dreadlocks, not to I mention your bodyguard Matterhorn-"

Madieron growled, splitting his disapproval equally between the brothers.

Into the tense silence that followed this vocalization, Piergeiron ventured, "The agreement allows for a whole new bridge, one you two wouldn't need to build yourselves. And the bridge would have a toll, to enrich your family into perpetuity." Piergeiron thought but didn't add that they could and should use that toll for educating future Boarskyrs.

"But like we extrapolated " Becil continued, "we could care less about the future. We could care more about the present."

"Once you go changing the present, all you've got left is the future," Bullard noted, nodding enthusiastically. "By the way, how about I get a look at your sword?"

Madieron folded his arms over his chest and let out an unappreciative hiss.

"No," Piergeiron reiterated. He turned to Becil. "You said you would sign"

"We said we'd not sign," Becil corrected, "until you'd been nuptualized to Eidola of Neverwinter-"

"— our kin."

"— and with kin of ours ruling Waterdeep-through the allspices of Yours Truly (no, I mean Yours Truly as in Yours Truly, not Mine Truly)-we know you will promulgate a present-tense orientational direction for our little village. Great High Commissary."

If ever the mouse held the elephant at bay, thought Piergeiron…

He said with a bit more exasperation than he had intended, "But I am marrying her!"

"You're not married yet," Becil pointed out.

Madieron released a moan that sounded as though it came from a tree on the brink of toppling.

Piergeiron felt a sudden insistent tugging at his swordbelt

“Peace strings!" Bullard proclaimed angrily where he yanked on the hilt of Halcyon. He was about to brace a foot on Piergeiron's back, but Madieron's own foot removed the man as though he were a dog and Halcyon an unappreciative leg.

As Bullard tumbled to the floor, he said, with no sign of rancour. "Until the Brothers Borskyr see gold on your finger, you won't be seeing their Xs on your paper."

"A lot can happen between here and the altar-the viscerals of life in the big city," Becil said. "No ring. no sign."

"How about I have a look at that sword-"

"No!" shouted Piergeiron and Madieron in chorus.

Becil slapped his brother's hand away, whereupon the unflappable Bullard flapped. "Hands off, Im-Becil."

"Im-Becil," murmured Madieron, and he chuckled to himself. "I get it. Im-Becil" "Shut up, Dullard!"

"Im-Becil and Dullard," Madieron repeated, chortling. As the blond giant laughed and the Boarskyr Brothers engaged in a spirited slap-fight, Piergeiron thought once again about building a five-mile loop around Boarskyr Bridge and letting the town wither to nothing in the shadow of the great caravan way. Still, Grandfather Boarskyr had built in the best spot for fifty miles up or down the river. Circumventing it would be more costly, more time consuming, and more galling than even these negotiations.

The Open Lord's musings were interrupted by Bullard, who was seated and therefore had won the fight. "After all. Laird Pallidson, we didn't become Boarskyrs by being idiots."

Piergeiron couldn't help himself. "You became idiots by being Boarskyrs."

Red-cheeked, Becil struggled up from the floor. He regarded his brother darkly. "Pinky flicker."

"How about I have a look at that sword?"

"Dullard, ha ha," Madieron said, struggling to squelch his giggles. "Ha ha."

When Eidola emerged from her latest session beneath the sharp-nailed fingers of hairdressers and face powderers. Captain Rulathon was waiting. He merged more deeply with the shadows of the hallway. His always-intent face was especially grave.

The watchcaptain was not blind to Eidola's beauty. Her gown was exquisite, her makeup flawless. The fortress of hair, flowers, lace, and pins atop her head was a construct worthy of any siege engineer. The gem that hung from a silver chain round her slender throat glowed and sparkled in the candlelight

Yes, she is beautiful, Rulathon thought, but artificially so. She is cold calculation instead of warm wildflowers. Every face she stares into is a mirror. When she seems to gaze lovingly into Piergeiron's eyes, she admires only her own reflection.

Beside and behind Eidola came a flock of chattering manicurists and hairdressers-the attendants who had worked the magic over her. They were each garbed in the ceremonial satins and laces that marked them as the retinue of the bride, though the ivory shade of their dresses showed that they lacked her white virtue. The Women pranced and laughed excitedly as they moved along.

In a shimmering rush, they were past. Rirfathon waited a breath before he started out from the recess. A frisson of intuition ran up his spine, and he drew back. A last attendant came scuttling up behind. She called out for the others to wait and ran on toward their oblivious backs.

As she flapped past, the watchcaptain thought for a moment he glimpsed, beneath the ruffle of skirts, a trailing tentacle.

A tentacle, he thought. One would think a hairdresser would know enough to tuck away so telltale a thing.

He stepped from the crevice, and pursued them through the darkness of the corridor.

Just before the wedding ceremony began, Noph cornered Jheldan- "Stormrunner" Boaldegg, First Mariner of the Master Mariners' Guild. The sea dog stood in the narthex of the palace chapel, and like the other guests, waited to be seated for the ceremony.

Noph casually approached the man. "An honest to goodness sea captain," he said admiringly.

The old seaman stared out from behind a fleecy white mask of beard and eyebrows. Around a battered pipe, he drawled, "Aye."

"This is the closest I've ever been to real adventure," Noph pressed. "As the son of a nobleman, I read plenty of stories of the briny deep. but have never gotten to sail out on it myself."

"Aye."

Noph's demeanor suddenly changed from casual excitement to focused desire. "I want to go to sea."

Captain Boaldegg fixed him with a stem look.

"I wouldn't need a commission," Noph said quietly, all the while glancing over his sshoulder. "I know you give officer commissions to some nobles-but I'd be willing to holystone decks and haul sheets."

The white-bearded sea dog blinked in consideration, his scarred red face looking for all the world like a hunk of granite. At last, he let go the blue pipe smoke he'd held in his lungs and said, "Deck hands are abundant. We've got plenty of them straight from jails and flophouses. They don't ask much pay, try to avoid trouble, and know their trade. Why should I bump one of them seasoned seamen to take on a load of noble trouble?"

"Trouble?" asked Noph in an injured tone. "I wouldn't make any trouble. Besides, I heard there's going to be need for plenty more hands once… once the trade pact falls through "

Though before, the seaman's eyes had seemed glassy and amused beneath his eyebrows, now they were sharp as arrowheads. "What makes you think me pact is jeopardized, lad?" Noph returned the man's steely glare. "I know about what you have planned. I know about… Eidola."

Suddenly, the man's old hand-steel bars and cablesseized Noph's arm. "You're coming with me, lad."

“0h, no he's not," interrupted Laskar Nesher. From behind his son, he pried the captain's hand loose. "No son of mine-no heir of mine-is going to waste his life with a bunch of thieves and bilge rats. Get gone, old Boaldegg. Troll the gutters and prisons for your shipmates "

With that, Laskar Nesher drew his son away from the glowering sea dog. For once, the merchant's eyes were focused on his son-focused and intent. "What's this all about, Kastonoph?"

"You wouldn't understand," Noph said truthfully. Laskar managed to look angered, hurt, and understanding, all at once. He gripped his son's arm harder than had the captain and dragged Noph to the relative privacy of the crying room, behind the narthex.

"I know you think me a copper-coddling miser, a fool preoccupied with the flash of coins and unable to see true riches,” said the man earnestly. His eyes were feverishly bright. "I often think so, myself. But the reason for it all is that I'm trying to build a dynasty for you. Yes, I am a fool. In the process of amassing a fortune, I've made you despise anything you might inherit from me."

"It's all right. Father," began Noph. "You don't have to-"

"But don't give up on me now. Son. At last, my frugality has paid off, has put me in a place where everything will change for us. And it is all wrapped up in this wedding, in the Lady Eidola herself."

The nobleman paused, expecting another interruption, but Noph was as silent and still as a statue.

Laskar gingerly began again, as if poking at a wound. "I have certain… information about the Lady Eidolaabout her past… information she desperately wants to keep from her husband "

“Father." said Noph in alarm. The momentary empathy he had felt for the man fled. "Blackmaii? Is this the future you have planned for me?**

"Don’t think of it as blackmail. I'm not asking her for money-just for the assurance of work. There's going to be lots of wood needed for bridges and corduroy roads once this trade pact is finished, and I want us to supply that wood."

Noph's usually white face was now blotched with red-disappointment and, worse, pity. "What have you become? You'd commit extortion? And against the Lady Eidola?"

"It isn't extortion," his father blustered. "We'll be working for every copper we make off this. And if you knew about her what I know-"

"Enough!" cried Noph in a sudden rage. "I can't stomach another word from you. I can't stand to breathe the same air as you." Laskar tried to interrupt, but Noph swept his hand up before the man "Speak, and I will empty my stomach on you, I swear it. You nauseate me. I nauseate me-the very fact that I am your son makes me sick. Let it be punishment enough that I have inherited your looks-do not add the burden of your deceits."

He turned and stalked back toward the narthex, where guests were lined up to be shown to their seats. At the arched entrance to the crying room, he said, "I hope you have enough honour to disown me." And with that, he left.

Noph growled inwardly. No, his father was not in league with the malaugrym or the mariners, or anyone else seeking to stop the wedding. No, his father was not a traitor or a murderer. Laskar Nesher was merely a petty criminal in times that called men to greatness.

Father has chosen his own road. Noph thought. I need to do the same.

"Sir, your name?" asked the liveried attendant by the door.

Noph hesitated, unsure what to say. At last, he murmured, "Put me down simply as Freeman Kastonoph, friend and loyal servant of the groom." Interlude: The Silver Margin Midnight has come. The time for worry about plots is done. Let the traitors do their worst. They will have to reckon with me. They will have to fight Madieron and Captain Rulathon. The Blackstaff guards us, too, and even young Kastonoph. Whatever comes, I will marry Eidola; the Boarskyrs will sign the pact; all the world will be forever changed.

For better or for worse.

I am already dizzy with change.

I cling to the wooden chancel screen, fashioned of twirled walnut. Walnut has its swirls. Disease twists these into burls. We carve the burls into flourishes and filigree.

One chaos is carved from another.

I gaze through the screen. The chapel is carved into pieces by it.

I see fragments of a bright, crowded sanctuary. I see dark pieces of the gathered guests. I see empty sections of blackness where my bride will appear.

Fragments and pieces…

Rock to sand to dust to nothing at all…

The sanctuary is slowly listing over.

It will capsize before my bride stands beside me.

We will be married on the ceiling.

Cold sweat stands on my white cheeks. I am glad Sandrew gave me this bucket.

I see a piece of my young spy. Noph strides solemnly through the screen spaces. He fits himself onto an already loaded bench.

There is something different about him. His swagger is gone. Even he is changed. He suddenly seems a man. "Tomorrow, Iam a man." I spoke those words long, long ago. The memory is as strong and stinging as distilled spirits. Shaleen is a silhouette against the dim gloaming. She stands framed by a rugged wood doorway. Beyond her hangs a hay hook. It is tangled with its block and tackle. The barn slats glow with predawn.

I rise. Hay drops from me. I shiver, feeling the cold against my bare skin. I shiver again, with something else.

This is a mistake. Nothing will be me same now. Nothing. She will forever be different. I, too. A yearning shoots through me. I wish to return to the day before, to our young and simple lives.

I search in the hay for my breeches. The sound of my hand is loud in the morning.

"Come here," Shaleen whispers.

I look up to her. She stands there, bare as the morning.

"Come see"

I nod. I try to rise, but my legs tremble. The loft's planks are rough under my feet.

I reach her.

She, too, trembles, but her shoulders and back are warm and solid in the darkness.

"Look," she says. Her hand points outward. Beyond the turbulence of the autumn forest, a slim curtain rises in the night It is the silver margin between dark and day. 'Tomorrow."

The sound of that single word makes my heart break. “Tomorrow," I echo.

Apologies and fears well up inside me, but no words. There is only gushing emotion-shame, longing, regret, passion, hopelessness…

“Tomorrow, I am a woman," Shaleen says.

She nestles against me. At her touch, the dread and fear amalgamate into something greater, something new. My trembling stops. I draw a long, contented breath. "Tomorrow, Iam a man." The music begins, unstoppable.

The trump sounds.

The drums cadence like thunder.

The fragmented sanctuary returns around me.

I am dizzy.

I am lost, here in my own palace, my own wedding, my own life.

It is tomorrow.

Everything has changed, for better or for worse.