The City of Splendors

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The winecellar seemed endless. Beldar picked his way over bodies and more bodies, seeking his foes.

Two halflings faced him, weapons drawn. Beyond them a lantern flickered on the floor, shining on glimmering blue cloth, and showing him two faces he knew: the Dyre sisters.

Blue gemweave…

"Korvaun!" Beldar shouted. Crossed swords barred his way.

"Let him through," ordered Naoni.

Beldar went to his knees beside his oldest friend. It took only a glance to know that Korvaun Helmfast was dying.

The blue eyes gazing up at him were serene and clear. Korvaun smiled. "You're free. Your own man again."

Beldar touched his ruined face. "Such as I am."

"You must lead," his friend said faintly, "and not just the Gemcloaks." A spasm racked him, and he fell still.

Beldar looked helplessly at Naoni and Faendra Dyre. They gazed back, mute queries in their eyes. They were looking to him for guidance! Despite all he'd done and become…

Korvaun whispered abruptly, "I swore to carry this secret to my death. Lady Asper will not mind, perhaps, if I'm… somewhat previous."

His eyes moved to Naoni. She swiftly undid the fastenings of his tunic. Beneath was a metal vest-not chainmail, but a metal fabric as light and soft as silk. Faendra moved to help, and the sisters eased both garments off him.

Their gentle handling left Korvaun parchment-white, his face a mask of sweat. "Tell him," he whispered.

Naoni quickly told Beldar about the slipshield, what it could do, and how she'd spun it into a new, undetectable form.

"As long as you live," Korvaun added hoarsely, "those who gave you the eye will seek you, to slay or enslave. Hold this secret, and use it well."

Naoni held up the vest.

Beldar finally realized what his friend was asking of him.

Korvaun wanted Beldar to take his place, to take up the mantle of leadership once more.

"They'll think you dead," Naoni whispered tremulously, through tears, "and leave you in peace. It will be hard for you, and harder for your family, yet it's… needful."

Beldar's thoughts whirled. His monstrous eye might be ruined, but its other magic still held. He could-in secret-join the ranks of Waterdeep's protectors.

'Twasn't the glorious, sword-swinging heroism he'd dreamed of, but… needful, yes. More than that, it was what the Dathran had foretold. He'd be the hero who defied death. He would become Korvaun Helmfast, who would live on in him.

Because he could not do otherwise, Beldar inclined his head in agreement.

"One thing more," Korvaun gasped, his voice barely audible now. "I pledged that no shame would come to Naoni while I lived. She has my heart, my ring, and my promise. My dearest wish was to give her my name! If she bears my child…"

"He'll be raised a Helmfast," Beldar swore, "and in time will be told the truth about his father."

Korvaun managed a smile. "Naoni…"

"Hush now," she told him gently, kissing his forehead. "You've done all that's needful, and done it well. All you've said will come to pass. Beldar will keep his promises and carry your name with honor-or he'll deal with my sorcery, and Faendra's wrath."

Korvaun nodded and said with sudden firmness, "Do it. Now."

Beldar shrugged off his tunic and slid on the soft, shining vest. Korvaun changed instantly, his blond hair darkening to deep chestnut, his body becoming smaller and more slender.

Beldar ripped off the eyepatch and found he could see quite well with both eyes. The change wrought by the slipshield must go far deeper than mere likeness.

The awe on Faendra's face-and the tearful resignation on Naoni's-told him his transformation into Korvaun Helmfast was complete.

Beldar looked down at his dying friend and found himself gazing into his own face.

"They'll say of me," he said softly, "that my death was better than my life."

Korvaun struggled to speak, but through his last, ragged breath they heard him say: "Prove them wrong."

The whirlwind of magic that had seized Mrelder died abruptly, and the sorcerer found himself sprawled on the cold stones of a well-lit cell with his father beside him. Groans behind him told him that the spell had brought along others of the Amalgamation.

A tall, silver-haired elf stood over him, leaning on a drawn sword. At his shoulders stood a small army of jackcoats, swords and wands out and ready. "Elaith Craulnober and minions," he introduced himself pleasantly.

Mrelder tensed, and the elf waved a languid hand. "Don't trouble yourself to cast spells or wave weapons; this chamber's heavily warded, and my companions are more than equal to any challenge by monk, sorcerer, or… whatever."

By that last word, Elaith meant the man he was glancing at: Golskyn of the Gods, who'd found his feet with the help of several monster-men. The old priest was staring in wonder at the silver-scaled warrior standing beside the Serpent.

"A half-dragon indeed," he breathed. "So many questions! Tell me, how did you come to be? From whence came your draconic blood? Was your mother ravaged, and did your dragon parent mate in elf, human, or draconic form? Did your mother bear you alive, or as an egg? Did she survive the birthing?"

He rubbed his hands thoughtfully. "If not, I'll need a number of elf-shes as hosts. And a dragon stud. A host of half-dragons! What warriors! Imagine the savings in coin for armor alone!"

Eyebrow crooked, Elaith turned to Tincheron. "Would you like to respond appropriately, or shall I?"

The silver-scaled warrior silently stalked forward and back-landed the old priest's head.

Golskyn fell like a sack of meal, senseless and silent. The elf smiled at Mrelder. "I trust you'll prove more sensible?"

The sorcerer nodded cautiously. "You fought and defeated us. Are you offering swift death or…?"

Elaith inspected his nails. "A strategic withdrawal."

"I–I thank you. May I ask why?"

"Waterdeep," the Serpent replied coolly, "is my city, off limits to such as you. That's not to say that we might not do business elsewhere to mutual advantage."

"And what price does your mercy carry?"

The elf smiled. "You're quick, sorcerer. In return for your lives, require the Guardian's Gorget."

Mrelder sighed, surrendered to the inevitable, and told the elf what had become of the artifact.

A faint groan came from the floor, followed by mutterings about half-dragons.

The sorcerer glanced down at his father. "I rather wish your trusted companion had struck a little harder."

"Revenge is pleasant, but often wasteful." The Serpent let his gaze sweep slowly over the surviving beastmen. "Your father's mad-witted, but he's caused enough trouble to make his methods worthy of study." His gaze came to rest on Golskyn. "Even the oldest wagon has parts worth scavenging."

Mrelder's eyes flashed to his father's fallen but still-mighty form and narrowed in speculation. "Indeed," he murmured. "Are we free to go?"

Elaith Craulnober gracefully indicated a door. "That tunnel leads to a shop kept by a man who knows that anyone emerging from it is to be helped to discreetly depart the city. Trust in him, for he answers to me."

Mrelder gave a slight bow, in the manner of equals parting in mutual respect.

Elaith smiled. So much for the gratitude of the conquered whose life has been spared. He watched the cultists go, mulling over a feeling that Mrelder had taken some meaning from his words that he hadn't intended.

He turned, nodded, and watched his own forces swiftly scatter into their war-bands and plunge into various tunnels that led under the Purple Silk. Only when he was alone did he open a concealed door to take a hidden way to the festhall only he knew.

Old habits died hard, and Elaith would no longer deny the duties of his heritage and nature. He was a lord, wherever he chose to live and whatever he chose to rule. By his lights, he'd done Waterdeep many services this night-warning the First Lord of danger, standing guard over Piergeiron lest an enemy use the still-missing slipshield to approach him in the unreadable guise of a friend, casting magic that sent many of the revelers safely away from death from stone-fall, helping them find their way out of the tunnels, even culling some deadwood from noble family trees. He had one more service to give, though it irked him to yield such an advantage: the name and nature of he who would be Waterdeep's next Open Lord.

It occurred to him, suddenly, that perhaps Mirt and the rest knew their business better than he'd thought possible. Why else would they give such valuable magic as slipshields to a pack of noble pups?

Elaith hurried through the tunnel, a bemused smile on his face. Though he had lived long and seen much, this city never ceased to astonish and amuse him!

Suddenly, in silence and without any fuss at all, Amaundra fainted. Her eyes rolled up, her body quivered, and she stopped breathing.

"Wizard," Piergeiron snapped, springing up from where he'd been sitting, "you're killing her!"

Tarthus, lying flat on his back trembling uncontrollably, didn't look as if he could kill a fly. He stared up at the Open Lord with eyes of forlorn pain.

"I can't accept this any longer!" Piergeiron snapped. "I must fight for Waterdeep! It's my duty, and I'm needed! Drop the shielding!"

The golden dome persisted. Piergeiron repeated his order, shouting this time.

"N-no," Tarthus gasped faintly.

Madeiron Sunderstone laid one great, restraining hand on Piergeiron's arm and bent over the wizard on the floor. "I remind you that your oaths require you to obey any direct order from the Open Lord of Waterdeep."

"A higher authority forbids," Tarthus gasped, eyes still closed.

"What? There is no-"

Mirt waved a reproving finger in Piergeiron's face to quell lis outburst, then laid it to his own lips, and pointed down at Tarthus.

On cue, a very different voice came from the wizard's trembling lips. "Most of this last bell," it said in feminine tones all four men knew, "my strength has been holding the shield around you, Piergeiron. Tarthus has been obeying me-and in this matter, I am obeying Mystra herself."

"Laeral," Piergeiron breathed.

"Holy Mystra," Madeiron Sunderstone gasped, making a reverent gesture.

At that moment Mirt became aware that someone was standing just outside the shielding. A slender, handsome figure: Elaith Craulnober. Their eyes met.

Mirt lifted his eyebrows inquiringly. Elaith made a certain swift gesture. Mirt replied with another, and the elf confirmed the silent question with a nod.

They both made the chopping motion that signified agreement, and the moneylender shuffled forward, went down on one knee beside Tarthus, and firmly cuffed the wizard's head with one hairy fist.

That head lolled, the shielding went pale-and as Madeiron looked up and glared at the elf, clapping hand to hilt, Elaith calmly worked a spell.

Golden radiance fell away into dying sparks that flared into a sudden bright roaring that stabbed into every ear and eye and swept all Faerun away…

The first thing that Mirt the Moneylender heard was Piergeiron the Paladin groaning, "What happened?"

There was a low rumble of bafflement from Madeiron Sunderstone.

Boom.

Oh. That sounded all too familiar.

BOOM.

Through a glimmering of tears Faerun returned to him, and Mirt found himself groaning, rolling over, and peering at the bare feet of Amaundra Lorgra. The boots of Tarthus were right next to them, and above, the feasting-hall of the Purple Silks was still standing.

In a manner of speaking.

Boom-BOOM.

There was no sign of Elaith Craulnober. Nor were there Walking Statues at every window-though the ground trembled under the weight of their retreating footfalls, sending bits of the walls cascading down into dust at every blow.

BOOM.

"Hoy!" Mirt cried, causing Amaundra's head to jerk up. "We're free to flee this tomb-in-the-making! Get up, all of ye!"

Even barefooted Watchful Order magists of some seven decades of experience can move swiftly on their corns when they need to, it seemed-and in a few frantic, hurrying breaths of dodging falling stones, the five eminent Waterdhavians were outside and staring across the night-shrouded city.

The wall-lamps glimmered as always, and by their light the great stone guardians of Waterdeep could be seen resuming their usual places.

Piergeiron's eyes narrowed. "Who commands them? And just how by the Nine Hot Hells did whoever it was manage that trick?"

And then his gaze fell on the scrap of parchment Mirt held out to him, and the terse message written on it-the answers to his just-spoken questions. "Where," he asked softly, "did that come from?"

The old moneylender stared at what he was holding with a strange, perplexed expression, and then said slowly, "I've no idea. No idea."

A memory came into Mirt's mind then, through a golden shimmering: the wry smile of a certain elf.

Well, now, perhaps he knew the answer after all.