The God Catcher

NINETEEN

Far from the House of the Laughing Star, the Timehands and temple bells were pealing the fourth hour after deepnight. Her wand high and tracing the magic of the wards, Shava yawned so hard her jaw looked ready to split. Agnea gave Nazra a pointed look, which she ignored. She was tired as any of them, but sleep could wait until Antoum was found.

After much argument, Lord Neverember had softened and agreed to lend her the aid of the guard. Now two dozen low-ranked officers were stationed in places around her house, full of whatever story Dagult had fed them to make them pliable and alert. Nazra didn't ask. Whatever it took.

Shava lowered her wand. "Your wards have been compromised for certain," she said. "There's nothing to stop someone from teleporting right in."

After Jorik's message, Agnea had shuffled through the papers on her desk, finding a gold-bordered envelope with an illegible name scrawled across the back and a seal of wax stamped with a strange rune. Nazra had tilted the envelope, shifting the reflection of the candles across the gilt edges. The reflection did not show her face but a room full of strange, bulky furniture. If she squinted, she could make out curios in cases among the lumps.

"It's certainly enchanted. They probably used the envelope to see in," Shava said. "Get an idea of what your house looks like and who's inside."

Agnea had taken the envelope from Nazra and shut it inside a desk drawer with a half-empty bottle of zzar. "I know that look," she'd said. "You can't tear it to shreds and burn it yet. We might need it."

She watched Nazra as Shava pronounced the wards useless. "At least now we know he's not working for someone you know already," she said. "If they could teleport into the house, they wouldn't have needed the envelope to see in."

Nazra glared at the closed drawer. "A good point. But where does that leave us? I…" Her throat closed and threatened to overflow with emotion. "I cannot very well search over all Faerun."

"No," Agnea said. "But we have time to look a bit farther afield. Three days, he said."

Nazra nodded, but in her thoughts she was very far away. For the space between the last two bells, she had been running through what she would do if by the third day she could not find her son.

And if that happened, she could not bring herself to deny his kidnapper the dragonstaff. Get Antoum back, she thought, and then deal with the aftermath.

After all, what could one man do with the dragonstaff?

For years, no one had known the dragonstaff even existed. A single mage had kept it and used it for his own benefit, allowing dragons to enter the city as it served his purposes. After the Spellplague, the mage disappeared and the staff had passed from wizard to wizard until it had reached the hands of the Blackstaff, who had decided that its powers belonged to the Lords of Waterdeep and turned it over to be hidden in Nazra's care.

To hand it over like some silly bauble would be betraying the city and her station. No justifications or circumlocutions would change that.

"Perhaps-" she started to say, when something scratched at the window. Nazra jumped back and set her hand on the hilt of her borrowed sword. The scrabbling came again, as heavy booted feet ran up the stairs.

"Open the window," Jorik said as he came into the room, panting. "She wouldn't walk."

"Who?" Nazra asked. Agnea moved to the window and threw it open.

A pair of clawed feet grasped the windowsill, followed by long-nailed hands on the sash. A female raptoran pulled herself in and stepped down, her wings held high as if she might fly back out the window.

"Goodwoman Mrays," Jorik said. "Allow me to introduce Aundra Blacklock, Tennora Hedare's landlady. She says she can help."

"Well met," Nazra said, approaching the raptoran. "Has Jorik told you what we're looking for?"

Aundra Blacklock stared at the molding along the top of the walls. "He said what you think you're looking for. A man in green velvet. He's kidnapped your egg."

"My son," Nazra said. "Who is he?"

Aundra's great yellow eyes followed a slow, ragged circuit around the edge of the ceiling, as if she were tracking the flight of a moth.

"Your wards have been damaged," she said. "There's a hole just the size to jump through." She tilted her head. "So to speak."

"Thank you," Nazra said, fighting to keep her tone and her temper under control. "I had wondered. Who is the man in green velvet?" "The dragon, you mean."

"Dragon?" Nazra said. "No, he's a young man-"

"You mean the dragon. If you ask the young lady in the Watch's dungeon, she should corroborate."

"That's not possible. The dragonward-"

"The dragonward makes it difficult," Aundra said. "Painful. Excruciating. But not impossible. Not for one as determined as him." Her eyes pierced Nazra. "Can you think of no one who has suffered for the sake of ambition?"

Nazra flushed. "How dare you imply it's my fault that my son has been kidnapped!"

Aundra blinked. "Is that what I said?" she asked mildly.

Nazra looked back over her shoulder at Jorik. His normally careful expression was full of naked surprise-at Nazra, and not at Aundra Blacklock. Agnea raised an eyebrow. Nazra pursed her lips-she was losing control. No one needed to hear what she was thinking, least of all that she might have prevented this, somehow.

"I must beg your pardon," she said slowly. "My nerves are understandably frayed. Please. You know where to find the man you say is a dragon?"

"I have no idea," Aundra said offhandedly. "As I said, you can ask the young woman-she might tell you, though I doubt it. And Tennora has gone after him. I suspect she will find him. One way or another."

Nazra thought a moment about bludgeoning Aundra Blacklock with the dragonstaff. "It seems highly unlikely that a young noble with a penchant for stealing has any chance of doing what the Watch and guard haven't been able to do."

"Possibly," Aundra Blacklock conceded. "But Tennora has the other dragon on her side. Much as I warned her not to," she added in a faintly aggrieved tone.

"Other dragon?" Jorik said. He looked at Nazra. "She didn't mention anything about that." But Nazra knew-knew down to the marrow of her bones-who Aundra Blacklock meant.

"The Tethyrian," Nazra said, and in her mind she heard Antoum's voice, That woman was different, wasn't she?

"Calishite," Aundra corrected. "In a manner of speaking. She is fighting the green. One will win, and one will die." She cocked her head again, to the other side. "I had hoped the green would prevail. He is younger and weaker. But Clytemorrenestrix… Tennora is young and unwise at times, but she is not a stubborn creature to be obstinate for obstinacy's sake. I could not convince her that the blue dragon was a threat. There is something there." She looked back up at the ceiling and the molding. "Your house is very old. It's seen many things."

Nazra's mind worked at a furious pace. Every secret she uncovered implied a dozen more, but the crux of it was unavoidable, if Aundra was right. She was not dealing with a rival or a madman or even a fellow mortal. Trying to divine a dragon's intentions, the truth or lie in his promise, was futile.

"Jorik, send someone to the Watch and see if you can't convince them to give us that young woman. I'm… I'm going to lie down." Before anyone could try to stop her, she swept out of the room and went downstairs.

She did not lie down, but instead went into a little-used room off to the side of her salon-a library and gallery of artwork and precious objects. That it was little used was no accident-there were no windows, and an enchantment made the room smell perpetually of mildew and decaying ink. She lit the candles by the door, casting everything in a sullen light.

Nazra had not been in this room for well over a year, not since Dagult and Samark the Blackstaff had brought her the dragon-staff for safekeeping. They knew, and she agreed, that while there were rumors aplenty that she was one of the Masked Lords, few presumed she was anyone of consequence within that august body. She was too lighthearted, too keen to make a joke. Who would trust Old Lady Loudbuckles with the dragonstaff?

"Who indeed?" Nazra said quietly.

In the corner of the library, behind an ornate bookshelf, was a shadow so deep it might have been a portal to that plane of endless night, the Shadowfell. The candles' glow did not touch it.

Nazra plunged her hand into the darkness and whispered the phrase Samark had taught her. A trill of magic, and her fingers wrapped around the wooden haft of Ahghairon's dragonstaff.

She took it from its hiding place, the crystal held in the carved claws as clear and dustless as the day she'd hidden it.

"Why me?" she'd asked.

"Because of every fellow I know who wears the mask," Dagult had said grudgingly, "you are the right mix of clever and incorruptible."

"I did all my corrupting in my youth, you mean."

"I mean if I cannot hold the blasted thing, then I want it with someone who's not going to use it to his own gain."

She set the staff back into its magical hiding place and left the library. Three days, she thought. She hadn't betrayed Dagult's trust in her yet, and she still had Nazra stopped. As she passed through the salon, she could see out onto the portico that crossed through the garden. The air shimmered there with a strange, gray light.

The man in green velvet appeared.

He was bleeding from a cut on his cheek, and his clothes had been rent and scuffed in a score of places. Two young guardsmen who had been placed near the doorway rushed at him and fell to dark flashes of magic before they could come within sword range.

His dark eyes turned to Nazra.

"You're early," she said, flippant because she couldn't bear to be otherwise.

"My plans have changed. And I see you didn't listen to me. I want the dragonstaff now."

Off in the distance, she heard the rush of footsteps. The office overlooked the garden, and Jorik and Agnea had seen the guardsmen die. A few moments passed and they came down the stairs. Nazra held up a hand to ward them back, but Jorik came into the salon.

"I know what you are," she said. "And what you wear."

"That is immaterial," he said.

"On the contrary," Nazra said. "Your proposition takes on an entirely different dimension if you plan to use the staff on yourself."

That seemed to annoy him. "This is your only chance," the man said. "Give me the dragonstaff or the boy dies."

"You didn't bring Antoum," Nazra said. She swallowed against the lump in her throat. "How do I know he's still alive?"

The man's eyes seemed to glow green briefly, and a terrible fear washed over her. It was all she could do to keep standing there in front of him. A quick glance at Jorik standing in the brush nearby made it evident she wasn't alone-his olive skin had gone sickly gray.

The man strode toward her. "Give me the dragonstaff or he's dead for certain."

Nazra couldn't move, but somewhere in the pit of her heart she became certain that no matter what she did, he was going to kill Antoum. Or worse. He had found her only weakness-the only weakness in Dagult's plans-and he had attacked it without mercy, aiming to drive her to a desperate act.

"There are two things I care about more than anything in the world, saer dragon," she said in tones as cold and cultured as she could make them while her voice shook with anger and fear. "My son and my city. You ask me to make a choice, but as far as I can see, that choice may have already been made for me."

Fury contorted the man's face. "Then I have a new offer: the dragonstaff, or you die."

Clinging to Veron's back, Antoum directed them through the still-dark streets of northern Waterdeep. Nestrix's feet screamed and a headache threatened to bloom across her temples, but she ran anyway, too full of burgeoning rage to take notice of her body's complaints.

"There!" Antoum cried. "Over there!" He pointed at a house as large as a hill, spangled all over with everburning lamps. A large stone fence with a gate of black iron surrounded the manor.

As they approached, the gate formed into an iron face. "Welcome to the House of the-"

Antoum grabbed the iron lips in both hands. "It's me! It's me!" Veron lowered him to the ground as the gate creaked open. Beyond, the front garden was all shadow and threat.

"Welcome home," the gate said.

"Slowly now," Veron said, drawing his crossbow. "And all around Antoum."

Nestrix went first onto the unlit garden path. The summer storms were beginning to roll in and a soft, faraway rumble of thunder made every hair on her arms stand out. The rising wind shook the blades of grass and the leaves on the trees.

It was a good night to die.

Behind her the boy's footsteps padded up the path, Tennora's almost soundless steps beside him. Veron was just a heartbeat behind.

And he was there, somewhere. Too arrogant to run, too foolish to know the score. Dareun would be dangerous.

For so long she'd thought it bizarre to hear the dokaal ask the gods for things. The mere idea of the Dragon Queen granting wishes was too much to bear with a straight face. But as she walked toward the manor of Nazra Mrays, toward their final attempt to defeat Dareun, a prayer rose up in her heart. Don't let these young ones die.

The first motes of the poison gas tickled her nostrils like the tip of a blade as she stepped through the front door. She quickened her steps, following the scent and the traces of magic peculiar to the dragonfear. He was in the house.

She passed through a hallway, without noticing any of its details, and into a long room where a trio of people stood frozen. Nestrix growled low in her throat. He was close, very close.

The thiefs memories surged up-the image of Nestrix crouched over her, a roar building in her chest, an animal hunger in her eyes. Yes, Nestrix thought, a little of that.

The nearest person, a woman in gray, broke free of it and turned to run when she spotted them. Her eyes widened a little at the sight of Nestrix, but then they dropped to Antoum, peeking out from behind Tennora.

"Gods," she said. "Nazra!"

Beyond her-beyond the tall, muscular half-orc-the woman from the boot store looked back and saw her son. With a great wordless cry, she broke free of Dareun's fear and started toward Antoum.

A mass of gray energy shot out of the air behind her, breaking on her back and knocking her to her knees. Antoum screamed. The half-orc rushed forward.

Dareun strode into the room.

His eyes widened when he spotted Nestrix, and the scent of his fear and anger was heady and overwhelming. A shiver ran down Nestrix's spine; she'd done this before, she'd taken down others, snapped their necks when they threatened her and her own.

"I warned you, wyrmling," she said.

Dareun's eyes flared green. He raised his cane and with the tip drew a rune, leaving behind glowing lines that hung in the air like smoke. With a sapphire glow that rapidly suffused Dareun, the rune seemed to burn itself into Nestrix's mind. A cold, whispering voice filled her ears. She cried out in surprise and pain.

When she opened her eyes again, both she and Dareun were standing in a garden.

"You've ruined my plans," Dareun said. His voice was shifting, changing into something deep and faintly whistling. "Who put you to this? Who?"

"I have said it before," Nestrix told him. "Every move is my own."

Dareun cried out-half a scream and half a roar that echoed off the house's walls. People were running into the garden, but Nestrix only had eyes for Dareun. She watched with a fear she would blame on Lyra-and her own suffocating jealousy-as Dareun returned to his true form.

For a moment, as Dareun's form began to shimmer, Nestrix hoped and feared in equal measure that the gorget would strangle him as it had the thief so many years before. Those alien memories replayed for her of the feeling of the torque crushing her throat and filled her with anxiety and a twisted hope.

But the gorget had been meant for a shape-changing dragon, and it grew with him, spreading to accommodate a sinuous neck as thick as a barrel. His scales shone a hundred shades of green, bright without the years' patina.

Beside her Veron let out a soft, heartfelt string of curses.

Young though he was, Andareunarthex was as big as a cart and horse together. He spread wings the size of sails and threw back his head, letting another fierce and frustrated scream echo into the night.

He is not so big, Nestrix thought, even if her head was full of dokaal thoughts, even if it had been so long since she'd stood before one of her kin that she was surprised at how tall he stretched. Had she been so large?

The guards shot arrows that buried themselves in the muscles of Dareun's shoulder and neck. He roared again and, with a quickness his size belied, darted forward and snapped a young guardswoman's arm off. Her screams didn't last long.

With her blood dripping from his jaws, Dareun snorted in amusement and snapped again, despite the flights of arrows, at Nestrix.

She dodged. His teeth sank into Veron's leg.

Nestrix snatched Veron's sword out of its scabbard and brought the blade down on the crest over Dareun's eye. He screeched at her in Draconic, but he let go of Veron. The bounty hunter tried to stand and crumpled.

More volleys of arrows. Nestrix looked down at Veron-he had turned a shade of gray that she was sure he hadn't been before. Dareun's bite had been full of poison.

Let him die, she thought. He's a problem waiting to happen. The wyrmling has done you a favor. She smiled down at the half-orc, whose forehead was covered in pinpricks of sweat. The bastard would regret how he'd…

He saved me, she thought. And Tennora. Much as she'd like to think they hadn't needed him, he'd turned the tide of their fight.

Dareun aimed for her again with the sharply scaled edge of his tail. A guardsman managed to get in the way and catch it for her, and by the time his body and Dareun's tail reached her, it was slow enough for her to slash the dragon with the sword again.

She grabbed Veron by the arms and dragged him behind a dense bush. "Where are your potions?" she said.

He blinked up at her, shivering. "Don't have them. Tennora needed the last."

Nestrix cursed. "Stay here," she said. "Don't die." She waded out of the bush, the sword still awkward in her hands, the itch of the lightning dancing on her tongue. The guardsman lay splayed on the garden path, a pool of blood spreading from somewhere beneath him.

Two metal vials, the same sort Veron had been carrying, hung from his belt. He wouldn't need both of them, surely, and Nestrix snatched one free, and bounded over the shrubbery, back to Veron.

"Here," she said, but the poison had seeped into him and he couldn't lift his arms. She scowled. "I am not your nursemaid, dokaal."

At that moment, Dareun gave a great roar. A set of claws came down on the protective wall of the bush, crushed it and wrenched it away in a shower of dirt.

"Come and face me," he said in Draconic, "Clytemorrenestrix of the Calim. Reveal yourself and we shall decide the game."