"Well met, milord Wands, and a premature wish for the happiest of birthdays to you." Khelben said. "Your staircase charm remains a close family secret, for who do you think helped your father build it, and the others?"
Maskar's bushy white eyebrows rose, and he grinned, revealing a broad row of white teeth. "Well then, you'll have to reacquaint me with one or two of them that have been lost over the years, if only to get us into forgotten cellars." Maskar smacked Khelben on the back between the shoulders and laughed. A small chime sounded on the table behind him, and Maskar stopped, his face immediately serious.
"Excuse me a moment, would you? This brew is temperamental and has to be taken almost immediately." He turned his back on them and levitated a bubbling beaker off a flame, setting the glass bottle down in an ice-filled cauldron. He counted out to thirty on his fingers then grabbed the bottle and drank down its contents. If his stamping foot and shuddering didn't communicate his dislike of the potion, the gagging sound and heavy breathing of Lord Wands told Tsarra enough.
The old man turned back to them, and Tsarra watched his hair shift from white to a dark salt-and-pepper gray. His back straightened, his hunchback disappearing, and his face bore many less wrinkles.
"If anyone ever asks, child, why wizards don't all drink life-extending potions, tell them this: Each and every one of them smells like otyugh scat and blood, tastes like rancid milk mixed with sawdust and grass trimmings, and feels like you're imbibing razors and glass shards." Before Tsarra could ask, he smiled weakly at her and continued, "So why do I drink them, you wonder? Since my fiftieth birthday, I have traditionally drunk one of these every twentieth year. I don't trust most of my heirs to do right by the family, as happened at my brothers' passing. And perhaps a little because I'm just arrogant enough to want to finish a few more spells with my name on them as legacies for my children and for this city."
"Well, you're only a third into your second century. Give it time," Khelben said.
Maskar's eyes narrowed. "You're being cavalier with your secrets today, Blackstaff."
"To be honest, it is refreshing to let down one's guard among trusted companions, a luxury none of us gets to enjoy very often and never too long," Khelben replied. "As for the taste of your potions, I've always said you were a bad cook."
Maskar's face went through contortions, both from the potion's age-reducing effects and his mixed emotions of surprise, concern, confusion, and finally amusement. The man began laughing and slapped Khelben on the back again.
Tsarra couldn't believe what she saw. Common knowledge said the Blackstaff and Lord Wands held a mutual respect, but distrust and wariness for each other. She realized that, like Khelben's personal behavior, Lord Wands apparently kept up appearances in public as well.
When Lord Wands turned back to her again, she bowed deeply, aware of the awkwardness of her shouldered bow.
"I'm glad to finally meet you again, Tsarra Chaadren nee Autumnfire. Your father was a kind man and far nobler than most who carry such title. You appear much changed, girl, from our first meeting. Those tattoos are bold statements that suit you. Welcome once again to my home."
Tsarra smiled nervously.
"My apprentice wonders how you know her secrets, Lord Wands,"
Khelben said. "She doesn't believe anyone outside of her choice confidants knew the nickname her mother put to her."
Maskar winked at Tsarra. "You have your mother's beauty with your father's eyes and bearing. It has been many years and I meet many folk, but I shall always treasure having known Taalmuth and Malruthiia Chaadren."
"Thank you, milord. I wasn't aware we had met or that you knew my parents," Tsarra said.
"Of course you don't remember our first meeting. You were not yet three at the time. You left quite an impression on me and my daughter, at least." Maskar chuckled. "You played with Olanhar's first tressym familiar and turned him a bright purple! My daughter was just beginning her wizardly studies and was jealous of the sorcery you used when you napped with the creature. It took her a month to change his coloring back to normal. Tressyms, however, were one of the reasons I expected to meet you today."
"Sir?" Tsarra asked.
Lord Wands motioned both of them toward a wide table, its surface a smooth dark mirror. He rested his hand on the glass, and the ring he wore-a gold signet stamped with his House seal in silver-twinkled with magic. Instantly, the tabletop became an overhead view of the manor's grounds. Glowing wizard marks moved about on its surface in various colors, and Maskar whispered another command word. The illusion expanded upward, becoming a translucent model of the building and the ground beneath it. Tsarra saw Khelben's wizard mark glow gold in a deep sub-basement, alongside the mark she guessed was Lord Wands's sigil-and her own.
Maskar waved his hand to get Tsarra's attention and pointed upward. In the attic of one of the outbuildings on the grounds, Tsarra's wizard mark glowed a bluish-silver atop another steel-colored wizard mark.
"The silver sigils are familiars or anyone enspelled by a particular wizard. Gold ones are the wizards themselves. It serves to know exactly where any trained in the Art are at any time on my property." Lord Maskar stood back from the holographic illusion, his arms crossed. "Your familiar arrived about an hour ago, and Olanhar and Snowhunter recognized him immediately. While Olanhar isn't pleased by the inconvenience of his "gifts", the last litter of tressym kittens greatly excited my grandchildren. I will be as well, provided they don't shred more Phalorman tapestries." Maskar winked at her again, and Tsarra felt a blush creep up her neck as she realized Nameless's trespass.
"Speaking of gifts, Lord Wands," Khelben interrupted the old man's teasing, "this blackstaff you admired is my birthday gift to you. I regret we won't have time for you to deduce all its powers for our amusement at present."
"A blackstaff to call my own-a princely gift, Khelben, thank you."
Maskar nodded to Khelben then turned to Tsarra. "You do know this is how your master hoodwinks people into doing him favors, don't you?
This is only the seventh time in ninety-eight years of knowing him that Khelben has gifted me on my birthday. So what favor does he need of me now?"
"Three things, milord. First, I need to see the Weeping Blade of Rholaris Wands, and mayhaps borrow it," Khelben said.
"Easily enough done."
Maskar walked to the far side of the room. Tsarra realized she'd not even taken a look around. She fully believed people's tales of the magnetic personality of Lord Maskar Wands. Two massive bookshelves stood behind that staircase, and seven more sets of shelves continued along the left-hand wall, interrupted twice by large work tables, one covered in books and scrolls, the other with bubbling beakers, potion flasks, and component jars. The center of the room held the large table, its illusionary tracking of the wizards on Wands property still glowing. The far end of the room held a circle of over-stuffed chairs and small tables, and a few of them were turned to face the right-hand wall, which was covered with paintings and maps of Waterdeep, the Sword Coast, the Savage North, and much of the rest of Faerun. Lord Wands motioned them toward the farther wall, on which were three doors. He approached the second one, pulled a key from his pocket, and opened it. He went through, and Khelben made sure to hold Tsarra by the arm as they stepped through the door simultaneously.
Tsarra felt a slight tingle as she was shifted spatially to Maskar's study on the third floor of the manor house. The room was more richly appointed than the lord's workshop. Rich walnut panels lined the ceiling and walls of the study. A massive duskwood table with eight formal chairs dominated one side of the room. There were two bookshelves there, both with glass-paneled doors protecting their contents. They seemed to hold only bric-a-brac and trinkets undisturbed for many years. The carpets under foot came from far-off Zakhara, and Tsarra had little doubt that at least one of them might fly if so commanded by the lord of the manor.