… taint of Far Realm magic and suggestions of aboleths near river and Chasm …
Worse and worse and worse. And here were only the bare facts and not the fleshed out dangers of a world that had lost its way and was only starting to come back to it. A world that needed people like the Harpers-people like Tam-to stand against such hidden horrors.
If they would just sort out their bloody payroll, he thought.
The door finally opened, and a man about Tam’s age with a sharp beard and a comfortable belly opened the door. Tam’s handler smiled cheerily and waved Tam in.
“Shepherd!” Aron Vishter said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Tam frowned. “You don’t have to call me that.”
“Ah, but I want to. A reminder of old times, better times.” He took the report from Tam. “Well, more exciting times for me, more comfortable times for you, eh? Viridi never ran you ragged, did she?”
Tam sat in the chair opposite Aron. He’d known the spy as the Fisher when he’d worked for another spymaster, a Turmishan woman called Viridi. In those days, “the Shepherd” had been the cleric in Viridi’s house, responsible for healing and occasional resurrections, and “the Fisher” had been a field agent sent specifically into well-to-do merchants’ circles. From the look of him, the Fisher still enjoyed the same sort of lifestyle he had in those days-his shirt was made of a linen finer than Tam could have imagined affording, and the brace of rings he wore on his thick fingers all glittered gold.
The Fisher sat behind the desk and perched a pair of spectacles on his nose. He read the report with as much focus as Tam had in the hallway.
“It’s a bit of a mire up there, isn’t it?” he muttered. “You still advocating we pull out entirely?”
Tam hesitated. “The team you have in the city’s not enough. They need reinforcements-double, maybe triple. The Shadovar at least ought to be-”
“Who exactly do you think I have to spare?”
“If you can’t reinforce them, then pull out,” Tam said. “Recall all of them before they’re killed. Neverwinter can’t be saved by a half-dozen Harpers.”
“We’ll leave it to Cymril,” the Fisher said. “What about the lycanthropes? Wasn’t that what you were sent for?”
Tam sat back in his chair. Not worth it, he thought. Not worth the argument. The Fisher would do as he pleased. “Definitely there. Wererats for certain. Well-organized too. It goes deeper than just some wildlings down from Luskan-”
“Watching Gods,” the Fisher swore at the report. He looked at Tam over his spectacles. “You fought them? Has someone seen to you?”
“It was over a tenday ago. I’m fine. No symptoms.”
“Well, I’m quite sure no one told you to go brawling with wererats. Don’t want to see any reimbursement requests for lycanthropy blessings.” The Fisher smiled blandly at Tam and set the report to the side. “Seems in order. I’ll see what our people in Neverwinter can do about the rest. They won’t be happy you didn’t sort out those wererats though.”
Tam gritted his teeth. “Your coordinator in Neverwinter wasn’t too helpful.”
“Cymril? Yes, well, she’s got her hands full, doesn’t she? ’Specially now.”
Every stlarning time, Tam thought. He might as well have given his reports to a bare wall. Aron Vishter would do as he pleased and all the better if he could ignore Tam’s advice. Better just to get out of the Fisher’s offices. Figure something out later. Find a way around the Fisher and Cymril when neither was so angry at him-or wiser still, accept the truth, that the city was doomed, whether the Harpers listened to Tam or not.
Save what you can, he thought. There’s too much world at stake.
“Where am I next?”
“Oh, here,” the Fisher said, nodding at the chair Tam sat in. Tam frowned.
“Is there something particular happening in Waterdeep?”
“Yes,” the Fisher said. “You’re having a rest.”
Tam waited for the handler to elaborate, to explain the cover. The Fisher said nothing. “You can’t be serious,” Tam said. “You must need me somewhere.”
The Fisher leaned back in his chair. “How many missions have you been on of late?”
Tam shrugged. “Enough.”
“A pretty answer,” the Fisher said. “The correct answer is that you’ve been sent to deal with fifteen different threats and concerns in the last year.”
“You’re short of agents,” Tam said. “It was necessary. And it was fine-I didn’t botch any of them, did I? I didn’t fail?”
“One could argue Neverwinter was not a success.”
Tam gripped the arms of the chair. “One could argue you sent me in there without the faintest idea of what I might find.”
“We sent you to assess the city, and ferret out some wererats.”
“And it doesn’t matter if the place is crawling with Shadovar and aboleths and devils and worse, on top of the lycanthropes-you still don’t have the agents to deal with any one of those things. And don’t tell me Cymril can handle it.”
The Fisher smiled at him in a tolerant sort of way that made Tam’s knuckles itch. “I certainly don’t have the agents to let you run yourself into the ground pretending you’re still a strapping lad of twenty. We’ve gotten old, Shepherd. There’s no denying it.”
Tam leaned back in his chair, still clutching the arms. “I know when to cool my heels.”
“Do you? Before or after you get yourself tangled up in …” The Fisher lifted the top sheet of the report. “A border battle between devils and aboleths? And right after you tangled with those wererats, I see.” The Fisher clucked his tongue. “You’re really going to tell me that’s all fact and argue you don’t need some time to … gather yourself?”
“You don’t have agents to spare,” Tam said. “Half efforts will just get people killed.”
“Half efforts are better than no efforts.”
“Not like this! Pull your agents back. Focus on what they can do.”
“Don’t tell me what my agents can do,” the Fisher retorted. He pulled a bottle down from the shelf beside his desk. “And don’t take that tone with me. It’s not like the old days.” The Fisher poured a half inch of amber liquor into a pair of glasses and pushed one across the desk to Tam. “We don’t have patrons like Old Viridi to keep our coffers full and the wheels of the world greased.”
“You’re the bloody Harpers,” Tam cried. “Find some patrons.”
“And what would they patronize? Hmm?” the Fisher said. “A hundred years ago, the Harpers were the peak of it-courageous, clever, brave as they came. Now what do I get, but a half-dozen young peacocks and preening lasses who’ve read too many godsbedamned chapbooks about Saer Danilo Thann and his magic what-have-you-this-tenday-none of which do the man a damned bit of justice.” He swigged the liquor. “They show up becloaked and picking off-key tunes on bloody lyres with swords fit for nothing but show and want only a bloody pin that says they, too, are the true article. And those are the ones we’ve vetted. I shudder to think what would happen if we recruited openly.” He studied the dregs at the bottom of his glass a moment, then drained it. “Even I wouldn’t send those poor young fools into Neverwinter, assuming you have the right of it.”
Tam scowled at his own glass. “So they need training. Train them.”
“And who can train them?” the Fisher demanded. “All my veterans are out, ridding the plane of evil-because who could possibly stop at Netheril alone? — or here, resting.”
“I don’t need a rest,” Tam protested.
“Fine,” the Fisher said, with an unpleasant grin. He shuffled through a stack of parchments beside him. “Then you can train up one of my greenlings. Boy’s called Dahl. Studied with the Oghmanytes but doesn’t seem to have taken to the priesthood. Don’t know why. Don’t suggest you ask-it seems a sore point. I’ve had him scouring the city for antiquities the last two tendays, so-”