The one who approached me with a knife saw that I looked human enough and was very badly banged up, so they relented and merely tied me up to bring me back into Waterdeep, to deliver me to the watch in case there was a reward.
I came to in my own house, two days later. Every part of my body ached abominably. Someone dabbed at my face with a wet cloth.
"Excellent," said a familiar voice. "Bounces back like a professional. Once a watchman, always a watchman. Priestess, would you please wait outside for a moment?"
"You," I said through bruised lips. It hurt to even think about speaking.
The soothing wet cloth went away. Someone left the room as a pair of boots walked across a wooden floor, and Civilar Ardrum appeared in my vision. His face bore a number of pale scars across it, one of them crossing his right eye. "You'll be fine in a few days. The watch picked up the tab for the beetling spells. We found that little boat about two miles outside of town, to the east. Kindling. You wouldn't even recognize it. I didn't recognize the scattered remains of the guy in it, though he did have the most remarkable coded papers on him, which your associates in the order translated for us."
"How is it," I managed, "that you are here? Alive?" Ardrum held up his right hand and carefully pulled off the glove. A bright silver ring shone out from his third finger. His entire hand and visible arm were covered with healed-over scars, like his face.
"The Priceless Circlet of Healthful Regeneration," he said. "Found it in Turmish when I was younger. And your ring is…?"
I licked my lips. "Unfailing Missile Deflector." "Ah, so that was why the trap gunne did nothing to you. We are lucky that we are careful shoppers." "What about the papers? From the flying ship?" "From the spelljammer, you mean. You know about spelljammers? No? We'll chat sometime when you're well. The half-ore priest in the ship-yes, a half-ore, with lots of disguising bits to look as human as possible-was the ringleader of a smuggling group. They were bringing gunnes and smoke powder into Waterdeep and selling them to unsavory groups. They were also trafficking disguised gunnes from Lantan to the Savage North, apparently to humanoid armies there. The Yellow Mage was about to stumble across their whole operation. Then he got the wrong delivery, one of the special gunnes being delivered from wildspace. The new guns fire several shots in rapid sequence using clever springs and mechanisms. You could call them 'machine gunnes,' I suppose. The half-ore's had been enchanted for absolute silence. He was the Yellow Mage's killer. We burned his body so no one can bring him back."
I just stared at the halfling. "You're not serious."
"Ah, but I am," Ardrum said. "You and I broke the back of the operation and nearly died in the process." He frowned. "Of course, we haven't found the exact source of their supply in wildspace, but we have contacted the
Lords of Waterdeep, and one suggested that elements of a scro fleet left over from the Second Unhuman War might be in orbit around Toril. Sounds like a mission for someone else to handle, some burly heroic sorts but not us, the lowly foot soldiers against crime."
Scro, unhumans, wildspace-I hadn't a clue as to what he was talking about. "I need to rest," I finally said.
"But of course, and so you shall, good Formathio. So you shall. But do not be long about it. We will need your help in finding out how the gunne smugglers were disguising their shipments, and no one could tell us better than you, the expert in illusions. I'll be round tomorrow at noon. See you then."
He started to go. "Oh." He came back and carefully placed a bottle on the small table beside my bed, looking at it with a faraway gaze. "And when I return, we shall finish off your bottle of Dryad's Promise, which you left behind elsewhere, and drink a quiet toast in memory of fallen comrades and deeds long ago."
Civilar Ardrum looked back at me and actually smiled. "And a toast to those who have fallen-and survived." He patted the bedpost, then turned and quickly left me to the ministrations of the priestess and her fellows.
I had a million questions, but I was very tired. It had been anything but a grand night in Waterdeep. I closed my eyes, and dreamed of nothing at all.
THE DIRECT APPROACH
Elaine Cunningham
Skullport, an underground city hidden far below the streets and docks of the more respectable port of Water-deep, was one of the few places on the Sword Coast that offered wary welcome to the drow. Elsewhere, the dark elves' fearsome reputation earned them the sort of reception otherwise reserved for hordes of ravening ores; in Skullport, a drow's night-black skin merely guaranteed that she could walk into the tavern of her choice and not have to wait for a table.
Dangerous and sordid though it was, Skullport appealed to Liriel Baenre. A few short months before, she'd been forced from her home in Menzoberranzan, that fabled city of the drow. She'd just finished a dangerous trek across the northlands and led a successful raid on the stronghold of a rival drow faction. The next part of her journey would soon begin, but Liriel had a few days' respite to relax and enjoy life. In her opinion, Skullport was a fine place to do just that. It boasted all the chaos of her hometown but lacked the inhibiting customs and the ever-vigilant eyes of its priestess rulers. Uriel's stay in the underground port had been brief, but long enough for her to learn that anything could happen in Skullport. And usually did.
Even so, she was not prepared for her midnight visitor, or for the strange manner in which this visitor arrived.
Earlier that evening, Liriel had retired to a comfortable chamber above Guts and Garters, a rather rough-and-tumble tavern renowned for its dwarf-brewed ale and its bawdy floor show. This was her first quiet evening since entering Skullport, and her first opportunity to study the almost-forgotten rune lore of an ancient barbarian race known only as the Rus. Liriel's interest in such magic was passionate and immediate, for in two days she would sail for far-off Ruathym. There lived the descendants of the Rus, and there Liriel would learn whether this rune magic could shape the destiny of a drow. Much depended upon her success, and she was determined to aid her chances by learning all she could about the people and their magic.
After several hours of study, she paused and stretched, catlike. The sounds of the tavern floated up to her: the jaunty dance music, the mixture of heckling and huzzahs, the sound of clinking mugs, the occasional brawl-all muted by thick stone to a pleasant murmur. Liriel did not desire to join the festivities, but she enjoyed knowing that excitement was readily available should the spirit move her to partake. Besides, the noise made an agreeable counterpoint to her reading. With a contented sigh, the young drow lit a fresh candle and returned to her book, absently tossing back a stray lock of her long white hair as she bent over the strange runes.
In any setting, dark elves survived only through constant vigilance. Liriel, although deep in her studies, remained alert to possible dangers. So, when the garish tapestry decorating the far wall shuddered and began to fade away, she responded with a drow's quick reflexes. In a heartbeat, she was on her feet, a dagger in one hand and a small, dangerously glowing sphere in the other.
Before she could draw another breath, the wall dissolved into a vortex of shimmering light-a magic portal to some distant place. Liriel's first thought was that her enemies had found her. Her second thought was that her enemies were definitely getting better.
She herself had been well trained in dark-elven wizardry and was no stranger to magical travel, but never had she seen anything like the silent storm raging before her. The colors of a thousand sunsets glimmered in the whirling mist, and pinpoints of light spun in it like dizzy stars. One thing was clear: whoever came through that portal would be worth fighting. A smile of anticipation set flame to the drow's golden eyes, and every muscle in her slight body tensed for the battle to come.