Yet he’d best shout a reminder while passing the kitchens. One could lose good chambermaids that way.
Asper hurled herself into a somersault over the startled guard’s head and spun around as her bare feet bounced to a landing on the cold flagstones. The city guardsman turned with smooth speed, magnificent in his splendid armor—in time to see the gleaming pommel of the young lady’s pionard a finger away from his eyes, where its wicked point should have been. He’d barely begun to gape at it when the pommel of her reversed long sword nudged his ribs, just where it would have driven all breath out of him had this fight been in earnest.
He stared into the sweat-slick face of the grinning ash-blonde girl and shook his head in surrender, drops of his own sweat flying from the end of his nose. “I see ye do it,” he growled, “but I still don’t believe it.”
“Consider yourself slain, Herle,” said the guardcaptain from behind him, “and next time, try not to turn like some sort of sleeping elephant. She could have put her blade through your neck and been gone out the door before you were well into your pivot!”
“Aye, captain,” Herle said heavily. “Just once, I’d like to see y—”
He fell silent to gape at a pinwheel of tiny lights that silently appeared in midair, one by one, in front of his leather-clad foe. Asper watched them spin into bright solidity in wary silence, one hand raised to bid the guardsmen keep still.
A hoarse whisper she knew well arose from those circling lights. “Gone out into Skullport to answer Durnan’s call for aid in rescuing Nythyx Thunderstaff; I’ve seen her safe here, so expect a ruse.”
The motes of light faded until she knew only she could see them, thanks to Mirt’s magic, drifting into a line leading north—and sharply downward. Into Undermountain, below even this deep, dank castle cellar.
Asper frowned at the tiny points of light. Her man had sent her his message in case Durnan’s call had been false—a ruse to lure Mirt himself into danger. And, ruse or not, unless either of the old Lords of Waterdeep had changed a goodly amount in the last few days, they’d sorely need her aid soon. She turned and bowed to the watching guardsmen.
“It’s been a pleasure breaking blades with you, as always, gentlesirs,” she told them, wiping sweat from her brow with one leather-clad forearm as she stepped into her boots. “I must go; I’m needed.”
“Is it something we should know about?” the guardcaptain asked, frowning.
Asper shook her head. “Lords’ business,” she said, and ran lightly out of the room, leaving the armsmen staring after her.
“How can one woman’s blade—even that woman’s—matter to the Lords of Waterdeep?” one asked, in tones of wonder. “What is she, that they need her to aid them so often?”
“Friend,” Herle replied, “You try to best her at blade-work next time, then come and ask me again.” And he casually cast the blade in his hand end over end down the length of that vast chamber, into the gloryhole in the far corner—an opening no larger than his fist. It settled home, hilt-deep, with a rattling clang, and all his fellows turned to regard him with whistles of awe. Herle spread his hands and added, “You all saw what she did to me. However good one is, there’s always someone better.”
Another guard shivered. “I’d not like to meet whoever’s better than she is.”
* * * * *
“And now for the other working,” the eye tyrant breathed, turning an eyestalk toward a certain shadowed cavity high in the cavern wall. Something small and glossy obediently rose into view there, drifting smoothly out into the greater emptiness of the main cavern: a shining sphere of polished crystal about as tall as a large human head. It winked and sparkled as it glided toward the beholder—then grew brighter, a pale greenish glow awakening within it.
“Yessss,” Xuzoun gloated as an image became apparent in the crystal’s depths. Woodlands, wrapped about a young, slim human female who was turning smoothly in her saddle to laugh, unbound blonde hair swirling about her shoulders. Her mirth and unheard words were directed to a young man riding into the scene with humor dancing in his own eyes. The watching beholder’s mouth twisted in what might have been a sneer.
“Shandril Shessair within my power, and knowing it not,” the beholder purred. “Only a few enchantments more, then … ah, yes, then spellfire will be drawn forth from her at my desire, to be hurled at any who defy me! Many shall pay the debts they owe me, very shortly thereafter…”
A stalactite elsewhere in the cavern yawned, then muttered, ” ‘Only a few enchantments more’ before I rule the world? How many times have I heard that before?”
A black bat, hanging upside down from a nearby stalactite, turned its head and blinked. “Elminster?” it asked. “It is you… is it not? You felt the weaving too? “
“Of course and of course,” the rocky fang replied. “I can feel all bindings laid on the lass. If Halaster did more in his domain than just watch the free entertainment, I’d not be here, but…”
“Watching is almost always best,” the stalactite beneath the clinging bat’s claws said coldly, and quivered slightly. “You always did act too swiftly and change Faerun too much, Elminster.”
The bat took startled wing, beating a hasty flight across to the rock that was the Old Mage. “Halaster?” it asked cautiously, as it alighted and turned to look back.
“The same, Laeral,” replied the dagger of rock where it had first clung. “Are we agreed that this Xuzoun should never wield spellfire?”
The other two murmured “Aye” together.
“Then trust me to foil this magic in a way that will leave Shandril and the beholder both unknowing,” Halaster replied. “I keep my house ordered as I see fit—though you, Lady Mage of Waterdeep, are welcome to dabble. Your touch is more deft than most.”
The bat looked from one stalactite to the other, aware of a certain tension in the air that felt like the two ancient archwizards had locked gazes and were staring steadfastly into the depths of each other’s souls. Silence stretched and sang between them. Then, because of who she was, Laeral
dared to ask, “And what of Elminster? Is he also welcome in Undermountain?”
“What little sanity I have I owe to him,” Halaster replied, “and I respect him for his mastery of magic—and his compassion—more than any other living mage. Yet for what he did to me … what he had to do to me … I bear him no great love.”
Two dark, hawklike eyes were fading into view in the rock, and they flickered as the Master of Undermountain added quietly, “This is my home, and a man may shut the gates of his home to anyone he desires to be free of.”
The stalactite that was Elminster said as gently, “I have no quarrel with that. Know that my gate is always open to you.”
“I appreciate that,” the dark-eyed stalactite told him grudgingly, before it faded silently away.
* * * * *
He hadn’t used this passage for years, and had almost forgotten the trip step and the anklebreak holes beyond. The battered old coffer was still on the high ledge where it should be, though. Durnan lifted out the string of potions and gratefully slid them onto his belt, tapping the metal vials to be sure they were still full. Then he took up the wisp of gauzy black cloth that had lain beneath them and bound it over his eyes.
All at once the clinging darkness receded and he could see as clearly in the gloom as creatures who dwelt in the World Below. He took the gorget out of its clip on the inside coffer lid and slid the second nightmask into its carry-sleeve before he buckled it around his throat. It just might be needed.