Now, at long last, here was a foe one could see. Artemis Entreri. An assassin! More than that-an assassin sent to slay Eidola! An avaricious butcher, who turned from his bloody task to capture a weapon of unspeakable evil. A man whose hand and arm were now skeletal-half man, half monster!
At last, here was a face to despise and spit upon, a body to gibbet and display on the gates of the city he'd so terrorized. It didn't matter that he hadn't killed Eidola, nor that he hadn't been involved in any crimes in Waterdeep itself. When a scapegoat is sought, anything with small white horns and a goatee will do.
It was Lasker Nesher who gave voice to this long-pent fury. He climbed atop a bench, clutched the lapels of his mourning coat, and drew in a deep breath. All eyes turned to him-and when he spoke, his voice boiled forth with all the ferocity of steam escaping a vat of boiling acid.
"So here is one of our tormentors!" He flung his hand down to point at the assassin. Many in the crowd leaned and peered to see the dangling form. "Here is a man in league with monsters. Here is a man who thinks he can hold a whole city hostage. And not just a city. The city! Waterdeep. Jewel of the North-greatest jewel of all Faerun!"
The roar of response was immediate and explosive.
"Are we not Waterdhavians? Are we not Waterdeep?"
The cheers were edged in anger. "Look at us all. We are of Waterdeep: nobles, merchants and guildsmen, freemen and servants! We are the arms and minds and voice of all Waterdeep!"
Nesher turned slowly to gather all eyes before his hand swept down to point again. "Here are the Watch and armsmen of the Guard, charged with protecting us all from enemies within or without. What say you: is this assassin friend or enemy?"
From the armsmen scattered through the crowd came a ragged consensus, "Enemy. Aye, a foe."
"And here are the Magisters, charged with trying, convicting, and sentencing those accused of attacking the folk of Waterdeep. What say you, Magisters? Is this man a menace to us?"
Again, the grudging reply, "Aye."
Nesher grinned, victory gleaming in his eyes. "And here is the Open Lord, the one man in all Waterdeep who alone holds the power to commute a sentence. What say you, Piergeiron Paladinson? Speak, if you would commute the sentence of death laid upon this man!"
The Open Lord was silent in his casket of glass.
After a tense moment of waiting, hoping somehow that the still form of the paladin would rise and speak, the crowd shouted its support.
Lasker Nesher cried out, "Guards, bear this man to the dungeon to await hanging, drawing, and quartering at the break of day!"
Into the roar that followed, Khelben cried, "When did the jewel of Faerun come to be run by mob justice?"
Nesher rounded on him, eyes smug in his deceitful face. " You're not Open Lord, mage. As you yourself contend, Piergeiron remains Open Lord until declared dead. Until then, only he can commute the sentence of the Magisters!"
He pointed to Trandon, who had stood silently chained though it all. "And what; of this other one?" he cried hungrily. "What is his crime?"
Noph and Kern traded reluctant glances.
"Tell us," Nesher commanded. "Tell the people of Waterdeep, or face their judgment yourselves!"
"He posed as a paladin, that's all," Noph said. "Though he's as worthy of the title as I am."
"'Posed as a paladin'?" crowed Nesher. "What is he really?"
When neither Noph or Kern would elaborate, Trandon himself said, "I'm a wizard. A War Wizard."
"A spy!" shouted Nesher. "A Cormyrean spy. An agent of Azoun in our midst. Treason! Let him die with the assassin. All in favor?"
The restored chapel-white marble, bleached oak, glowing gold, and all-shook with the thunderous voice of the mob. "Aye!"
"Away with them both! And in the morning, let us cheer again when their bodies are riven and piked in our midst!"
It seemed that only Khelben, Kern, and Noph did not cheer.
Chapter 2
The dungeon bustled that evening. Watchmen in plenty paced beneath ceilings dripping with fungus, condensation beaded across their shoulder plates. Lantern light flickered across gritted teeth. Aside from the pad of leather soles on wet floors, though, silence reigned.
The center two cells held prisoners-men slated to die in the morning. Cells across a corridor from each other, watched over by two dozen restless armsmen… and one young man just returned from Doegan. Noph had volunteered for guard duty, hoping to meet Khelben and plead for the prisoners' lives.
Where was the Lord Mage? He was supposed to seal the cells with warding magic.
Noph leaned against the wall beside Entreri's cell, thoughts racing. He remembered this dungeon; he'd been imprisoned here. He'd stared at these very stones for the better part of an evening. His fingers had traced their shapes as he'd imagined their origins. Mined from black bedrock, lifted into the glaring sun, sawed and sliced into unnatural blocks with unforgiving edges, hauled down into another pit, stacked, mortared, compressed, compelled into walls designed to hold living flesh until it died, if need be. Something similar had happened to him. It had begun a month ago, on the wedding night, when Noph had stayed in this very cell and been called "assassin."
Noph peered again through the bars of Entreri's cell. The small man was still sprawled motionless on a pile of old straw; a man he'd once followed, once wanted to emulate. An assassin.
Was a man an assassin when he sought to kill a shapeshifting monster? That's what Eidola was, after all. Of course, Entreri hadn't known that. He'd have tried to kill her even if she'd been Piergeiron's true bride. Was a man an assassin when he didn't kill the person he'd intended to? How could Waterdeep execute a man for not assassinating someone? How could it be justice when a man was tried and convicted by a mob? Was it enough that Entreri was known to be an assassin? Should a man be executed on the basis of his reputation?
And what of Trandon? He'd fought bravely. He'd faced down death, and been a loyal trail companion. What did it matter if he fought for Waterdeep or Cormyr? He'd risked his life. And what had his grit and courage won him? Execution?
What does grit and courage get anyone? Noph wondered sourly.
"Ah, there you are," a snide voice said, down the corridor. Lasker Nesher approached, proud self-satisfaction oozing from his wet smile. "I almost said, "There you are, Son," but of course you aren't my son anymore."
"A fact that pleases us both," Noph replied coolly, as his father stopped before him. The man settled into place like a post sinking into a hole, about a handspan too close to Noph, who could not back up with the wall at his back. He raised his head as if flinging off rain, and asked briskly, "What brings you here, Lord Nesher? Or is it Open Lord Nesher yet?"
Hunger crawled across the noble's face, avarice he did not trouble to conceal. "Not yet. But you heard how the people respond to me."
Noph did not quite smile. "Wait till they get to know you."
Lasker ignored this, choosing instead to smooth back an errant strand of his thinning hair. "I come with a proposition for you. Isn't there somewhere more private we can talk?"
"A couple of cells around the corner stand empty. You'll feel right at home."
The noble blinked at this sally, measuring his son, and then came to some sort of decision. "We've much to discuss," he said in an almost pleading tone. "Come, grant your father one audience?"