"Would you like to hear a joke?" he asked shyly. "I've heard you're fond of them. First the… Wait, how does it go? First I say …"
"You trip on your own tongue," she said with a laugh. "It's much easier if you don't try so hard."
"I suppose you know better. Here, give me another chance." He stopped at the fountain and slid around to face her. "First, I say to you: I've taken your son."
Nazra rolled her eyes. That wasn't remotely funny. Then she saw the young man wasn't laughing, and her heart stopped. "What do you mean?" she said.
"I've taken him. You see, I want something you have, and it's terribly important you know I'm serious. Now, you say-"
Nazra started to scream for her bodyguards, only to find the man's gloved hand stifling her mouth. She stomped on his instep, but his foot suddenly wasn't there. He seized her, pinning her arms to her sides, and pulled her too close to struggle free-as skinny as he'd looked, he was as strong as an ogre.
"Now, don't do anything that might make me angry," he whispered in her ear. "You do this wrong, and I might just kill little Antoum anyway. For now he's quite safe somewhere you'll never find him, and he'll stay that way until one of two things happens.
"I want the staff."
Nazra tried to shake her head, but the young man held her fast. "I know. You've been told to say you don't have it. It's in the Blackstaffs care. But I know for a fact that staff is nowhere near Blackstaff Tower. You have it, and you know where you keep it. Bring me the dragonstaff of Ahghairon, and Antoum comes home in one piece.
"But if I hear so much as a sword rattling in its scabbard, your boy dies. Understand? You don't tell your guards. You don't tell the lords. You don't tell the Watch."
Down to her bones, Nazra shook with fear, with rage, with uncertainty. Antoum-her poor little boy-Antoum who was too young, too perfect to die. Not like this. If the man let her go, she could race to the staffs hiding place, have it in his hands before he could harm Antoum. Her little boy.
But the dragonstaff was no trifle or trophy. She held it for the safety of Waterdeep, and she had a duty to make certain it was secure. It wasn't hers to give.
The shadows near the arched portico that led to the garden grew deep and spread as a large body passed the entrance. Jorik. The half-orc bodyguard glanced up into the garden, idly-and with every ounce of will in her, Nazra begged him to notice her in the shadows.
He did. "Who's there?" he shouted, stepping into the gardens. He drew the short sword he always carried. "Show yourself."
"I'll give you three days," the man said, unperturbed by the threat, "to think it over. If there are guards here when I come back, your boy's corpse will be floating in the bay."
Jorik spotted them and sprinted toward Nazra, leaping over the low bushes. The young man let go of her, shoving her to the ground where she landed on her back. He tore off one glove, revealing a brace of rings. He grabbed a fat gold one and twisted it.
And abruptly vanished.
Jorik skidded into the space the kidnapper had occupied, sword up and ready. Panting and puzzled, he lowered his sword.
"What happened? Are you all right, Lady Mrays?" he asked.
"No, Jorik," she said, letting him help her to her feet. "We've got trouble. Come." She walked quickly through the house, wishing she could tear off the heavy skirts. Another two bodyguards-how could they have missed someone stealing her boy? — stood by the stairs, and she grabbed them by the arms.
"Give me your sword," she snapped at one. Blade ready, guards close, she threw open the door of the nursery.
The governess slumped in her chair, her pale throat cut and gore all down her dress. Her son's guards had fallen where they stood on either side of the door, their entrails spread across the floor and their blood seeping into the carpet. The window was open to the night.
Antoum's bed was empty.
Nazra rushed to it anyway, as if by throwing aside the blankets and the pillows she would find him, curled up tight like a frightened rabbit. The sheets were still warm where he'd lain. She pressed her hands to it, willing the nightmare to end.
On the wall just above Antoum's pillow, a spot of blood bright as her lip stain crept down the wall.
She raised a trembling hand to it, touched the sticky fluid. Terror overwhelmed her. Her breath came too fast. Her heart beat like a caged dove. Gods, oh gods. They'd hurt him. They would kill him.
She had to do something!
Nazra swallowed all those emotions, so that her voice was cold and calm when she spoke to the chief of her guards. "I'm going to my study. Jorik, send two men to guard the doors and tell Cloudcroft and Agnea to keep the guests happy in my absence-tell them I've had too much to drink for an old woman-but ease them out. I want it quiet in an hour. The rest of the men, go get them searching. Quietly. Look for clues around the grounds." She took in the bodies of the governess and the two guards. "Have Agnea find their next of kin and get the priests in here to clean up."
"Yes, saer," Jorik said, and sheathed his sword.
She picked up her skirts and hurried down the hall to her study, the young man's dark green eyes and sharp nose keen in her memory. Three days, and in those three days, she needed to learn as much as possible, as quietly as possible.
He'd had a faint accent-something guttural she couldn't place. He was a wizard of some sort No. Not a wizard. Not necessarily. He'd done his magic with an enchanted ring. Rich and clever-and not, himself, Waterdhavian.
He might be clever, but she was cleverer.
Let's find out who you're working for, she thought.
She pulled the cloth off her mirror and activated the spell that opened a connection to a mirror in the palace of the Open Lord Dagult Neverember. Her reflection wavered and was replaced by an elderly halfling polishing a silver tray and grumbling to himself.
"Well met, Madrak," Nazra said. The halfling startled. Seeing Nazra in the mirror, he sketched an elaborate bow.
"Goodwoman Mrays," he said, "to what do we-"
"I need to speak with Lord Neverember. Now."
"I'm afraid the Open Lord is… indisposed."
"I don't care about his disposition," Nazra said sharply. "Find him. Bring him here. If he says he won't come, remind him he owes me a favor for certain services rendered."
"Very good, saer," the halfling said with another bow. He tucked the platter under his arm and walked out of Nazra's sight.
She pulled open the drawer of her writing desk and took out a stylus and a bit of foolscap. She wrote a list of all the attributes of the young man she could remember: his eyes, his hair, his height, the details of the strange collar he wore, the number of rings, and so on. She wrote until her mind felt as if it had been wrung dry. Then she turned it over and started on the details of Antoum's room: the window, the wounds, the blood on the wall Her hand started to shake.
The face of a man, his features stern and proud, his hair wild and tawny as the mane of a lion, appeared in the frame of the mirror. He snorted. "Nazra. This better be important. I was… enjoying someone's company."
"My son has been taken," Nazra said to Dagult Neverember, the Open Lord of Waterdeep. "There is nothing more important."
That visibly startled Dagult. He had a son too, Nazra knew, and she recognized too well the emotions that shifted over his normally closed features in quick succession. There but for the blessings of Tymora would I be. He recovered quickly.
"Who have you angered now, Nazra?" he said. "Whose temper have you roused with that sharp tongue?"
"No one to be trifled with," she said. "This is neither a matter of politics nor politeness. I need your help and I need your silence. He wants the dragonstaff."
"The dragonstaff?" Dagult said. "The dragonstaff?" He shook his head. "That won't do at all. We can't possibly-"