Anthology - Realms of Magic Part 22

As we approached the stair, I saw a woman of equal sw.a.n.k to my boss, only that instead of demure silk, this lady wore scant furs that clung to her with all the impossible suspension of the stairs.

"Keep your eyes on me, Mr. Quaid, and you'll do better," - Olivia said without turning - "Yes, ma'am," I said, coughing to show myself chastened.

We mounted the stairs. The cold beneath my shoe leather made me think the steps weren't gla.s.s, but pure, clean ice. I almost blurted my surprise, but had dealt the lady a strong enough hand already.

She led me through the red iron arch and up three floors, then out along a gaslit hallway with guest rooms. Like the rest of the palace, this hall had elegant, rounded linesa"more a ribbed windpipe than a door-lined corridor. I knew the rooms would be the same, organ-shaped chambers where lurked Faerun's beautiful and wealthy and powerful, sleeping and eating and defecating like flies inside a corpse.

Beautiful and wealthy and powerful... I'd been riding in midblizzard above the seventeen onion-shaped domes of the palace before I'd realized just how far out of my league I'd be. Still, flies usually don't mind an ant pulling off his own hunk of flesh.

"Voila!" said she, halting. Her p.r.o.nouncement seemed to swing wide the silver-edged door before her. The room beyond was incredible.

Unlike the great room, cold and stark, this place was as warm and soft and red as a dragon's heart. The door gave onto a railed landing above a velvet-walled sunken parlor. A fireplace, complete with blaze, stood on one wall, and opposite it was a steaming, bubbling bath large enough to bathe two war-horses. Through an open door on the far side of the parlor, I saw a velvet-covered bed that could sleep the two mounts, and in another room, a table where their knights and squires and retainers and a few bards could play a game of poker while their steeds slept. The wide, lead-glazed window above the table showed the teeth of the storm outside.

"For me?" I asked innocently, though truthfully there wasn't much acting in my delight.

"For you, Bolton Quaid." She started down into the room, and I didn't know whether to look at the brocade chairs or the bright chandelier or the ta.s.seled drapes or those swaying hips.

I stammered after her. "The Dock Ward's my usual digs. A street rat like me isa""

She spun around and placed a finger on my lips to silence me. "If you're half the street rat I think you are, you'll be worth the room, and much more."

Those words, those eyes, that toucha"suddenly the magic of the place seemed not so amazing, but a mere extension of her. She shone with power.

Her hand dropped from my lips, and like a schoolgirl, she clutched my fingers and drew me after her. "You must see this view."

I nodded, and after a few stumbling steps, did. Through the wide window, I saw her wintery palace, glowing cold and blue like a rock-stranded moon. The towers stood fearless and alien in the blizzard, and the curving curtain wall was draped in icicles; but the courtyard within was hot and bright and sandy.

Now I did blurt my amazement. In the midst of this waste of rock and snow, the lady had made a garden. From this height, the palm trees looked like ferns, the green bunches of Chultan flowers like field clover. And in the midst of the garden lay a winding, sandy lagoon, overarched here and there with footbridges, surrounded by paths and benches, peopled by folk so beautiful and powerful and rich that they seemed fey creatures, seemed to glide above the sand without leaving footprints.

I started to speaka"what words, I do not knowa"and found I couldn't because I had not breathed in moments, perhaps minutes. But I needed no words; Olivia was speaking for us both now.

"You haven't even got the chill out of your poor Water-dhavian bones yet. Look how you shiver." She spoke like a doting mother to a child. Some part of me knew she was drawing the rough cloak from my shoulders, was running that small hot hand along my bare side. "There'll be plenty of time for Mr. Quaid to rig traps and alarms. First, though, a recuperative bath."

"Ia"Ia"Ia"" came my reply as she led me to the huge, steaming tub. With a tremblea"whether of fear or cold or joya"I knew I was naked, stripped bare. I lowered myself into the foamy, hot, bubbling waters. Hmm. The seduced innocent was a new role for me.

She moved up next to me, and now it was not her hot hand that touched my lips, but her own lips. They seemed to scald, and the fresh warm breath of her puffed for a moment over my face as she drew back.

"This is moving a little too fast," I said, at last able to speak as I looked into those green eyes. Oh, yes, those green eyes. "You put a tailored suit on a street rat, and all you've got is a rat in a suit."

"Not if the suit is magic."

That night, I had the most peculiar dream. I rolled over on the silken sheets to enfold Olivia in my brawny arms, feel her heat against my bare chest, and instead felt the bristling mange of Xantrithicus the Greedy himself. I awoke, screaming.

Next morning when I rose, she was gone. I dressed quickly, donning the white ruffled shirt, red brocade jacket, white hose, and charcoal-gray wool leggings left for me. Just my size. I smiled wryly. She'd had enough chance to check my fit perfectly.

I came down for breakfast and saw Olivia in the hammer-beamed dining hall, presiding royally over a morning feast for her guests. She gave me the same polite nod she gave other late arrivals; either she was a better stoneface than I, or she'd made herself familiar with more guests than just mea"men and women, alike.

Breakfast was hot and fillinga"eggs and fried mushrooms, tortes and jellies, bangers and gravy and biscuits and pie. Still, compared to the feast last night, the food paled. Oh, well. It sure beat the hash slung in the Dock Ward.

I ate too much food and stayed too long staring at those otherwise-occupied green eyesa"too much and too long, given that I had a gem to secure. I headed for the vault.

En route, I met my a.s.sistant. I'd not known before that instant that I had an a.s.sistant.

"Hold up, bloke. Where you think you're off to?" asked the scamp. I could have called him no better; I'd seen enough scamps in my day to know their stripe. Heck, I'd been one myself not so long ago. This scamp had greasy black hair, which he continually finger-combed back from his brown eyes. He sat upon a tall stool, leaning back rak-ishly against the slick wall, and his ruddy, freckled face bore a scowl that revealed less-than-healthy teeth, an idle splinter stabbed between two that were close enough to hold it. And if Olivia had tried to dress this kid in silks instead of knee- and elbow-worn linens, she'd failed.

"I'm Bolton Quaid, new head of security for the Tern."

"Bosh!" replied the lad immediately. "Quaid ain't no dandy. Lady says he's a rogue, like mea"knows which way's up."

I kicked the stool out from under him, snagged his collar, and hoisted him high. I'd used a similar technique on alley cats. "Would you say this way is up?"

The kid hung there, poking his fists at the air and snarling. "You ain't getting . . . grrrrh . . . past Filson Cry-bot. .. Mister Dandy-Thief. Like to feel... my shiv . . . ?"

"You mean this?" I asked, holding up my other hand to show him his crude little knife, dwarfed on my meaty fingers. "Or thisa"" I rolled my fingers to show a white rabbit's foot "a"or thisa"" a slingshot "a"or thisa"" a bent black feather "a"or thisa"" a pair of marbles, and so on. The kid was on the verge of tears, and even I wouldn't reduce a proud street scamp to tears.

"Give 'em back! Give 'em back!"

"All right." I gently lowered the kid to his feet and shoved his stuff at him.

No sooner had he touched ground than his heel stomped my foot. Ahhh! The walls around me swam, went dim, seeming for a moment to blink out from smooth-polished pearl to filthy cave stone. I let out a gasp and took a step back, only to strike my head against something brutally hard. The kid had already snagged his stuff and backed toward the iron door of the vault, his little shiv thrust out before him. I reeled, almost dropped to my haunches, and my head was filled with the keen of a whistle. It was going to take a while to recover from this one.

Especially now. Olivia was there. She'd appeared suddenly, as though magically summoned: only then did I see the whistle drop from Filson's lips to dangle on a chain around his scrawny neck. Already he was babbling to the lady about the intruder (me) who'd tried to strangle him.

Olivia, in typical aplomb, laughed. "Filson, meet your new boss. This is Mr. Bolton Quaid." With that introduction, she gestured to me, and I might have bowed had I not been busy rubbing my head and looking into empty air to see what had hit me.

The ruddy scamp face turned as white as the walls around us, though the color looked less fetching on Filson. "Er . . . sorry, boss."

I waved off the apology, wishing I could find a lump on the wall at least as large as the one on my head. "Part of the job. I'm glad to know you can handle yourself in a fight."

That brought some color back to those cheeks. "Just trying to do my job."

"Speaking of which," said Olivia, her tone hardening as she turned to me, "you'd best get at least some provisional protection on the Dragon's Pearl. We've had a couple magic lapses this morning."

My brow beetled. "Magic lapses?"

"The storms play havoc with magic," volunteered Filson, clearly wanting to redeem himself. "Spells fail sometimes."

"These lapses aren't caused by any storm," Olivia said, never turning from me. She let the implications sink in before she spoke them. "One of the guests is trying to dispel the magical protections around the pearl."

Now it was my turn to go white. "I'll get on it right away."

"Once you get the pearl secured nonmagically, I want you to hunt down the cause of these ... interruptions."

"What shall I do when I find the culprit?"

"Kill him."

Within a few hours, the pearl was secured seven ways to Summertide. I'd locked it in three concentric boxes, chained the outer box to five different spots on the walls, set seventy-three poisoned darts into projectors along the perimeter, lined ceiling and floors with drider web, strung up three hair triggers on the threshold to the chamber, and b.o.o.by-trapped the vault door so that the slightest disturbance would trigger a circular deadfall. The rock was as safe as I knew how to make it, short of hanging it around my own neck.

The whole time I worked, Filson watched and gabbed. He told me a lot I already knew about Olivia: that she was powerful and ruthless and all-knowing in the Tern. He also hinted in whispers that she used magic to look younger. That didn't surprise me, but I nervously wondered how much younger.

Most interesting of all, though, he spilled his own theory about why the lady kept a gemstone she feared to remove from its vault within a vault. He said the Dragon's Pearl magically powered the whole palace. He said the rock had absorbed Xantrithicus's power and Olivia was now drawing on it. He said the stone couldn't be magically guarded because any spells that kept intruders out would keep the magic in.

Out of the mouths of kids. The Dock Ward had taught me to listen to babbling kids and old fools. A worm too soft and juicy is a worm that hides a hook. Hmm. Where was Olivia's hook, and what fish was she trying to lure, and why? Money, certainly, but she had enough of that. More money, of course, but also . . . whata"power, station . . . companionship?

No time for such thoughts. I had a would-be jewel thief to catch.

It would not be easy. I doubted Olivia wanted me to rough up her patrons, as I routinely did to the smugglers and black marketeers on the docks. No, this would take subtlety and stealth.

Filson would prove to be a problem.

"Reconnoiter? What's that mean?" he asked suspiciously. "Are you trying to brush me off?"

"Not at all," I responded, pushing him toward the crowded dining hall. "You know the patrons. Watch them. See if any of them look suspicious."

"What're you gonna do?" the boy asked defensively.

"My job," I responded. One more shove did the trick, and the kid was off into the whirling cloud of mink and satin and hoity-toity laughter.

My job, in this case, involved grilling the servants. You listen to kids and old fools and servants. They've been in every crack and cranny, seen everything doing and everybody being done, and because of their station, had been ignored all the while. While Filson was giving diners the eye, I'd be giving cooks the ear.

I watched the double doors to see which swung which way, then made my entry. The kitchena"a long, low-ceilinged gallerya"was as decked as any other room. Tables and butcher's blocks lined the marble floor, shiny-scrubbed pots and pans hung from the plaster-bossed ceiling, rolling steam stood above bubbling kettles, and chefs bustled about it all, their white smocks and mushroom hats flitting like sc.r.a.p paper in wind.

I walked up to one of the chefs, who worked a b.l.o.o.d.y set of knives on five long tenderloins. "Excuse me," said I.

The man didn't look up. His hands moved expertly on meat and knife. "You're excused."

By his faint Sembian accent, I knew this was a connoisseur sn.o.b. Well, to me, a cook's a cook. "I was wondering if you've noticed any . . . magical lapses."

Again, no attention was spared me. He was busy sliding the steaks he'd cut from a tenderloin onto a platter, which was immediately whisked away by another cook. He reached for the second hunk of meat as he spoke. "I haven't time to noticea""

The words stopped dead. He must have seen it. I certainly couldn't have missed it. The long red wet slab of meat had turned to a great greasy cow pie, and the scoriated butcher's block into an uneven boulder. Worse still, though, the keen-edged knife had disappeared, an a.s.s's jawbone in its place, and the cook's supple, well-trained hand had become a warty, clawed, three-fingered talon. Gone was the white smock and mushroom hat, replaced by a pessimistic clump of matted chest-hair on a bare, greenish, scaly chest ... and an oily spit curl above a goblin pate.

Goblin pate!

Those dark, squalid goblin eyes lifted and met mine in that stunned moment, and two protruding lower fangs rose up and out to threaten those gray-green nostrils. But the next moment it was all gone, and the Sembian chef was staring impatiently, baldly, at me.

"Did you see that?" I asked, aghast.

"See what?"

Before our bland talk could go further, we were interrupted by a shout of outrage. I looked toward the doors in time to see a server in the last foot of his fall to the polished marble floor. A platter of steaming turkey and tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs preceded him. It and he hit ground, and the turkey's featherless wings flapped stupidly as it arced upward, vomited its stuffing onto the server, and flopped onto the marble floor.

The cause of this small catastrophe followed hard on the falla"my doubtable a.s.sistant, Filson. He leapt past the open-out door and vaulted the server to run in gleeful pride toward me.

"Look, Quaid! Look what I found in Mr. Stavel's pockets!"

Too stunned to do anything else, I did look at the rich golden treasures spread out on the waifs grubby handsa"a clockwork timepiece in gold, a money clip fat with Cormyr-ian notes, a pair of rings with rubies the size of cat's-eyes, and a strand of enormous pearls, any one of which would have equalled my typical take in a given year.

"You . . . you . . ." The bald bullocks of this "a.s.sistant"a" not only to knock over a server and ruin a turkey after picking pockets in my name, but also to come brag to me and the kitchen staff about ita"beggared me. "You stole from the guests!"

"But look! It'sa"" Now it was his turn to look flabber- gasted as he gazed at the trove in his hands. Unlike me, however, he found too many words to express his consternation. "But wait. I was going to return them after I checked for any clues or any evidence that might link them to attempts to shut down the lady's magic, only when I'd gotten the take they weren't in my hands more than a second or two before they turned intoa""

He didn't have to finish, for I saw it with my own eyes: the clockwork timepiece had become a smooth-edged river stone, the money clip and Cormyrian notes had turned into a bunch of leaves caught in a splinter of bark, the rings were a couple of large ladybug sh.e.l.ls, and the pearls were a shriveled strand of grapes.

The reconst.i.tution of all those things happened so quickly that I hadn't had time to be surprised at these revelations before I was being surprised at the reappearance of the gold and pearls and jewels.

.../so worm that hides a hook.

There's a point in every case gone sour when the finder knows he's being had. I'd reached that point. A pearl with the magical might of an ancient wyrm ... a woman known to use magic to make her look younger ... to use magic to make an impossible lagoon in the heart of a blizzard .. . cow pies for tenderloin and goblins for chefs ... Oh, yes, it was all coming far too clear now. In a flash, I saw through the whole charade, saw why a woman would use a dragon-enchanted emerald to create a magical pleasure dome atop the most forbidding of mountains.

"C'mon, Filson," I said, gesturing him to follow me. "This is the point when we go grille the boss."

The urchin's hands closed over the jewels, and they disappeared into his pockets. I didn't care. Not about his petty larcenyrnor about our explosive emergence out the in-door, which startled back a crew of servers who'd come to check out the commotion. My young charge and I shoved past them, bold and self-righteous, and strode out into the wide dining hall. All around us, patrons chattered nervously, trying to cover a mult.i.tude of social blunders caused by the lapse of their magical enhancements. It was no use: they were all about to be embarra.s.sed all over again.

Another lapse. Suddenly, the huge, elegant room was gone, replaced in a flash by a cold, breezy barn backed up against a yawning cave mouth. The tables had become long troughs; the delicacies straw and dung and dirt clods; the guests scabby old hags, grotesquely fat men with rashes around their mouths, acne-pocked wretches, greasy-haired baboons, toad-people covered in oozy boils, haggard and hairy and naked cavemen, filthy-jowled pigs. . . . The menageriea"the best of which belonged in a barn and the worst of which belonged in a priest-sealed gravea"chattered on with its same squawking gossip. Now, though, the salacious words and chuckles and winks were animalistic yawps and grunts and scratchings.

It was over, again. I reeled, feeling as delirious as before, though knowing now it was not I but the Stranded Tern that was deluded. I only hoped that the pleasant illusory surroundings would remain in 'place until I found Olivia. I had no desire to stumble through breezy barns and black cave mouths and cold snow and ramshackle shacks. Yes, shacksa"I now understood what I was dealing with.

I didn't have to look long for Olivia; I literally ran into her on a blind corner of the soaring great room. Apparently, she had been looking for me. Her lovely face was red, whether with exertion or anger.

"There you are!" she shouted. "What am I paying you for? Find the culprit!"

I had reached a pique myself, and it felt delicious to indulge it. "I have. You are the first among many culprits."

"What?" she barked, enraged.

"Yes, madam. You are serving those guests of yours cow droppings instead of tenderloin, algae instead of caviar, worms instead of noodles. Your hammer-beamed dining hall is a drafty, stinky barn, and your pearlescent great room is a filthy, awful cavern."

"And whose fault is that?" shrieked Olivia. I'd not expected that tack, and the shock of it shut me up. "I have promised them the finest accommodations, and that is what I have magically provided. Yes, magically. And cow pies transformed by the pearl are tenderloins. These temporary shortfalls are your problem. The feces laid before my guests are your responsibility."

I was surprised, yes, but guilty? No. "So you thought that one magic rock could transform an isolated mountain village of goblins into an opulent spa for the wealthy and powerful... ?"

"Until this morning, it had."

"And thought it powerful enough to warp goblins and cavemen into comely human servants and chefs and maitre d'sa"?"

"You were convinced it was a hot bath and a silken bed rather than a pus pocket and a rotting slab of meat."

"Just so that you could lure the most influential creatures of Faerun here. But why? That's the question. What hook does this juicy worm hide? Gold, of course! You've gathered them here to get their real riches in exchange for your false luxuries. Perhaps you're even performing a few casual a.s.sa.s.sinations for whomever you are leagued with!"

"Are you accusing me of murda""