Anthology - Realms of Mystery Part 21

I took Ranjir with me and headed out alone to the city garrison. On the way, I stopped to get a breath, to get my bearings.

I stood in a small circular courtyard, a cobbled alley surrounded by fieldstone towithouses. The crescent moon was a bright scar on the belly of the night. Thin clouds wrapped the sky in torn gauze. The roof line of the city rankled below. Black tiles, seeping shakes, and s.h.a.ggy humps of thatch. Widow's walks bristled like vulgar crowns. Water whispered in gutters and glinted in the distant cup of the sea.

Selgaunt. A quarter the size of Waterdeep, but still embroiled in nastiness. Fakery. Mendacity. Rich fat prima donnas attacking rich fat prima donnas. All that I could've stood-I was used to it-but caught in the center of this fight was something fine, something n.o.ble and beautiful.

I hefted the sanguine blade before me. Ranjir, ancient singing sword of elven kings, forged for battle, hero of a hundred wars, shaper of continents. . . and forevermore dead. Killed as an evening's entertainment. That wasn't even the worst of it. Before all that, the sword had been enslaved to two stupid, petty men. They'd made it sing for applause, perform like a trick monkey, and spend the rest of its time in triple-locked darkness. It might as well have been used to slice watermelons and pry open stuck doors.

Standing there under gauze clouds and frightened little stars, I knew with a sudden certainty that Tonias and V'Torres hadn't been the sword's first taskmasters. How many of the other great tenors of Semmite opera had used this blade? For how many hundreds of years had the singing sword of elven kings been enslaved by puffed up blowfish like Tonias and V'Torres?

Suddenly, there it was again. The smell of death.

I was no longer alone in the cobbled courtyard. From beneath crumbling arched alleyways they came. They emerged from behind ragged wooden tool sheds, abandoned flower boxes, a pile of rotten barrels. Lean, black-suited fighters with eyes like candle flames. They were all around me, blocking all exits.

I crouched, holding out the sword before me, and noticed that not a single one wore any armor over their body stockings.

An eloquent and dramatic voice came from one of my attackers, "It would seem, Agent Quaid, that you are at our mercy, and mercy is perhaps the rarest coin in our realm." Not a.s.sa.s.sins. Thespians.

"Surrender the sword to us, Quaid, for we have taken your mettle, and our taste is for a much finer alloy." Bad thespians. There was a bit of whispered protest after that line, and a small slap fight to determine who would get to address me in the future.

"This sword is at the center of this investigation," I said flatly. "You can't have it. Besides, it's dead.

What would the Guild of Thespians, Bards, and Choristers want with a dead sword?"

That brought more nervous whispers. Someone argued they should make a run for it. In the end, a new voice won out. "Believe what you will about who surrounds you, Quaid. We will believe what we will about the sword. Now, hand it over or taste our own tongues of steel." That speech was the most popular so far. Heads nodded in the darkness.

Thespians or no, there were twenty of them. They could kill me with prop swords. Still, Ranjir had been through too much already. I wasn't about to surrender it to another batch of simpering fops.

"Come, take it."

"We will!" someone improvised, though the group seemed anything but keen on charging me.

The circle slowly tightened. I shifted my feet, turning to keep them all in view. Quick footsteps came behind me. I whirled. Ranjir whistled into the s.p.a.ce. Steel struck steel and sparks flashed before a blackgoatee. With another swipe, I drove the attacker back.

And whirled. Two more swords darted toward my back. Ranjir cracked against them, one, two... .

I charged after the swordsmen, needing more room. They staggered back, fashionable berets outlined against the starry night, and foundered on a pile of barrels. Staves popped and rusty hoops groaned as they tumbled.

I'd gotten room enough to breathe but wanted to keep it. I swung Ranjir in a wide arc to my right and let the weight of the blade spin me around. With an audible gasp, the black body-suits fell back.

I a.s.sumed a fighting stance and growled out, "The d.a.m.ned blade is dead. Give it up, or you may be as well."

They seemed impressed by this speech-literarily, not literally. One shouted back, "Give it up, or you may be as well." That pleased the crowd even more, and hardened my resolve. Dead or alive, Ranjir would not end up in the hands of more theatrical taskinasters.

I took the battle to them, rushing a pair of men outlined by an alleyway. If I could bash past them.

Swords rang angrily on each other. The attackers' blades sounded tinny mixed with the bell-tones of Ranjir. Even dead, it was a beautifully turned blade. I lunged. The tip of Ranjir catching in the basket hilt of a foe's sword. As I struggled to wrench the blade away, something lashed my sword arm. My shoulder felt suddenly hot and achy. I won free and backed up, carving s.p.a.ce around me.

Blood was creeping down my arm, dousing the sleeve of my shirt. One of the leotard crew had gotten in a lucky strike. The blow was superficial. It stung, but I could still wag Ranjir well enough. Then one of the actors was counting to three in an ominous stage whisper, and they all rushed me. I shouted in surprise, but there was no time for threats or words or even breath.

A thicket of blades surrounded me, jabbing in, nicking my side, my back, my neck. Ranjir danced with a will all its own, seeming to drag my wounded arm behind. All the while my blood crept down from shoulder to elbow to forearm to wrist. I was losing, and I knew it.

Ranjir knew it, too.

Light suddenly flashed through the courtyard. Thirty-some lanterns were unhooded at once, surrounding us in glare. Lances of light sliced through the circle of thespians. They shrank back, muttering about watchmen and dungeons and the fact that the world never recognizes true genius. Then they bolted, scrambling away through the shadows like so many rats. I expected to hear sounds of struggle and eloquent protests as the watchmen collared them.

But there were no watchmen, no lanterns. The light, in fact, radiated from the ancient elven sword I bore. The ruby blazed with light and life. The sword sang sadly: "Lift me, if you please. The blood on your hand Could kill me."

I complied, raising the blade overhead and watching the trickle of blood on my hand reverse, flowing back down my wrist. And there I stood, sword lifted high, a shabby, common version of King Orpheus. And, as in the play, the sword sang: "I rise. I rise upon the dawning hope of Distalia, Like pollen in the teaming air of Spring.

I rise. I rise as all life rises, green and soft Through iron-hard ground to daylight gleam. I rise. I rise from roots that turn your dark decay To golden finery, turn grave soil to wind-borne seed. I rise, as all of life, I rise"

"So," I interrupted wryly, "it was you all along. You used your ma.s.s hallucination powers to fake your own death?"

"How else could I get shut Of simpering, bellowing fools?

They wouldn't let me go Except in death.

Death also rises, Or didn't you know?"

"And you faked the stab wounds, too. No wonder they healed so easily. I was surprised even theMorninglord was so solicitous. I wouldn't be surprised, though, if you somehow sent some of those death threats, too."

"Yes, I've been waiting these centuries To find a hand such as yours, The hand of a real warrior.

I've been pining for real battles again, No more snake-oil stage shows."

"Oh, no," I said, fetching up the edge of my shirt and wiping the blood from my hand. "I work alone.

I can't be seen singing whenever I get in a fight." Once the blood was well stanched, I lowered Ranjir and looked it square in the ruby. "Still, I wouldn't mind some company on the way back to Waterdeep.

And I know a certain weaponsmith who supplies fine swords to real warriors. I imagine I could enlist his aid to find you a fist headed for battle."

The sword seemed almost to laugh as it sang out again: "I rise. I rise upon the dawning hope of Waterdeep, like buds and flowers from wintry sleep. I rise!"

An Unusual Suspect

Brian M. Thomsen

There were three corpses laid out on the dock before me; two of them were burnt beyond recognition, the pungent smell of charred flesh wafting up from the ashy remains.

The third corpse had miraculously avoided incineration. . . and it was Kitten's.

Others knew her as Nymara Scheiron, just another tousled-haired dockyard coquette of dubious alignment (if you know what I mean), but for me she has always been Kitten. She was my oldest friend despite the fact that I've only known her for three months. That being the exact period of time I can claim to know anything or anyone; before that point others might know, just not me.

Don't get me wrong or mistake me for some lunatic, liar, or lover. I'm not some bardic romantic whose life metaphorically began when he first set eyes on his lady love. Kitten and I are, I mean, were friends, not lovers, at least not as far as I can recall. Three months ago I woke up in a Waterdeep dockyard alley with my mind wiped of all knowledge concerning my past. A walking tabula rasa, you might say, perfect prey to everyone and anyone, a wandering stranger unto himself with naught to confirm his existence except a splitting headache and the scent that comes with being unwashed for longer than polite company wish to be aware. I don't remember exactly what happened (something I say a bit too often for even my own comfort), but somehow Kitten came upon me and nursed me back to health. Not just satisfied with mending my body, she even found me a useful place in the society at hand and lined up work (of a sort) for me, to keep my belly fed and the rest of me adequately warm and comfortable until my memory returned (which it hasn't yet).

She got me back on my feet when no one else seemed to give a d.a.m.n.

Kitten was the oldest memory still in my head, and now her lifeless body was laying before me and I knew I would have to avenge her death.

I had been sleeping off a celebratory bender on a recent job's successful completion when I was aroused from the golden slumbers of the inebriated by a dockyard lad of the streets who had been sent to fetch me. (This was the usual way I was drafted by the mysterious group who I had to look upon as being potential clients.) Throwing just enough cold water on my face to enable me to see clearly (and not enough to cause frost in my close-cropped whiskers in the pre-morning chill), I followed the boy as I knew that my potential clients usually didn't like to be kept waiting.As was the routine, I was led down a number of back alleys and through a few abandoned buildings (throwing off any potential tails) before the lad handed me off to a cloaked figure who tipped the boy a coin and beckoned me to follow. The cloaked figure walked briskly, his boots tapping a staccato beat against the stone streets as he raced against the ever encroaching dawn whose early light was just beginning to cast out the shadows from the dark side of Waterdeep.

The sun was just about to clear the horizon when he motioned me into a nearby warehouse and quickly closed the door behind us, sealing us into the dark while the rest of Waterdeep began to enjoy the first light of a new day.

As my guide fumbled with a torch, I mused to myself gratefully. Well, at least my first fear has been dismissed; a vampire racing against the dawn would never pause to light a torch. We must always be thankful for small blessings.

A few seconds later his efforts were rewarded and the torch ignited with a temporarily blinding blaze that quickly settled down to a rea.s.suring illumination that provided me with my first good look at the guide who had led me here.

There wasn't much to see.

He was about my height and build with rather expensive taste in clothes. His cloak was heavy and cowled, the hood of which he carefully rearranged so as to remove it from his head with minimal muss and bother.

The hood fell back from my guide's head to reveal a closer, more form-fitting mask that completely obscured his face, hair, and features, leaving me with little more of a clue to his ident.i.ty than I had upon the first moment of our meeting.

This wasn't unusual really, as many of my clients seemed to prefer to keep their ident.i.ties well under wraps, even from me, their humble and obedient mind-wiped servant. It almost seemed to go with the territory in the line of work to which I had become accustomed.

The masked man lead me down a set of cellar steps to a subterranean pa.s.sage. I was immediately struck by a cool, moist breeze that seemed to be coming from the direction in which we were headed.

The sing-songy lapping of waves grew louder as we approached a larger, well lit chamber.

A highly functional dock, receiving, and storage area (not to mention two burly stevedores, arms emblazoned with tattoos of numerous savory and unsavory ports of call from the Sword Coast to the Moonsea) lead me to believe that we had arrived at one of Waterdeep's numerous clandestine ports of call. I began to wonder if perhaps I was being taken to a meeting by means of some underground nautical transport (to fabled Skuilport perhaps) until my guide lead me to the three waterlogged forms that appeared to have been recently dragged from the sea and set out on the docks like recently unloaded refuse.

Whatever had befallen the three sorry corpses must have happened very recently. The sodden state of their garments had not yet washed away the smoky residue of partial human incineration that must have occurred within the last two hours.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the only body that seemed to have escaped the flames, whereupon I recognized its ident.i.ty. I held my breath and controlled my rage at what fate had befallen my benefactor, silently swearing an oath of vengeance.

"Your thoughts?" inquired the stentorian voice of the masked man. The voice seemed vaguely familiar. (But then again all of the other masked voices I've dealt with in my short past sounded familiar, too.) Obviously I had not been brought here to identify the bodies. The patrons who hired me had numerous necromancers, scryers, and other magic men specializing in the recently deceased who were easily more suited to such a task.

"Life's cheap, unfair, and brutal, as luck would have it," I said, "but whatever happened here, didn't happen by chance."

"How so?"

"Two of the bodies were burnt beyond recognition, and whoever did it was no second rate firebug.

They were flamed by some blast of intense heat, probably some sort of spell-""Spellfire," the masked man volunteered, interrupting my impromptu dissertation and dissection of the matters at hand.

"Whatever," I said quickly, dismissing the interruption as irrelevant to my thought processes. If there were two mortals on all of Toni possessed of spellfire that was a lot. Any garden variety fireball would have sufficed. "All I know was that it was powerful enough so that a good dunking in the sea failed to dampen the heat left from the blast...as evidenced by the fact that the bodies and what remained of their clothing are still smoldering." I pointed at the lifeless husk that had been my friend. "Except for this one."

"Kitten's," the masked man volunteered in an emotionless tone.

"Right," I said quickly, trying not to dwell on the consuming wave of grief and rage that was beginning to tangle in my gut (emotions that did not seem evident in the monotone of my client's voice).

"She hasn't been burnt at all. The other two were probably incinerated to forestall identification. Maybe they wanted someone, us, to know that Kitten has been killed."

"Not likely," the masked man volunteered.

"Then perhaps the fellows with the hot hands were interrupted before they could finish their flaming handiwork," I offered, and quickly inquired, "But why isn't my initial scenario likely?"

"Because at this moment, in the pub known as the b.l.o.o.d.y Fist, a woman going by the name of Nymara Scheiron-also known as Kitten-is drinking on the tab of a recently acquired friend."

"An impostor?"

"A doppleganger," the masked man answered.

"Go on," I demanded, impatient to be brought up to speed. I felt no necessity to confess my ignorance of such matters to the patron. Personal experience of the past few weeks had already clued me in that these hooded guys always knew a lot more about me than I knew of them. (That was why, after all, I agreed to work for them.) "Dopplegangers," the masked man elaborated in a tone more than colored by a tint of condescension, "are creatures that have the ability to shapeshift and take on the appearance of any other creature. Their exceptional mental powers allow them the ability to read the mind of anyone in their close proximity, thus providing them with the details and data to effectively masquerade as anyone, even when they are in the presence of that individual's loved ones. Needless to say, once an individual has been removed from sight, kidnapped, enchanted or killed, there is nothing to prevent this unholy creature from taking their place in society. Over the past few years we have been troubled by a crime ring known as the Unseen under the leadership of one of those devils, a criminal genius who goes by the name Hiavin who aspires to replace key figures of our community with his unholy minions and thus bring all Waterdeep secretly under his thumb."

"And as goes Waterdeep," I said, "all Faerun does follow."

"A few years ago he operated out of a local festhall called the Inn of the Hanging Lantern hoping to get its surprisingly upper cla.s.s clientele under his spell, but his operational cover was blown by some journalist by the name of Volothamp Geddarm."

"The name's familiar," I volunteered, remembering his connection to a certain Waterdhavian publishing concern.

"He's not important," the masked man stated. "Somehow Hiavin has implemented some new, fiendish plan. He's already replaced this sorry threesome, and we need to know his next move."

"Who are the other two?" I asked, gesturing at the two soggy victims.

"That's the problem. All three bodies are ensorcelled, and the best wizards in Waterdeep can't crack the spell."

"So no deathbed interrogation or revelation."

"Exactly," he concurred. "Which has forced us to utilize much more mundane methods in our search for the truth."

"Namely me."

"Your charge," he ordered with the authority of some pompous magistrate, "is to follow the doppleganger that is pa.s.sing as Kitten and uncover the ident.i.ties of her two a.s.sociates who have taken the place of these poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.""I accept," I answered quickly, eager to get to work, and avenge the death of my friend.

"Not so fast," his lordship ordered. "Remember, dopplegangers are telepathic. They can read minds.

This Kitten can't see you or she will know what you're doing."

"Don't call that thing Kitten," I said defiantly, adding, "and once I've found the other two, I a.s.sume I can deal with them with the extreme prejudice that all three deserve."

"No," he ordered, "you will report back your findings, and accept your payment. You are solely to gather information, and no direct contact is to be instigated. After your. . . shall we say research. . . is complete, the matter will then be turned over to the proper authorities."

"I want to be there when their heads are removed from their shoulders."

"That is not for you to concern yourself with."

I was taken aback for a moment.

"They will be executed, won't they?" I demanded. "Last I heard, cold-blooded murder was still a capital offense here in Waterdeep."