Anthology - Realms of Mystery Part 27

Ambriel shrugged. "A ward token allows the bearer access to parts of Silverymoon where few are allowed to go, and even to cast magic that is otherwise restricted by the wards. I suspect he was trying to get somewhere he shouldn't have been."

Lynaelle gasped. "Why in the world did you give such a thing to me, then?"

Ambriel smiled. "I knew it would be safe with you. Anyone who knew of its existence would come to me looking for it, not you. Besides," he added, a warm smile in his eyes. "I hoped someday you might wear it as a member of the Spellguard."

Lynaelle smiled and hugged her teacher.

"By the G.o.ds," Gorlin muttered quietly. "Three different contracts, all offering him handsome sums to retrieve that token and use it to get to Queen Al.u.s.triel." The hunter's face was ashen. "He meant to a.s.sa.s.sinate the High Lady herself...."

The Grinning Ghost of Taverton Hall

Ed Greenwood

"The ghost is one of the family, you see. The Doom of the Paertrovers. We couldn't banish him if we wanted to."

The young lord was in full fettle, his voice as polished as that of any master bard. Immult Greiryn, the seneschal of Taverton Hall, ran an irritated hand through his steel-gray hair and turned away, melting into the deep underbrush with practiced ease and silence. Not for him the fripperies of the high and mighty, nor was it his station to be seen listening or intruding when they were at play. Bad enough that he had to step around their bodyguards behind every second tree and bush...

It was late in the warm summer of the Year of the Banner...and a busy summer it'd been, to be sure.

All sun-dappled season long three ambitious n.o.ble lords of rising power had dragged their beautiful daughters the length and breadth of the realm, seeking suitable-that would mean rich, Greiryn reflected with a sour smile-husbands for their precious Flowers of Northbank, Farrowbrace, Huntingdown, and Battlebar. Oh, the three ladies were a delight to look upon, even for an oldsoldier, and well-educated to boot, but their whole journeying was so...calculated. Did these n.o.ble lords have iced wine in their veins, instead of blood?

Immult spat thoughtfully onto a fern, and traded cold and level gazes with yet another bodyguard whose gloved fingers were fondling the hilt of his belt dagger. Arrogant lapdogs, lording it over him in a garden that was his to defend!

Arrogant? Aye, and their masters were worse. In their foray up and down the realm, presenting their young ladies to the eligible young n.o.blemen of Cormyr, they'd pa.s.sed the gates of Taverton Hall thrice at least-more times, perhaps. Oldest and smallest of the great estates in Northbank this might be, but these three oh-so-n.o.ble lords must have been saving it for last, like a favored food at a feast. Taverton Hall was the seat of Lord Eskult Paertrover, Baron of Starwater and Horse Marshal to the Crown of Cormyr, bluest of the old blood houses to currently hold important court rank. Any la.s.s who wed his son and heir, young Lord Crimmon, would gain her father an important ear at court.

Oh, yes, a very important ear. Doddering and lost in nostalgic glories Lord Eskult might well be, but his hand wrote the orders that conferred court ranks-and moneys and powers with them-upon n.o.bles, and a.s.signed other n.o.bles standing garrisons of Purple Dragons. Soldiers that one had to feed, and thatwere always, so the suspicions went, in your home to keep an eye on you for the throne. So one lot of n.o.bles gained wealth and power, and another saw their purses go flat under the weight of a lot of hungry, swaggering soldiers. Yes, there were many n.o.bles who made a point of being "old friends" of Lord Eskult. Many a case of fine wine came in through the gates at feast days...Immult licked his lips at the memory of a particularly fiery sherry from a Rowanmantle wine-hall.

Another guard glared at him suspiciously, but the seneschal swept past him, pretending not to notice.

Bah! Let these dogs snarl. They'd all be gone from here soon enough.

"Yet," Lord Crimmon said earnestly, knowing he had their breathless attention, "the ghost always reappears." He gave them a suitably ghostly half-smile, and broke his pose to gesture grandly at a rather crumbling expanse of old, close-fitted stones. The rings on his fingers sparkled like miniature stars as the warm light of morning caught them and set them afire.

"Here, he seen as a shape on the wall, no matter how often Paertrovers tear down these stones and rebuild with new ones." He waved his glittering hand again, in a wide circle above his head, three pairs of beautiful eyes following his every move. "Everywhere else on the estate, folk see a floating, grinning face in a long-plumed helm." He gave them the smile again, knowing just how dashingly handsome-and rich-he looked. "It quite put my father off courting in these gardens."

"And has it had the same effect on you, Lord Crimmon?" Lady Shamril Farrowbrace's voice was a low, throaty purr, almost a challenge. Her large, dark eyes held his with a look that was more promise than challenge, as one of her slim hands played in apparent idleness with the glistening string of silver-set pearls that adorned her open bodice.

"Lady," the young lord told her in mock reproof, "that would be telling rather more than it is good for the n.o.bly bred to know."

One elegant eyebrow arched, on the brow of another of the three Flowers. "Because it ruins the game, Lord?" the Lady Lathdue Huntingdown asked. "Do you seek to slight our sport, or just that of our over-reaching sires?"

Lady Chala.s.s Battlebar stiffened, eyes flashing for a moment as she gathered herself to take proper offense. Her head snapped around to see just where her father was-and found that he and the other elder lords had strolled out of sight, their bodyguards drifting off in their wake. The remaining guards had carefully situated themselves just out of earshot of normal converse, but quite within hailing distance. She relaxed, turned back to face Lord Crimmon-he was an engaging rogue, not the thick skull or dribble chin one might expect to find as heir of an old-blood house-and smiled.

"For my part," she told them all lightly, "I care not if my lord father dies of old age snooping behind every stone in Cormyr for a 'suitable' mate for me. I have no interest in courtship at all this fine summer.

Dalliance, now..." She lowered her lashes delicately as she put the tip of one slender, long-nailed finger to her lips, and licked it with slow languor.

"Oh, Chala.s.s, a little subtlety, please," the Lady Shamril sighed. "There'll be plenty of time for thrusting ourselves at our gracious host here-and his father or yours, for that matter-when the dancing begins. I was enjoying the tale; his a change from gallant young lords showing us their prized stallions and making clumsy, leering jokes about riding, and wanting to see our saddles, and all the rest of it."

She waved a disgusted hand, and all three Flowers t.i.ttered together at shared memories that were obviously strong enough to dash away the irritation that had flashed across the face of Lady Chala.s.s under Shamril's chiding.

"Yes," Lady Lathdue Huntingdown agreed, leaning forward in real eagerness, rather than with the slower flour, is she'd performed earlier to best display her jeweled pectoral. "Our fathers may be after an ear at court and the warehouses of Paertrover gold, but we-I think I can safely speak for all of us in this-are not hunting husbands. Yet."

She caught the eyes of both other ladies, saw their agreement and confirmed it with a nod that set her splendid fall of hair rippling along her shoulders-and then abruptly dropped courtly manners toaddress Lord Crimmon plainly. "Crimmon, tell us more of your 'grinning ghost.' I love a good scare."

The young lord shrugged, suddenly weary of showing off the family haunting like some sort of trophy of the Hall. "There's little more to tell; I don't make up stories about him just to impress."

"We've come a long way, Lord," the Lady Shamril purred. "Impress us just a little...please?"

"Will we see the Grinning Ghost?" Lady Lathdue asked directly, her eyes very large and dark. She leaned forward even farther, so like a hound eager for the hunt that Lord Crimmon had to smile.

Into the spirit of it once more-if that was not too dangerous an expression, given the subject-he leaned for ward to almost touch noses with her, the sparkle back in his eyes, and half whispered, "So if you're anywhere about our grounds, and feel a gaze upon you, turn around. As like as not, you'll be staring into the twinkling eyes of the ghost, who's been floating along right behind you!"

Two of the Flowers gave little embarra.s.sed cries of fright. The third-Lathdue-uttered not a sound, but Crimmon saw a shiver travel the length of her shapely shoulders and arms. Her dark eyes never left his as he lowered his voice again, and went on.

"He never says a word, and does nothing but follow folk who scream and flee." The young n.o.ble made a grand gesture, as if thrusting desperately with a sword. "Some have dared to attack him or charge straight through him. All such say they felt a terrible chill...and got a true fright when the smile ran off the ghost's face like a cloak falling from someone's shoulders."

Lord Crimmon left time for another chorus of delicious moans of fear, and added more soberly, "When he's watching you, but not grinning, they say, this a sign you stand in mortal danger."

The three ladies laughed lightly in dismissal of such a ridiculous notion-how could a spirit know the fates and troubles of the living?-but their host did not join in their mirth, and it died away weakly as they looked into his face.

The gray Paertrover eyes that had seemed so dancing but a moment before, were dark and level as they stared past the Flowers at something that was making the color slowly drain out of Lord Crimmon's face. The three ladies spun around...and joined in the deepening silence.

Floating behind them, perhaps three paces away, was a disembodied head, its face pinched and white, the plumes of the long helm that surrounded it playing about slightly in the breeze. Its eyes were fixed on Lord Crimmon's, and its face was expressionless-and yet, for all that lack of expression, somehow sad and grim. All at once it began to fade away, becoming a faint part of the sun dappled light, and then a gentle radiance among shadows...and then nothing at all.

Silent servants deftly lit the lanterns as the evening shadows lengthened and the n.o.bles rose from their joyous feast, goblets in hand, to stroll in the gardens. Lord Eskult was in rare good humor, his wit as sharp as it had been twenty years past, and so were his guests, brightened by good food, fine wine, and the success of their trade-talks. Even if their does ran with no Paertrover stag, it seemed they'd won a firm friend in the old Horse Marshal.

"Extraordinary!" Lord Belophar Battlebar boomed, the force of his breath blowing his great mustache out from his full lips. "A maze, but only knee-high...and sunken, too!"

"The pride of my dear departed wife," Lord Eskult said, striding forth down its gra.s.sy entrance path with a gesture that told all Cormyr that he was proud of it too. "She wanted a maze like-no, better-than one she saw at some merchant's house in Selgaunt, but she never wanted to get lost in it. One evening, the light fell fast, and she couldn't find her way out before it was full dark. Well, she had a proper fright, and when she found some of the lamp-lads she marched straight out to the garden sheds and took up a scythe, panting and blowing out her nostrils like a charger after a good gallop, and set to work hewing.

She fell asleep sometime before dawn, and I carried her in, bidding the morning servants to continue what she'd begun: cutting the highthorn down to the height you see it now. No one will ever get lost in Maeraedithe's Maze again!"

"G.o.ds above," Lord Hornsar Farrowbrace exclaimed admiringly, "what a tale! What a woman! I can just see her, eyes afire...""Yes," their host said, spinning around, "They were. They were indeed! Oh, she was splendid!"

Trailing along somewhere in the shadow of the tall and patrician Lord Corgrast Huntingdown, his daughter, the Lady Lathdue, rolled her eyes unto the darkening heavens. Lord Crimmon patted her arm and grinned. She realized who was rea.s.suring her, and gasped in horror at having slighted his dead mother, even unintentionally- but he waved in merry dismissiveness as they all strolled on into the maze together.

The twisting coil of stunted highthorn entirely filled a sunken square of rich green turf surrounded on all sides by a rising slope of flowers crowned by fruit trees. Behind the trees was a stone wall, pierced in the center of each of its four runs by a stair leading down into the maze. Benches and statues stood here and there among the flowers, some of them already adorned with lamps, but there were none in the maze itself. "This is beautiful," Lady Chala.s.s Battlebar murmured. "Did you ever play here, Crimmon?"

There was no reply. She turned to see what might be preventing him from speaking, only to see him a good twenty paces off, taking a goblet and decanter from a gleaming tray carried by a servant. "He moves swiftly when he wants to," Lady Shamril commented to Chala.s.s.

"Hmmph," she replied, "not as swiftly as I want to." With a nod of her head she indicated the four older n.o.bles in front of them.

"Well, if I ran Cormyr..." Lord Farrowbrace was saying, apparently unconscious of the fact that the n.o.bility of the realm uttered that phrase even more often than the gently born, a rung down the social ladder, discussed the weather. Lord Huntingdown and their host were both interrupting him, gesturing airily with flagons almost as big as their heads, to ill.u.s.trate how, begging his indulgence, they'd be like to run Cormyr just a tad differently, thus and so...

"G.o.ds," Shamril muttered, "let's get gone! They'll start talking about which n.o.ble houses will rise and which will fall when a new king takes the throne, next..."

"That brings to mind the solemn question upon which the future of fair Cormyr stands," Lord Battlebar boomed. "Who among us shall rise, and who fall, if Azoun-G.o.ds preserve and keep our king-should die tomorrow?"

The three Flowers groaned in unison as Shamril spread her hands in a disgusted "I told you so"

gesture. "Shall we be off after Crimmon?" she hissed. "They'll be at this all night, given wine enough! I..."

"No," Lady Lathdue said with a dangerous smile, laying a hand on Shamril's arm. "No running away now! We've a wager, remember? I want to see our fathers' faces when we make a play not for Crimmon, but for his father! Where will they look? After all, the Baron as son-in-law- albeit one old enough to sire them-gives them more power at court, and a shorter wait for the gold, if they can bend him into parting with coins before Crimmon does, or the grave takes him!"

"The wager was for the most daring way to steal a kiss from old Eskult," Chala.s.s reminded her with a frown. "I don't want to cross my father! He'll half flail the flesh off my behind if I disgr..."

"In front of our fathers is the most daring way!" Shamril said with sudden enthusiasm. "Ladies, watch me!" She strode away through the maze, catching up her gown to unconcernedly step over walls of highthorn and catch up with the four lords. Chala.s.s and Lathdue stared at her progress with mingled apprehension, awe, and delight.

"She's going to do it," Lathdue said in low tones, as if p.r.o.nouncing doom fast coming down upon them all. "Oh, G.o.ds above."

It was coming down to full night now, but the lamps gave light enough to clearly show what befell at the heart of the maze. They saw Shamril glide past Battlebar and her own father, duck under Lord Huntingdown's arm. Lathdue erupted in swiftly-smothered giggles at the look of horrified astonishment on her father's face at the swj den, bobbing appearance of a young lady clad in a very scanty green silk gown from under his own languidly-waving arm-and come up to Lord Eskult Paertrover.

The Baron of Starwater chuckled at whatever Shamril said then, and proffered his arm with exaggerated gallantry. Rather than surrendering her own arm, the young Lady Shamril spun past the old lord's hand to press herself against him, lace-cloaked breast to medal-adorned chest, and thigh to thigh.

Lord Eskult looked surprised, but pleasantly so. His teeth flashed in a smile as she raised her lips, obviously demanding a kiss, and he bent over her as if he was a young brightblade, and not an old andred-faced baron of the realm.

Chala.s.s bit her knuckle to keep from screaming in delight as Shamril stretched her white throat a trembling inch or two farther, ignoring a sudden startled oath from her father. Lathdue shook her head, murmuring, "Crimmon should be watching this! His father's got more than a bit of the old fire in his veins yet, I..."

A sharp snapping sound echoed through the soft evening air, followed by the vicious hum of a crossbow bolt snarling through the air toward the two trembling bodies. It seemed to leap out of the gloomy air like a bolt of black lightning, stabbing between old lord and young, playful lady.

Blood burst forth in a sudden, wet torrent as the bolt took Shamril through the throat. Hair danced as her head spun around with a horrible loose wobble. The Flower of House Farrowbrace made a bubbling sound- the last sound she'd ever utter-as the bolt hummed On across the garden, plucking her out of the old lord's grasp to fall sprawled across the highthorn, a limp and b.l.o.o.d.y bundle.

Eskult stared at his own empty hands for an instant, blinded by the bright blood that was fountaining everywhere-and then clutched at his chest, made a sound that was half roar and half sob, and toppled slowly, like a felled tree, to crash down on his face in the highthorn.

There was an instant of shocked and disbelieving stillness before the shouts and screams began.

With one accord, everyone present turned to stare at where the bolt must have been fired from-and the shouts were cut off as if by a sword. Stunned silence returned.

A head could be seen above the weaponless, otherwise deserted stretch of garden wall they were all staring at. It looked for all the world as if it had just risen up from behind the wall to peer at the carnage below in grinning satisfaction. Teeth flashed white and fierce in its chalk-white face, luminous beneath the dark helm it wore. The Grinning Ghost of Taverton Hall was smiling again.

It grinned at them over the garden wall for the s.p.a.ce of two of Lathdue's long and quivering breaths before it abruptly sank from view behind the wall. As if that had been a signal, folk stirred all around the sunken garden. There was a ragged roar, and then servants and bodyguards were sprinting toward the wall, swords and belt knives out. Even Lord Battlebar, down in the maze, plucked at his own knife and crashed across the highthorn in a lumbering run.

Chala.s.s and Lathdue, white-faced, could only stare in silent horror. However fierce and grim the pursuit was now, as men converged on the garden wall in a frantic rush, it was too late for Shamril Her daring was stilled forever. It might well also be too late for Lord Eskult Paertrover.

Chala.s.s sagged soundlessly to her knees, staring at the two bodies as servants hurried to kneel over them, but Lathdue sobbed suddenly and loudly, and spun around to sprint after the rushing bodyguards.

That crossbow had been fired from just where they'd seen the ghost, and...

Panting, she charged up the stair from the sunken gar den and turned at its head, almost falling in her haste. A hand in livery caught her arm to steady her, and she swallowed, gasped for breath, and fell silent again.

There was no sign of the Grinning Ghost of Taverton Hall. A grim ring of men with drawn steel in their hands stood around the spot where the crossbow had been fired from. It dangled, string loose now, in the hands of Lord Crimmon Paertrover. His sword glittered in his other hand, beneath a face that was white and empty. His eyes stared past Lath due, unseeing.

"Everyone I love...taken from me," he blurted-and fell forward on his face, even faster than the rough hands that s.n.a.t.c.hed away his blade and caught at his arms. As half Faerun rushed down on the young lord, Lathdue felt a deeper darkness than night rise up around her, and close its merciful grasp over her eyes.

"Any man may say he has business with Lord Paertrover. To gain entry here, many a beggar and old soldier has said as much. His friend and secret business partner you may be, too...but I know you not."

The old seneschal's voice was cold, his stare as wintry as a blizzard howling across the Stonelands, but the man across the table from him smiled with easy affability and replied, "Neither do I know you,goodman, but has that ever been a barrier between men of goodwill? You have the look of a retired Purple Dragon, and I respect all who've fought to keep our fair land safe. Might I know your name?"

"Greiryn," the bristle-browed man on the far side of the table said shortly. "Seneschal of Taverton Hail."

The stout man with the s.h.a.ggy sideburns bounded from his seat to stretch a welcoming hand across the tabletop, for all the world as if he were the host, and not the visitor. "Glarasteer Rhauligan, dealer in turret tops and spires," he boomed. "No embattlement too small, no embrasure too large, no crenellation too eccentric. If you can draw it, I can build it! I've come from bustling Suzail herself, turning my back on insistent barons and eager knights alike, to keep my appointment with the Lord Eskult Paertrover." He gestured imperiously with the hand that Greiryn had been ignoring, and added firmly, "I do have an appointment."

"Saw you the black banner?" the seneschal asked, in grim and reluctant tones. Rhauligan shrugged in a "no, but what of it?" gesture, and Greiryn said icily, "My Lord lies dead in the family crypt, of heartstop, and won't be seeing anyone. Good day to you, merchant."

The fat man in silks and furs made another imperious gesture, more hastily this time. "His son, then,"

Rhauligan said eagerly, "the young blade who makes half the ladies in Cormyr swoon, and the rest sigh!

He'll be Lord Paertrover now, right?"

"If he lives to take any t.i.tle," Greiryn replied in tones of doom that were almost drowned out by the sudden blare of a hunting horn sounding from the gates.

He rose at the sound, reaching for his cloak. "You must excuse me-that will be a Wizard of War, sent from Suzail to see to Lord Crimmon's fate."

The royal arms gleamed on the door of the coach even through the swirling road-dust. Rhauligan counted no less than sixteen black horses in its harness, stamping and tossing their heads impatiently as that regal door opened, and a man in stylish robes of lush purple alighted.

The servant with the hunting horn blew a too-loud, wandering-note flourish, and the newcomer didn't trouble to hide his wince and frown. He extended his left hand in a fist, displaying a ring to the already-bowing seneschal, and snapped his fingers.

In answer to this signal, a servant still hastening out of the coach declaimed grandly, "All hail and make welcome Lord Jala.n.u.s Westerbotham, Scepter of Justice, Dragonfang Lord Investigator for Northbank, Starwater, and the Western Coast!"

The figure in purple inclined his head in coldly distant greeting to the three n.o.ble lords, swept past them and their daughters, ignored Rhauligan and a hastily-arrayed lineup of household servants, and strode toward the pillared entry of Taverton Hall. The seneschal practically sprinted to catch up with him, holding his ceremonial sword at one hip. Rhauligan gave Greiryn a cheerful grin as he puffed past, and was rewarded with a fierce scowl.

"Lord Jala.n.u.s!" the seneschal gasped, trying to smile, "be welcome indeed in Taverton Hall. A sad occasion calls you here, but I'm sure that your stay flee..."

"Where, man, are my quarters?" the war wizard demanded, in tones that Rhauligan promptly (and privately) dubbed "coldly patrician."

"Ah, we've prepared the Ducal Suite for you, milord," Greiryn said, waving a hand down the central hallway. "It's just ahead there; that door where the servants are waiting."

"I must see to its suitability, and theirs," Lord Jala.n.u.s said in a voice that managed to combine equal parts irritation at having to deal with dunderheads and gloomy antic.i.p.ation of personal hardship and disappointment to come. He drew a slim, shiny black wand from his belt with a flourish, and marched off down the hail.

His servants streamed after him, pushing past Glarasteer Rhauligan on both sides. The merchant staggered first to the left and then to the right under their bruising impacts, and then shrugged and thrust out his foot, sending a heavily-laden servant crashing onto his face. Deftly he s.n.a.t.c.hed up two carrychestsfrom the chaos that had been the servant's high-stacked load, and joined the general rush down the hall.

A ragged shout followed him, and as he turned to enter the Ducal Suite, an angry hand plucked at his sleeve.