Forgotten Realms - Realms of Magic Part 23

Wiglaf finally regained his senses enough to understand, but realized his outrageous spell was the only thing holding the creature at bay.

He held his arms firmly forward.

On and on, the dragon was pelted with representatives of every single member of a major food group, until it shook its head and finally took a breath to eradicate this problem once and for all.

Wiglaf knew he couldn't hold out for long now that the great creature had drawn a bead on him, but there was no other choice. He was a dead man, yes. But if he stopped casting, there would be nothing standing in the dragon's way.

He would not run. At least he would give some people the chance to take cover, to save themselves. At least he would end his life in dignity and service. Wiglaf let a deep sigh escape him, then closed his eyes in determination and waited for the end to come.

He heard some mumbling behind him. An instant later, the stream of vegetables was joined by a stream of flame.

Now the dragon was faced with a gargantuan gout of fire aimed at its head, not to mention that the foodstuffs tasking its eyes and nose were now roasting hot-and, Wiglaf noticed, smelling delicious on the way up. There comes a time when every creature, no matter how large or small, meek or fierce, wise or wanton, has finally reached its limit of pain, tolerance, and plain exasperation. At the business end of a torrent of steaming, stinging vegetables, the miserable dragon finally gave up, and swiftly flew away.

A shaken Wiglaf dropped his hands and turned to meet his benefactor.

The belcher. The lockpicker.

Fenzig was a magic-user.

Fenzig balled his hands into fists, and the fire disappeared instantly and utterly. He extended his fingers again, blew on them as if to cool them off, and winked. Then he smacked his hands sharply together. Then again. And again.

Tuka and Sasha ran toward them, making the same hand motions, and before long everyone in the square was applauding as well.

"You!" Wiglaf recoiled in shock. This is your robe. You let me take it away."

"We've been expecting you," said the man the others had called Fenzig, drawing close to Wiglaf for privacy, "ever since your teacher told me you had resigned."

"M-My teach..."

"Magicians who form friendships are a close fraternity, boy. Your former instructor thinks you have great potential, despite your laziness, and one day you might convince me of that as well. He thought you needed a sterner taskmaster-but first I had to get your attention. I trust I have it now.""You were wonderful, magic man," said Sasha as she arrived.

"So this was all an act? You three together?"

"n.o.body told the dragon about it," panted Tuka. "I thought we were gone. I really did."

"You stopped it, Wiglaf," Sasha said. "Your magic. Your courage."

"I couldn't have done it without-" He looked up into a face that had grown infinitely wiser in the last few moments; a face that would impart great knowledge in the coming years, now that he was ready to receive it. "-my master?"

"I'll take my robe back now," said the mage. "And in exchange, I'll show you how to do that little stunt whenever you want. Invent a spell yourself. Well call it... cast vegetables."

Wiglaf s new life began when he slipped off. . . this robe.

"This very one?" asked the young apprentice. "You're telling me this is the robe that undid Wiglaf?"

"It's a robe of wild magic," the old man said. "As you could easily tell if you recognized this sigil. See? A warning.

To anyone experienced in reading it, it says, 'wild magic, dum-dum. Makes spellcasting completely unpredictable. Only one of its kind. Tends to favor the caster if he really needs help, but that is Mystra's munificence, at least that's how the story goes. I have no idea who actually fashioned this thing, and I would never try to make one. This robe is completely useless except for one purpose: reminding younglings like you that there is no quick subst.i.tute for listening to ancient ones like me, and learning what we a.s.sign."

"That's a terrific story," said the lad.

"Be thankful that you learned this lesson by hearing a story, and not the way Wiglaf had to. But keep it learned, all the same. Now let's begin by working with components. A simple alteration. Fetch me some vegetables and chop them up, boy."

The apprentice looked up in wonder. The truth had struck him. "For cast vegetables, sir?"

The master's stern expression was still in place, but his eyes were twinkling.

Of course-how else could the old man have known what Wiglafwas thinking?

"Later, my lad, later. These are for a stew. To go with whatever Sasha's managed to hunt for us today."

A WORM TOO SOFT...

J. Robert King.

The stone was as big as an ogre's head, as green as dragon bile, and as clear as Evermead. Unlike most emeralds, though, this one wasn't cut along fracture lines, but perfectly spherical and smooth. On its satin belly I saw myself, all six-foot-three of me dwarfed into a six-and-three-sixteenths-inch doll, my hawk-nose warped to match in size my brawny chest. I saw, too, my slim, demure hostess curved beside me, watching me as I watched the rock.

Now that Olivia Verdlar, proprietor of the Stranded Tern and owner of this peerless rock, had gotten an eyeful of me, I hoped she, too, knew why she'd flown me out from Waterdeep-pegasus-back, no less.

"Impressive," I said, and leaned away from the enormous stone.

She slid back into my line of sight. Impressive, indeed. Her green eyes matched the rock, hue and l.u.s.ter, and her dark hair and slim figure were the ideal setting for such gems. Knowing the power of those eyes, she knew she didn't have to say a word in response.

I'd been drawn off by worse wenches, so I bit: "You say it came from the crop of a great green . . . ?" The word dragon hovered behind my question, but it didn't need to be spoken. After all, the rock had been christened "the Dragon's Pearl."

She nodded, and that slight motion sent an ally-ally-oxenfree down past her hips. "It's one of a hundred gem-stones that got polished in the thing's belly. Seems Xantrithicus the Greedy didn't trust his h.o.a.rd to a cave, preferring to hold it in his gut." She made a gesture toward her own slim waist, knowing I'd look there. I did. "Seems that way his spendthrift mate, Tarith the Green, couldn't even get two coppers to rub together."

"One of a hundred gems," I mused. It was time to win back some self-respect. "That's got to decrease the value of the pearl."

Was that a little color I saw in her high cheekbones? "This is by far the largest of the hundred. Most of the rest are fist-sized, or pebble-sized. If the gemologists are to be believed, this is also the most ancient of the h.o.a.rd, in the wyrm's gut for nearly two thousand years. I can little imagine its size when the polishing began."

I nodded, thinking, letting her words hang in the air as she had let mine, and hoping my dark-brown eyes were something of a match for her stunning green ones. I thought of the building around us: the cut-stone severity of this inner vault, the sorcerous impregnability of the outer vault, the ivory-towered fortress above, the glacial fastness of the mountain peaks. Every aspect of the Stranded Tern pleasure dome reeked of magic . . . everything except me, so I began again to wonder why she'd summoned me.

"Seems your magical defenses would be enough to guard this treasure," I said. "So, why bring a back-alley finder from Waterdeep across half the world to this icy palace?"

Olivia's small, hot hand was upon my biceps again, as it had been when the winged horse had touched down on the icy lip of the landing bay. She must keep those hands in a very warm place, I thought.

"Muscle and sneakiness have certain . . . powers that magic cannot provide."

G.o.ds, I wished that touch did not so thrill me. Keepyour head, Bolton. She's your new boss. With her next words, the hot fingers drifted away.

"Besides, the pearl resists magical protections. The mage who slew old Xantrithicus found that out when some quite ordinary banditti slew him, who were then in their own turn slain, and again, and again, until my agents retrieved the thing."

"So you called me out to defend an undefendable hunk of stone?"

"I thought with Quaid, all things were possible...."

I'd stepped right into that one. Hmm. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve." Not really up my sleeve, but in the little black case I carried over one shoulder. Strange that so many poisons and needles and bits of wire and rubber at my back would make me feel safe. "Your rock'll be well guarded. Of course, I have my expenses, and need of room and board-"

"Don't fret, Mr. Quaid," she said silkily. "You'll find this job has more than enough . . . fringe benefits. And don't even think about making off with my jewel. If the snows don't get you, my winged wolves will. Now, come along."

I followed her. It wasn't hard; I just let my eyes lead. Yeah, ever since I'd stepped down from that winged stallion, shoulders iced from our flight through the gale, I'd not been able to take my eyes off this Olivia. She was grace personified: young, svelte, clean-edged like a well-turned stiletto. In fact, she was too young and beautiful for this kip, this pleasure dome built beneath a constant sleet ceiling atop the Thunder Peaks. Where could a chit like her, with legs like those, who could get anything she needed and more with a mere pout of her perfect lips, have gotten the grit and moxie and power to build such a place?

Her sculpted arms deftly worked the lock on the iron door of the inner vault, and I struggled to memorize the combination, a rhyme of my dad's forcing its way into my head: A worm too soft and juicy Is a worm that hides a hook.

You can't think that way, Bolt. This is your new boss; this is her kip, your new home-a far cry from the alleys and scamps and tramps of Waterdeep's Dock Ward.

However she'd acquired it, the Stranded Tern was hers. It could have belonged to no one else. It had her lines.

The stairs we walked took us up and out to a vast great room. The white walls of the place shone like mother-of-pearl, arching smooth and high like the inside of Olivia's leg. I'd've felt blinded by the whiteness but for the red rugs that hung on the walls and the thick carpet on the floor-more carpet in one room than in all the hovels in the Dock Ward.

Dead center rose a stairway with treads of gla.s.s. It snaked upward through empty air, held up by nothing but magic. On the second floor, it gave onto a wide arch of red iron filigree, which led in turn to four floors of guest rooms.

Beneath the coil of treads was a long desk and a little man in tight black satin.

He wasn't the only liveried lackey. The place crawled with maids and "hops in similar getups, and swarmed with guests: There were hairless women wrapped in rare furs. There were men in tailored silk suits with such sharp edges they looked like tents tacked down to hard soil. There were kids, too, brash and savage in their pressed collars.

We moved out among the guests, my homespun snow-sodden shirt rough and ridiculous on my shoulders. I felt like a hairy bear.

Bolton Quaid, what've you gotten yourself into?

"This way," said the lady.

One benefit of perfect hips was that she couldn't be easily lost in a crowd. The lines of the place were hers, all right, but they lacked something of the warm dance she had....

What are you getting into, indeed?

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 lines-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 is-"

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 touch-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 speak-what words, I do not know-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."

"I-I-I-" came my reply as she led me to the huge, steaming tub. With a tremble-whether of fear or cold or joy-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 me-men and women, alike.

Breakfast was hot and filling-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 eyes-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 me-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?"