CHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER TWELVE
One day in Blackstaff Tower was enough to convince Sharlarra of her error in returning. The round of lessons and chores seemed endless, the opportunities for mischief few. To make matters worse, the Lady Laerel had gone off to visit her sisters, leaving Sharlarra under the watchful eye of the archmage. Not that she was ungrateful—after all, Khelben Arunsun had followed her on her last misadventure and had appeared in time to save her from some very nasty dark elves.
He had followed her.
This thought stopped Sharlarra dead. The cauldron she'd been stirring bubbled over. Paying no heed to the spilled potion or the aggrieved complaints of her fellow apprentice, she spun on her heel and raced up the winding stairs to the small sleeping chamber assigned to her.
She threw open her trunk and rummaged.
Sure enough, the faded satin lining had been peeled aside and her treasure trove plundered. Missing from it were the two perfectly matched bits of pale green peridot she'd appropriated from the bag of gems she'd lifted from Danilo Thann.
So that's how the archmage had been able to trace her steps.
Sharlarra bit her lip and considered her future in light of these new developments. The missing stones were not the only ones she'd taken as a private transaction fee. Several very nice diamonds had entered her possession. They were the perfect accompaniment for the obscenely huge ruby Laerel had left among the gems carelessly strewn across her dressing table. Even before Sharlarra had gone off in search of the drow's ship, she'd had the ruby and the diamonds set into a necklace. There was a dwarf down in South Ward who kept a variety of silver settings on hand, artfully tarnished to suggest vintage pieces. Setting the stones was a small matter of choosing a reasonable fit and pressing the silver prongs firmly around the gems. His services had come in handy more than once. Loose stones vanished into "family heirlooms," and jewelry was quickly recast into less recognizable form. In minutes after leaving the shop, she'd been on her way, and she hadn't taken the necklace off since.
Though the elf had few scruples, she did not steal from her friends. Borrow without permission, yes, but never steal. The necklace was a gift for Laerel, who loved jewelry but couldn't be bothered to shop for it. The beautiful mage would love this gift, not caring in the slightest that the ruby was already her own, but Sharlarra had not seen Laerel since the necklace's creation. She couldn't resist the temptation to wear the opulent piece herself, if just for a short while.
She reached under the collar of her shirt for the chain and undid the clasp. Wearing a fortune in diamonds and rubies had been a pleasant interlude but not one she could afford to continue. As long as she wore it, she was tethered to the archmage by invisible chains of magic.
The elf held the necklace up to admire it one last time—and let out a yelp of surprise and outrage.
The ruby was gone.
Sharlarra called the dwarf every foul name in her extensive repertoire and threw the silver piece into her chest. It landed with a clatter of metal on metal.
Her eyes darted to the chest. The jeweled sword she'd been wearing on her last misadventure lay at the top of the chest. She had not yet had time to replace the gems that the drow warrior had pried from its hilt.
"Damn," she said aloud.
So that was it. Her necklace must have swung free during the fight with the drow. He'd pried out the ruby as well as the ones in her sword. Now, that was a trick she wouldn't mind learning herself! Still, it was odd that he should take the ruby and leave the matched diamonds surrounding it.
If the drow simply wanted to track Liriel, there were enough gems left in the bag to accomplish that purpose. If his interest lay in the value of the stones, he would have cut the chain on the entire necklace rather than pry out a single gem. The ruby had some particular significance.
Well, so did the necklace. It was a gift for Laerel, and even if every god in the elven pantheon had ideas to the contrary, Sharlarra intended her mentor to have it.
She quickly dressed in her working clothes—dark green breeches and shirt, warm cloak and boots, bags to hold her picks and loot—and strapped on the despoiled sword. She strode out of Blackstaff Tower, setting a relaxed but purposeful pace.
It was late afternoon, and most of high society would be gathering in festhalls and taverns for tea, a meal usually eaten away from home while their servants prepared for the evening meal and entertainments. Most thieves preferred to work under cover of darkness; Sharlarra had better luck at teatime. Anyone caught sneaking around at night would be stopped and questioned, but those who went about their business openly and without fanfare were usually given the benefit of the doubt. Especially in Shar-larra's case. People saw her pretty elf face and red-gold curls and immediately concluded that she was on the side of angels and paladins.
In Sharlarra's opinion, people that shallow and stupid deserved to be robbed.
Within the hour she had completed her work and was leaning over the dwarf jewelsmith's shoulder.
"The new ruby is a considerable smaller," the dwarf observed, his eyes shifting from Sharlarra's newly acquired gem to the damaged necklace, "and the prongs were dinged up something fierce. One of 'em's twisted so bad the metal thinned out some. Might not hold. Go to the kitchen and pour yourself some ale, and I'll have these sparklers in a new setting before you see the bottom of the mug."
"And the sword?"
"Easy job. Off with you, then."
As it turned out, the ale was surprisingly good. Sharlarra downed two dwarf-sized mugs before the job was finished and she was on her way. Perhaps as a result she was less attentive than she might otherwise have been.
She noted the long, black-draped carriage sweep toward her, the four matched horses setting a brisk pace toward the City of the Dead. It did not occur to her that the horses' trot was unseemly, given the usual somber pace afforded this last journey. Nor did she notice that the carter drove rather too close to the flagstone walk. None of these thoughts entered her mind until the curtained door swung open and burly arms reached out to seize her.
Rough hands dragged her into the hearse and threw her to the floor. Sharlarra's head struck the edge of an open coffin. She lay where she fell, too stunned to scream or struggle.
Two men, rough-bearded rogues whose dark garments were too coarse for any self-respecting member of the undertakers' guild, regarded her with sneering satisfaction. One of them seized her wrist and tugged her to her feet.
Her first impulse was to cast a spell. As the first word of the chant spilled from her lips, the other ruffian balled his fist and slammed it into her stomach.
The elf folded. Every whisper of air wheezed from her chest, leaving her too empty to draw more.
Dimly she felt rough hands paw aside her hair and rip the necklace from her.
"Got it!" exulted the smaller of the two. He nodded to the wooden coffin that stood empty and waiting. "Kill her, and have done with it."
"Not yet," the other replied. His voice hitched, sounding as breathless as if he, and not the horses, had been drawing the hearse.
A sick knowledge filled Sharlarra. She forced herself to focus on the man's face, and there she read the confirmation of her fears. His teeth were bared in a leer, and in his eyes was a terrible hungry gleam.
The man roughly lifted the elf and tossed her into the coffin. The sudden jolt forced a bit of air into her lungs, and the vise that gripped her chest relaxed just a bit. She could breathe now. She could live—at least for a little while.
Sharlarra did not breathe. Instead, the proud elf closed her eyes and willed herself to die.
Chadrik clambered out of the coffin, still fully clad and as pale as chalk. He tripped over the side in his haste and stumbled to the floor. The notion of taking the elf wench in her own coffin appealed to him. The reality of finding himself sharing a box with a corpse did not.
His companion hooted with raucous mirth and clapped him on the back. Chadrik threw off the man's hand.
"We've still to go to the City," he grumbled. "There's little enough to laugh about behind those walls."
The other man sobered abruptly. The City of the Dead, a large section of Waterdeep surrounded by walls and gates and magic, had been the city's cemetery since time out of mind. Many rich and ancient tombs lay behind those walls, walls that conspired to keep out all those who would despoil these tombs. The walls also served to keep the restless dead contained within.
The hearse slowed to a decent pace, and the creak of iron gates announced their arrival at the City of the Dead. The two men hopped down from the hearse and presented the gatekeeper with forged papers naming the dead elf and her intended tomb.
The official studied the papers, gave the men an odd, almost pitying look, and waved them in.
"Make it fast," he warned. "You've not much time before full dark."
All three men knew what that meant. The iron gates closed with nightfall and would not open again until dawn. The carter lashed his horses into action, and the carriage took off with a lurch.
They rumbled down the narrow, winding path, passing massive monuments and moss-draped trees. They passed the potter's field, where the indigent and the nameless took their final rest, and finally stopped at a stand of bizarrely twisted trees.
The carriage could go no farther, so the two ruffians slid the coffin out and shouldered it, going on afoot. Although twilight had not yet come, the shadows seemed deeper here, the night fright-eningly close at hand.
They stopped before a small grassy mound and tapped out a rhythmic code on the ancient door. It swung open, unaided. A soft, phosphoric glow seemed to beckon them in.
The men exchanged a glance, shrugged, and started down the well-worn stone steps that led to a swiftly descending passage.
At the end of the tunnel was a circular crypt. Glowing lichen grew on the walls, and the soft light revealed a number of shelflike openings carved deep into the stone. They shoved the coffin into the first available place and eyed the several doors leading out of the room.
"Which one?" Chadrik wondered aloud.
The other man shrugged and settled down on a boxy stone tomb. "Don't hardly matter. The Serpent's man said the buyer would come to us. Break the summoning stone and let's get the deal done."
Chadrik removed a small, cloth-wrapped bundle from his bag and took from it an azure stone. It was a costly thing, but never once did he think to keep or sell it. There was money to be made in the Serpent's employ, but any man who thought to cross the moon elf ended up mysteriously and messily dead.
He tossed the stone to the crypt's floor. It shattered into sparkling bits of lights. They rose like a swarm of tiny blue bees and disappeared into a crack in the stone wall.
Chadrik sent a nervous glance toward the stone ceiling and thought of the coming night. "Let's hope they're quick about it."
His partner took out a small knife and began to carve the dirt out from under his nails. "Worse comes to worse, we spend the night here. I wouldn't wander the City, mind you, but what harm could come to us in here?"
"What about Dienter?"
The other thug snorted with laughter. "Think that corpse-hauler would risk his hide on our account? He's likely long gone, and the carriage with him. Might as well settle yourself down."
Not seeing an option, Chadrik took this advice and took a seat on an old marble sarcophagus.
The glowing lichen suddenly ceased to cast light, throwing the room into utter darkness. The two men leaped to their feet and dragged out their weapons.
"Put them away," suggested a sonorous male voice—a voice too deep for a halfling, too fluid for a dwarf, too musical to be human. "Drow can see quite well in the dark, you know, whereas you can see nothing at all. You can't possibly hurt anyone but yourselves."
Drow.
An invisible fist of dread clenched around Chadrik's throat. His companion started to whimper. The moss began to glow again, faintly at first and growing gradually brighter, pushing back the shadows at a tantalizingly slow pace—as if to grant the dark elves time to fully savor the men's misery.
Finally their doom stood revealed. There were four drow, all of them male. Two hung back, taking the unmistakable posture of subordinates standing guard. Of the other two, Chadrik was unsure which led and which followed.
One of them wore a warrior's leather armor and carried more fine weapons than Chadrik had owned in his most extravagant dreams. The drow's white hair was cropped close, probably to deprive his foes of a handhold, and a stylized dragon tattoo was emblazoned on one cheek. The other was clad in fine garments and gems, his long hair carefully woven into a multitude of braids. A large red gem was set in his forehead like a third eye. He regarded the men with a smile, the meaning of which was unclear to the terrific ruffian.
The warrior spoke first. "You sent word that you'd found the ruby."
Chadrik promptly handed over the necklace. "It's yours. No need to settle up; I'll get my pay from the man what hired me." His words tumbled over each other in their haste to be said.
None of the drow spoke. Chadrik dredged his fear-sodden mind for something to say. Remembering stories of drow hatred of surface elves, he manufactured a leer and a lie. "The elf wench was payment enough for me."
This did not seem to endear him to any of the dark elves.
"We have the ruby," the dandy said, gesturing to the gem in his forehead. "I can assure you that one is quite enough. Not a wise thing, to cheat the drow of the Dragon's Hoard."
"We didn't know! I swear," Chadrik babbled. "We took the elf woman just like the man said, got the necklace she was wearing. A mistake's been made, that's plain to see, but we stole the necklace in good faith. We're out the coin we paid the corpse-hauler to bring us in here, and the scribes who forged the burial papers. Not that I'm complaining! Take the gems for your trouble, and we'll be square."
The warrior listened in silence. When at last Chadrik's voice faded into silence, he tossed a glance toward the attentive guards. "Kill them."
"Not yet," said the other softly. "Many of the best tales have a circular form. The heroes or villains end as they begin. Justice is not always undesirable, provided the path it takes is sufficiently twisted."
"Meaning?" the tattooed drow demanded.
"You go along. I'll catch up in a bit."
The well-dressed drow turned to the captives, and the light in his eyes was horribly familiar. The warrior scowled but did not argue. He jerked his head toward one of the doors, indicating that the soldiers should follow. The door slammed shut behind the three drow. Somehow Chadrik knew that there would be no opening that door, or any of the others.
Chadrik had few morals and no illusions. Until this moment, he'd been certain that nothing could appall him.
He thought of the elf woman and envied her the ability to die at will.
Shakti Hunzrin ducked through of the low entrance leading to a small cavern on the outskirts of Menzoberranzan. The forces the archmage had promised her were assembled, and they stood awaiting her inspection in eerie silence.
She eyed her new command with dismay. The soldiers were not mercenaries, as she had expected, but undead drow. All of them were female.
For some reason that struck Shakti as deliberately offensive. Making matters worse was the fact that all of the zombies' heads had been shaved. Their lives gone, their names forgotten, even their luxuriant tresses stolen—reduced to this state, they were no better than males.
At least the fighters looked strong, and they were certainly well equipped. All were clothed in identical rothe-hide armor, sturdy boots, and well-laden weapon belts. Most of the zombies were dark-clad, but a few wore crimson sashes to mark them as squadron leaders. Each of these leaders held a spear, and all the zombies carried swords that were plain but well made. A small crossbow hung on every belt alongside a quiver full of poisoned darts.
Shakti walked slowly down the line, a scented cloth pressed to her nose. One of Gromph's hirelings noted this.
"That isn't necessary," he said briskly. "These zombies are exceptionally well preserved and will keep indefinitely in the tunnels of the Underdark. Take them above ground as little as possible, for the spells will begin to dissipate."
She did not contradict this assertion. Now that she considered the matter, these fighters seemed ideally suited to her purpose. They would march without ceasing or tiring, and she needn't worry about organizing supplies or waste time hunting and foraging. Moreover, she was not unhappy to be spared the company of males.
"Will you be expecting their return?"
The young wizard sneered. "And waste magical resources laying zombie commoners to rest? Use them up, by all means. Here is the command key. They have been well trained—you shouldn't have any problem."
He handed her a small book bound in lizard hide. In it were a number of simple commands, most of them general enough to address a number of situations. Shakti paged through the book and found the needed command. She turned to the nearest crimson-clad zombie and issued the marching order. The zombie thumped the butt of her spear several times against the stone floor. An undead squadron wheeled smartly and headed for the eastbound tunnel. Other leaders took up the rhythm, and the zombie host set off with a seamless efficiency that no group of living drow could manage.
Shakti mounted a large riding lizard. She squared her shoulders and reined the beast toward the eastbound tunnel and the land known as Rashemen.
The spell Sharlarra had cast over herself gave way slowly. The sluggish whisper of her heart quickened and grew stronger, and the unnatural chill began to fade from her blood and flesh. Awareness returned first, and she lay in her coffin for many long moments while mobility returned to her frigid limbs.
There was no sound outside the wooden box. None whatsoever. Never had Sharlarra experienced such utter silence. The complete lack of sight and sound was profoundly unnerving. She actually took solace in the smell: mold, mostly, but also the musty, earthy scent peculiar to catacombs.
As soon as the elf could move, she braced her hands against the wooden lid and pushed, raising her knees at the same time. Fortunately the coffin was cheaply made of thin, light boards, and she was able to raise the lid.
A little.
Panic swept through her. She pushed the lid to one side and soon encountered solid stone. But at least a small opening had been created. She worked one foot out and braced it against the opposite wall, pushing the coffin as far as it would go. The top end was harder to move, but she finally managed to inch the box firmly against one wall. Then she pushed the lid back to the other side, creating the largest possible opening.
Fortunately, it was just enough. Also fortunate was the fact that the coffin had gone in feet first. She flipped over onto her stomach and then wriggled out into a round, faintly glowing room.
Her kidnappers were dead. Sharlarra glanced at the bodies and was just as glad that she'd slept while justice was being meted out.
It was easy enough to figure out what had happened. The thugs had been hired to find the necklace. They obviously didn't know that the tattooed drow had already found the ruby. When the two men tried to collect, they were accused of fraud.
An honest mistake, no doubt, but Sharlarra couldn't bring herself to shed tears over her fellow thieves.
One open door led out of the crypt. The elf ran up the swiftly sloping passage to the heavy wooden door. She threw her weight against it. It swung silently open, and she stepped out into a starlit night.
A copse of weathered trees surrounded the crypt entrance. They were of a type Sharlarra had never seen before. In the moonlight the leaves appeared to be an odd shade of blue, darkening with the coming of autumn to a deep violet. It was said that blue trees were common to Evermeet, but what were they doing here?
She ran her fingers over the faded inscription carved into the door. The curving marks were Elvish, a language she had never learned to read. She could make out only two words: "hero" and "Evermeet." A wry smile lifted one corner of her lips. Offhand, she couldn't think of any two words that were less applicable to her life.
Still, her hand lingered on the engraving that framed these words—a representation of the moon phases with a full moon framed by outward-facing crescents.
A faint whicker sounded behind her. Sharlarra whirled, then staggered back against the wooden door.
Before her stood a tall white horse, a beautiful creature with a luxuriant mane and tail so long they nearly swept the ground, and a face that was both intelligent and strangely expressive. The horse regarded her wistfully with long-lashed, silver-blue eyes that glowed like living moonstone.
These eyes were the horse's most substantial features. The rest of it was cloudy, almost translucent. Sharlarra could make out the shape of trees behind it.
"A ghost horse," she whispered.
Yet there was nothing of menace in the apparition's manner. If anything, it seemed delighted to see her. The ghost pranced a couple of steps closer, tossing its head in what looked suspiciously like a beckoning gesture.
Curiosity began to elbow fear aside. Sharlarra pushed herself away from the door and forced her shock-benumbed legs forward. She gingerly laid one hand on the horse's neck. To her vast relief, her hand did not sink into the insubstantial form. She stroked the ghostly horse. Its coat was silky, and cool to the touch.
The creature let out a soft whicker that sounded for all the world like a contented sigh. It nosed Sharlarra's shoulder and shifted around to present its left side.
"You want me to ride you," the elf woman said in disbelief.
The look the horse gave her left little doubt of its opinion of those who stated the obvious.
Sharlarra held her own hands in front of her face, turning them this way and that. Yes, they were still solid flesh. Her waking death spell had successfully faded. The horse was responding to her, not to a fellow ghost.
She considered the horse for a long moment. Curiosity defeated caution, and she vaulted onto its broad back. Immediately the ghost horse launched into flight.
After the first startled moment, Sharlarra realized that they had not actually left the ground. So swift and silent was the horse's stride that it had the sensation of flight. The elf relaxed one knee slightly, and immediately the ghost horse veered off in that direction.
A wild scheme began to take shape in Sharlarra's mind. "Can you jump?" she asked the horse.
In response, it soared over a mossy statue depicting a trio of long-dead soldiers. Sharlarra grinned and urged her mount toward the eastern wall.
A hollow, echoing battle cry sounded behind her. She shot a look over one shoulder. Her eyes widened in panic as three ghostly soldiers roiled out of the statue. They lofted swords that looked far too sharp and solid for her peace of mind and came after her at a run.
Sharlarra leaned low over the horse's neck, urging it onward. They dodged through tombs and monuments, evading pale grasping hands that thrust up from the ground. Soon the east wall was before them. She urged the horse on, praying that the ghostly horse was equal to the eight-foot stone barrier. It might pass through unscathed, but she'd be left on the wall like a toad squashed by the wheels of a trade caravan.
An open grave yawned before them. Sharlarra screamed, and the horse leaped into flight.
Time stopped, and the moment between one heartbeat and the next seemed to last a Northman's winter. Then the horse's front hooves touched soundlessly down, and they began their eastbound flight across the meadows surrounding Waterdeep.
An inquiring whinny rose from the ghost horse and danced off on the rushing wind.
"I'm Sharlarra," she responded. "I don't suppose you could tell me your name."
The horse's pace slowed just slightly, and its head drooped. A pang of guilt assailed the elf. It was said that many ghosts did not realize they were dead. Some of these displaced spirits remembered pieces of their lives but were otherwise disoriented. A sure way to frustrate these ghosts was to ask them questions about themselves that they could not answer.
"Moonstone," she decided. "Your name is Moonstone."
Her mount bobbed its head in obvious accord, then it neighed again, louder and more insistently.
"Where are we going?" she translated and again received an affirmative response.
Sharlarra hadn't thought this far ahead, but the answer came to her quickly. What better destination than the adventure that had captured her imagination since the day she'd stolen Liriel Baenre's gems?
"You'll like Rashemen," she told the ghost horse. "I've heard they're fond of spirits there."