A vigilant watch-eye floated silently in the soft gloom of the bed-canopy. It saw the shadow. Peering, the eye perceived more clearly in the near-darkness. The intruder was a man in smoky gray leathers, gloved and masked, who carried a long, slim sword naked in his hand. Moonlight gleamed down its steely length as the intruder turned this way and that in a cautious search about the empty bedchamber.
All was still. Whatever he sought was not here. The masked man listened at a door and silently drew it open. Darkness hung beyond, in a room lined with clothing hanging on pegs like bats in a cave. Not what he had come for.
The intruder closed the door with slow care and crossed the room to a larger, grander one. There was a tingling about this portal, a tension that grew as he laid a gloved fingertip on its dark surface and eased it ajar.
From where he stood, a broad stair descended into a high-domed, cavernous hall. Darkness reigned save for die faintest of steel-blue glows. It came from a full-armored guard who stood in front of the door. He faced away from the masked intruder and grasped a great blade.
Stood? Nay, floated. No feet joined the dark greaves of that armor to the stone step below. No flesh joined its gauntlet to its fluted elbow and shoulder guards. Moonlight shone faintly between the helm and the high collar of the back plates beneath it.
Behind the intruder, moonlight grew. The guard's floating helm turned slightly, the blade rising.
With a small, silent shiver, the masked intruder drew his fingertips slowly back, letting the door close. His own blade rose, ready, as he backed two cautious paces, and waited.
Silence. Moonlight grew slowly brighter in the bedchamber. The intruder cast a last look around the room, stooping to peer beneath the canopied bed from afar. No one hid there, and nothing moved. His straining ears heard no sound but faint music from-the night outside.
Away, then. In three swift strides, the masked man regained the balcony, to rejoin the night shadows outside. There would be blood enough to spill elsewhere.
[silence]
[images, whirling in profusion]
Laughter floated softly up to her from below. Distinct words, and the magic that some words release, could not penetrate her spell wards, but Tamaeril could hear the murmur of speech. The servants seemed happy tonight.
Tamaeril half-rose to open the door and listen-then sat back in her high-backed chair and smiled wearily. Hadn't she heard enough talk in her years? Whispers in alleyways, clack and clamor in the bazaars, and cold debate in the mercantile offices of the noble house of her birth. She'd heard more high words these past nine winters through the masked helm of a lord of Waterdeep as she sat in judgment, her name and face secret.
Perhaps some of the younger sons of the Bladesemmer blood had returned early from the pleasure barges and the lantern-lit dancing parties in the streets of North Ward.
If they had come back to Bladesemmer House this early, little doubt they'd be chasing the maidservants. Later returnees often entered the forecourt hall on litters carried by menservants of the house. Snoring or moaning out the sickness in their stomachs, such sons had had too much fiery wine and too little sense.
In earlier days, when sterner Bladesemmer men had ailed the House, no such unruly merriment would have been permitted. Time changes all things, and its unending march had carried away those stern brothers, uncles, and cousins, Tamaeril's husband among them. The younger folk laughed more and grudged less. They cared less about piling up gold coins and grimly holding to old traditions and old feuds. So the world turned again, and who was Tamaeril to stop it?
A lady of a noble line, yes, and a lord of great Water-deep to boot, though her lordship was a secret to all but a few. Still, age had relegated her to these spell-guarded chambers and a role of dispensing advice, approval, and disapproval that went gently unheeded alike.
Tamaeril sat back in her chair and remembered parties and suitors long ago. She reached for the tall, slender drinking jack on the table beside her. Its sinuous silver-shea died length caught trie candlelight. She raised it in age-dappled hands and looked thoughtfully at her gray-haired reflection.
Not four nights ago, Mirt had spoken to her of mounting one last adventure. 'One last toss of us old dice.' He'd been restless in his lord's chair a long time and had said such things before, but never had she felt such quickening, eager excitement at Mirt's talk. Perhaps…
There was a sudden flickering of cold, white light beyond the drinking jack-light where there should be none. Tamaeril lowered her wine to look.
An expanding oval of white, shifting light stood in midair, flickering as if it were a ring of flames that gave off no heat. A gate! A portal to span distance, perhaps even to link this plane with another, stranger one. Danger enough, and an effect that should not be able to form here, within her wards!
Tamaeril set down her jack and shifted to rise. Her hand went to the ornamented knife at her belt-but she v, as old and slow.
Too slow for the slim, gleaming blade that leaped at her out of the flowing flames of the gate, driven by an eager gloved hand. It slid into her soundlessly, with shocking ease. Its kiss was so cold that all the breath went out of Tamaeril's old lungs. Half-disbelieving, she felt the shock of the blade's tip biting into the chair behind her.
She stared at the masked face of her slayer-a young one, a man by his scent and build, gloved and clad in gray shadow-leathers. He smiled down at her fiercely, a smile cold with hatred.
Letting go of the sword that pinned her to the chair, the man reached with his sword hand to the cuff of his other glove, where several small pieces of silver gleamed.
'Don't you know me, Lady Tamaeril?' he asked in a soft, almost purring voice. Tamaeril knew she'd never heard it before. Tin surprised. Ladies, by and large, seem to know nothing-but you are both lady and lord. And lords of Waterdeep-or so I'm told,' he added mockingly, 'know
The gloved hand was approaching her breast now, reaching over the blade that transfixed her even as the numbness of death crept swiftly outward from it. Helplessly Tamaeril watched it bring a small silver pin toward her, a pin in the shape of a harp.
A harp? He was pinning it to her gown now, gently and delicately, taking care not to prick her with the pin. Tamaeril smiled at the irony of that, even as she felt strength ebbing away. Blood slid into her lap and down her thighs, ruining her favorite gown….
'Why are you smiling, Lady Tamaeril?' came that soft voice again, this time with an edge of rising anger in it. 'Do you find me
There was a brief silence as Tamaeril swallowed and found she could not speak.
The masked man seemed to master himself. When he spoke again, his voice was once more soft and controlled. He stepped back a long pace to study her, wearing the pin, and seemed satisfied with what he saw.
'Know, Lady, that you must die to atone for the shame done to my family. You had no hand in it, true, but you are a lord, and you could have undone it. You did not, and so you die. More sudden than I would have preferred, perhaps, but I'm still learning this 'revenge.' As the bards say, it's rather sweet.'
The gloved hand went out again as he approached. 'They tell me that you were once beautiful,' he said almost approvingly, as he picked up her drinking jack and swirled the wine left in it. He stepped back again, toward the cold fire of the portal, and added, 'You look pretty now, with your color back. My apologies for the gown… but you wouldn't want anyone else wearing it after you're gone, would you? No common born or outlaw'-his voice went momentarily steel-hard- 'should be seen in die streets in Lady Tamaeril's fine gown!'
Tamaeril's murderer sipped her wine thoughtfully. 'I'll stay until you're quite dead, of course. Is there anything you'd like to talk about?'
Tamaeril sat helpless in her high-backed chair, strength failing. A venturesome ribbon of blood was sliding
