her brow with one leather-clad forearm as she stepped into her boots. 'I must go, I am needed.'
'Is it something we should know about?' the guard-captain asked, frowning.
Asper shook her head. 'Lords' business,' she said, and ran lightly out of the room, leaving all the arms-men staring after her.
'How can one woman's blade-even that woman's- matter to the Lords of Waterdeep?' one guard asked in tones of wonder. 'What is she, that they need her to aid them so often?'
'Friend,' Herle replied, 'you try to best her at blade-work next time, and then come and ask me that again.' He casually cast the blade in his hand end over end down the length of that vast chamber, into the glory-hole in the far corner-an opening no larger than his fist. The blade settled home to its hilt with a rattling clang, and all his fellows of the guard turned to look at him with whistles of awe. Herle spread his hands, without a trace of pride on his face, and added, 'You all saw what she did to me. However good one is, there's always someone better.'
Another guard shivered. 'I'd not like to meet whoever is better than she.'
'And now for the other working,' the eye tyrant breathed, turning an eyestalk toward a certain shadowed cavity high in the cavern wall. Obediently, something small and glossy rose into view and drifted smoothly out into the greater emptiness of the main cavern: a shining sphere of polished crystal, the size of a large human head. It winked and sparkled as it glided toward the beholder, and then suddenly grew brighter, a pale greenish glowing awakening within it.
'Yessss,' Xuzoun gloated as an image became apparent in the depths of the globe. A scene of woodlands, wrapped about a young, slim human female who was turning smoothly in her saddle to laugh, unbound blonde hair swirling about her shoulders. Her mirth and unheard words were directed to a young man riding into the scene, humor dancing in his own eyes. The watching beholder's mouth twisted in what might just have been a sneer.
'Shandril Shessair within my power, and knowing it not,' the eye tyrant purred. 'Only a few enchantments more, and then… ah, yes, then spellfire will be drawn forth from her at my desire, to be hurled at any who defy me! Many shall pay the debts they owe me, very shortly thereafter.'
A stalactite elsewhere in the cavern yawned, and then muttered, ' 'Only a few enchantments more' before I rule the world? How many times have I heard that before, I wonder?'
A black bat, hanging upside down from a nearby stalactite, turned its head and blinked. 'Elminster?' it asked. 'It is you… is it not? You felt the weaving too?' 'Of course, and of course,' the rocky fang replied. 'I can feel all bindings laid on the lass. If Halaster did more in his domain than just watch the free entertainment, I'd not be here, but…'
'Watching is almost always best,' the stalactite beneath the clinging bat's claws said coldly, and quivered slightly. 'You always did act too swiftly, and change Faerun too much, Elminster.'
The bat took startled wing, beating a hasty flight across to the rock that was the Old Mage. 'Halaster?' it asked cautiously as it alighted and turned to look back. 'The same, Laeral,' replied the dagger of rock where it had first clung. 'Are we agreed that this Xuzoun should never wield spellfire?' The other two murmured, 'Aye,' together. 'Then trust me to foil this magic, in a way that will leave Shandril and the beholder both unknowing,' Halaster replied. 'I keep my house ordered as I see fit… though you, Lady Mage of Waterdeep, are welcome to dabble, your touch is more deft than most.'
The bat looked from one stalactite to the other, aware of a certain tension in the air that felt like the two ancient archwizards had locked gazes and were staring steadfastly into the depths of each other's souls. Silence stretched and sang between them. And then, because of who she was, Laeral dared to ask, 'And what of Elminster? Is he also welcome in Undermountain?'
'What little sanity I have I owe to him,' Halaster replied, 'and I respect him for his mastery of magic- and his compassion-more than any other living mage. Yet, for what he did to me… what he had to do to me… I bear him no great love.'
Two dark, hawklike eyes were fading into view in the rock, and they flickered as the Master of Undermountain added quietly, 'This is my home, and a man may shut the gates of his home to anyone he desires to be free of.'
The stalactite that was Elminster said as gently, 'I have no quarrel with that. Know that my gate is always open to you.'
'I appreciate that,' the dark-eyed stalactite told him grudgingly before it faded silently away.
He hadn't used this passage for years, and had almost forgotten the trip step and the ankle-break holes beyond. The battered old coffer was still on the high ledge where it should have been, though. Durnan lifted out the string of potions and gratefully slid them onto his belt, tapping the metal vials to be sure they were still full. Then he took out the wisp of gauzy black cloth that had lain beneath them, and bound it over his eyes.
All at once, the clinging darkness receded, and he could see as clearly in the gloom as any creature that dwelt in the World Below. After a moment of thought, he took the gorget out of its clip on the inside coffer lid and slid the second night mask into its sleeve before he buckled it around his throat. After all, it just might be needed.
The tavernmaster caught himself wondering what else he should bring along, and sighed, banishing an image of himself staggering along under the weight of a generously pot-and-flask-girdled pack larger than he was. It had been a long time since he'd leapt into battle with only a sword in his hand and fire in his eyes. It had been even longer since he'd felt that invulnerable.
Durnan drew a deep breath, shrugged his shoulders once or twice to break the tension that had been building there, clapped a hand to the hilt of his sword to be sure it rode loosely in its scabbard, and set off down the narrow passage. Two secret doors ground open under his hand to let him pass, and he closed them carefully behind him. Beyond the second was a room in Undermountain that he knew well.
Standing just inside it, Durnan peered around to make sure nothing had changed since he'd last seen it, then stepped carefully around the falling-block trap and across the chamber. It was thick with dust, cobwebs, and the crumbling skeletons of several unfortunate adventurers, still stuck to the tattered webs of a long-slain spider. Shoving these husks aside with his blade, Durnan strode softly out into the vast dungeon where so many creatures had died.
Undermountain was the abode of the mad wizard Halaster, and the graveyard of thousands of fearsome monsters and foolhardy men alike. Once it had been Durnan's playground, a place to stay limber after a long day standing behind the bar listening to young nobles and would-be adventurers from afar boast of what they'd do and win, down in the lightless depths. All too often, he'd come across their bodies too late to save them from traps they should have been anticipating, and predators they should have been ready for.
Thinking of which… He drew his blade and stabbed upward as he leaned through an open doorway. The sword slid into something solid and yet yielding, and Durnan drew back to avoid the falling body. The thing that had awaited him above the door crashed heavily to the flagstones. It was a kobold, with a strangle wire still clutched in its convulsing hands.
Durnan put his sword tip through its throat, just to be sure, as he kicked the heavy stone door hard, sending it smashing back against the wall of the chamber. There were some wet cracking sounds and a bubbling gasp from behind it, and something fell to the floor. Something koboldish.
A third of the sly, yammering little beasts moved into view at the far end of the room, and Durnan brought his sword up to strike aside the javelin it hurled. The bracers he wore protected him against missiles that bore no enchantments, but 'twould be a little late, for instance, to discover that this particular javelin was magical, once it was in his throat.
The throw was wide, and a smooth sidestep took him completely out of the whirling weapon's path. Even before the javelin crashed off stone somewhere behind him, the old warrior was moving.
Durnan caught hold of the door frame as he charged through, and swung himself around hard to the right. As he'd expected, a line of three kobolds was waiting along the wall there, their spiked clubs and wicked blades raised. The tavernmaster had a glimpse of their startled faces before his blade found the face of the foremost. He kept rushing, driving the dying creature back into its fellows, tumbling them all to the floor. He kicked, stomped, and thrust ruthlessly with his blade, knowing how vicious kobolds could be, and spun from the last fallen victim to face the one who'd hurled the javelin.
It was snarling at him and backing away, fear in its eyes as it saw all of its fellows dead or dying. Durnan advanced a step. It spat in his direction and suddenly turned and fled through the archway at the far end of the room. Durnan knelt, plucked up a kobold blade, and flung it as hard as he could.
