Realms of War

'Nothing,' Hargra said wearily, caressing the hilt of her wicked-looking cleaver. 'Yet I've got that bad feeling I get-got it strong. I'll wager none of us'll score much sleep this night.'

'Then get started,' Mirt said fondly, patting her shoulder. He was one of very few males-and the only human one-who could do that without the half-orc whirling to sever their offending hands. Scarred and toad faced, Hargra was both surly and very swift with her weapons.

Tonight, she merely grunted and ducked away, her large lower tusks gleaming as much as brown and broken fangs can. Her slap startled Tauniira almost as much as the growled words that followed it.

'He's as much on edge as I am,' the half-orc told her, jerking a thumb in Mirt's direction before striding on. 'Service him.'

Larl Ambror's shout of horror plunged the table into startled silence. The wine merchant reeled back out of the archway that led to the garderobes, his face white-and spewed his meal violently all over the floor before fainting.

Imril Morund sprang to his feet, dagger drawn, but Ralaerond Galespear was faster, darting through the archway and reappearing again just as Morund and-surprisingly-the Lady Roselarr reached it.

'Narbridle is dead,' the horse breeder told them. 'Magic.'

The vizier lifted a disbelieving eyebrow. 'Magic? Are you an expert in the Art, Saer Galespear?'

The handsome young heir gave him a stony stare. 'I don't have to be. How else but with a spell can you blast a man's head to bloody pulp, in utter silence?'

The utter silence that descended on the feast hall then was chill with foreboding.

Mirt lifted his gaze from what was left of Gorus Narbridle, his face carefully expressionless. 'This would seem to be a matter best investigated by a wizard.'

There was glee in the vizier's smile.

Mirt looked past Ongalor's shoulder at the three Amnians behind him. They would be the wizards, ready to blast him as they'd served Narbridle.

'I have every confidence in your abilities, Mirt of Waterdeep,' the vizier said smoothly, his crooked smile broadening and making it as clear as if he'd shouted it that he knew very well the why of the murder, as well as the who and the how-and wasn't going to say.

The wave of magic was like a creeping in the air, an invisible tingling tension that rolled silently up to Mirt, washed over him in a moment of utter chill. . and rolled on down the passage, as swiftly as it had come.

Mirt stood still for a long breath or two, listening hard for crashes, screams, or… anything.

When he heard nothing, moment after long moment, he relaxed, shrugged, and stalked on.

Seven strides later he heard an abrupt, angry whisper out of the empty air, and froze again, listening intently.

Nothing.

Slowly and warily he started walking again, frowning at what he'd heard. A woman's voice, out of the empty air, distant and yet near at hand, calm yet furious, asking: 'Who dares to kill the Weave here?'

Mirt looked sourly around the room. 'So the vizier is readying my neck for the noose now. I am charged to uncover Narbridle's murderer-and he and I both know he ordered the killing.'

'So it's starting,' Hargra growled.

At about the same time Elgan snarled, 'What by the Nine Hells are we going to do?'

'Aye,' Brindar spoke up. 'Why don't we just sword the vizier and get out?'

Tauniira sighed. 'At least three-likely more-of the Amnian family 'captives' are really Ongalor's wizard friends, in magical disguise. Swording the vizier, or just trying to flee, would be hurling ourselves straight into our graves.'

Elgan exploded. 'Then what, by the untasted charms of-'

The door boomed, driving Targrath into a sword-ready crouch beside it, as he glared at the door bar as if expecting it to spring treacherously up out of its cradle and yield passage to whoever beat his fists on the door.

'Mirt!' a young voice called, high with fear and excitement. 'Mirt, open up! You're summoned! Another killing!'

Mirt sighed. 'Unbar the door,' he ordered Targrath with disgust. 'Can't we even plot our own dooms in peace?' Striding forward, he asked calmly, 'Who's dead now, Torandral?'

'Another heir! The vizier would not let me see but said the man was lying in his bed, called by the gods but without a mark on him.'

'Everyone stay here,' Mirt ordered. 'Awake, boots back on, armed and ready. No need to go creeping anywhere. Any violence will probably soon come calling at this door.'

Sword drawn, he flung the door wide. Torandral stood alone in the passage, fairly hopping in excitement.

'Just along here! In the-'

'Bedchambers, yes,' Mirt said. 'Get back to your post. Strangely enough, I can find my way along this passage without a guide.' Then he added gruffly, 'My thanks, Torandral. Diligently done.'

The crestfallen young armsman smiled uncertainly, then rushed back down the passage to his post.

Watching him stumbling along, Mirt shook his head and wondered how few breaths Torandral had left in life.

Or would the jesting gods leave the young fool alive, in a day or two, when all the rest of them were dead?

Imril Morund was lying on his back, sprawled naked across the grand bed. The vizier had cast the dead man's tunic across his face, but the rest of him did indeed lack signs of violent struggle. There was a faint, sharp tang in the air, like the aftermath of a lightning storm.

Harlo Ongalor stood beside the bed, looking agitated. 'Another slaying! Mirt, you must find this murderer quickly, before…' He waved both hands expressively.

Mirt frowned. The vizier wasn't feigning; the man was truly upset. He plucked away the tunic to lay bare the man's face.

As he'd expected, it wasn't Morund.

Mirt looked at the vizier. 'A clue you wanted me to discover for myself?'' he asked calmly.

Ongalor glared at him murderously for a moment, then recovered his usual smooth near smile. 'But of course. This must be Morund-or at least the man we thought was Morund-but I don't recognize the face. Do you?'

'Yes,' Mirt said, watching the vizier closely.' 'Tis the mage Klellyn. One of your longtime trading partners, I believe.'

The vizier blinked, then stared at Mirt just an instant too long. Accustomed to lording it over everyone within reach, Ongalor wasn't quite the smooth actor he believed himself to be. Looking down again at the dead face, he frowned. 'Is it? No, surely… but yes… yes, it is!'

He looked up again at Mirt as sharply as any snake. 'So how do you know of Klellyn and my dealings with him?'

Mirt shrugged. 'I was one of Klellyn's longtime trading partners, too.'

The vizier's look of astonishment required no acting. 'But-but he never discussed one of his, ah, associates with another.'

'Didn't he?' Mirt kept his face as expressionless as the dead man's. 'Well, I suppose there were those he trusted enough to talk freely with, and… others.'

The vizier went red, then white. 'You will uncover the killer of Klellyn, sellsword,' he snapped, 'if you want to remain ali-in my employ!'

Mirt turned away, heading for the door. 'But of course,' he said over his shoulder, in perfect mimicry of the