rather a page that had been extracted from some arcane volume. The paper was old and brittle, and featured text in several different languages or codes. My eyes were immediately drawn to an illustration that showed a circle of cowled figures around a prisoner in a set of stocks. The caption below it read:
In rare instances of mercy, the Lords ofWaterdeep would accept indenturement in exchange for clemency for someone accused of crimes against the lords or the City of Splendors. The accused would have his identity wiped clean, returning him to a state of innocence prior to his commission of said crimes. In exchange for various services provided to the lords, the accused would be granted clues to his past. These services always were of a sensitive nature, for which the lords desired plausible denia-bility, and often resulted in the death of the accused, upon which time the accused would be pardoned of all crimes and receive a proper burial. Such men are known as Lord's Men.
A different ink bore the message First Payment.
As I finished reading the page, it and the envelope burst into flames, leaving nary a whiff of smoke.
Strangely enough, I was not troubled by this recent revelation, as if I had already accepted this fate at some earlier time.
The mysterious Kitten, my protector, and nurse Lothar, and the silly business of retrieving a manuscript by some hack writer didn't seem as important as living from day to day, and paying off the terms of my inden- turement.
I was eager to accept my next assignment-to earn another clue to my identity.
Tertius And The Artifact
As I sat on the balcony of the Nauseous Otyugh in Scornubel, suspended between the hangover of the previous evening and the one that was yet to come, I meditated on the phrase 'should have stayed in bed.' Sound advice, probably postulated first by some spell-flinger after a particularly bad morning of fireballing and lightning bolting and whatnot.
Of course, it did me little good since I was in bed the night before when everything went south. Except me, of course.
Let me explain. It was a little before three bells, and Tertius Wands, yours truly, was blissfully asleep in my quarters at the Otyugh, third floor stateroom with an odorous view of the stables. The Otyugh is one of the new establishments that have popped up after the last Volo's Guide. As a result of Volo's work in popularizing certain locations to travelers, those locations have ceased to be popular to natives, necessitating new inns, dives, and hangouts for adventurers to hang out in. Ampi had at one time suggested that it would be advantageous to follow Volo around, opening new inns in his wake, as the ones he talks about are soon filled to the bursting with warriors and wizards carrying his dratted little tomes.
But I digress. I was setting the scene, dressing the stage, laying the groundwork. Three bells. Bedroom. Otyugh. Then the ceiling exploded.
Well, it did not exactly explode, but the thunderous boom from above was akin to a roof collapsing. I sat bolt upright, and noticed that the bed itself, a stout four-poster of ironwood, was shimmying and jumping like a nervous carrion crawler. Every loose article in the room, from the chamber pot to the steel mirror, joined in this vibrating dance of doom.
I did what any rational man would do-I hid beneath the covers and promised whatever gods would listen that I would never touch Dragon's Breath Beer and death cheese again.
'Tertius Wands!' thundered a frighteningly familiar voice from the direction of the ceiling.
I popped an eye over the edge of the blanket and saw Granduncle Maskar's fiery head. I did not doubt that his head was still attached to his body back in Water-deep, and he was sending an astral whatsit or a phantasmal thingamabob to address me. At the moment, I was too frightened to care.
Bravely, I faced the mightiest mage of Waterdeep. 'It wasn't my fault!' I shouted, pulling the bed sheets back over my head and hoping I could be heard clearly. 'I didn't know she was a priestess of Sune! No one told me about that festhall! I'm innocent!'
'Never mind that!' boomed my granduncle. 'I have something important for you to do!'
I peeked over the edge of my covers and managed a kitten-weak, 'Me?'
'You,' snarled my uncle, his displeasure registering fully on his face. 'I had a magical artifact, a remnant of powerful Netheril, which has been stolen from me.'
'I didn't do it!' I quickly put in. 'Have you checked with Cousin Marcus? He's always picking up things that don't belong to…'
'Silencer bellowed the fiery, god-sized head floating over my bedpost. 'I know who took it-a thief named the Raven, who is heading your way. I want you to get it back. The device looks like three glass spheres, one set floating within the next. Bring it back to me, and you can return to the City of Splendors!'
'Well, thaf s just it, then,' I ventured. 'I was thinking about taking up a life on the open road, and…'
'Find the Tripartite Orb of Hangrist!' said the phantasmal granduncle. 'And find it now.1'
And with that, Maskar's head exploded in a cascade of fireworks, which succeeded in leaving scorch marks along the wall and shattering the water pitcher. Grand-uncle Maskar was never one for quiet exits. In fact, in all the years I've known and avoided him, he's never used the door once.
In my nightshirt, I rose unsteadily from my bed and picked up the shattered pitcher. Any thought that I could write this off to some cheese-induced delirium or nightmare was in as many shards as the pottery. Granduncle Maskar wanted something, and wanted me to get it.
And one does not disappoint one's granduncle, particularly when that granduncle could turn one into a toad.
So I whistled up my genie, Ampratines. Well, whistled is a bad word. I more rubbed him up, running my finger over the ring and calling him into being.
Let me make this quite clear: I lack the least bit of magical ability, which makes me an exception in the Wands family, overladened by all manner of conjurers, sorcerers, prestidigitators, and other assorted spell-casters. However, I get by with a genie, attached to a ring I found years ago in a Waterdhavian sewer. But that's a tale for another time.
Ampratines wafted into view like a phantasmal castle suddenly appearing in the desert. The djinn by their nature are a clever race, and Ampi is the cleverest of the lot, with more brain cells per cubic inch than any other creature on Faerun.
Ampi was dressed as normal, in long blue robes that set off his crimson skin. His black topknot of hair was immaculately greased and mannered, protruding through an azure skullcap like the tail of a championship horse. His solemn mouth was framed by an equally well-mannered beard and mustache.
'What ho, Ampi?' said I. 'You heard?'
'Druids in the High Forest heard, I have no doubt,' said Ampi calmly, his voice as deep as the crypts of Undermountain and as smooth as a halfling's promise. 'It seems your granduncle has need of you.'
'Need for a pawn,' I muttered, looking around for my pants. Ampi waved a hand, and the missing trousers manifested at the end of his large, well-manicured hand. Genies are wonderful that way, and I think everyone should have at least one. Regardless, I was in no mood to list my djinni's good points after being terrorized by my own flesh and blood. 'Why does he need me?'
'I can endeavor to find out,' said Ampi smoothly. 'It may take me a brief while.' With this he wafted out of view. Butlers, menservants, and members of the guard would pay good money to learn how to waft as effortlessly as this genie could.
I tried to get back to sleep, but once you've been threatened in bed by a magical projection of the family patriarch, the bliss of slumber is denied. Instead, I paced, worried, and sat up by the windowsill, watching the horses in their paddock and marveling at the simplicity of their lives.
And with the arrival of morning, and the failure of Ampi to return, I chowed down a modest breakfast of snakes in gravy (at least that's what I assumed it was). Then I retired to the portico of the Nauseous Otyugh with
