Blackstaff (8 page)

“It is regrettable,” Khelben said, licking one last shred of venison off his fingers as they walked, “that you and your charges are finishing your kitchen duties. Aeraralee’s class hardly shows any magic … of the culinary type, at least. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed Tethyrian-spiced venison. Spices are nothing without cooks who know how best to use them.”

Tsarra said, “I’ll be sure to tell Ginara and the twins their contributions were appreciated.”

She had barely had time to grab her scimitar, quiver, and bow as requested before Khelben hustled them downstairs again after dinner. Tsarra rarely saw Khelben when he was actually content, wholly enjoying a satisfying meal.

Khelben said, “I shall have to thank Gamalon for dropping those spices off here with our new apprentices before he headed north to Longsaddle. I expect him and his retinue back just before the Feast of the Moon. Gamalon plans to challenge the ‘Tethyr Curse’ by wintering here in Waterdeep … and surviving.”

“So will we be receiving guest lectures during the winter months from Tethyr’s court sage?” Tsarra asked, fully knowing the answer already, “or at least history lessons on the evils that befall Tethyr’s nobles within the City of Splendors?”

“Indeed.” Khelben said as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

Khelben crossed the entry chamber of the tower to stand before a looming wardrobe. He reached up with his staff to tap a rune on the left-hand door thrice. Tsarra noticed the staff was a different one than he bore earlier—still as night-dark as any carried by the Archmage of Waterdeep, but it was shod on both ends with brass and had very tiny and subtle carvings on the staff she could barely see.

Khelben opened the wardrobe door and said in a low voice, “I can access most every closet in my tower, depending on how I open this wardrobe, and we’ll need a few things for our night’s travels.” He pulled out two cloaks, one of which he handed back to her, and she felt the telltale shiver of magic in its weave. “Illusion cloaks of a very old design, very handy for not being followed. A different illusion envelops you for each viewer or even when someone loses track of you. Easiest way across the city that doesn’t involve teleporting.”

He rummaged through a small chest, pulled out another drawer, and slammed it in frustration. He whispered something, as if having a brief conversation, then slammed the wardrobe shut. He turned and motioned for her to don the cloak as he did his.

Laeral came into view moments later, magically descending the stairs of the tower from somewhere else. “Honestly, my love. Betimes you’ve the patience of a quickling. Here are your things, and let it be known that
someone
left them in his workshop rather than their intended locations, which is why
someone
can hardly snipe at his lady wife over the matter.” She handed one ring to Tsarra and placed two others in Khelben’s hand. She also looped a small necklace over his head, holding it a moment and looking in his eyes. Tsarra thought she looked worried as she whispered something to Khelben, and she pressed close and embraced him.

Khelben stiffened, and Tsarra knew he disliked such displays in front of students.

“Tsarra, put the ring on and do what you can to keep him from trouble, dear.” Laeral smiled then gave Khelben one last kiss. “Be sure not to keep your aide here in the dark, as she’s as much invested in this adventure as you are, my love.”

Tsarra did as she was bade, placing the silver ring on her left index finger. It had three bands intertwined around a dull green stone. She noticed that the two rings Khelben donned were entirely different. “In that light, will either of you tell me what this ring does?” Tsarra asked.

The sigh from within Khelben’s hood spoke volumes.

“Why can’t you discern such just from the item’s construction, apprentice? It’s to protect you from any more errant lightning bolts. Now, we must be off. Do like this, and the cloak’s magic does the rest.”

He snapped the cloak around his shoulders and suddenly looked like an average Waterdhavian merchant in a dull wool cape rather than the city’s preeminent archwizard.

Tsarra pulled the cloak around her and while she couldn’t see what her overall appearance was, her leather armor and the bulge of her back-slung quiver were gone and replaced with elaborate mage’s robes.

“How will we recognize each other?” she asked.

When Khelben grunted, Laeral rested one hand on his shoulder. “Peace, dearest. An honest question deserves more than impatience. Look at Khelben’s cloak clasp, Tsarra—that will remain in some way, no matter what guise the cloak throws on him.” The Lady of Blackstaff Tower stepped toward the door and opened it, allowing in a moist draft of chilled autumn air. “Safe journey, you two, and call if you need us.”

T
he pair stepped out into the night, and Tsarra noticed the courtyard looked normal despite the damage from earlier.

The tower repairs itself, as does the wall and gate, and Laeral helped it along
.

Tsarra shook her head and whispered at Khelben, “Why didn’t you just say that? That makes my head ache.”

“Because I didn’t wish to be overheard by anyone,” he whispered in reply. “The Tower exposed too many secrets today, even if no one managed to profit from that breach. I’ll not suffer another such exposure for the next century.”

Tsarra nodded but replied, “Do you realize you speak differently when you’re outside the tower? It took me two years to realize that you put on a far more formal and forbidding face when you’re out
in public than the one you show your students.”

“Indeed?”

Khelben didn’t say anything more as they exited the courtyard. The repaired gates glistened with night mist and opened as they approached, closing behind them with no gestures or castings at all. Khelben turned and headed north on Swords Street at a fast clip. Tsarra followed quickly, walking at his side within a pace or two.

She preferred the woods to the City of Splendors, but she did enjoy the city at night. It was slightly quieter, at least away from the inns and taprooms, and she could hear herself breathe—a task impossible in the daytime hustle and bustle. She drank in the darkness and the cool mists cloaking the rooftops and alleyways. Here and there, she spotted lantern-bearers guiding noble parties to and from their destinations. On the winds she heard far-away criers hawking tidbits of news into the night. “Last inbound caravans due at highsun! Four die in harbor accident! Lady Tian Simgulphin to marry, come spring!” Tsarra took a mental note to ask one of Maresta’s apprentices about the news, as they were on rumor details that ride.

For the next two bells, Khelben led Tsarra on a maddening chase, crisscrossing the city in a seemingly pointless and meandering path. He stopped a number of times, casting minor spells or dropping small parcels into odd places, such as a drainpipe in Tarlaek’s Court and the mouth of a lion statue on the walls of the Maernos estate. They didn’t take a direct path until they had skirted the City of the Dead and turned up the Coffinmarch to follow it across the High Road into Buckle Alley.

Khelben ducked into a modest establishment, its sign proclaiming it to be the Griffon’s Grog tavern. The wizard’s hand signal suggested Tsarra wait a moment before following him into the building, so she stared at the sign a moment. The sign, covered partially in mold and in need of fresh paint, showed a carved griffon volant, its upper claws gripping a foaming mug.

After a short interval, Tsarra entered the smoky taproom,
the inhabitants of which paid her less heed than the mugs in front of them. A reedy-voiced bard—Tsarra recognized him as one of many students who passed near Blackstaff Tower from the New Olamn bards’ college—sang acapella while quickly fixing his broken lute string. No other noise rose above the murmur of conspiracies.

Tsarra found Khelben talking at the far end of the bar with the owner, a fat, peg-legged man with only a thumb and forefinger on the right hand scratching his face. The two men nodded, concluding their business. When Khelben turned to motion to Tsarra, his cloak rendered him as an older Calishite gentleman, rings aplenty on the hand with which he waved her on. The pair ducked behind a hanging tapestry, and Tsarra’s nose wrinkled at the acrid smell of a badly tended privy. Khelben tapped on the wall twice in two spots, and the wall pivoted, allowing them access to the back alley.

Without any further explanation, Khelben continued southward on a twisting path among middens and old courts. Tsarra knew the city well, but even she found some alleys into which she’d never looked, let alone stepped.

Stop worrying so, Tsarra. We’re only taking Traslim’s Cut to avoid notice of our entering the Elfstone
. Khelben’s communication to her was the first beyond hand signals in the past hour.

Within moments, they found themselves at a back entrance to a well-kept building. Tsarra sensed his arrival before she heard his wings, and put her elbow out at an angle to allow Nameless a place to land other than her shoulders.

Tsarra had never set foot inside the Elfstone Tavern, since her mother insisted she avoid it. She always told Tsarra she would not be welcomed, not only for being a half-elf but for being her daughter. Tsarra guessed her mother held an old grudge against its proprietress or vice versa. Since Khelben brooked no argument on the matter, she crossed the threshold and found herself, despite all warnings, feeling strangely at home. They doffed their
hoods as they entered, revealing their identities to those inside the tavern.

The back entrance they used off Traslim’s Cut led directly into the central taproom. The only thing between floor and the roof thirty feet overhead were living branches and a few floating tables with elves among them. To Tsarra’s amazement, the nondescript but well-kept building allowed living trees to thrive inside, a few dotting the floor in various places. Four large oak trees dominated the great room at its corners, growing up from beneath the floor, their canopies spreading across the space. On either side of the greatroom, ceilings lowered and boxed in both ends of the building to provide upper-story rooms for either privacy or a night’s lodgings. Despite the usual smells of tavern cooking and many people in close quarters, the tavern reminded Tsarra of the light woods northeast of the city. Torches on the walls and among the chandeliers glowed with silver-white flames to complement the moonlight streaming through the skylights in the roof.

A small bar directly across from their entrance served many of the guests in the greatroom, but Khelben’s grip on her elbow moved her to the right side of the room with its main taps. Khelben seemed not to notice or care that all conversation stopped when he entered. Tsarra still found it unnerving—the only people not stymied by his entrance were the elf harpist in the room’s center and the staff. The Blackstaff moved them to the far side of that bar, away from the main entrance to the tavern, and he stood without explanation or apology. Scanning the crowd, he either nodded silently to various elves who met his gaze or dipped the top of his staff to them in salute. After a moment, they were joined by an elf woman with a blue-green faerie dragon as comfortable on her shoulders as Nameless was on Tsarra’s. Her skin shone pale copper, as did her hair that reached nearly to the floor, and her color was offset by a simple dress dyed red. Her eyes widened when they fell on Tsarra, but she offered no explanation as she turned to Khelben.

“You have a great deal of nerve, Khelben Arunsun, arriving here unheralded.” The woman’s address was no less sharp than her stare.

“T
he time between your visits is long, even as we measure it, Lord Blackstaff,”
she said in Elvish.
“Seeking a return to a measure of your youth, perhaps? Or are you showing this young one what facets of her heritage she neglects? I could show her how to wear her hair in elven style to accentuate her features.”
She smiled warmly at Tsarra, who remained unsure if she’d been insulted or praised.

“That is hardly our pressing concern at present, milady Ilbaereth. We must speak in private, Yaereene.” Khelben said in the common tongue, his tone allowing no disagreement.

“Pyrith,” the elf woman said to the faerie dragon on her shoulder, “watch the room for us. We shall return anon.”

The blue-green dragon, only slightly larger than Nameless, hopped off her perch and flapped over
to settle onto a large bough in the center of the taproom, whistling a reply only Yaereene understood. As she motioned them to a door behind the bar, she spoke to a nearby maid.
“Nuovis, bring us a bottle of maerlathen, three glasses, and some of the spiced silverfin on fresh biscuits, please.”

Yaereene smiled as she led them back through a service corridor to her private rooms.
“Pyrith doesn’t like the smell of the pipe smoke hanging about you, milord Blackstaff. She insists you should not smoke pipeweed grown from a midden.”