The Diamond (3 page)

not hereditary—and even if it were, it wouldn’t be passed to shirttail relations!”

Blinking at the volume and fury of this sudden outburst, Becil and Bullard glanced down at their

shirttails, which flapped about their waists, and tucked them before striding on.

“Well,” Becil returned smoothly, “we are entitled to certain entitlements due to the titular title of

our cousin as regards her impending matrimony to this impending deadman, especially if she

herself is found to be in a status symbol wanting of breath and other indications of livingness.”

It was not Khelben’s breath that was steaming now. “I’m under the impression your quarters this

last month were more than lavish,” he said almost silkily, “to say nothing of the food and drink

granted you. Now I’ve rather more appropriate accommodations in mind. Captain Rulathon, I

believe you’re well acquainted with the fine facilities in the deepest parts of the palace?”

The watch captain nodded happily, hooking an arm through Becil’s. “Come with me, sir. You’ll get

everything coming to you.”

Bullard crowded forward, hand reaching toward Rulathon’s belt. “How’s about I’ve a look at your

sword, hey?”

The response was immediate. Four Watchmen intervened with such speed that even Bullard was

unaware exactly when and how he was knocked cold. This event also passed the notice of Becil,

along with most of the crowd, since unconsciousness did not dramatically change Bullard’s

intellectual carriage.

As the two numbskulls (one quite literally) were assisted in their departure, the mood of the crowd

grew dark. Waterdeep had been through a lot in the past month. If the Open Lord’s bride wasn’t

safe in Piergeiron’s Palace on her wedding day, no one was safe anywhere. There’d been talk of

dopplegangers, guild conspirators, shadow warriors, assassins, pirates, and squid lords—and not

just talk. All of these villains were involved in recent troubles, but none were the greatest, deepest

threat. So what then? If these were only surface distractions, what dastardly foes lurked behind

them all?

Guilds had closed their doors. Merchants had hired muscle. Guards were ordered to kill first and

let the resurrection men ask questions later. Disaffected young nobles spoke fashionably of ending

their lives, though none yet had.

The city cowered beneath an occupying army, invisible and unnamed. Unseen foes were poised to

pillage, slaughter, and burn. And while Waterdeep lay at the mercy of these foes, her leader lay at

the mercy of death itself. In his stead ruled a secretive, ill-tempered archmage known to have

dabbled in every wicked thing to happen since the Godswar—and during that darkest of times,,

and before! A ruler not elected or appointed, though no one had yet quite dared to point this out

to him.

Now, at long last, here was a foe one could see. Artemis Entreri. An assassin! More than that—an

assassin sent to slay Eidola! An avaricious butcher, who turned from his bloody task to capture a

weapon of unspeakable evil. A man whose hand and arm were now skeletal—half man, half

monster!

At last, here was a face to despise and spit upon, a body to gibbet and display on the gates of the

city he’d so terrorized. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t killed Eidola, nor that he hadn’t been involved

in any crimes in Waterdeep itself. When a scapegoat is sought, anything with small white horns

and a goatee will do.

It was Lasker Nesher who gave voice to this long-pent fury. He climbed atop a bench, clutched the

lapels of his mourning coat, and drew in a deep breath. All eyes turned to him—and when he

spoke, his voice boiled forth with all the ferocity of steam escaping a vat of boiling acid.

“So here is one of our tormentors!” He flung his hand down to point at the assassin. Many in the

crowd leaned and peered to see the dangling form. “Here is a man in league with monsters. Here

is a man who thinks he can hold a whole city hostage. And not just a city. The city! Waterdeep.

Jewel of the North—greatest jewel of all Faerűn!”

The roar of response was immediate and explosive.

“Are we not Waterdhavians? Are we not Waterdeep?”

The cheers were edged in anger. “Look at us all. We are of Waterdeep: nobles, merchants and

guildsmen, freemen and servants! We are the arms and minds and voice of all Waterdeep!”

Nesher turned slowly to gather all eyes before his hand swept down to point again. “Here are the

Watch and armsmen of the Guard, charged with protecting us all from enemies within or without.

What say you: is this assassin friend or enemy?”

From the armsmen scattered through the crowd came a ragged consensus, “Enemy. Aye, a foe.”

“And here are the Magisters, charged with trying, convicting, and sentencing those accused of

attacking the folk of Waterdeep. What say you, Magisters? Is this man a menace to us?”

Again, the grudging reply, “Aye.”

Nesher grinned, victory gleaming in his eyes. “And here is the Open Lord, the one man in all

Waterdeep who alone holds the power to commute a sentence. What say you, Piergeiron

Paladinson? Speak, if you would commute the sentence of death laid upon this man!”

The Open Lord was silent in his casket of glass.

After a tense moment of waiting, hoping somehow that the still form of the paladin would rise and

speak, the crowd shouted its support.

Lasker Nesher cried out, “Guards, bear this man to the dungeon to await hanging, drawing, and

quartering at the break of day!”

Into the roar that followed, Khelben cried, “When did the jewel of Faerűn come to be run by mob

justice?”

Nesher rounded on him, eyes smug in his deceitful face. “You’re not Open Lord, mage. As you

yourself contend, Piergeiron remains Open Lord until declared dead. Until then, only he can

commute the sentence of the Magisters!”

He pointed to Trandon, who had stood silently chained though it all. “And what; of this other one?”

he cried hungrily. “What is his crime?”

Noph and Kern traded reluctant glances.

“Tell us,” Nesher commanded. “Tell the people of Waterdeep, or face their judgment yourselves!”

“He posed as a paladin, that’s all,” Noph said. “Though he’s as worthy of the title as I am.”

“‘Posed as a paladin’?” crowed Nesher. “What is he really?”

When neither Noph or Kern would elaborate, Trandon himself said, “I’m a wizard. A War Wizard.”

“A spy!” shouted Nesher. “A Cormyrean spy. An agent of Azoun in our midst. Treason! Let him die

with the assassin. All in favor?”

The restored chapel—white marble, bleached oak, glowing gold, and all—shook with the

thunderous voice of the mob. “Aye!”

“Away with them both! And in the morning, let us cheer again when their bodies are riven and

piked in our midst!”

It seemed that only Khelben, Kern, and Noph did not cheer.

A Trial for Noph

The dungeon bustled that evening. Watchmen in plenty paced beneath ceilings dripping with

fungus, condensation beaded across their shoulder plates. Lantern light flickered across gritted

teeth. Aside from the pad of leather soles on wet floors, though, silence reigned.

The center two cells held prisoners—men slated to die in the morning. Cells across a corridor from

each other, watched over by two dozen restless armsmen

and one young man just returned

from Doegan. Noph had volunteered for guard duty, hoping to meet Khelben and plead for the

prisoners’ lives.

Where was the Lord Mage? He was supposed to seal the cells with warding magic.

Noph leaned against the wall beside Entreri’s cell, thoughts racing. He remembered this dungeon;

he’d been imprisoned here. He’d stared at these very stones for the better part of an evening. His

fingers had traced their shapes as he’d imagined their origins. Mined from black bedrock, lifted into

the glaring sun, sawed and sliced into unnatural blocks with unforgiving edges, hauled down into

another pit, stacked, mortared, compressed, compelled into walls designed to hold living flesh until

it died, if need be. Something similar had happened to him. It had begun a month ago, on the

wedding night, when Noph had stayed in this very cell and been called “assassin.”

Noph peered again through the bars of Entreri’s cell. The small man was still sprawled motionless

on a pile of old straw; a man he’d once followed, once wanted to emulate. An assassin.

Was a man an assassin when he sought to kill a shapeshifting monster? That’s what Eidola was,

after all. Of course, Entreri hadn’t known that. He’d have tried to kill her even if she’d been

Piergeiron’s true bride. Was a man an assassin when he didn’t kill the person he’d intended to?

How could Waterdeep execute a man for not assassinating someone? How could it be justice

when a man was tried and convicted by a mob? Was it enough that Entreri was known to be an

assassin? Should a man be executed on the basis of his reputation?

And what of Trandon? He’d fought bravely. He’d faced down death, and been a loyal trail

companion. What did it matter if he fought for Waterdeep or Cormyr? He’d risked his life. And

what had his grit and courage won him? Execution?

What does grit and courage get anyone? Noph wondered sourly.

“Ah, there you are,” a snide voice said, down the corridor. Lasker Nesher approached, proud

self-satisfaction oozing from his wet smile. “I almost said, “There you are, Son,” but of course you

aren’t my son anymore.”

“A fact that pleases us both,” Noph replied coolly, as his father stopped before him. The man

settled into place like a post sinking into a hole, about a handspan too close to Noph, who could

not back up with the wall at his back. He raised his head as if flinging off rain, and asked briskly,

“What brings you here, Lord Nesher? Or is it Open Lord Nesher yet?”

Hunger crawled across the noble’s face, avarice he did not trouble to conceal. “Not yet. But you

heard how the people respond to me.”

Noph did not quite smile. “Wait till they get to know you.”

Lasker ignored this, choosing instead to smooth back an errant strand of his thinning hair. “I come

with a proposition for you. Isn’t there somewhere more private we can talk?”

“A couple of cells around the corner stand empty. You’ll feel right at home.”

The noble blinked at this sally, measuring his son, and then came to some sort of decision. “We’ve

much to discuss,” he said in an almost pleading tone. “Come, grant your father one audience?”

Noph nodded despite himself. No matter how despicable and grasping Lasker’s deeds, he thought,

the man was still his father.

Lasker led the way, small and fidgety, muttering along the line of lanterns. Noph, catching

fragments here and there, realized his parent was rehearsing the speech he was about to give. A

ragged string hung from the older man’s coat, waggling behind him like some sort of limp tail.

Noph watched it droop.

They rounded a corner. In the shadows cast by distant, flickering lantern light, the door of one cell

stood ajar, three inches of solid oak banded with oiled iron. Dust swirled up behind Noph’s and

Lasker’s boots—no, not dust. Ash.

The walls, ceiling, and floor of the cell were coated with soot, and two perfect cones of ash stood

like sentinels at its far end. Above, the back wall sloped down, gnarled and ancient bedrock that

seemed like a giant hand pressing the space closed.

Lasker turned. “Let’s get to business. You’ve no doubt recognized that I’ve changed since you left.

My influence expands; I’m seeking high public office at last. You said I’d be at home in this cell.

Well, if things run according to plan, not only this cell but this whole palace will be mine.”

“You’ve been busy,” Noph noted noncommittally.

A light kindled in Lasker’s eyes. “I’ve won the support of ten merchants and three guilds. I’ve

made speeches in every public square that matters. You heard me this afternoon! And

unbeknownst to my rivals, I’ve struck an agreement with the Brothers Boarskyr: I’ll get my bridge,

and they’ll get free High Forest lumber for ten years. Once the elves know what’s hit them, the

Kara-Turan trade route’ll be open, with the weight of all Waterdeep behind the deal! D’you see?

I’ve accomplished in one month what Piergeiron couldn’t in a whole year!”

With a calmness he no longer felt, Noph asked, “What does this have to do with me?”

“I want to share it all with you,” Lasker hissed, waving a clenched fist. “You are, after all, my son

and my heir! I want you at my side. We’d be an irresistible pair: powerful merchant and young

hero. Your presence would ensure power and fortune for our family.”

Noph nodded. “You’ve all the underhanded expertise, and I the honest face people trust,” he