The Lost Library of Cormanthyr (9 page)

Which was exactly its purpose, Xuxa said.

Yes, Baylee responded. He turned so that the torch light fell better across the pages when he opened the book. The smell of the parchment pages and the ink was strong, letting him know the book had never seen much use and had been well protected in the pack. The other items were not so well kept by comparison.

It was warded, Xuxa confirmed. You have found the prize you came seeking.

Maybe, Baylee said. If there is a secret page spell placed upon this volume as the old herbalist’s book recorded. And if that magicked page really contains the agreement by two Cormyrean nobles with the Zhentarim to arrange King Azoun’s assassination in Waymoot, there could be some political upheaval when the news is released.

Jaeleen crossed the room, her pouch bulging. “What have you got?” With the excessive heat in the chamber, her hair had become damp and stringy.

“A book.” Baylee held it up to her, surrendering it easily so she wouldn’t assign any real worth to it.

She took the book and read the title from the spine. “Seeds, Cuttings, and Transplants: A Gardener’s Tome for All Seasons.” She passed the book back. “This is worth something?”

“To an herbalist,” he said, “yes.” Or to a ranger or druid, and Jaeleen was neither. Baylee wrapped the book in protective leathers, then shoved it into the bag of holding.

“I’ve never even heard of the author.”

Baylee knew that despite her greedy nature, Jaeleen was well-read. That had been the only chance he’d taken in letting her see the book. “You’ve never read any of Iwann’s herbologies?”

“Why would I read something like that?”

Baylee had only read the single volume he’d found that mentioned the book in the sacrificial well, but there had been a monograph on the man. “To learn.”

“About plants? I’ve got more discriminating tastes than that. Are you done here?”

Baylee stood and nodded.

“Then let’s be off,” Jaeleen said, “before those damned orcs decide to gather again.” She looked around the chamber. “And staying down among the dead when they no longer have anything of worth is more than I can stand.” She grabbed the rope and started up with sinewy grace.

The words stung, but as Baylee watched Jaeleen climb the rope above him, watched how the fabric of her breeches tightened over her hips, he minded less. Jaeleen had a good side; a person just needed to know where to look for it. He smiled, and started up the rope. He’d found his prize, and the night was still young.

“As your friend, Fannt, you know I have only your best interests at heart.”

“You, my dear Keraqt, only have my best interests at heart when it is good for your purse.” Fannt Golsway chuckled at the embarrassed look he saw in the other man’s face. They sat at a circular table out on the balcony of Golsway’s home. The balcony was festooned with a dozen different flowering boxes. The sweet aroma of the moon blossoms circumvented the wind blowing over the Sea Ward of Waterdeep from the Dock Ward. “But, of course, that very predictability about you is what makes you so endearing. I’ve always found a man should know what motivates those he keeps company with. Would you care for some more wine?”

Thonsyl Keraqt shifted uncomfortably in the plush chair on the other side of the crystal table. He was a broad man gone to fat with his successes. His robe appeared voluminous, cut of lightweight blue and white silks. His round face beaded with perspiration in spite of the cooling breeze. Long red hair striped with gray hung to his shoulders, echoed in the short beard. He motioned to his nearly empty wine glass.

Golsway poured. He knew Keraqt was only there visiting to find out what he could regarding the old mage’s recent renewed interests. It was amazing that Keraqt’s lackeys within Waterdeep had discovered the new venture so quickly.

“I’ll not bother to respond to your taunts,” Keraqt announced, lifting his glass in a silent toast. “Not when it is the only price I have to pay for imbibing of such an excellent vintage.”

“You like the wine?”

“Most definitely. I’ve never had this at your home before.”

“No. It is new.”

“A new vintner?” Unbidden, Keraqt leaned forward with considerable effort and grabbed the wine bottle’s neck to check for a label or a wax seal bearing the bottler’s crest.

“Actually, yes.” Golsway said nothing about the other man’s ill manners. Those who knew the merchant ignored his failings if they intended to use his skills or his resources. What was sad to think for the old mage, was that a merchant who could be as churlish as Keraqt came close to being his best friend in all of Waterdeep.

That was of Golsway’s own choosing, however. With his home base of operations in Waterdeep, he had never allowed many into his home. He neither needed their pandering or their questions. Usually there were too many maps and books and little-known documents scattered throughout every room and on every conceivable surface to permit anyone to come visiting. As a result, usually the old mage went calling, or a meeting took place in an agreed-upon tavern or inn.

Despite his years, Golsway remained a lean, tall man. Age had not stooped his back yet, nor robbed him of his vigor. His silver hair lay forward on his scalp, coming down to a widow’s peak, cropped close in a military-styled cut. He wore a goatee that scarcely covered his chin, then tucked neatly under to come to a point. His ears lay back against the sides of his head, though the right one had a notch bitten out of it. He had never had the wound properly tended to in order that it might be made to look more presentable. He chose to wear it to remind him that he was not infallible. His hooded eyes and narrow face made him resemble a hunting falcon to a degree that he could never deny. He wore a brilliant red robe with a field of stars that announced his fealty to Mystra.

“And who is this new vintner?” Keraqt asked.

Golsway cocked an eyebrow, a move that was known to send those who knew of him into conniption fits. “Do you press me on this matter?”

Keraqt shook his head then laughed. “Press you about a vintner, you say? You have always had the tongue for pretty thoughts, haven’t you?”

Golsway turned a hand over. “The new vintner is myself.”

“You jest.”

“Should I show you the basement where I have casks fermenting now?”

“No. I believe you. What I find hard to believe is that boisterous Fannt Golsway, self-appointed re-discoverer of Toril, should spend his days raising and pressing grapes.”

“You admit that the wine is good?”

“Readily.”

“Then my efforts are not met with failure.”

“But to be squashing grapes when you should be putting expeditions together, my friend?”

“Things have changed. I no longer run willy-nilly through the forests and deserts and mountains seeking the truth in some frivolous tale of wonder or drunkenness. There are books that must be written, and I have put them off far too long if I hope to inspire another generation to seek out the mysteries of the ancients.” Golsway shook his head. ‘Too many of them are only grave robbers, destroying priceless relics for the gemstones and beaten gold before they know what they hold in their hands.”

“It is the times,” Keraqt lamented. “You remember the brand of fleeting youth. How it drove us to do things that we should never have done.”

“But my agenda was always clear,” Golsway replied. “Never did I destroy anything that would advance our knowledge of the past.”

Keraqt kept silent.

Golsway knew the other man could not make that claim. Though in recent years, the merchant’s tastes had changed. He had enough money and riches now to be more discerning about what he did with objects that came within his grasp. Many times Golsway had learned that Keraqt had taken less of a profit from some items to place them in the proper hands rather than break them up. It was one of the things that had convinced the old mage to open up his friendship more than it had been.

“Getting back to the wine,” Keraqt said. “Do you have any flasks ready for sale? I’ll send a boy around in the morning. With a fair price only, mind you, and not one copper more.”

“It’s not for sale.”

Keraqt spluttered in denial. “Everything is for sale. It’s only a matter of finding the proper time to buy.”

“Send a boy around in the morning,” Golsway invited with a smile. “I’ll send him back with a few flasks I can spare.”

The merchant sipped his wine again and smacked his lips in appreciation. “What an evening this is turning out to be. First you invite me over for one of the best meals I’ve had in five tendays or more, then you promise me free wine, and offer to send it to my door.” He linked his fingers in front of him, his elbows resting on the table. The candlelight from the sconces in the corners of the balcony splintered from the jeweled rings on his fingers.

“I am glad you accepted my invitation to share eveningfeast.”

“Bah! I invited myself and you were gracious enough to accept me into your home. We both know that.”

It was true, but Golsway didn’t acknowledge the statement. He took his pipe pouch from a pocket of his robe and worked the dottle out in anticipation of using it. Keraqt was a talker; the mage doubted the man would be gone before the morning cock crowed.

“Put your bag away,” the merchant said, producing a pipe bag of his own. “I’ve only this tenday found a new blend I fancy. A trade ship I had owned part of a cargo in brought this from Beregost and I’ve found it quite pleasing.”

Golsway took the bag and performed a quick spell to detect magic. If Keraqt noticed, he gave no sign. Finding the pipeweed free of any spells or wards, the mage quickly filled his pipe from the bag, packing the bowl tight.

“Allow me.” Keraqt offered a light from one of the nearby candles. When both pipes were going, curling streamers of smoke about their heads that vanished into the night stretching out over Waterdeep, the merchant replaced the candle. “So tell me about the latest venture you are planning.”

“What do you not yet know?” Golsway asked.

Keraqt grinned. “I know that you received a man in your home only four days ago. He carried a package for you that was nearly the size of a bread loaf, but was heavily wrapped and warded, so that may not be its real dimensions. I know, too, that the man spent the night and left early the next morning. You are not wont to allow overnight guests. I myself have spent a night here, but generally at this table or the one in your dining room, never as an overnight guest.”

“Your spies are very good.”

Keraqt shrugged. “They are paid generously.”

“Do you have someone in my house?”

“No. I would never do something like that.”

“You would,” Golsway argued, “if you thought you could get away with it. But go on.”

“I also know that your interest of late has been in Myth Drannor. I have people among the sages and book shops who say you’ve again been searching the histories and legends of the place.”

Golsway released a deep lungful of smoke. In truth, he found the pipeweed quite pleasing. “My interest in Myth Drannor is no secret; nor do I stand alone in that interest.”

“No, but I’ve not heard of you wasting research time in idle curiosity. It would take away time from the books you are writing. I am guessing you have turned up a new lead to follow.”

“One that no one else has followed after all these years? Do you think such a thing could exist?”

The merchant nodded his big head deliberately. “It is the only kind of clue you would follow. Probably only one that you could turn up. Remember, I’ve known you for years.”

“There are all kinds of new legends and rumors springing up about Myth Drannor. More now than at the time the city fell. You can pick and choose your illusions.” Golsway made his voice deliberately demeaning.

“I’ve heard a name,” the merchant whispered conspiratorially.

“You needn’t whisper in my home,” Golsway said. “It is well warded against those who would seek to invade my privacy.”

Keraqt held up a plump hand. “I know, my friend, but this name is not to be bandied with.”

“Tell me.”

Keraqt leaned forward, covering his wine glass in case any would use the liquid in the goblet as a scrying vessel. Golsway recognized the action immediately for what it was. He quickly checked the wards around his home and found them all intact.

“Faimcir Glitterwing,” the merchant said in an even lower whisper than before.

Golsway covered his surprise by sipping his wine. “How did you come by this name?”

Keraqt raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes. “Then it is true!”

“Answer my question,” the mage snapped irritably.

“Please, my friend, there is no reason to take your wrath out on me.” Keraqt did his best to look humble and slightly afraid, but Golsway saw only the glitter of greed in the other man’s muddy brown gaze. “Remember, the messenger should not be killed.” He paused, pushing his control of the conversation.

Golsway’s patience was near to an end. The crystal table suddenly shook between them, holding an inner vibration like a bard’s tuning fork.

“There was a man down in the Dock Ward this morning,” Keraqt said quickly.

“What man?”

“I did not know him.”

“What did he look like?” Despite all the wards on his home, despite the magical powers he had access to on demand, a thin worm of fear crawled inside the mage’s stomach and twisted. Faimcir Glitterwing’s legacy was worth an empire’s ransom, but the sheer impact it would have on education and thinking about so many fields was beyond the pale. For the first time in many months, he wished that Baylee was home with him, that the harsh words that had passed between them had never been spoken.

“A tall man, and thick of neck and shoulder.” Keraqt touched his brow with his fingers. “There was a livid red scar, bright as fresh spilled blood here. I don’t know what kind of weapon would have made a mark such as that.”

“Where is this man?”

“I don’t know. I sent two of my best men after him when I heard mention that he was seeking you. They were dead by noon, and no one has seen this man since.”

“Why was this man in the Dock Ward?”