Realms of Magic

SMOKE POWDER AND MIRRORS

On reflection, Jehan Wands realized why most adventures begin in taverns. It takes a combination of noise, bustle, the late hour, wrong-headed opinions, and ale, all in specific amounts, to convince otherwise rational people to do stupid things like go on quests and slay dragons. And only a tavern could bring all this together in one spot.

The tavern in question was the Grinning Lion, located in the northern, well-monied reaches of Waterdeep, gem of the north, City of Splendors, and great jewel of the Shining Sea. The Lion was no wharf-side dock or adventurer's dive in the lower quarters of the city, but a clean, softly lit watering hole frequented by locals and the most recent generation of the city's noble families. Here, individuals who would flee in terror from the common room of the Bloody Fist or Selune's Smile farther down the city could quaff a few with others of similar social station and disposition.

There were no dusty Dalesmen here, no Red Wizards in mufti, and no axe-wielding dwarves. Most of the crowd were local, young, and in varying degrees of inebriation, their numbers mixed with a smattering of the wealthy merchants who catered to the wealthier families. A bois terous game of darts dominated one corner, a high-stakes Talis game another, and a third had been commandeered by a wag of middling years telling "Volo stories" to a crowd of younger sports.

The fourth corner held a quiet table of three young apprentice wizards. These were new mages, just trained in their first cantrips, whose lives were still filled with the inglorious grunt work of wizards' assistants-cleaning kettles, running errands, fetching spell components, sweeping the summoning room floor, and other odious tasks their mentors assigned. Like employees of every stripe, regardless of profession, they were taking this opportunity of temporary freedom to complain about the masters they had just left behind.

"Familiars get treated better than we do," said Jehan Wands. He was the tallest of the three, a youth with dark hair gathered in a ponytail behind a golden earring (the latter worn only when he was away from his magical master-his granduncle, Maskar Wands).

His friend Anton, a russet-headed youth, grunted an agreement. "I've seen spell components that were better handled than apprentice wizards. Don't these old husks remember when they were young?"

"They probably do," said Gerald, a gangly blond boy with short hair and a scowling demeanor, "and they want to treat their apprentices just as badly as they themselves were treated." Gerald was supposedly Anton's friend, but Jehan had drunk with him only a handful of times in the past few months.

"And I have it doubly bad," said Jehan, "for I'm working for the family patriarch himself. He's so old we call him Maskar the Mummy. Practically embalmed, and as stiff-necked as they come. If I make the slightest mistake, he pays a 'social call' on my father, and I get one of the Tour mother and I are very disappointed in you' talks. I hear he used to change his apprentices into frogs and newts. It would be an improvement over listening to my folks complain."

"Huh. I can triple that misfortune" challenged Anton. "My master claims to have studied under Elminster him self. Everything is "Elminster this' and "Elminster that' and 'When I was your age and worked for Elminster.' I don't think he's been farther west than the Rat Hills, but don't let him hear me say that. He would turn me into a frog."

Gerald shook his head. "I beat your ill curses fourfold. I serve the great and powerful Khelben Blackstaff Arunsun, who's just plain crazy. He's been involved in so many plots, he's stone-cold paranoid, and borderline violent to boot. If he thinks you're a danger to Waterdeep in any way, shape, or form, poof!" The blond youth grabbed his forehead with his hand, fingers splayed. "He throws a feeblemind spell on you and burns out your brain cells."

Anton put in, "Ah, but at least you have Laeral, Khel-ben's prize student, hanging around. I hear she's most easy on the eyes."

Gerald sniffed. "You think she'll give an apprentice the time of day? No, she worships the ground Blackstaff levitates over." He took a pull on his mug for effect and, realizing it was empty, signaled for another round.

"I bet he doesn't tell your parents on you," said Jehan. "And you don't have to live up to your family name. Just once I'd like to have old Maskar treat me like a rational, thinking being instead of his nephew's youngest whelp. Maskar thinks everyone else in this city is a lower form of life, especially his students."

Gerald nodded. "And rival mages are barely worth their notice. Khelben calls your master 'the Old Relic.'"

Jehan sniffed in turn. "And yours reminds me of a skunk, what with that white stripe in his beard. I've heard my master call him 'the Old Spider.'"

The blond youth flashed a sly, toothy grin, his first of the evening. "Everyone calls him that, and he likes it that way, I think. Blackstaff and the other big-name wizards revel in the illusion of their power and wear it like a fur-trimmed cloak. Threatening the help is part of the deal. One of the perks, I suppose."

"It wouldn't be such a problem," said Anton, "if they were at least listening to new ideas."

"Don't get me started on that," said Jehan, getting starting on precisely that. The subject was a favorite of the young mage, particularly since it showed the shortcomings of the elder wizards. "They're paranoid enough about their powers getting into the hands of inexperienced pups like us. New magic is beyond their aged brains, and it scares them."

"New magic?" asked Gerald.

"You've heard about Maztica, right? The land across the Shining Sea?" said Jehan. Gerald nodded. "They have a completely different flavor of magic out there, based on feathers and fangs. These Mazticans use it to move water through pipes, like a well-pump. Think about what such interior plumbing would do for Waterdeep. I tried to ask old Maskar about it and got a lecture about learning the basics first before getting involved in 'speculative' spell-casting. Speculative! There's another culture that can transform our world, and he's turning his back on it."

"Aye, and you're seeing more wood-block printing around," said Anton. "But we're still writing spells out longhand."

Gerald nodded. "And weapons technology is at the same level it was when the elves abandoned Myth Drannor, as if we haven't improved anything in the past thousand years."

Jehan said, "You're talking about smoke powder, right?"

Anton shifted uneasily in his chair, but Gerald nodded readily. "There are a number of things, but yes, smoke powder is Blackstaff s pet peeve."

Jehan laughed. "Peeve? I hear the Old Spider is flat-out paranoid about the stuff, blowing it up wherever he finds it, and a good chunk of the city along with it. The way I hear it, the powder comes from other planets, other planes."

Anton harrumphed into his mug. "I have to confess, I'm not comfortable talking about this. I hear smoke powder is dangerous."

Jehan shook his head. Anton was so cautious sometimes, he thought. "Don't worry. It's not like the Old Spider is listening to us, waiting for us to speak treason about smoke powder. I mean, what is it? A magical mixture that explodes on contact with fire. They're already making arquebuses down south to use that explosive force to fire sling bullets, and cannons that fire iron-banded stones."

Anton tried to shrug nonchalantly. "So it makes a big bang. Don't we have enough spells we can learn that create a big bang?"

Gerald leapt in, "Yes, but those spells are only for wizards. Smoke powder, like printing, can bring that ability to the masses, eh?"

"Exactly," said Jehan, warming to the subject as the most recent round of ale warmed his belly. "But the Old Hounds in the city, Maskar the Mummy and that skunk-maned Spider among them, don't see it, won't see it until it's too late. Keeping us from knowing too much about the stuff won't keep others from learning. But no, they're caught in the 'Fireballs and Lightning Bolts' mind-set, and nothing can dissuade them."

Anton muttered something about the beer running through him, and he staggered off. Jehan and Gerald barely noticed his disappearance.

Gerald said, "So you don't think we mages would be replaced if there were smoke powder freely lying around?"

Jehan laughed. "No more than we'd be replaced when more people learn how to read. You still need mages to make the stuff. And not to mention that wizards would still be needed to make smoke powder safer, and improve the weapons that use it. The big problem for most arquebuses is that they sometimes explode. A wizard can strengthen the barrel, as well as improve the accuracy and distance. It's a whole new world, but the Old Hounds with all the power don't realize it, and they're keeping us, the next generation, in the dark about it."

By the time Anton returned, Gerald and Jehan had moved onto other ideas, like golem-driven boats and clockwork familiars, which the Old Guard were either ignoring or blatantly quashing. The three apprentices agreed that the problem was that since the old wizards controlled what knowledge was being passed on, they controlled the advance (or lack of advance) of spellcasting.

Gerald excused himself at this point, saying he had to get back to Blackstaff Tower or the Old Spider would send hell hounds out after him. Anton bought one last round, and the conversation switched to other matters, such as the purported easiness of the Fibinochi sisters. Then Anton had to leave as well, since his master mage was cooking up something noxious at dawn and expected the kettles to be spotless.

Jehan swirled the last of his ale in his mug, thinking about how entrenched the old wizards had gotten. And the problem was, since they were all older than the Cold Spine Mountains, they kept anyone else from learning new things. Supposedly, they were fonts of information, but in reality they stood in the way of progress. Jehan resolved that when he attained the ancient and august title of wizard, he would never stand in the way of new ideas like Granduncle Maskar, Khelben, and the rest of the Old Hounds. In the meantime, he would have to sweep the floors, learn what he could, and keep his eyes out for new ideas. After all, there was nothing that kept him from a little independent study.

A merchant intercepted Jehan as the young man was making for the door. "Excuse me?" the merchant said in an odd accent, touching Jehan softly on the shoulder. "Do I understand you are a wizard?"

Jehan blinked back the mild, ale-induced fog around him and looked at the merchant. He couldn't place the accent, and the cut of the man's clothing was strange-the tunic a touch too long to be fashionable, and the seams stitched across the back instead of along the shoulders. "I am a wizard's student," Jehan said. "An apprentice."

"But you know magic?" pressed the man. His inflection rose at the end of every phase, making each sentence sound like a question.

"Some," said Jehan. "A few small spells. If you need magical aid, there are a number of name-level wizards in Waterdeep who can help…"

Tm sorry," said the merchant, "but I overheard you talking and thought you were knowledgeable? You see, I have a small problem that requires an extremely discreet touch? And I'm not comfortable talking to the older mages in this city?" — here he dropped his voice to a whisper-"about smoke powder."

That last was a statement, not a question. Jehan raised his eyebrows and looked at the strange little man, then nodded for him to follow.

Once on the street, Jehan said, "What about the… material you mentioned?"

"I understand that it is not… proper to have this material in this city?" He said, flexing his voice on the last word.

"It is illegal," said Jehan. "Extremely illegal. And there are a few mages in town who would destroy any of this material they find. And anyone standing near it."

A pained look crossed the merchant's face. "I was afraid of that. You see, I have come into possession of some of this material without realizing it was illegal? And I want to move it out of the city as quickly as possible?"

"A sound idea," nodded Jehan, trying to sound as sage and puissant as he could.

"But I have a problem?" continued the odd-speaking merchant. "I was doubly cheated, for I did not know the material was illegal? And further was unaware that someone had mixed it with sand? If I am to get it out of the city, I need to pull the sand out?"

"I…" Jehan's voice died as he thought about it. The merchant had to have overheard their conversation about the paranoid and powerful Khelben Blackstaff, and now was trying to get his stuff out of town as soon as possible. The right and proper thing was to go to the sage and aged authorities and have them destroy it.

Of course, getting it out of town was as good as destroying it, and if Jehan could get some for his own experiments, so much the better. Just a bit for independent study. The idea warmed him, and the ale strengthened his resolve.

"I'll be glad to do what I can," said Jehan, "for a small sample of the material. Where do you have it?"

The merchant led him past the City of the Dead, toward the Trades Ward. The well-tended walls of the various noble families gave way to town houses, then to irregular row houses built by diverse hands in diverse centuries, and finally to the gloomy back alleys of the warehouses, off the beaten track and home only to teamsters carrying goods and merchants selling them.

It was as if they had entered a different, alien, city, far from magical instruction and friendly taprooms. Jehan might have worried, but the ale and his own resolve eliminated doubt from his mind. Besides, he was a mage, and even with his simple cantrips, he'd be a match for any ordinary citizen, common merchant, or rogue of Waterdeep.

The merchant went to a heavy oak door and thumped hard with his fist, three times. A bolt clicked audibly behind the oak, and the merchant slid the entire door aside on ancient, rusty runners. Without looking back, he entered and motioned for Jehan to follow.

The warehouse was a middling-sized member of its breed, one of those that would have six or seven tenants, who would either quickly rotate goods or store them forever and forget them. From the dust and debris accumulated on most of the supplies, it looked like the majority of the tenants were in the latter category.

Great iron-banded crates marched in neat rows across the central space of the warehouse, and the deep, gray-boxed shelves reached from floor to ceiling. The only odd piece stood at the far end of the space-a large, badly corroded statue of a winged deva, cast in bronze. Possibly a wedding present, thought Jehan derisively, gratefully accepted, then quickly hidden. The entire area was given the slight glow of moonlight through a frosted skylight in the ceiling.

In the center of the room were about a half-dozen small quarter barrels, their lids popped open, next to an empty full-sized tonne keg. In the center of the room was also a large humanoid creature of a type Jehan had never seen before. It was half again as tall as he was, with a broad, ogre-sized body and a huge-mouthed head that reminded Jehan of a hippopotamus. The massive creature was dressed in black leggings and a crimson coat, the latter decorated with metallic awards. In its broad belt it had a pair of small crossbows. No, corrected Jehan, they were miniature arquebuses, long, pistol-like weapons. The huge creature recognized the mage's presence with a curt nod of its massive head.

The merchant, locking the sliding door behind them, caught Jehan gawking at the creature. He said. "His name is Ladislau? He's a giff, one of the star-faring races? He's normally not this cranky, but the present situation has made him bitter?"

Jehan could not tell if the giff was bitter, cranky, or in blissful ecstasy. All he knew was that the creature could swallow him to the waist in a single bite.

The young apprentice put on his most serious face, the one he used when Maskar was lecturing him. "Is this your… material?"

Ladislau the giff made a loud, derisive snort that sounded like an air bubble escaping a tar pit. "Is this the best you can do, Khanos. Are there no better groundling mages on this dirt speck." The hippo-headed creature's voice was level and flat, and his questions sounded like statements.

"I think he will do, Laddy?" rejoined Khanos. "You don't need a large gun to shoot down a small bird, do you now?"

Ladislau grumbled something Jehan did not catch and motioned to the barrels. Jehan stepped up to the containers and pulled the loosened lid from the closest.

The smoke powder itself was hard and granular, a grayish-black shade shot with small pips of silver. Jehan had never heard of these pips, and inwardly congratulated himself on the discovery. Here was some other fact about the powder that the Old Hounds kept to themselves.

Jehan picked up a nodule of the powder between two fingers. It was heavier than it looked, as if it had been cast around lead. He tried to break it between his nails, but he might as well have been squeezing a pebble.

Jehan looked into the container. The small nodules were mixed with a grit of a soft, lighter gray. The largest particle of the grit was slightly larger than the smallest bit of smoke powder. Doubtless, the merchant had already considered sifting it through a screen. Jehan rubbed the grit between his fingers; it broke apart easily and drifted slowly downward in the still air of the warehouse.

The young mage licked his dust-covered skin. It tasted like the floor of old Maskar's summoning chamber, and the grit clotted into a ball that Jehan rubbed between his fingers.

No sieve then, and no water to separate the two, Jehan thought. He said aloud, "You could do this without magic, and in a city safer than this. Perhaps it would be smarter merely to remove the smaller barrels now and separate it later.

The giff made a noise that sounded like a human stomach growling, and Khanos put in, "We felt it would be easier to move one barrel than six, especially through this city? We don't want these to fall into the wrong hands? Can you separate the two?"

Jehan scooped up the mixture with one hand and sifted it between his fingers. Some of the larger nodules stayed in his palm, but most of the silver-shot grains fell back into the barrel with some of the grit. The grit drifted more slowly, like dandelions on the wind.

At length he nodded. "It can be done. You want to have the powder in the large keg at the end of this?" Khanos nodded enthusiastically. "Then if Mr. Ladislau here would be so kind as to pour the smaller barrels slowly into the larger, I can come up with something to remove most of the debris."

The giff grunted and hoisted the first barrel. Jehan recalled the basics of the cantrip, the small semispell that Maskar had taught him to aid in his sweepings. It was a simple spell-"half an intention and a bit of wind" as Maskar described it when he first taught it. Of course, Maskar the Mummy would never think to use a floor-sweeping cantrip in this way.

Jehan cast the minor spell and nodded at the great creature. The giff began to pour the mixture into the larger barrel. Jehan directed the sweeping wind across the entrance of the larger container. The breeze caught most of the grit and dust, blowing them away from the container's mouth. The heavier nodules of smoke powder fell into the barrel, forming a dark great pile mixed with silver sparkles. Without the dust, the sparkles glowed brighter in the moonlight.

Ladislau the giff finished the first small barrel and picked up the second and, finishing that, the third. Jehan wondered if he could make the spell last long enough for all six barrels, and redoubled his concentration as Ladislau started on the fourth barrel. By the fifth barrel, perspiration dripped from the young mage's brow, and by the sixth, small stars were dancing at the edge of his vision.

The giff poured the last of the barrel into the container, and Jehan tied off the end of the incantation. He took a deep breath and blinked back the dizziness he felt. The back of his head ached, and Jehan realized he had sweated off the effects of the ale, spellcasting himself into a mild hangover.

He looked at the others. The dust in the air had yet to fully settle, giving the entire warehouse a fog-enshrouded look in the moonlight. The great giff s nostrils twitched, and he scratched his snout with a heavy hand. The merchant was positively radiant, and pulled up a handful of the smoke powder, letting the rough nodules slip between his fingers. Then he grabbed the barrel's lid and slipped it into place.

Jehan cleared his throat softly. Then, afraid his interruption might be merely interpreted as a reaction to the dust, cleared it again. The merchant scowled at the young mage.

"Before you close the barrel," said Jehan levelly, "about my fee."

"Your fee?" said Khanos. The smile returned to his face. "I had quite forgotten. Ladislau, can you give the young man his fee?"

The giff pulled the arquebuses from his belt-sash and leveled them on Jehan.

The last of the little stars plaguing Jehan's vision evaporated, and the mage's attention was fully riveted on the ends of the gun barrels.

"Good-bye, groundling," said the giff. "We couldn't leave you alive to tell your superiors." His inhuman face was illuminated by the twin fires of the exploding smoke powder as he pulled the triggers.

Jehan dropped an instant before the guns fired, turn-bling forward. Even so, he felt something hot plow a grazing path along his left shoulder.

The pain roused him to action. When he struck the hard, cool floor, Jehan immediately scrambled on his hands and feet, trying to put as much distance between himself and the giffs weapons. He half ran and half crawled away from the pair, deeper into the dusty darkness of the warehouse. Behind him he heard Khanos cursing at his companion.

Jehan's shoulder burned as if someone had dripped acid on it. Now scared, wounded, and sober, the young mage cursed himself for being so stupid, so trusting. He should have left a message at the tavern, or contacted Gerald or Anton at the very least. But no, he was so sure he could handle this little bit of magic, this little bit of free-staff spellcasting, this independent study. He was so sure that his little magics could handle anything a mere merchant could throw at him.

But could he handle enemies armed with smoke powder, bringing them to the level of wizards themselves?

Jehan leaned against a stack of boxes and tried to contain his breathing. His wounded shoulder held a coldness that was beginning to spread down his arm, and his shirt clung to him stickily there. He would have to escape this place and be pretty quick about it. His opponents were somewhere in the dusty darkness between him and the only door.

Jehan mentally cursed Maskar the Mummy as well, for not teaching him any useful spells for such a situation. One more example of the Old Hounds keeping their knowledge to themselves.

Jehan was suddenly aware of a tall humanoid near him and started, almost crying out. It was only the ugly deva statue he had noted before. Beneath spread wings, its angelic face was impassive to Jehan's plight, its features practically glittering in the moon's radiance through the skylight.

The statue reached halfway to the skylight above, and there were shelves above it. Most skylights had an interior latch, easily sprung. Even lacking that, Jehan could probably smash the skylight and get away before they could fire on him. — -

And they would not expect a groundling mage to take to the skies.

Slowly, painfully, Jehan pulled himself up around the base of the deva statue. His shoulder was getting worse now, and the young mage wondered if he could make it all the way up. Still, it would be better to hole up in the spaces above rather than being found passed out on the ground.

The statue stood on a pedestal, with about two feet of clearance between its back and the wall. Jehan set his back against the wall and his feet against the deva and slid upward. He slowly pulled himself up, leaving a wet, dark slick against the wall as he moved.

He had almost reached the wings when he heard the heavy clump of feet below. Wedging himself tightly in place, Jehan held his breath.

The giff warrior trudged slowly up beneath his hiding place, swinging only one hand arquebus. Jehan realized Khanos would have the other one, using it either in searching some other part of the warehouse or in standing guard by the entrance. Jehan simultaneously offered prayers to Azuth for favor and curses to himself for inexperience. Were he a full-fledged mage, he thought, he would be able to handle the pair with ease. The increasing pain in his shoulder gave lie to that last thought.

The giff stopped at the base of the statue, and Jehan's heart stopped as well. The great creature's nostrils flared and snorted, and the warrior peered about, surveying the surroundings. Then he looked upward, along the shelves and at the statue.

Jehan panicked. The statue offered only minimal protection for an immobile target wedged between it and the wall. Jehan's legs stiffened to push him back into the wall itself.

The wall did not move. The statue did. It tipped forward on its loose mounting.

Jehan's panic that he would be shot was suddenly replaced with a similar concern that he would fall from his perch. With a shout, he leapt forward to grab the statue behind the wings and rode it down as it tipped forward.

The giff had time to look up at the plummeting statue, open his huge maw in a shout, and raise his gun. The pistol detonated as the great bronze deva, Jehan on its back, slammed into him.

On impact, Jehan rolled free and felt something give in his right leg. He rose slowly to survey the damage. The giff had been pinned beneath the heavy statue, a large pond of blackish blood pooling beneath him. The creature was still struggling, and as Jehan watched, he started to shift the heavy statue off himself. Of the gun there was no sign, and Jehan had no time to search for it.

Jehan looked up at the skylight, now as unapproachable as the moon beyond it. The only way out would be past the merchant, who likely had the other gun.

Jehan dodged over three rows of crates before heading for the door, hoping Khanos would search out his companion at the sound of his cry. Indeed, Azuth and Mystra were smiling on him, for the area in front of the great oak door was clear. Jehan tugged on it with his good arm, then realized it was still locked. He reached over and, grunting, unlocked the door.

"Stand away from the door, would you, boy?" said a voice behind him, raising the last word in an odd inflection.

Jehan cursed softly and turned slowly to face Khanos. He wished he had some lightning bolt or other spell to slay the merchant on the spot, but he was a novice mage, and the wind-sweep cantrip had emptied his mind.

Khanos was there, and had the other arquebus in his hand. There was no sign of the giff. The merchant had a lopsided smile on his face.

"I really wish we could let you live?" he said, emphasizing the last word. "But it just wouldn't do, would it? I mean, your magical brothers might want to hunt you down when they themselves start dropping from assassin's bullets? Oh yes, the powder isn't leaving the city, not when it can be put to much better use here? A few well-placed shots against the more powerful mages, and the rest will retreat into their towers? Wizards are cowards like that, aren't they? And by the time they emerge, we'll have a ready supply of powder from Ladislau's friends? So unwittingly, you helped bring a new thing to Waterdeep- and greater independence from mages?"

Jehan was not thinking of the advancements to Water-deep, but rather the distance between the two of them. Four steps. More than enough distance for the merchant to get off a shot before Jehan could get the gun. And from the easy way he held the weapon, Khanos seemed a better marksman than the giff had been. Still, it was move and die, or stay and perish just as surely.

Jehan started to move forward when the door behind him rolled aside on its squeaking runners. A fresh breeze blew aside the dust still hanging in the air. Khanos pointed his gun at the doorway as a new figure entered the warehouse.

Jehan gasped. The new arrival was himself, or rather an unwounded, unbloodied Jehan, dressed as he had been when he left the tavern, unblemished and unarmed. No, this Jehan was a little taller, perhaps a little fiercer, but otherwise it was he.

"Another wizard?" spat Khanos. "You'll come no closer?"

"I don't think so," said the other Jehan, using Jehan's voice and mannerisms. "I think it's time to wrap this little play up, eh?"

"I'll shoot?" said the merchant.

"Be my guest," said the other Jehan, striding forward and in front of the young wounded mage. Jehan saw that magical energy was already dancing at the ends of his duplicate's fingertips.

The other Jehan took two steps forward, and Khanos fired, the thunder of the gun echoing through the warehouse. The other Jehan did not flinch or fall. The bullet struck him with a metallic splang, then rebounded in the darkness.

The other Jehan took another two steps and reached up, grasping the merchant by the forehead. Yellow lances of energy raced across Khanos's face, and the foreign merchant screamed, his skull shuddering under the other Jehan's grip. After a few moments, the merchant toppled forward, his ears and mouth streaming with thin wisps of white smoke.

The other Jehan turned to the young mage and scowled, that serious scowl that Jehan used when listening to his master. "Now that this is all taken care of, you'd best get home. I'll see to the disposal of the powder."

The original Jehan shook his head. His voice cracked as he spoke: "There is another one here, a giff. He has a pistol, as well."

"That is true," said Ladislau, standing by the barrel of smoke powder. The giff's face and topcoat were slick with black blood, and he had lost an eye to the bronzework deva. He aimed the gun at Jehan's duplicate.

"You saw what happened to your ally," said the other Jehan. "Do you think you can hurt me with mere bullets?"

The giff gave a bloody-mouthed smile and said, "No, not with bullets." He aimed the gun at the barrel of purified smoke powder. "Not with bullets," he repeated. "But a single shot will blow us all to our respective afterlives."

The other Jehan took a step forward and snapped his fingers. A single flame appeared and danced at the tip of his index finger. "Run, boy," he said to the battered, original version.

Jehan ran, making long, limping strides. As he cleared the door, he heard the giff shout, "I'm not bluffing."

The other Jehan replied coolly, "Neither am I."

Jehan made it ten, maybe eleven steps past the door when a huge hand grabbed him and pressed him flat against the ground. Then the thunder, this time like a thousand arquebuses firing at once, swept over him and pressed him farther against the cobblestones. Then the heat washed over him in a single blast, pushing past in its rush to escape the alley.

Jehan rose slowly and saw that the warehouse was in flames, the fire already licking up through the broken skylight and setting the roof ablaze. The single entrance was an inferno, and while the walls seemed to have resisted the blast, nothing could live within it.

The other Jehan stepped out through the doorway, unblemished by the explosion, and unsinged by the flames. He looked around, spotting the unsteady youth, and walked toward him. —

As he walked, the duplicate's features changed. He became taller, almost gangly, and his hair changed from Jehan's dark ponytail to an icy blond tint, worn short. Gerald, Anton's friend.

Then he changed again, the blond darkening to a night-black shade, worn free over the shoulders, the face aging and gaining a full beard, black with a white stripe in its center. The shoulders widened, and the wizard's stride became long and measured. Khelben Arunsun, the Black-staff of Waterdeep. The Old Spider.

"Are you all right, child?" asked the elder mage.

Jehan, propped against a wall, managed a weak nod. He noticed that no mind-killing lights danced at the older man's fingertips.

"Good," said the wizard. "Maskar takes a dim view when I get his apprentices damaged, and doubly so when they are his relatives. Of course, he's dismissed apprentices for much less serious crimes than this."

Jehan's mouth finally found purchase. "What…?" he said. "What happened?"

Khelben's mouth formed a thin line. "For what it's worth, you can tell your master that my original plan did not involve you. I had found this little bit of smoke powder, and put the sand in it, hoping to turn up the conspirators. Then as Gerald, I would hang out at the better taverns loudly declaring my anti-elder, pro-powder thoughts, waiting for someone to contact me to solve the little problem I had given them. I did not count on another young whelp making a better case than myself on the use of smoke powder. I did not even know you had been contacted until an abjuration I had placed here warned me that the powder had been purified. At that point, it seemed to make more sense to imitate your appearance, and throw the conspirators off-balance, should they have killed you. My 'Gerald' identity failed to impress them earlier, and I would set them to immediate flight in my natural form, the one you so aptly titled 'skunk-maned.'"

The elder mage paused in his lecture, as if just remembering Jehan was still there, leaking his blood into the wall. He looked at his battered companion and added, "So, child, you still think everyone in Waterdeep should have smoke powder?"

Jehan looked at the flaming wreckage of the warehouse. Already the locals had responded and were forming bucket brigades from nearby cisterns. Everyone was ignoring the two mages-more magic of the Old Spider, no doubt.

"I think," Jehan started, too tired and battered to be properly respectful or afraid, "I think you just can't blow up the future and hide in the past. Somewhere, someone is going to get past you, and you need to be ready for the day. You can't stop progress."

That was when Khelben surprised the young mage. He laughed-a sharp, staccato chuckle. "Ah, so at least we agree on something. You are right: we can't stop progress. Smoke powder, the printed word, new forms of magic-it's all coming. But we can slow it down from a run to a walk, so at least we can be ready for it. So we can be its master, instead of it being ours."

Jehan groaned. "You think the Old Rel… Maskar will dismiss me for this?"

Khelben nodded at the wreckage. "Well, he no longer changes apprentices into newts for forgetting the lemon in his morning tea… but yes, this is pretty serious. I could put a good word in for you. Or perhaps…"

Jehan looked at Khelben, but his eyes refused to focus properly. "Perhaps?" was the best the youth could manage.

"I could use another youth to scrub the pots, sweep the conjuring floor, and learn what snippets of magic I deign to teach. And an adventurous youth would be suitable, since I think my Gerald persona should leave town for a while." The Old Spider chuckled again. "And Maskar would be relieved of having to face your parents with your latest escapade."

Jehan tried to smile, but the effort broke his last bit of willpower. He fell into soft, warm darkness.

The young mage awoke at home, the healer speaking to his parents in the next room in quiet, relaxed tones-the tones of one confident the patient will recover without further interference. Jehan's shoulder and leg were still sore, but it was the soreness of strained muscles and bruises as opposed to ripped and bloodied flesh.

His parents wavered between anger at him risking his life in some damned-fool adventure and pride in the impression he had apparently made on the great Black-staff, who had brought him home and spoken of his heroism. Even now, they said, Khelben was talking with Uncle Maskar about taking Jehan under his wing. Imagine, one of the Wands family learning from the Old Spider himself. But of course, regardless of the outcome, he should not have taken up with that sinister merchant in the first place.

His parents were still trying to determine if they were angry at Jehan or proud of him as he drifted back to sleep.

He awoke much later, having slept through the entire day. Beyond his open window, Waterdeep lay spread out before him with a thousand flickering lights, marching southward toward the sea.

Suddenly there was a series of bright flashes, down by the wharves. A moment passed, then another, then at last the staccato of small explosions reached his ears. Khelben probably had found the rest of the smoke powder stashes, Jehan thought. The ripple of thunder sounded like Khel-ben's chuckle.

Jehan sat there for a long time, looking out over the darkened city, but the effect did not repeat itself. The young mage wondered, Is Khelben rewarding me by making me his apprentice, or punishing me?

Or is he up to something else entirely?

Jehan was still trying to figure this out, the first of many puzzles Blackstaff would pose to him, when sleep finally reclaimed him.