The Howling Delve

Chapter Twenty-One

Garavin Fallstone strode back and forth on a patch of empty air before a large expanse of cavern wall. He held up a taper that had burned down to threaten his thumb and had coated his arm in a waxy cast. He noticed neither circumstance, and continued to read the historical record etched deep into the stone.

The runes were inscribed with the same care and precision taken by a Candlekeep scribe, and Garavin should know. He’d been such a one, though it seemed like a lifetime ago: a scribe, a digger—Deepwarden for his clan. Garavin had worn many mantles, but all of them felt at home in the Earthvault.

The cone-shaped cavern rested far beneath the Marching Mountains. Mages of Shanatar, the ancient kingdom of the shield dwarves, had created it centuries ago. The vault was, to Garavin’s mind, the most impressive archive to be found outside Candlekeep’s doors. From the lowest point, where only worms burrowed, to the highest ridge, the history of the shield dwarves and their great realm unfolded for any of dwarf blood—and only those—to read.

Far below Garavin’s boots, a tawny mastiff with stiff joints slept on the cavern floor, next to an account of the beginning of the shield dwarves’ shattering war with the duergar. Garavin’s satchel and maul rested against Boris haunches, but the mastiff didn’t notice when the emerald in the weapon’s handle began to glow. Only when the stone hummed with gathering power did the dog stir and leap to its feet, and that was more the fault of the huge elemental being that appeared out of the air.

The powerful earth dao, keeper of Earthvault lore, spoke in the Dwarvish tongue.

“What magic do you bring, Garavin Fallstone, once son of Sorn? You disturb the stones.”

“My apologies, Diuthaizos,” Garavin said, bowing respectfully as he floated to the floor. “The Art will do no harm. I will take it above, so as not to offend.”

Nodding regally, the dao floated away, but kept one wary eye on the dwarf and his companion.

Garavin sighed and picked up the glowing green maul. “Well, this trip is looking to be shorter than expected.” He touched the emerald with a crooked finger. “Wonder what the boy wants now, eh?” But he smiled as he said it.

The meager apartment had thick walls. That was the only quality Aazen could recommend about the place. Situated above the vacant storefront of Eromar’s Tailoring, the pair of rooms had frigid floors in the winter and rats scuffling in the walls in the summer. Aazen’s music drowned them out, yet did not carry to the street. He had a cot in the corner with a blanket and a sheet, a chest of drawers, and a washbasin. He had few personal effects to store, save his violin, so the tiny space suited him well.

At peace, lost in his music, Aazen fumbled the bow in a discordant screech when the Cowled Wizard came up the stairs.

Jubair Ardoll looked far too nervous to be a proper wizard, but perhaps it was the secretive nature of his organization that bred the look of rabbit-wariness in his eyes. He wore a large black pearl earring in his left ear and was bald but for two unattractive strips of shorn hair arching over both ears. Most folk assumed he was a former Nelanther pirate. Dressed as a pirate, obviously he must be so. Amnians were not much on imagination unless it earned them coin. They had as little notion of his real occupation as his fellow wizards. Dressed as a wizard, obviously he must be so and nothing more—certainly not an agent of the Shadow Thieves.

Aazen watched impassively as Jubair raised a hand in greeting, then immediately stumbled back with a cry of pain, nearly falling down the steep stairs. A line of blood appeared at each of the wizard’s ankles, dribbling down to stain his gold-threaded slippers.

“Watch the wire,” Aazen suggested.

Jubair stepped over the invisible trap, hurling a stream of curses any pirate would have envied. “You might have warned me, you sick bastard.”

“I wanted to finish my song,” Aazen said, removing the violin from his chin.

Jubair glared at him. “Is your father insane, lad, or merely cow-eyed stupid?” he said without preamble. “The Cowls haven’t stopped murmuring about the incident at Morel’s party. It’s all I can do to steer their eyes away from the streets.”

“I wonder why you bother,” Aazen said, sliding the violin back in its velvet-lined case. “As my father predicted, Chadossa is not pursuing the matter. No evidence points to us. It was simply an unfortunate mishap. These things happen when dealing with arcane magic,” he said, “as any Amnian will rush to assure you.”

“And you know as well as I the horse dung that drips from merchants’ mouths,” Jubair said, his face reddening. Magic intolerance was one of the few things that could stir the man to anger. “The thing’s face melted, Kortrun, is what they’re saying. They had to scrape it off Morel’s floor.”

“I take it, then, the Cowls will not let the matter rest?” Aazen asked, “despite your best efforts?”

Jubair rubbed his pearl between two fingers, looking ruffled. “There have been inquiries. I’ve managed to convince most of them to let me look into the matter, but I have to give them something, a scapegoat preferably. You have to tell your father—get him to see reason. If he continues to act recklessly, the whole operation could be exposed. That will be you and me,” he said, flapping his hands in the air between them. “Daen won’t go down for this, but he’ll see that your father does.” And soon after, his corpse will be cooling on my floor, Aazen thought, but he didn’t speak the sentiment aloud. “I’ll talk to him. We’ll have something for you soon.”

Jubair nodded, appeased. His gaze fell on Aazen’s instrument. “I didn’t know you played,” he said, eyeing Aazen curiously.

“Mind the other wire on your way out,” Aazen replied, putting the case away in the bottom drawer of the bureau.

Jubair looked stricken. “The other wire?”

“I set it at neck level. Most people who enter my rooms uninvited end up with an extra air hole in their throats,” Aazen told him. “Fortunately, you’re smaller than most. Don’t find me here again, Jubair,” he said over the wizard’s outraged sputtering. “This is my private space, away from my father, away from the Cowled Wizards, and away from the Shadow Thieves.”

Still fuming, Jubair maneuvered his body carefully across the threshold in a half-crouch. “Do you truly believe any place is private from Daen?” he scoffed, his eyes alight with taunting amusement. “The Shadow Thieves are your family now, except they’re larger, more dangerous, and more vindictive than most. If you didn’t want that, you shouldn’t have signed on alongside your father.”

I had no choice, Aazen thought. He remembered the Harper down in the Delve, the woman he’d allowed to bleed to death because the Shadow Thieves—his father—demanded it.

He thought of Kall. He knew his friend had survived the battle with the broken magic item. He hadn’t been worried about Kall’s safety, but he regretted the incident had to happen in Morel’s house. It would have been better if he had not allowed Kall to see him. His friend surely suspected his involvement in the murder. More than that, if Kall decided to pursue the matter, he could pick up the trail far easier than the Gem Guard or the Cowls. If he suspected the trail might lead to Balram, Kall would follow it to the Abyss and back. No, the Cowled Wizards didn’t concern Aazen. Kall was the threat to fear.

Aazen wondered if he should mention to his father just whose roof Varan’s broken toy had ended up under. Doubtless he would find the irony upsetting. No. Balram would find out soon enough. Then he would tell Aazen what to do about it. Aazen had no doubt that if it became necessary, his father would make him deal with Kall and his allies personally.

I have no choice, he repeated, speaking to Kall in his mind. He reached again for his music.

The Silver Market was held, appropriately enough, in the Silver Ward in the Jade District; it was also called Selune’s Market, for it took place at night during the warmer months. The market was the Jade District’s answer to the Jewelers’ Quarter, where the largest concentration of jewelry in Keczulla was made. But Selune’s Market was fast gaining a reputation as the place for up-and-coming merchants. Whether it was jewelry, loose gems, or elaborate, jewel-bedecked clothing one wished for, the Silver Market was the place to spot new talent and possible future competition.

Dantane rounded a corner, weaving between two comely lasses in low-cut gowns who offered him trays of sugared peaches.

Cooking vendors had set up stalls along the ends of the avenues, so that you couldn’t cross one street onto another without being intoxicated by the scents of fresh fruit and spices.

Dantane crossed a back alley and froze as a group of gray shadows detached themselves from the buildings. Wraiths, he thought in disgust. He had no time for this.

Keczulla knew its share of poverty. The wealthier merchant families contributed generously to providing homes for orphaned children, as a way of showing off their vast fortunes, but some youths could not be tamed by civilization. These half-feral children, the Wraiths, roamed the night markets in packs, stealing food and purses largely by surrounding easy marks and overwhelming them with sheer numbers, plucking, biting, and scratching until the unfortunate soul gave up and surrendered any belongings of worth.

Their bodies were emaciated, smeared in mud to protect them from the sun. They shaved their heads with crude knives to keep away lice. Sometimes their appearance alone was enough to have folk fumbling at their purse strings.

Dantane was not impressed. He turned to the encroaching maggots and hissed a spell. His hand glowed brightly, spitting sparks that hissed as they struck the mud-covered bodies. The Wraiths halted their charge and scattered to the far sides of the alley. No matter how hungry or desperate they were, none of them wanted to battle a wizard.

Eddricles waited for him beside one of the beer wagons, scowling fiercely when a plump-faced man tried to offer him a sample. He stood examining a belt strung with multiple gold chains. He wrinkled his nose critically.

“Paint is never going to conceal the fact you’ve only gold enough to make half a belt. I suggest you reduce the number of chains—twelve is hopelessly gaudy—or sell belts to starving ladies.” He tossed the belt back at its red-faced owner and rounded on Dantane. “I detest charity work,” he said, by way of a greeting. “Speaking of which, you, my boy, are fortunate I’m in a good humor. Walk with me, but not too close. I don’t want anyone to think I like you.”

Dantane reluctantly fell into step beside the moneychanger. It was said Eddricles could determine the value of a gem without the aid of a glass. Dantane suspected the man’s extraordinary vision was due more to the fact that he was also a wizard, but he’d never asked Eddricles to confirm or deny the theory. In the moneychanger-wizard’s presence, one tended to listen, plead, or weep. Dantane listened.

“The next time you send me a missive, please don’t bother to include the words: magic, portal, sorcerers, or Morel—gods, especially Morel. Do you know what they’re saying about the whelp?” He didn’t bother to let Dantane answer. “They say he employs a wizard, a wizard who murdered a bard at the man’s own party and blew the top of one of his towers off.” He whirled abruptly, forcing Dantane to sidestep. “Do you happen to know what fool wizard is begging from Morel’s table these days? What a bountiful feast it must be!”

“No one knows who I am,” Dantane said calmly, speaking for the first time.

“They’d bloody well better not!” Eddricles stormed. The normally aloof moneychanger was as agitated as Dantane—and perhaps the whole of Faerûn—had ever seen him. “You and Morel have been rutting all over the lives of respectable wizards in this city. We haven’t been able to meet in safety since Morel returned.”

Eddricles and several other Keczullan wizards met often in secret to share magic and discuss their craft without threat of molestation. Dantane knew they feared their own activities coming to light in the wake of Morel’s string of tragedies.

“I did not murder the bard,” Dantane said as they resumed their walk. “And you should know the woman was not a bard, nor a woman at all, but a powerful merchant’s son, one who dabbled too deeply in magic he did not understand.”

“Hells, Dantane, you’ve just described every young family in Amn. They’re all delving into business they shouldn’t be.”

Dantane scowled. “I was not aware the merchants or the Council of Six made any exceptions where their hatred of magic was concerned.”

“Oh, they don’t, and neither did those young hotheads like the one you scraped off Morel’s floor. Not at first. When the corpses were still cooling from the plagues, the families who’d lost all were ready to grab any wizard and tear him to pieces. Likely some of them did too. Publicly, the grudge against the arcane still stands. But much as Amn would like to live in a comfortable, xenophobic nest, wider Faerûn encroaches. The Sythillisian Empire is a reality, and the truce will never last. Amn needs power and allies, and these allies will scoff at the notion of a society fighting wars without using killing magic—as well they should.

“But more than that is the inevitable cycle of time. These young merchants and their children are fascinated by the things their parents have forbidden them. It will be many more years before the plagues are forgotten, but I wager you’re seeing the start of it right now, with these magic items.”

“Do you know where they’re coming from?” Dantane asked as they passed in the shadow of a dressmaker’s tent. “The magic items? Are the Shadow Thieves running the operation?”

Eddricles considered the question. “If the items are as powerful as you claim, the Shadow Thieves had better have a hand in their distribution. They may be extortionists and cutthroats, but at least they have the resources to handle such magic.”

“Not this time, if the debacle at Morel’s party is any indication,” said Dantane. “What about the portal?”

Eddricles laughed loudly. The sound was disconcerting, as if he lacked sufficient practice in the action. “Do you think me an idiot, boy?”

Dantane wisely kept his silence.

“Do you believe I will give you information on one of the best-kept secrets of one of our most powerful merchant families without the guarantee you’ll make it well worth my while?” Eddricles pulled Dantane to one side of the avenue, where the crowd was sparse. He hustled the wizard close by the collar of his robes and spoke rapidly into his ear.

Dantane listened and nodded. “It can be done. I’ve had assurances from Morel.”

The moneychanger rolled his eyes, clearly not happy, but he nodded agreement. He spoke again, softly, so Dantane had to strain to hear him. He managed to catch the most important word, and his eyes widened.

“Bladesmile.”