Waterdeep

15 City of Splendors

After breaking free of the ice and spending a long night next to a small fire, Kelemvor had left the High Moor and walked to the caravan road on his frozen feet. At the roadside, he had stopped and built a roaring fire, then sat down to wait for the blaze to attract help.

While his feet thawed, Kelemvor had puzzled over what to do. Midnight had fallen into the underground stream, and he had no idea what had become of her after that. But it had seemed that the mage’s chances of survival were as great as his own, especially if she had called on her magic. Therefore, the fighter had decided to assume she was alive.

Still, Kelemvor had had no idea what Midnight might do. She might have tried to recover the tablet from the zombies, if she even knew that it had been lost. If not, the mage would have tried to go to the Realm of the Dead to recover the other tablet. There had also been the possibility that Midnight thought he was dead, in which case Kelemvor had not had the faintest idea what she would do.

The warrior had quickly realized he could not predict Midnight’s actions. The only thing he knew for sure was that she would eventually go to Waterdeep.

After reaching that conclusion, the fighter had considered trying to recover the tablet from the zombies. But, alone, without a weapon and disabled by frostbite, there would have been no chance of success. Besides, given the way the undead had pursued the tablet, Kelemvor had suspected the zombies were no longer at Dragonspear Castle. They had probably already fled toward their master, and the warrior had not had the vaguest idea where he might be hiding.

In the end, he had decided to go to Waterdeep. There, he would wait for Midnight. If she did not show up, he would recruit help and start out in search of the tablet and his lover.

Fortunately, the fighter had finished his plans before his feet thawed. When sensation had returned, it had been impossible for the fighter to think of anything but pain. He had felt as though he’d stepped into a vat of boiling water, and the torment had continued unabated for twenty-four hours.

A company of ten fast-moving riders had come by in the middle of the warrior’s agony. They had loaned Kelemvor a spare horse and invited him to accompany them to Waterdeep.

A day and a half later, they had come across the remains of the Roosting Gryphon Inn. For no apparent reason, the inhabitants had been slaughtered. The company had puzzled over this until a rider found the proprietor’s bloodless body. Immediately, the merchants had attributed the carnage to a vampire. But Kelemvor had voiced a suspicion that the attackers were the same zombies that had fallen upon his company at Dragonspear Castle.

Seven days later, camped half a mile off the road, the merchants had discovered the fighter was correct. In the middle of the night, a dozen zombies had wandered into camp, slaying the sentry and half the company before they realized what was happening. Kelemvor, recognizing the zombies’ striped robes, had grabbed a sword and tried to organize a defense. But the merchants had panicked, and those who did not perish had fled into the night. The warrior, still limping from frostbite, had made his way to a horse and escaped.

That had been three days ago. Since then, he had been playing an exhausting game of cat and mouse with the zombies. The undead were traveling toward Waterdeep, but were avoiding the road in a clumsy attempt at secrecy. Every now and then, Kelemvor rode close to them to make sure they were still moving to the northwest. The zombies kept tabs on him with scouts, and had tried to ambush him several times. The extent of their success was that the fighter had not slept since the attack on the merchants.

Kelemvor’s lack of sleep had taken its toll. As his horse cantered along the road, he had to concentrate on the countryside to stay awake. To the right, a vast, snow-covered plain extended as far as the eye could see. Somewhere out there, Kelemvor knew, were the zombies. To his left lay a brown ribbon of sand that could only be the Sword Coast. Beyond the coast, a glistening, azure plain of water stretched to the far horizon: the Sea of Swords.

The road topped a small hill and the horse stopped of its own accord, then snorted and stomped its foreleg. Kelemvor leaned down to pat its neck, then noticed his mount had smashed some scaled thing. The fighter’s first thought was that the scales belonged to a snake, but then he saw fins and gills.

It was a fish.

Kelemvor looked down the road. On the other side of the hill, thousands of wriggling, flopping forms, all crawling inland, covered the plain. It was as if the sea had suddenly become undesirable and the fish were moving inland in pursuit of better water. Though he found the sight disconcerting, the warrior was not frightened. Like almost everyone in the Realms, Kelemvor had become accustomed to such strange sights.

Besides, from the top of the hill, he could see Waterdeep. The road ran for only one more mile, ending at a fortified gate that sat, almost, on the beach of the Sword Coast. To the gate’s south lay the Sea of Swords, dotted here and there with the sails of great cargo ships. To the north, a small escarpment, no more than a few feet high, rose from the white prairie. As the slope continued east, it grew both steeper and higher, until it could properly be considered a cliff over much of its length.

Atop this cliff ran a high city wall, dotted at regular intervals by sturdy towers. It was broken only in the center of the escarpment, where the cliff was so tall and steep that no man could possibly scale it. Behind the wall, a hundred stalwart towers proudly held their turrets just high enough to be visible from outside the city. The fighter had no doubt that, at long last, he was looking upon the City of Splendors.

Beyond Waterdeep, a small mountain lifted its crown seven hundred feet above the plains, watching over the city bearing its name. At the top of Mount Waterdeep stood a lone tower, around which flocked birds of enormous size. Even from this distance, Kelemvor could see their bodies and the shape of their wings.

The fighter urged his horse forward. It moved reluctantly, picking its way through the fish migration as though walking down a muddy street and not wanting to soil its hooves.

As he neared the gate, Kelemvor saw that the huge birds over Waterdeep were not birds at all. While they had the wings and heads of great eagles, their bodies and feet were those of lions. They were griffons, and upon their backs they carried men. The fighter could not help but imagine how much easier his journey would have been if his company had possessed such mounts.

In his weariness, Kelemvor was so absorbed by the griffons that, when his horse suddenly stopped, he almost did not realize he had reached the gate. Two men-at-arms stood in front of him, both wearing black scale mail embossed with an upturned, gold crescent moon surrounded by nine silver stars. Behind them stood another man, this one wearing a mixture of green leather and black chain mail, with only the gold crescent moon for a device. Over a dozen similarly dressed men stood in the gate, attending to other travelers.

“Halt and state your name and your business,” said the first guard. He avoided stepping too close to the grimy warrior. Though accustomed to unbathed travelers, this one appeared more sullied than normal.

“Kelemvor Lyonsbane,” the fighter sighed. He knew he smelled bad. Being cold, hungry, dirty, and exhausted, he suspected he looked even worse.

“And what’s your business?”

Kelemvor began to chuckle. The only response that came to mind was that he had come to save the world. He wondered if the guards would believe him.

The other guard stepped forward, irritated by what he perceived as disrespect. “What’s so funny?”

Kelemvor bit his lip, trying not to laugh. The euphoria of exhaustion had settled over him and he found it difficult to control his mirth. “Nothing. I’m sorry. There are these zombies that I was following—”

The two guards snickered, but the man wearing green armor stepped forward. “Zombies?” he asked. His employer had told him there might be trouble with zombies in the weeks to come.

“They attacked us and killed one of my friends,” Kelemvor responded.

“Your name again?” the guard asked.

“Kelemvor Lyonsbane.” The fighter realized he sounded incoherent, if not completely insane.

The guard’s eyes widened. This was one of the people for whom he was waiting. “Where are the other two—Midnight and Adon of Sune?”

“I told you,” Kelemvor yelled, suddenly angry at having to repeat himself. Though he knew his moods were a result of his fatigue, he could not control them. “Zombies attacked us! Adon’s dead and Midnight’s gone! She’ll be here somewhere—I’ve got to find her!”

“Relax—you’re safe now,” the guard said, realizing his employer would be more adept at handling the traveler’s incoherence. “I’m Ylarell. We’ve been expecting you.”

“You have?” Kelemvor asked. His mind abruptly shifted gears. “There are zombies out there—you’ve got to find them!”

“We will,” Ylarell murmured. “The zombies won’t hurt you in here. Now come with me—there’s somebody who wants to see you.” The guard took the reins to Kelemvor’s horse and led the way through the gate.

After passing through a vacant plaza of snow-covered grass, Ylarell led the fighter to another wall. He said a few words to the guards here, and then took Kelemvor into the city proper. Though the warrior had seen many cities in his time, Waterdeep’s size and magnificence stunned him. The streets bustled with carts and pedestrians, all intent on some task that must have seemed important to them. The briny odor of the harbor drifted over the rooftops on the left, where sturdy warehouses were interspersed with shabby tenements. To the right, a thicket of inns and stables stood shoulder to shoulder, packed so close Kelemvor did not see how caravans reached the ones deeper in the ward.

As they passed farther into the city, merchant shops and fine inns lined the streets. Then they entered a residential neighborhood, where grand houses and even a villa or two stood along winding avenues. Finally, Ylarell stopped before a large tower.

“Whom may I say is calling?” The voice came from the base of the tower, though Kelemvor saw no window or door there.

“Ylarell of the Watch, with Kelemvor Lyonsbane.”

A door suddenly appeared where none had been before, and a tall, black-haired man stepped out of the tower. “Well met, Kelemvor! I am Blackstaff Arunsun, friend and ally of Elminster. Where are your companions?”

Ylarell interceded on Kelemvor’s behalf. “He’s in bad shape, milord.”

Blackstaff nodded in understanding and retreated into the tower. “Bring him in.”

Ylarell helped Kelemvor dismount and took him into a small sitting room. A moment later, Blackstaff led another man into the room. Though ancient, the second man looked every bit as robust as Blackstaff. A full head of hair and a beard as heavy as a lion’s mane framed his sharp-featured face.

“Elminster!” Kelemvor growled. In his exhausted state, the fighter had no trouble blaming the ancient sage for the hardships he and his friends had endured. It was apparent to the warrior that Elminster had reached Waterdeep well ahead of him and with a lot less trouble.

“I ought to slit you gizzard to gullet!” Kelemvor snarled.

“I lack the gizzard,” Elminster replied, not intimidated. “Now tell me what has become of thy friends.”

Kelemvor related the events that had occurred at Dragonspear Castle, making the necessary digressions to explain about Bhaal and Cyric. When he finished, both Blackstaff and Elminster sat in dumfounded silence, pondering the effect of the fighter’s report upon their plans.

Finally, Elminster groaned in frustration. He had not counted on Midnight finding her own entrance into Myrkul’s realm. “If she went after the second tablet alone, the Realms may be in serious trouble.”

Kelemvor was heartened by Elminster’s unspoken assumption that Midnight had survived the underground stream. But he was far from encouraged by the sage’s concern about Midnight going after the second tablet alone.

Blackstaff stood, already formulating a plan to control the damage. “Ylarell, fetch Gower and meet us at the Yawning Portal Inn. Then gather a patrol to look for the zombies who attacked Kelemvor—we’ll need to recover that tablet right away.”

Elminster also stood. “The Pool of Loss, my friend?”

Blackstaff nodded. “Gower will show us the way.”

The two mages did not say any more. They both knew what had to be done. Located deep under Mount Waterdeep, the Pool of Loss was the closest access well to Myrkul’s realm. They were going into Hades to retrieve Midnight and the tablet—if that were still possible. Elminster and Blackstaff quickly turned to leave without any further explanation.

Kelemvor wondered if they had forgotten he was in the room. “Wait for me!” he demanded.

Blackstaff regarded the fighter with equal parts of aggravation and forbearance. “This is beyond you, friend. You’ve done well to get this far.”

“I’m coming,” Kelemvor replied, irritated at being patronized.

“You’re barely coherent!” Blackstaff objected.

“I’ll follow you anyway,” the warrior threatened.

Blackstaff looked to Elminster, who studied Kelemvor with cool scrutiny. “He might prove useful,” the sage said at last. “Give him a restorative.”

Blackstaff lifted his hand and a vial of murky green fluid appeared. He gave the potion to Kelemvor, then noted, “This will numb your fatigue … for a while.”

Though curious about the vial’s contents, Kelemvor did not ask. The wizards were obviously not in a cooperative mood, and he thought it wiser to save his questions for more important things. The fighter drank the potion down. As Blackstaff had promised, he immediately felt refreshed.

Without paying Kelemvor any more attention, the two mages walked south through a maze of twisting alleys and streets, stopping only when they reached a sizable inn. The sign over the door read “The Yawning Portal.”

Blackstaff and Elminster entered and, oblivious to the attention of the patrons, went directly into the office. Kelemvor followed, taking a seat at the office’s single table. Without being asked, a serving wench brought them each a mug of ale, then left and closed the door.

The owner of the Yawning Portal was a retired, prudent warrior named Durnan the Wanderer. Unknown to his patrons, Kelemvor, and anybody in the room except Blackstaff and Elminster, Durnan was one of the mysterious Lords of Waterdeep, the secret democratic council that governed the city.

As with Durnan himself, there was more to the name of his inn than met the eye. “Yawning Portal” was a tongue-in-cheek reference to the tendency of those who indulged in the tavern’s fare to tell tall tales. But the name also referred to a deep shaft, resembling an indoor well, which led into the caverns beneath Mount Waterdeep. That shaft was why Blackstaff had brought his guests here, despite Kelemvor’s assumption that this was just where they would meet Gower—whoever Gower was.

Blackstaff and Elminster sat without speaking, so Kelemvor did not break their silence. Their bearing awed him, but he also thought they were being impolite to a man who had crossed the Realms at their behest. It did not matter, though. They represented his only chance of rejoining Midnight, and he would gladly endure their rudeness to see her again.

Ten minutes later, a stocky, broad-shouldered man entered the office. Ylarell and a ruby-nosed dwarf followed him. Not bothering with introductions, Blackstaff addressed the dwarf. “Gower, you’re going to guide us to the Pool of Loss.”

The dwarf sighed. “It’ll cost you.”

“Thy price?” inquired Elminster suspiciously, well accustomed to the dwarven tendency to overvalue service.

“Fifteen—no, make it twenty—mugs of ale,” Gower responded, deciding he might as well try for a large fee.

“Done,” Blackstaff answered, knowing Durnan would cover the fee without mention of repayment. “But only after we return. We need you sober.”

“Seven now—”

“One before we leave, and that’s final,” Blackstaff grumbled. He turned to the broad-shouldered man. “Durnan, may we use your well?”

Durnan nodded. “Would you like some company into the pool?”

Elminster, who knew of Durnan’s prowess, turned to Blackstaff. “If he’s as good with the sword as he claims—”

Durnan snorted at Elminster’s coyness. “I’ll fetch my blade and Gower’s mug.”

Blackstaff led the way into the next room, which contained an indoor well. Durnan met them there with Gower’s ale, a glittering sword, a coil of rope, and a half-dozen torches. After giving torches to everyone and lighting his own from the lamp on the wall, Durnan stuck a foot into the well’s bucket. “Let me down slowly, Ylarell. I haven’t been in here for some time.”

Ylarell lowered Durnan into the well. Blackstaff followed, then Elminster and Gower. Finally, Kelemvor put a foot into the bucket and grabbed the rope.

“Lower away,” the fighter said.

Ylarell began cranking, and Kelemvor descended into the dark shaft for several minutes. Ten feet above the bottom of the well, Blackstaff reached out of a side tunnel and pulled the fighter toward him. Kelemvor stepped out, then Blackstaff turned to the dwarf and said, “Lead on, Gower.”

Not even bothering with a torch, Gower started down the tunnel. Durnan followed next, then the two mages, and Kelemvor brought up the rear. They descended into a labyrinth of half-collapsed dwarven tunnels and natural passages. On occasion, the company was forced to wade through steaming water, sometimes so deep Durnan had to carry Gower to keep the dwarf’s head dry. Finally, they reached a slick passage that dropped into the darkness at an uncomfortable angle. Kelemvor was sure that if someone fell onto it, he would slide all the way to the bottom.

Thinking the same thing, Durnan said, “I’ll tie off the rope and we can use it to descend.”

“Nonsense,” Gower said, sitting down at the edge of the steep passage. “We don’t need a rope for this.”

With that, he pushed himself forward and slid into the darkness.

Durnan, Elminster, and Blackstaff gave each other challenging glances, but hesitated to follow. Finally, Elminster put his hand on a boulder and said, “Ye could secure the rope to this.”

Durnan tied the rope off, then the company followed Gower into the steep passage. The dwarf waited at the bottom, a condescending smirk on his face. The corridor had emerged in cathedral-like room so large the torches did not light the ceiling or the far side. The glowing, white spectres of hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of people were drifting aimlessly about the cavern.

“The Pool of Loss is over there,” Gower said, pointing toward the middle of the room. “But there’s something strange going on.”

“What are those?” Kelemvor asked, nodding at the strange silhouettes.

Elminster did not bother to answer. His attention was fixed on the shimmering dome of scintillating lights that Gower had pointed to.

Blackstaff looked at Elminster. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yes,” Elminster said, returning Blackstaff’s gaze.

They both looked back to the dome.

“What? What are you thinking?” Kelemvor demanded, poking his head between the two wizards.

As usual, the mages did not answer, but they both suspected that the shimmering globe was a prismatic sphere, one of the most powerful defensive spells a magic-user could cast. They were trying to figure out what it was doing down here.

An instant later, again without saying anything, they started toward the dome. Durnan, Gower, and Kelemvor followed, though Durnan and Gower were much less apprehensive than Kelemvor. They had worked with Blackstaff before and were confident that if it was important for them to know something, he would tell them.

When the company reached the dome, they saw that it sat within a small stone-walled pool. It appeared to be a sphere with the bottom half hidden from view. The fit was so precise that there was not the slightest gap between the stone wall and the shimmering globe. The sphere continually flashed in a pattern of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet, as though it were a striped ball spinning on its axis.

The mages circled the well for several more minutes, inspecting the dome first closely, then from farther away. Finally, Blackstaff asked, “What do you make of it?”

Elminster frowned and turned to Kelemvor. “Could this be Midnight’s work?”

The fighter shrugged. He had no idea what the globe was or whether Midnight could have created it or not. “All I can tell you is that she was growing more powerful all the time. She once—” He searched for the word the mage had used to describe plucking them from one place and depositing them in another. “She once ‘teleported’ four of us halfway from Boareskyr Bridge to Dragonspear Castle.”

Elminster’s eyes widened. “She did?”

“Then she could have cast this,” Blackstaff concluded.

Inside the sphere, Midnight had been resting for hours. The magic-user was recovering from performing the worldwalk and prismatic sphere incantations in quick succession. She was completely unaware that help had arrived. The deafening screams and howls of a thousand enraged denizens were drowning out the voices of Elminster and company.

Fortunately, noise was the only thing that had entered the globe. Several denizens had flung themselves against the sphere or tried to assail it with spells. Each time, Midnight had heard a cry of pain or anger as the sphere directed an attack back at its originator.

As long as the sphere remained up, both Midnight and the Realms were safe from the denizens. But the spell would expire soon, and the mage feared it would take most of the strength she had recovered to recast it. While this would keep her safe and the denizens out of the Realms for a little while longer, it was only a short-term solution.

And Midnight did not dare leave the sphere until she countered Myrkul’s trap. Until then, the tablet had to stay inside the sphere. Otherwise, she could be creating a passageway for the denizens between Myrkul’s realm and wherever she went.

Then, with a start, the mage realized she could use a permanency incantation to indefinitely prolong the prismatic sphere. The gestures and words came to mind easily. It would be as wearing as renewing the sphere, but at least it only had to be done once.

With a sigh, Midnight performed the incantation. The effort drained her, but not completely. Within eight hours or so, she would have the strength to overcome the magic Myrkul had placed on the tablet.

Back outside the sphere, Kelemvor and the other four rescuers were still puzzled.

“These things don’t last forever,” Blackstaff was saying. “And if Midnight cast it, she’s probably around here somewhere.”

“Yes—undoubtedly inside,” Elminster said. “That’s what prismatic spheres are designed for.”

“She’s inside that thing?” Kelemvor exclaimed. He started toward it, but Durnan quickly restrained him.

“No, my friend,” Durnan said. “If you touch it, you won’t be fit to feed to the dogs.”

“Then how do we get her out?” Kelemvor cried.

“Perhaps we don’t want to,” Elminster sighed, running a hand through his beard. “The mage who casts a prismatic sphere can enter or leave at will. If Midnight is inside, there’s a reason.”

“Then what do we do?” Kelemvor demanded.

“We let her know we’re here,” Blackstaff said. “When I count to three, let’s all shout her name.”

Their shout might have worked, if not for the cacophony of denizens’ screams on the side of the sphere facing Myrkul’s city. As it was, however, their voices were lost in the maelstrom of noise, and Midnight never knew her name had been called.

Next, the company tried throwing things into the sphere: bits of clothes, stones, rings. Nothing got through. More often than not, the sphere hurled the items back at whoever had thrown them. Blackstaff even tried to penetrate the globe with a telepathy spell, but it either misfired or the sphere repelled it. The bearded mage was stunned into dumfounded shock for twenty minutes. Kelemvor found Blackstaff’s silence a welcome respite from the wizard’s condescending manner.

“Well, Elminster, what do we do now?” Kelemvor asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“We wait,” Elminster replied. “The thing will fall after an hour or two.”

So they sat down to wait. Eventually, a few soul spectres drifted over and idly gossiped with Elminster and Blackstaff, but Kelemvor, Durnan, and Gower superstitiously avoided speaking with the dead. Several times, one of the silhouettes found itself unable to resist the call of the Pool and tried to enter despite the sphere. In each instance, it was repelled or disappeared in a white flash.

Four hours later, Blackstaff stood. “This is ridiculous! Nobody can keep a prismatic sphere up this long!”

“Apparently Midnight can,” Elminster observed.

“I’m going to dismantle it!” Blackstaff declared.

“That might not be wise,” the elder mage replied. “Even if ye cast all the spells without a misfire, we dare not risk eliminating the sphere without knowledge of why she cast it.”

“You can dismantle the sphere?” Kelemvor asked. He stood and rushed to Blackstaff’s side.

“Yes,” Elminster explained. “It’s a most complicated and tedious procedure.”

“Tell me about it,” Kelemvor demanded. Like Blackstaff, he was tired of waiting.

“Very well,” Elminster sighed. “It appears we have nothing better to do at the moment. A prismatic sphere is in reality seven magical spheres, each providing a defense against different attacks.”

“To dismantle one,” Blackstaff interrupted, “you must cast a cone of cold to destroy the red sphere, which defends against mundane missiles like arrows, spears—”

“And rocks with messages on them!” Kelemvor finished.

“Precisely,” Blackstaff said. “Next, you must use a gust of wind to—”

“We don’t need to dismantle the whole sphere,” Kelemvor exclaimed.

Blackstaff frowned, irritated by the interruption.

Kelemvor ignored the mage, then continued, “All you have to do is negate the first sphere. Then we can throw something inside to get Midnight’s attention.”

Elminster looked doubtful. “I don’t like—”

“What other choice do we have?” Durnan said, expressing an opinion for the first time. “We can’t stay down here forever. I have a business to run!”

“Very well,” Elminster sighed, reaching into his robe and pulling out one of his distinctive meerschaum pipes. He gave it to Kelemvor. “She should recognize this—try not to break it. If ye will do the honors, Blackstaff?”

“With pleasure,” the mage replied.

Inside the sphere, Midnight had just identified the nature of Myrkul’s trap. He had combined powerful variations of locate object and hold portal spells to ensure that his denizens could always follow wherever the tablet was taken. In effect, the locate object spell served as a beacon marking the tablet’s location, and the hold portal spell prevented the thief from closing his escape route.

Fortunately, Midnight’s prismatic sphere had not closed her escape route, it had merely blocked it. She could leave and the denizens could not follow. Because she had used an incantation to make the sphere permanent, it would never fall. In effect, the door between Myrkul’s city and the Realms remained permanently open, but the hallway had been filled with an impassable obstruction.

As Midnight contemplated her discovery, something flew into the globe and landed in her lap. She jumped to her feet and nearly stepped out into the waiting hands of Myrkul’s denizens.

Then the raven-haired mage picked up the object and discovered that it was a clay pipe—a distinctive, familiar clay pipe.

Outside the sphere, everyone was breathing a little easier because Blackstaff’s spell had not misfired. Also, Kelemvor had tossed Elminster’s pipe into the sphere without it rebounding.

“What if she doesn’t recognize your pipe?” Kelemvor asked.

At that moment, Midnight stepped out of the sphere, the tablet in one hand and Elminster’s pipe in the other. “Does this belong to one of you?” she asked.

“Midnight!” Kelemvor whooped.

They rushed into each other’s arms and embraced—but not before Elminster snatched his pipe back.

For a long, uncomfortable minute, Blackstaff, Elminster, Durnan, and Gower waited while the reunited lovers kissed and hugged each other. Finally, when it became apparent the pair was oblivious to the presence of others, Elminster cleared his throat.

“Perhaps we should attend to the business at hand?” he suggested.

Midnight and Kelemvor reluctantly separated.

Addressing Midnight and pointing at the sphere, Elminster said, “Perhaps ye would care to explain why ye’ve been hiding inside that thing for the better part of a day?”

“Not here,” Gower insisted. “I’m thirsty—and you owe me nineteen mugs of ale!”

“One moment, Gower,” Blackstaff said impatiently. “Is it safe to leave?”

Midnight nodded. “Oh, yes,” she replied. “We can leave now. The sphere is permanent.”

Both Elminster and Blackstaff raised an eyebrow.

“There—you see?” the dwarf said. “Let’s go.”

With that, Gower started toward the exit. Realizing they could not find their own way back to Durnan’s tavern, the others reluctantly followed, barraging Midnight with questions as they walked.