Elaine Cunningham - The Best of the Realms, Book I

The adulation was so intense that none-not even thegod-man Paramore himself-saw Horace's flashing axe blade until it emerged redfrom the knight's gurgling throat.

Jeff Grubb

As I sat on the balcony of the Nauseous Otyugh in Scornubel,suspended between the hangover of the previous evening and the one that was yetto come, I meditated on the phrase "should have stayed in bed." Soundadvice, probably postulated first by some spell-flinger after a particularlybad morning of fireballing and lightning bolting and whatnot.

Of course, it did me little good since I was in bedthe night before when everything went south. Except me, of course.

Let me explain. It was a little before three bells,and Tertius Wands, yours truly, was blissfully asleep in my quarters at theOtyugh, third floor stateroom with an odorous view of the stables. The Otyughis one of the new establishments that have popped up after the last Volo'sGuide. As a result of Volo's work in popularizing certain locations to travelers,those locations have ceased to be popular to natives, necessitating new inns,dives, and hangouts for adventurers to hang out in. Ampi had at one timesuggested that it would be advantageous to follow Volo around, opening new innsin his wake, as the ones he talks about are soon filled to the bursting withwarriors and wizards carrying his dratted little tomes.

But I digress. I was setting the scene, dressing thestage, laying the groundwork. Three bells. Bedroom. Otyugh. Then the ceilingexploded.

Well, it did not exactly explode, but the thunderousboom from above was akin to a roof collapsing. I sat bolt upright, and noticedthat the bed itself, a stout four-poster of ironwood, was shimmying and jumpinglike a nervous carrion crawler. Every loose article in the room, from thechamber pot to the steel mirror, joined in this vibrating dance of doom.

I did what any rational man would do-I hid beneath thecovers and promised whatever gods would listen that I would never touch Dragon'sBreath Beer and death cheese again.

"Tertius Wands!" thundered a frighteninglyfamiliar voice from the direction of the ceiling.

I popped an eye over the edge of the blanket and sawGranduncle Maskar's fiery head. I did not doubt that his head was stillattached to his body back in Waterdeep, and he was sending an astral whatsit ora phantasmal thingamabob to address me. At the moment, I was too frightened tocare.

Bravely, I faced the mightiest mage of Waterdeep.

"It wasn't my fault!" I shouted, pulling thebed sheets back over my head and hoping I could be heard clearly. "Ididn't know she was a priestess of Sune! No one told me about that festhall!I'm innocent!"

"Never mind that!" boomed my granduncle."I have something important for you to do!"

I peeked over the edge of my covers and managed akitten-weak, "Me?"

"You," snarled my uncle, his displeasureregistering fully on his face. "I had a magical artifact, a remnant of powerfulNetheril, which has been stolen from me."

"I didn't do it!" I quickly put in."Have you checked with Cousin Marcus? He's always picking up things thatdon't belong to-"

"Silence!" bellowed the fiery, god-sizedhead floating over my bedpost. "I know who took it-a thief named theRaven, who is heading your way. I want you to get it back. The device lookslike three glass spheres, one set floating within the next. Bring it back tome, and you can return to the City of Splendors!"

"Well, that's just it, then," I ventured."I was thinking about taking up a life on the open road, and. ."

"Find the Tripartite Orb of Hangrist," saidthe phantasmal granduncle, "and find it now!"

And with that, Maskar's head exploded in a cascade offireworks, which succeeded in leaving scorch marks along the wall andshattering the water pitcher. Granduncle Maskar was never one for quiet exits.In fact, in all the years I've known and avoided him, he's never used the dooronce.

In my nightshirt, I rose unsteadily from my bed andpicked up the shattered pitcher. Any thought that I could write this off tosome cheese-induced delirium or nightmare was in as many shards as thepottery. Granduncle Maskar wanted something, and wanted me to get it.

And one does not disappoint one's granduncle, particularlywhen that granduncle could turn one into a toad.

So I whistled up my genie, Ampratines. Well, whistledis a bad word. I more rubbed him up, running my finger over the ring andcalling him into being.

Let me make this quite clear: I lack the least bit ofmagical ability, which makes me an exception in the Wands family, overladenedby all manner of conjurers, sorcerers, prestidigitators, and other assortedspellcasters. However, I get by with a genie, attached to a ring I found yearsago in a Waterdhavian sewer. But that's a tale for another time.

Ampratines wafted into view like a phantasmal castlesuddenly appearing in the desert. The djinn by their nature are a clever race,and Ampi is the cleverest of the lot, with more brain cells per cubic inch than any othercreature in Faerûn.

Ampi was dressed as normal, in long blue robes thatset off his crimson skin. His black topknot of hair was immaculately greasedand mannered, protruding through an azure skullcap like the tail of achampionship horse. His solemn mouth was framed by an equally well-manneredbeard and mustache.

"What ho, Ampi?" said I. "Youheard?"

"Druids in the High Forest heard, I have nodoubt," said Ampi calmly, his voice as deep as the crypts of Undermountainand as smooth as a halfling's promise. "It seems your granduncle has needof you."

"Need for a pawn," I muttered, lookingaround for my pants. Ampi waved a hand, and the missing trousers manifested atthe end of his large, well-manicured hand. Genies are wonderful that way, and Ithink everyone should have at least one. Regardless, I was in no mood to listmy djinni's good points after being terrorized by my own flesh and blood."Why does he need me?"

"I can endeavor to find out," said Ampismoothly. "It may take me a brief while."

With this he wafted out of view. Butlers, menservants,and members of the guard would pay good coin to learn how to waft aseffortlessly as this genie could.

I tried to get back to sleep, but once you've beenthreatened in bed by a magical projection of the family patriarch, the blissof slumber is denied. Instead, I paced, worried, and sat up by the windowsill,watching the horses in their paddock and marveling at the simplicity of theirlives.

And with the arrival of morning, and the failure ofAmpi to return, I chowed down a modest breakfast of snakes in gravy (at leastthat's what I assumed it was). Then I retired to the portico of the NauseousOtyugh with orders for the wait staff to send another Dragon's Breath out everyhalf hour, and keep doing so until I was no longer able to send the emptiesback. I sought to stave off the oncoming hangover from the previous night bylaunching directly into the next one.

The Nauseous Otyugh, by the way, is a bit ramshackle,a former general store put out of business by Aurora and her catalog. Thesecond floor was set back from the first, creating a wide porch, suitable forthe major Scornubel sports of drinking oneself into oblivion and watchingothers do the same on the street below. I had gotten quite good at bothactivities for the past two tendays, and was quite prepared to begin my careeras a Waterdhavian expatriate, sopping up the sun and the alcohol and tellingpeople about how horrid it was to live in a city like Waterdeep, where everysecond noble is a mage, and most of those are relatives.

And, of course, now I mentally kicked myself for notleaving Scornubel. Ampi had strongly recommended we keep moving a tenday ago,but I demurred. I would not be like some of my cousins, ordered around byservants, controlled by their butlers, mastered by their own magicalhomunculi. If I was to be banished from Waterdeep, I had told Ampi at the time,there was no better place to begin my exile than the balcony of old Nauseous,watching the caravans go by. But Scornubel was only a few hundred miles down the Trade Way from Waterdeep, and apparently not far enough from GranduncleMaskar's plots.