Paul Kemp - Realms of War

"Yet the wheel will turn," Harlo Ongalor said smoothly, emerald eyes flashing in the candlelight as he leaned forward to smile down the glittering feast table. Nothing seemed to keep the vizier from smiling his habitual tight little smile.

"When orc hordes come, yes, war rages until one side or the other is exterminated. Yet in lands held by men, there's a time for the sword and a time when every belly wants to be full, and coins are to be made. Amn knows war well, but will not be consumed in war. Soon, now, this strife will all be over."

"This strife," Imril Morund drawled meaningfully. The sly, sophisticated dealer in perfumes-and, so rumor insisted firmly, poisons-wasn't quite the most sleek or handsome of the wealthy Amnians dining more or less as captives of the Rightful Hands. Yet he was undoubtedly the most urbane, glib, and confident. "It remains to be seen if any of us here will live to see another."

"Oh, but surely-" Lady Roselarr started to purr.

"Oh, but surely nothing," Ralaerond Galespear interrupted, lounging in his chair to strike a pose, long fingers raising his full tallglass to catch the light. He was the most handsome man in the room, and his every movement proclaimed as boldly as any herald that he knew it. A notorious womanizer, Galespear was the young and spoiled heir of a horse breeding family who owned many buildings in every city of Amn and grew ever fatter on the ceaseless flow of rents. "War claims lives," he pointed out bitterly, as if personally insulted by what he was imparting, "and we sit here in the heart of bloody war, with armies on the march all around us. If one turns this way, we can muster barely enough blades to offer them a few breaths of entertainment ere we die."

"As men of Amn," Larl Ambror snapped, "I have no doubt that we will die valiantly." The thin, dark wine merchant's face betrayed nothing, which surprised no one. Day after day it seemed carved of unchanging stone.

"Oh?" Morund asked. "Tell me now: How exactly does a valiant dying scream of agony outshine any other dying scream of agony?"

"Enough," Darmon Halandrath rumbled, his voice as deep and as oily as ever. "This is hardly fitting feast-talk." The fat, indolent, and decadent heir of a very successful family of moneylenders and city builders nodded at the three diners seated beyond him; splendidly garbed Amnians who had turned pale and leaned back from their platters, wincing or shuddering. "Amn has a bright future and is awash in rightful wealth. Talk less gloom and more of the opportunities and good things that await us all."

"Indeed," Gorus Narbridle agreed smoothly, his freshly waxed bald head gleaming in the candlelight. "I recall from my own youth the dire talk of bloodshed and doom that younglings then reveled in-and where are they now? All grown fat and rich and older, given to talking fondly-wistfully-of their youthful darings. Some doom!"

"Yet I do have a concern, Saer Ongalor," Lady Helora Roselarr said, "about remaining here in Ombreir-we few, with so many armed foes abroad in the Dauntir-after the rest of the Rightful Hands have galloped off on some mysterious mission. Why do we tarry? Are you hoping to hide here unnoticed? Or are we waiting for some meeting or other you have not yet seen fit to inform us of?"

The three Amman heirs seated beyond Halandrath's grossly fat bulk suddenly stopped looking fearful and glared at her in unison.

Harlo Ongalor, however, spread his hands and smiled broadly, for all the world as though Roselarr was a daughter he was deeply fond of. "I harbor no such sinister secrets, Lady Roselarr. It was in fact your safety I thought most of-though I was mindful of the importance to Amn of these other fair scions of the land around this table, too-when I sent most of the Hands a few days' ride from us, into sword-strife and bloody danger, so Prince Elashar could make himself personally known to the elder nobles of Amn who are rightfully suspicious of all so-called 'heirs' of the royal line, and so win their support. It is peril he must face, but I thought it cruel folly to hazard all the rest of you. Moreover, it will look best if I am not with him, so no one can deem me his captor or mind-master. So here we are, enjoying this excellent repast."

Narbridle quietly rose from his seat, nodding silently to the vizier.

"Fleeing from doom?" Morund asked lightly.

The bald man gave the perfumer a sour look. "The doom of an overly full bladder, yes. Not that I saw need to proclaim this. Polite folk do not speak of such things."

"Oh?" Imril Morund asked. "Are there 'polite folk' at this table? I thought we were all of Amn."

Surprisingly, it was Narbridle who chuckled. A moment later, the deep rumble of Darmon Halandrath's mirth began.

"Nothing," Hargra said wearily, caressing the hilt of her wicked-looking cleaver. "Yet I've got that bad feeling I get-got it strong. I'll wager none of us'll score much sleep this night."

"Then get started," Mirt said fondly, patting her shoulder. He was one of very few males-and the only human one-who could do that without the half-orc whirling to sever their offending hands. Scarred and toad faced, Hargra was both surly and very swift with her weapons.

Tonight, she merely grunted and ducked away, her large lower tusks gleaming as much as brown and broken fangs can. Her slap startled Tauniira almost as much as the growled words that followed it.

"He's as much on edge as I am," the half-orc told her, jerking a thumb in Mirt's direction before striding on. "Service him."

Larl Ambror's shout of horror plunged the table into startled silence. The wine merchant reeled back out of the archway that led to the garderobes, his face white-and spewed his meal violently all over the floor before fainting.

Imril Morund sprang to his feet, dagger drawn, but Ralaerond Galespear was faster, darting through the archway and reappearing again just as Morund and-surprisingly-the Lady Roselarr reached it.

"Narbridle is dead," the horse breeder told them. "Magic."

The vizier lifted a disbelieving eyebrow. "Magic? Are you an expert in the Art, Saer Galespear?"

The handsome young heir gave him a stony stare. "I don't have to be. How else but with a spell can you blast a man's head to bloody pulp, in utter silence?"

The utter silence that descended on the feast hall then was chill with foreboding.

Mirt lifted his gaze from what was left of Gorus Narbridle, his face carefully expressionless. "This would seem to be a matter best investigated by a wizard."

There was glee in the vizier's smile.

Mirt looked past Ongalor's shoulder at the three Amnians behind him. They would be the wizards, ready to blast him as they'd served Narbridle.

"I have every confidence in your abilities, Mirt of Waterdeep," the vizier said smoothly, his crooked smile broadening and making it as clear as if he'd shouted it that he knew very well the why of the murder, as well as the who and the how-and wasn't going to say.

The wave of magic was like a creeping in the air, an invisible tingling tension that rolled silently up to Mirt, washed over him in a moment of utter chill. . and rolled on down the passage, as swiftly as it had come.

Mirt stood still for a long breath or two, listening hard for crashes, screams, or… anything.

When he heard nothing, moment after long moment, he relaxed, shrugged, and stalked on.

Seven strides later he heard an abrupt, angry whisper out of the empty air, and froze again, listening intently.

Nothing.

Slowly and warily he started walking again, frowning at what he'd heard. A woman's voice, out of the empty air, distant and yet near at hand, calm yet furious, asking: "Who dares to kill the Weave here?"

Mirt looked sourly around the room. "So the vizier is readying my neck for the noose now. I am charged to uncover Narbridle's murderer-and he and I both know he ordered the killing."