Джеймс Лаудер - The Ring of Winter

Artus groaned and hurried through the shower of coins. Pontifax had obviously been regaling everyone with tales of their trip to the Stonelands and their misfortune with the statue.

The next room was filled with a tangle of exotic plants, so full, in fact, the walls and ceiling were completely obscured. This was the work of Philyra, the ranking druid of the Stalwarts. She didn’t particularly like visiting the city and had created this riot of green as a hideaway. As Artus walked along the narrow path between the tangles of vines and bushes, a blur of color caught his eye. The growl from behind a frond-heavy plant made it clear the president’s leopard had gotten loose again. The cat, like the druid, favored this room above all others.

Making a mental note to send one of the servants to collar the harmless, if somewhat grouchy, beast, Artus hurried on.

Through laboratories filled with bubbling, gurgling beakers of odd-colored liquids and sizzling arcs of magical energy, tranquil halls lined with white marble pillars where various clerics quietly debated matters both spiritual and mundane—through these and other more unusual rooms Artus passed. He’d never given much thought to the design of the club; like many things in Suzail, it had been created largely through the use of magic. If its architecture seemed out of the ordinary, its floor plan labyrinthine, then the builders had merely succeeded in creating something new to Faerûn.

At last he came to the library, the largest room in the club and the central gathering spot for both old and new members. The high walls were fined with books and scrolls of every description, bound in every type of leather or hide imaginable. Ladders reached the highest shelves. There was always at least one person balanced precariously atop them, reaching for some desired tome. A winged monkey and a giant owl fluttered through the air, carrying scrolls they’d retrieved for their masters. Memorabilia of the members’ exploits filled every other available spot on the walls—shields, swords, regimental colors, medals, and plaques. There were trophies of rare beasts throughout the room, the most awe-inspiring being the red dragon’s head perched over the doorway. Its eyes seemed to watch the proceedings in the room with eternal malevolence.

A magnificent thousand-candled chandelier dominated the ceiling, casting bright light throughout the room. Its candles, brought from magical Halruaa, never needed to be replaced. On the ceiling around the chandelier were painted portraits of four of the five founders of the society, each in a different, remote part of the world. The fifth founder, and first president of the Stalwarts, was immortalized in a life-sized bronze statue in the room’s center, directly below the magical chandelier.

Artus’s eyes were drawn to this statue of Lord Rayburton whenever he entered the library. Explorer, historian, warrior, Rayburton had been all of these and more. Twelve hundred years past, when Cormyr had been little more than a rough collection of wilderness outposts, he had blazed trails to the interior of the Anauroch Desert and the heart of the Great Glacier. He’d been among the first Westerners to cross the dangerous Hordelands to the ancient kingdom of Shou Lung. His books filled three shelves, and all of them were classics in their field, the basis for a hundred other derivative works.

The thirty or so people in the library were divided into five clusters, with a few of the more studious hunched over books in the far corners. The younger members mostly told tales of their adventures, competing in both volume and exaggeration with everyone else in the room. One group had toppled a table to clear room for a makeshift battlefield. They were reenacting an old skirmish from Cormyrian history with tiny, enchanted soldiers wrought from lead. In the mock war, a line of ogres and orcs charged in a ragged line toward an arrow-straight formation of miniature human infantrymen.

“There he is now,” someone shouted. “A giant among us!”

“Better clear the room in case his body swells to fit his ego again.”

Artus forced a smile and headed straight for Pontifax.

The older members of the club, white-haired and pompous, encircled Sir Hydel. Their discussion rarely ranged to their own exploits—all were expected to know the merits of their elders in the society, so they had no need to brag. The senior members discussed the glories of long-dead Stalwarts and the foolishness of the youngsters. Artus knew their topic to be his own misfortunes even before he reached the circle of comfortable chairs.

“Well met,” he said as he arrived. The half-dozen men and women murmured their greetings over glasses of Tethyrian brandy. In more than a few faces lurked hints of knowing smiles. “Sir Hydel … if you don’t mind?”

“Any word on the medallion?” the mage asked as soon as they moved away from the others. He gestured to the silver disk. “I see you still have the dratted thing.”

The look of genuine concern on his comrade’s face lessened Artus’s irritation. “I’m stuck with it for now,” he replied. “Look, Pontifax, I wish you wouldn’t tell everyone about what happened. I mean, the curse on this—”

The mage looked genuinely hurt. “I am the very soul of discretion,” he said. “I could hardly call myself a good soldier if I ran off at the mouth about such things.”

“Then how did the Raephel and the other dwarves know about me growing? What about all the comments I’ve been hearing since I came in?”

“Ah,” Hydel said, clearing his throat. “I must admit I did tell an edited version of the story, leaving out anything about the curse. Replaced it with a misfired spell, you see. The story got quite a chuckle over lunch, if I do say so myself. Why, Lady Elynna even asked if I’d write it up for the society’s journal!”

“Congratulations,” Artus said, frowning. He wasn’t sure if it bothered him more that the mage had told everyone about the embarrassing mishap or that he would never get a chance to tell his own, much livelier version of the battle. “Any luck selling the artifacts?”

Hydel puffed out his chest. “I’ve secured an offer of three times the amount you estimated. The society will buy all the coins and the spearheads we took from the ruins, and the sergeant of the Royal Historical Office offered to buy everything else for the king’s personal collection.”

Removing a thin book bound in wyvern hide from his pocket, Artus took a seat at one of the nearby desks. He opened to a page filled with columns of items and numbers, then recorded the exact amount they’d been offered for each of the objects recovered.

“You’re not keeping anything from this expedition?” Hydel asked. “You usually take something as a memento.”

“I have this,” Artus said, holding on the medallion. “Skuld—that’s his name by the way—is reminder enough for me, thank you.” He clapped the thin book shut and buried it in a pocket. The journal was a prize stolen from the libraries of Zulkir Szass Tam, the undead ruler of Thay. No matter how many pages Artus filled, more appeared without ever adding to the volume’s weight or thickness. The book also opened automatically to whatever page he wished to see.

“Skuld?” the mage asked. His puffy eyebrows rose in shock. “You mean the dratted thing’s alive? Why, Artus, you should—”

A roar, followed swiftly by a chorus of astonished gasps and a few quite colorful curses, drowned out the rest of Pontifax’s suggestion. There was a mad scramble to get away from the miniature battlefield as the reason for the disruption—a fist-sized dragon wrought of lead and painted bright crimson—circled into the air. It screeched and dove back toward the miniature armies, a stream of liquid flame shooting from its jaws.