City of the Dead (15 page)

Startled, Sophraea saw the old man’s hands clench into fists and then deliberately relax.

“Ah well,” muttered Lord Adarbrent, lifting his hand to his nose to hide his expression from them. “It is his right, as a citizen of Waterdeep. Good day to you.”

The great door swung shut behind him with a definite slam.

“Well,” Sophraea said to Gustin, “I can see now why some people call him the Angry Lord.”

“Actually, I thought he would be more upset by your news,” mused Gustin. “I thought a lord of the city would worry that the dead were leaving their graves to haunt the streets. In Cormyr, there would be war wizards stalking about and reporting to the king if such a thing happened.”

“Lord Adarbrent is right, this is Waterdeep. Odd things happen all the time,” explained Sophraea, hooking her arm through Gustin’s in a friendly fashion. “Look, I think it’s going to rain. Let’s go back to the Andamaar gate and cut through the City of the Dead. It will be faster that way.”

“You just don’t like walking down streets whete living people are wandering,” teased Gustin.

“It’s not that,” said Sophraea. “But on the way here, you kept

stopping and staring at everything and asking me if this is where that batde was fought or where this wizard made his stand.”

“Aren’t you interested in the history of your city?”

“Not nearly as much as I am in getting home before it pours,” she tugged Gustin down Manycats Alley, past the spot where Stunk’s servants were loading boxes and bags into a big dray wagon.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get the answers you wanted,” Gustin said.

“I’m just fussed, I guess. That’s one of Myemaw’s expressions,” Sophraea told him. “After all, spirits appear quite frequently in the City of the Dead, and elsewhere too. And they are mostly harmless. Maybe I shouldn’t worry.”

“Oh,” said Gustin, smiling down at her, “you strike me as the sensible sort. You don’t worry without cause. Something odd has been going on around those tombs. And in the tunnel last night, something frightened those thievfcs, long before that one decided to attack us.”

Peculiarly pleased by being called a sensible sort, Sophraea started to reply when they were interrupted by a shout.

“Well, if it isn’t the little rude bit from Carver’s yard,” Stunk’s hairy doorjack strode across the street toward them. His shout brought the other Stunk servants sidling around the dray wagon and into the center of Manycats Alley. The two red-haired louts with their cudgels laughed to see Sophraea pull Gustin back from the hairy doorjack’s advance.

Gustin shook off Sophraea’s hand. “I did tell you that I was a wizard, didn’t I?” he asked the big man bearing down on them.

“Like I’m afraid of some street charlatan,” the servant replied.

A twist of his arm and his wand appeared in Gustin’s left hand. Beneath his long lashes, his green eyes sparkled. “Didn’t ask if you were afraid,” he crowed, grinning. “Just wanted to make sure you understood what kind of fight you were getting.”

Looking at the growing semicircle of Stunk s men surrounding them, Sophraea took a firm grip on her wicker basket. “You should let us pass,” she said as calmly as she could. “You know my family. You don’t want to start a fight with the Carvers.”

“Carvers, what are Carvers?” said one of the redheads. “Bunch of fancy gravediggers.”

“We’re Stunk s men,” said the other. “Nobody crosses us. Nobody hits us with buckets and brooms.”

“When did we?” started Sophraea.

One of Stunk’s men slapped the other on the back of the head and said, “Shut up you fool.”

“It was you!” shouted Sophraea. “You were the ones breaking into our workshops! Thieves!”

“Shut her up!” yelled the thin nervous servant who always lurked in the back of the group. “Stunk will kill us if he hears about this!”

“Great balls of flame,” muttered Gustin as he swung his wand above his head. “Why can’t I do enormous balls of fire when I need them!”

Nevertheless, his spell zinged through the air. Half the men shouted and dropped the makeshift weapons they were carrying, lifting their hands to their mouths as if their fingers stung.

Unfortunately, the other half still retained their weapons and charged the wizard. Gustin whipped off Bentnor’s oversized cape and enveloped the closest man rushing at him, tripping the bully onto the street.

Sophraea screamed loudly and swung the wicker basket underhand with deadly accuracy at one of the louts intent on hitting Gustin. Not protected by an armored codpiece, this lout went down with a sharp cry of pain.

But more came on, and Sophraea found herself lifted bodily from the street even as Gustin fell with a shout beneath two men

struggling to keep the long-armed wizard from casting another spell.

Hairy hands locked around Sophraea’s waist and tossed her into the outstretched hands of another sour-smelling creature. With her feet off the pavement, she kicked wildly. She felt her shoes connect with solid flesh and heard the howls of rage.

Another shout sounded from farther up the street. Sophraea screamed again for help. The doorjack grabbed her, trying to stifle her cries.

“Curs! On my very doorstep! You dare!” Lord Adarbrent exclaimed, charging down the steps of his mansion into the street, swinging his long black cane with deadly precision.

The redheaded bully lifting a cudgel to brain Gustin gave a cry of pain as the black cane smacked across the back of his hands. He dropped the cudgel, right onto Gustin’s shoulder, and beat a hasty retreat.

Seeing who it was who attacked them, the other servants scrambled to the wagon. They climbed up on it, crying out “it’s that old lord, best go. Stunk is going to kill us!”

Lord Adarbrent raced after them, moving more swiftly than a man half his age, slashing right and left with the cane. Each blow fell with wicked accuracy, causing great cries of pain.

The thin nervous servant grasped the reins and clicked to the horses. Another slash on the hindquarters of the lead horse and a fierce yell from Lord Adarbrent caused the startled cob to lift its neck with a bugling cry and begin an awkward gallop. The wagon rocked and rolled down the street, bits of baggage dropping off in its hasty departure.

Too stunned to move by the swift turn of events, the hairy doorjack still grasped the kicking, shrieking Sophraea. She flung her head backward, knocking his chin up and causing him to bite his tongue.

“Yow!” he cried. “You witch! I’ll break your neck.”

Turning sharply on his heel, Lord Adarbrent pulled the wood sheath of his sword cane off and revealed the long, sharp, and deadly steel blade. He pressed the point against the hairy doorjack’s throat.

“You will release the lady, gently.” He commanded. “Or I skewer you like the dog you are.”

Other shouts could be heard from the entrance of Manycats Alley and the pounding run of many armored men.

“Quickly,” said Lord Adarbrent. The ancient nobleman’s eyes burned with a bright fierce light and anger flushed his wrinkled cheeks. But his hand was steady and the steel blade never quavered a hairsbreadth from the hairy doorjack’s pulsing vein. “Or I let the City Watch take your corpse from my doorstep.”

With a growl, the hairy man dropped Sophraea, not too gently, back on the cobblestones. She pinwheeled her arms to maintain her balance and managed to clip him on the side of his head with her basket.

With a yelp of pain, the hirsute doorjack turned and loped off, following the lurching wagon and his fellow servants racing down the street.

Gustin struggled to his feet, rubbing one shoulder. “Ah, well,” he said in his usual cheerful tones, “at least they didn’t hit me over the head.”

He wiped the smears of mud and blood on his hands against the back of his tunic. Sophraea tutted at this, pulling a clean handkerchief out of her pocket. With years of practice from cleaning up Leaplow, she dabbed at the scrapes on Gustin’s face and hands.

A trio of burly Watchmen thumped up to them.

“Saers,” one commanded. “Lay down your weapons.”

He seemed a bit disconcerted to find only the ancient and very

well-known Lord Adarbrent leaning negligently upon his cane, a small young woman with ruffled curls clutching a wicker basket, and a tall, thin young man picking up a large rain cape.

“We heard an affray,” began the one Watchman in stentorian accents.

“Nothing of importance,” said Lord Adarbrent, looking down his nose.

“Actually,” began Sophraea, ready to report Stunk’s servants to the City Watch. Lord Adarbrent turned and gave her a stern look.

“Nothing of importance,” he repeated to the City Watch. “I am simply bidding good-bye to these two young friends, who will now go straight home.”

“If you say so, my lord,” said an older Watchman, who gave one of those shrugs that said so clearly “We know you are lying and you know we know, but what can you do in Waterdeep?”

“I appreciate, as always, the City Watch’s discretion,” Lord Adarbrent bowed and retreated up the steps to his door, which swung quickly open at his approach. It closed just as definitely behind him.

“High adventure and dark dearlings, just like the book promised,” chuckled Gustin as he slipped his wand back into his sleeve. He tucked his hand around Sophraea’s elbow and guided her away from the Watch. The three men stood stiff and silent, watching the wizard and the girl walk away. “Even a duel in an open street with a nobleman and timely intervention by the City Watch.”

“High adventure? That was just a street brawl. My brothers spent most of their youth with my cousins in just such fights. Leaplow still battles with everyone he can find,” said Sophraea, momentarily distracted from her wrathful muttering about impolite things that should have happened to Stunk’s men. She considered telling her brothers and cousins. Declaring war on Stunk’s men

had considerable appeal—Leaplow would love it! She bit back the thought. If she did such a thing, she would never hear the end of it from her mother.

“And dark what? What was that word you used?” she continued as the wizard’s earlier statement finally sank into her mind.

“Dearlings,” replied the lanky wizard. “Isn’t that the local term for a sweetheart?”

“Of course not. I have never heard such a thing in my life. Where did you hear it?” Sophraea snapped, still cranky that she couldn’t have all of Stunk’s servants locked up in some dungeon deep beneath the castle or pounded in the head by some of the younger Carver males.

“I read it. In my guidebook to Waterdeep. See!” exclaimed Gustin reaching inside his tunic and pulling out a small book. The cover was stained leather, sloppily stitched onto the pages, obviously replacing a much older cover that had been torn off and lost long ago. A crude map of Waterdeep, printed in faded inks of brown, green, and blue, unfolded from the back.

“This must be older than Volponia,” said Sophraea, taking the book from him and frowning at the creased and crumpled page. “This map is all wrong. This street, for example, doesn’t run into this alley. There’s a building there. A big storehouse.”

“What’s a storehouse or two?” Gustin asked as he retrieved his book, folded the map correctly so it lay flat inside the back cover, and gently turned the pages to the beginning. “There are wonderful descriptions in here. Essays on all sorts of marvels. And see, right here at the beginning, it promises ‘high adventure and dark dearlings’ to any who come to Waterdeep.”

Sophraea stopped in the middle of the pavement to lean over Gustin’s arm and read the line that his long finger ttaced for her. “I’m sure that was a mistake. Some printer’s error,” she said, shaking her head. “There’s no such thing as dark dearlings.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Gustin with a funny little smile. Sophraea peered up at him, wondering what made him grin so. Rain began to splatter in larger and larger drops on the cobblestones.

“Here, you’ll get all wet,” the wizard said, reaching out to pull up the hood of her cloak and cover up her black curls. “Dark dearlings … Yes, it still seems very accurate to me.”

In Sophraea’s troubled dreams that night, a lady walked. She was a very young lady, very pale, and her face was hard to see beneath the high-piled curls and fine lace hood she wore.

The lady’s dress was spangled with brilliants, and her little feet glittered in gold brocade shoes. She danced through the paths of the City of the Dead, hurrying as if to a great ball. And behind her, in long lines, they came. The noblest of the dead, the revenants of the great families of Waterdeep, all dressed in the richest robes and most elegant costumes of the centuries.

In crimson lace and sapphire wool, in tawny leather and gilded armor, they came. Rows upon rows of the noble dead followed the dancing lady out of the City of the Dead and into the sleeping streets of Waterdeep.

A terrible crack, like the breaking of a bell, woke Sophraea from the nightmare.

After lighting a candle and pulling on a pair of slippers, she ran down the staircase in her nightgown. She was certain that the noise was real, although she grimly hoped that the rest of the dream was just nonsense stirred up by her worries.

Around her, the rest of the house slept in its usual rumble of snores and grunts.

She reached the courtyard door and pulled aside the locks. Drawing a deep breath to give herself courage, she twisted the handle.

“Sophraea?” the whisper came from behind her.

She spun around, one hand hard against her thumping heart.

A tall thin shadow slid down the staircase. “Sophraea?” whispered Gustin. “Is that you?”

With a cry of relief and annoyance, Sophraea fell upon the wizard. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

“I heard this noise, something breaking. It woke me up,” he said. Then, almost reluctantly, he admitted, “It’s more than that. Sort of a feeling that I get. When I let off a spell or someone lets off one near me. This was really strong and unpleasant. Then I heard you go running past.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Your brothers do not run that lightly down the stairs.”

“True.”

She danced impatiently from slippered foot to slippered foot. Gustin was right, there was a tingle in the air, a disturbance that was more than winter drafts and bad dreams. It was like being in the City of the Dead, she decided, and knowing that there was a grave open just behind you. One wrong step could tumble you backward into the embrace of the dead.