Anthology - Realms of Mystery Part 12

Even Ekhar was taken aback by the volume of the gasp that escaped the crowd. It was true. The mud on the cyclops's boots was a rich brown hue since it came from the dark soil of the creature's mountain cave, very different from the tan-colored dirt found in town. And, when they looked, the same dark mud could be clearly seen on Abril's shoes and pant cuffs.

"The boy has been spending his time in the hills, befriending the monster, bending it to his wills. He'd bring it food from his father's own inn, to make it believe it could trust only him. But on the gift food he would liberally sprinkle, the yellow-root brew mixed with raw periwinkle. This covered the scent so the giant could smell just the food not the poison, he never could tell."

It seemed to Jag that the crowd was closing in on Ekhar, leaning in closer and closer so that they didn't miss a word of this explanation.

"Something I must tell you about yellow-root-brew, it remains long in your blood whatever you do.

Though each time the giant ate but a wee tiny drop, he was slowly being poisoned and the boy did not stop. He fed the beast more until he was certain, just one sprinkle more would bring death's black curtain."

"Why?" someone shouted, though he needn't have. Everyone was pressed so closely together that a whisper would have probably been heard by most of the crowd. "Why would Abril do this? I mean, no one here would mourn the killing of a cyclops, but why do it in such a round about way?"

"Yes," cried Kethril, who was growing quite nervous at this sordid tale the gnome wove about his son. Actually, the tale didn't bother him as much as the thought that it might be true. Could Abril be so cunning?

"Why, you ask? It's quite easy to tell. To strike back at those people who made his life h.e.l.l! When he fed the dumb giant he also did show, the bruises he got from his life in Minroe. Abril shared with the giant his pain and his sorrow, in hopes that the creature would beg steal or borrow, to help his new friend take revenge on his foes. Just a p.a.w.n in his plans, but that's how it goes.

"And what buildings suffered in the giant's attack? Why those the boy hated, if you'll only think back. The school where he learned to suffer daily torment, had its door torn in half and it's portico rent.

Then the store where he worked till his boss kicked him out, had its roof torn right off then littered about.

And his father, innkeeper of the Dancing Roe, abused the poor boy, beat him merely to shock him from going away to pursue a career as a singer of songs that fall light on the ear. For his father he saved the most horrible loss, to see his dear inn turned to rubble and dross.

"The creature crushed everything Abril did ask, and what reward did he get for this terrible task?

Once the damage was done, the revenge carried through, his friend shot him dead where he lies before you. And the final insult to both giant and town, is that Abril's the 'hero' who brought the beast down.

"So there you have it, my story's complete. Abril has blood on his hands and d.a.m.ning mud on his feet. I know not what punishment you'll likely mete out, but let justice be served-the truth's been let out!"

All was silence.

Jag stared at Ekhar, then at Abril, and finally at the crowd who still stood transfixed. It was as if they were mentally chewing on the tale the gnome told. And slowly, one by one, they swallowed it-and they began to laugh.

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" cried Alon M'Greely. "I can see Abril getting in a lucky shot with his bow, but weaving such an intricate plot over imagined slights? The boy's so scatter-brained he's lucky he remembers to put his pants on in the morning!"

The laughter rose and rose. Jag imagined he even saw the buildings of the town shaking with mirth.

Although most of the town had a higher opinion of the lad's intellect than M'Greely did, no one believed that Abril was capable of hatching such a heinous plot. No one, that is, except Ekhar Lorrent-anci Abril himself.

It was only after five full minutes of raucous laughter that anyone noticed the boy sitting in the mud.His head buried in his hands, Abril wept. And when every eye was on him, he looked up red eyed and said simply, "It's true."

The entire crowd took a single step backward, and Jag felt like his head would explode.

"It's truet It happened just the way the gnome said. Everything, everyone in this town holds nothing for me other than painful memories. I'd gone up into the hills to run away when I came across the cyclops. He was my first true friend. But his friends.h.i.+p was nothing compared to my need to be revenged."

Now the lad stood, radiating more menace than his slight frame should have been capable of holding.

"So I figured a plan to get my revenge, and make myself the hero of Minroe at the same time! It would have worked too, if not for that meddling gnome!"

The crowd, who had been standing stock still, suddenly came to angry life. They screamed for Abril's head on a pike-none louder than his own father-and surged toward the lad, bent on getting it themselves.

"Riktus! Help me push these people back!" Jag yelled as he grabbed a fallen beam that used to support the roof of the Dancing Roc Inn. The young deputy was already at work, though, pulling Abril away from the clasping mob, then coming back to help Jag press them back. It was a fight they were destined to lose.

Luckily, the three other deputies chose that moment to come around the bend leading seven horses, twelve mules, four oxen, and a camel toward the fallen giant. The commotion of the crowd spooked the animals such that they all reared up, knocking the hapless deputies off their feet, then sprinting out of town.

"My plow horse! You stole my plow horse!" one member of the mob yelled.

"What are you doing with Sand Treader?" another one cried.

As quickly as it had begun, the riot ended as the citizens all ran off either to rein in their frightened mounts, or to get home as quickly as possible to ensure that they too had not been the victims of looters.

Within minutes, the only people left on the streets were Jag Dubblspeir, his four deputies, Abril Fentloque, and Ekhar Lorrent.

"Take him to the stockade." Jag said, grabbing Abril's arm and handing it to Riktus. "Quickly. . .

before they decide to come back."

The young man hurried off with his prisoner.

"Well, Ekhar, I hope you're satisfied. You took a town in the midst of a celebration and turned it in against itself. The hero of the day is now likely to spend the next year or more of his life in prison, if his friends and family don't decide to hang him instead."

"I know, I know. I've no need for thanks. Just knowing the boy and his deadly pranks will receive justice most swift is all that I need. Now my job here is done, I'll go home with all speed. And tell often the story of what I've seen here today. The lessons I've learned will not soon fade away. 'The Case of the Really Big Corpse' is my true masterpiece. This pride that I feel may never surcease.

"So I bid you farewell, Jag, my one truest friend. The mystery is solved, this is finally the end."

With that, Ekhar Lorrent dusted off his lapel and headed toward Home, never once looking back to see Jag Dubbispeir, sword in his hand and murder in his eye, barely being restrained by his three deputies. The only clue available to the gnome, had he cared to observe it, was a slight twitching in his left earlobe.

The Devil and Tertius Wands

Jeff Grubb

There's a common saying that I have recently taken to heart. It's normally the type of phrase you hear among adventurers, freebooters, tax collectors, and other individuals of low moral character. The phrase, if you pardon my language, is "a special place in the h.e.l.ls."Normally such a comment would be heard in adventuring dives, usually uttered when a particularly large barbanan, laden heavily with scars, tattoos, and other body modifications, heads for the door. One of the other adventuring types would give a head-nod toward the barbarian's slouched, fur-covered back and say something like, "There's a special place in the h.e.l.ls for that one." Sometimes they might just say "h.e.l.l," or something more exact "the Nine h.e.l.ls," or "the Myriad Pits," or, if they are among the intelligentsia, they would call it "Baator," home of the baatezu. In any event, said adventurer-type would invoke that lower dimension of lava pits, imps, devils (another name for baatezu) and brimstone. His companion would probably grunt in agreement. Or start a tavern-clearing brawl. Such is the way things are done among professional adventurers, as I understand it.

Never would I imagine that my own name, Tertius Wands, would be connected with that dark domain, nor that I would potentially have my own named parcel of abyssal real estate. But such might have been the case, if not for my ever-present and ever-wise companion, the genie Ampratines.

Let me start at the beginning, which in this case is not in the However-Many h.e.l.ls but in the city of Iriaebor, crown gem of the upper reaches of the River Chionthar. Iriaebor consists of two cities, an upper city built along a narrow ridge overlooking the river, and a lower city bunched up along the sides of that selfsame ridge. The upper city is a tight jumble of important buildings, all stacked next to each other like children's blocks. s.p.a.ce is at a premium in the upper city, and none of the various merchant lords wants to move from their lofty (if crowded) perch into the Lower City.

And for good reason. While the Upper City basks in the relatively warm sun of those climes, the Lower City is usually draped in a miasma of morning fog, noonday drear, and afternoon industrial smoke.

Down below are the tin foundries and the ironmongers, the steelworks and the lime bakers, the tanners, hide-men, hat-makers, coach-works, stables, and working offices of the various trading costers, with their attendant collection of stables, wagons, warehouses, hostels, festhalls, and all manner of entertainments for the laborers, teamsters, stevedores, and other haulers. The Lower City, in short, operates under a continual cloud, both figuratively and literally, as far as those of the Upper City are concerned.

At the time I was lodging at the Wandering Wyvern, highly-touted in the guide books for its view.

Unfortunately the view is mostly of the aforementioned L.C., as it was situated directly above the tanneries. As a result, I kept to the Wyvern's drawing room for the most part of my stay, and broadened my horizons primarily by reading.

At that time of my life, I was moving eastward, slowly but unyieldingly, seeking to put as much of Faerun as possible between myself and my home city of Waterdeep.

The wondrous City of Splendors has a special place in my heart, and I would choose to reside there, if not for the presence of my a.s.sorted relatives in the Wands family. The fact is that the vast bulk of said relatives are mages. Powerful mages. The most powerful of them is my great-uncle Maskar, who is cause enough to make any young man showing no more interest in spellcraft than he does in killing dragons for a living, head eastward. I had earlier thought that Scornubel was far enough, but recent encounters there convinced me that relocating further inland from the Sword Coast would be a wise decision. At the time when all h.e.l.l (or h.e.l.ls) was about to break loose, I was comfortably ensconced in the drawing room of the Wandering Wyvern, with my nose in a book.

At this point, I can hear the reader saying to him- or herself, "Aha! some fell tome of magic, wrested from some elder crypt." Actually the book I was reading had been penned the previous spring by an aspiring young author, Allison Rodigar-Glenn, published by Tyme-Waterdeep, and sold by the august offices of Aurora's mail-order catalog. It was a historical mystery book, or "mysthricals" as they were called, and I must confess I could not get enough of them.

"I say, this Miss Rodigar-Glenn pens an excellent tome," I commented to Ampratines, my djinni and personal manservant.

"If you say so, sir," responded the djinni, replacing my expired drink with a fresh one. "I wouldn't know."

For a creature as large as Ampratines was he moved with a silence and a grace that were almost as valuable as his drink serving abilities. He was, of course, the tallest being in the room, tipping theyardstick at ten feet and change. However, he was dressed not in the flowing desert robes so common to his kind, but rather a respectable and immaculate servant's jacket and trousers, with an unfilled s.h.i.+rt beneath. The most remarkable thing about him-other than being a powerful native of the plane of elemental air, which is remarkable enough-is his head. I swear its larger than most others of his breed, if for no other reason than to contain the masterful brains within. There are greater treasures beneath his broad forehead than beneath all the domes in Calimshan, and his visage is more sage than any vizier's.

However, while Ampratines remains one of the most puissant of the air elementals I have ever met, he has an unfortunate tendency to under appreciate much of the culture of this plane of existence. This marked disdain for the more interesting things in life often creates rifts in our otherwise ill.u.s.trious relations.h.i.+p.

"No, I'm not jesting," I said, perhaps a little too loudly, for a few heads in the drawing room turned our way. "These mystoricals are filled with derring-do and secrets revealed and all manner of goodly material. The stuff of adventures and heroes, with a fine eye to the details. This current mystorical centers around 'Who Put the Galoshes in Madame Milani's Stew?'"

"Riveting," said Ampratines, who set the remains of my early-afternoon c.o.c.ktail down on the tray, "I can understand why they are so popular, with such deep subject material."

"Joke not," said I, "This is cla.s.sic stuff. Miss RodigarGlenn is a master at her craft."

"It is my understanding," said Ampi, "that Miss Rodigar-Glenn is really an entire family of halflings living in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the Tyrne-Waterdeep building, churning these books out at a clip of one a week."

"Churning? Churning?" I said indignantly. "These books are obviously not churned. They are lovingly crafted and carefully scribed. They speak to the heart of the matter, as it were."

"If you say so, sir," responded Ampi, with that resigned sigh that never fails to infuriate me. It bothers me greatly that such a big-brained djinni as Ampratines would be so small-minded at times.

"These books do have one advantage, sir," he said.

"And that is?"

"Why you are reading about them," said the djinni, "You have less of a tendency to go out and do anything dangerous."

I scowled up at the djinni, looking for some sign of humor. As usual, that response was missing from Ampi's stony features. Instead I said, again a trifle too loudly, "I believe another s.h.i.+pment of books is coming in today at Aurora's. You will check this out and retrieve them. Else I might just go out and do something. And don't think I'm not capable of something adventurous."

If it were possible for a djinni to deflate in defeat, Ampi would be leaking air at that moment, "As you wish, sir." And with that he wafted out, as silent as a church patriarch leaving a festhall past midnight.

I don't remember muttering aloud to myself about Ampi's lack of good taste, good sense, and a goodly amount of other attributes, but I probably did so. I tried to fling myself back into the book, but was interrupted by another voice, this one soft and sweet and gentle. A sudden ray of light in the darkened drawing room of the Wyvern.

"Did you mean that?" said the voice, in a tone that was halfway between a crystal bell and a silver dinner chime.

I looked up from Madame Milani's Stew and into wide, open eyes of the purest sky blue. It took a few seconds to recognize that the eyes were set into a heart-shaped face, marked by a b.u.t.ton nose hovering above a trembling set of bee-stung lips. The entire a.s.semblage of facial features was framed by curled locks of honey blond hair.

I must have gurgled something along the lines of "excuse me?" though I could not be sure. She repeated, "Did you mean what you said about being a capable adventurer?"

The components of my brain, shattered by her beauty, quickly scrambled to re-combine into a generally operating form. Fortunately, Waterdhavian manners do not require an operating brain, and I was already on my feet, taking the young lady's offered hand and bowing deeply while I re-gathered my wits. My brain was just catching up with my mouth as I said, "Tertius Wands of Water-deep, capable adventurer and world traveler, at your service.Actually my brain wanted to say "I said I was capable and adventurous, but not necessarily a capable adventurer." But brains are like that, coming up with the right thing to say right after you've said something completely different.

"Drusilla. Drusilla Vermeer," she said simply, replying with a perfunctory curtsey and almost stumbling in the process. At once I leaned forward to steady her, and caught the scent of honeysuckle in bloom. She seemed faint and I walked her to the chair facing mine. The ultimate gentleman, I offered her my untouched drink. She sniffed at the mixture (one of Ampi's specialties), then waved it aside with a delicate hand.

"Sorry, so sorry," she said, even the wrinkle of concern that lined her eyes making her all the more beautiful. "I shouldn't bother you, really, but I need a capable adventurer for a matter of some delicacy."

I returned to my seat and nodded, then half-turned to order Ampi for some hot tea or some other suitable nostrum. But of course the djinni had already left for my new s.h.i.+pment of books, so I turned back to the young and beautiful Drusilla.

"I fear I've done a terrible, terrible thing," she said, "And I need someone to help me."

"There, there," said I, unsure of what the terrible thing was, but confident that it would be no more than a lost pet or a misplaced locket.

"My family is one of the investing households that provides capital for the various traders. I was entrusted with a family keepsake, an amber box containing an heirloom belonging to my great, great grandmother." She pulled out a lace handkerchief at this point and held it to her lips. I wondered if she was going to go to pieces entirely. In a small voice she said, "Its about three inches on a side, like a cube.

I'm afraid I've lost it."

I nodded, and realized I was nodding altogether too much, "How did you Jose-"

"I was such a fool!" she sobbed, "I was careless. I shouldn't have trusted. . ." She snuffled again, and even her snuffling was musical and sweet. "The fact remains that I lost it, and it is my responsibility to get the box back. It is very important!" She buried her lovely face in the handkerchief.

"So," I said, reprising the situation so far. "You've lost the family thingummy, an amber box. You need to find the box, and need a capable adventurer to retrieve it." This was the sort of thing the heroes of Miss RodigarGlenn would say. Repeating exactly what someone has just told you in hopes of gaining more information.

"Then you'll help?" she said, blinking back the tears at me. Not quite the response I had antic.i.p.ated.

Despite myself, I fell back on an earlier mannerism and merely nodded. Her face blossomed in a flower of relief and she warbled sweetly, "I knew I had chosen the right man."

She made to rise, and I fought to regain control of the conversation. "This box, I have to say. . . if you lost it, we'll have to spend a long time looking for it."

"Oh, I know where it is," she said brightly, canting her head to one side as if to rea.s.sure me. "It's in the hands of a terrible person. I'll need you to retrieve it from him."

And then she smiled and gave me his name.

"'Big Ugly,'" said Ampratines later as I recounted the story to him. "Not the most rea.s.suring of appellations."

"He's a crime lord, apparently, in the Lower City," I countered, trying to determine which set of trousers was appropriate for a meeting with the aforementioned Mr. Ugly. "Crime lords are not supposed to have rea.s.suring names. The truly evil ones put a lot of X's and Z's in them.

Sort of like a verbal 'beware of dragon,' sign, or 'no peddlers.'"

"Indeed," said the djinni, holding out a dependable set of leather riding pants. I shook my head and chose instead my red satin trousers. I would send my own message to the crime lord, I thought, that we Wands are both stylish and not to be trifled with.

I hopped into the trousers while continuing, "Said B.U. operates a tavern as a front for his various nefarious operations, a place called the Burrows. That's where I'm going to meet him.""And this Master Ugly stole the amber box?" said the genie.

"Unclear but likely," I said, thinking back about what Drusilla had said specifically. "She said that she had lost it and this Ugly fellow had glommed onto it, and she wants it back. Money is no object, but this Ugly has refused to budge. I'm supposed to place the offer on the table and, as they say in the parlance, 'put the lean' on him."

"And a lean fellow you are," said Ampi without the merest of smiles. "And I suppose you'll want me to attend you in this madcap mystorical escapade?"

I blinked at the genie and fastened the clasp of my cape (the dark one with the red satin lining that matched the pants). I had not thought about it one way or another, but had merely a.s.sumed that Ampratines would be tagging along. Still, there was something in the genie's tone that bothered me, as if this were some adventure he'd rather watch from a safe but discrete distance.

"If you're not too busy," I said simply, the frost in my voice wilting the nearby potted ferns.

Ampratines merely nodded and we set out. Hiring a carriage outside the inn, we started the long descent into the Lower City. Ampi was silent for most of the trip, apparently brooding in thought. Only when we were deposited at the Burrows, a small tavern built into the hillside itself, did he speak up.

"I'm afraid I cannot accompany you," he said, in a matter-of-fact manner.