The Ring of Winter (3 page)

They left the Black Rat, the sour looks of both the tavernkeeper and the barmaid following them. A few people stared as they left the place—most notably the Sembian sailors and a small group of gawkers they had gathered around them. That crowd scattered when it became clear the Black Rat was not, as the sailors had suggested frantically, going to be blown into the Inner Sea by a magical explosion or leveled by a rampaging spirit. They looked vaguely disappointed.

It was getting close to highsun, and the streets near the docks and the marketplace were teeming with people. Merchants hawked their wares from storefronts or from behind the handles of small carts. Servants about their masters’ business bustled from merchant to merchant, filling their baskets or their arms with wares. Grubby children playfully chased dogs from houses and shops, or not-so-playfully flushed rats out of food stalls. Overhead, gulls wheeled and shrieked. No one seemed to notice the chill winter air, though the carts rattled more than usual as they bumped over the frozen ground. Only a choking snowfall would slow business, and then only until the snow stopped falling long enough to be trampled into slush.

Zintermi of Oghma passed through the chaotic thoroughfares as if he were surrounded by an invisible shield. No one bumped into him. No overeager merchants grabbed his spotless sleeves, trying to pass off sawdust for powdered gryphon claw or some other exotic spell component. Even the children and dogs seemed ensorcelled to steer well clear of the scholar in their scrambles.

Artus was not so fortunate.

In short succession he was buffeted by a portly woman carrying a sack of flour, a ragman’s cart, and a young boy running full tilt after a mechanical toy dragon that had escaped him. As he caught up, Artus grabbed Zin by the arm and pulled him into a doorway. “What am I going to do? The mages I’ve seen tell me they can’t remove the enchantment.”

“Skuld probably wouldn’t let the enchantment be lifted,” the scholar noted. “And I believe he has the power to stop all but the most skilled mages, ones with expertise in Mulhorandi magic.” For the first time, his eyes took on a sympathetic cast. “Artus, I know of only one such—”

“Phyrra al-Quim?”

Zin nodded. “Even if you wanted to speak with her, she resides in Tantras now. The murder charges are still pending against you there, are they not?”

“You know they are,” Artus sighed, slumping against the door. “I wouldn’t bother with Phyrra anyway. That business with the Cult of Frost was just the end of a long feud. She hated me when we were both your students. She thought you gave me too many breaks.”

“I did,” the scholar said flatly. After glancing at the bright highsun sky visible between the close-set roofs, he added, “I really must get back to the temple. I can do a little research, but it will take some time and some more prayers to Oghma.” He smiled at the exasperated look that crossed Artus’s face. “Don’t worry, though. Skuld may have a bit of an attitude, but I believe his purpose is to protect you from danger. This unfortunate incident could actually work to your favor, just so long as you stay out of trouble until we quantify the spirit’s purpose and powers.”

Artus watched Zintermi pass unruffled through the bustling, noisy throng. There were few men he respected as much as the scholar, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to believe his hopeful prognosis. Artus boasted many strengths and skills, but staying clear of trouble was not counted among them.

“Welcome back, Master Cimber. We’ve missed you.”

The butler who served the Society of Stalwart Adventurers bowed his magnificently horned head in deference to Artus. He took the cloak the young man offered, folding it gently over his arm. “Sir Hydel is awaiting you in the library.” With a red, clawed hand, the butler motioned for him to enter.

“Thanks, Uther,” Artus said distractedly. He barely gave the butler’s demonic features a second glance as he hurried inside.

The children gathered across the street were another matter entirely. It was as if the youth of Suzail had posted a schedule, for there were always at least six children loitering there, day and night. Some begged money from wealthier members of the society, others picked pockets of adventurers and passers-by alike. All the ragged urchins taunted Uther whenever he answered the door.

The butler had been handsome once, in a mundane sort of way. Some women found him attractive still, though only those favoring a more exotic lifestyle. A spell, cast five years ago by a young dandy from Waterdeep who’d had too much to drink and too little training in magic, had misfired rather spectacularly. The dandy had, in a fit of unoriginality, decided to punish the butler for refusing to refill his glass by giving him an ass’s head, albeit temporarily. It hadn’t quite worked that way.

Uther had suffered many indignities at the hands of the younger members of the society, and he took this all in stride. He shrugged and went laconically about his business when it was discovered the dandy’s spell had made him rather resistant to any further magic, especially any aimed at restoring his mundane good looks. The huge trust established by the dandy’s family—the extremely wealthy Thanns of Waterdeep—helped him adjust somewhat. Truth be told, though, Uther secretly enjoyed his new appearance. To discourage gate-crashers, all he need do was narrow his slitted yellow eyes and arch one wicked eyebrow. He’d never been forced to use the pair of twisted horns atop his head, the black claws that capped his gnarled fingers, or the pair of fangs protruding from his thin lips. Their very existence was enough to stop any brawl that broke out in the club’s gaming room.

This particular afternoon, the butler was in high spirits. He placed Artus’s cloak inside on a table. Then, letting his breath puff into the chill air like a snorting bull, he snarled menacingly and took a half-dozen quick steps toward the children. They dropped the sticks they’d been using as mock horns and scattered. Their whoops of fright could be heard echoing from the alleys all around the club.

Uther smiled—a terrible thing to see—and turned back to the door. A thin man in a black, hooded cloak was trying to sneak in through the open doorway.

“Are you a member, sir?” Uther asked blandly. He already knew the answer, but etiquette demanded he not directly confront the stranger with his questionable conduct.

The hooded man stiffened, then leaped for the door. Etiquette neatly put aside, Uther dashed forward to defend his post, grabbing the gate-crasher with one hand. The butler had the strength to match his intimidating visage, though even he was startled to hear a crack when he clamped down on the fellow’s shoulder. The man didn’t react as if his bone had been broken, but he was as cold as a frost giant’s nose.

Spinning the intruder around, Uther was not surprised in the least to find his face hidden by the cloak’s sizeable hood. “You are either a very, very stupid thief or an amazingly bold assassin,” the butler said. His voice was now little more than a rumble. “Or, perhaps, an attorney of some sort. In any case, you’re not welcome here.”

Without a word, the dark-cloaked figure slid out of Uther’s grip and dashed away at a stiff-legged gait. The butler watched him until he ducked down an alley a few buildings away. Satisfied that he had once again deterred an unwelcome guest to the club, he securely bolted the front door.

Once inside, the butler noted with some amusement that Artus hadn’t even got past the entryway. At the end of the long corridor leading to the heart of the club, a young Cormyrian nobleman had cornered the explorer. The man—or, more precisely, the half-elf—was just over six feet tall, with striking black hair and gently pointing ears. In his hands he held a book and a long sheet of parchment. He energetically waved them both in Artus’s face as he spoke.

“All I want is for you to sign my petition,” the nobleman said. His voice was high with enthusiasm, and it rang in the otherwise silent hallway. “This dratted book of lies has branded my poor departed father incompetent. Imagine the fourteenth Lord Darstan, berated by a commoner! I want the king to know the Stalwarts won’t stand for this sort of shoddy history, especially when it slights one of our ranks.” He thrust the book—A History of the Crusade Against the Tuigan—into Artus’s face.

The explorer stared blankly at the massive tome. He was paying no attention whatsoever to the young Lord Darstan’s blathering, for he was undoubtedly on a rampage again about his father. The previous Lord Darstan had led a disastrous cavalry charge during Azoun’s crusade against the barbarians. All the histories agreed upon that. The young half-elf would not be placated, though. He regularly roamed the halls of the club, jabbing his petition into everyone’s face, demanding they help restore his father’s good name.

The half-elf was a friend and a powerful political ally, but even that couldn’t ease the growing annoyance Artus felt. “Didn’t I sign this before, Darstan?” he asked irritably.

“Oh, that was a petition against that other book about the crusade. In that one, my father—”

Uther seemed to materialize at Lord Darstan’s side. The butler clamped a clawed hand firmly over the nobleman’s head and lifted him from the floor. “Lady Elynna has asked you to refrain from circulating the petition in the club, sir,” the butler noted. He removed the book and the blank parchment from Darstan’s hands. “And since she is the president of the society, I’m afraid I must enforce her word. I do so with the greatest regret, of course.”

Artus recognized a rescue when he saw one, and he smiled gratefully at Uther before hurrying down the corridor and into the maze of rooms that led to the heart of the club.

In a long dining hall, a small crowd of dwarves flipped gold coins at the fifteen chandeliers, trying to make the disks land flat atop the candles, snuffing them out. The room was darker than one had any right to expect; either the dwarves were very good at the game or had been at it for days. The ringing of coins as they fell noisily to the floor, as well as the empty ale mugs and dirty dishes stacked haphazardly on all the flat surfaces, suggested the latter.

“Well met, Artus,” one of the dwarves shouted. “Nice to see you back to size!”

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 Faerun.

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.”