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Ward of Waterdeep.
It wasn't beneath us, however, to make a quick search of the rest of the place, hoping to scrape together
enough real wealth among all the bits of glitter and twine to make our troubles worthwhile. We could not.
Apparently, the dragon's hoard was nothing more than fantasy built on illusion built on air.
Gone were the riches, and gone too the wretches, fled to whatever icy refuges they could find when the
dragon first appeared. Most would likely die out there. I feared we would, too.
About then, I heard the greatest sound in the world the impatient champ and whinny of a very real
winged horse. Apparently, even the pearl's illusory magic could not have reached to Waterdeep, so the
lady had had to send the genuine article. I tipped my hat to what was left of her corpse, thanking her for
inadvertently showing meyou get what you pay for.
With my new associate mounted on the stallion behind me, I urged the pegasus toward the bright, snowy
daylight, and from there up into the bracing sky.
To Waterdeep," I told the creature, patting it fondly on the shoulder. "The Dock Ward. I'd like to see
some genuine squalor for a change."
GUNNE RUNNER
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Roger E. Moore
It would be a grand night in Waterdeep. An old friend, the Yellow Mage, had invited me over for First
Tenday dinner; he'd do all the cooking, and he was a master. I knew from experience this was also his
chance to show off his latest toy, if he had one, so I made sure I wore something bulletproof but
comfortable. No sense in my spoiling the evening by dying unexpectedly.
I needed dependable full-body protection instead of a metal chest plate or displacer cape, so I poked
through my ring box until I found my Unfailing Missile Deflector of Turmish. It was my special prize, a
little gold band that could turn aside anything short of a flying tree trunk. Even better, it was subtle and
wouldn't offend the Yellow Mage. I didn't want him to think I didn't implicitly trust his handling of
smoke-powder weapons, never mind that incident three months ago when he blew his priceless Shou
Lung clock into little blue glass shards with a Gond-gunne. The bullet missed me by three feet at most.
We all make mistakes.
The Yellow Mage's given name at birth was Greathog Snorrish, so I readily understood why he never
told anyone else in town about it. He apprenticed late in life, the
moment he came through Waterdeep's gates, and could now toss only a pair of spells a day. Still, he
was a wizard, and that, for him, was what counted.
Minor pretensions aside, Snorri was really just a kid at heart, which was why everyone in the North
Ward of Waterdeep who knew him liked him. He was a big puppy, into everything and always excited at
his latest find. A sloppy dresser, yes, and not much of a wizard, but he could cook, he told the best
stories, and he had a great laugh. You can understand how intent I was at getting to his place on time that
evening, and you can understand, too, why the world just wasn't the same when I found out he had been
murdered.
It was an hour before twilight when I arrived at his street, but I could see fine; I had light-enhancing
lenses in my eyes. I rounded the stone-paved corner onto Saerdoun Street, clutching a gift bottle of
Dryad's Promise, then saw the knot of townsfolk outside Snorri's doorway. They were peeking through
the shutters into his home when they weren't talking among themselves in hushed tones. Some of the
gawkers glanced at me, then turned away, not wishing to stare at a stranger. Two of the onlookers,
though, seemed to recognize me from previous visits. As I came up, they nervously stepped back and
grew silent.
Something bad had happened. I knew it instantly. I clutched the brown wine bottle like a good-luck
charm. Maybe things will be fine anyway, I thought. Snorri and I will have dinner, tell our tales, pour a
few goblets, trade spells
The little crowd fell back from the Yellow Mage's door as it opened. Someone inside came out. An old
woman gasped and put a hand over her heart.
A Waterdhavian watchman carefully stepped out, his green cloak muffling the clinking of his golden
armor. He held the handles of a stretcher with a body on it. Someone had tossed Snorri's hall rug over
the body, but the corpse's right hand had fallen down from under the rug, and it had the bright topaz ring
of the Yellow Mage on the middle finger, just where Snorri always wore it.
Someone else could be wearing his ring, I thought
dumbly, stopping. Snorri could just be drunk. It could be his twin, if he had a twin. If he was really hurt,
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then
I stepped forward. "Your pardon," I mumbled to the watchmen. My chest was tight, and I barely got the
words out. The constables saw me and hesitated, eyeing me for trouble. I pointed to the shape under the
hall rug and tried to frame a sentence.
The watchman at the figure's feet understood and simply shrugged. "Take a look," he said tiredly.
I reached down with my free hand and pulled the hall rug from the body's face. I had the idea that none
of this was really happening, so I thought I could come away unscathed.
I had a moment of trouble recognizing the Yellow Mage, partly because he was so expressionless and
still, and partly because so much rust-colored blood was caked over his lower face. Most of it had come
out of his mouth and nose. His blue eyes were open wide, dull and glazed in the way of all dead people.
I pulled the rug back farther. Streaks of blood were flung across Snorri's neck and upper chest. His
yellow shirt was soaked in red. In the middle of his chest was a bloody hole the size of my thumbnail, like [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] - zanotowane.pl
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