Fourth Interlude – The Puppeteer

For the moment the only sound to be heard in the study was the furious scratch-scratch-scratch of Rieltar Anchev's quill as it attacked the parchment before him. Deep, long strokes that risked injuring the paper; as if the coded orders he was scrawling would win battles that sword-arms and spells had failed at. A foolish notion, perhaps, but at the moment he felt the need to attack something. And perhaps these instructions to Naaman and Wallen would help to salvage this situation, and insure that some meager profit could be squeezed out of it.

Rieltar paused a moment, scowling and twirling the ink-stained feather between his fingers.

An unbecoming thought. Weak. Foolish. Defeatist.

There were still profits to be made, despite the series of frustrating setbacks they had recently encountered. True, most of the stockpile they had been counting on from the Cloakwood was now underwater, and trade on the roads had been freed up far too early. But at the moment steel and iron were still ludicrously expensive, and the Iron Throne continued to hold all of the best contracts, both with the Grand Dukes, the Flaming Fists and the crafts guilds (Save the most important of them: the Blacksmith's Guild. The damned Merchants League held old ties there.)

Once again Rieltar dipped his pen and continued to scrawl, conspicuously ignoring the courier who stood on the other side of the desk, fidgeting. It always helped when the lackeys were a little uncomfortable. She could wait.

Not to mention that it would do some good to keep the other two appointments for the morning waiting as well. Especially Nortuary, the furious representative sent by the higher-ups in Sembia. The man had stormed into the tower last night making demands and trying to brush his way past the guards and underlings, much to Rieltar's annoyance. It seemed a demonstration of who was truly in command here in the west was in order.

As was his custom these days, Rieltar held court in his study on the highest level of the tower, sitting in a high-backed chair and backlit by a great window that overlooked the bay. It seemed royal enough, but it was not his preference: he would have rather been giving orders on the move as he prowled through the offices. Better that way to see how things were actually organized and functioning, on the ground. And it was always best to keep the subordinates on their toes.

But the office suite was thoroughly warded against scrying, and absolute secrecy was the most important order of the day. You can't exactly orchestrate a grand conspiracy out in the open, now can you?

Frowning down at his letter, Rieltar added a few more flourishing strokes, lighter now.

Yes. Calm yourself.

So long as he could steer this little venture towards a steady conclusion, he could see how it would end with a decent windfall. Five times what that idiot Thaldorn could have racked up in a year of 'trading,' at least. The shame was that when first conceived this scheme was supposed to set the Anchevs up for a generation. To secure a legacy.

Glancing up from his papers, Rieltar looked past the courier and over to his son. Sarevok –the big bald ox– leaned against the fireplace, clad in a fine leather jacket and clothes custom-tailored to fit his broad frame. A mildly amused smirk played at the corners of the boy's mouth as he used a poker to stir the embers in the hearth, eyes fixed on the dancing flames.

He always seemed to have that look these days, even with all their recent setbacks. Such a spoiled boy (thanks to his damn mother.) Acting as if the luxury he lived in had simply always been and would always be; no concept of how precarious their position really was. Why, recently, when Rieltar was raging over the disaster on the Amnish border, the boy had even ventured to say: 'It may be for the best, father. Mulahey had proven dangerously incompetent anyway. I'm sure it will all work out.'

Bah! Nothing ever just works out. You have to make it work. A boy who came from dirt should know that.

A shame really. When Rieltar first found the boy in Scornubel, nine-years-old and leading the roughest gang of youths on Far Rider Street, he had seemed like the ideal heir. Clever, charismatic, and tough; already a killer and ordering larger boys around. Rieltar had been impressed.

And beyond that talent the boy had also possessed something very rare in this part of the world: the slightly flattened features and dark skin of folk from Turmish, just like Rieltar and his wife, who had never been able to conceive. A little work spreading rumors about their child's cloistered youth (the story was that they had sent him to a secret temple of Mask) and the boy passed well enough as their trueborn son. Too bad Trellia had later spoiled the boy, and put fool notions in his head as she grew bitter.

Still, Sarevok knew the family business well enough, and when they needed a Heavy there was none better. Rieltar just doubted, these days, that the boy had the vision needed to actually steer things. To lead. Better for one of his seasoned lieutenants to inherit the organization, sad as it was to contemplate. Perhaps Brunos.

Rieltar's eyes slid briefly to the last occupant of the room, besides courier and his son. Sarevok's woman reclined on a velvet couch close to the fireplace, sandaled-feet crossed, green dress ruffled, and golden hair spilling down where her head rested against a plush cushion. Perhaps she was a poor influence on the boy as well: between her pose and her expression Cythandria looked the quintessential bored-rich-girl. Still, for a highborn the conjuress wasn't averse to getting her hands dirty, and she had never voiced displeasure about the bodyguarding role she played on days like this one. And at least she was better than that mercenary-girl from the Far East that Sarevok used to spend his time with; the one who fumbled with Heartland tongues and had nothing to her name.

Blowing on the ink of the letter he had just written, Rieltar finally rolled it up and handed it over to Dhanial, and the courier was eager to snatch it up. "Deliver that to Namaan, on your way out," he instructed the woman as he reached into his desk and pulled out a small packet wrapped in dun-brown paper. "Then I want this delivered directly into Kestor's hand. No one else is to touch it. Am I clear?"

Dhanial nodded. "Crystal clear. The silk and spice merchant, right? Works out of the Merchant's League."

Rieltar nodded. "Aye. You'll most likely find him at his estate." When no further orders were given Dhanial turned on her heels and walked out of the study, eager to deliver.

The silk and spice merchant. Rieltar chuckled to himself. 'Master Smuggler' was a more apt description, as far as he was concerned. He had been loath to deal with the Knights of the Shield (the secret society Kestor owed his true allegiance to,) up until now, but there seemed to be no alternative. To meet the Flaming Fist's quota next season they would need a fresh supply of iron, and the smugglers could provide it discreetly. Wrangling a good deal out of them though…now that would be a challenge.

And speaking of challenges…

The moment the study's door creaked open a large man tried to shoulder his way in, pushing past both Dhanial and the nondescript guard stationed at the doorway. He managed to twist his way through and set foot inside the room, but the moment he did Sarevok was between him and the desk, looming close, a half-head taller and far broader than the intruder.

With a huff the man tried to shout his way past the bodyguard. "Rieltar! Order your living wall here out of my way immediately! We've urgent business." His warbling Sembian accent was light, at least.

"On whose authority?" Rieltar growled right back. He knew full well, but he intended to show this Nortuary fellow exactly who the master was in this tower.

"Maready's. He's heard some very unsettling rumors about your questionable operations out here in the west. Operations you've told us very little about. Selgaunt demands answers, and I plan on delivering them as swiftly as possible."

"Questionable operations?"

Nortuary huffed again. "Order this brute out of my way. We talk face to face! Like men."

Rolling his eyes, Rieltar snapped his fingers and Sarevok silently stepped aside. The emissary from Selgaunt wasted no time after that, marched right up to the desk and planting his hands upon its surface to lean in, meeting Rieltar's eyes. He was a heavy fellow, with the sort of chunky build that spoke of muscle beneath; no doubt some thug who had worked his way up through the ranks. The man seemed to know how to take full advantage of his bulk as well: body stiff, eyes sharp and menacing, leaning forward as much as he physically could.

The usual posturing. Rieltar had seen it all before. On a daily basis really.

Despite paper-thin pretenses at being a merchant guild, the Iron Throne had always been –at its heart– a criminal syndicate. So the ranks were full of the sort of men (and a few women who played the game twice as hard, like their devil-spawned mistress,) for whom jockeying for position, puffing their chests out, and stomping down violently on competition came as easy as breathing. That was one of the reasons Rieltar wished he was up and moving at the moment, rather than being trapped behind his desk. Body language could be more important than skill or actual accomplishments in a den of swaggering bravos.

Well, he'd just have to assert his authority in some other manner. He was tempted to do it in the form of a scorching ray spell right in this obnoxious man's face, but held back.

"And by 'questionable operations,'" Nortuary went on, "I mean things like starting a bloody war! That's what Maready thinks you're doing out here, and he's not pleased. Especially since he had to hear about it all third-hand. If you had bothered to ask-"

"Bah!" Rieltar waved a dismissive hand, once again resisting the urge to add a blast of arcane fire for good measure. "Are we the Highmoon Trading Coster now? Am I to forward all proposals to the central office and wait for them to sign off in triplicate before taking action? I thought the Throne valued initiative?"

Not the real reason he had been spare with details, and they both knew it. But Rieltar couldn't exactly come out and say 'I wanted all the money for myself,' nor could this agent from the east admit that his boss just wanted to exact as large a cut as possible for something he contributed nothing to. So they had to play this game.

"Initiative is all well and good, but a war between Baldur's Gate and Amn-"

"There will be no war!" Rieltar snapped, taking the opportunity to rise to his feet. Time to put him on his toes.

"I've been working hard behind the scenes to prevent one, in fact. I am well aware that war can be extremely bad for business. Armies roaming around confiscating whatever they please. Trade routes disrupted. Crops destroyed or left untended. Starvation and disease. All of that. Great fortunes have certainly been built on war: on conquest itself or simply moving in at the right time after great upheaval. But what I've been doing here isn't that kind of stupid gamble."

Nortuary opened his mouth to speak, but Rieltar launched in to cut him off. "What we have here on the Coast is a perfect cold war brewing. I've put a lot of work into it. And cold wars...those are always profitable. Banking on tension and suspicion between neighbors while you supply them with arms. It's tried and true."

Nortuary snorted. "Hrmph. You can't control-"

"Oh, I am quite in control of every piece on this board." Rieltar tapped the table for emphasis. "The Fist. The merchant houses. Even the Grand Dukes and the Amnish." An exaggeration of course. Beyond the Amnish border his spies were stretched thin, and though he had agents firmly in place with the Fist and the Seven Suns he had not yet moved the one meant to infiltrate the staff of the Grand Dukes or the other great merchant house.

But Rieltar was fairly certain he had a means of cowing this man, at least. And taking another vital step forward, all at once. "And I intend to prove it." He gestured towards an empty, cushioned chair near the far wall. "Sit in on my next appointment and I'll show you."

The big man scowled, arms crossed and glaring, but he did silently move aside. What choice did he have? He was here to gather information. He even took a seat, though he complained as he did. "If this ends up costing us, or worse, exposing…"

"Just watch," Rieltar commanded, waving his hand and once again fighting the urge to tack a spell onto the gesture. Perhaps a silence spell? But the emissary fell silent all on his own, reserving his judgment.

Sitting down again and leaning back, Rieltar looked over to the nondescript guard who stood at the door. "You. Fetch that representative from the Merchant League, would you?"

With an expressionless nod the guard turned, opened the door with a minute creak (Rieltar preferred to keep the hinges unoiled. An old underworld trick) and slipped out.

A moment later the door opened again and a well-dressed man with a commanding air made his entrance. He seemed oblivious to the tension in the room, casually glancing at Sarevok and Cythandria by the fireplace and Nortutary against the desk before fixing his eyes on the Master of the Tower and giving him a familiar nod, despite the fact that Rieltar had never met the man in his life.

The newcomer was short, squarish and middle aged, with immaculately groomed muttonchops and slickly combed brown hair. A take-charge sort of fellow, no hair out of place, and the well-cut black silks he wore showed the subtle signs (threaded lines in colors a shade too vivid for ordinary dye) of enchantment. In addition the pouches at the man's belt were the sort used to carry spell components. Obviously a mage.

"Zorl was it?" Rieltar asked from across the desk, affecting a bored tone.

The man gave another nod and a friendly smile as he marched forward and extended a hand, and when he spoke his voice rang with the faux good-cheer of a career dealmaker. "I am indeed, and pleased to make your acquaintance. Zorl Miyar, here on behalf of the Merchant's League."

When Rieltar remained seated and just looked at the outstretched hand Zorl half-shrugged and dropped it. A pregnant silence followed, the faces of Sarevok, the guard, Nortuary, and even Cythandria a stony contrast to Zorl's good-natured grin.

Looking out of place but not showing the least bit of discomfort, Zorl plowed ahead. "Guess you'd prefer to skip the pleasantries then," he observed with glance about the room. "Or perhaps you already know why I'm here?"

Rieltar forced a slight smile onto his face. "To offer your terms of surrender?"

"Ha! Hardly!" The merchant waved an open hand. "Though I'll admit that the rumor floating around that you're about to swallow up the Suns has the League nervous. How did you do it exactly? Their collapse was quite spectacular. And unexpected."

Rieltar narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. "How did I do what? Far as I know it was all their own fool decisions. Investments in linseed oil, was it?" A snort. "And a trade-fleet to Maztica during the storm season. Idiots." He waved a hand. "And I put no stock in rumors. We have no plans to 'swallow up' anything."

"Of course," Zorl teased, his voice sly. "Your clashes with the Suns, followed by their sudden collapse are pure coincidence." His tone changed, suddenly growing less sarcastic. "In any case, I think you'll find that the League is far more stable and formidable than those fat bean-counters over on Pearl Street. Most of our ranks are nobility. Old money. Men of quality and longstanding alliances, who have no patience for being pushed or ordered about."

Ah. And here comes the speech he was sent to deliver.

"Now, I know from where you're standing you might see a clear path towards muscling us out of the arms trade. Maybe all trade. But I can assure you that we're quite entrenched. We've been a force in this city far longer than you, and we still hold longstanding agreements with the blacksmiths and alchemists guilds, not to mention that the Harbormaster's daughter is one of our councilmembers." Zorl was poking his fingertips now, ticking things off. "And despite the bandit troubles this season you'll find we still have quite a few caravans running in top shape."

The merchant paused briefly, perhaps expecting an angry retort, but all he got was stony silence as Rieltar rubbed a finger against his temple and adjusted the circlet that rested there.

Zorl took a breath and went on, his smile returning. "But instead of squabbling over iron and guilds and trade routes and all that tedious drivel, wouldn't an arrangement between our organizations be far more advantageous? New blood and old-"

Ah. The sales pitch. "So you've come to negotiate an arrangement?" Rieltar interrupted.

With nod, Zorl reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a square of parchment bound in black ribbon. "Indeed. We in the League see where the tide is flowing, and I think you'll find this proposal quite agreeable."

Pinching his eyes shut as if he had a headache, Rieltar lifted the circlet up and off of his brow. Do it now.

"What happened with the Seven Suns did rattle us quite a bit," the merchant went on, the packet held out over the desk. "And we're well aware of how extensive your operations have grown. I think you'll find these figures to be quite a bargain." Behind him the guard who had been standing in the doorway began to walk forward, not making a sound.

Quite outrageous, more likely. This was a salesman making an opening offer, after all. Fierce negotiations were meant to follow: arguments and dinners over wine, cycles of haggling and late nights hammering out details. The process usually took weeks, with lots of forced politeness, subterfuge and playacting. The usual business between merchant guilds.

Fortunate then, that Rieltar did not do business that way.

Leaning forward slightly, Rieltar kept his eyes focused tightly on Zorl and the papers in his hand, resisting the urge to glance up at the figure that now loomed behind the merchant. Look bored. Though of course Rieltar couldn't help but rest his fingers against the pouch where he kept his spell components. This was a mage standing before him after all, though he guessed that Zorl was a middling dabbler. Not the sort clever, powerful, or paranoid enough to prepare contingencies or metamagically silenced spells.

But he'd only know for sure when-

The face of the guard who had crept just behind Zorl dissolved into flowing mercury, and his hands were just as much of a blur as they smoothly descended – then yanked violently back. Sunlight caught the thin, taut filament of wire between those hands just before it cut into the front of Zorl's neck.

Quicksilver-swift, the hands wound the wire around and around, twisting it tight as Zorl managed one startled rasp, his hands waving before him and the parchment flying away. He seemed to be searching for something to steady himself with, not yet understanding what was happening. Then realization dawned in his bulging eyes, and he turned and reached back, fingers fumbling at the wire, shoulders twisting and struggling as the slender, faceless man behind him held tight.

No contingencies bloomed. No silent spells came flying off the tips of Zorl's fingers. The mage seemed as helpless as any other man now, soundlessly choking as he kicked and squirmed, face a depending shade of red and eyes growing bloodshot. Rieltar sat back and watched the scene critically, sparing just a brief glance over at Nortuary.

The bluster had left the big man, and he looked predictably shocked. Good. Sometime when Rieltar hadn't been looking Nortuary had also produced and donned a pair of spiked knuckles with small punch-blades at the edges, raising them between himself and the transformed guard.

For a tense stretch of time there was no noise to speak of in the study beyond the crackling of the flames and the harsh rustle of Zorl's silks as he struggled and kicked. The assassin's flowing face had resolved now; gray, smooth, and featureless save a pair of wide, amber eyes, the gambeson it had been wearing hanging loosely on the creature's slender form. In a few moments his (or rather its,) victim's struggles had dropped to twitches and convulsions, silks barely whispering, and it was then that Nortuary finally found his voice.

"What have you done?" he snarled at Rieltar, one bladed fist waving in the direction of the creature that held Zorl upright. "That's…that's a…"

"Yes it is," Rieltar agreed, smirking. "And what I've 'done' is insure the best possible deal we can get when we consolidate with the Merchant's League. Just as we will with the Seven Suns." He looked over at the doppelganger, its face beginning to flow once again. "Isn't that right?"

Gray-silver flesh glinted, expanded, and grew blemishes and a slightly ruddy tone, tightening into a perfect likeness of the man the creature had just killed, right down to the muttonchops that sprouted on its (or rather his) cheeks.

"That's right," the transformed creature replied in a perfect imitation of Zorl's voice, unwrapping the wire and letting the still body slump forward. There was a thunk as Zorl's head struck the desk, then his corpse gracelessly slid to the carpet. The doppelganger wasted no time lifting it by the shoulders and dragging it into the adjacent bedroom.

Sarevok had been watching impassively by the fireplace, and now he rested his hand on the crossguard of the massive greatsword he had left leaning against the wall. Cythandria was sitting up close by, her fingers linked in her lap, and both of them had their eyes fixed on Nortuary.

He had to have noticed. His eyes were constantly bouncing about the room. Rieltar could see the mental calculation at work: those spiked knuckles against that sweeping sword, those muscles, the woman who was making it very clear that she had spells ready. Not to mention the shapeshifting thing in the next room.

A few moments later the new 'Zorl' emerged, dressed fully in his black silken outfit and jewelry, and with the same blustering gait that the merchant had used to enter the room the doppelganger walked across the lavish carpets, over to the door, then turned and gave Rieltar a jovial smile. It was just as faked as Zorl's had been.

Once the creature had left Nortuary let out a shudder and shook his head. "A doppelganger. What madness!"

"Doppelgangers," Rieltar corrected. "An entire clan of them, out of the underworks beneath Durlag's Tower. We are placing them in key positions throughout the city's major merchant guilds. And elsewhere. Like I said, nothing is being left to chance. There will be no accidental war, and no upset to my plans. There can't be. Not when I've stacked every side with my own pawns."

That was a massive exaggeration of course. But the doppelgangers really were useful tools. "You can tell Selgaunt that."

"Mask's tongue," Nortuary cursed. "You can't trust those things. They'll turn-"

"They will obey me," Rieltar stated flatly. "So long as only I know where their infant broodmother is being kept." He tapped the circlet at his brow. "And this insures that I remain the only one who knows. They are mind-reading creatures, after all. Quite dangerous. But I have planned for every contingency." A cold glare. "I wonder what more I need to show you, to demonstrate just how much control I have over things here."

He hoped the threat was well-implied. I could just send a doppelganger back to Selgaunt, you know.

Nortuary glanced off, obviously rattled. "Sfena and Maready won't be pleased by how little you've informed them."

A snort. "I'll try to write home more often. But your report will be positive?"

Nortuary met Rieltar's eyes, then glanced over to Sarevok, looming by the fireplace and causally resting his hand on the crosspiece of his greatsword. "It will be."

He looked as if he was very eager to be away from here. Good. Now the final push. "And naturally you will agree to a geas, guaranteeing a fair report?"

That made the emissary bristle, nostrils flaring, pride and practicality waring on his face. Sarevok's hand casually gripped his weapon, and Cythandria was stretching and twiddling her fingers, eyes smiling in Norturary's direction and lips lightly parted. Lips that were obviously ready to launch into a spell.

Nortuary's eyes darted about the room briefly. Then they settled. A deep exhalation of breath. "Sure," he muttered. "Weave your spell. I'm just a messenger anyway."

Rieltar couldn't help but grin as he stood and immediately began the words of the geas. Once the binding was complete Nortutary shook a little, and the moment he was dismissed he left the room, not saying another thing. No doubt he would make for Selgaunt as fast as he could.

Once the door was shut Rieltar slid back into his chair and allowed himself a sigh, conscious not to show too much relief. "Well, that's a few things put in order, at least."

"Indeed," Sarevok spoke up. "You've left little to chance."

"Nothing to chance," Rieltar corrected his son. "Chaos would be unacceptable. Especially at this point."

"Of course, father."

"Which brings us to the last order of business, before you two are dismissed."

"The Harper's child?" Sarevok guessed. "One of the best assassins we could find is hunting her as we speak."

"Hunted her and failed, last I heard," Rieltar corrected.

Sarevok grunted, not disagreeing. "She proved surprisingly resourceful. Her father must have trained her. But the lesson was learned, and arrangements have been made."

"No doubt. But if the assassin does fail again, perhaps it would be best if you took a personal hand in this."

Inclining his head, Sarevok's eyes seemed to twinkle. "I wouldn't mind, certainly. Taking things in hand is often the only way to be sure they really get done. And as you say, father, 'nothing to chance.'"

Rieltar's lips tightened a bit. There was something about the boy's tone he did not like. "Just make sure anyone who's been disrupting our plans dies, swiftly."

"Of course, father."

Rieltar scowled down at the pile of papers before him as his son and the conjuress stood and took their leave. He didn't care for the arrogant (borderline insolent even) tone that seemed to creep into his son's voice these days. He would have to devise a way to humble the boy, perhaps a bit like what he had set up with Nortuary. Though there were more important concerns before him at the moment.

–

Several weeks later in a meeting hall in Candlekeep, as a garrote-wire tightened around Rieltar's neck and stole his breath, his last frantic thoughts would be spent trying to guess where he had gone wrong.

Where had he miscalculated? When had he let guard down? Who had he underestimated, to send assassins like these? Where the masters in Sembia acting? Had the Knights of the Shield planned this all along?

Or had it always been-

The woman who was strangling him would then confirm his suspicions, speaking in his ear with a voice that was not a woman's at all: "Sarevok wanted you to die just like her," it would whisper. "He sends his regards, as does The Revealer of the Young, who is now free!"

And as he was struggling against the iron grip, helpless as Norturary had been –as Trellia had been when he killed her in exactly this way– Rieltar Anchev would realize that he had greatly misjudged his son.

A part of him would almost be proud.

Author's Note: This chapter suddenly became a lot easier to write when I started listening to the theme from The Godfather on an endless loop.

And a few footnotes:

Sfena – The half-devil leader of The Iron Throne (and the granddaughter of Asmodues, to boot!)

Maready – One of Sfena's lieutenants and a highup at the main branch of The Iron Throne in Sembia.

Selgaunt – The capitol city in Sembia, where the Iron Throne is based.

The Knights of the Shield – A mafia-like secret society of cutthroat merchants and nobles. Their name makes them sound like a bland order of paladins or something, but I guess that's actually an advantage for an organization like that.

The Revealer of the Young – The doppelgangers' own word for their broodmother. Though 'broodmother' may be a bit of a misnomer, since it's not female and reproduces asexually. D&D lore seems to be real skimpy/contradictory on how doppelgangers reproduce and how their society works, so I made some stuff up (with a little inspiration from ideas in the third-party 'The Complete Guide to Doppelgangers' sourcebook.)