Side Trek (II): The Streets of Silverymoon
PART TWO
Merric has some business he must attend to elsewhere, so he bids goodbye to Douvan. The Ranger intends to find Merple the Moneylender and get paid. Merric says that perhaps he will meet him later at The Green Tankard. And if Merple will let Douvan bring Merric’s share of the finder’s fee, all the better. The grizzled ranger retrieves his possessions from the back of the wagon, including the magical maul taken from the bugbear a few days before. He intends to sell it when he gets the chance.
Douvan finds himself winding through the convoluted streets of Silverymoon on his way to Diagon Alley. Silverymoon is a unique place where the various races all live in harmony, and he enjoys walking down tranquil neighborhoods decorated with bright flowers and soaring exotic trees.
He eventually leaves the residential area and reaches Diagon Alley, a place he would not normally visit. Spellcasters of all sorts make their living here, and he passes more than one shop housing bizarre items behind the glass; various stuffed imps with lolling red eyes and urns puffing smelly colored smoke; floating baubles spinning around mannequin heads and rows of twiggy broomsticks designated as: “ON SALE! TODAY ONLY!”
He finally reaches the unadorned door of Merple the Moneylender and raps the appropriate amount of times. A squeaky voice announces: “Enter!” The door swings open of its own accord and Douvan steps in. The place is the same as he remembers, small but cozy, a roaring iron furnace on the wall, a few shallow steps leading down to a den lined with bookshelves. Merple is sitting in a chair behind a desk cluttered with pens, quills and a fat ledger book. There’s a new item though. It looks like a large square cage draped by a blue cloth.
“Douvan!” he cries. “Good to see you again! How did you fare in Winterhaven? Find anything interesting?”
Douvan starts at the beginning and tells him the whole story; the trapped bridge, the flooded excavation site, the dozens of kobolds, the human helping them, the bones and the mirror and the bugbears and Valthrun and the Shadowfell and the Griffon Guard taking the mirror. Merple’s face changes during the story from extreme joy at the beginning, to glum disappointment by the end.
“They took it, eh? Sad, sad, sad news that is. Very sad to hear. It sounded like a most exquisite artifact! Worth a coin or two, I’m sure, I’m sure. I hate to say this, but it is unlikely they will return it, Douvan.”
The ranger is aware of this too, but doesn’t dwell on the news. He steps closer to the cage and is jolted when a pink tongue whips out.
“CROOOAK.” There is a huge toad inside.
“Oh, don’t mind him. That’s Toady, a rare speckled specimen from the Evermoors. Should make short work of the nasty rodents around here. He’s quite nice, actually. I’m fond of him.” Douvan takes his word for it.
As promised, Merple pays his half of the fee for finding the Tomb of Blacksoul and determining that there is nothing there left to salvage. He insists though in paying Merric in person. Merple makes a few notes in his fat ledger book, emphatically dots the entry with his pen, and closes the book.
“Well,” says Merple, “with that done, are you interested in a new job? I always have several pots brewing on the stove. For instance—”
But Merple is interrupted by heavy pounding on the door. The pattern of knocks is very specific. He presses his lips together into a thin line. “Oh my. Oh my oh my oh my. He’s early. Very early.”
Merple is flustered and stands up, wringing his hands. Douvan is confused. “Not good, no no no. Not good at all. Douvan, you must leave. Wait! No! He mustn’t see you leaving, no no no. Hide in the closet here. Wait! No! He’ll look there. Oh my oh my oh my, dear dear dear dear…” Merple pushes Douvan toward the cage. “Go in there with Toady. Don’t worry, he’s very gentle! Just be quiet and don’t say a word. Zip! Zip!” Merple makes a pinching motion across his lips.
Douvan stares at the dark cage with the big toad inside. He doesn’t like the sound of this, but Merple is clearly upset. “Are you sure, Merp—”
“Yes! Yes! Just go!” he hisses. “And quietly!” To the door he shouts: “Coming! Just a wee moment!”
Douvan is bustled into the cage with the wet, spotted amphibian, and a tongue lashes out to lick his arm. Or taste him, he isn’t sure which. There is not much room and Douvan maneuvers to the back, hunching down for as much cover as possible and peeking out through the dark fabric draped over the cage. Merple has returned to his chair, pressing down the lapels of his coat, and then announces: “Ah…enter!”
The front door creaks open. A shaft of light spills down the steps, a shadow elongated upon the threshold. From his position, Douvan cannot see who it is. Footsteps slowly click into the room, and then the door closes.
“Balthazar!” says Merple with forced sincerity. “A pleasure to see you so soon, a pleasure indeed. How…ahem…how can I help you today?”
A man says, “Help me, Merple? I believe you have helped me enough already.” The voice drips with sarcasm. Douvan shifts for a better angle, peeking out into the room. A man clad in black robes with red trim and a pointed hat has stopped in front of Merple’s desk. Draped around his neck is a hissing maroon pseudodragon, its yellow eyes glaring all directions.
Douvan’s stomach lurches. This man is obviously a wizard with his familiar, and he does not look happy.
“What seems to be the problem, Balthazar?” asks Merple. “Perhaps we can work out—”
“The problem, my squat Halfling, has to do with a bag of powdered unicorn hoof you sold me. The PROBLEM, my dear, conniving, treacherous little half-man, is that you sold me powdered mule’s hoof instead!”
The pseudodragon spits and hisses, flapping its wings. Merple pales.
“It’s not true!” he wails, his voice squeakier than ever. “It’s not true, Balthazar! I didn’t know! I didn’t know!”
“It’s your job to know,” growls the wizard, producing a long, thin maple wand from the depths of his robe.
The pseudodragon leaps from his shoulder and flaps to the floor, sniffing. “Do you think that Balthazar of the Potion Emporium wouldn’t notice that kind of trick in my magical workings? Do you even comprehend the sort of unwanted side effects that arise from daring to ADD a mule’s foot? DO YOU? Or course not!” Merple falls to his knees, begging and pleading.
Douvan pushes the fat toad aside, wondering what in the Nine Hells he has gotten himself into. Toady pushes back some, feeling equally cramped in the cage. Douvan is knocked into a latch he had not seen previously. There seems to be a secondary door on the back of the cage that is flush to the stone wall. He peeks out the curtain again. The pseudodragon is closer, sniffing and snarling.
“It was an honest mistake!” shrieks Merple. “Please believe me, Balthazar! It won’t happen again, I swear!”
“Oh, I know it won’t,” the wizard says airily. “Not for the next day at least. After that, I expect you to be on your best behavior, Merple.”
The tip of the wand begins to glow blue. Merple’s face is bathed in its light. “What are you going to do?” he whispers in abject terror.
The wizard’s smile is not pleasant. “Teach you a lesson.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes. I DO.”
A thin beam of light streaks out, enveloping Merple and followed by a puff of acrid smoke. He screams once, but when the smoke clears Merple is no longer there, replaced by a large squat frog, a pair of oversized glasses dangling awkwardly from its face.
Merple-Frog croaks and hops away, while Balthazar cannot help but to laugh. He puts the wand away, circles around to the ledger book and begins flipping through it, still chuckling. Douvan is appalled, and not more than a little terrified! He shrinks back into the cage, but the pseudodragon familiar is curious about Toady and the shadow lurking behind it. It has moved closer than ever, ruffling its wings and squawking a warning to its master.
Balthazar looks up from the ledger. “What is it? Oh my, yes. Look, Merple! You have a friend here! One of the few you’ll probably ever make. Wretch.”
Balthazar walks closer to the draped cage. His eyes narrow. “Is someone…in there?”
Icy cold fear fills Douvan’s gut. He nearly springs out of the cage, using the toad as a shield and bolting for the door, but doubts his chances. The wizard’s wand is out again. Douvan brushes the backdoor latch, and this time in the subsequent glow from the wand he sees the outline of a trapdoor in the wall outside the cage. The cage is pressed flush against it. Douvan does not waste another second. He pushes the toad out of the way, jerks the small cage door open, and presses on the stone outline. There is a quiet click as a secret panel opens.
“WHO IS THERE?” bellows the magician. “SHOOOOOOOW YOURSELF!”
The front door of the cage magically jerks open and Toady wriggles out, just about the same time as Douvan has squeezed himself into a passage obviously made to accommodate a halfling and not a human. He tries to close the secret door just as the red pseudodragon darts into the cage. Douvan succeeds, and then shuffles on his elbows through a narrow dank tunnel, but soon bumps his head on a stone wall. Beneath his fingers he feels a wooden trapdoor with a metal ring. He pulls up, feels space yawning beneath him and an unpleasant stink. He doesn’t have time to ponder the destination. The secret passage is opening behind him. His fingers scramble for a dilapidated wooden ladder, and then Douvan is moving down, down, down into darkness, his boots scuffing on wood and stone, his heart hammering in his chest. Blue light fills the tunnel above him and he hears the throaty rasp of the pseudodragon. He hears running water and the strong smell of a sewer, and soon Douvan’s feet touch on a cold stone floor. Far above him the blue light winks out, and then he hears doors slamming.
He’s trapped down here. Wherever “here” is. He can’t see a thing in the pitch blackness.