Chapter 35 – The Azure Cage
## The Rules of Engagement
## Scene 1: The Rules of Engagement
Morning smelled of salt and ink. Tea cooled at elbows; the Bellringer sketch lay smudged between a brass compass and string. No one spoke of last night. They spoke of cuffs and titles, of how to sound impressed without sounding pleased. Cid had braided her hair too tight, as if neatness could pin the current in place.
Finn slipped in from the alley, lemon and wine on her sleeves. "Kitchens hire by the hand," he said. "I can keep close." Thorne’s jaw tightened. "It stays an extra side job, Finn. You’re Company first—but scullery hears things. Let it help." A firm rap at the door cut across the room. Thorne cracked it. The courier's leather satchel held the morning's polite business; one envelope wore azure ribbon.
The invitation lay on the strategy table like a thrown gauntlet. Marcus Heartbridge, dressed in a tailored silk doublet of deep charcoal that seemed to drink the warehouse light, picked it up and read it aloud for the third time. His voice was smooth, but his eyes were sharp, analytical.
"'Following your remarkable success at the Great Library, Veridian Agronomics would be honored to host Commander Thornwake and guests at our annual Spring Innovation Gala. As fellow professionals dedicated to specialized excellence, we believe you would appreciate our advances in magical horticulture. The original architects of our facility, Mr. Threnx and Ms. Vexweld, will be our guests of honor.'"
From the hall, Finn cleared her throat. "Scullery took me on as an aspiring cook. I can keep to the back stairs and hear what the cellars hear."
He set the elegant parchment down with deliberate care. "This is beautiful, actually. Pure professional courtesy—the kind of invitation that gets sent to every prominent organization in Waterdeep after a public success. They _have_ to invite us. To not invite the heroes of the Great Library rescue would be a social slight that would raise more questions than our presence ever could."
Marcus began to pace, a predatory smile playing at his lips. "They don't know we suspect them. To Veridian's legitimate face, we're simply another successful organization worthy of networking with. But to the Silent Hand leadership? We're a potential problem they want to assess up close."
He looked around at the assembled team. Veyra sat with that particular stillness that preceded violence—Marcus could practically see her calculating sight lines and exit routes. Korrath's bronze scales seemed dull with the weight of his family's tarnished honor, but his architect's eye was already working, sketching invisible blueprints in the air. Cid vibrated with barely suppressed fury, her prosthetic hand occasionally sparking with tiny arcs of frustrated energy. Thorne stood like a mountain—steady, reliable, but Marcus caught the subtle way the paladin's fingers traced his holy symbol, preparing for the evening ahead. Even now, Rill was staring out the window at the harbor, completely absorbed in watching the tide patterns rather than listening to the briefing.
"This is my field of battle," Marcus stated, his tone shifting from diplomat to spymaster. "And on this field, there are rules. Rule one: we are not there as the Last Light Company investigating a criminal conspiracy. We are there as professional associates of Threnx and Vexweld, two brilliant architects being honored for their work. Our curiosity is academic, our praise is genuine, our questions are professional. We are exactly what we appear to be—until we're not."
He paced slowly. "Aldwin, you are a healer fascinated by their nutritional research. Rill, a water specialist intrigued by their purification methods. Grimjaw, you are a peer of Korrath's, interested in the structural marvels. Veyra, you are a security consultant, impressed by their safety record. We are all here to learn and admire."
His gaze fell on Lyra, who was adjusting the collar of a modest but elegant scholar's gown. "Dr. Blackwood," he said with a nod. "You are our ringer. You know the academic world. You will ask the questions no one else can, questions that are innocent to a layman but deeply problematic to an expert."
"And me?" Cid asked, her prosthetic hand clenching and unclenching at her side.
"You," Marcus said, his voice softening slightly, "are the guest of honor. You are proud, brilliant, and perhaps a little too passionate about your work. You are allowed to be... enthusiastic. Let them see the genius; hide the fury."
He turned back to the group. "Our goal is twofold. First, we gather intelligence. Finn is already inside—apprenticing in the scullery, ears open. The rest of us will engage the legitimate staff—the researchers, the cooks, the groundskeepers. These people are not our enemies; they are unwitting accomplices. We plant seeds of doubt, not accusations. Second, we secure the tour. Korrath, that falls to you. It must be a natural request, a professional courtesy they cannot refuse."
"And what if they already know?" Grimjaw rumbled.
"They know _of_ us," Marcus corrected. "They do not know that we have their blueprints. They do not know that we have their secrets. Tonight, we are simply a potential problem they wish to assess. Our job is to appear... manageable. Now, let's get dressed for the party."
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## A Palace of Glass
## Scene 2: A Palace of Glass
The Azure Pavilion was breathtaking at dusk, but to Thorne, the 300-foot pier leading to it was a beautifully crafted kill-zone. He felt a familiar tension in his shoulders as they walked the exposed oak planks, noting the City Watch screeners at the first lay-by niche and the chainable bollards meant to halt a cavalry charge, let alone a group of pedestrians. There was no cover. A single, perfect chokepoint. He scanned the open-air colonnade ahead, his mind automatically mapping fields of fire.
The white marble pavilion seemed to hold the day's last light, while the signature azure tiles of the roof deepened to the color of a twilight sky. Enchanted crystal lanterns floated in the air, casting a soft, silvery glow that shimmered on the harbor's gentle waves. The air was a clean, crisp mix of sea salt, the distant sound of harbor bells on the wind, and the faint, expensive perfumes of Waterdeep's elite. Rill, walking beside him, seemed oblivious to the tactical concerns. Her gaze was fixed downward, her head tilted. "The piles are resisting a westward swell," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "You can feel the vibration. There's a secondary eddy near the far side. A service float, maybe?" She filed the information away, her unique form of reconnaissance complete.
Dr. Elisande Mourngrave greeted them at the entrance, a vision of academic grace in a deep blue gown. Her smile was warm, but her eyes were like chips of ice, performing a rapid, flawless assessment of each of them.
"Commander Thornwake, what an unexpected pleasure," she said, her voice a finely tuned instrument of professional courtesy. "When we invited Mr. Threnx and Ms. Vexweld, we didn't realize they'd bring such distinguished colleagues."
"Korrath and Cid have done excellent work for us recently," Veyra replied, her tone equally placid. "We wanted to support them at their moment of recognition."
"Of course," Mourngrave said, her gaze lingering for a fraction of a second too long on Veyra's scarred cheek. "Excellence should always be celebrated."
Marcus stepped forward smoothly, taking Mourngrave's hand and bowing with practiced charm. "Dr. Mourngrave, Marcus Heartbridge. On behalf of my associates, thank you for this generous invitation. Your facility's reputation for innovation is the talk of the Trades Ward."
It was the opening move in a game where every word was a piece on the board, and Marcus had just placed his first bishop.
As they moved deeper into the pavilion, Rill drifted toward the harbor balustrade. Her brow furrowed. There, clinging to the foundation piles, was a subtle, oily shimmer, and the faint but unmistakable chemical scent of an unnatural poison cutting through the salt air. It was an affront.
Finding a secluded spot, she knelt, her hand hovering just above the water. With a quiet focus, she coaxed the slick away from the stone, herding the viscous pollutant into a single, dark globule that pulsed with a sick iridescence. A small school of silver fish, which had been darting away from the poison, immediately swam back into the shelter of the pier. Rill contained the globule in a small, empty vial from her belt, her duty done.
"Speaker Vossari. A word?"
Rill turned. A human man with the weathered face and calloused hands of a ship's captain stood there, his expression one of deep respect. He gestured with his chin toward the now-clean water.
"The harbor thanks you," he said quietly. "Not many of the high-and-mighty folk who party here would notice when the water is sick. It's good to know the Speaker of the Tidal Courts still does."
"The water should be clean," Rill replied simply, her voice as calm and steady as the deep sea. "It's my duty to see to it."
The captain gave a short, deferential bow and melted back into the crowd, leaving Rill to her quiet communion with the now-healing water.
Thorne, however, felt something entirely different. As he moved through the elegantly dressed crowd, a familiar chill ran up his spine—that crawling sensation he'd learned to recognize over years of fighting the darkness. Several of the servers moved with the wrong kind of purpose, their smiles too practiced, their eyes too watchful. When one passed close by carrying a tray of wine, the paladin's hand instinctively moved toward his holy symbol. Something was profoundly wrong with this place, woven into its very foundations despite the beautiful facade.
"Commander," he said quietly to Veyra, his voice barely above a murmur. "We're not among friends here. Some of these people... there's something off about them."
"I know," she replied just as softly. "Stay alert, but stay in character."
As if to punctuate her words, Thorne felt it—not a chill, but a sudden, sickening lurch in his soul, like the feeling of a missed step in the dark. It was the taste of ash and old blood, a spiritual stench his oath had trained him to recognize. It was gone as quickly as it came, but it was potent. He looked at the server who had just passed—a young, unremarkable man—and then at Dr. Mourngrave across the room. The feeling hadn't come from her. It had come from the server. His brow furrowed. The board was more complicated than they'd assumed.
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## A Symphony of Whispers
## Scene 3: A Symphony of Whispers
The party was a symphony of layered deception, and Marcus was its conductor. He moved through the crowd with the ease of a man born to it, a glass of wine in one hand, extracting information with the other. He learned from a disgruntled investor that Veridian had yet to turn a profit, surviving on "generous research grants." He heard from a rival academic that Dr. Mourngrave's published work was notoriously vague on practical results.
It was then, as he feigned interest in a discussion on shipping insurance, that he caught it. The fragments of a hushed conversation from two well-dressed merchants standing near a marble column. "...the yields are still theoretical," one complained. The other, a man Marcus recognized from the West-Gate Shipping Guild, lowered his voice. "Patience. The Shepherd has assured us the next phase will be extremely profitable. The new 'acquisitions' are arriving this week." Marcus's charming smile didn't waver, but inside, a crucial piece of the puzzle clicked into place. The name, spoken here, was the confirmation he needed.
He guided his team with subtle signals. A slight tip of his glass sent Aldwin toward the catering tables. A brief touch to his cufflink directed Grimjaw toward a group of off-duty guards. The timing was perfect—almost unnaturally so—as if the universe itself was conspiring to put the right people in the right places at precisely the right moments.
Cid, meanwhile, had ignored all social cues and was staring intently at one of the floating crystal lanterns. "Photomancy regulated by harmonic resonance," she muttered, her fingers twitching. "But how are they grounding the energy fluctuations?" Forgetting herself for a moment, she made a subtle gesture. A spectral, glowing blue hand—her Mage Hand—drifted up toward the lantern's casing. Suddenly, the crystal flickered violently. A nearby guard glanced up. Cid snatched her hand back, the spectral appendage vanishing instantly. The guard stared at the lantern for a long moment before shrugging and turning away. Cid let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, her heart racing with the thrill of a near-discovery.
Aldwin, with his gentle demeanor, found Martha Hearthwarm beaming with pride. "The young folks in our apprentice program just love the meals I prepare," she said. "Though they do seem so tired lately—Dr. Mourngrave says it's the intensive study schedule."
"Fascinating," Aldwin said, his voice full of warmth. "I specialize in holistic healing. Nutrition for young, developing minds is a passion of mine. What sort of diet does the program require?"
As Martha happily detailed the nutrient-rich, calorie-dense meals, Aldwin's heart grew heavier. It was the diet of prisoners being kept healthy for transport, not of students. He listened with a kind smile, his eyes full of a sorrow Martha couldn't comprehend.
Meanwhile, Grimjaw had discovered that the Pavilion's wine selection included a respectable dwarven ale. What started as professional camaraderie with the guards quickly devolved into an impromptu drinking contest.
"Night shift at a bloody greenhouse," one guard grumbled, his third mug making him loose-tongued. "Could be worse, I suppose. At least it pays well."
"Aye," Grimjaw said, matching him drink for drink with practiced ease. "Good pay for good security. Must be valuable plants."
"That's what they tell us," the guard slurred, clearly losing the contest. "Though the rounds in the service undercroft are creepy as hell. It's just a crawlspace, but you hear things. Weird thrumming sounds. Probably the cooling systems for the labs they mentioned. Or... or maybe it's the apprentices having nightmares again."
The guard's companion elbowed him sharply, but the damage was done. "Shut it, Tomm. You've had too much."
Grimjaw slammed his now-empty mug on the table, the sound echoing like a hammer strike. "Too much? Bah! You humans call this drinking?" he roared, grabbing the swaying guard in a friendly headlock. "You haven't drunk 'til you've sung the song of my clan!" Before anyone could object, he launched into a thunderous, off-key ballad about digging for gold and fighting giant badgers. The sheer volume turned heads across the pavilion. To Marcus's visible dismay, the other guards, deep in their cups, tried to join the chorus, creating a pocket of glorious, dwarven chaos that provided the perfect cover for the rest of the team's operations.
Finn saw her chance near the service hoist connecting the main floor to the leeward float below. A Veridian administrator had left a satchel of documents on a staging crate while arguing with a porter. Heart hammering, Finn grabbed a bottle of wine from a passing tray and lurched forward, feigning a stumble. Wine sloshed over the crate, soaking a sheaf of papers. "Oh, gods, terribly sorry!" he yelped, his voice cracking. He grabbed a rag, hands trembling as he dabbed at the mess, his eyes darting across the page. _Shipping manifests... Live Cargo... Special Handling Requirements... Night-tide transfer._ The administrator was too busy yelling at the porter to notice the clumsy bgirl's frantic scanning. Finn mumbled another apology and scrambled away, her legs unsteady. It was a mess, but he'd done it. He caught Marcus's eye across the pavilion and gave the slightest, terrified nod. Information acquired.
Nearby, Korrath had wandered to one of the pavilion's elegant marble columns, running his scaled fingers along the carved surface with professional interest. To any observer, he was simply an architect admiring fine craftsmanship. But his trained eye saw what others missed: stress fractures that shouldn't exist in marble this new, inconsistent wear patterns that suggested heavy, regular traffic in areas that should be purely decorative.
"Beautiful work," he said to a passing Veridian administrator. "Though I'm curious about the foundation work. The settlement patterns here suggest some interesting engineering choices."
The administrator beamed with pride. "Oh yes, Dr. Mourngrave insisted on extensive basement facilities. Climate-controlled storage, research laboratories, staff quarters for our residential apprentice program. Quite impressive, really."
Korrath nodded appreciatively, his mind racing. He ran a hand over a column. Marble-clad timber cores, just as the public record stated. But the stress fractures weren't just in the cosmetic marble. He could feel a deep groaning in the timber itself. _This isn't from storage rooms or laboratories,_ he thought, a cold dread settling in his gut. _This is the result of repeated, heavy, dynamic loads. This is the signature of heavy, reinforced cell doors slamming shut. Over and over._ His own designs, twisted to cage people. The dishonor of it was a physical weight.
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## The Test and The Tell
## Scene 4: The Test and The Tell
Lyra, as the elegant Dr. Blackwood, was discussing magical hybridization with a genuine botanist when Sergeant Dalton Crowsight made his approach. He was a predator in a party doublet.
"Dr. Blackwood, wasn't it?" he said with a smile that didn't touch his cold eyes. "From Baldur's Gate? Funny, I had a cousin who worked at the Arcane Collegium there. Professor Thaddeus Marwick—taught transmutation. Perhaps you know him?"
Lyra gave a light, academic laugh, a perfect blend of surprise and professional courtesy. "Marwick? No, can't say I've had the pleasure. I work primarily with the botanical research wing—we're rather isolated from the transmutation department. Though I did attend a lecture by Professor Elminster Caufield on organic transmutation last spring. Fascinating work on accelerated growth patterns."
She had not only deflected, she had built a more credible fiction than his. Crowsight was momentarily flustered, his carefully planned test completely derailed by her quick thinking. "Ah... Caufield. Yes, I've... heard the name."
"You must tell your cousin to attend his next symposium," Lyra pressed, her smile unwavering. "Revolutionary applications for agricultural enhancement. In fact, that's why I'm so interested in Veridian's work here."
She had not just passed the test—she had turned it inside out and made him the one answering questions. Crowsight knew when he'd been beaten at his own game. He offered a curt nod and retreated, unsettled by the realization that he'd been outmaneuvered by someone who might not be who she claimed to be.
Later, the moment of truth arrived. Dr. Mourngrave approached Cid, a small group of investors in tow. "Ms. Vexweld, these gentlemen were just asking about the remarkable containment properties of your atmospheric regulation system. Such perfect... isolation."
Cid's prosthetic hand, holding a wine glass, sparked once—a tiny, blue-white arc of barely contained energy, like her fury was literally trying to escape through her fingertips. She smiled brightly, a smile that was all sharp edges and dangerous promise. "Oh, absolutely! The systems are remarkably versatile. Perfect containment. Nothing gets in... _nothing gets out._"
She paused, letting the words hang in the air. "The beauty is in the redundancies. Every fail-safe has a fail-safe. You could keep absolutely _anything_ inside those chambers. For as long as you wanted. The subjects—" she caught herself with practiced ease, "—I mean, the _specimens_ would have no idea how thoroughly they're... protected. From contamination, of course."
Her eyes locked with Mourngrave's. "It's really quite brilliant, if I do say so myself. Though I imagine you already know exactly how well it all works, don't you, Dr. Mourngrave?"
The investors heard only pride. Mourngrave heard a declaration of war.
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## The Interception
## Scene 5: The Interception
Captain Thale Greycloak, Veridian's Head of Security, had seen the spark from Cid's hand and the sudden, glacial stillness in Mourngrave's posture. He moved with the quiet purpose of a wolf cutting a sheep from the flock.
"Lord Thann," Greycloak said to one of the investors, his voice a polite murmur. "Dr. Mourngrave asked if you would join her for a private consultation regarding your... investment security. This way, please."
He began to guide the portly, confused noble toward a secluded colonnade. But before they had taken three steps, a charming voice cut in.
"Lord Thann! Just the man I was hoping to see." Marcus Heartbridge stepped smoothly from behind a fluted marble column, his smile effortless. He had been using the pavilion's 'column forest' to track Greycloak's movements, anticipating this very move. "I was just discussing the shipping tariffs on Cormyrian silk with Lady Blackmere, and she mentioned you were the city's foremost expert."
Thann puffed up with pride. "Well, I do have some experience..."
"My apologies, Captain," Marcus said to Greycloak, not sounding apologetic at all. "But a matter of civic commerce surely takes precedence over internal security, wouldn't you agree? Lord Thann's wisdom is a city-wide asset."
Greycloak was trapped. To insist would cause a scene and reveal his true purpose. He was forced to release the noble's arm. "Of course," he said, his eyes locking with Marcus's. "Another time, my lord."
Marcus smoothly guided Lord Thann away, leaving Greycloak standing alone. The timing had been absolutely flawless—as if Marcus had somehow known exactly when Greycloak would make his move, exactly what words would stop him, exactly how to turn the captain's own professionalism against him. It was the kind of perfect execution that left opponents wondering if they'd been outplayed or simply unlucky.
A message had been sent: _You are not the only players on this board. And your pieces can be taken._
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