Elminster Must Die: The Sage of Shadowdale

by Ed Greenwood

  Silence stretched. She worked the knocker again.

  This time, the response was a rattle of chain and a louder sliding. A square of heavy, double-layered grille revealed itself in the door at about eye level, a pair of steady eyes regarding her from behind it.

  “Delcastle Manor,” their owner murmured. “Your business?”

  “I’ve come at the invitation of Lord Arclath Delcastle,” Amarune replied carefully, knowing well what might be assumed about a woman walking alone and cloaked by night, and trying to sound polite, refined, and formal, “to speak with him. I am aware of the hour.”

  “I am sorry,” the porter replied, sounding as if he really was, “but the Lord Delcastle is not now at home. Perhaps tomorrow, around highsun, I will be able to give you a different reply.”

  “I see,” Amarune said, managing to keep her sigh quiet. “Do you know where he is?”

  “Out dining. I was given to understand. Darcleir’s Haven is a likelihood, but with so many friends, old and otherwise, newly arrived in Suzail, he might very well end up elsewhere. In the meantime, I regret I cannot admit guests to wait for him.”

  “Of course,” she replied, turning away.

  Where to, she was not quite sure. Nowhere at all might be safe for her, and among all these tall, formidable walls and the frequent Watch patrols, she could hardly linger on these streets of mansions and—

  Lost in her thoughts, she almost walked right into a pair of gleaming boots and the dark-clad man who was wearing them, standing right in front of her in the night.

  She flung herself back, clapping hand to knife—and saw that it was Arclath Delcastle, smiling a rather tired smile at her. He was just arriving home from the Haven, having grown heartily tired of the company of overpainted, oh-so-pretty venomous vipers of young and predatory noble ladies, with their honeyed threats and condescensions.

  Their eyes met, and one good look at her frightened, imploring eyes told him something. Breaking into a broad grin, he swept one arm around Amarune with a loud and delighted, “Lady Amarune! We must talk! Your castle or mine?”

  “Y-yours,” she managed to whisper. “If it’s … convenient.”

  “In your company, all things are convenient,” he replied heartily. “Open up, Lorold!”

  The gates were already parting, guards coming to attention. Arclath gave them both bright smiles and nods, waved to the porter, and swept his cloaked guest past them all into the moonlit gardens beyond.

  “I’m honored that you came to visit us so promptly! The family will be so pleased!”

  He took her arm, firmly guiding her up a gentle slope of grass wet with heavy dew to a path lined with tall plantings of uruth and bedaelia. “To our right, the Delcastle bridal bower! Ahead of us, the summerhouse, and to our left, looking down across the main carriageway to the arbor, we can see in the distance the five fishponds my great-grandsire was so proud of. The Delcastle stables are justly famed for their—”

  By then they were well along the floral path, and he stopped in midsentence, dropped his voice to a murmur, and asked, “Do you need shelter? A meal? A place to talk?”

  “All of those, I suppose,” Amarune replied, hesitantly. “To talk, mostly.”

  “Here, or inside, where the dragon that is my mother snorts fire and growls, devouring a steady procession of young and perfumed men entering her bedchamber?”

  Amarune sighed. “Do you have a room you can call your own, with a door that locks?”

  Arclath eyed her gravely. “I do. Have you a reputation left to maintain?”

  Amarune snorted. “As a barepelt club dancer? I’ll risk it.”

  “But what of my reputation?” he asked lightly.

  “I can probably manage to moan and gasp and sob your name loudly from time to time, and thereby salvage it,” she told him dryly.

  Arclath rolled his eyes then grinned like an eager lad, his eyes dancing. “Then come!”

  “Can we at least have drinks first?” she teased. “Isn’t that the courtly way?”

  “We can,” he promised. “Yet never make the mistake again of thinking nobles are courtly away from court. As mistakes go, that can be one of the fatal ones.”

  Well, at least he was still good at one thing.

  Not that breaking into the royal palace of Suzail with swift ease was apt to advance him far in any new career he’d prefer to pursue.

  Panderer? Nay …

  Elminster gave the dark and empty secret passage he was traversing his best wry grin as he hastened along it. Then he winced. Aye, he had a blister rising on his left heel. He was getting too old for waltzing young lasses home and then rushing back across too much of Suzail to seek his own hidehold, before—

  Hoy, there! He stiffened, slowed, and then advanced more cautiously. The murmur of voices ahead was many-throated and excited; something had befallen.

  The clack was coming through some spyholes from a room beside the passage and had the same air of alert bustle that befalls a castle before a siege; something he’d heard a time or twelvescore and remembered all too well.

  Ah, that voice was Mallowfaer, the Master of Revels, in full pompous bluster.

  Elminster rolled his eyes and glided to a cautious halt by the spyholes, taking care to keep well back from them as he peered through.

  The robing-room on the other side of the wall was crowded with courtiers, and war wizards, too; facing El but half-hidden behind the shoulder of Understeward Corleth Fentable was a rather bruised-looking Rorskryn Mreldrake. The spyholes were situated behind and just above the left shoulder of Khaladan Mallowfaer, who evidently wanted to impress everyone with his authority and exacting attention to detail, but also sounded determined to demonstrate just how pompous and nasty he could be, in the process.

  The burdens of his song were intertwined harmonies of exasperation at unfolding chaos, glee that the problem could not—by any stretch of verbiage he would allow—be laid at his door, and that he was in charge of formal protocols at the moment and could therefore decree with nigh royal authority. It seemed the palace had become aware that Ganrahast and Vainrence both seemed to be missing, with our wizards of war very alarmed about it and rushing about searching here, there, and everywhere without wanting to admit that anything at all was amiss—with the council only days away! What to do? What to do?

  At that moment, with a sputtering roar, it became clear that Understeward Fentable’s superior, the bullying, blustering, and overblown Palace Steward Rorstil Hallowdant—who was both lazy and a drunkard and therefore spent much of his time snoring somewhere, leaving things to the highly efficient and widely liked understeward, much to the relief of most courtiers—had heard quite enough of someone else being haughty and giving orders right and left.

  “The Master of Revels,” he said in a voice that had a finger-lopping-sharp edge to it, “seems to forget that everyone in this chamber right now is a dedicated, skilled professional, from the clerk of the shield here beside me to the under-clerks of protocol yonder, all four of them. It is our common business to know the location and deeds of each royal personage, both before and throughout the council, from the smallest appointment to the grandest feast, and from our beloved King Foril to Lord Royal Erzoured and the Countess of Dhedluk. The Master of Revels needs only to coordinate, and not to command.”

  “Of course,” Mallowfaer responded in a voice that had an edge all its own, “but the Crown Prin—”

  “Crown Prince Irvel confers with me often. I last spoke with him—and with Princess Ospra, Prince Baerovus, and Princess Raedra—just before departing the Sunstatues Chamber to come here. All of them are confident the customary support of the entire palace will make this council a success, however tense matters become. I should add that even one not born to high station, the Lady Solatha Boldtree, shares this confidence and has said as much. To me.”

  “Nevertheless—”

  “Nevertheless,” the palace steward said crushingly, “we deal with functions and courtesie
s large and small here in this great seat of rulership, day in and day out, and shall continue to do so without any need for the Master of Revels to try to alter or gainsay the usual precedence or procedures. I fully expect each and every one of you to—”

  Elminster shook his head and strolled on down the secret passage, Hallowdant’s coldly cutting words fading behind him. He found himself both amused—he could practically complete the palace steward’s speech by heart, without any need to actually hear the rest of it—and heartened. Murmurs of agreement had been backing Hallowdant in a sort of chorus.

  The court was bent on their duties.

  Ganrahast or no Ganrahast, things would go on. Haughty and fussy and backbiting though they were, the courtiers of Cormyr would deal with things.

  King rise or king fall, regicide or nobles poisoning each other with abandon or chasing each other down the halls with gore-dripping battle-axes, the palace servants would endure. And the Forest Kingdom with them, for they were the kingdom. They and the carters and crofters, foresters and horsebreeders, goodwives and crafters and smiths, from the Thunder Peaks to the Stormhorns. Let Hallowdant and Mallowfaer spit and snarl; most of the other faces he’d just seen through a spyhole were both worried and excited. They were the faces of men who cared.

  The Forest Kingdom was still strong. Whoever warmed the throne or this or that high lord’s chair might change, but the kingdom would endure.

  Which meant a certain Sage of Shadowdale could take the items that held the survivors of the Nine for Alassra. Cormyr would get along just fine without them.

  Lord Arclath Delcastle stopped, put his hands on his hips, and sighed in exasperation.

  He had arisen early this fine bright morning, checked that his slumbering guest was still sleeping—they had talked late into the night but had slept apart, Arclath showing her his private pantry and sideboard and that she could lock herself in with them, and had heard her promptly do so—taken a quick breakfast of spiced plover’s eggs and hearth cakes, thrown on some suitably dandified finery, given his trusted servants firm instructions to render all reasonable aid to Amarune and to do so with respect, and taken himself off to the palace.

  He had two tasks to discharge there, the lesser concerning himself and the greater concerning the news Amarune had agreed that the war wizard Glathra should hear, without delay.

  His personal business was the same as many of the lesser nobles of the realm this morning. He sought to learn where his seat at council would be and which particular courtier he should look for on the day to escort him to his seat.

  In Arclath’s case, this lesser task also involved conveying his mother’s regrets; she of course would not be attending, and was in fact sending Arclath in her stead, while his father was too drunk to even know there was a council.

  His more pressing task—to report to the wizard Glathra that the mask dancer Amarune, the Silent Shadow, had just learned that she was the great-granddaughter of the infamous wizard Elminster, who was lurking in Suzail at that moment and wanted her to steal particular magic items for him that held the ghosts of the legendary Nine—would have been much easier if Arclath had been able to find Glathra.

  Not that any of the wizards of war he collared seemed to know where she might be found, stlarn them.

  The whole palace was in an uproar that morning, everyone rushing about terribly busy with council-related security requirements, servant deployments, and furniture rearrangements. Both the sprawling royal court and the majestic royal palace were a noisy bedlam of hurrying, calling, feverishly working folk; every last chambermaid and page seemed swept up in it all.

  He was growing tired of holding his own hips. He’d much rather have his hands on Rune’s, and—

  Enough. Banish that thought until he could do something about it.

  Drawing a deep breath, Lord Arclath Delcastle squared his shoulders, put a “no nonsense, please” frown on his face, and marched forward into the tumult.

  He knew a few senior war wizards by sight, and surely some of them must be there in the palace. He’d just keep going until he found one and ask for Glathra until he found someone who—

  “Hold, saer!”

  Arclath sighed. The challenges were going to come frequently that morning, by the looks of things. He gave the Purple Dragon guard barring his way with horizontal-held spear a patient smile, and began, “Fair morn to you, Telsword. I’m looking for Wizard of War Glathra …”

  The man scowled, instantly suspicious. “And just why d’you want to see her, Lord?”

  Oh, it was going to be a long morning.

  In a dark passage deep beneath the palace, Elminster came to a halt and cursed softly. On the wall ahead hung an old shield he’d watched Vangerdahast enspell, far more years earlier than he cared to remember. Its enchantments made it a silent warning of certain things arriving where nobles liked to congregate. When it started to glow, wizards of war had known to curse and hasten off to deal with whatever trouble the less loyal nobility of the Forest Kingdom were bringing to fair Suzail.

  Those wizards were all dead. Which left him.

  Turning to begin hastening, he got to work on the cursing part.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-ONE

  WE MUST DO WHATEVER WE MUST

  Arclath prided himself on a certain supple grace of stride, a smooth saunter that drew the eye. He’d needed it that morn to thread his way through all the rushing chamberjacks and chambermaids without too many jarring collisions.

  He’d also needed all the charm and glib tongue-work he could master to fend off frequent challenges from Purple Dragons as he sought out wizard of war after wizard. The ones he did find seemed to delight in frowningly directing him this way and that.

  Not that the one he was standing in front of, at the moment, was any trial on the eyes. A real beauty, with a long, glossy fall of blue-black hair—the hue they called “midnight”—and large, liquid, dark eyes to match.

  “I am Lord Arclath Delcastle,” he replied to her query. “What’s your name?”

  “Raereene,” she replied, adding a polite smile and a calm wave of her hand that told him that his come-hither glance was wasted, and that she was more than used to the blandishments of men both young and old. “You’re seeking someone?”

  “One of your colleagues,” Arclath told her. “A wizard of war who asked me to report to her, and gave her name as Glathra.”

  The young beauty nodded and pointed at a nearby door. “I know not her present whereabouts, but if you wait in yon chamber, I can promise you she’ll be there soon. It’s where we always find her, sooner or later.”

  Delcastle gave her a bow and smile of thanks, and made his way to the door. It proved to open into a little office—at the same time as an old, bearded man closed a secret panel behind himself on the far wall of the room and turned to face Arclath.

  Who let the door close behind him as they stared at each other, and a crooked smile grew across the old man’s face.

  “Well met, Lord Delcastle,” he said, going straight to a sideboard along one end of the office—ignoring its honor guard of a ceremonial suit of full armor, set up all lifelike on a stand—and selecting a decanter from the neat row atop it. “Care for a drink?”

  “Who are you?” Arclath asked, waving the offer away. “A war wizard?”

  “Yes,” the old man replied, “and I’d like to have something of a chat with thee. I’ve been hearing some strange things about young Lord Stormserpent and magic and some famous adventurers known as the Nine, and I’d like to know what ye know of such matters. What’re the fair nobles of the realm saying, hey?”

  Delcastle stared at the old man in bewilderment. “Glathra?” he asked, frowning. “Is it you? Is this some sort of test? I’ve been known to enjoy little games, yes, but right now I rather lack the time—”

  “Ah, nobles, nobles!” Elminster lamented mildly, sipping from the tallglass he’d just filled. “So important. Never have time for anything of conseque
nce; so busy with feasting and dalliance and debauchery—”

  Arclath sighed. “A tune I’ve heard more than a few times before. Saer, not now! This council must go perfectly or—”

  “Or thy head’ll be served up on the next feast platter? Well, if ye don’t listen to me, it will go rather less than imperfectly; ’twill be a disaster, perhaps even offering the realm a regicide!”

  Arclath arched an eyebrow. “My, my, so dramatic …”

  He strolled across the room toward one of the two closed doors at its other end from the sideboard. “However, you don’t seem to be the person I’m looking for, so I’ll just be—” He reached out, hesitated for a moment, and then chose the handle of the right-hand door.

  “Dead in about ten breaths from now,” Elminster finished his sentence for him briskly, “if ye step blindly through yon door. The elder Lady Illance is changing her gown in the chamber beyond, and her guards are very swift with their blades. Their poisoned blades, may I add, despite Crown law.”

  Arclath whirled around. “What? They’d not dare! The—”

  Elminster shook his head. “Ye are blind indeed, young Delcastle. Nigh every last noble at council will be breaking one Crown law or another—and they’ll all have weapons, spells on themselves, and some sort of forbidden magic or poison about their persons. Are ye sure ye’re a noble? Know ye nothing?”

  Arclath stared at the old wizard, eyes narrowing. “You’re … you’re Elminster, aren’t you?”

  El smiled, nodded—and slumped into a rather stiff parody of a courtly bow that left Arclath rolling his eyes and grinning.

  Then he shook his head, still smiling, and said, “Well, I know I can’t walk around the palace asking for your advice and warnings at every second step without half-a-dozen war wizards and Dragons pouncing on us both!”