Elminster Enraged sos-3

by Ed Greenwood

  It was going well. The nobles around that table, their tongues eased by wine, were busily deciding that although the ruling Obarskyrs were utterly and historically corrupt, and should eventually be deposed for the good of the realm, in the short term the greater affront to the liberty and health of the kingdom were courtiers who deceive royalty, nobility, and commoners alike, enact Crown will to their own advantages, and (as old Lord Haeldown had just put it) “oppress all.”

  It was agreed that regicide, however tempting to some, would bring open civil war and a long period of strife, despoiling the same fair realm they sought to free. So rather than take down King Foril-who was, after all, elderly and (as Lord Taseldon said) “like to die soon, anyhail”-they would instead seek to remove the worst of the courtiers.

  Specific persons at court, the worst of the “jumped-up covert rulers of us all” (Lord Haeldown again) would be murdered in a series of “accidents.” Properly done, in a careful sequence, these removals should arouse a minimum of war wizard suspicion, and serve to weaken the efficiency of Crown service and promote younger, more corruptible courtiers into the forcibly created vacancies.

  “The Dragon Throne, like any other throne, stands on legs-those who obey royal commands. If we remove these legs, one by one, there will come a time when the throne will fall,” Lord Blacksilver gloated.

  “And though the penalty for fell treason is death,” Lord Taseldon added, “pruning the realm of corrupt, loyal-only-to-themselves courtiers is something very different. Something … patriotic!”

  “So who, my lords,” the chancellor of the realm purred, “should be first courtier to be pruned?”

  There was a little silence, broken by everyone starting to speak at once. This name was cast onto the table, and that one, with almost obscene enthusiasm … and when the rush of suggestions at last faltered and silence came again, one name had been mentioned far more than any other.

  Rensharra Ironstave, lady clerk of the rolls. As the head of tax appraisals for Cormyr, she might be the friendliest of creatures, yet by the very nature of her office still be a thorn in the sides of all nobility and wealthy landowners. As it happened, she was not the friendliest of creatures. Stubborn and sharp-tongued, a shrewd woman who seemed able to sense deceit before it was wholly laid out before her, she steadfastly refused to be bribed or cozened-and seemed to take enthusiastic delight in revealing even the most minor deceptions of the nobility, making public examples of their attempts to evade taxes.

  In his antechamber, Manshoon smiled. So it was to be self-interest foremost, after all. Well, it was good to know how truly noble the nobles of Cormyr were.

  Lord Haeldown said, “I used to think our war wizards were all little Vangerdahasts-young foolhead wizards from all over the Realms he tracked down and cast mind magics on, so they became his little thralls. Mayhap they were. He certainly seemed to learn everything that befell behind closed doors all over the kingdom as fast as if he’d seen and heard it himself. Yet I doubt that outland Caladnei woman, nor this weak-nothing Ganrahast we’re saddled with now, have managed the same trick. These days, our wizards of war make mistakes, often work against each other deliberately or unwittingly, and seem no more cohesive than, say, our Purple Dragons. There’s no mighty mage lurking behind them who can flit from head to head as he pleases and move them all like strikers on a lanceboard. That’s how Vangey survived all those assassination attempts, you know. He’d leave his body to be hewn down and leap across half the realm to land in another head, then turn around and conjure up another body for himself.”

  “I agree, that’s what the war wizards have been like,” Lord Taseldon agreed, “but no longer. These last few days they seem … different. Watchful, ready for trouble. Now there is a wizard linking their thoughts together-for the first time in as long as I can remember.”

  Lord Loroun leaned forward in interest. “Who? Surely not that nice, sensitive fool Ganrahast?”

  “Hah! If he could do so, he’d have been doing it all these years, no? It’s not his name they’re whispering around the palace. The one they are giving tongue to, courtiers and Dragons alike, is ‘Elminster.’ ”

  Lord Haeldown waved that notion away with one wrinkled hand. “The legendary Mad Mage of Mystra? He’ll be thousands of years old now-if he’s still alive! You really think us all dullards enough to believe that?”

  “No, I think our great-grandsires got fooled, and theirs before them. I’ve heard talk that Elminster has lasted down the centuries because he isn’t one man, but wizard after wizard that Elminster’s mind floods into and conquers. Dozens at once, so some can’t help but survive, whatever befalls. That drives them all mad, of course, but what wizard isn’t? Right now, I think he’s inside the head of every last damned wizard of war-or soon will be.”

  Manshoon stiffened in his comfortable chair, his jaw dropping open. His face was suddenly hot, the mirrors all around showing him that his eyes were blazing …

  Could this be so? Could Elminster really be commanding the minds of Cormyr’s Crown mages?

  The future emperor of Cormyr got up and started to pace, which in the tiny anteroom was not easy. He paced, over and over, his mind lost in furious thought.

  It could be so! Every last damned wizard of war …

  “Urgh!” Harbrand grunted in pain, rebounding off his saddlehorn for the fifty-four-thousandth time, and rubbing at the eye beneath his eye patch. It itched, whereas his groin had long since become one huge and tender bruise. “These saddles aren’t getting any more comfy!”

  Hawkspike’s reply was a sullen growl. His own creaking rides were always uncomfortable, owing to his hanging as heavily in even a high-cantled saddle as a sack of potatoes. “You should’ve worn a bigger codpiece!”

  “There are no bigger codpieces, friend Hawkspike! Not when one is-”

  “Endowed like several competing stallions? I’ve heard your lines before, remember? Tell me, did they work on Old Skullgrin?”

  “Hawk, Lady Dawningdown is our client. I’d hardly have managed to land us our commission-or escaped her mansion without my backside tasting a good lashing-if I’d been foolish enough to let my tongue run that freely!”

  “It’s run a mite too freely before,” Hawkspike reminded his partner sullenly.

  Harbrand sighed. “Hawk, this is getting us nowhere, and despite these sad excuses for horses-”

  Their third pair of stolen mounts had been less fresh and fit than they’d gambled on, and for the last little while had been stumbling and faltering under them, clearly exhausted. However, this wild mountain country was no place to stop in. Raw rock peaks on one side, the outlaw- and monster-haunted Hullack Forest dark and close on the other …

  “-we are drawing near to Irlingstar-”

  “At last.”

  “-at last, indeed, and it’s more than time for us to settle on a plan-however tentative-for how we’re going to fulfill Lady Dawningdown’s commission.”

  Hawkspike spat on a defenseless stone they were passing. It wasn’t the one he’d aimed for, but it was a stone. Not that they were rare targets, along this gods-forsaken excuse for a road. “So talk.”

  Lady Dawningdown had hired them to free her son and heir, young Lord Jeresson Dawningdown, who was imprisoned in Irlingstar. They were to get him across the border to Bowshotgard, a hunting lodge in forested northern Sembia.

  However, it had dawned on both surviving partners in Danger For Hire that they were more likely to be handed their own deaths at Bowshotgard rather than their promised payment, so they devised their own variant to Lady Dawningdown’s arrangements.

  They would free Jeresson, get him into Sembia, drug him to sleep and then bind and hide him. Then they’d hire a Sembian intermediary to go to Bowshotgard with the news that Hawkspike and Harbrand were betrayed by hirelings and slain, and those hirelings are now heading back to meet with Lady Dawningdown and demand a huge ransom for Jeresson. The intermediary would claim to venerate Bahamut, Lord of Justice, abo
ve all other gods, and to be shocked by the behavior of his fellow hirelings-so he fled, to reveal Jeresson’s whereabouts to those at Bowshotgard, and enable them to go rescue him.

  If those at Bowshotgard didn’t believe the intermediary, or enspelled him to learn the truth, or slew him, Hawkspike and Harbrand would simply move on, forgetting all about the Dawningdown coins, to try their fair fortune in northeastern Sembia and more distant locales. But, if the Dawningdown allies at Bowshotgard sallied forth to go find Jeresson, Danger For Hire could covertly plunder all they could carry off from Bowshotgard, by way of payment in lieu of their commission, and move on far wealthier.

  However, all of this thinking began with the glib words “free Jeresson,” and that was the part of it all that still needed discussion. They had the sleep drug, and plenty of waxed cord to bind a prisoner with. They even had a capture hood, to muffle and blind a captive. They had a vague idea of the layout of Castle Irlingstar, and the names of its seneschal and lord constable. And that was about all they had.

  Harbrand gave his partner a weak, twisted smile. The sort of grin that more sheltered and civilized folk would have called a “sheepish” smile.

  “Well,” Harbrand began, not having the slightest inkling of what he was going to say next, “I-”

  Something gray rose into view above the trees, then, and he thankfully interrupted himself to point and say, “Behold! Our destination, Castle Irlingstar!”

  Hawkspike grunted wordlessly, managing to convey his deep lack of being impressed. “Looks like a-”

  Whatever architectural judgment he’d been planning to deliver was lost forever in what happened next.

  There was a sudden, thunderous roar that rebounded off many mountainsides, and a bright flash amid billowing smoke, as an explosion burst upward from the battlements of the prison castle.

  In its wake, something huge and black and scaled flapped hastily away from the keep, roaring in startled pain.

  A dragon! A black dragon, its groans deep and angry as it circled back into the mountains.

  Hawkspike looked at Harbrand, and Harbrand looked back at Hawkspike. Then they both put spurs to their mounts, to hurry on toward Irlingstar.

  Complaining, their exhausted horses broke into uneven gallops, plunging two bruised and unhappy riders into fresh, lurching saddle-buffetings.

  The two surviving partners in Danger For Hire traded a second set of glances.

  After which they both reined in their mounts, hard.

  If that dragon came their way …

  Both somehow clung to their saddles through the wild rearings, kicks, and buckings that followed.

  But then they decided instead to leap off and tether the snorting, head-tossing beasts to nearby trees in frantic haste. The men got their saddlebags undone and safely rushed into cover.

  Their swords and daggers had been freshly sharpened, and went through the tethers in a trice, freeing the nags to wander at will.

  Into the yawning jaws of an angrily swooping dragon, for instance …

  The two hireswords sprinted back into the trees, grabbed up the saddlebags, and ran.

  They were soon panting hard-the saddlebags were hrasted heavy-but kept at it until their wind ran out.

  Whereupon they crashed down into the dead leaves and dry needles, to lie there side by side, gasping.

  They were well away from where they’d freed the horses, but a bit too far into the deep gloom of the endless forest.

  They looked to where the sunlight was brightest. They’d go back to the edge of the forest, where the road was, and skulk the rest of the way to Irlingstar on foot, keeping under the trees.

  Explosions, dragons … those extra offerings to both Tymora and Beshaba hadn’t won them anything different than their usual luck.

  “I told you,” Harbrand said suddenly, “stolen things are no good as offerings. Goddesses can tell.”

  Hawkspike’s reply was swift, pungent, and probably more of an affront to Tymora and Beshaba than any altar offering could have been.

  “I am Lord Constable here,” Farland reminded the tall, laconic, slab-faced war wizard sharply.

  “So you are. I’d almost managed to forget that, despite your nigh-constant minders,” Gulkanun replied. “Almost.”

  And he winked.

  Farland was mildly astonished to find himself on the verge of smiling. This Duth Gulkanun was … likeable. All too vocally ironic, but far less irritating than Lord Delcastle, Master of Mockery, yonder. Hrast it, he liked this man.

  “Very well,” he said, turning quickly to glare at the other war wizard-the one with the curse that shapechanged his hand continually. As usual he had moved silently to stand too close. Close enough that he’d be crowding any man, not just a jailer trained to guard against such things, to keep prisoners distant, and give himself enough room to swing a mace or a sword.

  This man, he did not like. Sly and sharp tongued, entirely untrustworthy in word and deed. A felon, Farland would have deemed him if meeting him for the first time and not knowing this Longclaws was a wizard of war. He’d fit right in with the noble guests in Irlingstar.

  Aye, the man struck him as properly a prisoner, not any sort of respectable Crown officer. If they’d been alone, Farland would have reminded him sternly in an instant that the penalty for treason was death.

  “Very well,” he repeated, advancing on the irritating Imbrult Longclaws until the man-satisfyingly, but lord constables learned to claim and count such small satisfactions-gave ground, “we’ll do it your way.”

  “And trust what answer I return with?”

  Farland nodded, and he managed to quell a sigh ere he echoed, “And trust whatever answer you get.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A ROOM FOR THE NIGHT

  Not surprisingly for a fortress built as a prison, Castle Irlingstar didn’t have many outside balconies. One of its few opened off the records room, adjacent to Farland’s own office.

  Wizard of War Gulkanun headed out onto it now, Longclaws following him as far as the records room. There the curse-ridden wizard turned, leaned back against the desk, and drew two wands from his belt. Though he said not a word, his intent was obvious: to keep everyone at bay, back where they couldn’t see what Gulkanun did. The magic of opening a small breach in the wards was a war wizard secret, and would be kept that way.

  Farland glowered at Longclaws, who met his gaze with a faint smile. They both knew what Gulkanun was doing, but that didn’t mean the lord constable had to like it. So many folk were trying to give him orders in his own castle that he was on the verge of losing track of them all, hrast it.

  This Gulkanun-a decent sort, as far as war wizards went-needed the breach to spell speak with Glathra Barcantle back in Suzail, to report the deaths and inquire if the two new prisoners were indeed the undercover Crown agents they claimed to be.

  Glathra. The lord constable’s fingers went again to the pendant he wore, hidden from view beneath his ever-present gorget. It was a token from her, that she’d given him on a tender night long before matters had ended so badly between them.

  “Use it if ever you need me at your side,” she’d said, her eyes large and dark. Words he’d never forget.

  So why was he so all-fired glad that some slab-faced wizard of war was talking to her now, so he didn’t have to?

  The Crown mages marched back into the room, far sooner than he’d expected. Farland snatched his fingers away from the hidden pendant as if it might burn them.

  “Suzail now knows about the killings,” Gulkanun told him, “and these two can be trusted; they are what they claim to be.”

  Farland inclined his head. “My thanks, saer.” He turned to Amarune and Arclath. “Deepest apologies to the both of you. I hope you’ll appreciate that a lord constable cannot be too careful.”

  “Of course,” Arclath said graciously, as Amarune nodded.

  Farland smiled and waved one hand at an apparently solid wall. He saw Lord Delcastle crook his ey
ebrows, and he hastily leaned forward with his keys to forestall whatever clever-and irritating-comment the noble might make, to unlock the secret door. Making a swift “stay back” Crown signal he knew the two mages would understand, he led the two prisoners-ah, undercover agents-through the door.

  The room beyond was small, windowless, and had no other door, only ventilation holes about the size of a small man’s wrist in opposing corners. Crammed into it was a cot that served both as a bed and as a seat for use with the low, plain table beside it-a table that held a decanter, two stout wooden mugs, a dome-covered earthenware platter, and a lanceboard set up for a game.

  Farland lifted the dome to reveal wedges of cheese and sausages, and pointed at the decanter. “Wine.” As graciously as any socially climbing Suzailan hostess, he waved the two Crown agents to seat themselves, stepping back to give them room.

  “Yours for the night, Crown agents,” he said gently, from the door. “We’ll confer on the morrow.”

  Then he stepped outside, slammed the door-and locked them in.

  “So what,” Elminster murmured aloud, “would Brannon Lucksar do?”

  Use the secret war wizard way in, Symrustar suggested dryly, inside her head. If the chapbooks and tavern tales can be believed, there always is one.

  El sighed, nodded, and started along the castle wall, trailing his fingertips along the dark, rough stones and watching his rings closely. If they glowed, that just might mean a secret entrance.

  If not …

  Hammer on the prison doors and try to seduce the guards who show up. That should get you arrested.

  “Everyone should carry a Chosen in their head,” El murmured aloud. “They’re so helpful.”

  In the back of his mind, Symrustar made a very rude sound.

  Arclath charged the door, furious, but he might as well have been hammering on and clawing at solid stone.