Elminster Enraged

by Greenwood, Ed

  “We did not,” Arclath assured him. “But we were sent here after a discussion with King Foril, Royal Magician Ganrahast, and Lady Glathra.”

  “Oh, just the five of you?”

  “No. My mother—Lady Marantine Delcastle—was also present.”

  “To plead for royal clemency?”

  Arclath sighed. “I don’t think you quite understand, Lord Constable. Rune and I are merely posing as prisoners. We’re here as agents of the Crown, under orders to promptly report back to the king himself.”

  Farland sat back, smirking. “Of course you are.”

  “Your disbelief is obvious,” Arclath said politely, “but we were given watch phrases to prove our claims. I was told to say my father gave me a message for the seneschal.”

  “And I was told to say: Glathra remembers,” Rune added.

  That name brought a glint of anger into Farland’s eyes again. “I know nothing of these phrases,” he said shortly. “Perhaps Seneschal Avathnar did, but he’s dead—murdered. So as far as I’m concerned, you are prisoners and will be treated as such.” Before either Arclath or Amarune could reply, he raised his voice. “Guards!”

  The door banged open and the two guards hastened in, swords drawn.

  “Put those away,” the lord constable told them sourly. “These two are liars, not bloodthirsty constable-slayers. Take them to the cells assigned to them.”

  Arclath frowned. “So you’ll not even take the sensible step of sending a message to the Royal Magician, or King Foril, or Lady Glathra to check on what we’ve said?”

  “No,” Farland said bluntly, as the guards began unhooking the prisoners’ chains from their chairs. “Nor will I sit here sharing any confidences with you.”

  “Lord Constable,” Arclath said sternly, “this is less than wise.”

  The man behind the desk chuckled. “D’you know how many of my prisoners—high-and-mighty nobles, every last one of them—claim to be sent here by Ganrahast or Vainrence or the king himself as undercloak inspectors, to see what we’re up to? Almost all of them, that’s how many! You’re more subtle than most, I must say, who demand command of the castle almost before they’re done saying their names! I—”

  A door boomed open somewhere in the castle below, and an imperious voice gave angry orders just too distant for anyone in the lord constable’s office to make out the words. Other voices disagreed, sternly, and the imperious voice spoke again, more sharply. Booted feet hurried up stairs, coming nearer.

  “What now?” Lord Constable Farland snapped. “The next prisoners aren’t due ’til the month’s end! Who—”

  “Pray pardon the interruption, lord,” a guard puffed, shouldering his way into the room, “but there’re three men at the gates who won’t heed commands from any of us. They say they’re war wizards sent from Immerford, though they look more like traveling tinkers to me, an’ the one who leads them just told us all grandly he was now in command of the castle, jailers an’ prisoners an’ all—an’ he’s frozen Imgrus like a statue for drawing steel on him! Used a wand to do it! I—”

  With a wordless snarl Farland was on his feet and out from behind the desk, striding hard.

  He didn’t reach the door before a cold voice said from the passage, “There you are! The next time I give you an order, sirrah, you will obey it or spend time as a frog! Running away is not the conduct I expect from—”

  “And just who by the Dragon Who Rules Us All are you?” Farland’s roar was loud enough to leave ears ringing, but the cold-voiced new arrival was unperturbed.

  “Another lout of a soldier! Salute and then belt up, man! I’ll give the orders here!”

  “My, my,” Arclath told Amarune, “this is better than a play!”

  “Belt up!” Farland and the new arrival both shot at Arclath in unison, ere returning to the evidently more pleasurable activity of glaring at each other, nose to nose.

  “I’m the lord constable of Irlingstar,” Farland growled, “and in the name of the king—”

  “In the name of the king, you will obey me,” the new arrival said icily. “For I am Wizard of War Nostyn Vandur, leader of an elite investigative force of war wizards sent here by the Crown to investigate the murder of seneschal of Irlingstar Marthin Avathnar. Accordingly, I am now in command of this castle and everyone in it.”

  He stabbed a finger at Farland’s chest. “You are a suspect, and as such unfit to remain in command of anything, until my investigation is complete. I—”

  “Until I receive orders from the king himself relieving me,” Farland snarled, “I am in command here in Irlingstar. You could be any raving fool—or an outlaw, or some charlatan mage out of Sembia hired by any of the prisoners—claiming to be a wizard of war. Continue like this, and I’ll have you in chains in a cell right soonish, where you can order the walls around until you’re out of breath!”

  “Careful,” Arclath murmured. “If he’s a puissant mage, he’ll be quite able to order the walls around. Ask him if he knows Glathra.”

  Farland shot his newest male prisoner a murderous look, then turned back to confront Vandur—only to discover that the wizard of war, or the man claiming to be a wizard of war, had stepped around him and was sitting down behind Farland’s own desk.

  The lord constable drew his sword.

  Nostyn Vandur regarded him scornfully. “Surrender that,” he ordered. “Now.”

  He pointed at the gleaming top of the desk, and when Farland made no move to relinquish his blade, he tapped it in a clear signal.

  “Put it down,” Vandur snapped, as one might to a mischievous puppy.

  “No,” Farland snarled. “Get up from that desk or I’ll carve you.”

  Vandur ignored him, calling out to the passage, “Gulkanun! Longclaws! In here!”

  Farland lashed out with his sword. It flashed right through the man behind the desk as if he weren’t there.

  “I’m protected by an ironguard, of course,” Vandur said witheringly. “Seeking to slay a wizard of war who’s lawfully pursuing his duties is punishable by death, man, but I’ll overlook that if you apologize—here and now, and on your knees—and surrender both your weapon and your objections to my—”

  “Punishable by death upon due judgment of a duly constituted trial court,” Farland snarled, thrusting his blade through Vandur and holding it there while he reached for the man’s throat with his free hand, “which there isn’t one of within a day’s ride of here. And it’s only such an offense if you’re a wizard of war.”

  His hand easily thrust through Vandur’s two-handed attempts to strike it aside and closed around the intruder’s throat.

  “Even if you are, I utterly refuse to recognize your authority—and will continue to do so, until informed otherwise by someone whose authority I do recognize. No true war wizard would be so … so …”

  Vandur did something with a ring on his finger that made Farland stagger back with a curse, fat blue sparks leaping among his spasming fingers. Farland dropped blade, which clanged off the desk to the floor. “Brusque?” he supplied helpfully. “Arrogant?”

  “Yes, Dragon take you!” Farland snarled, wringing his hands together, his face creased in pain. “No true wizard of war would behave like this!”

  “He’s never met Vangerdahast,” Arclath told Amarune merrily. “And obviously doesn’t remember Glathra all that well, either.”

  Farland rounded on him. “Will you belt up, lord, right now, or will you—”

  Words failed him, but his fists came up. Before Arclath could do more than wag a reproving finger and say, “Now, now—” Vandur rapped out, “Touch no one, insubordinate man! Or I’ll discipline you here and now!”

  He raised a hand into view over the edge of the desk. A hand that had a wand in it.

  “You will listen to me, Lord Constable,” he said crisply, aiming the wand right at Farland’s nose, “or I’ll strike you motionless until I’m done speaking and force you to hear me that way! As a senior wizard of war, I ou
trank any mere Purple Dragon and almost all Crown officers, barring a handful of the most high-ranking courtiers of the realm! I will have your obedience, and I am in command of this castle!”

  At that moment, two men garbed like Vandur but weighed down by various bulging packs, pouches, and satchels came trotting rather breathlessly into the room.

  “Sorry,” one said to the man behind the desk. “We had a little trouble with the guards—”

  “Later,” Vandur said curtly. “Their suitable punishments can wait. Right now, it’s past time to begin our investigation. This room must be in the north tower, so you, Gulkanun, get yourself quickly to the south tower and confirm its layout and our authority to all garrison personnel there. Longclaws, you are to find and secure all exits and entrances to the castle, just as fast as that can be done!”

  The two men nodded, turned on their heels, and ran out.

  Vandur rose from behind the desk, thrust his wand back into his belt, and raised a hand meaningfully toward Farland as he twisted one of several rings on it. That ring glowed as it was awakened.

  “You,” he ordered, “will remain here until my return. I won’t be long. You might as well continue interrogating these prisoners.”

  He strode out, closing the door behind him. A moment later, it glowed all around its edges, a brief pulsing radiance of blue, white, and purple that faded as swiftly as it had appeared.

  “A wizard lock,” Arclath murmured. “I’ve seen many cast before.”

  Farland gestured savagely for silence as he headed for the door. He did not storm through it, however. He halted just before it and bent to listen intently. Arclath and Rune gave him the silence he wanted.

  Whereupon, through the door, they could all clearly hear Vandur give a command, then repeat the same order in an imperious bark … and then start shouting.

  “Seal me inside my own office,” Farland hissed in grim satisfaction, “and see where it gets you, Saer Imperious.”

  The shouting was going on and on, rising in tone.

  “The guards are defying him?” Rune asked. “Even when he waves that wand?”

  “To avoid any prisoner succeeding in a bribe, there are strict standing orders,” Arclath explained. “The Dragons serving here will obey only their known superiors, the lord constable, and those he personally tells them to take direction from.”

  Farland had turned his head to hear what the young lord was whispering. When Arclath was done, he nodded silent confirmation.

  The shouting was getting farther away, too distant to make out any words. The war wizard had evidently stormed off, still venting over his shoulder at guards he’d left at their posts in his wake. Then the shouting broke off, as the distant Vandur said something startled and incredulous.

  Then he screamed, a long and fearful cry that went raw and shrill—then ended abruptly.

  “Stay here,” Farland ordered Arclath and Amarune curtly, and he rushed to the door. It refused to open, of course, flaring into bright glows when he tried to force it.

  The lord constable struggled with it, cords of muscle standing proud in his neck and wrists, then in a hoarse spitting of curses, he flung himself away and rushed across the room.

  In one corner behind his desk, he clawed open a hitherto-hidden secret door and was gone.

  Arclath turned to Amarune and murmured, “Now.”

  Obediently she bowed her head so he could comb through her hair to find the tiny chain around the base of her left ear, recover the lockpick dangling from it, and free them both from their manacles.

  Click, clack, clink, ten times over, and all the iron fell away.

  Arclath looked down at Rune to see if she was ready to rise—and discovered she was already past him and vaulting the desk to get to the lord constable’s secret door.

  The passage they found themselves in was narrow and many-branched, obviously running through the hearts of various thick stone partition walls, but Rune kept turning right, to a blind end that of course had a large, easily felt catch in it, that opened a door and plunged them out into a long, wide passage.

  A guard stood tensely at his post, looking away from them down the passage. Obviously staring after where the lord constable had just gone.

  “Must catch up to Farland,” Arclath told the man brightly, as the Dragon’s head snapped around and his halberd swung out. Rune had already ducked under it and was racing on. “Lord Constable’s orders!”

  The Dragon stared back at him for a moment, then nodded and pulled his halberd aside. The heir of House Delcastle ducked his head and devoted himself to running hard, to catch up to his lady and to stay with her.

  The passage was longer than it looked, the torches few and dim, the black-painted cell doors many, unnumbered, and more or less identical. Arclath and Amarune were halfway down it before they saw Farland, grimly staring down at something they couldn’t see.

  There was a cross passage before they got to him, then another. Farland turned to watch them pelt the last little stretch up to him. His sword was drawn, but he didn’t lift it to menace them.

  The lord constable stood at the end of the passage. Two stairs descended from either side of the passage just before the open gate he was standing at—a stout gate door of metal bars as thick around as Arclath’s wrists. Beyond that gate the passage ended at a precipitous flight of stone steps that descended down into darkness. There was a dank, rotting smell in the air.

  “How did you get free?” Farland grunted, as they arrived beside him. He was out of breath, probably from rushing down that long flight of steps and then clambering back up them.

  “You should believe some claims,” Arclath replied calmly. “You’ve found everyone’s friend, the suddenly silent war wizard?”

  Farland pointed down the main flight of stairs. They were of unadorned stone, unforgivingly hard, and very steep. Fresh blood glistened on some steps.

  It was a long, long way down, and they could only just make out a huddled form far down it.

  “Pushed,” Rune guessed grimly. “By someone he was surprised to see.”

  Farland nodded, face dark. “He’s dead. Another murder. But by someone who was waiting for him to arrive here, or someone he was just a bit too rude to?” His upper lip lifted in a mirthless smile. “Which could be any one of our noble guests.”

  “Would any of your noble guests have a key to this gate?” Arclath asked.

  Farland shook his head silently.

  “It’s almost always closed and locked, isn’t it?”

  Maintaining silence, the Lord Constable shifted from shaking his head to nodding it.

  Which was when they all heard fast, light panting coming from one of the side stairs, coming closer. Farland’s sword came up, and he strode to block the head of that stair. The climber was alone, and ascending fast. It was one of the two lesser wizards of war, his cloak clutched around him like a well-dressed matron hastening through a downpour. He came to an abrupt halt when he saw the lord constable barring his way.

  After they’d stared at each other in mutual silence for a long moment, the Crown mage said urgently, “I must report to Saer Vandur.”

  Farland stepped back two paces and grimly pointed down the main stair.

  The war wizard gave him a troubled look, then went to head of the stair, keeping an eye out for the lord constable rushing forward to give him a push, and cautiously peered down the long flight.

  Then he backed away, blinking in astonishment.

  No exclamation. No prayer. Nothing at all.

  “So where were you,” Farland barked, loud and sudden, “when your superior was being shoved down a killing-fall flight of stairs?”

  The Crown mage’s face was calm, and his answer prompt. “Checking the ways in and out, as he’d ordered me to. I rushed back here to report that the kitchen door—that offers access to the midden heap—stands open and unguarded. There’s no one in the kitchens.”

  Farland exploded in a stream of heartfelt curses.

/>   In the midst of it, he didn’t fail to notice something shifting shape—the wizard’s hand, he’d thought it must be—under the clasped cloak. Viciously he slashed the edge of the cloak aside with his sword. The hands, always try for a wizard’s hands, unless you’ve a bow and can use it well enough to send a shaft into his mouth or throat …

  “Try magic on me, would you?” he roared, starting the backswing that would slice hand and fingers and whatever foul magic they were readying with them.

  He’d been going to go right on bellowing warmer pleasantries, but stopped with a startled gasp.

  The mage’s revealed hand was a grey and scaly ball of tentacles, seven or more writhing, wormlike things that curled and quested in all directions.

  The war wizard spun away from Farland’s slicing steel—but not before everyone saw the tentacles beginning to change. Erupting and blooming into toadstool-headed growths of slimy brown …

  With a groan of disgust, Farland snatched a mace from his belt to try to smash the monster down.

  A spell came flashing out of nowhere to send it spinning from his numbed fingers.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  TRAITORS AMONG US

  The last of the three newly arrived wizards of war stood at the head of the other side stair. The last sparkling lights of his spell winked out, one by one, as they drifted away from his raised hands.

  “Even for lord constables,” he told Farland, “there are penalties for killing wizards of war. Imbrult means you no menace. What you saw is the curse he lives with daily, not any sort of attack.”

  The lord constable regarded him for a long, measuring moment, then turned to look more closely at the wizard with the tentacles—or whatever they now were.

  “A magical curse,” Wizard of War Imbrult Longclaws explained quietly, holding forth his left hand. At the moment, it looked like a misshapen root dug up from a garden … a lump that was rapidly growing long, spiky hair. “Afflicting only my left hand. It changes continually. All manner of scaled, tentacled, or fungilike forms. Even after years, the forms it conjures still surprise me from time to time.”