by Ed Greenwood
Arclath shrugged. “We’ve been a bit too busy getting you out of the palace to survey matters. Yet, I’ve seen no smoke and heard no warhorns …” He looked at Rune.
Who shook her head. “A few men running, shouting about this or that doom. No clash of arms that I saw, but Storm, we were busy. Folk are upset, all right.”
“Then we need to get to the palace,” Storm decreed. “Quickly.”
“The palace? We just got you out of there!” Arclath protested, aware that his debonair façade was long gone and he was increasingly sounding like a naïve village idiot aggrieved by his status—and aggrieved anew by each new thing that happened to him.
“And I thank you for it. You didn’t find it necessary to kill too many annoying wizards or obstructionist guards, I trust? In circumstances where there were witnesses?”
“No, but—”
“Then back we go. Now. Tell your servants to arm themselves and guard your mother as if an invading army is about to sweep down on Delcastle Manor; get me my own leathers back—this gown is melted into me in spots and hurts like the Nine Hells—and let’s go find Mirt and Alusair and what’s left of Vangerdahast, before all of us seek out Glathra. We’ve got to rally Crown and court and try to prevent some of the more gleefully enthusiastic rebel nobles from riding the kingdom right into civil war.”
“But I thought we were turning our backs on all of this, and—”
“We were, but things have turned bad enough that Cormyr’s needs now outweigh ours.”
Rune frowned. “Talk to Glathra about what, exactly?”
“Taking Marlin Stormserpent into custody,” Arclath said grimly, “and getting our—that is, the Crown’s—hands on the Blade and Chalice that give him control over his two slayers. The blueflame ghosts that murdered Seszgar Huntcrown and everyone with him.”
“No, you were right when you said ‘our,’ ” Storm said firmly. “Glathra’s no more to be trusted with the ghosts than young Stormserpent. They’re too powerful for her—or anyone at the palace—to resist. However, she doesn’t need to know I feel that way about her just yet, or that we don’t intend to get both Blade and Chalice straight into her hands.”
Rune rolled her eyes. “And just how is what I’m now hearing different from what nobles do, that you and Glathra and everyone else of Crown and court thunderously denounce as treason?”
Storm smiled. “That’s easy. They’re blackhearted villains—whereas, we’re good folk, with nothing but heroism and shining intentions in our hearts.”
Manshoon’s head hurt.
Or rather, his mind throbbed with aches brought on by strain, and sagged with weariness, and that made whatever head he inhabited at the moment hurt, too.
However, he was still on the scene.
Others had not been so fortunate. Lord Lyrannus Tantorn and Lord Jassur Dragonwood were both down and lost, slain in the brawls that had raged through the Hall of Justice.
He’d had to flee Dragonwood’s dying, dimming brain precipitously, bursting into the nearest mind he’d already conquered—which had happened to be that of Lord Melder Crownrood.
His arrival had saved Crownrood’s life by making the overwhelmed noble reel and fall—down behind some seats that shielded him from the vicious hackings two longtime rivals had been trying to deliver to the back of his head. As they leaned down from the tier above to get at Crownrood, and overbalanced when his body collapsed down out of sight as they were in mid-swing, their blades had lodged in seat backs—and doomed them, as nearby lords who’d mistaken themselves for the targets of those attacks retaliated bloodily.
Though he was almost certainly still alive because his sprawled position underfoot had kept him out of the furious fighting that had thereafter raged so closely above him, Crownrood was far from grateful. His bruised mind had plunged into a nasty headache and had birthed its own swift black rage at his unwelcome rider.
For his part, Manshoon cared not a whit what Crownrood thought. The man’s body could run—and for that matter, crawl and stagger, too—well enough, and had served to get Manshoon out of the royal palace of Suzail and away, back to the home and shop of the alchemist Sraunter.
Through streets where nobles’ bodyguards had glowered, exchanged sharp words, and threatened each other with half-drawn swords, men had fled the palace shouting all manner of dire overblown dooms, and some fearful citizens had hastened to shutter their shops.
Yes, it was all very satisfactory.
King Foril still lived; wherefore, no one had a good excuse for mustering armies for open war over an empty Dragon Throne. Yet, confusion ruled the city, and fearful folk everywhere were reaching for swords and daggers.
Which meant a certain deft villain known as Manshoon could start to work violence openly, a killing here and a disappearance there, amid the wider fighting that was sure to erupt—and if the Crown clamped down on such bloodshed with the full might of the Dragons, the populace would grow angry at such tyranny. Angrier. Weakening this weak king still more, and giving the future emperor more room to do what needed to be done.
Yes, Crownrood could stew. On a cot in an otherwise empty room, safely locked away in a corner of Sraunter’s cellar. If the man had any sense at all, he’d get some sleep—but then, heads of noble Houses in the Forest Kingdom weren’t noted for their abundant sense. Low cunning, yes. Arrogant schemes and the notion that the world owed them everything and the gods smiled on them, indeed. Common sense, more rarely, and in far more paltry supply.
Crownrood’s handy little prison was actually the alchemist’s wood room, but its current lack of firewood bothered Manshoon not at all. By the time cold weather came again, he’d be enjoying the comforts of the royal palace—and if for any reason he wasn’t, and the alchemist remained too useful to let the cold claim him, there would be time enough then to seize or steal someone else’s firewood.
Right now, more important matters beckoned. Manshoon needed to discover which noble commanded this new blueflame ghost, in a hurry.
Right after he checked on the ghost-commanding noble he was already familiar with, to make sure Stormserpent still had his life, freedom, and possession of the Flying Blade and the Wyverntongue Chalice.
So it was that the largest room of Sraunter’s cellar was flooded with the eerie glows of freshly conjured scrying eyes, and a darkly handsome future emperor was strolling among the floating, glowing, spherical scenes, peering hard.
The Promenade in front of the palace was seething. Someone—was that Dathcloake?—was trying to get back into the palace within a moving wedge of his bodyguards, and learning that Purple Dragons not only could not be ordered, blustered, threatened, or shoved out of the way, but that they had procured crossbows from the armories and were sternly threatening to use them if the coldly furious lord didn’t cease his attempts to storm the palace and didn’t return to his lodgings, peacefully and promptly.
It was tempting to tarry and watch that fun unfold, but the death of Elminster didn’t mean this particular incipient emperor was entirely without foes …
In this darker sphere, one scene demanded his immediate attention: Lord Marlin Stormserpent was badly scared and pacing in an upper bedchamber of Stormserpent Towers, not knowing where to run, or how. Clearly visible out the room’s window were the Crown’s hounds, coming for him: half a dozen wizards of war with two dozen Purple Dragons, most in full armor, and a few of their fellows wearing lesser war-harnesses, but bearing crossbows.
The Flying Blade scabbarded at his belt and the Wyverntongue Chalice clutched to his chest, a sweating Stormserpent mumbled fearful possibilities to himself.
His two ghosts could easily slaughter mere Dragons—but six wizards, now, could likely deal with his blueflame slayers in a trice. Teleporting the ghosts halfway across Cormyr rather than destroying them would still seal Marlin Stormserpent’s doom.
Wizards of war without their lord warder or some cool-headed Highknights or a battle-axe like the Lady Glathra to lead them
were proving to be cautious, prudent men. The Crown force was still carefully encircling the walls of Stormserpent Towers, not yet ready to thunder upon the doors of the Stormserpent mansion and demand entry—let alone force it.
That gave Manshoon all the time he needed.
He turned. The alchemist sat uncertainly on a barrel amid heaped packing crates and coffers along one wall of his cellar, watching Manshoon—who obligingly gave Sraunter his best softly menacing smile.
“Faithful alchemist, fetch whatever you need that can make enough poisonous smoke to quickly fill Stormserpent Towers. That ‘whatever’ should be something you can easily carry, that you can have back down here less than ten breaths from now.”
Sraunter gaped at him, so Manshoon added cheerfully, “Hurry. Or I’ll spend your eleventh breath summoning enough boring worms to eat your body apart while you lie watching them, paralyzed and screaming.”
The alchemist swallowed.
“Go,” Manshoon prompted him gently—and with a speed hitherto unseen in Immaero Sraunter, the alchemist sprinted up the cellar stairs.
Manshoon chuckled and sent the unleashed beholderkin soaring after the man, to keep an eye on him.
Vampire lords might not need to breathe, but explosions and acids could hurt them well enough … and do harm to what was filling the third room of the alchemist’s cellar.
The beholders he’d be needing very soon.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
GOING TOO FAR
Mirt sat himself down on the window seat, in the smooth-worn dip in the stone where thousands of predecessors had done the very same thing, and peered out over the bright, awakening spring splendors of the royal gardens. He was … happy.
He now knew where the treasuries were, the main kitchens and the royal ones, several bedchambers no one ever seemed to check on, the cheese and sausage pantries, and where the duty warder who always dozed off hung his spare keys.
He’d located a better dagger than he’d ever owned in all his life—safely stored away where it had lain, wrapped in oiled cloth to keep the rust off, for years. So, it wouldn’t be missed. Nor would the rusty little sphere stored in the same drawer, twin to one he’d once used in Waterdeep Castle, used to bind a creature. A handy little magic, that; it would ride happily with him when the time came to take himself elsewhere.
He even knew where to get his next roast, after the smoked leg of lamb he’d purloined and was now devouring bite by greasy bite was gone.
The fat, old lord let out a loud, ripping belch, settled down across the window and propped his dusty booted feet against the far side of the window frame, patted his stomach, and sat back to devote himself to making it more rotund.
All in all, he was quite content. This wasn’t home, but it was a palace. Its servants a little on both the tense and pompous sides for his tastes, but—
“Mirt? Mirt of Waterdeep?”
The voice was a woman’s, sharp and imperious. Holding not the slightest hint of friendliness.
Mirt sighed, hefting the lamb in his fist to see how well it might serve him as a club. Or perhaps a hurl-cudgel, if it came to that. He put a smile on his face before turning from the pleasant garden view. “Aye?”
He hadn’t expected his questioner to be alone, and she wasn’t. Carefully arranged to block off any escape was a small crowd of folk, all staring at him.
Foremost stood a woman in plain, dark, wizardly robes, feet planted apart and hands on hips. Huh. One of those.
She had a pair of mages a step behind each shoulder—subservient to her, all four of them—bookended by a dozen-some armored and impassive Purple Dragons, armed with spears as well as all the usual warsteel.
“I am Lady Glathra, a wizard of war here in Cormyr. I do not recall you ever being invited within these walls as a guest of the realm, saer, and I have a few questions for you.”
Mirt waved the leg of lamb at her. “Ah, good. I’ve some for ye, too.” He took another bite.
“I’ve been told you are a famous man, a lord of your city. I’ve also been told that you … flourished, if that’s the right word, about a century ago.”
Mirt chewed calmly, offering no comment. Glathra sighed.
“Is this true?”
Mirt nodded unconcernedly and took another bite.
Some of the guards grinned openly, behind the lady wizard’s back. By the expression on her face, she could feel those grins. Mirt went on chewing.
“So, you are over a century old?” Glathra put a biting edge of incredulity on that question.
Mirt nodded again.
“So, how came you to live so long? And how is it that a Lord of Waterdeep appears in the royal palace of Suzail?”
Mirt swallowed, raised the lamb like a scholar’s finger, wagged it, and gave her a broad and greasy grin. “Magic.”
Glathra was unamused. “Whose magic?”
Mirt shrugged. “I’m no loremaster when it comes to the Art, lass, but the jack who brought me here by some spell or other was an insolent young pup by the name of Marlin Stormserpent. Lord Marlin Stormserpent, I’m told.”
“Told? Told by whom?”
“Quite a few folk. Two of yer fellow Crown mages among them.”
“And did he say anything at all about why he, ah, summoned you here?”
Mirt turned the leg, choosing the best spot for his next hearty bite. “Wanted a third flame ghost to go with two he already had. Got me instead. Wasn’t best pleased. We parted company swiftly.”
“A third flame ghost? Would these be blueflame ghosts?”
Mirt nodded, bit into the lamb, and devoted himself to chewing. He looked out the window again.
Glathra’s mouth tightened, and she took a step closer to the fat man in the window seat. “And did you witness him commanding these ghosts? Calling them forth?”
“No,” Mirt said sweetly, turning back to deliver his reply through a mouthful of half-chewed lamb. “And, no.”
Glathra took another step closer. “In Cormyr,” she informed him flatly, “most folk have the prudent sense to speak to a wizard of war with something closer to respect.”
Mirt shifted his current mouthful into one cheek, and past its bulge replied, “And in Waterdeep, I’m accustomed to interviewing angry lasses when we’re both comfortably unclad and sharing a bed, some wine, and a full meal. On my earlier visits to Cormyr, good old Azoun was in the habit of handing me a bottle or six, and sharing a good hot meal while we talked, boots on the table. But, I understand the realm may have slid a bit since his death, and all backward upcountry places cherish their own quaint customs, and so I am making allowances. Ye, too?”
Some muffled chuckles wafted up from behind Glathra. She did not turn to see whom they’d come from.
“I could imprison, slay, or enspell you to servitude right now,” she pointed out calmly.
Mirt raised a greasy finger. “Correction, lass. Ye could try.”
He swallowed the lamb in his mouth, inspected the much-reduced leg for the best site for his next assault, and added mildly, “I’m the jack who defeated two angry young noble lords of Cormyr, in the mansion o’ one of ’em—despite two blueflame ghosts and the admittedly small heaps of enchanted items they were wearing and waving about. Ye might want to remember that.”
“Oh, I will,” Glathra said softly, signaling the wizards behind her to advance.
Mirt favored her with a disgusted look. “I’m eating, lass. Where were ye raised? In a stable?”
Glathra froze for a moment and then trembled in real rage as she drew herself up tall.
Mirt eyed her with interest. Well, now, it seemed she had been reared in a stable, and was sensitive about it, too.
This should be good.
If he survived.
“You really think they won’t have someone new guarding the door by now?” Rune asked curiously.
Storm shrugged. “You have a better plan?”
Rune winced. “Your hit strikes home.”
/> “I take it you, ah, took care of the guard here last time?” Arclath murmured. At their nods, he added cautiously, “Things might go differently. Being as the Council is … well, not being held right now, and I’m with you, and am heir of a noble House.”
“I’d not count on a friendly welcome,” Storm warned, “given all the lords running about waving swords and snarling treason hereabouts, not so long ago. Granted, we don’t look like hairy, surly bodyguards, but …”
Despite her wary words, her stroll was the height of ease and unconcern as she approached the door of the high house behind the royal stables. It was too small a place to be deemed a mansion, unlike the three homes that flanked it, all backing onto the stables, but its front door was solid and imposing enough to deny entry if no one answered her knock.
No one did, so Storm led the way she’d taken before, around into the garden to the side door. It was closed, but it opened when she turned its ring, admitting them into the same stately, deserted quiet they’d seen before. This time there was no struck-senseless wizard decorating the floor or Mirt grinning at them over him, but the pot he’d used to fell the war wizard was sitting mutely on the table at the end of the hall.
Storm held up a hand for silence and stood still, listening hard. After a few long, patient breaths, she stepped over the threshold and stopped to listen again.
Silence. She strode briskly forward and took the stairs down, heading for the back cellar and the tunnel under the stableyard that led into the palace.
“They could still have alarm or spying spells in place,” Arclath warned, “even if we hear and see nothing amiss.”
Storm nodded. “They usually do. Which is why we’re going to start hurrying, right … now.”
Amarune and Arclath obeyed. Storm led them along dim tunnels, through doors in darkness, down stairs beyond those doors, and out into the faint glows of the palace cellars. She seemed to know exactly where she was going, and they never saw another person, though she was obviously taking detours around well-lit areas where servants and courtiers were presumably at work.