Bury Elminster Deep (Elminster Book 7)

by Ed Greenwood

“I am driven,” she hissed into his face. “Driven by my pain and hatred to seek Manshoon’s death. I dare not have his blade plucked out, because doing so will alter the enchantments on my body, and I’ll literally rot while staying alive. Undeath may be my fate, but it’s one I don’t want to choose yet.”

  Straightening, she hauled the dying noble up out of the chair to stand with her, hanging from her grip on his throat and shoulders.

  “I’m on Manshoon’s trail,” she whispered. “He is the collector of blueflame ghosts; he was busy gathering them all those years ago, when we first met. By assembling my own collection, I hope to lure him out of hiding. To me. Within my reach at last.”

  Lord Marlin Stormserpent stared at her glassily, his eyes dark and empty.

  “So,” she snarled, “is there anything you can tell me to help me find Manshoon, doomed noble? Anything at all?”

  But she was shaking a dead man. While she’d hissed words at him, Stormserpent had died.

  With a soft curse, she dashed his limp body to the floor.

  The walls of the room, deep on the lowest level of the palace cellars, were furred with dark, sickly-looking green mold, and the air was damp and fetid.

  Lord Arclath Delcastle guided the silent and empty-eyed wizard Tracegar to a stop in front of the massive stone table that was the room’s sole furnishing, looked around again at all the mold, and rolled his eyes. “Some six hundred rooms down here, and we have to meet in this one?”

  His voice was Elminster’s.

  Vangerdahast might be reduced to a spiderlike thing, but he could still shrug. “No one comes near it. Making it useful. You have no idea how many lovers come creeping down into the cellars for thrill-trysts by candlelight.”

  “Oh, but I do,” El replied gravely. “Believe me, I do.”

  He looked down at the man lying still and silent on the stone table, with Vangey poised like a protective spider by his head.

  Youngish, pleasant-looking, but not overly handsome, Chondathan stock. Clad in the sort of robes favored by war wizards. Breathing very slowly, but senseless. No visible wounds, or for that matter, scars.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Wizard of War Reldyk Applecrown. Young, loyal, a minor wielder of the Art. He’s been healed of the wounds he took last night in the beholder fray, but he got caught in a spell backlash and hasn’t much of a mind left.”

  “Brain-burned,” El murmured, looking up at Vangerdahast with a silent question in his eyes.

  “Your new body, if you want him,” the former royal magician of Cormyr said gruffly. “The realm owes you that much. Hells, a lot more. As do I.”

  Elminster looked at him gravely for a moment. “Thank you.”

  He inclined Arclath’s head toward Tracegar and asked, “You need him up on the table?”

  “No,” Vangey replied. “Just walk him around it—slowly, mind—as we work on him.”

  So Elminster did that, as the two of them, riding Vangerdahast’s spell, drifted into Welwyn Tracegar’s mind together, fogging his memories with spell after overlapping spell so he’d forget all about how he’d helped his prisoners escape. Then they lowered him to the floor and cast simple sleep on him.

  “I’ll steady you, once you’re in,” Vangey offered, nodding at the man on the table. “Can’t have you getting up and stumbling over Tracegar, and him waking up thinking he’s facing two traitor mages and a spider-monster that all need blasting.”

  El shrugged. “It’s what Glathra would do.”

  Vangerdahast was still chuckling ruefully at that when the young wizard on the table stirred, then started to convulse and thrash.

  “Don’t try to get off the table yet,” he advised. “I have to reassure Lord Delcastle here about what we’re up to, first, or he might just decide not to catch you when you start to topple.”

  Spiderlike fingers rose to point down over the edge.

  “Arclath, try not to step on Tracegar, there. He’ll look a bit odd with boot-prints all over his face, when they find him sleeping in a bed he shouldn’t be in, somewhere in the palace.”

  “Ah … which bed?” Arclath asked carefully.

  “One of the ready rooms in the guest wing, I’m thinking, so he’ll be found before he starves. My sleep spell won’t be broken—assuming the ceiling doesn’t fall or the bed collapse—until someone not of us four touches him.”

  “Four?”

  “I’m counting El, dolt of a lordling. And his new body. Which isn’t really his yet, until he learns to walk and talk with it.”

  Arclath gave Vangey a disbelieving frown, at about the same time as the man on the table thrust one arm stiffly into the air, tried to wriggle the fingers of that upraised hand, and worked his jaw enough to say, “A bit shaaaky, thusss fahr!”

  Rolling his eyes, the noble took a swift step back so he wasn’t within reach if the body should lash out suddenly.

  “Wise lad,” Vangerdahast commented solemnly—a moment before a wild sweep of Applecrown’s arm dashed him off the table.

  Arclath sniggered, then let his laughter roar out of him.

  “That’s right, lad,” Vangey’s voice rose, from somewhere on the floor on the other side of the table. “I like pet frogs that know how to laugh.”

  Busy and brightly lit palace passages hung with shields and lined with statues weren’t Glathra’s favorite sites for important policy discussions, but Highknight Starbridge and Sir Talonar Winter had come rushing up to the royal magician while he, Vainrence, and Glathra had been heading to the kitchens for something to eat. She couldn’t remember when she’d last chewed food or swigged something more than a goblet of water snatched from a passing maid’s tray.

  Someone, it seemed, had burst into Staghaven House unnoticed by any neighbors or watch patrols, and had slaughtered Lord Windstag with most of his household servants. And very recently—when they’d been found, blood had still been running out of some of the bodies. The Dragons securing the house had recognized a face among the sprawled and slain servants that shouldn’t have been there: Palace Steward Rorstil Hallowdant. Worse yet, someone had cast powerful magics on the slain; three priests and a young war wizard who’d cast spells on the corpses to try to learn more about their passing had been plunged instantly into barking, howling insanity.

  “There will be no more attempts to cast anything on the slain,” Ganrahast decreed grimly. “Take the oldest palace supply wagon, convey the bodies all out to the rocks beyond the Westhill, and burn them all there, wagon and all, with guards posted to keep the curious away. I want this done in secret, as much as possible, to keep word from spreading.”

  Starbridge and Winter nodded, bowed, and hurried off to see to it.

  “So who did this, do you think?” Vainrence murmured, watching them hasten down the passage, distant already and dwindling fast.

  “Noble slays noble,” Ganrahast sighed. “It begins.”

  “Royal magician,” Glathra said darkly, “with respect, it began some time ago. It’s only going to get bloodier.”

  “Blood spilled among nobles I expect,” Ganrahast replied, starting off down the passage. “Betrayals and disloyalties among Crown folk are what shake me. And more importantly, shake the Dragon Throne.”

  “Every one of them,” Vainrence murmured, nodding agreement.

  “Has every interment in the royal crypt now been examined?” Ganrahast asked him.

  “Yes. Nothing is amiss, nothing missing, and there are no more empty coffins. New wards and alarm spells have been cast.”

  “Have you found Vangerdahast?” Glathra asked sharply.

  “No.”

  “And why not?” Ganrahast pressed him, as if he’d been a disobedient young mageling and not her superior.

  The lord warder shrugged. “He doesn’t want to be found.”

  Blueflames left the lodge in an eerily silent procession, with the Lady of Ghosts stalking after them and the Flying Blade and the Wyverntongue Chalice in her hands. She spared not a glanc
e for Marlin Stormserpent, lying dead on the floor.

  The room started to fill with the smell of Baert Ghalhunt’s scorching head, but it wasn’t long before the door opened again.

  A lone person came in, hooded and cowled, and made straight for the dead noble.

  Murmuring half-sung lines of ballads to himself, this new arrival bent to pick up the two severed hands and put them in a pouch.

  “But she had eyes, those nightdark eyes, only for meee …”

  The singing broke off with a brief grunt as the cowled one bent again—and in one swift, smooth heave, lifted the limp corpse up onto his shoulder.

  Then he turned and went out into the forest, ignoring the drips that fell from what had been Marlin Stormserpent as he went.

  “For I walk a lonely road, a hidden road, a bright road, yes I walk a …”

  The soft singing faded, and birds began to whir and call again.

  By the time they broke off and the lodge door swung open again, the head in the fire was a blackened thing, more skull than Baert Ghalhunt.

  The two bullyblades were hot, sweaty, and very tired. Not to mention hungry. They’d been up all night, and if their mad lord of a master wasn’t asleep, they certainly wanted to be.

  “Lord Stormserpent?” one of them called, finding the chair—nay, the room, there was nowhere here to hide—empty. He glanced up into the rafters but saw only pelts and trophies, no lurking slayers.

  The other bodyguard touched his arm and pointed silently down at the blood on the floor.

  There was a lot of it.

  “Tluin,” the first one swore and hurried to the door that led into the kitchens, to make sure Stormserpent—or anyone else—wasn’t there.

  He came out shaking his head. “Circle the place.”

  “Of course,” the other bullyblade replied, drawing his sword. “Are you thinking what I am?”

  “If you’re thinking Lord Mightybritches Stormserpent is dead, and we’re out of hire and are likely to be hunted as murderers, then yes.”

  They gave each other grim nods and hastened back outside.

  Never seeing or hearing the cowled one who watched their futile search from behind a distant tree, singing very softly, “Oh, there’s nothing so sad … as a bodyguard … with no body … left … to guard.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  A DIFFERENT NIGHT

  It had been a long night at the Dragonriders’ Club, and Amarune was so weary her dances would soon become snoring collapses into patrons’ laps if she tried to go on.

  The nights all felt long since she’d gone back to dancing.

  It wasn’t the work; it was the tension.

  Everyone was watching each other warily; everyone looked over his shoulder; everyone carried an extra knife or pouch of sand or pepper … in the tenday since the Council, a mask of calm had settled over Suzail that no one at all trusted.

  There was general brooding, a waiting to see just how and when the fighting would erupt.

  No one doubted that it would. Most of the nobles who’d come for Council were still in the city, plotting and scheming behind closed doors, but oh-so-polite to each other on the streets and in the shops.

  The good merchants of Suzail—and the shadier ones, too—were making coin hand over fist, feeding and thirst-slaking the fine lords and their maids and jacks and bullyblades, but wondering how soon this windfall would end. And how bloodily.

  Right now, Rune was far too yawningly bone-weary to think any more about it. Not that she hadn’t thought and thought far too much already.

  Her feet hurt the most, as usual.

  She rubbed them thoughtfully, curled up on her chair, then rolled out of it to find her clothes. It was astonishing how quickly her own life had settled back into its usual routines. How she’d lived before a certain Lord Delcastle had started taking a very personal interest in her.

  Not to mention a crazed old man named Elminster and a sinister thief by the name of Talane.

  Wincing at that latter name and wondering if she should go home this night, after all, Amarune ran her fingers through her hair to banish the worst of the tangles, yawned farewell to her mirror, blew out the little lantern, and made her way to the door, surefooted in the total darkness.

  It seemed a very long time since she’d been the Silent Shadow, peril of the night. Some time in the last few days—had they really only been that few?—she’d drifted into being the ornament of a dashing young noble. A spirited lass, but only a lass, coin-poor and bearing a family name that mattered to no one …

  The guard that Tress had hired to watch over the back door of the club and the street outside, to make sure no one was lurking to endanger her dancers, gave Rune a smile and a nod.

  “Safe as it gets,” that meant. Stifling another yawn, Rune smiled back, waved farewell, and slipped out through the door.

  The street was not empty. A gleaming white coach stood where she would have blundered right into it if she’d come out with her head down, its horses pawing contentedly as they munched at their feedbags. A familiar face grinned at her out of its nearest window.

  “Lord Arclath Delcastle,” she greeted him with a tired grin. “I hope you’re not expecting anything from me. Like staying awake, for instance.”

  Arclath swung the door open and sprang out of the coach to assist her into it with a courtly flourish.

  “Nothing of the sort, I assure you. Ravaging your snoring body will bring me all the delight I need at the moment—or to be more serious, Rune, why not spend a night under my roof in Delcastle Manor? Alone, in a guest bedchamber, with the servants knowing you need to sleep just as long as your snoring takes you, and a splendid repast waiting when you do rise? Mother won’t mind, being as she suggested it. What do you say?”

  “I say, ‘Yes, please, and thank you very much, gallant lord, and wake me when we get there,’ ” Amarune replied happily, settling herself into the cushioned back seat of the coach.

  A breath later, they were rumbling through the streets, and she was nestled against Arclath, talking uncontrollably. “Spilling all your secrets,” as Tress would put it.

  “I feel utterly mind-mazed, to tell truth,” she gabbled. “Settling back into my old ways, as if none of it, the beholder and being in chains in the palace and—and everything—was real. Then when I’m alone, it rushes back to me, the bad things, I mean. I’m still afraid Talane will appear when I’m least ready for her, and really afraid whenever I return to my rooms that a deadly trap will be waiting for me—or a brutally welcoming thick-neck bullyblade. Then, when I’m out in the sunlit streets again, it’s all different, with El and Storm just gone, and all the exciting and important doings they brought with them, too!”

  Arclath was nodding, so she rushed on.

  “I—I don’t feel as if I’d ever dare approach the palace, now, by myself and on my own behalf … and I still don’t feel as if I belong to the grand, expensive world of you nobles—or ever will.”

  Arclath smiled. “Nobles aren’t much different from commoners,” he told her quietly. “We’re just more spoiled and pompous and better fed—and have more coins to waste, and better clothes to waste them in, that’s all.”

  “That’s all,” she echoed in amusement.

  Yet, his words held truth, for she and Arclath’s mother were cautiously becoming friends, and few could match Marantine Delcastle for cold, lofty arrogance when she cared to play the noble matriarch to the hilt.

  This strange calm that had settled over Suzail had come after a rather large handful of nobles had been wounded in duels and skirmishes, causing some of the highborn to bolt out of the city for the comparative security of their various country seats.

  Yet, intrigues were still going on, with nobles hiring sellswords as fast as they could—some of them in more numbers than any impartial observer could possibly deem necessary for bodyguard purposes, or for that matter were allowed under the laws of the land—but it was all happening out of sight
, behind closed doors or high mansion or estate walls.

  The war wizards were back in control, aggressively leading highly visible Dragon patrols to keep order in the city, clear out undesirables, and maintain an alert garrison against the oft-rumored imminent invasion. All independent mages in Suzail were under close watch, and it seemed as if most commoners—after an initial rush to secure transportation for swift flight, and ready coins for spending in exile—were holding their breaths and just waiting for whatever befell next.

  “Which,” Arclath gloomily observed, as the coach turned a corner, “is usually some nastiness from Sembia, or something particularly cruel, stupid, and high-handed from one of the senior Houses. My mother would hotly dispute that, but it’s true. Everyone who bothers to think on such things can see it.” He sighed. “So, who will be the next stone-headed idiot to endanger the kingdom, I wonder?”

  “Arclath Delcastle!” someone yelled, as if on cue—and men came rushing up to the slowing coach, out of the night.

  Arclath snatched out his sword, and Rune, her heart suddenly pounding, raised one of her knives beside her ear, ready for throwing.

  Yet, the man who stepped up onto the coach to rap on the closed window wore a bright smile, and Arclath knew him.

  “Well met, lord!” were his first words, as Arclath thrust the sliding window down. “I—we—serve Lord Elbert Oldbridle, who bids us invite you to evening-feast on the morrow, at the home of Lord Arkanon Nalander.”

  “Is this an open invitation, Clarn?” Arlcath asked mildly.

  “No,” was the reply.

  “Don’t bother to bring your doxy,” Clarn added coldly, glancing at Amarune.

  Arclath nodded, the Oldbridle bullyblade sprang down off the step, and the coach started to move again.

  “What was that about?” Amarune asked.

  “An invitation to join Lord Nalander’s scheme to put someone or other—possibly himself or his son Arkeld, or possibly someone chosen by his Sembian backers—on the Dragon Throne, after young fools like me risk our necks exterminating the House of Obarskyr,” Arclath replied grimly. “I’m beginning to think fleeing deep into the forest with Storm and Elminster, and staying there a good long time, is a very good idea.”