by Ed Greenwood
own palace just to smite you! Could I?”
Still wearing that terrible grin, Halonter swung his sword in a deft arc that severed a row of fresh, unlit candles and the neck of one of Marlin’s oldest decanters, slicing it without shattering the vessel or toppling it.
Marlin shivered at the thought of how sharp the ghost’s blade must be.
“No, I couldn’t,” he answered himself shakily.
“No,” Halonter hissed, “you couldn’t.”
He took a menacing step forward, until he was against the table and Marlin could smell Halonter’s faint, acrid reek. Like soured wine and a mix of many spices.
“More fool you,” the ghost added, shoving the table forward.
It might well have pinned Marlin painfully against his best sideboard, but fortunately for the noble, a stone replica of a figurehead of a long-ago Stormserpent ship flanked the piece, massive and solid and as immobile as the wall behind it. The table struck it and could be shoved no farther.
With a snarl the ghost spun around and stalked away, across the room.
“Relve!” he spat. “How did he fare?”
“I–I-”
Stammering in dread, Marlin had gotten no farther by the time the wall Halonter had come through glowed blue again-a dark, feeble blue-that became the hunched-over, staggering Relve Langral.
The second ghost’s flames were weak, flickering shadows, and he looked as if he’d lost a brawl with a cleaver-wielding butcher. Or three.
“You,” he snarled at Marlin, “sent me up against some sort of mighty phantom! A mistress of the blade, or lady master of the blade, or whatever the tluin one calls a woman who can make her sword dance and pirouette and pour stlarning wine for her! Her sword was part of her-its touch seared me! She could fly; she could fade away; it was all I could stlarned well do to parry! Send me no more to fight proud ghost princesses in their very palaces! Bah!”
He lashed out with his sword, but the slash that should have shattered a row of unopened, expensive bottles of vintages from afar sliced only empty air as his leg gave way. Langral staggered helplessly sideways and crashed to Marlin’s carpet.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Marlin gabbled desperately, rushing to help the fallen rogue-but halting abruptly as Halonter thrust out his blade warningly.
“What should I do?” he asked.
“Use us wisely,” Halonter hissed. “Less often. And not soon. We both need time to heal.”
“You can heal in-in here?” Marlin burst out, waving the Chalice.
Halonter gave him a long and silent look that clashed in its naked balefulness with his wide and tireless smile.
Marlin shrank back from him, then scuttled to the side door and through it into his robing room, hurriedly shoving a chair to block the closed door. From behind it, he began forcing the two blueflame ghosts back into their items.
Halonter said not a word but never stopped glaring. From the floor, Relve became hissingly, profanely hostile.
It was not until they were both gone, and Marlin was standing alone and drenched with sweat, that he realized what had frightened him most of all.
Both ghosts had been deeply scared.
Well, so was he.
“I must flee Suzail,” he told the room around him, grimly. “Right now.”
Kicking the chair aside, he strode back to the table, set the Chalice on it, then stormed around the room plucking up things he’d need.
“Weathercloak, lantern, coins in plenty, spare dagger, my old hunting boots rather than these stylish things…”
The King’s Forest came into his head. Yes, that’s where he’d go.
Even now, when all the lords who mattered were here in Suzail and the fate of the realm on a carving platter in their midst.
Yes, he was going.
Why? Because, stlarn it, he was afraid.
Lady Glathra’s glare flashed before him, then Halonter’s baleful look, then the weight of the dark and evil will that had ridden his mind so often…
“I’m stlarned well fearful for good reason,” he snarled aloud, striding back to the table to stare down at what he’d accumulated.
Oh, he’d need a royal warrant to get the city gates opened, by night. Good thing his father had been of the generation who thought every noble House should bribe courtiers for a handful of the things, in case of future need.
The warrants were yonder, hidden in the drawer on the underside of the little Amnian table, with the-yes-poisoned daggers he’d probably also need.
Ah! He’d be lighting that lantern how, exactly? Flints and strikers, the ones that adorned their own tinderbox. After all, he’d have no servants to call on, out there in the forest.
The forest. Where in the forest?
He could hardly go to the Stormserpent hunting lodge. The moment Glathra’s wolves found him missing from home, that’s where they’d go looking.
No, it would have to be another lodge he knew, one where he’d be less likely to be found.
Which meant a place belonging to one of his admittedly few friends, his band of fellow traitors.
Windstag.
Given his wounds, the stain he’d brought on himself hunting the hand axe, and his vanity, Windstag wouldn’t be setting foot barefaced outside the gates of Staghaven House for days. Which meant he wouldn’t be using his lodge for some time, being as no other living Windstag had any stomach at all for hunting.
That’s where he’d go.
But not alone. Not in those wild reaches. Not when the king’s foresters might well treat him as badly as any desperate outlaw with a sharp knife.
He’d take three of his men, the best bodyguards left that he could trust.
As much as he could trust anyone, of course.
And wearing the wry and bitter grin that thought brought to his lips, Marlin hastened out of the room with his bundle, seeking saddlebags.
After all, he’d also be taking the four fastest horses.
“One spell too many,” El muttered as Storm wearily lay down atop him again and took hold of his chin-Rune’s smooth chin-in both hands to press and keep their foreheads together.
Their minds sank into each other in the familiar melting… and the healing began anew. Neither of them wanted to notice how dark and tired Storm’s mind was.
“Always the grand gesture,” she hissed, her breath holding a hint of cinammon. “The one last touch. The magic too far.”
“ ’Tis important, Stormy One,” he replied. “The right impression can save a dozen battles, or more. Cow thy enemies-”
“Yes, yes, I know.” She sighed. “Just cow them with fewer castings next time, hey?”
“I will, love,” he murmured. “Or ye’ll be the one staggering and falling, I know.”
Storm murmured something wordless and contented against him, her mind warming in a flare of pleasure.
El wondered very briefly what he’d said to cause that reaction… and then forgot it along with everything else, as the healing reached the stage where he always slid into oblivion.
Wonderful oblivion…
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
HIDING AND SEEKING
Mirt lurched sideways, nearly turning an ankle on a broken cobble, and growled a curse.
A pace farther on he asked, “How much longer are we going to be carrying His Lordship, hey? He’s not getting any lighter!”
“When the spell that’s locked his limbs wears off,” Storm replied, “or El decides he might not need to cast something more pressing.”
“Huh. That’ll be never, if I know mages,” Mirt growled. “Why-”
Rune, carrying the other end of Arclath, turned her head sharply and hissed in Elminster’s deep whisper, “Silence! Head down and look away yonder!”
A jerk of Amarune’s head signaled the direction in which Mirt was to turn; the tone of El’s voice made him obey unhesitatingly.
Two bare breaths later-time El spent murmuring something-four riders on fast horses bur
st past them, out of the night.
Looking up from under bushy brows, Mirt kept his eyes on the mask dancer’s slender shoulders and was rewarded with the sight of her turning to point a finger at the second rider.
The sound of hooves died away.
“Someone’s in a hurry to leave town,” Mirt commented, “an’ you know who, don’t ye?”
“Young Lord Stormserpent,” El replied shortly, “with some of his bullyblades. I cast a tracer on him.”
“Wisely done,” Storm said wearily, her silver tresses uncoiling themselves from around her head to bare her face again, “but if it lasts long, I’ll be needing healing. Magic or a long and well-tended rest. Preferably both.”
“With warm baths as often as ye desire, hey?”
“You know women well, Lord of Waterdeep.”
“Better than I know magic. This tracer, it drains ye, the longer old Mightyspells here holds it on our fleeing lordling?”
“It does.” Storm sighed, coming to a halt. They’d reached the gates of Stormserpent Towers. El had noticed they stood open in the wake of the four departed riders, and he stopped to peer in.
“No guards that I can see,” he murmured. “Not even servants out to close the gates again. Come. The stables.”
“And if someone confronts us?” Mirt growled. “We’re a mite encumbered.”
“We’re playing a prank on Lord Stormserpent and Lord Delcastle, at Lord Windstag’s request,” El replied promptly. “If they don’t seem to believe us, Storm and I-Rune, that is-will take our clothes off. That usually seems to distract most guards and pompous male servants.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” Mirt growled.
“We’ll need you if they’re female guards or pompous servants,” Storm said brightly.
No one challenged them or even showed a face from the Stormserpent mansion as they slipped into the darkened and deserted stables. El borrowed Storm’s dagger, kindled the faint glowstone in its pommel, and went straight to a corner where an old carriage stood at such a lean that it was obviously not usable. Beneath it was a torn and huddled heap of rotten awnings, thick with dust and the litter of many mouse nests.
“We hide the magic that Glathra and her hounds can trace here,” he announced in a whisper. “Then go.”
They did that, in smooth haste. Storm gave both El and Mirt Harper ironguard rings to wear, and they were back out on the road with the still-paralyzed Arclath to continue their journey to Delcastle Manor in the space of a few breaths.
Mirt looked back seven times, but the Stormserpent gates never closed.
Targrael marched along the sweeping street as if she owned it. She was, after all, a Highknight of Cormyr- the senior Highknight of the realm, regardless of what the living thought-and watch patrols of this wealthy neighborhood of noble mansions were frequent and apt to pounce on skulkers. The haughty, however, they’d learned to treat with respect.
She’d already been several streets south, on the far side of the Promenade, seeking Manshoon-for if he found her before she found him, she’d be swiftly back into slavery. In her fist was a palace gem, a very old Obarskyr treasure. Gifted by elves, so the tales ran. Most of what it did had been forgotten, but it functioned as a keen detector of awakened Art, close by.
Manshoon was far from the only spellhurler apt to be busy this night, in this city crowded with nobles and afire with scheming intrigue, but Targrael knew his love for constant spying, and walked the streets hoping the gem would catch the steady flows of Art that attended multiple scrying eyes.
Yet she found none.
She’d become increasingly mindful that with every step she took she gave the old vampire more opportunity to notice her. And that the longer the gem was missing from where it should be, in Duar’s Retiring Room, the greater the likelihood that wizards of war would come looking for her.
It was probably best to rethink this bold searching, return the gem, and hide herself in the haunted wing. Yet, she might as well pass Stormserpent Towers on her way back and try the gem there. Manshoon had spent much time riding the feckless Stormserpent lord recently, and even if the young fool had more than earned his own violent disposal, there remained the matter of the blueflame ghosts and his ownership of items that controlled them.
She’d have to be swift. The nobles’ streets were well-nigh deserted-though she’d caught a distant glimpse of three revelers carrying a wounded or more likely drunken companion home-and Manshoon was as likely as anyone else to take an interest in the wealthy and powerful and the uses he could make of them.
Coming round the curve, she saw something that almost made her stop in surprise-and after a moment of hesitation, quicken her stride. The gates of Stormserpent Towers stood open.
Almost all of the grander mansions had high walls around their grounds to keep out thieves. Not to mention persistent hawkers or creditors and unwanted, garden-trampling gawkers. Those who had such expensive barriers tended to use them, especially by night. If a carriage or greatcoach wasn’t about to enter or depart, gates would be firmly closed and locked. To see an unsecured entrance and no servants standing watchfully by the opened gates was unusual.
No watch patrol behind her, and none to be seen ahead. There were no side streets near, and the unbroken line of mansion walls afforded no cover for a patrol-or anyone else-to lurk, ready to pounce.
So with head held high and shoulders back, Targrael strode right up to the gates and into the grounds of Stormserpent Towers, as if the gates had been left open for her.
Six strides in along the deserted, night-shrouded carriageway, the gem in her hand warmed slightly. Not the flare of active spells nor the steady rise in temperature that heralded the nearness of always-functioning wards, but a sharper, smaller kindling.
There was palace magic here! A small amount of it, but nearby and very recently arrived…
Targrael frowned. Then she took a step to the left. Yes. Turning, she crossed the width of the carriageway, onto the lawn to the right. No, fainter, so back to the left.
The house rose straight ahead, though of course the carriageway reached it in a series of long, graceful curves. Off to the left, just past this stand of duskwoods, was… the stables.
Targrael went into a crouch and turned sharply to the left, departing the carriageway for a stretch of lawn that would let her go around behind the duskwood bower, to reach the stables from the side or rear.
If a watch patrol or any inquisitive war wizards were lurking in the stables, she wanted to see them before they saw her.
Once behind the trees and closer to the stables-which loomed up dark, silent, and seemingly deserted-the gem in her hand grew warmer with every step she took.
Could Elminster be up to his old tricks, thieving palace magic? Or was this his cache of stolen enchantments? A walled noble compound wasn’t the hiding place she would have chosen, but perhaps he intended that if his loot was discovered, the Stormserpents would be blamed.
For years he’d posed as old Elgorn Rhauligan, working at the palace with his sister-Storm Silverhand, his fellow refugee from the service of fallen Mystra. They were still working together, weren’t they?
Aside from a few scurrying mice, the stables were deserted. The gem led Targrael straight to a small sack of rings and wands. Sleep wands, except for one that blasted and one that spat sticky webs. War wizard issue.
So unless a cabal of Crown mages was plotting something, these were stolen.
Most likely by Elminster and Storm, or some Stormserpent servant. Not by Marlin Stormserpent; that one would take them inside his walls and hide them somewhere in the mansion he thought was secure, behind all its wards and shieldings.
Frowning, Targrael put the sack back as she’d found it, covered it again with the long-decayed awning, and stood pondering. Should she seek Storm Silverhand around Suzail? Lush of figure, beautiful, and with that long silver hair, it was more likely a man would notice her than either Elminster or Manshoon-particularly if those
wise old mages didn’t want to be noticed.
Should she try to find such noticing persons and question them?
Or do the wiser thing, return to the palace, hide, and work on her patience?
“Bah!” she told the night loudly, turning on her heel.
The wiser, patient thing for once.
Huh. Undead or not, death knight or no, she must be getting old.
Manshoon slid eagerly back into his darkly handsome human body. Beholderkin were fine, better than drifting along ghostlike as vampires could, but he liked to be solid and in the sort of body he’d been born with, when it came time for serious thinking.
It was time right now, here in the cellar of the alchemist. A squalid place by some reckonings, and he’d certainly known more luxurious surroundings-he still missed the soaring gloom of his Tower High back in Zhentil Keep, even after all these years-but increasingly it was starting to feel like home.
His scrying globes glowed patiently as he sat up, ran his gaze over them all to make sure nothing really alarming was unfolding anywhere-nothing was-and sat back to ponder.
So his old foe was alive, or perhaps undead. Elminster was back in Suzail, back with Storm Silverhand. Not destroyed, after all.
And not, so far as he could tell, preparing to smite one Manshoon.
Which was odd; if Elminster had slain one of his clones and the next had awakened, it would do as he’d so often done-found some way to hit back, hard. Swiftly, too.
Not so boldly as to sacrifice yet another of his selves, but to make it very clear to Elminster that he hadn’t been vanquished and was back undeterred.
So what, then, was Elminster now up to?
Well, meddling, of course. ’Twas what the Old Fool did. Trying to rule thrones from behind them, sway this lord into giving him food and a bed while he stole magic and coins from that lord, or in this case the royal family of Cormyr. Stay close to the rich and powerful, whisper in their ears, get them to do what he wanted them to do-just as he’d been doing for centuries.
Manshoon knew the lure of power himself. It was the elixir; there was nothing stronger.