Elminster's Daughter

by Ed Greenwood

  “Wounded Duke Bhereu for dallying with my sister. Cut him good and proper and gave him a limp that lasted through two seasons of high-coin healers. I’d’ve had his life, too, if he hadn’t had a dozen bodyguards within shout. Cursed Obarskyrs can’t even go out rutting without help!”

  Elminster swayed around the warrior’s elbow and edged past in the press of bodies.

  “Ho for the conspiracy!” someone bellowed across the crowd—again. Several other someones took up the cry, as they had done on several previous occasions. “The Rightful Conspiracy!”

  “A new king, a new hope!” someone else bawled.

  “Aye! Let Cormyr rise again!”

  Elminster felt like rolling his eyes. How many centuries had he heard these same cries, now? ’Twas as if the Forest Kingdom had a set script all would-be rebels and traitors came and consulted, perhaps under the watchful eyes of the scribes and Master Scrollkeeper at the Royal Court.

  “And why are you here?” the warrior asked. Elminster stiffened then turned slowly, his face cold and haughty—to discover that the question had been directed at the merchant and not the tall, scarred noble sidling past.

  “Money,” the red-faced merchant replied promptly, punctuating this emphatic declaration with a belch. “They want some of mine now to buy blades and hireswords in Westgate and such but promise me contracts and trade-hires enough to make it back ten times over, once their king’s on the throne. Haven’t said who that’ll be yet, ’course”—he belched again—“but I don’ really care.” He waved a dismissive hand, his goblet spilling a line of wine drops floorward, and added, “All the same anyway, they are. ‘S’just that we’ll be on the take with the new one, ’stead of shut outside the gates, lookin’ in at all the lovely coins and whisper-deals.”

  The warrior caught Elminster’s eye and snapped, “What’re you listening to, high’n’mighty?”

  “Overloose tongues,” Elminster grunted, “if the War Wizards are listening or there’re any Highknights lurking amongst us. I’m a little uneasy that this—” He waved at the merriment all around. “—might be a way to gather us all together so we can be slaughtered without them having to take the trouble to chase us all down.”

  The warrior nodded grimly. “Such thoughts have crossed my mind, too. You’re noble, right?”

  “Noble by birth, nameless by nature,” Elminster told him with a smile. “Call me: Nameless Cormaeril.”

  The warrior grinned. “Aha! Some of your kin are here.” He waved his hand at the thickest part of the crowd. “Over yonder, somewhere.”

  The merchant swayed toward Elminster. “W-well met, grand sir. I’m Imbur Waendlar, I am, and am … am … delighted to make your acquaintance. Should you ever have need of—ahem—coffins, or strongchests, or splendid greatchests to grace the finest of chambers, I’m your man. Best work and best price in all Suzail, wares to fit the needs of one so noble as yourself! Why, let me—”

  Elminster and the warrior exchanged winks and grins. “Drunk as a bear drowning in honey,” the duke-whittling warrior muttered, “but still manages his pitch. Gods bless stubborn merchants.”

  Master Waendlar blinked at him. “I cry: ‘stubborn’? I cannot help but know I heard you say ‘stubborn,’ sir. Know you that you are mistaken, for a stubborn merchant is one who cannot turn with the times, shift with the deals, and so keep his coins about him! Why—”

  Elminster and the nameless warrior sidestepped in opposite directions, leaving the merchant turning to continue his converse rather unsteadily. His disagreement was with the warrior, so he clung to that path, leaving Elminster free to move on.

  Or rather, as free as two excitedly squealing ladies in very low-cut and well-filled gowns would allow.

  “Gods a-mighty,” someone growled, from Elminster’s left, “but if I had those, I’d be squealing in excitement too.”

  “Well, have them you can,” another voice said slyly. “The price is steep, mind you, but …”

  Elminster ducked past the luridly displayed flesh and out of hearing more of that particular converse. A knot of men beyond was heatedly discussing the wisdom or lack of same in various “what must be done next” stratagems. Their voices were low but swift and cutting, but their words faltered as Elminster stepped almost into their midst.

  “Ho, sir! This talk’s private!” one of them snapped.

  Elminster shrugged. “Sounds very much like what I’ve heard in a hundred nobles’ chambers across the realm when they thought they were alone. Which leads me to think: when we plotted, we trusted in our hired wizards to keep War Wizard scrying at bay. Is anyone doing the same here, tonight?” He pointed at the goblets most of the men were holding and added, “Or checking those for poisons or concoctions to make us babble?”

  The circle of men gave him sharp looks. “Did you not hear the Knight of the Mask’s assurances?” the shortest man asked suspiciously. “Where were you then?”

  “Yes, yes,” Elminster snapped back, “but did you—any of you—actually see spells being cast or anything of the sort? Words are easily said; ’tis deeds I trust in.”

  “Well said, stranger,” put in a tall, slender man whose chin bore a tiny black spike of a beard. “However, know you that I cast a shielding spell, if no one else did. It covers only myself and those close by, but I was not the only one here to do so. As to the rest, this isle was chosen because Purple Dragons will have to fight their way through three guardposts and across two bridges to reach it. My name, by the way, is Khornadar, most recently of Westgate. And you are—?”

  “Nameless,” Elminster said firmly, his gaze locked with the tall man’s eyes. Familiar eyes. The semblance he’d never seen before, but the man wearing it he’d met in what was presumably his real shape a few summers back. “Nameless Cormaeril.”

  There were dark chuckles, and someone said, “Be welcome, then—as long as you’re not like young Thorntower yonder, who spent too long a heated time telling us that only the nobility understand Cormyr and so only nobles—the right nobles, mind, such as, well, surprise: himself—could take the throne or command any effort to remove the Obarskyrs from it. He even cited as proof of this the superb job our rightful betters have done guiding the realm thus far!”

  Elminster snorted. “Who is this puppy?”

  “The one with his nose buried in Tharmoraera’s bosom,” another man in the circle said in dry tones, pointing. “You’ll notice he finds lowborn flesh quite suitable for his purposes.”

  “Well, that’s the definition of a noble, isn’t it?” someone else grunted then added hastily, “Ah, no offense meant, lord.”

  Elminster chuckled. “None taken. Living by wits and the sword in back streets across Faerûn strips away any arrogance of birth right swiftly … or such has been my experience, anyway.” He looked back at the tall man—the minor Red Wizard Thauvas Zlorn, he was sure, in quite a good magical disguise—and asked, “So why now? This ‘Rightful Conspiracy,’ I mean? There’ve been exiles and others who hated the Obarskyrs for centuries and plenty of Sembians happy to toss coin to all malcontents in Cormyr, in hopes of gaining something in return, but: Westgate? I’ve met others here, from farther afield, too. Why now?”

  The man calling himself Khornadar smiled coldly and bent forward, pitching his voice low. So did the others, and Elminster found the circle of plotters rejoined, with himself part of it.

  “Well, Nameless,” the disguised Red Wizard purred, “folk with wits are backing us. This revel’s a master-stroke, making fools and rich alike excited to be part of something secretive and important and bringing them together to shield those really behind it. We get to know each other by sight and forge a few little friendships on the side, so everyone feels they benefit … thus far, all good. Dangerous, yes, but all treason’s dangerous, no Obarskyr finds welcome here in Marsember, and we outlanders have easy sailing and other reasons to be here.”

  Head nodded around the circle. “A boy too young to walk or talk wears Cormyr’s crown w
hile a rutting bitch of a Regent settles scores in his name, many loyal nobles are angry or afraid, shadow-sorcerers blast things at will up in the Stonelands—Purple Dragons included—while the whole realm tries to rebuild and feed itself. Behold: weakness. The time’s right, or better than it’s ever been in my lifetime.”

  Heads nodded around the circle, and Khornadar went on. “Now look around you. One more decadent revel in rotting Marsember, yes, but see who’s here: the usual seacaptains, pleasure-lasses, and throne-hating Marsembans, but also exiled nobles like yourself; a few sons of nobility still welcome in the realm who’re disgusted at what the Obarskyrs have done and allowed; ambitious merchants; and outlanders like me who see gain in a stronger, fairer Cormyr. Behold both the chance and its willing takers.”

  The disguised Red Wizard waved his goblet. It was empty, Elminster noticed.

  “So why’re we all risking our necks to be here? Exiled nobles want their lands, wealth, and influence back and see a way to reclaim it all. Marsembans burn to snatch back their independence. I’ve seen a few folk from Arabel here who desire the same. Sembians ache to seize lands in eastern Cormyr or desire goods they can make quick coin on. That same reason draws most of the merchants of Suzail who are here this night.”

  Khornadar thrust his face still farther forward and lowered his voice to a mutter. “But what of me? Earlier conspiracies invited hireswords and wizards to work violence for promised rewards, but I’ve been offered no such clear prize—and therefore fear treachery less from masked and anonymous men who want me to help overthrow the hated Obarskyrs but not live to claim what I’ve been promised. Why am I here?”

  He smiled. “Well, I see Cormyr as a storehouse of magic—War Wizard magic—that I, who am no threat to anyone right now, can use to become powerful without years of toadying to cruel mages in return for spell-scraps reluctantly tossed my way. This room holds quite a few like me. Our very numbers, plus War Wizards scrambling to seize magic for themselves once the Obarskyrs are dead, and the fear and hatred commoners of Cormyr hold for those same oh-so-benevolent War Wizards—a lot of farmers will put daggers or pitchforks through every wizard they see!—will keep us from forming any collective threat. The wise ones will snatch what magic they can and get out.”

  Elminster frowned. “Were I one of the hidden masters of this Rightful Conspiracy, I wouldn’t want any wizard here unless I believed I or my fellow Secret Masters had magic enough to smash them down … or we’ll all be dying to trade a baby king for a ruthless wizard, no?”

  The disguised Red Wizard nodded. “Which is why I believe there is a great wizard somewhere behind this, one who intends to make any new king his puppet. He can then rule Cormyr without any of the dangers of reigning—after all, this Caladnei and her bedmate Laspeera very much do so now, strolling along the path old Vangerdahast paved for them. All it costs them is a few spells to keep the Dowager Queen and the Steel Regent in mind-thrall! Why, our hidden mage could even fund a few of the intrepid wayfarers of that Society of Stalwart Adventurers club in Suzail to find him spells and long-lost riches in other lands, too!”

  Thay would be your “great wizard,” young Thauvas, Elminster thought, and Cormyr would then swiftly become a farflung western tharch—and, just as you say, a base for reaching out to other cities and lands. Keeping any hint of this from his face, El nodded, stroked his chin thoughtfully as he frowned, and said, “Gods, this is why I’ve never thought about joining any rebellion until now. All this scheming and thinking about what others are thinking hurts my head!”

  There were nods and chuckles from the circle of faces around him. Elminster was aware of the close and thoughtful scrutiny the false Khornadar was now giving him. Quickly he called to mind the faces of two Cormaerils he knew—one of them Jhaunadyl, sitting up warm-eyed in her bed after their lovemaking.…

  The Red Wizard’s probe was as fierce as it was sudden, but rather than let it shatter against his mind-shield, Elminster let it slide in and spun a welter of mental images for Thauvas to see, leaving Jhaunadyl’s laughter and outreaching arms to the fore.

  The wizard stiffened and reared back his head in disgust. Ah, yes, rampant incest among decadent nobles. Another man might have eagerly looked for more memories of even warmer moments, but many Red Wizards regarded women as little more than cattle and intimacy without domination as hardly worth the time spent on dalliance. Young Zlorn was evidently one such.

  It takes great strength of will to maintain such a probe, let alone steer the invaded mind to certain thoughts and memories, and the false Khornadar was gone from Elminster’s thoughts as swiftly as he’d come, looking pale and tired as he stepped back in the circle. Someone noticed the trembling of his goblet.

  “Art well, mage of Westgate?”

  “I—yes. Merely tired,” Khornadar replied curtly.

  “More wine?”

  “Nay, that would be the worst thing. I must sit and listen for a time, letting others do the talking!”

  The circle moved confusedly toward a pillar that was apparently encircled by a stone seat, and several of its members took the opportunity to drift away into the throng—where dancing had now broken out in earnest, imperiling several platters of savory tarts being taken around the crowded dance-floor by uncomfortable-looking, weatherbeaten-faced men who were obviously unused to serving food forth.

  Elminster ducked under a platter that was well on its way floor-wards—only to see it rescued in his wake by a whooping merchant whose fat quivering chins boasted trembling chinlets of their own—and turned from that impressive sight to find himself face to face with a stunningly beautiful woman in a shimmering gown adorned with gilded badges. Or rather—El dragged his eyes with some difficulty away from an impish smile, swirling dark hair, and darkly knowing eyes—the same badge, repeated over and over in gold thread upon blue-green and clinging shimmerweave. A seashell crossed with a trident, the arms of a Marsemban house … Mistwind, that was it. A very old family, very private, few in number.

  Regal Lady Mistwind—for this must be the heiress apparent of the house, it could be no other—gave him an even wider smile, showing just the edges of a fine row of pearly teeth, and asked sweetly, “You look like a nobleman who’s tasted the world, sir. How does our hospitality here, this night, measure up?”

  Well, that was clear invitation enough. Elminster gave her a gallant smile, a bow in the elder court style to signal that he was of a long-established house, too (though of course the Cormaerils would have been scorned in such a claim by many ‘true’ oldblood nobles of the realm), and the words, “Most beautiful lady, I’ve but begun to taste what’s offered here—yet confess myself impressed thus far by any measure. Perhaps we can speak more of this later?”

  Her smile broadened. “Perhaps.”

  She danced toward him a trifle, almost concealing the hard-eyed bodyguards swaying in time to her movements beyond both of her shoulders, and added huskily, “Your discretion speaks well of you. Lady Amrelle Mistwind gives greeting to—?”

  Elminster gave her a smile. “Lord Nameless Cormaeril, at your service.”

  One dark brow arched. “Namelessness is a matter for scorn if there’s no good reason—but you must acquaint me with your reason before I’d presume to pass judgment on it. Later, as you say.”

  She spun away, her slit-to-the-waist gown giving Elminster a brief glimpse of a gem-studded wyvern tattooed high on her thigh—and a complete lack of undergarments—and left Lord Nameless Cormaeril facing a scowling bodyguard … and feeling very warm indeed. ’Tis these damned magical disguises; they hold the heat so.

  * * * * *

  Narnra glided to a stop behind another pillar. The guards and servants were growing bored and hungry, and increasingly made little forays out onto the floor to snatch tarts or fancies from platters, ceasing to be so alert for unfolding trouble. Most of them seemed to have been expecting blades drawn between conspirators, anyway, rather than attacks from intruders.

  Hmm. There was
that tall noble again … tall enough to be the old wizard, yes, but of course spell-guises need not have the stature or bulk of the person using them. Yet most men disliked being shorter than they were used to being and avoided such shapes unless they had good reason to do otherwise—and time for reflection upon the matter.

  There were at least three men here who were even taller, but two were hulking bodyguards who looked to have orc blood well back in their ancestry, and they kept to the darkened outer rooms, half-dozing … and the third claimed to be a wizard from Westgate. Would a mage disguising himself be stupid—or vain—enough to make himself into the likeness of … a wizard? Yet wizards were vain, and this shape was far younger and more handsome than the one he’d worn back in the alley. He’d acted the Old Wise One then, but—was this his true shape? He’d been awfully fast on his feet for a white-bearded dodderer, and the Silken Shadow wasn’t as clumsy as all that, if she thought so herself.

  The tall noble turned his head and seemed to stare right at her. Narnra froze then looked away, leaned back against her pillar, drew her dagger, and pretended to clean and pare her nails with it. Well, he wasn’t coming any closer, at least.

  The smell of roasted fowl tarts wafted past, and Narnra suddenly found her mouth full-watering. A moment later, her flat stomach added its own growl of protest. Narnra sighed silently, then put away her knife, stepped around the pillar, and strode out into the chattering throng toward the nearest platter. As the saying went: Swords crossed? Then we might as well shatter realms in battle!

  She was a stride away when someone grabbed at the platter, and the servant holding it quickly lofted it out of reach. A tart that had been inches from Narnra’s fingertips was suddenly several paces away. With a growl that matched the sound her gut was making, the Silken Shadow stalked after it.

  * * * * *

  With a grin, Elminster turned away. Well, well, his playmate from the alley had been far bolder than he’d given her credit for—and was now finding, as so many farmers gone to be splendid warriors had discovered before her, that there’s nothing like the taste of adventure for making the belly feel yawningly empty. Of course, all too often the meal it soon received was a goodly length of sharpened steel, but there was no need to cast down her spirits warning her of that. She was in it, now, with no going back—and by the looks of her, she had realized that for herself already.