Bury Elminster Deep

by Ed Greenwood

  “Well, I heard he’s alive and well, and brought in hire-swords to carve up the lords before they could lay a finger on him!”

  “Get out of it, the both of you! ’Twas no regicide, nor nothing to do with the royals! It was noble knifing noble—and they’re still at it, right across the city!”

  So went the excited shouting as patrons rushed into The Goose of Doom, a dockside tavern not known for its loyal support of House Obarskyr or the lowliest Purple Dragon.

  No sooner were they hunched around the tables with tankards in their hands, arguing excitedly about who’d been seen dead and who’d done the slaying, when the loudest and proudest of the Goose’s regulars, the fat, retired Dragon swordcaptain Brorn Roril, stumbled through the front doors, wild-eyed and streaming blood.

  “The Obarskyrs are dead!” he panted, “and it’s civil war, saers! Lock up your daughters, or get out of Cormyr, as fast as you can! The Forest Kingdom is at war!”

  The Delcastle stablemaster took one look at the horse Arclath was leading into the stables and sneered. “Where, lord, did you get that? I hope you won the wager rather than losing it!”

  “This was the most docile ready mount in the royal stables, Burtland,” Arclath replied crisply, “and it’s soon returning there. However, I find myself in need of a short stretch of privacy, here and now, so if you’d like to take yourself off to the kitchens for an early feasting, and tell them I sent you …”

  The stablemaster rubbed his hands a trifle cleaner on his belt linen, looked Amarune up and down, and gave the younger Lord Delcastle a broad wink. “But of course, young master! I know—”

  “Burtland,” Arclath snapped, “you will apologize to the Lady Amarune for what you were just about to say, and amend your thinking. Regard this sorely wounded lady, here on the horse! We must tend to her and discuss her future and ours. So banish all thoughts of, ah, trysting from your head, and—”

  The stablemaster surveyed the scorched and unconscious Storm—who chose that moment to open one bleary eye, notice him, and give him a wan smile and a solemn wink—bound to the horse. Bending to examine her bindings, he looked back at Arclath, then at Amarune, at Storm again, and back at Arclath.

  And winked.

  “Indeed, young master!” he boomed. “I wronged you dearly, that I did! Only one maid was I thinking of, and here you have two willing wenches! Not to mention bonda—”

  “Burtland!” Arclath roared. “Go! Not another word out of you! Just go!”

  The stablemaster went, hastily, but wasn’t quite swift enough to get out of earshot before he started chuckling.

  Amarune watched him dwindle across the gardens. “Aroused old goat,” she commented flatly.

  “I—ah, my apologies!” Arclath said hastily. “That was unforgivable! I—”

  “Should think nothing of it,” Storm told him, twisting around as much as she could in the bindings, “because you haven’t time. El is … badly overstretched and likely to be wandering half-witted this next little while. I’m not much better. So you’re more or less on your own.”

  She squirmed against the leather looped around her. “Get me free of this, will you?”

  “Sorry,” Arclath said hastily, leaping forward. “I—” He fumbled with the knots briefly, then hissed in exasperation and started slashing with his belt knife. Storm rolled weakly over—and thumped to the straw-strewn stable floor.

  “Oh, gods, sorry!” the young lord burst out, reaching for her. Amarune smothered a sudden attack of giggles.

  Storm chuckled, too, as Arclath helped her into a sitting position. She looked down at herself. “Your mother’s going to be none too pleased with me,” she said, surveying the ruined gown without apparent concern for how much of her was now on display. Then she looked up sharply. “Is the realm at war yet?”

  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 coolheaded 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

  ’Tis never a question if she’ll go too far. ’Tis always an asking

  of how soon, and how much wreckage will ensue. Gentlesirs,

  I’d rather kiss a spike-studded viper than ally with such a one.

  Yet, lords, you must suit yourselves—after all, you might love pain.

  Nahlvur the Bowman, in Act II, Scene II of the play

  Black Blades of the Barons by Tarla Semmurt, Bard of

  Yhaunn, first staged in the Year of the True Omens

  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 usua
l 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.