by Ed Greenwood
“Very,” Marlin agreed with a smile, stepping forward to hand the man the promised fee. “Well earned.”
Jharakphred beamed, bowed deeply to his noble patron with the heavy pouch of gold clutched in both hands, turned away-and never saw Marlin’s smile widen into a beam to match his own as two men blazing with silent blue flames from head to toe stepped out from behind tapestries both before and behind the artist and ran him through.
“Take him to the furnace,” Marlin ordered, plucking the gold back out of convulsing claws that would never hold a brush again, as the impaled man gurgled and shuddered on two swords at once. “You know the way. Mop up every last spot of blood ‘twixt here and there, then return to me.”
His will more than his words compelled the two silent slayers, but Marlin enjoyed giving orders. Besides, he needed the practice. It wouldn’t do to sound less than regal when the time came.
Soon.
What seemed a very short while later, silent blue flames erupted out of the nearest wall. Marlin smiled and, as both Langral and Halonter emerged, beckoned them over to the pair of portraits.
“These men … would you know them, across a room or down a dark street? Look well, until you will.”
He pointed at the painting on the left, so vivid and lifelike that it might have been the living man it depicted, somehow rolled out flat on Marlin’s table.
A burly, fierce-looking lord, going white at the temples but possessed of a warrior’s confidence and rugged good looks, staring hard out of the painted board at anyone viewing it, with a frowning challenge in his ice blue eyes. “Lord Draskos Crownsilver, patriarch of the Crownsilvers.”
Then Marlin waved at the other picture. A faintly smiling, smoothly handsome, dark-haired man with steel gray eyes, this one. A sleek, dangerous old sea lion. “Lord Gariskar Dauntinghorn. Like the other, head of his family.”
The two flaming men-or ghosts or whatever they were-stood in silence looking down at the two portraits for a long time, ere they both finally nodded.
Marlin smiled again. “When I compel you to,” he told them, “you’ll enter whatever club or inn or wing of the royal court I direct you to and kill them. Bearing their bodies away with you to a place I’ll tell you of, so they cannot be found and brought back to life.”
And as they nodded once more, eyes on his, he bent his will on them, forcing them back into the chalice and the Flying Blade again.
It was still a struggle but an easier one this time; when he was done, a single swipe of his fingers sufficed to wipe the sweat from his brow.
Then he reached for the handy decanter of his favorite wine, seeing with approval that his steward had freshly filled it since the morning, and pondered his plan.
If his coerced slayers slew these two key senior nobles during the council, he’d at one stroke remove the most capable and stubborn resistance to any change in rulership, plunge the realm into uncertainty and turmoil, and lure any investigating highknights and war wizards within reach of the deadly blades of Langral and Halonter.
The flower of House Stormserpent sipped thoughtfully. And smiled again.
It was high time to take himself back to the Old King’s Favorite to survey the fresh crop of nobles arriving early for the council.
There might well be some other nobles fair Cormyr would profit from the removal of. To say nothing of the fortunes of one Marlin Stormserpent.
Once settled at his usual table, Marlin made haste to hide his face behind a full goblet of something refreshing, so as to not to be so obviously listening to the talk rising excitedly all around him.
Word spread as swiftly as ever in Suzail. The Purple Dragons on watch were all in an uproar; that young and sneering braggart Seszgar Huntcrown had been murdered in a club, along with all his blades-servants, bodyguards, and hangers-on, every jack of them-by two mysterious slayers who did their deadly and unlawful work wreathed in constant blue flames!
That would bring out the wizards of war after morningfeast on the morrow, to be sure. Or so ran the shared opinion of the nobles dining and drinking-mainly drinking, at such a late hour-in the Favorite.
There were far more lords in the place than usual, Marlin noticed; the city was starting to fill up with nobles who spent much of their time at their upcountry keeps and hunting lodges.
They knew they could find good food and properly fawning service at the Favorite at that hour, without all the din and roistering of more common clubs-and without most of the perils of such places, too. Most nobles mistrusted their fellow lords even more than they disdained commoners and hated Crown and court; even there, in the Favorite, they’d brought their wizards along for protection. Their House wizards, most of them, though a few had hired outlander mages as bodyguards. That was only to be expected; it was commonly accepted but officially unconfirmed truth that the war wizards trained, influenced, and even infiltrated the ranks of the House wizards, and spied on all noble-hired spellhurlers anyway. So there would always be some nobles whose mistrust of their House wizard overcame any miserly instincts.
Marlin smiled wryly to himself, recalling what courtiers called such lords. “Incipient traitors.” Well, for their part, nobles had far less polite terms for most courtiers.
Lord Haelwing, two tables away from Marlin, was one of those mistrustful nobles, it seemed, and had no doubt given his bodyguard wizard some blunt and specific orders before proceeding to the Old King’s Favorite and commencing to drink himself into insensibility.
So the mage, a Sembian of slim mustache and cold eyes hight Oskrul Meddanthyr, was seated at the table beside the drunkenly snoring heap of his employer. A table acquiring an interested audience of young nobles and wealthy pretenders to nobility, who had eagerly seized the opportunity to ply a talkative wizard with drinks and question him about the unfolding ways of the world.
Marlin listened as the Sembian became increasingly loquacious, as drink after drink took hold. Grand tale after grand tale was rolling out of Meddanthyr, and even the nobles’ bodyguards had started to listen.
“Oh,” he was saying to one would-be noble, leaning forward to favor the table with an unlovely smile, “the Harpers officially disbanded. That is, the head Harpers announced the dissolution and then set about very publicly butchering many Harpers whom they knew to really be agents of various evil groups who’d infiltrated Those Who Harp.”
Meddanthyr sipped from his jack, smiled again, and added, “Yet I very much doubt it will surprise any of you to learn that the Harpers did not, in fact, cease to exist. An extremely secretive, underground fellowship of some two dozen Harpers continued-as they do to this very day. In fact, my friends-”
The wizard thrust his head forward and lowered his voice dramatically, to add in a menacing whisper, “theHarpers are rebuilding …”
“WhooOOoohoo!” young Lord Anvilstone piped up, imitating a ghost’s frightening wail as he wiggled all his fingers in mock apprehension.
“They’re sitting among us right now,” his friend Lord Mrelburn put in sarcastically. “Under the tables, everybody!”
There were snorts and derisive chuckles, in the heart of which someone muttered, “Fear a lot of lasses and fancy-boys sitting half-naked over harps? Not farruking likely!”
“Here, now,” an older lord said quellingly, “I can hear wild nonsense about the Harpers any time! Leave off; we’ve got a wizard here, and for once it’s not one of Ganrahast’s watchful toadies. I want to hear about magic, old magic out of legend-and what out of all those tales has real spells and suchlike behind it that we should be seeking or being wary of or that might be here in Cormyr under our noses.”
A general rumble and roar of assent greeted these words, and Marlin decided to seize this chance to steer the Sembian’s tongue before he downed any more drinks and veered toward the fanciful or incoherent.
“Hey, now!” he called firmly, before Meddanthyr could decide what tale of magic to tell first. “If it’s to be magic spoken of, I want to hear about the Ni
ne-the Crown of Horns, Laeral before the Blackstaff ‘saved’ her right into his bed, and the shattering of that fellowship. Two of whom had interests hereabouts, I’ve heard. We know what befell Laeral, but whatever happened to the rest of them?”
Meddanthyr turned to face Marlin for just long enough to dispense a shrug. “Dead, some of them. Fled away, others-I know not where, but they were veteran adventurers, mind; they may well have had other names and faces prepared to step behind, to live out their days in plain view but not known for who they really were. And they could have had all manner of spells and enchanted items, aye, though Laeral was their strongest spellhurler, by far. I’ve heard of nothing linking any of them or their doings to Cormyr after the Crown of Horns took her and she turned on them all. But as to powerful magic, three of them shared a fate that should be of interest to you.”
The Sembian sampled the fresh jack that Marlin’s signal had just set in front of him, set it down again with a sigh of nigh tipsy contentment, and added, “Three of them got trapped and bound into magic items.”
A murmur of interest rippled around the table, and the old lord nodded and beamed triumphantly, as if he’d already heard something of this and was very pleased he’d be hearing more.
Meddanthyr waited for someone to answer the cue, and one of the younger and more impatient lordlings obliged. “Well? Who did it, and why, and what’re they like? Curse you for being so secretive, wizard!”
The Sembian smiled. “Secrets are what wizards deal in, Lord Mhorauk. No one knows who did it, which is to say there are so many competing stories and accusations that we can be certain of nothing beyond most of them being pure fancy. Someone very powerful in Art, obviously-and any answer to your ‘why’ will have to wait until we know that ‘who,’ or we’ll be merely spinning new fancies. Yet I can tell you a little of what they’re like … and will.”
He sought to sip from his jack again, discovered it empty in an almost mournful pantomime, then waited in satisfaction as three irritated lords all signaled to the Favorite’s hovering maids to refill it.
A trio of jacks were swiftly set before the Sembian, who in priestly pious manner both smiled his thanks and contrived to look surprised at the same time.
“Right now,” he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice to gather all nearby ears to his words, “somewhere in the Realms, there are three metal objects-a sword, a rather grand chalice, and a largish hand axe, most of the writings say-that are the prisons of three of the Nine. Anyone who has hold of one of these can order the trapped one to come forth from it, or send them back in, and when they are out of it can compel them as exactingly as a willing and eager slave. A servant who’ll never disobey, tire, hesitate, nor feel pain, and so can never fail for reasons of weakness or treachery.”
Meddanthyr held up a finger in warning and added softly, “You can know these slaves by their flames. At all times when outside their items, they are wreathed in leaping blue flames that burn no one and nothing and consume them not. So it is written, by several wizards and sages who saw them nigh a century ago. They’ve not been seen since, at least by anyone who survived to write or speak of it. The three objects that imprison these three of the Nine, I should add, do not themselves flame.”
He fell silent, leaving the table waiting for more, but sat back and spread his hands to silently indicate what he’d said was all.
An excited babble arose, all of the men asking or telling each other the same thing: the murderers of Huntcrown had been wreathed in flames, hadn’t they?
“And how sure are you, of all of this?” Marlin asked through that chatter, making his voice sharp as well as loud, hoping to goad. He succeeded.
The Sembian turned to glare at him and snapped back, “Wise men know they can never be sure of anything when it comes to the Art, saer, but I know what I’ve just said to be true-and also know I’m surer of matters magical, large and small, than you’ll ever be. I’m well aware that nobles are reared to belittle their lessers and to think all who lack titles are their lessers, but such thinking is wrong, and those who cling to it all pay stiff prices for doing so, sooner or later. Be guided accordingly-or ignore me and be just one more noble fool. I’m a wizard; I’ve met many noble fools. They’re not nearly as special as they believe themselves to be.”
Marlin waved aside this blustering with casual impatience. “But three adventurers? Three, and no one’s found even one of them?”
Meddanthyr shrugged. “They may never be found. Buried and lost, or lying at the bottom of the sea, perhaps-or found by some dragon, who’ll keep the chalice, the blade, and the hand axe in his hoard and never call forth the adventurers from them!”
“That’s true enough,” Marlin agreed, sitting back to let other questions come, and the wizard burble on about other things.
Finding a largish hand axe was a tall order for one young noble, but he could call on six nobles to do the seeking-and thereby draw attention to themselves and not him-just as soon as he returned to Stormserpent Towers.
Though they were still breathless from climbing the stairs of Marlin’s turret in such haste, Delasko Sornstern and Sacrast Handragon looked not just excited at Marlin’s news. They seemed delighted.
Marlin Stormserpent turned back to triumphantly telling his table of conspirators all he could remember of what the talkative wizard in the Favorite had said … and he could recall almost everything.
“That axe must be found!” he added, bringing his fist down on the table. “Find it, seize it, and bring it here! I-there’s, ah, a spell I’ll have to awaken, to call forth the slayer inside it to do our bidding!”
Your bidding, more than one noble around the table thought, but that thought made their faces slip only momentarily, for Marlin was watching them closely.
Eager enthusiasm was what they strove to show. With one exception.
“But how?” Irlin Stonestable asked sourly. “There must be a lot of hand axes in Suzail!”
“Call on the nobles who’ve come to town for the council, in their rooms,” Marlin snapped. “Say you want to really get to know them and strike up friendships. Bring your House wizards along with you’ to sniff out magic with spells they cast before you go in to meet any lords. Your mages only have to pay attention to hand axes, remember.”
“Or things that look like something else, but that their spell sees as a hand axe,” Handragon pointed out.
“Yes!” Stormserpent agreed excitedly, whirling to point at Handragon. “Well thought! Well thought!”
There were nods around the table, ranging from Sornstern’s gleeful one to Broryn Windstag’s grimmer agreement.
Every lordling in the room knew Huntcrown’s flaming slayers must be two of the three Nine survivors who were bound into items, and it followed that the sword and the chalice must already be in the hands of someone in Suzail who knew how to use them. Stormserpent’s outburst had just left them all with the strong suspicion that he was that “someone.”
The someone who commanded two flaming men or ghosts who’d slay anyone he chose. Any young noble lord he took a dislike to, for instance.
“Just the hand axe?” Stonestable asked confusedly. “You already know who has the sword and the chalice?”
“The palace does,” Marlin snapped, after a hesitation that was just a whisker too long. “The war wizards keep them both hidden, or I’d have had them already, and we’d be using them to make inconveniently nosy wizards and courtiers-and, the Felldragon forfend, nobles, too-disappear for good. Our good gain, that is.”
He was almost babbling. “But enough talk for now! This news overrides all! Get up and get out there, everyone! There’s a hand axe to be found!”
Chairs scraped back and lordlings clapped hands to the hilts of their blades out of long habit as his words rang around their ears. Then there was a general rush down the stairs as everyone hastened to do his bidding.
Or go back to bed.
At the moment, he cared not which.
; Behind their departing backs, Marlin was busy wincing at the slip he’d made. He turned to seek his favorite decanter again.
If some of them said too much, and wizards of war came around poking long noses into the affairs of House Stormserpent, could they tell that the sword at his hip or an innocent chalice held a blueflame ghost inside it?
They’d not noticed the one or the other-even under their very noses, in their own palace-all these years, but then, they hadn’t really been looking, had they?
What did they spend most of their time really watching instead?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DRIVING WIZARDS TO DRINK
There were more guards than usual stationed about the palace-and no wonder, with the council almost upon Suzail, a flamboyant riot of nobles freshly arrived in the city, and more lords on the way.
Nevertheless, Lady Highknight Targrael made her way up two floors and across the vast building with casual, almost contemptuous ease. With Ganrahast and Vainrence missing, their wizards lacked both orders and attention for much else but finding their commanders-and as they’d long since scoured the palace several times over, most were seeking elsewhere.
Which meant borrowing long-dead Queen Gantharla’s double-ended dagger from where it hung in the Blackrood Chamber was largely a matter of strolling there, plucking up the nearest chair to stand on, and tugging the weapon free of some old and brittle leather thongs that bound it on display, high on the wall.
Those bindings collapsed into swirling dust, and the deed was done. Chair back where it should be, and strolling away, with the young, yawning guard in the passage outside the door none the wiser.
The dagger was a beautiful, slender thing-elven; all flowing lines, deceptively delicate shape, and razor-sharpness, even after all this time-and rode in Targrael’s hand well.
She hefted it, smiling to herself, and murmured, “Elminster must die.”