by John Shirley
The coinlass shook back her hood and opened her cloak, flouncing just enough to make it swirl. Long, unbound red hair swirled, too, though the mens’ eyes sought certain other revealed features.
“Thank you,” she husked, before they could do more than grin, and hurried away. She didn’t bother to tell them that her thanks were to Mystra, for the fact that the magic “she” was using could shift the hue of hair even faster than it took to pull open a garment.
She had to find a Zhent in armor about the same size as Ornthen Kelgoran, before the ring forming around Highturrets got completely settled. Ah—there!
“You’re the one,” she purred, throwing off her cloak to reveal her complete lack of weapons—and all her now-buxom charms—to the startled Zhentilar trudging along the street, his head down and his mood dark.
He gaped at her. “What, by all the gods—?”
“Take me,” she hissed, whirling him into a doorway. “Here and now! I’ve been watching you for months, I’m crazed about you, I must have you! ’Twill take but moments, then give me your name, and I’ll find you for longer dalliances on later nights! Please, my lord!”
Rather dazedly the Zhentilar ran a disbelieving hand down the warm, smooth flesh offered to him, then hurriedly started to unbuckle and unfasten. “Name’s Vorl, lass! Watching me for months? Who are you?”
“Jahanna Darlwood, of the keep; my father’s Brace Darlwood; seller of roof tiles and stone, and very wealthy …”
“Tell me later,” Vorl snarled, shoving her back against the wall as his breeches sought his ankles. “We must be quick!”
The suddenly melting mask of flesh that smothered him as he tried to kiss it retained a mouth. As he sagged into senselessness, it agreed in a very different voice, “Aye, we must. Sleep now, lusty Vorl. I’ll be tying ye to the door, I’m afraid; can’t have ye racing back to reclaim thy armor before I’m done with it.”
A few hard, swift breaths later, a man in a cloak was bound to the door—and his exact likeness was hurrying down the street in full armor, head down and hand on his sword.
“Vorl, you laggard,” an older Zhentilar hailed him with a snarl, “where’ve you been? Rutting in doorways, all the way from the tavern?”
“Well, uh, yes,” Vorl admitted, but his low mumble was barley audible, and the Zhentilar wasn’t listening.
“Get over here, you lazy dog! We’re to form a ring all around Highturrets—and your reward for being last boots in is getting to stand guard right there, hard by the jakes!”
“There” was an embrasure in the building’s cracked and much-patched back wall, filled with rotting litter and containing a long-boarded-up door. It faced a matching alcove across the street, where a wooden bench with a hole in its seat had been placed over a large, square open shaft leading down into the infamous city sewers. Two unhappy-looking sternhelms were busy rigging up a blanket in a frame of spears, to serve as both a door and a wall for future patrons of the little seat, who might desire some privacy while they were sitting alone.
A jakes. It seemed the Zhentarim were expecting a lengthy siege.
Sternhelm Vorl growled a curse, because that would be expected, and trudged to his post, kicking aside the worst of the reeking, slimy refuse. He hoped he’d not have to wait long.
Mystra smiled on him; he’d barely had time to grow bored and cold ere the wizard Cadathen came in search of the jakes, blowing on chilled fingers and snarling some curses of his own.
If the Zhentarim mage was surprised that a Zhentilar sternhelm crossed the narrow street to hold the blanket open for him, he didn’t show it.
He was surprised when the warrior stepped into the alcove with him, pulling the blanket closed, but only for a moment.
After that, he had no time left to be surprised about anything, ever again.
As the Lord Mage Commands
“Cold, hey? Sitting alone over the sewers, I mean?”
Holding the rank of battle captain, Galandror dared to exchange such pleasantries with Zhentarim mages. Well, he’d not do so with the Lord Manshoon, but Cadathen was very far from—
“Too cold,” the wizard said curtly. “We’re not waiting the night through out here. Storm the gates.”
Galandror and his fellow battle captain, Narleth, exchanged surprised glances, then nodded in unison. “By your command, Lord Mage.”
Cadathen smiled and threw his shoulders back, like a pigeon about to preen. Obviously, he liked the sound of “Lord Mage.”
Narleth used the title again, quickly. “The front gates, Lord Mage?”
Cadathen shook his head. “The rear. I’ll destroy them with a spell, and the doors behind them, too. You get our blades in there fast, secure the chamber that holds the Darkway, then drive out everyone in that end of the mansion. I want no one creeping up on us while I set to work on it.”
“Set to work on it, Lord Mage?” Galandror asked warily. There’d been no hint of this in their orders, and Lord Manshoon wanted them to be watchful for traitors everywhere. Among his magelings, in particular.
Cadathen gave both battle captains calm, direct looks. “I suspect our unknown foe who’s seeking out Darkways is either hiding in them, or enspelling them to serve as scrying foci, so henceforth he can spy on the rooms that hold them, from afar. I need to cast a spell on the Darkway inside yon mansion, to see if my suspicions are correct. And all of us will have warmth, chairs to sit on, and whatever food and drink can be found in a waylord’s mansion, rather than freezing our behinds outside on a dark street all night.”
The Zhentilar nodded, reassured.
They collected their men swiftly, Narleth leading a dozen around to the front to bang on the main gates and hold Elkauvren’s guards there while Cadathen forced entry at the rear of the towering mansion.
“Right,” the wizard snarled, when Galandror came striding back to tell him all was ready. “Let’s get warm.”
He raised his hands, murmured something, and the night exploded in fire.
Guarding Flickering Silence
“Secure, Lord Mage.” Galandror’s tone was almost respectful.
Narleth had just returned and made his report. Only two Zhentilar had been killed, though Morlar Elkauvren would need to replace most of his house guards and a goodly number of his household servants. The cowering lord was shut up in his own guestrooms above his front gate, with watchful sternhelms to keep him there—and not one member of Elkauvren’s household was both still alive and any nearer to the chamber that held the Darkway than the central feasting hall.
“Well done,” Cadathen replied, turning to the glowing portal. “Now to make sure this hasn’t been tainted by the foe’s magic.”
The two battle captains watched him closely, of course, but they were not to know that the spell he cast was doing no such thing, and instead was altering Manshoon’s slaying spell into his own less fatal magic—just as they were not to know Cadathen was really the infamous archwizard Elminster.
Suspicion was clear on their tense, grim faces, but they visibly relaxed as nothing seemed to happen. Other than Cadathen stepping back to nod in satisfaction and tell them, “Our foe worked a magic so he could spy through this, just as I suspected. He won’t be doing that now.”
When nothing more happened, the two warriors relaxed even more—and soon threw daggers to see who would first go foraging in the kitchens and pantries, and who would first settle down to the tense, waiting boredom of guarding the empty, silently flickering Darkway.
Whispers at the Feast
Though Manshoon knew the waylords were meeting in a high house not all that far away, he kept all hint of his knowing any such thing to himself.
Here, in this grand feasting hall, he was a guest of the most powerful nobles of the city, and was taking great care not to remind them of his ruthless side or the mighty magic he could hurl. Nobles tend to dislike upstarts who threaten them—particularly upstarts who can destroy them at will. His presence was all about reassurance, buildin
g alliances if not friendships, and making common cause.
Not to mention establishing a firm alibi for himself, for when word spread of all the waylords slain or embattled, the survivors began to hurl their furious accusations.
Manshoon smiled and thanked his host for the excellent wine.
And why not? It held not even a trace of poison, after all.
His host, directly across the goblet- and platter-crowded table, was Lord Syal Amandon, the callow, bewildered-by-the-world son of Manshoon’s onetime nemesis, the thankfully dead old snow lion Rorst Amandon.
Syal was swiftly falling under his sway, and Manshoon was anxious to keep matters that way. The other nobles—particularly old Hael and Phandymm—knew exactly what he was up to, but had thus far done nothing about it. He saw the anger and contempt glittering in their gazes, but they continued to say and do not the smallest thing to cross the First Lord. Manshoon couldn’t read them—long-established wealth bought wards and shieldings that subtle spells couldn’t pierce—but he looked forward to any opportunity to learn what they were truly thinking.
He hoped one would arise before they were busily trying to put swords through him.
The three younglings were another matter. Lord Thaerun Blackryn, like Syal, was the pale shell of a more formidable sire. Young, hot-blooded, quick to boast, and cunning, he spent most of his hatred and energy trying to best and frustrate his rival, Lord Mindarl Naerh. Who did the same in return. Supercilious and swift-tongued, Naerh was a decade older than Blackryn—and every whit as ignorant of the world.
Belator, now, was a very different creature. As graspingly ambitious as Manshoon himself, and thus easily understood and used. With about as much safety as one “uses” a snake.
That left only Eldarr and his ilk; as old as Hael and Phandymm, but less keen of wit and far less self governed. They were the arrogant, red-faced ranting, patrician sophisticates every minstrel lampooned, the sort of nose-aloft old growlers that shopkeepers of the city thought all nobles were like. Which meant they could be ignored until it became necessary to crush them.
And Manshoon was growing adept at effortlessly crushing the Lord Murvyn Eldarrs of the world.
So it was with more than a little irritation—all signs of which were firmly kept off his face, for controlling his own face and voice were the first skills a far younger Manshoon had honed—that the First Lord of Zhentil Keep received an unexpected spell-sent message in his head.
F-first Lord?
The mind touch was wildly nervous and fearful. It was Joranthas, an aging Zhentarim too weak to be disloyal—and too weak to deal with much in the way of trouble. Which is what this missive would surely be about.
Lord Manshoon, I bring news. Joranthas was still frightened, but a little less frantic.
Yes? he thought back.
Ah, Lord, there’s trouble at Wyrmhaven. I just … fled from there.
No doubt. Continue.
Ambram Sarbuckho returned from his meeting while our forces were still fighting his household servants to get to his Darkway. His bodyguards and hireswords had crossbows, and their quarrels were tipped with poison. Things went badly for our side.
Thank you, Joranthus. Get to cover.
Manshoon spent his flare of rage in a mental slap that both thrust Joranthas out of his mind and dealt the old fool a headache that should leave him reeling for days. He was icily calm a moment later when he turned to beckon Sneel from where the man stood like a servant against the wall.
“Forgive me, Lord Amandon,” he said smoothly to his host, ignoring Lord Hael’s glower of suspicion, “but I’ve just remembered that the servants who usually pump my water are ill; I must send my retainer to give orders to others to do their work, or the cook will have a dry kitchen long before morning.”
“Of course,” Syal said heartily, even before Sneel bent his ear to Manshoon’s lips.
He kept his whispers short and simple. “Trouble at Wyrmhaven; Sarbuckho’s back, and his men have poisoned bolts. Get Cadathen to crush them utterly. No excuses. Report back soon.”
Sneel bowed low and hastened away, and Manshoon turned back to the table with an easy smile.
He wasn’t smiling inside. Cadathen had to be victorious, or the Zhentarim would lose far too many minor magelings at Wyrmhaven—if they weren’t dead already. More importantly, he dared not let Sarbuckho prevail, and become a clear example of successfully defying the Brotherhood. If the waylord won the night’s fray, his victory would hearten many others into their own rebellions against the Zhentarim, large and small.
He ached to be racing to Wyrmhaven himself, to hurl spells to smash and rend Sarbuckho and his every last blade and servant—and instead he was stuck at this table, wearing an empty smile, and taking great care to use no magic at all over eveningfeast. Well, almost no magic.
Lord Belomyr Hael was starting to smile. Bane take Mystra, but the old wolf could scent his discomfort!
Hael was old, graying and growling, a worldly conservative—and right beside him, grandly adorned elbow to grandly adorned elbow, Lord Goraund Phandymm was an even older worldly and pragmatic conservative.
They were both smiling now, almost as if they could read his mind.
Could they?
But no, he’d worked spells a hundred times to check on that. They were just good at reading the smallest signs—tightness of lip, the briefest flash of an eye—but toothless old wolves for all that.
Down the table, Lord Samrel Belator helped himself to a decanter that was almost empty. Now there was a contrast: young, handsome, athletic, an embracer of new ways and ideas … Manshoon’s real competition.
Well, such perils could be humbled—or killed—tomorrow.
Tonight, he needed an alibi rather more.
Manshoon put on his best innocent smile, reached for the nearest decanter, and devoted himself to making empty small talk.
Cadathen would take care of things.
Cadathen would have to.
Orders Upon Orders
The man came through the curtains very quietly, but the two battle captains spun around, swords flashing.
“Halt!” Galandror barked, drawing his dagger and hefting it for a throw. Narleth came around the Darkway to flank his fellow Zhentilar, barring the intruder’s path to the portal, and to Cadathen.
Then they recognized him and fell silent.
“I bring orders from the Lord Manshoon,” Lorkus Sneel said, with just a trace of weariness. “Hinder me and face his wrath.”
The battle captains lowered their swords a little.
“Cadathen,” Sneel said, “you are ordered to gather all of the Brotherhood’s forces you feel you need, proceed in haste to Wyrmhaven, the house of the Waylord Ambram Sarbuckho, and slay everyone there who resists you to take possession of the Darkway. Sarbuckho returned from Harlstrand House while our force was still fighting through the halls of Wyrmhaven, and his bodyguards used poisoned crossbow bolts. Our force is all dead or fled.”
“Take me there,” Cadathen replied promptly, “so you can tell the master what decisions I make, and how I fare.”
“How you begin, rather,” Sneel corrected him. “My orders are to report back to the master soonest.”
“Very well.” Cadathen fell into step beside him, calling back over his shoulder, “Battle captains, remain here and guard this Darkway!”
Even before they replied, he was through the curtain with Sneel, and hastening through the empty, echoing mansion, heading for Wyrmhaven.
Rally and Betrayal
The handful of blood-spattered, wounded Zhentilar crouching in the cold alleyway were in pain, and angry. They snarled out a stream of curses as they told Cadathen they had fled for their lives, or been driven out of Wyrmhaven, leaving many fellow members of the Brotherhood dead inside. Ambram Sarbuckho was victorious.
Cadathen put his arms around two of the least disabled, gathered them to him, and whispered, “And you know why Sarbuckho defeated you? He was warned of
your coming by the man who came here with me. Yes, Lorkus Sneel, the master’s messenger. He betrayed you. He betrayed us all.” He let go of them and strode off down the alley to find more Zhents.
Sneel strode after him—and Cadathen carefully didn’t look back as a brief commotion arose behind him, a thudding and snarling that ended in a wet spattering sound.
When he did turn around, the two Zhentilar were following him, their swords dripping in their hands … and the huddled heap that had been Sneel lay still in the midst of a spreading pool of dark blood, in their wake.
Justice, mistaken or otherwise, was at least prompt in Zhentil Keep.
Smiling tightly, Cadathen beckoned the two men to him, as he came upon another knot of wounded Zhents. “Would you like to avoid the Lord Manshoon’s wrath, and claim Sarbuckho’s head before morning?”
There was a general murmur of assent. “What if I take myself into the forehall ahead of you, take down Sarbuckho’s bowmen with my spells, then blast the doors open from inside to let you in? Will you be ready to charge into Wyrmhaven to finish the fray?”
“I’ll say!” one Zhentilar replied.
“We’re dead if we don’t,” an older one growled. “None of us can run and hide to where the First Lord can’t find us.”
That brought a general rumble of agreement, as more Zhents came trotting up to join the throng around Cadathen.
“Right, then,” the wizard told them excitedly. “Charge the doors, after I bring them down. Until then, keep back.”
He made two swift, complex gestures—and was abruptly gone, the space where he’d stood simply empty.
War in Wyrmhaven
Elminster crouched low, the moment he felt the stones of the balcony beneath his feet. Being Cadathen was a bit of a strain; thankfully, he’d soon be done playing ambitious young Zhentarim.
Right after he turned, keeping below the balcony sidewall so the Zhentilar below wouldn’t see him, he made the door that led into Wyrmhaven’s fourth floor quietly melt out of existence. Then he hurried across the dark, deserted room beyond. The cold night air followed him.