One

      A MURDEROUS MEETING OF MERCHANTS

It was a moonfleet night, the silvery Orb of Selune scudding amid racing
tatters of glowing cloud high above the proud spires of Waterdeep.
Wizards in their towers and grim guards on battlements alike stared up
and shivered, each thinking how small he was against the uncaring,
speeding fire of the gods.

Far fewer merchants bothered to lift their gazes above the coins and
goods, or softer temptations under their hands at that hour, for such is
the way of merchants. Hundreds were snoring, exhausted by the rigors of
the day, but many were still awake and embracing even if the hands of
most of them were wrapped only around swiftly emptying tankards.

There were no tankards, no embraces, and no soft temptations in a
certain shuttered upper room overlooking Jembril Street in Trades Ward.
Instead, it held a cold, bare minimum of furniture a table and six
high-backed chairs, and an even colder company of men.

Six merchants sat in those chairs on this chill night in the early
spring of the Year of Rogue Dragons, staring stonily at each other. The
glittering glances of five of them suggested that the health of the
sixth man, who sat alone at one end of the table, would not continue to
flourish for more than a few breaths longer had it not been for the
presence of the two impassive bodyguards who stood watchfully by his
chair, cocked and loaded hand-crossbows held ready and free hands
hovering near sword-hilts.

That sixth man said something, slowly and bitingly.

Outside, in the night, a shadow moved. An unseen witness to the
merchants' meeting leaned closer to the only gap in the shutters across
the windows of that upper room. Clinging head-downward to the carved
stone harpy roof-truss nearest to the shutter, the shadow sacrificed as
much balance as she dared, and strained to hear. Her slender arms were
already quivering in the struggle to keep herself from plunging to the
dark, cobbled street below.

"There are really no more excuses left to you, sirs," the man who sat
apart told the others, smirking. "I /will /have my coins this night, or
the deeds to your shops."

"But, " one of the men burst out, and then bit off whatever else he'd
been going to say and looked helplessly down at the bare table before
him, face dark with anger.

"So you'll ruin us, Caethur, " the next man man asked, his voice
trembling. "You'd rather turn us out onto the streets than bleed us for
another season,  When you could set your hook at a higher rate, grant us
more time, and keep us in debt forever, paying you all our days and
yielding you far more coin than our stones are worth, "

Secure in the strength of the two murderous bodyguards at his back,
Caethur leaned forward with a widening, and not very nice, smile on his
face and replied triumphantly, "Yes."

He leaned back in his chair, very much at his ease, steepled his hands,
and murmured over the resulting line of fingertips, "It will give me
great pleasure, Hammuras, to ruin you. And you too, Nael. And especially
you, Kamburan."

He moved his eyes in his motionless, smiling face to the other pair of
seated merchants and added with a sigh, "Yet it almost pains me to visit
the same fate upon you two gentlesirs. Why, I'd almost be inclined to
give you that extra season Hammuras speaks of, if, say, something
happened to still Kamburan's oversharp tongue forever. Why, "

One of that last pair of merchants slapped his hand down on the table.
Wo, Caethur. You'll not turn us to savaging each other whilst you gloat.
We'll sink or stand together."

The other merchant of the two nodded balefully.

Caethur gave them both a brittle smile, wiggling his ring-bedecked
fingers so the gem-studded gold bands adorning them flashed in the
lamplight like glasses of the new vintage Waterd-havian nobles had
dubbed "sparkling stars," and said airily, /"Well, /then, we've come to
that moment, sirs, when the wagging of tongues must give way to making
good, one way or another. Kamburan, why don't you begin, "

Reluctantly, the white-bearded merchant reached a hand into the breast
of his flame-silk overtunic and drew forth, slowly and carefully, as two
crossbows lifted warningly, a glossy-polished wooden coffer only a shade
larger than his palm. Wordlessly he flipped it open, displaying the
frozen fire of the line of gems within for all to see. Seven beljurils,
sea-green and shimmering, their flash-fires building.

Kamburan set the coffer gently on the table and slid it toward Caethur.

Halfway to the moneylender it stopped. Caethur lifted a finger, and one
of his guards stepped smoothly forward to close the coffer and slide it
the rest of the way down the table. The moneylender made no move to
touch it.

"We should have gone to Mirt," Hammuras muttered. Caethur gave the spice
dealer a shark-like grin. "Life is filled with 'should-haves,' isn't it,
Hammuras,  I should have chosen to deal with more astute and
harder-working tradesmen and never come to this regrettable salvaging of
scraps from the wrack of what should have been five flourishing businesses."

"None of that!" Nael snarled. "You know as well as the rest of us that
times have been hard! The beasts from the sea, a season's shipping
shattered, wars in Amn and Tethyr and the fall in trade with both those
lands. . . ."

Caethur spread his hands and lifted his eyebrows at the same time, to
ask mildly, "And did not every merchant of Waterdeep face these
troubles,  Yet, behold, they're not /all /here, sitting around this table.
Only you five." Turning his gaze to Hammuras, he held out a beckoning hand.

Grimly, the spice merchant produced a small coffer of his own, displayed
the rubies it held, and slid it along the table.

It stopped within reach of the moneylender, but Caethur made no move to
take it up. Instead, he turned his expectant gaze to Nael. Who sat as
still as stone and as pale as snow-marble. "Well, " Caethur asked softly,
into a silence that was suddenly very deep and yet as singingly tight as
a drawn bowstring.

Nael swallowed, lifted his chin, swallowed again, then said, "I've
brought neither gems nor my deed here with me, but, "

Without waiting for a signal, one of the crossbowmen fired, and Aldurl
Nael's left eye was suddenly a bloody profusion of sprouting wood and
flight-feathers. The brass-merchant reeled in his seat, head flopping
back and mouth gaping, and did not move again. Crimson rivulets of blood
spilled from his mouth, seeking the floor.

", but how unfortunate," Caethur said mildly, finishing Nael's sentence
for him. "For Nael, and for all of you. After all, we can't have any
witnesses to such wanton butchery, can we, "

The other guard calmly fired his crossbow, and Hammuras died.

As the three surviving merchants shouted and surged desperately to their
feet, both guards tossed their spent crossbows aside and plucked
cushions off a shelf affixed to the back of Caethur's chair. Four more
hand-crossbows gleamed in the lamplight, loaded and ready. Coolly the
guards snatched them up, and used them.

Kamburan groaned for a surprising long time, but the rest of the room
was still in but a breath or two.

"The bolts my men use, by the way," the moneylender told the corpses
conversationally, "are tipped with brain-burn, to keep prying Watchful
Order mages from learning anything of our meeting, and how you happened
to so carelessly end up wearing war-darts in your faces. After all, we
wouldn't want to start one more irresponsible city fashion, would we, "

Caethur rose from his chair, nodded to his two guards, and waved a hand
at the gem-coffers on the table. "When you're done stripping the bodies
of /all /deeds and coins and suchlike, bring those."

As he strode to the door and slipped out, he took something from a
belt-pouch. It looked like a beast's claw: a grip-bar studded with a row
of little daggers. When Caethur closed his hand around the bar, the
blades protruded from between his fingers like a row of sheathed talons.
With his other hand, the moneylender drew a belt dagger and used it to
cautiously flick away the sheaths that covered every blade of the claw.
Something dark and wet glistened on each razor-sharp point.

Thrusting the dagger through a belt-loop and putting the ven-omed claw
behind his back, Caethur waited, humming a jaunty tune softly under his
breath.

When his two laden bodyguards came to the door, he gave them a frown as
he blocked their way and pointed back into the room.

"You've missed something," he said sharply.

His bodyguards gave him astonished and displeased looks but whirled to
look at the dead merchants; the moneylender was not a master to be crossed.

The moment they turned Caethur took a swift step, slashed them both
across the backs of their necks with his claw, and sprang away to avoid
the thrashing spasms he knew would follow.

The guards were young and strong. After they stiffened with identical
grunts of astonished agony, they managed to whirl toward their master,
glaring, and claw at the air wildly for some seconds ere the venom
stilled their limbs, and sent them toppling into the long dark chill of
oblivion.

Caethur applied another knife, this one slaked liberally with
brain-burn, to both of the men he'd just slain, and calmly set about
collecting everything of value in the room full of corpses. After all,
brain-burn was expensive . . . and after word got around of this night's
deaths, the hiring-price of guards agreeing to work for him was bound to
go up sharply.

Still, the cost of just one man informing the Lords of Waterdeep of his
deeds would be much higher. Kamburan's cloak, still draped over the back
of his chair, was unstained, and when bundled around Caethur's takings,
served well as a carry-sack. He drew his own cloak around him with not a
hair out of place nor any change in his easy half-smile at all.

It wasn't the first time Caethur the moneylender had walked away alone
from a room full of dead men. Such things were, after all, a regrettable
but all-too-often inevitable feature of his profession.

Outside, the shadow moved, swinging up and away from the shutter,
seeking the edge of the roof. A booted foot slipped, a curse blazed
sudden and bright in a mind that kept its dangling body coldly
silent, and with a sudden surge of effort, the shadow gained the roof and
scrambled away.

* * * * *

As soon as he entered the portal, he felt it: a disturbance in the flow
of the Weave, straight ahead. Someone or something was casting a spell
on his intended destination or had laid a trap of enchantment on it
already. Only those like himself, highly attuned to the Weave, could
feel it, and move to avoid whatever danger was waiting.

Chuckling soundlessly, the archmage stepped aside, moving through the
drifting blue nothingness to emerge elsewhere, from a portal linked to
neither the one he'd entered nor the imperiled one it reached.

* * * * *

Narnra crouched in the lee of a large but crumbling chimney, wincing at
the burning ache in her shoulder. She'd torn something inside, it
seemed. Something small, thank the gods.

Ah, yes, the watching, all-seeing gods. She glanced up, and thought
another silent curse upon the enthusiastically devout idiots who
enspelled the Plinth to glow so brightly by night. Thieves don't welcome
beacons that illuminate their working world well.

And a thief was what Narnra Shalace was. That had been her profession
since her mother's mysterious death and the rush of neighbors, clients,
and Waterdhavians she'd never laid eyes on before to snatch all they
could of what had belonged to her mother. Only frantic flight had kept a
frightened and furious Narnra from being taken herself, doubtless to be
sold as a slave by whichever noble had set his men to chasing her.

Everyone knew there were laws in Waterdeep that touched nobles and many
more that, somehow, did not. Moreover, noble and rich merchant families
had ships and wagons in plenty and outlying lands beyond Waterdeep's
laws to travel to, where anything or anyone could be taken.

Leaving a suddenly coinless, bereft Narnra Shalace hunted through the
alleys and rooftops. So she'd become what she was being treated as, one
more thief scratching to survive in a city that was not kind to thieves.

So here she was, aching and scheming on a decaying rooftop in Trades
Ward. A lonely young lass, fairly nimble in her leaps and tumblings but
not particularly beautiful, with her slender, long-limbed build, her
hacked-off dark hair, black-fire eyes, and beak of a nose. "The Silken
Shadow," she billed herself, but still she saw men smirk when she
uttered that title in the dingy, nameless taverns near the docks where
odd stolen items could be sold for a few coppers, and no questions.

The winter had been hard. If it hadn't been for chimneys like this one,
the cold would have taken her before the first snows, and one had to
fight for the warmest rooftop spots in Waterdeep.

As it was, Narnra spent much time hungry these days. Hungry and angry.
Fear was with her at every waking moment, keeping her glancing behind
her and knowing it was largely in vain. She could not help but be
uncomfortably aware of how skilled other thieves in this city were ...
to say nothing of the Watch and the Watchful Order and the Masked Lords
alone knew how many powerful wizards. She was a match for none of them
and not even a laughable challenge to most.

To come to their notice, save as a passing amusement, would be to die.

So here she crouched, desperate for coins to buy food for her belly and
all too apt, these days, to fall into rages.

Rage is something a thief who expects to live to see the dawn can ill
afford.

She sighed soundlessly. Oh, she was lithe and acrobatic enough to prowl
the rooftops, but not comely enough to seek the warm and easier
coin, hers if she could dance unclad inside festhalls. No, she was just
one more lonely outlander scrambling to make a dishonest living on the
streets of Waterdeep. Scrambling because she lacked the weapons of a
noble name or a shop of her own to make forging a dishonest living
comparatively easy.

Scowling, Narnra drew forth the purse she'd snatched earlier in that
street fight in Dock Ward. A gang of thieves, that must have been, to
set upon two merchants that way, and she'd raced in and plucked their
prize, so they'd be looking for her. . . .

All for three gold coins, mismatched, from as many cities, but all heavy
and true metal, six silvers, four coppers, and a claim-token to a lockbox
somewhere in Faerun that she knew not. Well, they would have to serve her.

From inside the top of her boot she drew a larger yet lighter purse,
drew open its throat-thong with two fingers, checked that the cloak was
laid beside her in just the right position, and shifted herself a
fingerlength closer to the edge of the roof, ducking low.

So far as she could tell, the moneylender had no more guards left. He
was wearing some sort of daggerclaw, shielded from idle eyes by a cloak
he was carrying draped over that arm, but he moved like a man wary and
alone. He'd hastened through Lathin's Cut to reach the High Road, and
there waited in the first deep doorway for a Watch patrol to pass, and
fallen in close behind it. He looked like any respectable merchant
caught in the wrong part of the city late at night and trying to wend
his way safely home.

If he was going to avoid the scrutiny of the standing Watchpost ahead,
where the great roads met, he would have to turn aside just below her,
in only a few paces more. His gaze flicked upward, and Narnra held her
breath and kept very still, hoping she looked like a rooftop gargoyle.
Caethur strode on, slowing and stepping wide so as to look around the
corner, then drawing in toward it, to duck around close to the wall.

Delicately, the Silken Shadow spilled her paltry handful coins down from
above, to flash before his nose and bounce and roll. The moneylender
froze rather than darting into a wild run back and away, peered at a
rolling gold coin, and, looked up.

To meet the handful of sand from her larger purse, followed by a shadow
that leaped down at him with spread hands clutching the cloak in front
of her like a streaming shield.

Caethur the moneylender had time to gape but no breath for a shout ere
she slammed into him, smashing him to the street. She felt something in
him break and crumple as she rode him mercilessly, their bodies bouncing
on the cobbles together. By then she had the cloak tight around his
head, one knee atop the arm that bore the claw, and a hand free to
backhand him across the throat, as hard as she could.

That quelled the dazed beginnings of his groans and left him sprawled
and limp. Narnra cut his well-worn belt with a slash from her best
knife, snatched away the belt-satchel, heavy with deeds, coins, and
coffers, and was up and gone, leaving her sacrificed coins and stolen
cloak behind.

Yet swift as she was, she was not quite swift enough. There was a shout
from up the street and the flash and flicker of Watch torches turning.

Grimly the Silken Shadow sprinted for her life, seeking the shop just
ahead that had an outside staircase.

You'd think I'd be somewhere grander than this, she thought savagely for
perhaps the ten thousand and forty-sixth time, if my father truly was a
great wizard and my mother a dragon. Where's my high station, my wealth,
and my power,  Why can't I hurl spells or turn into a dragon, 

* * * * *

The old cook whirled around. /"Hah! /Caught ye! Boy, d'ye still want to
have yer hire here, come dawn, "

The greasy kitchen lad froze, a basket of discarded cuttings and rotten
leavings clutched to his stained apron, and gave Phaerorn a look of
utter astonishment. "Hey, "

The cook stumped forward on his wooden leg, hefting his well-used
cleaver in one stubby-fingered, hairy hand, and asked softly, "And now
ye give me 'hey,' do ye,  Fond of your nose, are ye, "

The rising cleaver gleamed menacingly, and Naviskurr realized the depths
of his error. "Ah, /no, /Master Phaerorn, sir, ah, that is, yes, I am,
but I meant no harm, truly, and, and, "

As the old cook advanced, the boy's voice rose in a terrified squeak as
that shining steel rose coldly to touch his nose, ", and before all the
gods I swear I know not what I've done to offend what'd I do wrong sorry
sorry /what /lord, "

"Huh," Phaerorn said in disgust. "This is the spine they send me, these
days. /This /is the eloquence of the young who'll shine so bright an'
save us all."

He turned away, then spun so swiftly and smoothly that Naviskurr
shrieked, pointed with his cleaver at the three baskets the lad had
already set down, and growled, "How many times have I told ye /nothing
/is to be set against that door, lad,  Nothing!"

Naviskurr looked, blinked, set down the fourth basket where he stood,
and hastily went to shift the three offending ones, grumbling, "Sorry,
Master Phaerorn, sir ... but 'tis no more than an old door. We never
open it, never use it. . ."

He dragged the baskets aside and straightened with a grunt to regard the
nail-studded old door here in the dingiest corner of the Rain Bird
Rooming House kitchens. Peeling blue paint on rough, wide planks,
adorned with an admittedly impressive relief carving: a long, flowing
face of a beak-nosed, bearded man that Naviskurr had privately dubbed
"The Stunned Old Wizard."

Naviskurr scowled at its perpetual sly smile. "So why must we keep
everything clear of it, anyway, "

The carving flickered, glowing with a light that had never been there
before, and even before the scullery knave could stagger back or cry the
fear kindling in him, the face seemed to thrust forward, /out /of the door!

It was attached, Naviskurr saw as he gulped and scrambled away, waving
vainly at Master Phaerorn, to a swift-striding man,  a hawk-nosed,
bearded, long-haired old man in none-too-clean robes. The /man flowed
/out of the closed door, leaving it carving-adorned and unchanged in his
wake.

Merry blue-gray eyes darted a glance at the gaping kitchen lad from
under dark brows and gave him a wink ere turning to favor old Phaerorn
with a nod, a wave, and the words, "Thy son's working out just fine in
Suzail, Forn, and looking likely to be wedded by full spring, if he's
not careful!"

The old cook's jaw dropped, his eyes widened with delight,  and the
briskly walking visitor was gone, a curved pipe floating along in his
wake like some sort of patient snake.

"Wha, wha, who . . ." Naviskurr gabbled.

Master Phaerorn folded his arms across his chest, gave his scullery
knave a wide grin, and said triumphantly, /"That's /why we keep that
door clear, lad. Yer Mystra-loving, world-blasting archmages don't look
kindly to stepping knee-deep in kitchen slops, look ye!"

"Uh . . ." Naviskurr blinked, swallowed, and asked weakly, "Mystra, 
Archmage,  Who /was /he, "

"Just an old friend of mine," Phaerorn said briskly, turning back to his
sizzling spits. "No one ye'd know. His name's Elminster."

With a chuckle he turned the roasts, waiting for the storm of questions
to come.

Instead, to his ears came a soft, rather wet thump. After stirring
thickening gravy and licking the steaming wooden spoon consideringly,
Phaerorn turned to see just how the lazy lad had made such a sound, and
discovered Naviskurr sprawled across all four baskets of slops. His
least promising scullion yet was staring sightlessly at the
skillet-bedecked rafters. He'd fainted.

Phaerorn sighed and flicked his spoon at the lad. Perhaps a few drops of
hot gravy would revive him. Or perhaps not. Ah, the mighty valor of the
young. . . .

* * * * *

Her mother's apprentices had been lying to her, of course. They must
have been. Yet they'd been angry and taunting her, not watching their
words . . . and they'd acted later as if they shouldn't have told her
what they had. One had tried to make her think they'd been drunk and
uttered nonsense, but the others had tried to use drink on her to find
out exactly what they'd said and she'd remembered.

Crouching on a rotten and unsuitable rooftop that would send tiles
clattering down right in front of the Watch if she dared to move, Narnra
thought up some furious curses at the scudding moon.

She'd been over these memories more times than she could count and
knew, /knew/, that Goraun and the other apprentice gemcutters had been
telling the truth, or thought they were. It had taken her a year of
careful probing to make sure they literally meant Maerjanthra Shalace
the sorceress, better known to all Wa-terdeep as Lady Maerjanthra of the
Gems, jeweler to the nobility, was a dragon with scales and wings and
not merely the sort of "dragon" that meant a bad-tempered, powerful
woman who was to be feared.

//

/Which /powerful wizard,  They'd never told her that.

"Three gold," came a voice from below as another Watch officer joined
the others peering about the alley. The two who were halfway up the
stair that led to Narnra turned at something in his voice and asked
gruffly, "So, "

"Well, so he was lured, right enough. But our victim's Caethur the
moneylender."

There was a general growl of disgust. "Pity the thief didn't slay him,"
one of the others said. "Or did he, "

"Oh, he'll live, though it might be long years, if ever, before he has
much of a voice again. But unless Clutchcoins knows who did him, and will
tell us, I think Waterdeep's best served if we, "

"Exactly," an older, deeper voice agreed. "I'm sure there's something
that needs our urgent attention going on over River Gate way, about now.
Help Caethur to the Watchpost, and see if he feels like making us all
wiser. I'll be deeply unsurprised if he does not."

* * * * *

The bearded old man ignored the grand entry stair and its flanking stone
pillars, striding instead up a flight of steps set into the mossy side
of a rock garden that rose to the right of the sprawling stone
magnificence of Mirt's Mansion. Through a bower of dappled moonlight he
moved unchallenged to a small stone arch bridge that joined the rising
shoulder of Mount Waterdeep that held the moneylender's gardens to an
upper balcony of Mirt's fortified house.

Halfway across that span the air seemed to sparkle, and he was suddenly
facing a silent woman in a clinging, flowing gown . . . a gown of pale
moonglow, to match the tatters streaming across the sky overhead.

Elminster smiled and bowed his head in greeting. "Fair even, Ieiridauna.
Are Mirt and Asper at home, "

Smiling silently, the watchghost nodded and stretched one long and
shapely arm back to point at the door behind her. Then she drifted
forward tentatively to touch the Old Mage's cheek with her other hand.
Elminster took a slow step to meet her.

The soft brush of her fingertips chilled him deeply as it stole a little
life-force, but Elminster turned his head to kiss those icy fingers,
then clasped Ieiridauna gently against him.

Her breath was like a icy thread of glacier-wind, and her shoulders and
breast seem to grow more solid the longer he embraced her, but suddenly
his encircling arm was empty, and the watch-ghost was past him,
weepingly softly and saying into his ear, "Too kind, great lord, too
kind! You must not give me too much."

Elminster turned and said softly, "Lady, 'tis my hope that you abide in
Faerun for at least an age to come, to bear witness and whisper
wisdom, and the life is mine to give."

The watchghost shook her head and knelt to him, her head and shoulders
silvery-solid but the rest of her mere shiftings in the night air. "You
do me too much honor, Lord Chosen."

Elminster chuckled. "Ah, yell have me blushing yet, lass!" He struck a
mock-heroic pose, pulled a face at her, then winked, waved, and went to
the door. Ieiridauna's gentle sobs followed him.

The plain dark door opened before his hand could touch it, and a
bristle-moustached face peered out of deeper darkness at him. "Seducing
my watchghost again, El,  Is there no end to your lecherousness, "

Elminster spread serene hands. " Twould seem not, Lord Walrus. Nor my
meddlesome curiosity, when it comes to the affairs of others, such as the
overly rich of Waterdeep."

Mirt grunted and beckoned him inside. "This had /better /be good, ye
interrupted us in the midst of Asper dancing."

"Ah!" Elminster said quickly, as they stepped between two motionless
helmed horrors, into a lamplit bedchamber dominated by a massive
many-pillared bed. "Pray continue!"

Mirt's lady love unfolded herself from a seemingly impossible pose.
She'd been balanced on her shoulders on the bed, head looking back down
its length as her legs arched over her to clutch a gem between her toes
and dangle it in front of her own nose. She tucked her legs back in one
graceful movement, tossing the gem upward in a sparkling of reflected
glows, caught it deftly, and said firmly, "Later. I'll hear fewer lewd
comments this way. What befalls, "

"Yell pull something, doing that," the Old Mage commented, watching
Asper flip herself forward and to one side in a deft, sinuous movement
to end up reclining along the edge of the bed facing him.

She twinkled a fond smile at him. "Indeed: the undivided attention of a
moneylender and a Chosen of Mystra. Drink some of yon wine and speak."

Elminster raised his eyebrows, held out his hand, and a decanter lifted
itself from a forest of its fellows atop a tall, ornately carved
greatchest and drifted into his grasp.

"No wonder mages are such drunkards," Mirt muttered. "Why, if I could do
that . . ."

"You'd never have to get out of bed at all," Asper murmured sweetly. "El, "

"I come from Cormyr," the Old Mage replied, uncorking and sniffing
appraisingly at the mouth of the bottle. "Where coins in profusion
enough that they'd best be described as 'huge heaps of wealth' are being
spent on a secretive campaign to overthrow the Obarskyrs and put a new
king on Cormyr's throne."

"So what else is new, " Mirt grunted. "Our so-called nobles spend in like
manner here, seeking to learn who each hidden Lord is, so they can have
us murdered and bribe those who're left to choose them to step into our
shoes. They never seem to reflect that they'll be setting themselves up
to be murdered in turn, but then nobles are rarely swift-witted enough
to get dressed without help." He held out his hand. "Are ye going to
drink that or just pose with it, "

Elminster swigged, sighed appreciatively, said, "Nice fire, that!" and
handed the old moneylender the bottle. "Well," he continued, strolling
to the bed to pluck up the palm-sized gem from Asper's fingers and idly
stroke one of her long, slender legs with it, "These coins are coming
from deep pockets somewhere here in Waterdeep. Whose, I know not, nor
even to whom precisely they roll when they reach the Forest Kingdom, but
I abide in hope that ye . . ."

Asper smiled. "Will find out for you, lord,  Of course."

Mirt grunted agreement and passed the bottle back to Elminster.

It was almost empty, of course.

* * * * *

Tirelessly, the tattered clouds chased each other across the sky, so
many silver wraiths fleeing a deeper darkness. From the battlements and
windows and guardposts atop Mount Waterdeep, watching men shivered and
looked away. Breath curling like gusting frost in the chill night air,
each reflected some melancholy variation on the thought that there'd be
nights like this long after he was dead, just as there had been nights
like this long before his birthing.

Unwarmed by such cheery thinking, each man clutched his cloak or
nightrobe tighter around himself, shook his head, and tried to call to
mind more pleasant things.

* * * * *

Elminster lifted his head to regard the rushing, ragged clouds. So many
flames of silver in the moonlight in a silent, raging hurry to be elsewhere.

"On a moonfleet night like this," he murmured, "anything can happen, and
all too often does."

He ducked through a narrow, noisome arch into the dung- and
refuse-choked run of an alley.

A dead-end alley. The shadow overhead frowned at that and stole forward
over a shallow roof-peak like creeping smoke.

Those cursed merchants had come light-coined to their fateful meeting,
all of them. Oh, the satchel she'd cached where none but her would ever
find it was full of bright gems and deeds that made her the owner of
three buildings, in Castle Ward, yet!, but her lure-coins were gone, and
she'd only three coppers left between her and starvation. And now this
muttering old man comes blundering along right under her best
hiding-place . . .

He didn't look the sort to carry much coin, but then, she didn't need
much. A handful of gold to replace what she'd lost, but a handful /now./

Across soft moss on old silver-worn wood shingles, Narnra crept to the
ruins of an old bell-spire that perched above the midpoint of the alley,
just as the old man passed below. . . .

She had neither coins nor cloak, but he didn't look like much. Only
fools and drunkards walked weaponless by night in these alleys. Another
handful of sand, a good kick when she came down on him, then away while
he was still groaning.

Across the next rooftop she went, almost to the end of the alley now. In
a moment he'd see there was no way out and curse and turn. Narnra dug
out a handful of sand, checked the blackened blade in the sheath at her
wrist, leaned over the edge of the roof, and gasped, "Oh, /yes!/"

That voice should make any man look up, and did. Her handful of sand
followed it, at just the right moment. There was a hasty scrabbling from
below, gods, he was away to the blind back wall like the wind!, and Narnra
leaped.

He was too fast, despite slipping on slimy debris underfoot, and she
landed catlike on stinking broken things, missing him entirely. He must
have had his eyes shut when she threw the sand for they were gleaming
calmly enough in her direction now!

With a soft, wordless snarl Narnra drew her knife and came at him in a
rush, bounding and springing from side to side as she came, hoping he'd
slip in the trash. He was still barehanded, and chuckling now, low and
deep, like a delighted madman.

Furiously, the Silken Shadow slashed at the old man with her steel fang,
crosswise as she dodged, so that he couldn't grapple her or surprise her
with some stab of his own. She wasn't afraid of any lunge at her, in all
this heaped and tangled refuse, he'd go flat on his face!, but surely
there was more to this old fool than mere witless wandering, and . . .

He stalked toward her, for all the world as if she was the cornered prey
and he the hunting cat, and in a sudden flowering of fear Narnra thrust
her blade deep into him, pulling it up hard to gut him open.

It was like stabbing smoke. He was there to her knuckles but /not /there
to the steel of her blade.

With the soft beginnings of a curse Narnra sprang back from one
long-fingered reaching hand and sprinted away, slipping and stumbling in
the rotting refuse. Blue eyes blazed eagerly at her from beneath dark
brows, a nose to outthrust her own, and a white beard. Yet for all his
years, he was taller, leaner, and a /lot /faster than he'd looked,
and, the air before her started to glow.

Oh, Watching Gods, a /wizard!/

Narnra ducked and spun aside, hoping to avoid whatever the magic was,
and ran in earnest now, just trying to get out of the alley. This had
all been a mista, 

Something dark and tentacled rose out of the refuse and shadows along
the wall ahead of her, reaching forth to bar her path and to gather her
in. Something with many fell, glistening eyes, that slid greasily about
in a loosely slumping, slimy body as it hissed and burbled and came for her.

A fancy for her eyes spun by the wizard's spell, it must be! No
slithering tentacled thing had been in the narrow alley when the old man
had walked along it, she, 

A cold, wet tentacle slapped around Narnra's wrist.

She screamed involuntarily and slashed at it furiously, tugging and
turning away as she did so, to keep another four or six tentacles from
reaching her. Dark stickiness spurted as she sobbed and hacked, sawing
and pulling desperately this way and that . . .

then something gave way, and she was free, crashing and rolling through
dung, filthy water, and slimy rotting things.

The old man's voice was as deep as his chuckle. "Behold, a thief steals
her greatest treasure: her life."

Furiously, Narnra found her feet and spun around, panting. The monster
was gone as if it had never been, but the alleyway seemed changed. The
way out was nowhere to be seen, and it now seemed a round pit of old
crumbling walls and garbage, eerie in the soft moonlight streaked by the
racing silver clouds overhead.

The old man was standing near one stretch of wall, his hands still
empty. "Go home, lass. Leave stealing things to fools, and find another
life. I tried your way and had my fun, but . . . there are better ways.
Go home."

"I have no home," Narnra spat at him. "They stole it, merchants of
Waterdeep. They stole it all."

He took one slow step forward, and she brought her knife up to menace
him in one trembling hand.

"You tell me to go," she snarled fearfully, "and yet hide the way from
me! What jest is this, wizard, "

The old man frowned. "Ah, that spell does take some that way. Stand still."

He lifted a hand, muttered something, and pointed at her. Desperately
Narnra tried to duck away, but there was nowhere to hide, nowhere to
run. . . .

The air glowed a different hue, and a tingling sensation spilled over
her. She glared at him helplessly, feeling weak and empty with terror,
and . . .

The feeling passed, but the alley still seemed a walled-in cage. The
wizard made a sudden, curt sound of surprise and strode toward her.
Narnra scrambled back, slamming against a rough stone wall almost
immediately. "Keep away from me!" she cried. "I'll, I'll scream for the
Watch!"

She knew what a ridiculous threat that was even as she uttered it, but
he neither sneered nor laughed. Instead, he said quietly, "Lady of the
night, turn your knife-hand over, so I may see your knuckles."

Narnra glared at him, then, curious, did so. Her tumble in the refuse
had scratched the back of her hand, and she was bleeding freely. She
reached her hand toward her mouth to suck the blood away, but the wizard
snapped, /"Be still!/"

His voice was like thunder, the air around her suddenly afire. Magic
again, freezing her limbs utterly! She, he was going to, she couldn't, 

Her eyes could yet move, and she could still breathe. Something was
burning close before her, a flame rising where there'd been none. The
blood on her hand was blazing with cold, silent fire.

Narnra stared at it helplessly. It burned nothing but yet burned. She
could see her dirt-smeared hand and her glistening blood through that
flame, and there was no pain.

The wizard stood before her now, staring at the same thing she was.
Slowly, under their shared scrutiny, the flickering flame faded away.

Helplessly Narnra lifted her gaze to his. He was smiling. "Well," he
said, in a rich, whimsical voice. "Well, well."

She stared at him, spell-frozen, unable to speak. The mage shook a small
purse out of his sleeve, it looked like a palm-sized pea-pod but was made
of some sort of dark and scaly hide and hung at the end of its own
intricate lace-link chain, thrust it open with his thumb, and spilled
seven gold coins into his palm. As deftly as any tavern juggler he
flicked them into a neat stack and placed it delicately atop her
bleeding hand.

"Fare ye well, lady," he said gently, gave her a kindly smile, and
turned away, and walked through the wall.

Narnra Shalace stared at where he'd vanished, blinking unbelievingly at
the solid, unbroken stones. All she could hear was her own racing
breath, all she could feel was the cold weight of coins, the faintly
tickling trickle of blood beneath them, and the solid feel of her own
knife, still in her hand.

It had all been so sudden, so unbelievable, so ...

That flame, whatever it had been, had surprised him. It had come from
his spell but from her, too. He'd given her coins instead of death.
Coins, as if she were a beggar or a pleasure-lass ... or a successful
thief. A stack of more gold than she could have dared hope to gain from
one old man. And in a wink of an eye he was,  gone, right through that
wall, and she was . . .

She was able to move again, a little, and the walls of the alley seemed
to /move, /around her, straightening and shifting.

Desperately, Narnra stared at where the wizard had vanished through the
wall, marking just which heap of refuse was at that spot. She could move
her other hand now, as slowly as a feather falling on a windless day.
She reached up, took the coins, and was almost surprised to find them
every bit as solid and heavy as they'd seemed. She put them into a
pouch, her movements still slow but quickening with every breath, and
saw that the alley around was once more long and narrow, coming to a
blind end here and curving slightly as it stretched back out to the
street there.

She went to the place where the wizard had vanished and cautiously
extended her knife at the wall. It plunged into the stone as if through
empty air. Wonderingly she leaned forward, her arm following it.

This could be the worst sort of death if the stone closed around her.
Suspicious, insulted, who /was /this old wizard to lecture her and pity
her and give her a beggar-offering of coins, , and yet, yes, fascinated,
Narnra Shalace stepped forward into darkness.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Two

      A FINE NIGHT FOR REVELRY

//

/Those who hope to survive adventures are advised to pick their own
forays, rather than striding blindly into someone else's schemes, and
another someone's trouble. For trouble thus found has an almost
inevitable way of being freely shared./

/
/

Seldreene Ammath of Suzail

/

Married to a Merchant

/

Year of the Serpent

It was dark, and smelled of damp stone, old earth, and the faint reek of
garbage receding behind her. The Silken Shadow went forward cautiously,
keeping low, as careful of her balance in this unseen footing as if
she'd been on a crumbling roof.

There was a singing in the air in front of her, a singing that built
swiftly into a shrieking as she advanced, a tumult she somehow knew she
heard more than the world around her would. A sickening, shuddering
feeling was growing inside her, too. It faltered when she drew back but
surged anew when she stepped forward again.

Narnra kept the knife ready in her hand, wondering what sort of fool she
was being, and peered ahead, seeking any glimmer of light.

Obligingly, radiance suddenly flowered before her, quite close,
blossoming as swiftly as the flaring of any new-lit torch. It was a
deep, rich blue light, a glow of magic mightier than anything she'd ever
seen before. As she watched, it raced along in straight paths, outlining
an archway where the white-bearded wizard stood.

Narnra promptly went to fingertips and knees on the stones then slid
forward onto her belly as quietly as she could, and was barely down and
motionless when the mage turned and peered in her direction.

Nodding as if satisfied, had he seen her or not, , he turned and stepped
through the glowing arch, and the singing and shuddering within her
ceased, as sharply as if severed by an axe-blow.

Narnra lifted her head, listening intently, but all was dark and silent
except for the archway. As she stared at it, the radiance pulsed,
flickered, and started to fade.

In a trice she was on her feet and running to it, swerving aside at the
last moment to keep out of sight of anyone looking out of the arch. Its
center was dark, and the Silken Shadow crawled the last few feet like a
lizard in a purposeful hurry and peered around its edge, chin almost
brushing the floor, to find herself looking at more dark nothingness.

The light was definitely dimmer than before. Narnra bit her lip then
rose and stepped forward through the archway. If the wizard had a hidden
lair right under Trades Ward, she had to know about it. All about it.

Another step into silent darkness, then another. At her third stride,
the darkness vanished, and she was standing in more deep blue radiance,
blueness swirling like mist on all sides and falling endlessly past.
Narnra fell with it, yet stood upright and unmoving on an unseen floor,
pausing uncertainly. Whirling around, she could see no hint of whence
she'd come, only a blue void that. . . that. . .

She was suddenly drenched with sweat, more afraid than she'd ever been
in her life. Where was she,  Which way was forward,  With great care she
pivoted back until she was facing, she hoped, in exactly the direction
she'd been facing while advancing . . . and went on.

Two steps later, darkness returned, and the damp. Yet the smell was
different, somehow. The tang of the sea was strong, but there was also
old rotting, like a swamp, a smell her nose had known in Waterdeep only
when the harbor was being dragged. She stood in another narrow stone
passage, and there were distant echoes ahead. Someone, no, a lot of
someones,  were talking. Chattering and laughing, like a merchants'
revel. She was somewhere large, with unseen stone chambers opening out
from her passage.

Under the City of the Dead,  Deep beneath the drovers' streets nigh the
River Gate,  Or, somewhere else entirely, far from Waterdeep, 

Another step brought her into blue light once more, a faint, fading glow.
Narnra spun around and beheld an archway like the one she'd stepped
through to get here. She stepped back into it, walked freely for a few
strides then shrugged, turned around, and went back to the arch.

This time its glow was almost gone. She peered at the radiance narrowly
and positioned herself exactly in the center of the arch. When the glow
failed utterly, Narnra stepped forward, slamming her knee hard into what
was now a solid stone wall.

She was trapped here, wherever here was, and suddenly enraged at herself
for being so easily lured. She slapped the unseen wall in front of her,
beat her fist on it with a snarl, drew a deep, tremulous breath, and
spun again. She had no choice now but to go on.

Towards the revelry. In the wake of the wizard who'd so casually
defeated her.

He knew how to make this magic of archways work, so she'd either have to
find her own way out or find him and . . . and what,  Beg, 

Growling soundlessly, Narnra hefted her knife in her hand and prowled
forward. Old, worn stone blocks were under her soft boots, sea-breezes
ghosted around her ankles, and the first glimmers of light could be seen
ahead.

This was looking less and less like Waterdeep.

Oh Mask and Tymora, aid me now.

* * * * *

Elminster cast three illusory disguises, one atop the next, saving his
shapechange in case it became necessary to fly or swim out of this
gathering in haste. The company he'd be keeping in a moment would be
neither savory nor safe.

He was taller, now, in his outermost seeming, and scarred, with the
jet-black hair of the older branch of the Cormaerils. He selected a tiny
token from a belt-pouch, murmured a word over it, and was suddenly
holding a scabbarded sword in his hands. A needle-slender blade of the
sort favored by many at court in Suzail, mirror-bright, its ornately
swept and curved basket hilt studded with small, glossy-smooth sapphires
like so many ever-curious eyes.

Strapping it on, he strode across a dark, pillared hall, where rotten
barrels moldered and rats scurried in the dimness, and up an old, worn
flight of steps. The Marsemban harbor-stink grew stronger with the faint
light ahead. Quite suddenly, he was in a better-lit yet still
gloom-shadowed room where grim guards stood watching a throng of
laughing, drinking, loudly talking people, who were sporting under
lamplight in a much larger chamber beyond.

Elminster sighed inwardly. Revelry was the same everywhere, and he'd
managed to enjoy it for the first thousand years or so ... but no more.
Too much noise, too much pretence and sneering and nasty rumors, and too
many wonderstruck lovely young things, all hope and excitement and
bright laughter, who lived now only in his memory, gone in their
countless legions to graves. He'd even helped to put a few of them there.

Yet he strode on, not hesitating for a moment. Meddling and stepping
into distasteful danger was, after all, what Elminsters did.

Threading his way through the guards with the purposeful stride of a man
who has every right to be present and considers himself greater in rank
than all others, he advanced, and was two long strides from the archway
that opened into noise and full lamplight when the challenge came.

Blades suddenly slid out to bar his path and rise up behind him. "Down
steel," he ordered curtly.

The swords menacing him moved not a fingerwidth.

"And who are you," an unpleasant voice hissed from the other end of one
of them, "to be giving us orders,  Or coming up from cellars we searched
/very /thoroughly, "

The tall, scarred man with the jet-black hair and the grand rapier at
his hip turned his head coldly. "My name is Cormaeril, my lineage noble,
and my patience limited. Who /are you /to be stopping me, "

"You're older than the other Cormaerils," a different voice observed
coldly from behind another sword.

"Easy, now! They said they hoped some of the older branches would make
an appearance," a third voice said hastily. "Some Cormaerils were out of
the realm long before the order of exile, with no chance to make claims
nor set affairs in order. Let him pass, there's only the one of him."

"Have you any magic on you, " the first voice demanded.

"Of course," the scarred newcomer replied icily. "But no spells up my
sleeves nor things I can hurl doom with, if that's what you fear."

Reluctantly, the blades drew back, and Elminster was aware of a lot of
armed men drifting disappointedly away into the far corners of the room
again. There wasn't going to be the fun of watching a little
bloodletting after all.

The scarred Cormaeril glanced all around to make sure no covert blades
were within reach, gave the grim bladesmen a wordless nod, and stepped
out into the revelry.

* * * * *

The Silken Shadow reached into the bodice of her leathers and drew forth
the black cloth hood she'd made several seasons ago but so rarely used.
It made her look like some child playing at being hangman, with its
eyeholes and ragged edge, but it covered the pale flash of her skin in
dim light and might hide her femininity for a few moments from an
inattentive observer. Which was most folk, really.

Narnra pulled it on, sheathed her knife, and flexed the
too-long-clenched fingers that had held it. She stretched like a lazy
cat and hunched down to the floor to smell and listen.

Yes, this smelled different than Waterdeep, somehow. More dead things in
the water but fewer taints of spilled strange cargoes from afar.

Revels meant servants, or guards, or people peering in at the fun from
around the edges, or all three. She'd have to be very careful as she went
on from here.

Why, gods bless me, /how /unusual for a thief. . .

* * * * *

"So which noble family are you part of, " the masked merchant
half-shouted through the chattering din, wine sloshing in the
warhelm-sized metal goblet he clutched in both hands.

The cold-eyed warrior in worn and much-patched leather armor eyed him
sourly and replied, "None of them. The benevolent Obarskyrs have exiled
many more folk than our precious nobles. Most of us lowborn were hurled
out by personal proclamation,  because they couldn't get us with their
blades or nooses before we scampered."

"Oh, " the tipsy merchant leaned forward to peer at the warrior more
closely. "So what'd you do, "

"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. Id'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 Scroll-keeper 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 Faerun 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 Sem-bians 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 while 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. Sem-bians 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 shimmer-weave. 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 ore 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.

In the dim lamplight, Elminster peered about for the noble lass he'd
seen dancing earlier, but she was now, perhaps wisely,  nowhere to be
seen. There was something about her that made him think of fathering
little wizards. Ah, well . . .

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Three

      THE BRIGHTNESS OF THE LURE

//

/I put out my hand, and the fish swam right into my net/, /as they always
do. It's all in the brightness of the lure you offer./

Fzoul Chembryl, High Lord of the Zhentarim

/

Conquering What I Want of the World:

Words For All the Brethren to Live By

/

(text of speech, circulated amongst the Zhentarim)

Year of the Unstrung Harp

Some of the revelers were really drunk now. Narnra stepped around folk
who were sprawled senseless, or busily being sick,  some with watchful
bodyguards standing over them, trying to catch sight of the old wizard,
or someone who might be him.

She'd managed to snatch just one tart, with a leap that had drawn more
than one appreciative eye, curse the luck, and it had been good, very
good. There'd been lamb kidneys and a touch of venison in its rich
gravy. The rich aftertaste rested warm and comfortingly in her mouth
even now.

This couldn't be fabled Skullport, for none of these folk looked
familiar, and their speech was subtly different. They seemed to be
discussing rebellion against a king who was barely a king, or some
such, could they really be so bold, or foolish,  She had a bad feeling
that a lot of royal warriors were going to charge out of doorways and
arches she hadn't even found yet and slaughter everyone here, wandering
thieves from Waterdeep included.

Like a wide-eyed fool, she'd stepped through some sort of magical door
and right into an adventure that might slay her in short order. Gods
spit, she /had /to find that old wizard!

He might have slipped away somewhere else, of course, and have nothing
to do with all these drunkards. He might be rallying the force that
would burst out to slay them all, even now. He might even be leading
this conspiracy, though after the way he'd treated /her, /why hadn't he
marched right into the center of the lamplight and enspelled everyone to
quivering obedience, 

Whatever that old man was up to, if Narnra Shalace was going to save
Narnra Shalace's smooth but unlovely hide, she'd best scout where each
cellar went and which archways led out into the open air. Twouldn't do
to get trapped down here. By the smell, this place might well be below
sea level, and some wall-shattering spell or sluice-gate could flood it
at will. /That /would save the authorities even the chasing and shouting.

Many of the revelers seemed to be drifting away from the
shoulder-jostling crowd under the lamps, now. On all sides, little
groups of excitedly plotting folk were seeking this or that dark corner
for privacy. Wary bodyguards were everywhere, and Narnra took care not
to seem /too /interested in anyone as she threaded her way along through
side-arches and around pillars, seeking ramps or steps leading up.

"That's the beauty of it, you see, "

She ducked away from that merchant and his chortling, reeling-drunk
friends and on into the next room.

"Ah, my lord, at /last;' /a woman's voice growled, as its owner tore at
the robes of a man who looked more bewildered than ardent, as three
bodyguards stood in an impassive little ring around the amorous pair,
facing outwards with arms folded. Narnra kept going.

Four fast-striding men were crossing the next cellar, one calling out
from behind the others.

"Sorval,  Is that Sorval Maethur, " The speaker sounded delighted, as he
caught up to three merchants.

One turned. "Aye, I'm Sorval. And you might be, , "

"Delighted to bring you /death!/" was the snarled reply, as a dagger was
plunged into a throat, a lamp was tossed into the face of one of the
victim's companions, and the other fled with a terrified shout. Bubbling
as he struggled to speak and spraying much blood from an opened throat,
Sorval slumped to the ground. His slayer stepped back and strode
unconcernedly away from the twitching corpse and the moaning man clawing
at his burned eyes.

So did Narnra, steeling herself to look just as unconcerned, because any
moment now, the killer was going to turn and look around for witnesses
who might have to be slaughtered, too, and her life would depend on ...
/yes!/

Sorval's slayer cast her a dark glance. Narnra pointedly ignored him,
murmuring aloud as if to herself, /"How /did that spell go, again, " as
she kept steadily walking.

Dagger still dripping in his hand, the man hesitated briefly, glaring at
her, but then decided ducking away was wiser than tackling someone
unknown. A masked woman, his widening eyes told the Silken Shadow, at that.

Several groups of men were converging in a far room, lanterns glimmering
in their hands . . . and those lights were bobbing upward. Narnra headed
that way, striding purposefully, and letting Sorval's slayer see her
dagger flash in her hand as she drew it.

She waved the fingers of her other hand over it in a flourish, hoping
he'd think she was working some sort of magic, and swallowed hard. She'd
seen throats slit before, but Sorval had given the world so gods-blessed
/much blood . . ./

Sorval's slayer hurried in another direction, and was lost behind
pillars and through archways. Narnra kept going, trying to forget
Sorval's last horrible moments. Whoever he was, he hadn't . . . but enough!

She waved a hand as if to banish the memory and looked back once more.
No slayer creeping back to follow her. Good.

Another amorous couple were locked together in half-seen urgency in a
corner of the next chamber she crossed, and on the other side of the
same room some furious men were trying to stab each other with daggers.
They were too falling-down drunk to do much more than snarl incoherent
threats and curses at each other, fall on their faces, roar and rage
some more, and fall over again. Yes, a "Rightful Conspiracy" indeed.

Dancing was still going on here and there, though the piping and
drum-thumping seemed to have stopped back behind her. The men ahead were
chattering tirelessly, words flashing back and forth between them like
slung stones: lots of excited speculation about how riches would come to
them once "those bastard Obarskyrs were all dead."

Narnra frowned. Obarskyrs,  They were the royal family of some realm way
east of Waterdeep, a good, trustworthy, law-abiding place. Some place
with a strange name . . . Cromyar,  Cromeer,  Cormeer, Cormyr, that was it!

Gods, she was halfway across the world!

Well, that'll teach you to follow wizards through glowing archways, she
told herself savagely. Idiot.

Dagger in hand, Narnra joined the men climbing the stairs. No one paid
her the slightest attention, as they wallowed in their own excited
schemes and conclusions and get-even-richer dreams. Twice men stopped to
strike dramatic poses and declaim things to their fellows, only to get
shoved from below with calls of, "Move along!" and "Stand aside!" and
"Don't hold up the Conspiracy!"

The steps were old, broad, and well-worn, but there were a lot of them,
in little short flights that led to landings that gave onto more little
runs of worn steps. As she ascended, Narnra felt the dampness increase,
and tendrils of mist started to drift in around the busy stair.

Quite suddenly, she was in a many-pillared portico, on a dock that
looked at the glittering lights and darkened spires of a sizable
city, across mist-wreathed waters that stank. Skiffs and lantern-hung
pleasure-barges bobbed against the dock, anchored to metal struts of
many rings that were nothing like the great bollards of Waterdeep
Harbor. This was the sea, all right, /a /sea, but. . . oh, so different
from the City of Splendors.

A stone arch bridge linked the land she stood on to a small islet
crowded with rotting, leaking buildings with slate-tile roofs that
sagged alarmingly and railings that were fire-brown with rust. No lamps
were lit anywhere on it or on what seemed to be a second island beyond
the first, where half-sunken barges lined crumbling, bird-dung-streaked
wharves.

Instinctively, Narnra stepped away from the rush of chattering men
proceeding over the bridge or strolling to barges where the patient
faces of crewmen could be seen surveying the arrivals. Along the covered
dock she went, seeking to be alone. There must be some way up to a
vantage point where she could look around and see more of this new place
. . . but where, 

Behind her, someone fell into the water with a splash, and there were
shouts of drunken merriment. Someone else on a nearby barge took
advantage of the tumult to slit a throat and shove the body over the
side. Narnra watched it slip head-first beneath the inky waters without
a sound.

A third someone lit a hand-lamp and hauled the drunken man roughly
aboard another barge, and by its light Narnra got her first look at the
water, as the man's pale robes burst up through it: peat-brown and
reeking even more strongly now that it had been disturbed. She curled
her lip, turned away, and froze.

At the end of the dock a quiet company of men was standing, eyeing her
steadily. All of them wore dark leathers, and some held blades and
capture-nets ready in their hands, others hand crossbows of the sort
Narnra had seen all too many of in Waterdeep. Still others held delicate
sticks of wood: wands!

It had been a wave of one of the wands that had rolled back a thick bank
of mist to reveal these men, and women, too, Narnra noticed, and now they
were starting purposefully forward, keeping together in a menacing band.

From behind her came more laughter, new splashings, and a shout of alarm.

There was a clang of steel aboard a drifting barge, the ring of blades
crossed in anger, and a sudden cry: "Betrayed! The War Wizards are
here!" That shout ended in an ugly, wet gurgle, which was followed by
another clash of swords, and a scream.

One of the men striding along the dock toward Narnra had his head cocked
to one side, as though listening to someone who wasn't there, and was
muttering a steady stream of orders as he came.

"Horngentle, Lord Blackwinter's been seen here: arrest him. Th-oaburr:
one of us, the novice Beltrar Morgrin, yes, a War Wizard, everyone; keep
clear!, has turned traitor and is still down-cellar ... he mustn't live
to see the morning, but take him quietly. Constal,  Constal, it seems the
Regal Lady Mistwind turned her nightly manhunt hither. Put a scare into
her, but let her win free. Bereldyn, I'll need you to find me that
wizard someone saw arriving, Khornadar of Westgate, he's calling himself,
but Laspeera thinks he may be someone more powerful posing as an
ambitious lackspell. He's . . ."

This flood of, gods, they looked like /Harpers, /and. /yes! /That one was
wearing a little silver harp pin at his throat, and that one sported an
identical pin on an eyepatch, grim folk was only paces away, now, and
Narnra was standing right in their path. It just wasn't possible that
they'd failed to see her, though as yet no one had aimed a handbow or
drawn back a blade in menace.

The Silken Shadow stood stock-still. Whirling and running now would
probably earn her swift death in a volley of quarrels. "The Cormaerils
all seem to be here," she announced calmly. "Beware also Mathanter of
Sembia."

She wouldn't know a Cormaeril if she fell over one, and she'd never seen
or heard of this Mathanter before tonight, but he'd brought along more
than a dozen fully armored bodyguards and impressed /her./

The nearest Harper gave her a sharp look and without turning his head or
taking his eyes off her asked, "Armeld, "

The man snapping orders swivelled an eye to scrutinize the masked Silken
Shadow as he strode past, they were all streaming past her now, on both
sides, save for the one Harper facing her, and replied, "Never seen her
before. Not one of yours, "

"Remember," an earnest man in dark robes was saying on Narnra's other
side to an elderly man holding two wands, "some we arrest, some we slay
as quietly as possible, and some we just scare, so /don't /go blasting
anyone you see! For once,  Please, "

"No," the Harper said slowly, shaking his head and raising his blade.
Its blackened point hung just below her breasts. Narnra swallowed and
tried not to look at it again.

"I am not," she told him almost severely, "a member of this 'Rightful
Conspiracy.' I abhor conspiracies." She'd heard an old, wrinkled noble
matriarch dressing down a captain of the Watch once, and she tried to
make her voice .sound just like that old, highborn Waterdhavian's:
imperious, disgusted, and somehow pitying.

The Harper's eyes flickered, and he asked quietly, "Caladnei, "

"No," Narnra told him in the same tones, not knowing what else to say,
"I am not she."

"That's good," said a dry voice from behind the Harper, "considering
that the last time I looked at myself in a mirror, I remained fairly
certain that I was Caladnei."

A wryly smiling, dusky face came into view behind the Harper's shoulder.
Dark eyes surveyed Narnra coolly from under startlingly dark brows. "So
. . . have you a name of your own, Hooded One, "

A tingling of magic washed over Narnra before Caladnei was even finished
speaking, and without thinking the thief from Wa-terdeep crouched
tensely, as if facing battle.

"I am the Mage Royal of Cormyr," the woman behind the Harper said
gently, "and that was a truth-reading spell, nothing more. My word here
is law, 'tis a crime to evade or deny me. Please answer fully."

Narnra trembled, eyeing the Harper's steady blade and the purposeful
look in Caladnei's eyes. The Mage Royal stepped to one side, gesturing
to Narnra to keep looking at her, and forcing her to take her eyes off
the Harper menacing her.

Narnra sighed, drew herself up, and turned smartly to do as she was
bidden. The Mage Royal wore boots and a warrior's leathers, and her long
black hair was gathered behind her shoulders with a ribbon. Her belt was
crowded with pouches interspersed with daggers, and she wore no proud
insignia or touches of wealth.

"Look at me." That gentle voice came again, and Narnra knew what was
meant. She lifted her gaze to meet Caladnei's eyes directly and found
herself caught and held, staring into two dark flames.

There was a high scream, a thunder of hard-running booted feet, and
another splash, but none of the trio standing at this end of the pier
paid the slightest attention.

"I asked you a question. Surrender to me your full name."

"I ... I am called Narnra. Narnra Shalace, of Waterdeep."

"Are you conspiring against the Crown of Cormyr, "

"Lady, I don't even know who the Crown of Cormyr /is/, and until you just
said that to me, wasn't even certain I was in Cormyr. I, I've never been
in your land before tonight."

"So how came you to be on this island, "

Narnra sighed. "Well, there was a wizard . . ." She hesitated, not
knowing how best to say things. In Waterdeep, to openly admit one was a
thief was to be punished regardless of what one might or might not have
done.

That was when the Harper standing beside her made a queer sort of
grunt, and was suddenly slamming into a distant pillar, his body aflame.
Caladnei staggered and clutched at her head as if someone had shrieked
in her ears, and the dock-stones under Narnra's boots rippled as if some
gigantic bulk was swimming past in the solid stone, close beneath her
feet. She saw stones heaving and falling all over the dock and spun
around and was running hard away from her interrogators even before the
ceiling above her cracked, a pillar toppled far ahead and the bridge of
shouting, shoving men that linked the dock and the next island broke in
a dozen places . . . and slumped into the harbor with a crash that sent
walls of reeking water crashing across the dock. Narnra dived to a
pillar and clung to it to keep from being washed away.

The waters were still roiling around her when blinding-bright lightning
cracked through the mists, heralding many screams. Someone blew what
sounded like a war-horn, and from here and there crossbow quarrels
started to hum out of the night, snarling across the docks like hunting
hornets.

Cursing, Narnra ran away, she knew not where, just /away./

Small armed bands of Harpers and War Wizards were everywhere, and many
of the pillars along the dock were festooned with slumped, sleeping folk
in torn and now drenched finery, who'd been tied to the pillar and each
other at the wrists, ankles, and throats, presumably by the Harpers who
stood watchfully by.

One such challenged Narnra with a shout, gliding to intercept her with
his blade held ready, but she snarled, "Caladnei sent me! Out of my
way!" and he put up his steel to let her run past.

There was little dock left to her, and several Harpers watching. She had
to enter one of the darkened archways. These must lead into cargo-rooms,
and what urgent business could she have there,  No, it must be back to
the cellars she headed. Not only did she not like the look of the
stinking harbor-water at all, but with so many crossbows and
hurlers-of-lightning about, that way would be almost sure death. That
stair to the cellars was directly in line with the bridge that was no
more, so despite the fact that no water seemed to have splashed
hereabouts, /this /archway would be the right one. . . .

"Hah! Another rat scurrying back to the bolt-hole!"

More than a dozen men were crowded around the stair-head, conferring, and
two of them already had blades almost into her.

Narnra spun aside rather than slowing. "Caladnei's orders!" she snapped,
trying for her Waterdhavian matriarch's voice. "Out of my way!"

"Armeld, " one of the men moving smoothly to bar her path called, over
his shoulder.

"She was talking with the Mage Royal. Let her past, and go with her, just
you two. See where she goes, what she does." Armeld turned back to the
men who'd been reporting to him, and as she hurried down the stairs with
her unwelcome escort hard on her heels, their voices resumed. "Dozens of
nasty little stabbings and drownings, scores settled, I'd judge, a lot of
sex and drunkenness, the usual cliques . . ."

"Any more wizards now that Lightning-Dolt's dead, "

"There /should /be, but. . ."

Someone cursed in the darkness below, lamps were noticeably fewer,
now, and the rushing Narnra was out of earshot of the stair-head by the
time those oaths, and the skirl of steel and choked-off groan that
swiftly followed, had died away.

", got clean away!" someone said suddenly, almost in Narnra's ear, as she
skidded around a corner and raced toward the next flight of descending
steps. "Ho!"

"Stop her!" another voice snapped. There was a heavy crash as someone
stepped into the path of the two Harpers racing after her. Men bounced
and rolled down the steps in a heavily thudding, cursing, and ultimately
groaning bundle in her wake. Narnra dared not look to see what had
befallen, but as she turned at the next landing she got a momentary
glimpse of what looked like the lamplit silhouette of a man leaping over
tumbling bodies on the stairs to keep after her.

She slipped in something sticky, probably blood, and almost went into a
tumble herself. Slamming into the wall instead with force enough to
drive away her breath, she skidded painfully along it to a gasping halt
and felt for the stone rail she could not see. All was in darkness,
here, though she could see the glimmer of torches bobbing somewhere far
below.

"Well," a man's voice came nastily out of the nearby darkness just below
her, "if they got aboard /that /skiff, they're at the bottom of one of
Marsember's fabled fetid canals right now. That was the one, "

"Hold!" another man snapped. "I thought that was a corpse rolling down
the stairs, but someone's panting, and so, yet lives."

"Touch left," the first voice muttered, and, as she crouched low,
mastering her balance for a desperate spring, Narnra heard stealthy
movements.

Light flared, below her: a soft blue magical glow arising from the
pommel of a dagger held out over the center of the steps at full
arm's-length by someone in dark leathers who was crowded against the
wall to Narnra's left. Someone else was crouched right ahead of her
against the right wall.

"A lass!" the one on the left said, sounding startled.

"In a /mask" /the other responded, in tones that made it sound like
mask-wearing was the most dire crime possible in Cormyr.

"We're on the same side," Narnra snapped, sounding very much like an
irritated Waterdhavian noble matriarch. "I was hurrying down here on
Caladnei's orders when I slipped on these damned stairs."

"Why the mask, "

"My face is no longer very attractive, sir," she said, making her voice
sound bitter. "One price of my loyal service."

"Oh. I see. Ah . . . sorry. Have you no lamp, "

"None, nor permission to use it. My orders are otherwise."

"Armeld, that'd be," the other man said disgustedly. "Always fancies
himself battle-lord riding into doom-glory." He moved aside. "Pass,
lady, but use the rail; it runs right through the next landing, at least.
Damned luxurious warehouses these Marsemban nobles built themselves, I
must say. Makes you wonder what sort of goods they stored here, eh, "

"Yes, it does. My thanks, sirs," the Silken Shadow replied cautiously
and hastened past, using the rail.

* * * * *

"No, Thauvas, that's not the way," Nameless Cormaeril said pleasantly,
the tip of his sword already, but only just, through the skin that had
until now covered the place where the Red Wizard's throat joined the
back of his jaw. "Why must you Thay-ans always make things so
complicated,  Business, all business, remember,  Let me put it again,
simply: I ask a few questions, and you give me a few honest
answers, something you're unaccustomed to, I know, but it doesn't hurt
much once you get into the habit. A little truth spills, I let you go
free, and you'll have plenty of time thereafter to plot my doom . . .
simple, no, "

"Idiot noble," the Red Wizard hissed, his sweating face as pale as a
bleached skull. "Do you know what risk you place upon fair Cormyr by
this overbold action,  Or how terribly you doom yourself, "

The tall, scarred man at the other end of the grand rapier smiled.
"Yes," he told Thauvas sweetly.

Behind his back, the Red Wizard finally completed the intricate gesture
he'd been tracing. "Sssardamar!" he said triumphantly,  and twisted away
from the sharp swordpoint, shouting, "Die, fool! To /dare /to threaten a
mage of Thay so! Down-country /dog!"/

Magic flared up around the man who'd called himself Khorna-dar of
Westgate with a roar, hungry flames that thrust out at the raven-haired
noble.

Who did not scream and shrivel and die but instead lost sword and dark
hair and clean-shaven chin to stand smiling through the flames as a
hawk-nosed, white-bearded man with busy brows, stained old robes, and
even brighter fire in his hands.

"Ah, but it seems fools dare just about anything, these days, doesn't
it, " he asked merrily. "Do ye know me now, Thauvas Zlorn,  Do they still,
in Thay, amidst all their swaggering and gleeful counting of
as-yet-unhatched chickens, as they scheme to rule all Toril a dozen
times over, mention the name 'Elminster' from time to time,  Just to warn
young wizards of the natural perils of this world, "

Blood trickled down Zlorn's throat as magic that sliced through his own
as if it were mere false conjurer's fancy-feathers lifted him into the
air and held him dangling there. He swallowed, managed the nigh
impossible feat of growing even more pale, and fainted.

"Mystra mine," Elminster murmured disgustedly, "but they let just about
anything swagger out of Thay these days, don't they, "

* * * * *

It was dark at the bottom of the stairs. The only lights were lanterns
and torches moving to and fro with grim bands of searchers, humans all,
men and women who bore either blades, handbows, and silver harp pins, or
wands and the vacant expressions of folk listening to conversations only
they could hear, raging in their heads.

Narnra paused, not sure at first which way to go. She knew roughly what
direction led to the archway, but without that wizard it was closed, and
she'd probably not be able to even find its exact location. Moreover,
with all the corpses and spilled blood down here, it would be a horrible
thing to have all the searchers depart and leave her groping in utter
darkness with the rats. Her best chance lay in somehow joining a band of
searchers, being accepted as one of them, reaching the city beyond the
broken bridge with them . . . and, she supposed, starting a new life.
With nearly nothing in a strange realm where she'd already been marked
as a possible traitor by a royal wizard.

"Thank you, merciful gods," she muttered sardonically, then stiffened as
two things happened at once: she remembered the silhouette leaping down
the stairs, presumably chasing her but somehow not yet upon her . . .
and a Harper suddenly veered away from a passing group and thrust a
flaming torch at her. "Yours," he said shortly. "Caladnei's orders."

Narnra gaped at him then numbly, because she could think of nothing else
to do, took the torch. It spat pitch, as they all did, and burned with a
brilliance that warmed her cheek, very real and with enough hard-nailed
cloth on it to last for hours. Of course, it made her a beacon in the
dark cellars . . . but really, with a Mage Royal casting spells on her,
wasn't she that already, 

The Silken Shadow sighed heavily, spread her hands in exasperation, for
so accomplished a Waterdhavian snatch-thief, she wasn't much of a
strategist, /thank /you, Holy Mask, and set off briskly through the
cellars, toward where that archway had been. There was the slimmest of
chances the old wizard had returned there or would do so, and she had to
at least /look /or forever gnaw at herself for having failed to do so.

Her way took her through almost a dozen cellars, and she saw almost a
score of sprawled corpses and many, many more huddled, sullen prisoners.
The Rightful Conspiracy, it seemed, was reduced to its mysterious
masters and perhaps a few fugitives who'd managed to slip away.

Yes, this was the right place, here . . . and the passage she'd arrived
by would be this one, and . . .

There was a sudden cold flare of magic off to the left, through another
archway, and Narnra thrust the torch as behind her as she could manage
and sidled nearer to see who was casting what down here, quite away from
the bands of grim searchers.

Then she stiffened once more, and turned around very slowly. /Why /had
all the searchers veered away from this area as she walked between them
. . . and why was there now utter silence behind her, 

Her torch showed her nothing but pillars and dark emptiness.

With a sudden snarl she flung the torch as high and as far back along
her trail as she could.

The ceiling was high, and the beacon whupp-whupp-whupped end over end
quite vigorously, trailing sparks and flame, to bounce with a flare of
fire that sank immediately down to a few fitful flames. They were quite
enough, however, to show her the shapely leather-clad legs of a lone
figure who'd been following her.

That person lowered one hand to point at the torch, and it rose smoothly
into the air, fires quickening once more . . . and came floating upright
back to Narnra. At the beginning of its journey, its flickering radiance
was quite sufficient to show the Waterdhavian thief the half-smiling
face of the Mage Royal of Cormyr.

Narnra swallowed and raised her hand in salute, and caught the torch in
her other hand, hoping Caladnei wasn't so spiteful with her Art as to
make it explode into a thief-incinerating inferno or some like doom.

The torch stayed a torch, and with a sigh of mingled relief and
resignation Narnra turned back to those strange flickerings of magic.

A few paces onward she spun around again to see if Caladnei was
following her. She could see nothing but shifting darkness, but a very
dry voice murmured in her ear, so seemingly close that she couldn't help
but jump: /A beacon indeed, Narnra Shalace of Waterdeep. Lead on, and
together let us see what unfolds./

Narnra turned her face to the unseen ceiling overhead and flung a silent
curse at Mask and Tymora, hefted the torch despairingly in her hands . .
. and stepped forward again.

The archway was very close now, perhaps a dozen paces ahead to her left.
She held the torch as low and as far to the right as she could, walked
in that direction, then crept along the wall toward the edge of the
arch. Yes, she was carrying a blazing beacon, but perhaps there was light
and strife enough in the cellar to keep attention away from one closer
torch among many. Perhaps . . .

Going down to her knees and ducking her head as low to the cold stone
floor as she could, the Silken Shadow of Waterdeep peered around the
edge of the archway.

The cellar held only two men, and their magic. One was the old wizard,
her only way out of all this peril. The other was a younger man who hung
gabbling fearfully in midair, gripped in a glowing, swirling cloud of
enchantment.

So she was caught between the slowly and carefully advancing Caladnei of
Cormyr, herding her as deftly as any drover crowding oxen into a
caravan-pen, and the old mage who'd so casually defeated her. No doubt
the Mage Royal was walking with spells upon spells raised like shields
around her . . . and the power of the old wizard was obvious.

The very air glowed and throbbed with it, a pulsing so mighty it almost
hurt the ears.

"Ye could have done this the easy way, ye know," Elminster told the
sweat-drenched, trembling man trembling in the air above him. "I'm a
gentle tyrant and require only a few breaths of thy precious time, a
hindrance in thy scheduled rush to world domination, I grant ye, yet
'twill give thee a chance to practice gloating and shouting clever jests
and phrases about thy puissance to come . . . but no, Thauvas, ye had to
struggle. And I thought Thayans understood the proper roles of master
and slave. Ye disappoint me." His voice sharpened. "So speak. Ye are, , "

"T-Thauvas Zlorn, Red Wizard of Thay."

//

/"Thank /ye. So, Thauvas, ye came all the way to damp Marsem-ber, not the
nearest port of call from Thayan shores, merely to enjoy a revel with
some strangers in a cellar, is that it, "

"Y-y-yes, uh, ah, I mean /no!/"

"Thy mind wavers and is troubled; bad traits for one who seeks to master
wizardry." Elminster shook his head. "The day of thy becoming any sort
of zulkir seems distant indeed. Ye came to join or at least scout this
Rightful Conspiracy, did ye not,  Or is Thay already behind it, and ye
were but carrying out an assigned mission, "

Zlorn's face rippled and contorted as he fought against the horribly
strong prying that stabbed into his memories and thoughts like a cook
jabbing a skewer into a quace-fruit. Unwillingly, his lips moved at the
bidding of a second inexorable magic to blurt out the truth. "Y-y-yes."

"Yes /which, /most eloquent Thauvas,  Speak loudly, for all to hear!"

Narnra froze at the old wizard's words, then spun around to look at
Caladnei. The Mage Royal's face was as wryly astonished as her own.

"Yes," the Red Wizard gasped hastily, "I was assigned this task . . .
many rising Red Wizards involved ... a test for each of us ... Sembians
sponsoring this conspiracy . .. begun by exiled malcontents of Cormyr,
of course ... we of Thay are keeping hidden, as much as possible, thus
far . . ."

As Elminster's fiercely tightening will penetrated thought after memory
after precious secret, peeling the Thayan's mind as some folk strip an
onion, layer by layer, Thauvas Zlorn began to sob forth phrases more and
more freely.

"And your jovial mention of using the Stalwart Adventurers, 

This is part of the plot,  Under way or a future effort, "

"I, I, I, 'twas my own idea . . . Velmaerass very pleased . . . praised me
. . ."

"I'm most warmed to hear that," Elminster said in dry tones. "He might
even give ye a tharch or two, if ye're still alive by then."

Thauvas was already weeping in fear, bright lines of tears streaming
down his cheeks. His teeth now began to chatter, and the Old Mage
sighed, waved a hand, and said scornfully, "Sleep then, for now, and keep
thy wits, such as they are. All this fainting and gabbling . . . when
will these puppies learn that being a mage means facing the possible
consequences /beforehand, /and weighing them, and acting mindful of
their weight,  Or is thinking before one goes merrily blasting off into
red war left only to wise old fools, these days, "

He spun around suddenly, and an unseen, irresistable force took hold of
Narnra's throat and wrists and plucked her off her feet, torch and all,
before she could so much as gasp.

"And ye, little Masked One,  How much did /ye /think, before ye plunged
through that gate on my heels, hmm,  Or are ye so young that adventure
dazzles ye into plunging after it, "

Narna Shalace found herself hanging in the throbbing air, faint white
mists of sheer power roiling around her, looking down at the wryly
smiling, bearded face of the old wizard.

She gasped for breath, finding herself suddenly sweating all over. Was
that creeping numbness around her neck and ears his magic sliding into
her mind,  Was she going to end up sobbing and helpless, teeth
chattering, tongue not her own,  Would he slay her or leave her a
half-wit, ruined by his magic, "

"I, I, I, "

"Are far too upset, Lady of the Night. I've no particular desire to work
spell-murder right in front of the Mage Royal of Cormyr, who would then
feel a duty to do something that could only get her hurt. All I want is
something that should please us all: a sharing of the truth."

Blue-gray eyes gleamed up at hers. "The truth, lass, is a precious
thing. Sharp, yes, all too rare in daily use, aye . . . and therefore
all too precious. Are ye willing to deal in it, "

Narnra swallowed helplessly, stared down at him, and struggled to reply.

The Old Mage gazed back up at her and asked softly, "Or is it death ye'd
prefer, "

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Four

      TRUTHS AS SHARP AS RAZORS

/

Nothing wounds so deeply as unwanted, unblunted truth.

/

Thauloamur Reerist, Minstrel

/

Clever Words From A Failed Jester

/

Year of the Prince

"That's not much of a choice to hand me, or anyone, is it, " Narnra snapped
bitterly, anger rising in her to roll back the fear ... a little. "Do as
I say, or I'll blast you to ashes or leave you forever drooling. How can
you trust any 'truth' handed you under such menace, "

The old wizard shrugged. " 'Tis the same cruel choice most folk of power
in this world hand to everyone else. Ye seem a bit too old,
lass, especially considering the nature of thy nightly trade, to yet
believe Faerun is a fair place. If ye truly do, ye're /already /a
drooling idiot, whether ye admit it or not. I simply make choices
blunter and clearer than many when I'm not in the mood for wasting
overmuch time on tongue-fencing or frivolity. I'm not in the mood right
now. I /like /Cormyr and have seen /so /many of these idiot rebellions
in the making: the 'making' always seems to involve the deaths of many
good and even some innocent folk. As to how I can trust thy truths, my
magic will tell me when ye lie and when ye speak true."

"And that's supposed to make me willing and obedient, " Narnra snarled.

"Nay, but a hope to survive this night should. 'Prudence,' I believe
'tis still called. Ye came back down here seeking my gate and a way home
out of all this, did ye not,  I'm the only way through it ye know, am I
not,  I'll be a trifle more willing to be helpful to someone who tried to
rob and slay me in a dead-end alley not so long ago if she now tries to
deal with me in at least a civil manner, will I not, "

The Waterdhavian lass drew in a deep, defeated breath. Despairing yet
still furious, she sighed, took another shuddering gulp of air, and
growled, "So ask your questions. I'll /try /to keep to the truth."

"Prudent," the wizard agreed calmly. "If, that is, ye wish to keep me to
truth-reading and not mind-forcing ye, as I started to do to Thauvas,
there. /He /learned wisdom quickly."

Narnra tossed her head. "Ask," she repeated quietly, hanging helpless in
midair.

The mists around her glowed with sudden light, a flash of radiance that
died away as abruptly as it had come.

Her captor turned his head quickly to look out into the darkness.
"Caladnei, please just watch and listen and pretend ye're not here for a
bit, eh,  Vangerdahast will be /most /annoyed with me if I destroy his
replacement without good cause, and ye may as well know now that thy
reckless testing of my shield-spells is doomed to fail."

From the darkness came only silence, but after a long, motionless time
the old bearded mage added quietly, "Thank ye."

He turned his head to look up at Narnra and asked, "Thy full, proper
name, lass, is, , "

//

/Gods, his nose is an even sharper hawk-beak than mine. /Narnra looked
down into those bright blue eyes, more blue than gray now, as his magic
surged around them, and said steadily, "Narnra Shalace. My mother was
Maerjanthra Shalace, a jeweler of Waterdeep. My father I never knew."

Bushy brows arched. "Maerjanthra, eh,  I knew a Maerjanthra Shalace of
Waterdeep, years back, a sorceress for hire, not a jeweler." He regarded
his floating captive thoughtfully. " 'Tis not a common name. Describe
her, as she is today."

Narnra let him see her fury as she spat, "A few bones, some dust, and
probably a tangle of what's left of her hair, in a bonepit outside the
walls of Waterdeep. She's /dead, /wizard."

The old wizard's face was unreadable. "I see. Yet in life, she had dark
hair and eyes like thine, "

"Yes," Narnra said flatly, volunteering nothing more.

"How did she die, "

"I don't know. Murdered with magic, I think, but by whom, I've no
idea, or they or I would be dead now."

"I see. Have ye kin, "

"No. Unless my father yet lives."

"And what know ye of him, "

The thief shrugged. "He was a man. A powerful wizard, I was told."

"By whom, "

"My mother's apprentices, gemcutters, all long fled. They were drunk when
they said that."

"Mother dead, apprentices fled, where d'ye live now, "

Narnra shrugged. "The rooftops. By the warm chimneys in winter. The City
of the Dead, mostly, in summer."

"Alone, "

"Alone."

"And ye earn coins enough to eat by, , "

"Stealing. As you know."

"For or with anyone, "

"Alone."

"Any friends, "

"No."

"Folk ye sell stolen things to, "

"Many."

"Name some of them."

Narnra stared into the old wizard's eyes and said evenly, "Dock Ward
holds many men who ask no questions about where something came from, and
take care that they know nothing about whoever's selling it. If the
Watch confronts them, they always say they just found it, tossed into
their yard, or window, that morning. In turn, I take care not to ask or
know their names. "Tis the accepted way of such business dealings."

The mage nodded, as if remembering things far away and long ago. "Truth
rides on thy tongue well."

"So reward me."

"With, "

"My freedom. The way back."

The old wizard smiled. "High payment for a few civil answers. I'll have
more before we advance so boldly into rewarding, hmm, "

Narnra shrugged again. "The power to dictate," she observed flatly,
"remains yours."

The wizard below her grew a sudden grin, and from beyond the mists came
a faint, swiftly suppressed sound that might have been a Mage Royal's
chuckle.

"Are ye a member of any guild, "

"No."

"On any rolls, "

"No."

"Pay taxes, "

Narnra made an incredulous sound. The old wizard grinned again and
asked, "D'ye know who I am, "

"No. I can see and hear that you're an old man and a powerful mage, yes,
but no more."

The old wizard nodded, strolled a few paces away, spun around, and
snapped, "What do ye do with thy days, "

"Steal. Sleep. Spy on folk to steal from. Steal. Sell what I've gained
and use the coins to buy food. Eat. Flee the Watch. Steal some more."

"What happened to your mother's shop,  House,  Goods, "

"Snatched, seized, and spirited away, the moment the city knew she was
dead, thank you for asking," Narnra said coldly. "Some slave-seeking
noble sent his men after /me."/

The wizard nodded slowly. "I find myself unsurprised."

The mists suddenly boiled up into a gigantic, looming serpentine head,
all scales and great jaws, parting to menace her, 

Narnra screamed, and so did the Mage Royal.

The world burst into blinding brightness in a great roaring flood of
force that swept the dragon head away and the Silken Shadow after it,
tumbling end over end unseeing into, surging flows of power that caught
and clung and held her, drawing her down out of roiling chaos into . . .
hanging upright in midair once more.

The mists churned and whirled around her with more force than before,
trailing sparks here and there, but otherwise, the cellar was much as
before, except that the senseless Red Wizard now floated head-downwards.

The old wizard was standing just as before, but his gaze was now bent on
the cellar entrance arch. "I /did /warn ye, Mage Royal," he said
quietly. "Know ye not an illusion when ye see one, "

Narnra found that she could turn her head and did so. Caladnei was on
her knees, struggling against what looked like ropes of crawling fire
that held her wrists down and away from her sides, looped around her
neck, and snarled around her spread knees and her ankles behind her.

"Will ye stand peaceful, and work no magic, " the old wizard demanded.

The Mage Royal of Cormyr glared up at him over the crackling flames and
said flatly, 'Wo."

The wizard shrugged and turned back to Narnra, and in a chilling,
throat-choking moment the dragon head loomed in front of her once more.

She knew what it was now and managed to keep from screaming but could
not help staring at it, trembling, as those great jaws yawned once more.
. . .

"Lass, did ye ever see anything like this before now, " the white-bearded
wizard asked gently, from below.

"N-no," Narnra managed to hiss. "Take it away!"

The dragon-head dwindled and backed away from her at the same time,
shrinking until it was barely larger than her own head, whereupon it
became frightening all over again, seeming like the head of a great
serpent watching her out of the mist, a snake that could slay her at
will while she hung mage-bound.

"Have ye ever seen a living beast like this before, " the old wizard
asked again, sharply. The smaller dragon-head turned this way and that,
displaying itself to her as a gown-merchant's model might have done . .
. then sighed back down into the mists and was gone.

"N-no," Narnra managed to say, suspicion suddenly welling up dark, hot,
and choking. Was this old brute . . . , 

The mage pounced. "But, "

"But nothing," she flared, eyes blazing down at him.

//

/"Truth, /lass! Ye lie as badly as a wrinkled rug! Tell me truth!"

"I... Mother's apprentices used to tell me about dragons. That was a
dragon, wasn't it, "

"How many apprentices, " the old wizard snapped. "Their names, "

"Uh, five, most of the time. Goraun, Rivrel, Jonczer, and the two
younger ones, Tantheld and Silen, Rorgel, who was called 'Silent' because
he almost never spoke. They . . . Rivrel's dead; knifed by someone
taking things from the shop after Mother died. I think Jonczer was
killed too, but I saw only a lot of blood, not his body. The others . .
. disappeared. They may be dead, they may've stolen things and fled; I
know not."

"Did ye ever see any of them work magic, "

"No."

"What exactly did they tell ye about dragons, "

Narnra glared at the old wizard, her suspicions even stronger now. "When
they'd been drinking," she said heavily, "they'd grumble about the
dirtier tasks, then wish they were rich bold adventurers and start
telling tales of adventurers. Some of them had dragons in them . . .
that ate folk, tore apart castles, and smashed villages flat, I'm sure
you've heard better. Later, they'd always warn me I shouldn't mention
anything they said to Mother."

"And did ye, "

"Did I what, "

"Ever talk about dragons, with her, "

"No. Look, sir wizard, she's /dead. /Now I've told you my name, I've
told you hers, I've even babbled the names of five apprentice
gemcutters, and /your /name remains a mystery to me. So what is it, "

"Elminster Aumar, though most folk know me better as 'Elmin-ster of
Shadowdale.' I'm also called the Old Mage, the Old Sage, and a lot of
less polite names and titles, besides. Wiser now, "

"I've heard of Elminster the Great, the Meddler of Mystra, who did
things in Waterdeep centuries ago. I guess you're named after him."

"Ye could say that, yes." The old wizard smiled thinly. "Now that we
know each other somewhat better, lass, suppose ye set aside thy fury and
tell me true: are ye beholden to anyone,  Working with anyone,  Spying for
anyone,  Hired out to do any task, "

"No," Narnra replied, anger flaring again. "No, no, and no again!" So he
believed nothing of what she'd said, did he, 

"Can't you tell truth when you hear it,  Or d'ye not want to hear words
that don't fit with how you've already judged me,  You didn't show yon
Red Wizard much kindness!"

"He deserves none, believe me."

"Hah!" Narnra snarled down from where the mists held her. "What if I
/don't /believe you,  Why should I,  You slyly hint that I lie, and that
you know a lot more about my mother than I do, and that wizards must do
what wizards must do. Well, as to /that, /all I see and hear is that
wizards do just as they please and cloak self-interest in a lot of grand
words and hints that they're doing things important that protect all
Faerun and all of us with it! Yet do they show any proof of this, "

The smile stealing onto the Old Mage's face seemed a little sad around
the edges. "What proof would ye believe, Narnra, "

"I ... I ..."

Elminster spread his hands. "Ye see,  Rage ye have to spare, and no
wonder, for I've endangered ye and scared ye, and my power lies as sharp
as any blade between us. Furious ye are that I trust thee not, yet do ye
trust me, "

Narnra stared down at him. "No," she whispered. "Not yet."

"Ah. Ye want to. So do I, thee. So how can we build trust between us, "

The thief floating in the mists frowned then said, "Why don't you tell
me some answers to things I ask, "

The white-bearded wizard grinned. "As ye said to me: so ask your
questions, and I'll try to keep to the truth."

Narnra managed a smile. "When did you first meet my mother, and why, "

"If Maerjanthra Shalace the sorceress is also Maerjanthra Shal-ace the
jeweler of Waterdeep," Elminster replied, "I first met her in the ruins
of a elven palace in the Sword Coast North some seventy summers ago,
when she looked to be about the same age as ye are now. She was with a
band of adventurers, seeking tomb-riches to plunder, something I was
there to foil."

//

/"Seventy /winters,  But that's impossible! Mother . . ."

"Told ye exactly how old she was, ever, "

"No, but. . ."

"But by her looks ye assumed she was at most twenty or thirty seasons
older than ye, "

Narnra nodded and burst out, "And, and if she was a sorceress, could she
have . . . /done /something to me,  With magic, "

"Ah," the Old Mage said slowly, "ye begin to see the roots of my
interest. Have ye ever had . . . strange dreams,  Feelings of power
rising in ye or running through ye,  When my magic touched ye, did ye
have any . . . visions,  Feelings of power, "

The Silken Shadow looked down at him and shook her head. "No." Her voice
was little more than a whisper. From somewhere beyond the mists came an
angry crackle of fire that could only be Caladnei striving to win free
or to work magic.

"Then," Elminster told her gently, "my answer must be: I know not."

Narnra drew a deep breath and asked, "So if you knew my mother so well,
who was my father, "

The wizard shrugged.

The thief floated in silence for a few breaths, frowning at him, then
asked, "You said 'first met' my mother. How many other times did you
meet her, "

"Dozens. Scores." The Old Mage shrugged. "We dwelt together in
Waterdeep, one spring, when I had some business among the nobility of
thy city: the house was mine, and a dozen lady adventurers took rooms
there."

"A /dozen, /with one man, a wizard,  Didn't folk talk, "

Elminster cocked one eyebrow. "Talk,  Waterdeep must have changed more
than I'd thought."

The white-bearded man below her seemed to shimmer, and suddenly Narnra
was staring at a tall, willowy, high-bosomed woman with a steely gaze
and an imperious grace that transcended the ill-fitting, none-too-clean
old wizard's robes that hung upon her body. "Besides, we were a house of
women," a softer, huskier version of Elminster's voice replied. The
mists whirled about the woman, sparks flared, Narnra blinked, and the old
wizard was standing below her once more.

Narnra drew in a deep breath. "And were you a woman all the time,  Did
you live with your renters, or did everyone keep to their own rooms and
trust in locks, "

Elminster chuckled. "Ye sound like a disapproving priest, lass. Beyond
the outside doors, there /were /no locks; the rooms were shared. Men, and
women, were in and out, as is the normal way of things, and there were
fights, and loving . . . and though I spent much of my time in other,
grander houses, wearing other, and grander, if it comes to that, shapes, I
lived with those ladies, yes."

"Slept with them, " Narnra asked sharply. "One Maerjanthra Shalace in
particular, "

The Old Mage smiled. "Aye, and aye. This would have been forty-and-some
summers back."

"You never saw her after that, "

"Nay, our paths crossed every few years, when I came to Water-deep for
some purpose or other."

"My mother was your /mistress, /"

"No, I'd not put it that way, nor would she have done. She had her
lovers, and I mine. We liked to talk and catch up on things for an
evening, when the gods granted us time and chance."

Narnra glared at him. "When did you last . . . spend the night together, "

Elminster regarded her thoughtfully. " Twas either twenty or twenty-two
years ago." A smile crossed his face. "Ye seem to be drifting into
thinking I fathered ye. That cannot be."

"Oh,  How so, "

"Wizards are targets all their lives, lass . . . and all too vulnerable,
most of the time. Bearing a child is no light thing to one who works
magic, and becoming with child unintended can be deadly, not just to the
babe and its mother. Magic can twist the unborn into monsters."

"Wherefore, "

"Wherefore most mages use magic to prevent what isn't wanted or know
when 'tis safe to not take such trouble."

"Were you both 'most mages', "

"Maerjanthra was. Stronger bonds are laid on me."

"'Stronger bonds',  /What /'stronger bonds', "

"Mystra, the goddess I serve, decides when her Chosen shall, "

Narnra's head swam.

Chosen,  Then this could only be /the /Elminster.

Worse than that: at the sound of Elminster saying the divine name
/Mystra /a blue-white fury of fire seemed to burst silently in Narnra's
head, a conflagration that flew apart into seven whirling stars before
she could even gasp.

They spun themselves into a circle, she had the impression of a gigantic
but unseen feminine /smile, /and in the heart of the circle of stars a
dark and long-hidden door seemed to fall open in her mind. Through it
she heard Goraun chuckling to Jonczer, "Ah, Maerj tricked the Old
Bearded One /this /time! I'm going to love seeing the look on his face
when he finds out! Lord High-And-Mighty Blackstaff looked sick enough
for the both of them when he came to the door. Aye, that /was /him, for
once the tavern-lasses told you true! Seems Maerj went to him for a
spell to let her have the Old Meddler's child under his nose, so to
speak, and Khelben threw her out of his tower . . . only to come to the
door like a beggar half a day later, with a face as long as last winter
and a scroll in his hand. He said Divine Mystra herself granted, and
commanded, it!"

Seven stars flashed, and that warm, impish smile came again, a thrill
that left Narnra shivering, somehow. She found herself still floating in
the mists, staring grimly down at the bright blue eyes and wry, smug
smile of the white-bearded wizard.

So this, after all these years of wondering, was her father.

This old. smiling worm.

Elminster the Meddler. As powerful as a winter storm and as corrupt and
willful as a Lord of Waterdeep. A man she could so easily despise or
hate. The man whose magic was holding her captive and testing her words
even now.

The man, her gaze went reluctantly to the inverted body of the Thayan,
arms dangling, eyes dark and empty, whose magic could slice into her mind
like a barber's razor, whenever he desired. Whenever he suspected she
was hiding something of value from him.

The Silken Shadow clenched her hands so tightly that her fingernails
pierced her palms. Blood welled out, and she clenched them all the tighter.

She must say nothing of Goraun's words and hope that Khelben and the
goddess Mystra went right on keeping the secret they'd so obviously kept
from Elminster of Shadowdale for longer than she'd been alive.

If they did not, he might destroy her or try to keep her captive to
train and command her . . . and whatever he tried to do, half Faerun
would come riding hard to take either her life or her freedom.

Narnra Shalace's days as a target would no doubt be all too short.

She'd always feared magic. All thieves do. Hated, feared, and mistrusted
magic, how could any folk who lacked it not feel that way,  Oh, the young
gasped at its wonders when Watchful Order magists blasted things or cast
illusions at festivals, but ... all that power. If it was /ever /turned
against you . . .

And another thing: were she to be transformed with a wave of Mystra's
hand into a mighty mistress of magic to overmatch Elminster himself,
she'd still hate such a life. Being a thief was hard, chancy work, but it
was /hers, /battles fought at her choosing, skills she'd won on her own,
fresh challenges she set herself, excitement and independence and . . .
and what she was used to.

"You old, lying /bastard!/" she spat, the words bursting out before she
thought to stop them. "You toad! You smug, lecherous spell-tyrant!"

Elminster blinked up at her. "I've heard such words before, aye, and
deserved many of them, though not from someone who knows me as little as
ye do, lass. I'd thought we'd stopped all this hissing and snarling for
the sheer dramatic effect of thy outrage. Why so hostile now, little one, "

"If you knew," Narnra hissed, voice trembling as she fought to master
it. "If you only knew!"

Bright blue eyes narrowed. "Is there something I should be learning
amongst your thoughts, daughter of Maerjanthra, "

The Old Mage raised one hand, and Narnra bit her lip and cursed herself
for a fool. Doom and icy despair were upon her, and she'd called them
down on herself with her own rage and over-loose tongue! Mask and Tymora
and Mystra, all, hear me! Aid, if I can win one small shard of mercy! Hel, 

As if the gods had heard her and made immediate answer, the cellar
shook, tiny sizzling bolts of lightning washed across the ceiling,
clawing and spitting, and the mists fell away, just like a bedsheet on a
wash-line the Silken Shadow had once sliced with her knife. The Red
Wizard fell with them, crashing limp and face-first to the stone floor.

Narnra was also descending, though it felt like drifting down through
something soft and thick rather than falling. She was still well off the
floor when Elminster spun around to face the cellar arch, and something
obligingly appeared there.

Four somethings, actually: four pillars of whirling sparks that occurred
quite suddenly, out of thin air, the writhing form of Caladnei of Cormyr
in their midst. Dark figures stepped out of those sparks, gesturing in
unison, and the Mage Royal's fiery bonds became four tethers that held
her helpless between the four newcomers. Four bald, dusky-skinned men
whose heads were marked with intricate black tattoos advanced in careful
unison. They wore maroon robes and much jewelry, and the eyes in their
hard, ruthless faces glittered with anger, and glee.

Elminster spread his hands, fingers twitching and eyes half-closed, for
all Faerun as if he was /feeling /something invisible in the air.

"Stand aside, old fool," one of the four snapped. "You must be of the
conspiracy to so leash the Mage Royal of Cormyr, but your life, like hers
and that of this masked wench, is forfeit. No one mistreats a Red Wizard
and lives!"

The Old Mage murmured something, still seemingly in a trance, and Thauvas
Zlorn rose and advanced to meet the nearest of his newly arrived countrymen.

"My thanks for this rescue, Naerzil," he said with a widening smile.
"Slay none of these, but keep them captive, for their minds hold, "

"Be silent, Zlorn," the foremost Red Wizard said coldly. "Your fate
remains to be decided by those we both answer to, and your orders and
suggestions are unwelcome."

"Ah. Such a pity," Thuavas Zlorn murmured, in a voice oddly unlike his
own, and sprang forward to throttle his fellow Thayan.

The startled Red Wizard fell with a crash, struggling to keep
iron-strong fingers from his throat and eyes. When he slapped Zlorn's
arm aside, Thauvas thrust two fingers into Naerzil's nostrils and jerked
the man's head back, slamming it onto the stone floor.

The fiery strand leading to Caladnei sprang away, spasming and
coiling, and the other three Red Wizards dragged her away, shouting
sharp, alarmed incantations.

The two men twisted and struggled on the floor, grunting and
cursing, until Naerzil laughed in triumph beneath his foe, and a tattoo
on his forehead erupted into blue, crawling flames. They swirled, took
the shape of leaping talons, and tore at the face of Thauvas Zlorn.

Blood spurted, an eyeball burst, and the squealing Thayan arched
backwards, Naerzil shoving and kicking to gain freedom. The blue flames
tore at Zlorn's face and throat until he had nothing left to scream
with, but even as his slayer scrambled out and away, chuckling, the dying
Thayan formed a sphere with his empty hands, echoing movements that had
just been made by Elminster, who was swaying dreamily in the
distance, and the blue flames fell from his ravaged face to swirl within
those fingers . . . then leap out like a striking serpent at the
startled face of Naerzil.

Thauvas Zlorn slumped to his knees, making liquid mewing sounds of pain,
but Naerzil's head blossomed into a blinding whirl of blue flames,
racing around and around it in a sphere so swift-snarling that no shout,
if Naerzil had tried to make one, could be heard.

The blue radiance suddenly burst into sparks and went out, and a headless
body toppled to the flagstones, not far from Thauvas.

Flashes and high singing sounds were all around Elminster by then, but
the looks on the faces of the Red Wizards told Narnra that they'd been
expecting their spells to do much, much more than make a little light
and noise.

"Who /are /you, " one of them gasped, at last, as his most powerful spell
sighed into nothingness, leaving nothing but impotent lines of smoke
curling up from his fingertips.

"Elminster of Shadowdale, at thy service, or rather, at the service of
Thay, which land will be vastly improved by the extinction of all Red
Wizards," the white-bearded wizard replied merrily. Little flames began
to leap and wink between his raised, spread fingers. Between them, like
a traveling jester, the Old Mage gave the quailing Thayans a wide,
crooked smile.

"Hold!" one of them snapped desperately. "Harm us, and this woman dies!"

He made a beckoning motion with one hand, and the line of fire clinging
to the back of it tightened. As its keening song rose into a shriek,
Caladnei of Cormyr rose with it, clawing at her throat desperately, her
body quivering like a plucked bowstring as the other two Red Wizards
tightened their ends of the spell-bonds.

Faces pale, the Thayans glared at Elminster, who stepped swiftly in front
of Narnra to shield her from them as her boots finally touched the floor.

The Silken Shadow shot a startled glance at the Old Mage's back as she
crouched, ready to spring in any direction that might seem safest, and
wondered if the best thing for all Toril for her to do, though it would
mean her death, would be to spring at Elminster with her best dagger
drawn, and open his throat wide. The Chosen of Mystra was muttering
something under his breath: a word she could not catch, but the same
one, over and over.

Breathing heavily, hand stealing toward the hilt of her dagger, Narnra
crouched, not knowing what to do ... or what doom would reach out next
to snatch them all.

"We'll depart this place, now," another of the Red Wizards said harshly,
"with the Mage Royal our captive. Good hunting to us. You, old man, will
leave us be and make no move to twist or harm our spells as we go, or
she /will /die."

Elminster nodded his head. "I understand and agree," he said heavily,
bowing his head in surrender.

Two of the Red Wizards gave him sneers of triumph as the third began a
translocation spell, and silver-blue fire erupted behind them, with force
enough to make them all stagger.

"And I," a crisp new voice said coldly, "understand my role in this
little drama well enough and agree to it." Whirling blades of shining
silver burst from nothingness to bite deep into three maroon-robed
backs, and three Red Wizards, transfixed in mid-turn, gasped as those
conjured attacks sliced through their torsos like razors. "Slaying Red
Wizards is, after all, my task and my pleasure."

Spell-bonds melted away from Caladnei of Cormyr, who fell to her hands
and knees, coughing weakly. Men were sprinting toward the cellar from
all directions, now, and spell-glows flared here and there as War
Wizards of Cormyr teleported in to join them.

Their advance was checked by a sudden wall of silver flames. Its source
smiled at them through a wild tangle of unruly silver hair, standing
proudly barefoot in a torn and tattered black robe. Her feet did
not, quite, touch the floor but trod on air just above it.

"Well met, all," she said serenely, her surging fires forcing folk of
Cormyr to fall back. "I am the Simbul, sometimes called the Witch-Queen
of Aglarond."

She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, smiled, and said to
Elminster, "Sorry, love. I came as swiftly as I could."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Five

      DEFIANCE, AUTHORITY, AND DIVINITY

/

You must not think that every third person you meet in tavern or market
is a mighty personage, who talks with the gods nightly and overthrows
empires by day. Faerun is in sad decline from the golden days of yore.
The count is now down to every seventh person, or even more.

/

Thalamoasz Threir, Sage of Sembia

/

Signposts In The Gardens of Life

/

Year of the Prince

Snarling silver flames whirled severed halves of Red Wizards to the
cellar floor and in a matter of moments melted them to greasy smoke and
then nothing at all. In the wake of their obliberation the flames
sighed, slowed, and sank to nothingness, leaving the wild-haired woman
in the tattered black robe standing on high with a smile on her face and
her arms folded across her breast.

Narnra kept to her crouch on the cold cellar floor, wondering what fresh
rending chaos of magic was going to erupt precisely where and when.
Soon, very soon. Gods above, her hair is /silver. /Truly silver, and
alive, moving like a bucket of bait-worms!

"As this is the admirably law-abiding realm of Cormyr," the Queen of
Aglarond observed calmly, the risen power of her magic carrying her
voice through every dark and distant chamber of the cellars as her
upright form drifted higher into the air, "my deeds are sure to bring
protest from those whose duty includes keeping order here, despite my
saving their hides. Again. May we, for once, begin these protests and
remonstrations in a civilized manner, please, "

The half-ring of Harpers and War Wizards stared at her in grim, wary
confusion, blades and bows and wands raised. In the far reaches of the
cellars, behind them, new radiances blossomed as more mages arrived.
Stalwarts of Cormyr cast quick glances at each other, stirred, and
seemed about to speak . . . but for long, tense moments, as their Mage
Royal winced, stretched, and found her feet, weakly waving away
Elminster's proffered hand ... no protests nor remonstrations were offered.

Then a lone man strolled almost nonchalantly forward from the line of
tense Cormyreans, toward the Queen of Aglarond. He was stout and
weatherbeaten of appearance, with sun-bronzed skin, shaggy sideburns,
and the neatest trace of a beard squaring his chin. His eyes were either
butter-hued or brown, and both his wintry brows and the copious white
hair curling out at the world from the open front of his florid silk
shirt, a fine garment that contrasted oddly with his worn and
much-patched leather breeches and mud-spattered boots, told all eyes that
he was not young and not likely to soon become any younger. His smile,
however, was bright.

"Though I'm but a humble dealer in turret tops and spires, Glarasteer
Rhauligan by name," he said, coming to a stop to peer up at the Simbul,
"perhaps that makes me a more fitting ambassador for the Forest Kingdom
than some. In the name of Cormyr, great Queen, I bid you welcome, so long
as you work no violent magic against us. A few villainous and uninvited
Red Wizards are one thing, but those sworn to uphold the laws of this
realm are quite another. In the name of Mystra, if I may be so bold, I'd
ask you not to bar passage to our Mage Royal, that she be returned
safely to us." He swept one large-fingered hand out to indicate Caladnei.

The Simbul looked down at him, her silver tresses stirring and curling
around her shoulders like the idly lashing tails of a lazy legion of
displeased cats, and replied politely, "Very civil speech, Highknight
and Harper Rhauligan, and yet plain. I thank you, and make reply: of
course the Mage Royal is free to walk as she wills. Her writ holds in
this place, so far as 'tis prudent to follow it."

"Ah," Rhauligan said quickly, eyeing Caladnei's slow and limping
progress around the Simbul toward the cellar-mouth, "and what, in your
experienced and worldly view, great Chosen and Queen, are the limits
prudence places upon such obedience, "

The Witch-Queen half-smiled. "The commandments of Mystra regarding
tyranny of all who work magic, which binds Chosen such as the Lord
Elminster and myself; and the expectations of all good and loyal folk of
Cormyr that the laws of the realm and the even-handed dispensation of
justice shall be afforded to /all, /equally, and not misused by anyone
in authority."

She lifted a hand. "I am /not /saying that your Royal Magician has thus
far shown signs of arbitrary rulings, favoritism, or corruption, merely
noting that should she do so or act in such a way as to seriously
imperil the realm, it will be the duty of all staunch citizens of Cormyr
to resist her, rather than to obey."

"And to disagree with you, most honored queen, would be to imperil the
realm, "

The Simbul's smile grew a little. "Disagree, no; attack me, yes. To lose
so many loyal War Wizards and Harpers at one stroke would seriously
weaken Cormyr's ability to deal with hostile wizards, from Thay, or
Sembian-hired, or hailing from any elsewhere, and with other conspiracies
against the Crown better led than this so-called 'Rightful' one."

"Forgive me, great lady, but this sounds very much like the 'as long as
I get my own way, things will be fine' argument of many tyrants,"
Rhauligan observed, in the gentlest of voices.

"So it does, sir, yet consider: we Chosen have magic enough to shatter
kingdoms and the minds of all folk in them, wreaking cataclysm at
will, yet we do not. We possess two things most tyrants do not: Mystra's
leash upon us, and learned wisdom as to when to smite and when to bide
in peace. Which is why you're yet standing and debating with me now,
rather than lying dead here alongside all your fellows. If I was Szass
Tarn and you'd dared to query me, even politely, rest assured that you
would be."

At that moment Caladnei reached Rhauligan and put a hand on his shoulder
in thanks and support. Behind them both, the line of Harpers and War
Wizards took a step or so closer.

In the same casual silence, Elminster strolled closer to the floating queen.

* * * * *

"They're hunting us down like hares all over the harbor right now, lord!
It's ruin for us, unless you turn it to glorious victory by hurling some
spell or other down into that cellar and collapsing it to crush the lot
of them. Why, there're more War Wizards gathered together there, and more
of Those Who Harp, too, gods take them!, than I've ever seen all in one
place since the last battle against the Devil Dragon!"

"There's no need to shout and so draw attention to yourself, good
Narvo," the unseen man who held the other speaking stone replied, almost
gently. "Have you used the mindlink spell to talk with Englar, "

Narvo breathed deeply, as if trying to calm himself by sheer will, and
said more quietly, "No, lord. I cast it, but... it failed. He's either
well away from Cormyr, or . . ."

"Dead. Most likely dead," was the calm reply. "I ordered him and some
others to find and bring back Zlorn, so he was probably down in that
cellar not long ago. What of Sanbreean,  How fares he, "

"D-dead, lord, in the fighting on the docks. I saw him hurl a spell at a
War Wizard and have his face blasted off in return. So I'm the only one
of us left. These nobles and merchants are useless! All greed and
chortling and nasty threats among themselves, and they turn and run like
shrieking rabbits the moment things go wrong!"

"Ah, well," the voice from the speaking stone in Narvo's hands said
faintly, so softly that the Red Wizard bent hastily forward over it to
hear, his nose almost touching its cold, glossy-polished surface, "these
things happen. As must, most regrettably, one more thing. /This."/

The speaking stone exploded with a roar, beheading Narvo in an instant.
The Red Wizard's corpse arched upright, clawing the air spasmodically,
then staggered back and sideways a few unsteady steps. Only a few, but
enough. . . .

The peat-hued, reeking waters of Marsember harbor were home to a sizable
collection of small, floating dead things already, but they accepted a
larger addition with an almost welcoming splash.

The events of this evening had already afforded them much practice in
such swift acceptances.

And in a dark and distant chamber, an orphaned speaking-stone was set
gently down on a tabletop whose glossy polish rivaled its own. The man
who'd put it there toyed idly with a black gem pendant at his throat and
turned away to stroll to the window, hum softly up at the winking stars,
and think. It was clearly time to consider his second, and far more
subtle, plan.

* * * * *

In the tense, crowded cellar in Marsember, the Mage Royal of Cormyr
turned to face the Simbul, keeping her balance by resting her fingertips
on Rhauligan's shoulder. Lifting her pain-lined face, she locked eyes
with the fabled Scourge of Thay.

Against her wild and towering beauty, Caladnei seemed young and of
little account, just one more leather-clad Harper among many more
menacing veterans. Long-limbed and slender, her dark brown skin almost
the hue of the leathers she wore, she regarded the Witch-Queen of
Aglarond with large, dark eyes, deep brown, rather than the ruby-red they
became when she was angry, and said calmly, "I echo Rhauligan's welcome,
but I must respectfully remind both of you, Elminster and Queen Alassra,
that in this place, in the absence of Crown Princess and Regent Alusair
and Dowager Queen Filfaeril,/ I/ am the royal law and voice of Cormyr."

"No dispute there, lass," Elminster murmured, spreading his hands, a
movement that made several Harpers nervously raise handbows. Caladnei
saw something of this out of the corner of one eye and whirled to give
the tense line of Cormyreans a quelling 'down arms' gesture.

Turning back to the two Chosen once more, she drew herself up and said,
"And in that wise, in the interests of the realm, I demand the immediate
surrender of Narnra Shalace into my keeping, and the as-swift departure
of you both from our land, honored Chosen, until times are more settled
in Cormyr."

//

/Gods watching over us, woman, but you have backbone and balls both,
/Rhauligan thought savagely, eyeing the two mighty Chosen in what might
be his last moments of life. /Your reckless idiocy leaves me despairing
but proud of you./

/Why, THANK you, most loyal dealer in turret tops and spires,
/Caladnei's thought echoed in his mind, as sharp as if she was shouting
in his ear. /Permit me to BE Mage Royal and not merely/ /carry the title
around like a costume to be sneered at, hmm,  I've two good reasons for
this particular reckless idiocy: first, to make the point that must be
made, that I happen to hold authority here and no Chosen should think
their divine favor gives them sway to do as they please; and because
what I've heard from and about this Narnra convinces me that she's much
more than she appears, and at the very least could mind-yield a LOT of
useful information about current "dark dealings" in Water-deep. I visit
your mind, Rhauligan, not to justify myself, but to give you this order:
whatever happens, you are to capture this Narnra and bring her back to
the most senior surviving Wizards of War, for questioning./

/Lady I am honored to serve, /Rhauligan thought back quickly, /I hear
and obey./

"The woman you demand," Elminster observed gently, "is not ours to
surrender. I have freed her from my own detention and will defend that
freedom, according to her wishes. Moreover, if ye examine no less than
six royal decrees and two binding treaties that I know of, preserved in
the royal records of Cormyr, I, though not the ruler of Aglarond, I'll
grant, have the freedom of the realm and a court rank, by the way, that
outstrips thine own."

Caladnei regarded him expressionlessly, her eyes going darker and more
red, then said calmly, "This may be so, yet my desires stand." She
looked up at the infamous slayer of hundreds of Thayan wizards, still
standing on air above her. "It remains my desire not to offend either of
you, but I must ask: Queen of Aglarond, what is your response to these
my stated desires, "

//

/"You /would defy /us, /child, " the Simbul asked, her voice incredulous
but amused.

Elminster looked up at her, and she turned her head to regard him. They
looked at each other in silence, thoughts clearly flashing between them.

"Great persons," Caladnei shapped, clear anger in her voice for the
first time, "I demand that you hold no private converse but share for us
all what you have to say to each other!"

"Demanding, isn't she, " Elminster remarked, not looking at the Mage
Royal. "She extended us no such courtesy when giving Rhauligan his order."

"She's young, yet," the Simbul replied tolerantly. They turned their
heads in unison to favor Caladnei with identical sweet smiles and, did as
she'd demanded.

YOU DO WELL, TO ASK ME DIRECTLY, AND, YES, SHARING OUR CONVERSE WILL BE
FOR THE BEST.

A voice that was gentle and yet thunderous rolled through the cellar,
sending Cormyreans staggering back with faces going pale and hands
faltering in fear. Not one of them needed to be told who that mind-voice
belonged to: blue-white and bright in their minds, tinged with bursting
and reforming stars of sheer power, it cried "Mystra" into every mind.

* * * * *

The chime he'd been expecting sang its eerie little song just outside
the door, and Bezrar scrambled up from his littered desk. He was
sweating, but then, Aumun Tholant Bezrar was always sweating. Part of it
was because he was, let's grant it before the gods, fat ... and the
other reason was because someone whose daily business as an importer and
wholesaler of sundry goods involved far more than the usual cartload of
smuggling and of stolen goods well, such a one has a very good reason to
sweat.

He fumbled aside the bar, the three chains, the two bolts, and flung the
door wide. "B'gads, you're here!"

"Stand aside and let me in," Surth's cold voice snapped out of the
darkness, "instead of announcing my arrival to the entire neighborhood,
you incredible dolt."

Bezrar blinked, chuckled, and hastily shuffled back to make way for his
partner. Surth was right, of course. Surth was always right. "Did
y'bring the hoods, "

"No, of /course /I strolled across all Marsember to pay for a special
order and forgot to bring them back with me!" Malakar's voice was as
thin, sour, and sarcastic as always. "You'll have to cut your own
eyeholes, you /do /have some shears in this sty, don't you, "

Bezrar chuckled rather than stiffening as he would have done in the
unlikely event of any other man in Marsember addressing him in this way.
Surth was Surth: Malakar Surth, every cold, sinister, and icily superior
inch of him. He was tall and lean where Bezrar was not and sour and
sarcastic where Bezrar was jovial and cheerfully evil.

Twas dealing in scents, wines, cordials, and drugs until the coins
spilled out of your ears that did it, that and worshipping Shar. Bezrar
neither liked nor understood Surth's love of cruelty, but there were
times when it came in right handy, stop me vitals!, such as, well, /now,
/for instance. He shook out the hood Surth handed him and held it up,
preparatory to yanking it over his head.

"Sit down first," Surth advised him coldly. " Twould be less than
amusing to see you stumbling around all this chaos putting the point of
your shears through an eye, or perhaps me." Surth made the dry little
snort that signified he'd uttered a joke and added, "Come /on. /The
night won't last forever, you know!"

"Odd's fish, no!" Bezrar agreed enthusiastically, if in muffled
tones, from within the hood. And promptly stumbled backwards to sit down
in his chair with a resounding crash. Surth rolled his eyes in disgust
as he watched the fat and hairy fingers of one sundry-wholesaling hand
grope around among the litter of papers like a drunken spider, seeking
the shears that lay ready gleaming less than a fingerlength away.

His own hood was already prepared and, he jerked it down savagely and
settled it with an impatient jerk, on. /"Bezrar" /he said warningly, in
tones that produced the expected result: a frantic flurry of activity
that sent the wholesaler's chair creaking.

"Yes, yes, aye, /yes!" /the frantically snipping wholesaler responded,
ending with a triumphant, /"There!/"

//

/"Luminous," /Surth told him in a voice that fairly dripped sarcasm down
the walls. "Now, shall we, , "

"Yes, yes, of course, b'gads!" The fat wholesaler heaved himself up like
a 'walrus conquering a shore-rock, puffed his way toward the door, and
halfway there smote his forehead, turned to pinch the lamp out and
snatch up his ready-scabbarded longknife, a truly impressive specimen of
the curved Marsemban fish-gutting blade, and turned back to his partner
with the sudden question, "What if they're not there, "

Surth set his teeth. "Then we'll try again /another /night," he
explained patiently. 'Wo /one /swindles ten thousand in gold from
Mai, from us and lives to whistle away with it."

"But . . . but what if they /are /there but are ready for us,  With dark
spells, say, "

Malakar Surth put his hand to the door and replied, "I have a ...
business associate who can step in, if need be."

"Eh,  What kind of a 'business associate', "

The tall, thin shadow silhouetted in the nightgloom of the doorway
murmured, "Bezrar, the time for silence is come. Of my associate, let's
just say, his spells are darker."

* * * * *

Narnra swallowed, or tried to, but seemed to be floating in calmness, in
the midst of glory, enthralled by that great yet gentle voice. So /this
/is a god. . . .

Slack-mouthed in awe, most of the War Wizards went to their knees in the
cellars as the thunderous voice of their goddess rolled and echoed
around them. The Harpers stood staring wide-eyed at the two Chosen, in
hopes that they'd see something, however brief and fleeting, of the Mother
of All Magic.

Something awakened in Narnra's mind as she crouched, trembling in awe,
something that seemed to find and sort through seven blue-white stars
curiously . . . then smile in an echo of the earlier smile that had
washed through the Silken Shadow.

Narnra Shalace wept inwardly, frozen like stone, as Mystra regarded her
personally and let new blue-white fire flood into those stars, leaving
her quivering. . . .

Which was why she was the only person in the room who did not hear every
syllable of Mystra's mind-voice:

AS A SMITH TESTS AND TEMPERS A BLADE, THE DESIGNS OF THE MAGES OF THAY
CAN AND SHOULD BE RESISTED AT EVERY TURN, YET IT IS MY WILL THAT THAY'S
INCREASED MERCANTILE SPREAD OF MAGIC CONTINUE, FOR NOW. YOU WERE RIGHT
TO SLAY THESE, ALASSRA, BUT TO JOURNEY NOW TO THAY AND INDULGE IN
SLAUGHTER OF OTHER RED WIZARDS WOULD BE WRONG. THEY'LL OFFER YOU SPORT
IN AGLAROND ITSELF SOON ENOUGH.

A MORE IMPORTANT CONCERN IS FOR YOU, ELMINSTER, TO DEAL WITH: YOUR
ONETIME PUPIL, VANGERDAHAST. HE'S NEITHER AS FEEBLE NOR AS FORGETFUL AS
HE'S LED CALADNEI TO BELIEVE. MAKE SURE, EL, THAT HE'S TRULY CONSIDERED
ALL IMPLICATIONS OF HIS UNFOLDING PLANS AND ISN'T JUST BEING SELFISH.
FOR ME TO PRY WOULD BE TO RUIN HIS WORK, AND FURTHER ENDANGER CORMYR.

Most of the Cormyreans in the cellar were cowering or shaking with awe
at the sheer weight and power of Mystra's presence, as her mind-voice
thundered on. They were too enthralled to faint or become numbed. The
mere contact made every mind alert and afire, but Mystra's last sentence
was the first that made the Mage Royal of Cormyr go pale.

The greatest state secret of the realm, laid bare before all.

She swayed, feeling sick, and fought down the sudden urge to cry. After
all the secrecy, innocent folk mind-blasted or slain to make them forget
what they'd seen, and the torment of facing nobles and War Wizards and
courtiers, all hostile, before she was ready ... all that work swept
away in an instant.

Whereupon two gigantic eyes opened out of nothingness behind Elminster
and the Simbul and stared right /through /them at Caladnei. RECKLESS
IDIOCY, PERHAPS, BUT BRAVELY DONE, CALADNEI OF CORMYR. MOREOVER, YOUR
SUSPICIONS OF NARNRA ARE WELL FOUNDED. NO SECRET CAN BE KEPT FOREVER,
AND YOU HAVE SHIELDED IT, I HOPE, JUST LONG ENOUGH.

Caladnei stared into those great glowing orbs, fighting to find words as
exultation rose in her, her face awash in sudden, silent tears. . . .

A lone, hooded figure in leathers sprang out of her crouch and was away
like the wind, sprinting across the cellar floor as swiftly as any
arrow. A few blue-white stars seemed to curl around her heels, just for
an instant.

Glarasteer Rhauligan shook himself like a wet dog and burst out of his
own trembling rapture at a run, slapping something into Caladnei's hands
as he went.

She stared down at what she held, not comprehending what it was for a
mind-whirling moment: a gleaming steel vial.

//

/Drink, /his firm, warm mind-voice came to her, along the spell-link
that hadn't yet expired, /and be healed. Worry not; I carry two more./

Only one other Harper scrambled to intercept the racing Silken Shadow.
Narnra flung her last purse of sand into his face, vaulted a trembling
War Wizard, and was gone up the stairs, panting for breath.

The older, stouter Rhauligan lumbered along in her wake at a slower,
grimmer speed, threading a less bruising way through the enthralled
crowd of Cormyreans.

Through the mind-link of tumbling stars, the amusement of a goddess
crashed over them all in a vast flood, forcing most in the cellar into
helpless, gasping laughter.

As they rocked and slapped thighs and shouted helpless mirth, those
giant eyes winked out, Elminster and the Simbul vanished along with all
their mist-curling radiance, and the overwhelming presence of divinity
was suddenly . . . gone.

Laughter died swiftly, as half-dazed War Wizards and Harpers clutched at
each other for support, blinked, and sighed their various ways down from
rapture. Many started swearing, and not a few bent over to brace
themselves like winded soldiers and collect their wits.

"That . . . that was something," a grizzled Harper said weakly,
grounding his sword. Beside him, two War Wizards turned and embraced
each other, their uncontrollable shudderings slowly slackening into
tremblings.

Standing alone still facing the dark emptiness that had held two Chosen
and their goddess, the Royal Magician of Cormyr stood shaking and
silent, clasping the vial to her breast and weeping uncontrollably.

A woman in trim dark robes slipped out of the crowd of Cormyreans and
went to Caladnei. She was careful to circle around the Mage Royal so as
not to startle her by clasping her from behind, but never slowed in her
advance.

Without really looking up Caladnei saw a lock of hair that had recently
gone white amid many tresses, and its owner's erect and graceful walk,
and knew as gentle arms went around her that her comforter was Speera.

Laspeera. She wasn't sure she quite dared to call Laspeera In-thre
Naerinth, the second-in-command of the War Wizards for many of
Vangerdahast's years of service, by the nickname the royal family used
for her. Laspeera, the lady she'd been afraid would resent and attack an
unknown adventurer from Turmish, anointed out of nowhere by the
increasingly difficult and much-feared old Vangerdahast . . . but who'd
instead become a firm friend, remaining a loved and trusted diplomat and
a cheerful tower of strength and moral guide for the War Wizards and the
nobility of the realm alike.

Not for the first time, she wondered what Laspeera's true thoughts were,
behind her unfailing graceful politeness. Many a courtier could act and
speak one way and believe and covertly advance quite another, and far
too many kings had fallen by trusting the wrong smiling face for too long.

Yet she could not stop crying, and Speera's arms were warm around her,
rocking her as affectionately as an older sister might.

"One of the high points of any life, yes," Laspeera murmured, "and so of
course devastating when it's over . . . but Gala, life goes on, and
there'll be others, if you work to make them happen."

That jerked Caladnei upright, to stare at the older War Wizard.
"Speera, " she blurted. "You called me 'Gala'!"

Laspeera winked at her. "Mystra take me," she murmured, "so I did. How
presumptuous and graceless of me. My tongue must have run away with me."

She kept hold of Caladnei and so was ready to catch her when the Mage
Royal collapsed into sudden, snorting laughter.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Six

      A KNIFE IN EVERY HAND

/

There's one sure way to know ye've reached a city where merchants rule:
ye'll see a knife clutched ready in every hand. If the merchants have
gone so far as to practice the misrule of kings, some of those hands
will no longer be attached to bodies.

/

Sabras "Windtrumpet" Araun /One Minstrel's Musings /Year of the Highmantle

One of the highest peaks of the Storm Horns, that great shield-wall of
mountains that defend Cormyr's western flank, is Tharbost. "The Lord of
Storms," some call it, and it glares eternally out over Tunland, so high
and wind-shrouded that few creatures lacking wings know that the lofty
tip of its spire was broken off in dragon-battle long ago, leaving
behind a small, flat high table. A rampart of teethlike rocks at the
western lip of this lofty perch affords a little shelter against the
full raking fury of the winds, so when breezes slacken, humans who
somehow reach the summit of Tharbost might hope to stand thereon for a
short time before the tireless wind-talons pluck and whirl them down again.

Two humans were standing there now: figures that had simply appeared
there out of what minstrels were wont to call "empty nowhere" moments
before, without any fuss of flowering magic or deadly struggles of climbing.

The wind moaned in a deadly rising, whipping the tattered black robe one
of them wore up into a most immodest flapping, but she stood
unconcernedly, showing no signs of struggling for balance or feeling the
icy wind-chill, side by side with a figure who spat out the end of his
beard for the third time and muttered a small, sharply worded magic to
keep it down.

The Simbul grinned at him. "Strange, how you worded your cantrip to tame
your beard but not my dress."

"Presume to alter the fashion statement of a woman who's also a queen, 
I'm widely considered a meddling fool, Lady Fire, but I'm not /that
/much of a meddling fool."

Though the sorceress no more than smiled fondly, merry laughter rolled
around the summit, shaking Tharbost and setting some of its rocks to
singing out echoes.

THIS IS WHAT I MISS MOST ABOUT LAYING ASIDE MORTALITY, Mystra told them
a trifle sadly, when she'd mastered her mirth. NO ONE TEASES /ME./

Elminster lifted his head, grin widening, and his beard promptly flew up
into his face to forestall whatever he'd been going to say.

NO, OLD MAGE, THAT WAS /NOT /A REQUEST FOR YOU TO START DOING SO. HEAR
AND BELIEVE. As a coda to that emphatic statement, Elminster's beard
slapped down to its tamed position once more.

The Simbul promptly burst into laughter at his revealed expression, so
it was left to the long-suffering onetime Prince of Athalantar to
observe, "Ye cannot have snatched us here, Divine One, just to hear us
banter. Ye've more to impart, eh, "

OF COURSE. WHENEVER POSSIBLE, ALASSRA SILVERHAND, HEED ME TRUE!, YOU ARE
TO SUBVERT RED WIZARDS RATHER THAN SLAUGHTER THEM.

The Simbul lifted an eyebrow. "'Subvert', "

LAY DEEP-MIND SUGGESTION SPELLS TO GENTLY NUDGE THE THAYANS INTO ACTING
AS I DESIRE THEM TO. SOME WILL YET HAVE TO BE SLAIN, BUT TOO MANY HAVE A
CAPACITY TO CRAFT NEW MAGICS AND EXPAND MORTAL USE OF THE WEAVE, TO LOSE
THEM ALL.

"I hear and obey," the Simbul said formally, bowing her head. "In truth,
my ... bloodlust when it comes to Red Wizards increasingly frightens me.
I'll stay my hand and do as you command. Guide me as to the actions you
want them steered into."

"I hear and obey," Elminster echoed, "and will do the same. Command and
guide us."

I SHALL. THANK YOU.

The rising wind whistled around them, heard but unfelt. It whipped away
their breath in long, fleeting plumes as the Chosen waited, finding
themselves after some dozen plumes had raced away east still standing on
the desolate mountaintop, beneath a sky of uncaring stars.

"There's more, Divine One," Elminster observed calmly, not leaving it as
a question.

The rocks around them seemed to sigh. YES.

YES, THERE IS. The wind moaned higher. MOMENTS LIKE THAT MOOT IN THE
CELLARS MAKE ME FEEL VERY . . . MORTAL AGAIN. UNCERTAIN. UNSETTLED.

The wind slackened, and after a moment Mystra spoke again. HOW WELL ...
IN YOUR HONEST, BLUNT JUDGMENT, BOTH OF YOU, SPEAKING FREELY WITHOUT
FEAR OF ... REPRISAL . . . HOW AM I DOING, 

Elminster and the Simbul turned their heads and traded sober glances,
there in the whistling wind, and it was Elminster who spoke, his voice
gentle.

"In this we are both agreed, Most Mighty," he told the empty, echoing
air around him. "Considering how we two, who have wielded some measure
of the power ye hold for hundreds of years longer than ye have existed,
so often mess up: fine. Just fine."

* * * * *

A bobbing barge saved her. She leaped, landed hard, and skidded across
its damp /roof just /slowly enough to kick up ... and /out . . .
/gaining the height she needed to cross a widening stretch of inky water
and crash heels-first onto the already-battered rail of a barge littered
with heaps of rusty chain, garbage, crab sink-cages, and a tangle of
rotting nets, startling into cursing wakefulness the three filthy beggars
sleeping thereon, and vault over its massive dragger-arm, onto the next
island.

Where the Silken Shadow ducked into an alley and raced along, crouching
low and coming to a cautious, creeping halt at its far end, which, as
she'd correctly guessed, was also the other side of the isle. The bridge
onward, to a much larger island that would give her a choice of routes
toward the true shore, was only a few running paces away, but it would
be guarded, and one or perhaps two warriors she could burst past, but
more, or sentinels who had handbows or spells, would be quite another
matter.

She crouched tensely, knowing she hadn't much time before the pursuit
caught up with her. Mantle of Mystra, but she couldn't even count how
many teleporting War Wizards and as-good-as-she-was-probably-better
Harpers were down there, what if that Mage Royal sent them /all /after her, 

Ironically, it was Glarasteer Rhauligan himself who saved her. He came
bounding up to the top of the steps, puffing a little, and called an
alarm to the guard, asking if he'd seen a lone lass in dark leathers and
a mask running his way.

The startled guard stepped out to make reply. Narnra darted from behind
him like an eager arrow and was halfway across the bridge before
Rhauligan saw her and roared a warning in earnest.

A lantern glimmered as it was raised at the far end of the bridge, a
simple, mist-slick stone arch, in the gloved hand of an armored guard who
seemed to have brought several dozen of his fellows along with him.
Narna cursed and sprang over the side of the bridge without slowing.

The water was as icy as it was filthy, and she came up clawing her way
free of floating debris better not seen, and hauled herself around the
bow of a barge that had been moored so long that weeds had grown
themselves a curtain on its chains. Something nosed against and nibbled
at her boot underwater. She kicked out in fear and revulsion, felt
something solid flinch away, and clambered up out onto another dock as
if all the gods themselves were clutching at her.

A guard called out to his fellows, somewhere nearby in the mist-curling
darkness. Narnra cursed savagely and silently, and swarmed up the nearest
crumbling wall, moments before a spear-point came jabbing after her.

Loose, rotting shingles slipped and slid under her feet, pulling
something in her thigh with a sickening jolt of pain, then she was away
through an exhausting and seemingly endless labyrinth of slick rooftops,
mist, more rooftops, more crumbling walls, and desperate leaps across
narrow, stinking canals.

When a particularly long leap drove her breath from her and left her
curled and gasping around an ornamental stone spire someone had
thoughtfully carved jutting up from a roof-edge, Narnra Shalace took the
time to catch her breath, rub at her leg, wince, and turn to notice two
things.

At some point in her frantic flight, she'd well and truly reached the
mainland, crossing several streets of what must be the city of
Marsember. More importantly, the Harper who'd dared to bandy words with
that fearsome Queen of Aglarond, Glar-something Rhauligan, that was his
name, had followed her in her mad leaps and sprints all this way across
the rooftops and was in sight of her now, jumping easily across an alley
not three rooftops back!

"Mask and Tymora, aid me!" Narnra hurled that snarled prayer up at the
few stars she could see glimmering through the chill, thickening mists,
and ran on, kicking her leg to loosen the muscles, within, that were
giving her pain. Yes, it was hurting less, but . . .

She scaled a roofpeak and slid down the far side, noting grimly just how
far she'd have to leap to avoid a bone-shattering fall into the street
below.

In mid-leap she had a momentary glimpse of a sleepy apprentice reaching
out to fasten the shutters of his high window, seeing her, and freezing
the moment he got his mouth open to gape at her, then she was past,
slamming into the roof above the dumbstruck apprentice with her knees
and elbows. Tiles broke and skittered away down the roof under her as
she slid a little way, got her boot onto the dormer root just above the
apprentice, stopped her fall, and doggedly climbed back up and over this
roofpeak. As she went over, she risked a glance back over her shoulder.

There was Rhauligan, their eyes meeting for a brief, thoughtful moment
ere she dropped out of view and slid down the far side of her roof
toward a lower one, beyond. Belonging to a small building, it was
narrow, relatively flat, and of wooden shingles streaked with thick and
probably slippery moss, but it led to another steep roof, not far away,
and the short distance between the two peaks gave Narnra an idea.

She could spare a dagger, a dagger. If she could get to that second roof
in time . . .

She could, and, /thank /you, Mask and Tymora both!, the far side of this
Marsemban mansion sprouted a side-wing whose lower roofpeak gave her
something to stand on, below the one that looked back at the way her
pursuer should be coming. And high-ranked Harper in the service of
Cormyr or not, what'd the Simbul called him,  "Highknight", , he'd not chase
her half so well once he'd stopped a steel fang in the face!

Rhauligan's head was suddenly there, bobbing up over the edge of his
roof, and she set her teeth, rose up, and threw her second-best belt
knife as hard and as fast as she could.

It bit home and stuck, quillons-deep in ... well, he must have slipped
on a hood, or a mask. His head, if it was his head, sank down out of view,
leaving the Silken Shadow to stare across at the rooftop, briefly
moonlit, now, as the mists parted momentarily . . . and breathe heavily
. . . and wonder if she'd just killed the man.

When the mists came back and returned the rooftops to smoke-like shadow,
several long breaths later, Narnra drew in a deep, shuddering breath,
turned, and went on.

* * * * *

"Starmara,  Starmara, my love, are you awake, "

Her husband's voice was a throaty growl, the tone he fondly believed was
some sort of irresistible amorous purr, and Starmara Dagohnlar stared
drowsily at the luxurious rubyweave draperies of their bed-canopy, high
overhead, and managed not to sigh.

Durexter Dagohnlar could certainly rake in the coins when she urged him
on. He might be a thoroughly dishonest, ill-smelling brute and boor of a
mightily successful, and widely hated,  Marsemban merchant . . . but
before all the gods, he was /her /thoroughly dishonest, ill-smelling
brute and boor.

And there were times when beasts must be sated, no matter how
distasteful the process. Sleepily Starmara shed her shimmer-weave robe
so he wouldn't tear it apart like he had the last one, elbowed a cushion
aside so she'd be comfortable, and whispered back as alluringly as she
knew how, "Awake and aching for you, my lord."

Durexter chuckled and rolled across the substantial acreage of silken
sheeting between them, scattering cushions and breathing the garlic and
Thayan pepper sauce she fervently wished he wouldn't douse his meat so
heavily with, all over her.

"Well, now, my proud beauty, so smooth and warm and, heh-heh,
/handy/, know the love of the most grasping, deceitful, law-shattering,
tax-evading, and just gods-kissed /successful /merchant in all Marsember!"

Starmara gently bit her husband's chest to keep from having to kiss the
stinking mouth that was so enthusiastically delivering his usual modest
little speech, as he bruisingly maneuvered himself into what he imagined
was a heroic stance. She entertained a brief fantasy of just sliding
right down the bed and out from under whilst he was still chest-beating
and crowing his exploits, so that he'd ultimately crash down onto, nothing.

Then he was ... he was . . .

Choking and gurgling strangely above her, awakening Starmara to the
sudden apprehension that his heart might have given out at blessed last
and he was now going to slam down and crush her into the bed,
suffocating her with his dead weight long before any servant could find
them! Frantically, she clambered and slid toward the foot of the bed,
her perfumed robe tangling, and emitted a brief shriek as Durexter
toppled over suddenly onto her left elbow.

With a frantic twist and kick she freed herself and wormed past, wriggling, 

Hard into an unfamiliar knee, that was clad in black leather and
attached to someone who wheezed and smelled quite differently from her
husband . . . and who now reached down to discover what had fetched up
against him, felt it thoroughly as Starmara gave in to a sudden impulse
to scream, as loudly and as throat-strippingly as she knew how, and
roared, "Ho, Mai! I've found the wench! And she's, heh-heh, she's . . ."

"All right, /all /right," hissed another, vaguely familiar and much
sharper man's voice. "Stop leering. Have you done strangling him yet, "

"Uh, well, he's not dead, but I thought y'said, "

//

/"Tie /him /up,  /the thin voice snarled. "Back of neck to bedpost, so he
doesn't get any ideas about escaping or fighting, then his little
fingers together because no one enjoys breaking their own fingers, both
on the /same side /of the bedpost rather than around behind it, mind, and
leave the rest to me. I'll be finished with Haughty Lady Starmara here
by then."

Head enveloped in her own silks, the wife of the most grasping,
deceitful, law-shattering, tax-evading, and successful merchant in all
Marsember threw herself up and over the ornately rolled scrollwork end
of the bed, kicking wildly, and succeeded only in hurling herself into
the cold and exceedingly efficient hands of the unseen owner of the thin
voice. He threw her across her own footstool with force enough to leave
her helplessly sobbing for breath and had her ankles, knees, wrists, and
elbows trussed before she even had enough wind back to protest.

When she did, of course, he fed silken robe into her mouth until she
choked then bound it there with the robe's belt, leaving the rest of the
material across her face. He bent with a grunt, almost inaudible amid
louder growls, grunts, and scufflings from the bed, and the next thing
Lady Starmara Dagohnlar knew, a cold, hard, and very heavy weight was
lying across her stomach and hips, and she could have no more struggled
or moved than flapped her arms and flown across the Sea of Fallen Stars
to that lovely house-of-baths in Westgate. The smell of moth-powder told
her she was probably pinioned under her own blanket-chest.

"Done," the voice of the owner of the knee said triumphantly from the
bed. "Trussed like a feasting-fowl."

"Then we'll have him down here on the floor next to his blushing lady, at
least she should be blushing; just /look /at that tattoo!, and the fun
can begin."

"Oh,  What tattoo, "

//

/"Later, /Bez. Relocation of doomed merchants first, hmm, '

* * * * *

Glarasteer Rhauligan winced as he drew Narnra's razor-sharp blade out of
his capture hood and one of his spread fingers inside it. He bound his
sliced digit tightly with one of the strips of cloth he always kept
ready in one of his belt pouches.

So his little fleeing vixen was down one dagger but bound to have at
least two, and probably twice that many, more. Next time one might bite
his real head and not a hasty counterfeit. The capture hood had one much
enlarged eyehole now and would bear replacing when he ...

He scrambled up, ran along the roof-gutter, thank the gods for
Marsember's filthy-wet weather; it meant every house was covered with
copious and sturdy troughs and spouts, and sprang onto the next roof
along, rather than going over the roofpeak again to greet a second dagger.

If Tymora was with him, she'd run where he was anticipating she would,
which was, /yes! /There!

A slender hip in dark leathers hastily ducking away around the edge of
another roof . . . she knew he was still on her heels, but he knew just
how little city she had left to run through in that direction before the
wall would hedge her in and force her to either go west and south and
down to the streets ... or turn back toward him.

Breathing easily, Glarasteer Rhauligan trotted through the mist that
seemed now to be threatening to turn to a dawn rain and grinned. This
was fun, and, /whoalaho! /She'd doubled back already and, a dark form spun
across a street below him, just above a guard-lamp, was really putting
wings to her boots!

His fierce grin widened. /Well, /now . . .

* * * * *

Durexter and Starmara Dagohnlar lay side by side on their new and softly
luxurious Athkatlan carpet, trussed, furious, and helpless. Their two
assailants wore black hoods and waved two of the largest gleaming-sharp
Marsemban longknives the lord and lady merchant had ever seen . . . but
both Dagohnlars knew very well by now who the two were.

There were merchants in Marsember more ruthless and dishonest than Lord
Durexter Dagohnlar, but he took care not to have any dealings with them
nor to cross them in even the smallest way. He even took small losses
here and there in keeping himself too useful to them to be eliminated.
There were also many Marsemban merchants almost as shady in dealings as
he was, but Durexter took care to keep holds over such men, so as to
prevent what was happening right now: two of them coming by night to
forcibly collect coins the bound couple had swindled away from them.

The fat, sweating, jovial one would be the smuggler and
stolen-goods-vendor Bezrar, whose schemes were as brutish and simple as
he was. The taller, thinner one was the real danger: Malakur Surth dealt
in poisons and drugs, among other things, and had dealings with local
priests of Shar and with certain spell-wielding outlanders, even, if the
latest whispers Durexter had paid good coin for were correct, at least
one Red Wizard of Thay.

Unbeknownst to Durexter, his lady lying beside him could have supplied
the name of that Thayan mage, for, thanks to the private rental-chambers
at a local house of beauty, and the enterprising matrons who patronized
them, her sources were even more expensive and exclusive. Malakar Surth
had recently entered into limited bound service with one Harnrim
"Darkspells" Starangh for their mutual profit and advancement.

None of which was much warm comfort, considering that Durexter had
openly and sneeringly short-coined Bezrar and Surth, laughingly
directing them to "call on the gods" or "beseech the Crown" for their
losses; sums set down in writing nowhere, if any of the parties involved
had any wits at all, and concerned with completely unlawful business
dealings. It would be long seasons of cells and roadgang-work for anyone
who went yapping to the authorities.

It was, of course, Surth who spoke first. "You both know us," he said
silkily, "and why we're here. We intend to leave this grand house of
yours with what's owed to us, Bezrar, the rope!, and the persuasion we
employ can be as gentle or as painful as you determine."

"Oh! Ah!" Bezrar responded, unbuckling his breeches. Starmara made a
muffled sound that might have been a bleat of alarm or might have merely
been an expression of disgust, but revealed to her from-the-floor gaze
was a leather cod of weary age and condition, below a long, continuous
coil of coarse rope that had been wound round and round the merchant's
hips, adding noticeably to his impressive girth, which shrank rapidly as
the merchant tugged, hauled on the rope, then began a ponderous
imitation of a dancing-lass undulating on a pedestal at a revel,
shedding coils around his feet with a clumsiness that made Surth sigh
and Starmara suddenly want to laugh. This Bezrar was so much like
Durexter trying to be alluring. . . .

"Your bedposts will do admirably to anchor the two ropes we have here,"
Surth explained casually, "as we tie the other ends to your
ankles, securely, I hope, and lower you both out the window, head-first
into the canal below."

Starmara no longer felt in the least like laughing.

"We'll dangle you underwater for a bit for the eels to have something to
nibble on then pull you up and ask you for some money. Bez here is
strong; he can haul you up many times, though of course the more angry
and tired we get, the longer we'll leave you to breathe water or feed
fishes. Simple enough, hmm, "

Durexter, who had not been gagged, chose that moment to disagree, loudly
and profanely. Surth merely smiled, but when the lord merchant
progressed to shouting, the dealer in drinkables knelt with a knee on
Durexter's throat and remarked, "Bellow any more and I'll cut your
tongue out. I know you can write down the whereabouts of your money, even
with several broken fingers."

He looked over at Starmara, and added, "That goes for you too, Lady
Dagohnlar. Scream once, and you'll get away with it, but my knife will
make sure you don't scream twice ... or ever again use that lashing
tongue you're so proud of, for the rest of your life. However, ahem,
short that may be. Bez and I have registered this little debt, you
see, so we could seize this house in the regrettable event of your deaths
and strip most of its contents before your other creditors awakened to
dispute our right to do so."

He waved an airy hand, longknife flashing, and lifted his knee because
Durexter had gone a rich, convulsively twisting purple. "Ah, but forgive
me: I've forgotten to announce what will happen when we get tired of
hauling you up to drip dirty canal-water all over this nice carpet.
Assuming, of course, you don't simply remember where in this nice house
your rainy-day wealth is hidden, so we your honored guests can recover
our losses."

He pointed at his hooded companion with his blade. "Bez here has just
taken delivery of a new longknife, show the nice Dagohnlars your knife,
Bez! Aha, see!, and he wants to test its edge in /real /cutting. Now,
I've recently noticed that men. . . and women, too, by the gods, come to
think of it... have toes. Lots of them. Little appendages none of us
really need. We could relieve you of them, one by one, and collect them
for Ponczer down at the Firehelm to cook up for you in a nice dish.
Durexter first, I think. When we're done, we'll drop you in your own
cellar to bleed and give the rats something to nibble, I hate rats, don't
you,  Squeaking, swarming, ravenously gnawing things . . ."

Surth stood up, admired the glittering tip of his own knife, then lifted
his eyebrows, looked down at Starmara as if only now remembering her,
and said softly, "Ah, Lady Starmara! With your beauty, perhaps we could
arrange a pleasanter punishment ... or, on the other hand, perhaps you
might unfortunately /lose /that beauty." He watched his knife gleam as
he turned it, slowly, and smiled.

"By S-shar herself," Durexter whispered, as the slender merchant bent
swiftly to put his knife to Starmara's cheek, "what're you /doing, /man, "

"Hold still, dear," Malakar Surth said fondly, but unnecessarily, as
Starmara had just fainted, and deftly sliced through the belt of her
robe, to remove her gag. He turned his head to smile at Durexter and
replied, "What am I doing, lord,  'Leering triumphantly' is the
appropriate phrase, I believe."

As he felt Aumun Bezrar's rough hands at his ankles and the prickle of
coarse rope, it was Lord Durexter Dagohnlar's chance to faint.
Enthusiastically, he seized it.

* * * * *

She was panting, now, almost as loudly as the man so close behind her.
They were both scrambling on the rooftops in the clinging mists, perhaps
the length of a long wagon apart, and Rhauligan was gaining.

Narnra doubled around a buttress of vomiting gargoyles, vomiting
birdnests, it seemed, and she slipped and almost fell when they suddenly
erupted in black, squawking, fluttering gorcraws or the like, and
silently cursed the man. He seemed to know every roof and facade and
alleyway, where she did not, and twice now had almost cornered her with
no place to leap to, and no safe place to climb down.

Almost, and, blast! /Again!/

At the far end of the roof she'd just landed on, one with a drenched
little rooftop garden, reached through a door protected by a massive,
chased iron gate that might have given an army trouble, let alone one
thief armed with a few fangs and her fingernails, was . . . nothing.

A canal, with a near-impossible long leap across it to a grand mansion .
. . and not the roof of that ornate turret-sprouting fortress of stone,
either, but a lone dark and open window, high above the dark waters
below. Narnra snatched a glance back over her shoulder and saw just what
she'd expected: Rhauligan smiling grimly as he gained her rooftop, ready
in a crouch for any desperate rush she might make at him . . . leaving
her no place to go.

No place but the desperate fool's leap.

The Silken Shadow clenched her fists, threw back her head to gulp air,
chose her path across the garden between the great tubs and barrels of
dripping plants, and ran for all she was worth, gaining speed and veering
at the end just enough to hurl herself up ... up ... high into the
night, tumbling once . . . twice . . .

Glory of glories! She was going to, 

Crash into the window-sill hard enough to numb her arm and shoulder or
break them outright, smash all the wind from her lungs, and somersault
her helplessly into the darkness beyond, to thump, bounce, and skid
along on a thick, fur-like carpet.

Colored glass in two decorative side-panels shattered and sang around
her as she burst them wide, to bounce and swing in her wake, and . . .

There was a great bed in the ornate room. A naked man and woman lay
bound hand and foot beside each other by the foot of it, and turning from
them, two dark-clad, hooded figures with curved, gleaming knives in
their hands!

Winded and in pain, Narnra could do no more than twitch and writhe as
she came to a halt, and black-clad bodies blotted out the light.

Steel flashed down and bit into her, so cold and sharp that she couldn't
have screamed even if she'd had breath enough to do so. Narnra rolled
away, or tried to, mewing in pain, as those knives bit down again and again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Seven

      INTRIGUE IS A FINE DARK WINE

/

Making coins and crushing rivals is a fine day's feasting, but the dance
of intrigue that leads to such things is a fine dark wine.

/

Andratha Thunbarr

/

My Days As A Merchant Queen

/

Year of the Wandering Wyrm

"Get her! By Shar, a hired slayer! Durexter, you'll pay for this!" Surth
snarled, stabbing for all he was worth. He promptly slipped on the
bunched-up carpet for the fourth time and fell heavily across the
newcomer, leaving Bezrar no safe place to stab.

"Not mine!" the trussed merchant cried frantically, from the floor. "Not
mine!"

"That's true," another voice roared, as someone /else /burst through the
window, sending fresh shards of glass bouncing and singing across the
bedchamber, "because she's /mine!/"

Gasping, shuddering, and pawing feebly for her own knife, Narnra Shalace
sobbed in the grip of worse pain than she'd ever felt before, searing
and wet and, emptying. She was emptying out, flowing . . .

Struggling atop her, Malakar Surth set the point of his knife into the
floor, drove it down hard through a gap in the tiles, and used it as a
handle to drag himself off of the heaving, slithering night-slayer
beneath him. Such folk often carried poisons, possibly ones he himself
had supplied, and he wanted to be well away from this one before, 

Glarasteer Rhauligan ducked under Bezrar's wild slash, slammed a balled
fist into the fat merchant's rotund chest, above the belly and below the
heart, forcing Bezrar into the wild battlecry of "Eeep!", and ran on,
slamming hard into Surth and smashing him back against the nearest wall,
which happened to sport a glass-fronted wardrobe.

More singing shards rained down amid the bouncing of Surth's bruised
limbs, and Rhauligan found his feet, snatched Narnra by the shoulder,
and was away toward the window before the wardrobe wavered, shivered all
over as Starmara Dagohnlar screamed for the fate of her finest frilled
lovegowns and nightrobes, and began its ponderous but inexorable
thundering topple to the floor.

Malakar Surth, head ringing and hands smarting from dozens of small
cuts, got himself dazedly up onto one elbow, coughing for breath, in
time to wonder why what faint light there was in the room was so swiftly
disappearing . . . for all the world as if black night was coming down
from above like a solid ceiling . . .

The crash of the wardrobe slamming down with force enough to snatch
everyone off their feet, or in the case of the trussed Dagohnlars, into
the air, was loud enough to deafen Surth, even before his head burst
through the flimsy back panel of the piece with a loud splintering
sound. Had the wardrobe possessed stout wooden front doors, on the other
hand, he might never again have heard anything at all.

This was not a consideration he was presently in any fit condition to
entertain. Wearing a rough cap of splinters, Surth's hooded head lolled
and sagged to one side.

Bezrar caught a glimpse of his partner's fate as he fetched up against
the window-frame and for one sickening moment thought he was going to go
canal-diving right out through it.

When he found his feet again, he reeled across the room with more speed
than skill, suffering a bruising punch from the second night-slayer as
he rushed past, and was gone out the bedchamber door and down through the
dark and silent house.

A few frightened servants peered at him through the little peep-panels
in the doors of their rooms, but no one ventured forth to see what was
causing all the tumult. Dagohnlar business was Dagohnlar business, and
Dagohnlar privacy was Dagohnlar privacy. These rules had been made
firmly clear years ago and upheld several times. It was very clearly
understood that any servant who dared to intrude upon the Lord and Lady
Masters before they were summoned by the gong could expect immediate
dismissal, if not worse.

Ignoring the frantically pleading and squirming couple on the floor,
Glarasteer Rhauligan dragged his quarry over to the window where the
light was best and roughly unhooded her.

"Right, lass," he growled, shaking her, "let's be having your
blades, /hilt /first, mind, and, "

Narnra Shalace threw her arms around him, and collapsed.

Rhauligan held her in one encircling arm and peered at her pale face.
Blood was running freely from her mouth, her beseeching eyes were
sliding into darkness . . . and the front of her leathers, where she was
pressed against him, was dark and slick with her own welling blood.

* * * * *

The brazier spat a larger flame than before. This gout of fire did not
fade as most do, but grew and curled as it rose, brightened, pulsed once
more, and expanded into ... a floating head. A long-bearded, thin, and
human male head, that turned to give the young wizard standing alone in
the room a sharp look.

Harnrim "Darkspells" Starangh smiled. "I am here, Lord Tharun-dar, and
quite alone. My meeting with Lady Ambrur is but hours away."

"You know your orders, and have satisfied me as to your reasons for
meeting this person; why, then . . ., "

Starangh inclined his head. "I know you've many important workings
active, Lord, and presume on your time only in this one wise: my measure
of the Lady Joysil Ambrur has thus far been taken purely through
hearsay, the testimony of others. All deeds and entanglements and wealth,
rather than personality. It would help greatly to successfully
accomplish my task for you if I knew anything you can tell me about this
woman's character, ere I meet her."

The spell-spun head smiled just as thinly and coldly as the real
Tharundar, half of Faerun away at this moment, was wont to, and replied,
"You, Harnrim, have perhaps a third of the competence with spells that
you think you do. However, I value you very highly among my tools,
because you are that rarest of Red Wizards: one who combines youth, what
are so glibly called 'good looks,' ambition, slyness, the clever tongue
and iron self-control of a veteran diplomat, patience, superb acting
skills, and a talent for handling powerful magic."

The spectral head drifted a little closer. "And you defer to me and call
on my wisdom where most others would be too proud to do so. Keep
yourself alive, young Starangh, and you'll rise high indeed. As for the
Lady Ambrur, tell me first your judgment of her, briefly, for you've no
need to impress me further."

The man who was pleased to be called "Darkspells" spread his hands in a
gesture of amused bafflement. "I believe, so far as I believe anything,
that she's a bored noble utterly fascinated by intrigue and being 'in
the know' and at the heart of secrets and conspiracies. In other words,
she does it all for fun."

The head of flames seemed to nod slightly. "Your conclusions, so far as
the wider world has been able to tell, are correct. Yet let me lay this
warning beside them: There seems to me to be more to the Lady Joysil
than mere money and sophisticated boredom. Intrigue is like a drug to
her, yes, but . . . there's something more to her as well. . . ."

"Hidden depths, " Starangh smiled. "We all have them, Lord."

* * * * *

Rhauligan blinked in astonishment, shot swift glances across the
bedchamber to make sure no stealthy foe was readying a blade to throw or
some other mischief, and lowered the woman he'd been hunting gently to
the floor. One of the trussed couple rolled over to watch.

Gods above, how could such a slender thing have so much blood to lose, 
If she was to be taken alive, there was no time left for thinking of
such things!

Kneeling over her, he reached past the spreading river of dark, wet
stickiness to his left boot, and drew out the steel vial he kept
sheathed therein. Its bottom sported a spike for planting it ready in
the ground, and he used that spike and his fingers to part her clenched
teeth, ramming a knuckle into the corner of her jaw to keep it open as
he bit the cork off the vial.

Under his finger, Narnra's eyes flickered. As Rhauligan spat the cork
away into the gloom, they flashed open, and she twisted feebly under him,
making no sound but a ragged hiss of pain. One hand lifted to strike at
his face, wavered far from its target, and fell back as a groan escaped
her. The Harper brought the vial down with his thumb over the end,
thrust it between her teeth, and held it there, collapsing forward onto
her to pin her where she lay.

The usual choking and coughing erupted almost immediately, but Narnra
was too weak to do more than quiver and thrash . . . for the first few
moments.

Rhauligan rode her bucking, arching body grimly through the wilder
moments that followed, knowing the restless pain that such healing
brought, then rolled her over with brutal efficiency and snatched out
what he carried in his other boot: lengths of dark, waxed binding cord.

By the time her wrists were bound together and secured to the back of
her own belt, Narnra was fully healed, and twisting with a furious
energy that brought a wry smile to her captor's lips.

"None of that, lass," he told her merrily, as he spun Narnra around by
the elbows and hauled her to her feet. "You're off to the Mage Royal for
questioning. You can, of course, thank me for your life later."

Narnra's answer was to turn her head as sharply as she could and spit at
him, kicking wildly at where she thought his nearest leg must be. She'd
guessed rightly, but Glarasteer Rhauligan had suffered much worse than
being kicked and spat on before and merely chuckled and shifted his stance.

"Come on, lass," he growled. "The chase is up, and Caladnei's not so bad
as all tha, /auuool"/

Narnra sat down suddenly, thrusting out her behind into him, and the
overbalanced Harper put out a foot to brace himself, brought it down on
the edge of the toppled wardrobe, turned his ankle, and toppled
helplessly. The Silken Shadow jerked, elbow-thrust, and twisted
desperately to free herself from his grasp, and so bounced atop him but
out of his hands when he crashed down onto the already-split back panel
of the wardrobe.

"My /clothes!" /Starmara Dagohnlar moaned, as Narnra Shalace sprang up
off the man who'd saved her life like a dark whirlwind and made for the
window.

Rhauligan roared in pain and self-annoyance and rolled himself upright,
ignoring the sudden cries from the floor of, "Rescue! Sir, a rescue!
We're rich, we can pay! /Help /us, please!"

He was in time to see the faint rectangle of light at the window blotted
out by Narnra's rushing body, then clear again. A moment later, there was
a mighty splash from below.

The canal. She was going to drown herself in the gods-rotting canal.

With a growl of rising rage Glarasteer Rhauligan ran across the room,
bounded once, and plunged through the window cleanly, heralding his own,
mightier splash.

Durexter and Starmara Dagohnlar exchanged bewildered glances, but their
bedchamber, as long moments dragged and passed, remained empty of
suddenly appearing, charging and knife-waving hooded assailants ... or
any other unexpected new arrivals, either.

They regarded each other again . . . and in unspoken accord, stirred
into action in unison, rolling and wriggling closer to one another.

"The gong-pull!" the lord merchant snarled, when he caught his breath.
"Can you get upright and reach it, "

"I can't even/ feel/ my feet," his lady snapped, "and if you think I'm
going to summon the servants in with the both of us mother-naked and
bound like fowl for the roasting-spit . . . gods, Durr, don't you
/realize,  /They'd probably slit our throats with glee! Now, roll over so
I can get my teeth to your wrists!"

A sudden groan from the wardrobe made them both freeze in fear. The
hooded head thrusting up through splintered ruin turned groggily and
groaned again.

//

/"Hurry" /Lord Durexter Dagohnlar snarled, knocking his forehead against
his wife's in his urgency, and plunging her into a head-pain worse than
she'd known for years. His breath was . . . even more fearsome.

Starmara's thoughts, as she rolled away from him and reared up, kicking
her bound feet until she was sitting on the rucked and folded carpet,
were murderous. For that, husband mine, you /die. /Not yet, not until
we're safely next in Westgate, but you . . . you utter pig, Durr.

//

/"Hurry," /Lord Dagohnlar said again, almost pleading. "If we can kill
Surth, we're safe. That fat fool Bezrar won't dare do anything without
him. If Surth wakes and gets to us before we're free, it's us who'll be
feeding the eels before dawn! So start gnawing!"

"You make me sound like a rat," Starmara hissed and started tugging with
her teeth.

Wisely, Durexter did not reply.

* * * * *

The tireless wind whistled past Tharbost, whipping the Simbul's robe up
nearly over her head.

THERE'S A SIMPLE CANTRIP . . .

"Highest," the Queen of Aglarond replied with a smile, tossing her hair
unconcernedly, "I try never to waste magic on unimportant things. 'Tis
so easy to fall into the habit of trying to steer every last little
detail of Faerun, from where shadows fall to the color of turning leaves
. . . and every use of the Weave has its consequences. I care little for
garments, am comfortable in this torn old thing, and what matters it if
you or El see my rump,  We all have one, after all."

I STAND CHASTENED, Mystra's thunder came more quietly. YOUR VIEW IS THE
RIGHT ONE. NEVER HESITATE TO SAY SUCH THINGS, EITHER OF YOU, FOR I HAVE
A GREAT MOUNTAIN OF MUCHNESS STILL TO LEARN.

Elminster groaned. "Don't let thy priests hear that phrase, or they'll
be falling off mountainsides all over Faerun."

Mystra's startled laughter sang around them with force enough to shatter
small shards of rock from old Tharbost.

THANK YOU, OLD MAGE. I FEAR I CAN ONLY OFFER YOU POOR REPAYMENT: MORE
ORDERS.

Elminster went to one knee. "Command me, Lady of Mysteries."

GET UP, OLD FRAUD [confusion] . . . AND ACCEPT, I ASK, MY APOLOGIES: YOU
MEANT THAT, IN TRUTH.

"I did indeed."

Any deity has the power to bear down and open out any mortal mind like a
book, to lay bare and read every last thought, feeling, and memory, but
to do so in any manner but the slowest and most subtle way ruins the
mind being examined.

Moreover, the Chosen of Mystra held a measure of her own power. It
flared whenever She thrust into their minds, until to proceed was like
staring into the sun, searing and being seared, harming both and
learning nothing. So Mystra, the new Mystra, had swiftly learned not to
pry beyond what thoughts and memories her Chosen willingly shared.

FORGIVE ME, EL. I'M STILL LEARNING. HEAR THEN MY WILL: YOU ARE TO
ACQUAINT CALADNEI WITH VANGERDAHAST'S SCHEME AND WATCH OVER HER AS WELL
AS HIM, STEERING HER IF NEED BE. I DON'T WANT TO LOSE THE WAR WIZARDS OR
SEE INFIGHTING AMONGST THEM, OR THEY'LL BE JUST ONE MORE FRACTURED,
HOSTILE FELLOWSHIP OF SELF-INTERESTED MAGES, LIKE THE RED WIZARDS.

ALASSRA, THOSE SAME RED WIZARDS ARE UP TO FRESH MISCHIEF IN AGLAROND.
BEWARE MINDWORM MAGIC WORKING ON THOSE YOU TRUST.

The Simbul's smile was as wry as her voice as she replied, "Most Mighty,
beyond present company, I trust no one. And sometimes, I'm not too sure
about either of you."

Divine laughter rolled around the mountaintop again, but whereas Mystra
clearly took the Queen of Aglarond's words as a jest, Elminster's fondly
knowing and forgiving smile told Alassra he knew she was quite
serious, and as wise as ever.

* * * * *

Malakar Surth's head rang like a bell, and hurt as much as if he was
being beaten ceaselessly with one, too, a large and rusty specimen.
Snarling at the pain and shaking his head in a vain bid for relief that
did not come, he opened his eyes, let the slowly whirling room parade
past him in all its wavering glory for an unknown time, and recalled
something: he was in the Dagohnlar bedchamber.

The Dagohnlars were his sworn foes, whom he and Bezrar had just bound
and threatened, and who were quite possibly still sharing the room with
him . . . knowing where any number of weapons lay ready to hand, while
he did not, his own knife lost somewhere in the crash that had felled him.

Even if they were not here, or armed and seeking his death even now,
this was still their house, with all the guards, servants, and trained
hungry dogs they could muster, while he was helpless here at the heart of
it, trapped under this cursed wreck of an excuse for fine
furniture, swathed in all manner of slithery silks, mind you, but still
trapped, and by the light creeping through yon window, it was nearing dawn.

/

Nearing dawn, 

/

Shar kiss and slap! Darkspells had ordered him to have the closed coach
ready before dawn to take him to Lady Ambrur's mansion!
Haelithtorntowers wasn't but three streets away from here, and the
Thayan's inn another eight streets off, but. . . but. . .

With a scream of rising fear and frustration Malakar Surth kicked and
beat his fists and pulled at splintered wood like a madman. Somehow he
got the leg that was doubled under him and pinned by what was left of a
wardrobe doorframe . . /.free!/

With a roar of fleeting, frantic triumph the hooded merchant erupted
from the wreckage, trailing some splinters and wearing others, and
staggered to the door he'd come in by, sparing only the briefest of
glances for the cowering Dagohnlars.

Surth wrenched the door open and sprinted through it, flattening a timid
maid who was standing uncertainly outside with the Lord and Lady
Master's morning jug of hot spiced wine ready with two goblets on a tray.

Jug, wine, tray, and all flew high into the air on the wings of a
startled shriek, ricocheting musically among the gaudy forest of cut
glass orbs and brilliantstars that Starmara's prized and grotesquely
gigantic "crown of candles" chandelier presented to the world beneath
the vaulted ceiling overhead. As Surth ran, fell, and stumbled down the
stairs at breakneck speed, these tumbling missiles descended again to
favor him with various bruising greetings.

One goblet rolled underfoot and sent him crashing headfirst down a
flight of stairs, into a huge, ring-handle-festooned (and thankfully
copper rather than more breakable earthenware) pot of ferns. It toppled,
spitting earth and fronds, and clanked along in his wake as Surth
slithered down the next flight, found his feet at the bottom, and
plunged helplessly into an embrace with a dazzlingly gleaming suit of
Dagohnlar ancestral armor, full coat-of-plate and a head taller than he was.

It came down like a, well, like a toppling suit of armor that had been
badly wired together and home to nests of mice for some seasons and
therefore free to come apart and messily spew its contents in a
bouncing, clanging chaos that carried the frantically cursing merchant
down the last flight of stairs, windmilling his arms for balance and
frightening the sleepy door-steward (who'd snatched down a vicious
battleaxe to defend himself and found it so heavy that he'd almost
fallen over) hastily aside.

Surth hit the inside panels of the ornate double entrance doors of
Dagohnlar House still running at about thrice the speed and weight
necessary to send them flying open. He tumbled helplessly down the
broad, wet marble steps beyond, into Calathanter Street, and fetched up
groaning on the cobbles by sliding rather greasily to a stop in
something that smelled all too familiar: horse dung.

At least, Surth thought grimly, hoping his hurts were just aches and not
bones helpfully shattered before the Red Wizard Dark-spells could break
all the rest of him with some angry spell or other, he was face /up /in
the horse dung.

"S-surth,  B'gads, you're alive! Did they throw yuh out, "

That voice was all too familiar. Bezrar, who must have run and abandoned
him to certain death, alone in that bedchamber with two hired slayers!
Bezrar, the utter dolt and complete simpleton who'd, 

Strong hands (accompanied by much wheezing and breath that smelled like
mint-sugar, mint-sugar, , rather than the usual old garlic and reekingly
older fish) plucked Malakar Surth up from the cobbles and set him on his
feet.

Malakar Surth drew breath for the rudest words his mind could find to
blisteringly deliver to a certain fat merchant, in the few breaths it
would take Surth to find and pluck forth Bezrar's own dagger and bury it
hilt-deep and repeatedly in Bezrar's fat and stupid face . . . then
blinked, gaping his mouth wide in astonishment with not a single choice
word uttered.

Bezrar stood before him uncertainly shifting from best-booted foot to
best-booted foot. The importer and wholesaler of sundry goods was clad
in the quietest, most dignified finery Surth happened to know he owned.
There was a just-as-uncertain half-smile on his face and a long, long
lead-rein shared space with a coach-whip in one of his hands. The other
had just opened wide the door of Surth's closed coach, which was drawn up
neatly before the doors of Dagohnlar House. He blinked at it again,
half-believing it would vanish and leave him staring into the hard and
surly faces of an angry Watch-patrol, with some Dagohnlar servants
pointing him out for immediate arrest.

The coach, however, stayed very much where it was, gleaming in the
light, clinging rain Marsembans were pleased to prosaically call
"pre-dawn mists" with its side-lamps lit and Surth's best team of
matched dapple-grays standing patiently in harness. Patiently, which
meant they'd been fed.

Surth shook his head in disbelief, and his jaw dropped still more. Two
folded bath-towels were piled neatly on the coach floor, below a seat
that sported a complete, laid-out change of Surth's clothes. The very
dark ruby outfit he'd intended to wear, from gloves to velvet-trimmed boots.

He turned his gaping face to Bezrar, who broke into a grin. "I did good,
huh,  I saw the note you left for your stablemaster, and he told me what
it meant. So ... here we are."

For the first time in his life, Malakar Surth threw his arms around a
man with love in his heart and an intent to kiss.

"Ho! Hey! No time for that, or we'll be late for your 'associate.' Your
horseman gave me to understand that doing that would be a /very /bad thing."

"Bezrar," Surth managed to say, as he clapped the fat merchant's arms
enthusiastically and lunged past him for the towels, "I shall heap
special prayers on Shar's altar on your behalf for this and,  and buy you
something you especially want!"

"That dancing lass at the Amorous Anchor, " Bezrar asked hopefully.

//

/"Two /of her! Or her and her best friend, rather, or, /luminous,
/Bezrar! Just. . . luminous!"

Malakar Surth was not a man given to throwing back his head at the
unseen, mist-shrouded stars and cackling wildly, but he did so
now, attracting a raised eyebrow from a Watch officer turning the corner
in the forefront of his patrol; a brow that lifted even higher as the
thin, laughing man began to wildly tear his clothes off and fling them
uncaringly behind him.

The Watch patrol eyed the open door of the coach, exchanged weary
glances with each other, and in unspoken accord turned down another
alley. Idiot nobles . . .

Surth was whipping the horses down Tarnsar Lane toward Chancever Street,
still wildly grateful to Bezrar, who sat grinning smugly beside him, until
a dark thought struck him: how had Bezrar known just where, in Surth's
very private and trap-fitted house, he kept these clothes,  Or managed to
reach that even more private and trap-guarded closet, 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Eight

      NIMBLE NAVIGATIONS IN MARSEMBER

/

If you'd see true villainy, look not to alleyways or dark taverns. Seek
out the high and private chambers of the wealthy and the nobility, keep
hidden, and watch what befalls. In matters of fell evil, practice
improves performance as in all other things, and such practice is more
possible than in alleys, because bored players seeking entertainment
dally and dawdle before delivering their killing thrusts.

/

Irmar Amathander of Athkatla

/

Many Roads To One Ending

/

Year of the Bright Blade

The harbor water was no cleaner the second time around. Narnra was
thankful she couldn't see all the slimy things she was disturbing as she
plunged to the depths amid much evil bubbling of rotting things rolling
all around her. Kicking against the bottom to start herself upward
again, she drew her knees up, struggled to pass her bound arms down
under her boots and up in front of her, and came gasping to the surface,
just as a magnificent nearby splash announced the arrival of her pursuer.

Of course. She'd almost miss him, if ever she was out and about in
Marsember by night without her doggedly pursuing Rhauligan. /Almost.
/Why, every Waterdhavian thieving lass should have one.

With a sour smile on her lips from that thought, Narnra doubled up like
a wriggling eel and swam for the other side of the canal. Even with her
wrists bound together, Narnra found she could cleave the water quite
quickly, and for all their stink, these oily canals were calmer and less
crowded than where she'd learned to swim: the just-as-filthy waters
around the docks of Waterdeep.

Still, she was used to clawing at the water when she wanted to hurry and
using porpoise-wriggles only when trying to keep very, very quiet. . .
and she was growing tired already.

Rhauligan would be up and quiet again to listen for her in another
breath or two, and her most likely destination couldn't help but be
rather obvious.

In one direction, through Rhauligan, the canal joined the wider tangle of
fingerlike canals and slips that made up this end of Marsember's harbor.
In the other, just ahead, it ended in a turn-basin choked with rotting
nets, a scum of dead fish, and oily refuse. A lone barge, waterlogged
and awash, was moored to a dock there. It looked as if only its
mooring-chains were keeping it from sinking and that they, brown and
crumbling with rust, might soon sigh and give up their task. The barge
seemed to belong to a once-grand stone warehouse that looked every bit
its rival in the race to become forgotten, abandoned, and utterly decrepit.

Narnra made for the lowest point of the barge rail where it was a good
foot or so under water and rolled herself up onto the ancient vessel,
scattering chittering rats and startling sleeping seabirds into
complaining flight.

Rhauligan could hardly fail to miss /that, /but 'twasn't as if the
kindly gods had left her any choice, now, had they, 

Even if he was charging through the water at her now, her first task was
to bide right where she was, sitting on something painful and unseen in
the stinking, crab-scuttling water of this barge, and try to saw through
Rhauligan's bindings with her boot-knife.

Easing her blade out without dropping and losing it was slow work.
Wedging it in the rotting barge-planks took but a moment,  but cutting
her bindings took far too gods-bedamned long and involved a cut finger
and some more cursing.

Shaking away drops of blood with a snarl, Narnra stood up and fumbled in
her back pouch for the spare draw-string bag she carried, a mere scrap of
leather with pierced ends gathered by a single thong, in case she ever
found loot enough to need something extra to carry it away in (something
that had happened exactly twice in her life thus far). Thong drawn
tight, the bag made a clumsy bandage for her finger. She ran hastily
along the barge toward its basin-end, where the dock looked more solid
and less trash-strewn.

Behind her, blood sank like smoke into the inky water,  which boiled up
into a long, slender tentacle that burst forth, dripping, to stab
hungrily out across the now-deserted barge . . . right in front of the
furiously swimming Glarasteer Rhauligan. He glared at it and plunged
right over it, snatching at the nearest mooring-chain.

His fingers closed around it at about the same time three more tentacles
lanced out of the water, and his other hand closed on the hilt of one of
his daggers.

One of the trio of tentacles undulated through the air over the barge,
for all the world as if it could sniff and see, following the first
tentacle in the direction Narnra had fled. The other two curled around
to stab at Rhauligan, who decided, particularly in view of the fact that
a habitual glance back over his shoulder had just shown him no less than
/three /suspicious-looking bulges moving purposefully through the waters
of the canal, straight toward the barge, that getting every inch of his
well-used hide clear of the water right /yesterday /would be the wisest
thing to accomplish in his life right now.

He let go of his dagger without drawing it and clawed his way up onto
the barge, rotten planking crumbling like wet bread under his fingers.
Tentacles were sliding boldly up along his legs as he heaved, kicked,
and rolled for all he was worth, not caring if he ploughed through most
of what little was left of the barge with his face if it got the rest of
him out of the water.

Which was when he discovered that some of the tentacles were rising from
the water-filled depths of the barge itself ... a bare breath before
Narnra at the far end of the ramshackle wreck screamed enthusiastically.

Rhauligan saw her struggling like a suddenly animated figurehead, body
wavering back and forth on the prow of the barge with tentacles
spiraling around her in a small forest, then a smaller but no less
energetic forest of tentacles was slapping across /bis /face and body,
dragging him down toward the water his right cheek was already coldly
kissing. . . .

With a snarl of fury he plunged his hand into the open front of his
plastered-to-his-hide silk shirt, found the tiny trinket riding on its
thong there, and tugged.

It took three wrenches before the gods-be-blasted thong broke. By then
his arm was hauling the weight of six or more finger-thin tentacles
along with it. Rhauligan fought to raise his hand high, his eyes on the
struggling thief he was hunting. She had a knife out now and was using
it with frenzied viciousness, but there seemed to be no end to these
tentacles.

There were more rising up around him now, too, some of them festooned
with weed-clocked human bones . . . and some bearing partial skeletons.
Small wonder the warehouse and barge were so deserted!

Rhauligan muttered the word Alusair herself had taught him.

He hated to lose this magic, one of the few things the Crown Princess
had ever given him, and with a lovely, avid kiss, too!, but on the other
hand, he'd hate to lose his life, too, so ...

He threw the trinket down the barge, snapping his wrist to spin it
farther even as the clinging tentacles dragged at his arm. It bounced
once and skittered into some refuse. He closed his eyes hastily.

Sudden heat warmed his face an instant later, even before the flash and
the roar that sent the barge heaving upward under him . . . and the
tentacles spasming into a wild and frantic dance of their own. A chaos
of wriggling, flailing, /shivering /tentacles tumbled him over and
erupted past him, desperately seeking . . .

Some impossible escape from the fire that was now raging along the
barge, burning even underwater thanks to the magic, cooking the unseen
heart of the tentacles. Rhauligan scrambled to his knees as the wet,
ropelike things fell away from him by the dozens and saw Narnra
half-flung off the far end of the barge.

She landed with a splash in the filth of the basin but churned the water
in her haste to swim up and out of it, and in less time than it took
Rhauligan to catch his breath and bound toward the dock she was ashore
at the street end of the basin, running hard, if unsteadily, into the
mists of approaching dawn.

Hurling hearty mental curses at the dying tentacled thing, the Harper
hound raced past the burning barge after her, bursting out onto the
street almost under the wheels of a handcart being trundled by a
half-asleep fishmonger.

The cart promptly crashed over onto him, but thankfully was empty at this
time of the morning. The man who'd been pushing it erupted in startled
rage, clawing aside his ramshackle boxes in his haste to get at
Rhauligan and do damage.

The Harper greeted him with a charge up from the ground that brought one
balled fist in under the fishmonger's chin and thrust him off his feet
to bounce halfway across the street, bowling over a Watch patrolman who
with his fellows had just formed a ring of drawn swords around a
dripping and furious Narnra.

The Watchman's fall allowed her to bolt through the space he'd been
standing in, which meant she came sprinting out of the mists right into
Rhauligan's arms.

Ducking and twisting at the last moment, she slid under his grasp, though
his fingers raked a bruising trail along Narnra's slick, slimy-wet
flank, and ran down the street, dodging twice as she heard his boots
thundering on the cobbles right behind her.

The Watchmen were running too, blades and cudgels waving in all
directions, so the first canal Narnra saw, safely on the other side of
the street from the one that had erupted in tentacles, she sprang into.
Rhauligan's splash fountained in the roiling aftermath of hers.

The Watchmen skidded to a stop at the edge of the churning,
dock-slapping water, shook their heads, and turned away. "Report 'em as
drowned, lovers' dispute gone ugly, both fell in with the fishes.
Unidentified outlanders, the both of them, so retrieval not our duty.
Write it down, Therry," Rhauligan heard one of them growl, as he
followed Narnra's dark, wet head around a corner into a narrow
side-canal. He was recalling, with ever-increasing verve, just how much
he'd never liked Marsember.

Steam was curling out of various windows and hatches in the stone
buildings that rose on both sides of the canal, straight up out of its
waters, most of them, without jetties or perch-porches, though crumbling
scars of stone here and there marked where such features had once been
ere barge collisions, gnawing waves, and the claws of winter ice removed
them. Rusting crane-arms festooned with the decaying remnants of ropes,
pulleys, and wooden block-and-tackles jutted from some of the building
walls, but to reach them from the water even the most nimble of
Waterdhavian thieves would have had to fly, or had a boat much taller
than any barge to clamber up.

Much of the steam roiling and eddying its way into the thickening
pre-dawn mist was coming from lighted windows, for the hours of darkness
are work-time to many in cities all over Faerun who craft things or
prepare things fresh. The smells borne on much of the steam told
Rhauligan, whose alerted stomach rumbled enthusiastically more than once,
as he swam grimly on, that many of these buildings were cookshops and
bakeries preparing for the flood of hungry morning workers who'd descend
at dawn to snatch something more or less edible before hurrying to where
they worked. Eel pie, Rhauligan recalled sourly, was the dish of choice
for working Marsembans. Almost made one want to become an adventurer or
a Purple Dragon assigned to the Stonelands, where eels were no more than
a disgusting word used in bad jests.

A flood of refuse suddenly hurtled out of one lighted window, pelting
down into the water around him. Rhauligan ducked his head under the
filthy water just in time. Eel pie, indeed, and as such dishes used every
last possible part of the slimeworms, the only trimmed parts to be
discarded would be bits too diseased or rotten to be hidden by a thick,
hot-spiced gravy, or devoured without immediate convulsions and collapse
of diners. The same bits that were now sharing the waters under his very
nose.

Gods, but I hate Marsember!

There was a splash ahead, and Rhauligan had a brief glimpse of Narnra's
hand closing on a doorsill that hung over emptiness, the work of either
a particularly stone-skulled builder or the remnant of a way down onto
some now-vanished dock.

A moment later, the dark and dripping figure of Narnra surged out of the
water like some man-sized eel, wriggling momentarily in midair as she
snatched for a handhold that wasn't where she needed it to be, clinging
to the outside of the back door that belonged to the sill. It sported a
well-lit, steam-spewing open upper half, and by the sounds of sizzling
and chopping and snatches of brief conversation coming out of that large
opening, it belonged to a cookshop.

A moment later, a bucket of eel waste-trimmings took Narnra full in the
face. Rhauligan didn't even have time to shape a grin before she plunged
/through /the window. Gods spit, but she'd grabbed hold of the bucket in
mid-fling and been pulled into the room with it! In with the cooks, and
their cleavers!

He set his teeth, ducked his head down, and charged through the water,
hoping he'd be there in time.

Eyes smarting from eel-guts and guck better not thought about, Narnra
slithered belly- down through the door hatch, catching a glimpse of a
startled, yelling cook's face on the other side of the bucket, as well
as a lot of swaying candle-on-chain lanterns. Hitting the floor and
sliding wetly along it, she found herself passing along a row of ovens,
each sporting the behind of a stoking-lad beneath it who was shoving in
kindling for all he was worth.

One stoker put a boot into her face backing up, so she plucked a scrap
of wood from his pile and rammed it into his behind. He howled, halting
in alarm, and she was past and rolling frantically away from the ovens
to avoid the boots of the bellowing cook with the bucket as he kicked
and stomped at her head and hands, his shouts turning startled heads all
over the kitchen.

The nearest of those heads stared down at Narnra over a tray of
fresh-made, raw eel pies. Narnra rammed one arm against an ankle and
shoved at the other ankle with her other hand, and the tray and its
holder toppled over her like a over-tall tree severed by a woodsman's
axe, crashing into the kicking cook.

He stumbled back, almost falling, and flung his empty scraps-bucket at
Narnra's head. It whanged off one waving boot of the man who'd been
holding the tray, then Narnra was on her feet and sprinting hard into the
midst of three fat, shrieking women and their small host of
half-finished eel pies.

They lurched and scuttled in all directions, and she darted this way and
that through them, hip-slamming the last woman headfirst into a cart of
dirty pots, ladles, and pans.

The crash was both deafening and spectacular, as the Silken Shadow left
it behind, charging around a cutting-table toward the door out of this
place, within sight at last.

Ahead, there was a serving-counter in the way. It came equipped with a
grizzled, startled-looking cookshop owner frozen in the act of wiping it
with a bit of dirty rag to gape at her. Narnra ran right at him,
intending to veer away at the last moment.

Across the busy kitchen, on the far side of other cutting-tables, cooks
were cursing. The racing thief had ignored them as being safely out of
her way, but she'd reckoned without the swift-tempered and forearmed
nature of most Marsembans. Cleaver after cleaver was snatched and thrown
at her racing figure. Now in swift succession they crashed into bowls,
other howling cooks, oven doors, and the faces of startled stoking-lads
who'd just straightened up to catch sight of whatever was causing all
the excitement.

One whirling blade caught Narnra on the arm, bruising rather than
cutting her, and sent her reeling into the grizzled counter-cleaner, who
embraced her with an incoherently wordless gabble of amazement and
swiftly mounting fear.

Narnra pumped three swift punches into the stained and reeking apron
covering the man's bulging belly. He spewed whatever he'd just finished
eating over her racing body into the face of the first cook,
who, lightened by the lack of his scraps-bucket, had managed to mount a
clumsy pursuit of this destructive intruder.

Blinded and snarling in disgust, the cook reeled and elbow-skidded along
a counter, spilling and scattering eel pies by the dozens ... as the
green-faced owner of the cookshop folded aside with a groan, and Narnra
vaulted the counter with grace enough to /freeze /one of the young
stokers where he stood, staring in awed lust, which got him smashed flat
to the floor by a snarling Glarasteer Rhauligan.

The Harper and Highknight had already weathered almost a dozen flung
pots on his own charge through the cookshop kitchen, cleavers being in
suddenly short supply, but someone found one last black-bladed monster
somewhere and sent it whirling with shrewd aim as Rhauligan rounded the
cutting-table for his run toward the counter.

The Harper saw its deadly flicker out of the corner of his eye and flung
up his arm to ward it away from his face. It bit deep into his shoulder
and banged harmlessly away off his scalp rather than laying open his
face or cleaving his skull in twain.

Rhauligan roared out his pain, not daring to slow, and the vomit-covered
cook sagging on the counter took one look at his furious face and the
streaming blood and fled, sobbing a frantic way aside.

Bleeding, again. Oh, this little hunt just gets better and better.

The Harper burst out of the cookshop door into the wet mists in time to
see Narnra halfway up the wall of the building, clinging to a drainpipe.
She was slipping often in the wet and going slowly as she tried to work
her way past a balcony jutting out from the floor above the cookshop, but
she was already well out of his reach, and he couldn't climb any faster
than she could. To say nothing of whether or not any drainpipe would
prove sturdy enough for the weight of two, all the way to the roof. . . .

Just inside the cookshop door, in the open space in front of the
serving-counter, was a side door. It would be the way up some cramped,
dark stairs to the loftier levels of this building.

Rhauligan turned and raced back inside, frightening a fresh howl of
alarm from the kitchen. The side door proved to be locked, but Rhauligan
carried a prybar, good as a cudgel, stouter than a sword and boasting
some saw-teeth besides, sheathed to one leg, and he took out the
frustrations Narnra was building in him on that door.

The defenseless wood offered little resistance, and the Harper boiled up
the stairs like a storm wind and put his shoulder to the door on the
first landing.

It cracked like a thunderstroke, broke in half, and gave way inward,
spilling him onto a half-asleep man and his only-slightly-more-awake
wife who lay on a straw mattress on the floor. Their sons were already
awake and peering out the lone, filthy window at the gloomy mists of
slowly brightening dawn. They whirled, wide-eyed, as Rhauligan's
stumbling boot came down on their father's stomach. The winded man
sobbed for breath, flinging out his arms convulsively, one of them across
his wife's throat, silencing her in the first meeping moment of an
emerging scream.

"Morning!" the Harper rapped grimly, never slowing in his charge across
the room. "Balcony door! 'Way in the name of the /King!"/

One boy gawked mutely, and the other, eyes shining, shot a bolt and
flung wide the balcony door. Rhauligan thanked him with a fierce grin
and plunged out into the mists, whirling to face the drainpipe in time
to see Narnra's boot lifting /just /out of reach.

He grabbed for it anyway, knowing as he did that he was going to be
about a fingerlength short. He was.

Well, he'd /almost /laid a hand on her. He slapped it onto the pipe
instead and swarmed up it after her, grunting at the pain each pull
stabbed into his cloven shoulder. He had to get close enough that she
wouldn't have the time to turn on the rooftop and dagger his face or
hands, aye, he had to be /that /close to her, or ...

Narnra glanced down, hissed out a curse, he was close enough to almost
feel her breath, as he clawed his way hastily upward, and wasted no time
on trying to kick at him or deal him any wounds. Instead, she fled up
the pipe like a little girl running from all the nightmares life could
muster, panting and clawing with almost frenzied speed, and raced across
a roof of loose and shifting tiles to spring out and down onto the roof
of the next building.

She landed hard, knocking her breath from herself, and spun around on
one knee to keep an eye on her pursuer as she panted to get her wind back.

Rhauligan was hauling himself up onto the roof she'd just left. Narnra
snarled 'wordlessly, fought her way to her feet as he straightened, then
thought of something and bent to her other boot to snatch another knife
to hurl at him. Its sheath was empty.

Either she'd lost it during this chase, or he'd taken it while healing
her. Hissing a curse at him instead, she spun around, ran, and leaped
onto the next roof through the thickly rising, scented steam of
someone's laundry, coming up from a skylight.

Beyond, the roof was flat, all of metal sheets sealed and patched with
thick pitch, ankle-deep in slippery, bird-dung-dotted water,  and . . .
and Narnra found herself with nowhere she could safely leap to, on a
building with wide streets on two sides, Rhauligan grimly approaching on
the third, and a barge heaped high with spear-like, jagged salvage-wood
on the last side that it would be sheer suicide to jump onto. She glared
around at treacherous Marsember for a moment in the lightening dawn,
then spun around and raced back to the open skylight.

Rhauligan was just launching himself at her over its billowing murk.
Narnra sat down in her run and skidded over the edge moments before his
boots crashed down through where she'd just been.

Her fall was a short one, onto stout metal poles draped with someone's
damp tapestries. They gave way like a sling, dropping her down through a
roaring stream of air. Chains were clanking all around her as racks of
clothes hanging from them were rocked forward and back, forward and
back, by levers that vanished down through the floor. By the loud,
rhythmic hissing, the Silken Shadow guessed that there was a gigantic
bellows in the room below, presumably being worked by the same grunting,
sweating coin-slaves who were tugging on the levers and feeding the fire
that was warming all this rushing air. My, but the world of laundry was
an exciting place. . . .

Or certainly would be, if she didn't get out from under where Rhauligan
was sure to land in the next few moments. She debated drawing her
belt-dagger and plunging it through the tapestry when he landed in it
... but no, she wasn't here to slay Harpers, just to get away from them.
Yonder was a row of trap-doors that must offer access to the levels
below, probably through shafts nearly dry clothes would be pushed down.

Someone shouted at her as she raced between the swinging racks of
garments, and she had a glimpse of a startled old man whose bare arms
were a riot of varicolored tattoos waving angrily at her. She gave him a
nod and a smile and kept right on running to the trap-door at the . . .
right end.

Flinging it back, she smelled hot fabric and saw light far below, and in
it, neat stacks of what looked like folded cloaks or blankets. It was
the work of but a moment to launch herself feetfirst down to join them.

Behind her, she heard another shout followed by a grunt and a thud. That
would be Rhauligan paying his respects to old Many-brands. It seemed
she'd been right: the world of laundry /was /an exciting place.

Narnra plunged past a room full of all the noisy, sweating activity
she'd envisaged and landed gently in a large, brightly lit room below
that, toppling and scattering hot, fluffy cloaks in all directions. No
one was near, and Narnra rolled enthusiastically, trying to get herself
mostly dry ere she waded out to find footing and run on.

Along the way, she snatched up a cloak, shook it open in her hands, and
when Rhauligan crashed down into view, she flung it over his head,
managed to tug him over into a cascading fall of piled laundry to where
she could get a hard knee into his blinded and muffled head, then sprang
away, not daring to stay and try to smother him because enraged
launderers were approaching at a run from various directions now, all
shouting furious curses she couldn't tarry to hear properly. She left
them closing in on the thoroughly entangled Rhauligan, sprang over some
sort of sorting table where women cowered away from her behind wicker
baskets . . . and found another handy, waiting door. This one was even open.

Still, she was losing count of doors she was having to blindly rush
through and had long since lost her patience with being hunted all over
this strange city. It was waking up now, and soon she'd be dodging
frequent Watch patrols and carters in the streets and watching eyes,
watching eyes everywhere. She doubted there even was such a thing as a
dry rooftop to try to sleep on in Marsember, even if she knew this grim,
tireless Harper was safely taken away from his hunt. Narnra was
beginning to think the only way to do that was to make sure he was dead.

Well, she certainly wasn't wading back into the land of enraged
launderers to see to that. Perhaps they'd take care of it for her,
though she was beginning to doubt an army could stop Glarasteer
Rhauligan, let alone a few angry Marsembans.

She fled down a short stair, through another door, smashing flat an
unsuspecting man passing by as she crashed it open, and out into the
streets, wondering when it would be prudent to slow down and walk as if
she belonged here, in black leathers, aye, rather than running like a
thief and catching every interested eye.

When Rhauligan was . . . yes, yes, /yes! /With a growl of anger Narnra
saw two Watch patrols coming together at a street-moot ahead and dodged
aside. She had to get aloft again before he saw where she went and, 

Then she saw it. A street over, behind a wall of old buildings that
sprouted balconies and rickety outer stairs above their shopfronts,
beyond their lines of dripping clothing, imagine hanging clothes out to
dry, in night-mists like this!, and water-cisterns . . . water-cisterns, 
Well, rainwater would almost have to be cleaner than canal-water, and a
little less salty. . . .

There was a high stone wall in superb condition with trees rising behind
it. Some sort of noble's walled garden, if Marsember was anything like
Waterdeep. Yes, there was the row of spikes most nobles seemed to think
a wall needed, atop a stretch of buttressed stone that must overtop a
two-story building and run longer than six or seven of the shops nearer
to her.

Narnra stopped looking at the wall and hurried to get closer to it,
looking now for some way to get up onto it.

* * * * *

Durexter Dagohnlar drew himself upright with as much dignity as a naked,
bound, and overly fat man can muster whilst sitting on his own
bedchamber floor and fixed the Watchcaptain with a coldly disapproving gaze.

"There was no need to push past my wife and invade our home, sir," he
said stiffly, as his steward hastened to cut his bonds, "no matter how
many overexcited servants came running to summon you. No need at all.
I, that is to say /we /" he amended hastily, catching sight of the
dagger-laden look his wife was favoring him with, from behind the
Watchmen, "Starmara and myself, ahem, vanquished a /very /old foe here
this night, a foe who came to slay us with magic but was forced to flee.
I'll not reveal his name even to War Wizards, because uttering it will
awaken some /very /dangerous spells he left behind. So let's just forget
th, "

"You can write it down for me, then, Lord Master Dagohnlar," the
Watchcaptain said calmly, the mouth under his grizzled mustache
carefully expressionless but his eyes every bit as wintry as the
merchant's. "To save the strongest War Wizards in the city the time
'twill take to come and empty your mind of /everything /of interest to
the security of the city . . . and adherence to /all /of our laws."

Durexter opened and closed his mouth in trapped bafflement for a few
moments then said triumphantly, "I'm sorry, Watchman, but I can't write.
I never learned how."

The Watchcaptain didn't bother to order his men to step forward and
forcibly take Durexter Dagohnlar into custody. He was too busy rolling
his eyes. His men moved forward anyway, their snorts of derision almost
as loud as those from various gawking servants.

Starmara Dagohnlar, whose sidle toward the door had already ended in the
firm grip of a Watchman, sighed and said loudly, "My apologies,
Watchcaptain. Our enemy's spells must have affected my husband's wits."

"Indeed, Lady Dagohnlar," the officer agreed politely as Durex-ter was
gagged with his wife's discarded nightrobe and hustled to the door. "How
many decades ago did they take effect, "

* * * * *

Glarasteer Rhauligan was no longer in anything remotely resembling a
good mood. He'd lost a lot of blood, was in great pain, and thanks to
the needs of the Mage Royal and this little fool of a thief now lacked
any swift means of quelling that. The hasty violence he'd just been
forced to do to a small but enthusiastic band of launderers had done
nothing to help matters, but at least he was now largely dry, thanks to a
lot of formerly clean clothing that was now, unfortunately, smeared and
stained with his blood, and was now sporting a bandage of sorts: a very
large someone's freshly laundered bloomers tied around the wound in his
shoulder.

It had all taken far too long, and if that little bitch had managed to
give him the slip whilst. . .

Rhauligan reached the street, where a man lay groaning and twisting
outside the laundry door, ignored him as being in no condition to have
seen where Narnra Shalace had gone, and glared around in all directions.
Twas bad enough having to hunt anyone in wet, hostile-to-the-Crown
Marsember, bu, /there!/

Gods, give the girl a wall to run along, and she's happy! The taller the
better, it seemed . . . and she'd obviously managed to leap from another
building onto a corner turret of the wall, because she was hurrying away
from that turret now as fast as she could. Rhauligan sprinted across the
street to get out of view before she looked back to see if he'd seen her.

Well, now. That was quite a wall she'd chosen. If Narnra ran all the way
around it, she'd trot for nigh on a mile. Rhauligan happened to know
that it kept the prying world out of an estate known as
Haelithtorntowers, the abode of one Lady Joysil Ambrur.

That same wider, prying world knew the Lady Ambrur to be a wealthy
Sembian merchant noble, a tall, demure, sophisticated patron of bards
and singers, who was, correctly, said to pay handsomely for dancers to be
enspelled to fly, so they could engage in her particular pleasure:
elaborate aerial ballet dances performed as they sang for her, in her
parlor.

"We Harpers, however, know rather more about Lady Joysil," Rhauligan
murmured aloud, recalling Laspeera's crisp words at a certain private
meeting in a tiny, little-used upper room of the palace.

"She's not from Sembia at all. Unearthing her true origins will be
another of your little idle-time tasks, gentlesirs."

"That'd be task four thousand and seven, Lady," Harl had murmured, like
a bored steward announcing the date and time.

"Indeed, Harl,  Then you've missed three," Laspeera had replied with a
smile, "or neglected to tell me of their accomplishment, more likely.
Now, Lady Ambrur secretly employs her favorite visiting bards as
information-gatherers. She then discreetly resells the lore they bring
to traitorous nobles, local merchants, and anyone else willing to pay
for it."

This practice was what had led local Harpers, including, from time to
time, one Glarasteer Rhauligan, to keep watch over who visited Joysil
Ambrur and to try to discover just what learning their coins to her
bought them.

It was doubtful this Narnra of Waterdeep knew about Lady Ambrur. She'd
probably just gone looking for a place aloft to hide and sleep and
spotted the tallest wall around that wasn't bristling with vigilant
Purple Dragon posts.

Rhauligan knew yon wall was quite wide enough to comfortably walk along,
between its street-edge spikes and its inner plant-trough, which housed
flourishing clumps of sarthe. Unless it'd been trimmed recently, the
edible trailing plant spilled down clear to the grounds far below.

Narnra was running along inside the spikes, merrily trampling
sarthe-stalks with each step, and Rhauligan knew he had no choice but to
follow or lose track of her.

With a sigh, he chose a building he'd scaled to reach that same corner
turret once or twice before and started to climb.

Caladnei and Narnra, know this: You both owe me!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Nine

      A WIZARD'S PLOTTING IS NEVER DONE

/

Heed me, Lord Prince: After nobles with too much time and coin to resist
working mischief, the wizards are the ones you must watch. The schemes
of mages are as tireless as waves crashing upon a storm shore, and every
bit as destructive, too.

/

Astramas Revendimar,

Court Sage of Cormyr

/

Letters To A Man To Be King

/

Year of the Smiling Flame

The central hall of Haelithtorntowers was a high, soaring, darksome
space of stone, its vaulted spire lost in the gloom more than a hundred
feet overhead. Torches had been lit in the old braziers all around the
promenade balcony that ringed the hall, and the great hanging lamps on
their chains were left unlit and drawn up high, out of the way of the
soaring dancers.

The last few high, mournful notes of song soared into the gloom of
gathering smoke high above the torches, floating to a wistful end, and
the sweating dancers descended to earth, saluting their lady patron
gracefully.

There was applause from the guests seated at ease in the great reclining
seats around the crescentiform high table, and their hostess rose and
returned the dancers' salute with a happy smile. The performance had
been memorable, the emotions evoked very real. Tears glimmered in the
eyes of many guests, even those who were stifling yawns at the
lateness, or rather, earliness, as dawn had quite come outside the slit
windows high in the spire overhead, of the hour.

"And so, my friends," the Lady Joysil Ambrur announced with a smile,
"our evening together must come to an end, as a new day awakens around
us. Our time, I fear, is quite gone, and I'm sure we must all, like the
dancers who have worked so hard for our pleasure, seek slumber now."

She raised one graceful arm to point east, toward the great double doors
that most of her guests had entered by, hours, it almost seemed days, ago.
"Your coaches have been made ready, and my servants await beyond those
doors to escort you to them. You are all /most /welcome when next I open
my doors for an evening of friendly converse and entertainment. Rest
assured I shall send personal invitations well in advance. Now, I pray,
leave me to find my own waiting bed." She yawned prettily. "See,  It
calls, even now."

There was a brief chorus of tittering, and the various grand ladies of
Marsember and divers other cities, from the Lady Cha-roasze Klardynel of
Selgaunt to the Lady Maezaere Thallandrith of Alaghon, arose in a
shifting of silks and shimmerweave and delzelmer to kiss the hands and
cheek of their hostess and take their leave. Many and aggressive were
their perfumes, especially among the newest-money merchant spouses of
Marsember. who were known for their barely veiled viciousness and their
often-jarring etiquette and fashion sense, but the Lady Ambrur smiled
fondly upon them all and somehow, by a trick of true nobility,
perhaps, made each one feel personally welcome and special even as she
hastened their departure.

One of the last beauteous ladies to leave was the bare-shouldered,
emerald-gowned Lady Amantha Indesm of Suzail, who possessed both the
smoldering eyes of a restless tigress and the tinkling smile of an
innocent. She embraced her hostess impulsively, the tears the last dance
had awakened in her still bright on her cheeks, and swept out to the
waiting servants, leaving the Lady Ambrur alone with her very last
guest: the Lady Noumea Cardellith.

They both stood quite still until the doors closed behind the Lady
Indesm. Noumea said softly, "Forgive me, Lady Joysil, but a spell was
just laid upon you, a spying magic, and I should break it." She raised a
hand then halted, awaiting permission.

Her hostess smiled and nodded. "Please do so. Amantha is a dear friend
but also a Harper spy, and is loyal to them first. She always tries this
little trick, knows I cause her spells to fail . . and we both ignore
the matter."

"She's done this before,  You know her purposes and yet invite her, "

"I like to clasp my foes close and look into their eyes," the Lady
Ambrur replied serenely, rounding the table again to sip from her
tallglass. Lifting it in a lazy salute to Noumea, she smiled a little
smile and added, "They see and hear only what I want them to, I think."

The two tall, slender ladies, Joysil the larger and older, but both
bearing worldly wisdom in their eyes, regarded each other thoughtfully.
There was clear liking and trust between them, though this was their
first meeting, and after a silence Noumea asked curiously, "You let me
cast that shatterspell when I might have worked any magic on you. We've
barely met, yet you trust me. I am honored but I must confess also
curious: /why /does Joysil Ambrur trust this unknown, when true trust is
almost unknown among these, forgive me, overpainted eels and vixens of
Marsember, "

Joysil burst into merry laughter, all trace of weariness gone. "They'd
never forgive you for describing them so, yet your words are apt indeed:
They /are /rapacious, sly eels and snapping little vixens."

Noumea waited and when her hostess said no more asked very softly, "I
mean no offense, but please let me know the reasons for your trust.
You've barely met me."

"Indeed," Joysil replied just as gently, "but I know all about you."

"Oh, "

"Born Noumea Fairbright, quite a keen-witted, spirited beauty. Attended
a finishing school for daughters of the very rich in Sembia run by the
Lady Calabrista. Tarried with none other than Elminster in Shadowdale
after a school trip to visit his tower, and did not return to Calabrista
but instead astonished a series of tutors with mastery of magic. Married
Lord Elmarr Cardellith of Saerloon, a rich, ruthless Sembian merchant
lord, and bore him four daughters. Survived two attempts paid for by him
to have you poisoned because he wanted no girls but only sons. Escaped
to Marsember and were paid to 'stay away' whilst he changed faiths and
remarried in his new church, annulling your union. Now twenty-six
winters old, and cynical, jaded, bitter, and bored, therefore hungry for
adventure. The sort of woman the Obarskyrs are apt to regard as
dangerous: one who could so easily drift into aiding rebels or illicit
intrigues, then try wildly to make up for it. Lady Noumea Cardellith, do
I see you truly, "

Noumea had gone quite pale. She swallowed slowly and deliberately,
lifted her head, looked the Lady Ambrur straight in the eye, and said
firmly, "Yes. Every word right, whether I like it or not. To fill in the
gaps in my tale about which some have speculated: no man but Elmarr has
ever touched me. Not Elminster, nor Lhaeo, nor have I entertained any
affairs of the heart or lusts with anyone here or in Sembia. The extent
of your knowledge can only be described as impressive, and I shall /not
/ask how you came by it. Yet I am curious: Why do you bother to learn so
much, about me, the Harper who just left us, and . . . everyone,  I'll
wager you know as much about all the rest of your just-departed guests
as you do about me."

Joysil smiled again. "Knowing secrets . . . being part of the shady
doings and intrigues that seem to be at the heart of what it is to be
human ... is meat and drink to me, the very wine of life. Believe me, I
can live no other way. And yes, you would have won that wager."

A bell chimed, somewhere behind her chair, and she set down her glass
and asked, "Does our agreement stand,  You sent back the coins I offered
but spoke of acceptance."

"It stands, but I need no payment. I consider you my friend."

"Even so. Our guest, just arrived, that bell tells us, is a Red Wizard of
Thay. Being in attendance to protect me may well involve some personal
danger and being marked as a foe henceforth by all Thayans, even if no
outward unpleasantness ensues this morning."

Noumea nodded. "Even so," she echoed. "I thought you spoke earlier of
three guests."

"I did, but two of them are merely local villains, possessed of more
dishonesty and empty ambition than anything else. Yet I'm pleased to
have you remain with me, 'just in case.' Shall I introduce you as a
student of architecture, visiting Haelithtorntowers to see its features, "

Noumea Cardellith grinned suddenly. "Certainly. Spires and turrets I can
talk glibly and emptily about for half a day. Elmarr thought almost
nothing else was a fit subject to share with a woman, even /his /woman."

"See me standing unsurprised," Lady Ambrur replied in dry tones and
pulled a tassel hanging by the arm of her chair.

The double doors opened at once, and her servants bowed three men into
the room: two merchants trailed by a lone figure.

One Marsemban was tall, thin, and hard-faced, the other stout, a little
battered-looking, and clutching a grand hat as if shredding it would
somehow carry him unscathed through the meeting now unfolding. The two
parted to let the third man through: a young, darkly handsome man in
black and silver shimmerweave, looking every inch a capable, quietly
swaggering noble of Suzail or fullblood merchant prince of one of the
foremost families of Sembia.

"Be welcome, sirs," the Lady Ambrur said warmly. "We stand in privacy,
here, armed with the information you've been seeking."

"Ah," the wizard said, eyes darting from Noumea to Joysil and back
again. "That is good. We are well met, Lady Ambrur and Lady, , "

"Cardellith, sir," the unfamiliar woman replied for herself. "Noumea
Cardellith, now of Marsember."

"A student of architecture," the Lady Ambrur put in gently. "Here to see
every last crenellation and carving of Haelithtorntowers."

The Thayan smiled. "Architecture, "

The Lady of Haelithtorntowers smiled an almost identical smile. "And
other things."

"Ah," the wizard said, and sat down in a seat without waiting for an
invitation, leaving the two merchants standing uncertainly behind him.

"The merchants Aumun Tholant Bezrar and Malakar Surth," Lady Ambrur
introduced them, waving them toward seats as she did so. "This is
Harnrim 'Darkspells' Starangh, one of the most diplomatic Red Wizards of
Thay it has ever been my pleasure to entertain."

"And have you entertained many of us, Lady, " Starangh asked softly.

The Lady Ambrur smiled again. "Yes, indeed, Darkspells. Szass and I, in
particular, are old friends. Very old friends."

The Thayan sat as if frozen for an instant then said even more softly,
"You must tell me about that some time. Some other time."

"Of course. When the time is right, as you say," was the silken reply.

Noumea repressed a shiver. How soft and yet sharp with menace the words
of both her hostess and the Thayan. She flicked a glance at the two
Marsemban merchants and saw in their faces the same tightly masked fear
as she knew her own held: not knowing all that was going on here but
knowing enough to be certain everything hidden was bad. And dangerous.

Darkspells spread his hands. "Have you learned what I desire to know and
offered twelve thousand in gold for, "

"Twelve thousand six hundred," the Lady Ambrur told her tall-glass demurely.

"Twelve thousand six hundred, as you say," the Red Wizard agreed.

"Yes. Precisely what Vangerdahast, the retired Mage Royal of Cormyr, is
'up to' in his retirement, precisely where he is, and precisely what his
magical defenses are."

Starangh smiled softly, his eyes glittering bright and hard, and purred,
"If you can give me half an answer to those things, Vangerdahast will
stand far closer to his doom, the doom he has so richly earned and that I
shall take such delight in visiting upon him. Soon."

* * * * *

This damp, fish-stinking city wasn't Waterdeep, but at least it had
walls and rooftops, and she could feel just a bit more like home.

Narnra grinned without feeling the slightest bit amused. So here she was
running for her life, pursued by some sort of law-agent bent on slaying
or capturing her.

Oh, /yes. Just like /home.

* * * * *

The Queen of Aglarond wrinkled her nose. "Ah, Marsember! Always damp
cold stone, colder people, and the everpresent reek of dead fish and
human waste. For entertainment, storms rage ashore and intrigues rage
behind closed doors." She smiled. "Well, it serves one good purpose: to
firmly remind me what I must never let my capital Velprintalar come
within the full length of a large kingdom of resembling!"

Elminster stroked her bare shoulder then kissed the smooth flesh his
fingers had been tracing. "Sorry," he told her. " Tis not my favorite
place in all Faerun either, but it happens to be where Caladnei bides at
this moment."

The Simbul sighed. "Mystra's will be done," she murmured then turned
suddenly, caught hold of his beard, and brought his lips to where she
could kiss them fiercely.

As she always seemed to, she moved hungrily against him, melting into
him . . .

"Take care of yourself," she whispered when they were both breathless
and lack of air finally forced her to draw back. "I waited so long for
you, don't leave me lonely now."

Elminster blinked at her. "Lass,  Ye waited for me . . . , "

"To notice and then to love me," she replied, eyes very dark. "For
myself and not as one of Mystra's daughters."

She shaped a spell that called darkness, outlined by a sprinkling of
tiny stars, out of the air in front of her. "I loved your mind for
centuries before you knew who I was, Old Mage. Now I love your
character, too." She made a face, and added, "Your body, however: /that
/you could have taken better care of, to be sure. Old wreck."

Elminster lifted his eyebrows, held up his hands with an airy flourish,
murmured a swift incantation, and melted into the shape of a tall,
broad-shouldered young man of rugged good looks and raven-black hair. He
gave her a sparkling grin.

She snorted, struck a breathlessly excited hands-to-mouth pose like a
young lass about to swoon, and slid back out of it to wink at him.
Stepping back into her darkness, the Queen of Aglarond murmured, /"My
/old wreck," and was gone, taking her rift with her, stars and all.

The transformed Elminster smiled fondly at where she'd been for a
moment, shaking his head, then made a face of his own. "In those
centuries of loving my mind, did she watch where my wandering body went
and with whom, I wonder, "

He chuckled, shrugged, and strode down the cold, dark, and cobwebbed
passage.

The damp made the spiderwebs thick, jeweled-with-droplets curtains.
Elminster pushed through them unconcernedly, acquiring a marbled pattern
of silken filth on his robes, and when he reached the remembered
crossway, he turned left.

Cold blue fire flared in the emptiness in front of his nose immediately,
but he strolled right through that ward-spell, and the next one, too.

By then a sleepy-eyed War Wizard, barefoot in her robes, was confronting
him furiously. A rod that winked and glowed from half a dozen attached
side-wands was cradled in her arms and aimed right at his face.

"Halt or be destroyed!" she snapped, as her fingers triggered a magic
that sent bells chiming in a dozen chambers, near and far. Whatever
befell now, this obviously not-so-secret passage would be swarming with
War Wizards in a few minutes. Until then, 'twas her duty to prevent this
stranger from, 

He stepped forward, and she snarled and triggered three of the wands at
once.

Their flash and roar almost blinded War Wizard Belantra, and sent her
staggering back as the passage flagstones rippled under her feet in a
great Shockwave. In the distance, behind the broad-shouldered intruder,
stones fell from the passage ceiling, amid much dust, and tumbled away.

He kept coming, as if the ravening magic hadn't touched him at all.

//

/"Back, /demon!" Belantra snapped, sudden fear rising inside her. No one
should be able to withstand such a blast! Even if the handsome man
before her was mere illusion, the magic that presented it should have
been shredded, and, 

One long-fingered hand grasped the tip of one of her wands, even as she
furiously triggered it again. Calmly ignoring Belantra, the intruder
lifted the wand so its emerald beam of flesh-melting fury was trained
not at his chest, but directly into his eyes.

Bright blue those eyes shone as they met hers for a moment, winked, and
dropped to examine the wand again.

"Ah, yes. I helped Vangey enspell this. Now, after all these years, he
wastes it in some sort of toy 'mightywand' gonne, such as the Lantanna
fashion, " The handsome intruder shook his head. "I thought I'd taught
him better than that."

He looked up again, gently pushing the wand aside with one fingertip,
and asked, "What might thy name be, lass, "

"I'm a War Wizard of Cormyr," Belantra snapped, "and /I'll /ask the
questions here, man!"

//

/"By /all means," the broad-shouldered stranger agreed easily, taking
her elbow in one hand and steering her aside so he could pass. When she
whirled furiously to shove him against the wall, he turned nimbly with
her as if they were dancing together, ending up behind her with her
wrist in a grip she could not break. Towing her, he strode in the
direction she'd come from.

"I'm here to see Caladnei," he explained, "but ye're welcome to ask all
ye want while we go fetch her, eh, "

"How do you kno, the Mage Royal can see no one! She's sleeping, after a
/very /long night of defending the realm."

The handsome stranger smiled. "Long indeed. I know. I helped make it so.
To squeeze our doings into a shorter night might well have left her as a
corpse."

"Who /are /y, /let go of me! /Let go, stop right here, and /tell me/
/your name!/" Belantra shouted, thrusting the gonne of wands and rod
into the intruder's face and preparing to spend her life in the defense
of the Mage Royal.

Black eyebrows lifted. "Demanding, aren't ye,  War Wizards weren't quite
so shrill back in the early days, I must say. I did warn Amedahast she
was shaping something that was sure to get away from her, but then, who
am I to deny other mages their grand schemes and toys, when such
strivings have brought us all such wonder,  No, lass, /don't /try to set
them all off at once, yell blast all this cellar right up through the
grand edifice above it, shattering Caladnei to bonelessness as surely as
ye do the same to thyself and everyone else within reach, including all
thy fellow loyal mages ye summoned!"

The intruder pointed along the passage where robed men and women were
approaching at a run, wands in hand and various glows of awakening magic
flaring.

Chuckling and shaking his head, he plucked Belantra and her gonne around
in front of him to serve as a shield, more or less carried her the few
steps down the passage to the entrance she'd emerged from, and laid a
hand on the closed iron door he found there.

Deadly magic flared and crackled around his fingers. He shook his head,
broke it without seeming to do anything, and reached /through /the
still-solid metal to turn the latch-handle on the inside.

Belantra's mouth dropped open in astonishment at that. Her jaw dropped
still farther as the stranger's shape shifted into that of a slender old
man with a white beard, bushy eyebrows, and a hawklike nose.

His grip remained every bit as iron-strong as he towed her through the
doorway into the softly glow-lit bedchamber beyond, where someone 'was
sitting up in a magnificent canopied bed facing them, eyes sharp above
an unwaveringly aimed wand.

//

/"Wh, Elminster!/"

"The same. Nice curves, lass, but get something on over them, or I'll
shortly be guilty of laying low the Royal Magician of Cormyr with a
walloping head cold. Ye're coming with me."

The Mage Royal gaped at him just as her door-guardian had done, before
Belantra turned to doing what she was doing just now, which was fainting
dead away and slumping in the Old Mage's grasp, then stiffened, eyes
blazing ruby-red, and snapped, "Certainly /not! /Who are you to be
giving me orders,  Or demanding anything of any War Wizard of Cormyr, "

"The orders aren't mine, lass. They come from Mystra. However, if ye'd
rather /not know /what mischief Vangerdahast is up to in the midst of
thy kingdom, ye can of course refuse both the Divine One and myself and
join the legions of proud fools waiting to fill up graves all over
Faerun. I leave ye free choice."

Caladnei swallowed, her magnificent throat moving while the rest of her
sat on the bed like a dark brown, smooth-skinned statue. Elminster kept
his eyes fixed on hers. She looked away first, muttering, "I was /trying
/to get some sleep."

"A luxury seldom allowed Royal Magicians, yell learn," Elminster said,
stepping forward to lay Belantra's limp form gently across the end of
the bed. He went to a wardrobe, flung the doors wide, and rummaged, soon
tossing a pair of boots back over his shoulder.

Caladnei caught them at about the time a dozen War Wizards burst into
the room, and came to a confused halt as the Mage Royal of Cormyr flung
up her hand in a 'stop' gesture. "Out, all of you," she said firmly. "My
apologies for the upset of being summoned at such an hour for nothing.
Go back to your posts."

"Mage Royal, forgive me," one of the older men said gravely, "but, "

"My mind is my own, thanks, Velvorn. I'm neither enchanted nor coerced
by my guest, here. He has merely reminded me of my duty to Cormyr.
Please go."

Leather breeches landed in Caladnei's lap, and a tunic struck her face a
moment later. Velvorn lingered for a breath or two longer, perhaps to
enjoy either the scenery or the sight of a Royal Magician catching
clothes with her face, then wheeled around and started to shoo away all
the War Wizards who'd crowded into the doorway to stare.

When he was done, he turned on the threshold with a clear question in
his eyes, but closed the door at an imperious gesture from the Mage Royal.

Caladnei sighed. "Well, my loyal mages will certainly be able to
recognize me now from any angle, with or without clothes."

Elminster turned from the wardrobe with a vest in his hands and grunted,
"My apologies, lass. Sometimes haste is needful, and I didn't want to
harm or humiliate dozens of War Wizards trying to get to you, a few
hours hence." He shook out the vest, laid it on the bed, and turned his
back. "I see ye're wise enough to keep thy hair gathered, so as to get
up and about the swifter."

"I was too tired to remember to take it off," Caladnei admitted,
reaching up to touch the ribbon at the back of her neck. She rose from
the bed, long-limbed and slender. "No underclout, "

Elminster shrugged. "Ladies never wore them in /my /day."

Caladnei arched an eyebrow. "That tells me more about the company you
kept, Lord Elminster, than it does about fashion, all those centuries
ago, when you still looked at ladies."

The Old Mage chuckled, back still turned, but several un-derthings
gently floated off a wardrobe shelf and past him. Caladnei selected one
with the dry observation, "Ah, I see you know what they look like."

"I observe women still. Ladies, not so many."

The Mage Royal made a rude sound, dressed in whispering haste, a belt
floated into her hand just as she found herself lacking it, and asked,
"Should I take wands, expecting battle, "

"Nay. If ye should need them where we're going next, 'tis more than mere
treason the realm need worry about."

Caladnei laid a tentative hand on Elminster's shoulder, then snatched it
back. The Old Mage turned. "Fear ye'll catch something, "

The Mage Royal's eyes were doe-brown once more. "No," she replied. "I
... I just wanted to touch you and live to tell the tale. Some say
you're . . ."

"Afire with Mystra's power,  A rotting lien whose joints crackle with
sorcery,  A shapeshifting, counterfeit creature who devoured the real
Elminster long ago,  Those're usually the most popular rumors."

Caladnei blushed, and then lifted her chin. "I've heard all of those,
yes. Where are you taking me, "

"Stag Steads."

The Mage Royal arched the same eyebrow that had lifted before then
turned to one of her bedposts, did something that swung aside a little
curved door to reveal a cavity, drew forth two wands in a scabbard that
she strapped to her forearm, and turned back to fix Elminster with a
defiant look.

The Old Mage merely shrugged. "Ye must do what ye think wisest." He
reached out his hand to her.

Caladnei eyed him. "The wisest thing to do now," she said calmly, "would
be to flee you, not take your hand."

Elminster nodded. "True." He took a step closer and offered his hand
again. With a sigh, she took it, and was instantly elsewhere.

An elsewhere that sported many leaves, dappled in the bright light of
dawn. Caladnei blinked and stared all around, knowing by the view that
she stood on a back porch of the hunting lodge in the heart of the
King's Forest.

"How did you /do /that,  No word nor gesture, " A round door set deep into
the moss-covered bank behind them burst open, and a blade thrust out
through it, straight through Elminster. Twice it thrust then slashed
sideways, cutting freely through the Old Mage as if he were but empty air.

"Caladnei!" The dark-haired woman behind the blade was angry. "You've
/got /to stop scaring me like this! I thought this was some archwizard
holding you captive, not your own clever illusion!"

"Mreen," the Mage Royal said quickly, holding up a quelling hand. "This is, "

"Oh, /gods" /the Lady Lord of Arabel gasped, her sword sinking forgotten
in her hand.

Elminster had turned around to face her. "Forgotten me so soon, Mreen, 
And something so basic as an ironguard spell, or, ahem, mine own
modifications to it, "

Flecks of gold flashed in Myrmeen Lhal's deep blue eyes as she stared
back at him with more than a hint of defiant challenge in her gaze. The
white lines of fresh scars crossed on her hands, and one scar adorned a
cheek that had been unmarked when last the Old Mage had seen her, but her
figure in her leather armor was as trim as ever. Her glossy, almost
blue-black hair held no gray, but there were two lines of white at her
temples, where there'd been only youthful darkness before.

"El," she said slowly, grounding her blade, "you chase trouble across
Faerun like a stormbird. I give you good greeting but with wariness: Why
come you here, "

"To see the Crown Princess ye're trying to keep hidden behind thy
shapely shoulders," the archmage replied, one corner of his mouth
quirking into a smile that was almost hidden by his beard. "Ye should
all hear this, mind, for it concerns the realm entire."

"Elminster of Shadowdale," the Steel Regent said calmly from the
darkness inside the hill, "be welcome in Cormyr. Come in and unfold the
bad news. Wine,  Morning broth, "

"Thank ye, but, no. Ye still know how to tempt a man, lass."

Alusair Nacacia grinned. "I should /hope /so. Fall into a seat,  there're
plenty."

The princess was tangle-haired and barefoot, evidently just risen from
slumber. She wore only a large, fluffy robe, but her sword gleamed ready
in her hand. Its scabbard lay upon a round stone table beside her flagon
of steaming broth. Elminster sniffed appreciatively then shook his head
and sat down. His stomach promptly rumbled.

Alusair grinned again and ladled him his own flagon, as Calad-nei and
Myrmeen took seats around the table.

"So talk, wizard," Alusair commanded. Caladnei and Myrmeen both
stiffened in apprehension, but Elminster merely chuckled.

"By the first Mystra and the second, but ye sound like thy father,
lass!" He stretched, leaned back, and added gruffly, "Ye truly don't
want to know what Vangey's been up to, but as Regent ye'd best know
anyway, so long as ye've the sense not to tell anyone."

Alusair rolled her eyes and growled in mock anger.

Elminster gave her a grin to match her earlier ones. "Well then, to put
it plainly: My onetime pupil and thy former Mage Royal is trying to
complete a magical task that's very important to him, ere he dies. Ye
might say he's putting the last of his life into it and is fiercely set
upon it."

"And this task would be, , " the Steel Regent growled.

"None of ye three need me to remind ye that the Lords Who Sleep bide in
armed slumber to guard Cormyr no longer. Well, Vangey seeks to replace
them."

Alusair's eyes blazed. "With /whom, /"

"Dragons. Thy retired Royal Magician seeks to bind some great wyrms in
stasis to defend the kingdom of Cormyr against any other attacking
dragon, or the whelming of a rebel host, or an invading army from, say,
Sembia or from the Zhentarim or some other grasping power."

Shock shone white on three female faces.

"Without /telling /us, " Alusair barked.

At the same time Myrmeen burst out, "This could imperil the realm as
gravely as did the Devil Dragon!"

Caladnei swore, "Mother /Mystra!/"

Elminster smiled gravely around the table and thrust out his hand to
catch hold of Alusair's blade before she could smash it down on the
stone table in rage. She struggled against his strength in vain for a
trembling, throat-straining moment then sat back dumbfounded.

"Magic," he explained with a wry smile, handing her blade to her. The
princess snarled and snatched it up, whirling it back to bring it
shattering down on the stone, then stopped in midair, matched his smile
bitterly, slid it into its sheath instead, and laid that on the table
with deft and delicate care.

"So," she said, letting her breath out in a long sigh, "suppose, old
meddling wizard, you tell us a little /more /about this idiocy, just so I
know what to say when I go storming into Vangey's little hidden haven to
tie his ears together under his chin and charge him with /treason!/"

Elminster's smile grew wider and more crooked. "Ah, the spirit that has
carried Cormyr into the mess 'tis in today. /Temper, /lass, temper."

"Old Mage," Myrmeen put in calmly, "the Steel Regent is not the only one
to be shocked, dismayed, upset, and furious. I believe I speak for both
myself and Caladnei when I say that we, too, are on the verge of boiling
over at this news. Pray grant the request of the Crown Princess: Tell us
more."

Elminster nodded. "Excellent broth," he told Alusair brightly, earning
another glowering growl.

He winked and said quietly, " 'Tis probably no news to inform thee that
acting alone and in secrecy is the way of mages. Let me impart a
reminder and a tutor's judgment. The former: Vang-erdahast serves the
realm first and its rulers second. The latter: Thy retired Royal
Magician learned long ago, to his cost, to trust no-one."

"To his cost,  /What /cost, " Caladnei asked sharply.

"His broken heart, the lives of more than a dozen nobles, both loyal and
rebel, and three abiding perils to the realm," Elminster replied. "Ask
him if ye'd know more, for I've more important , words for ye three."

"Oh, " the Crown Princess asked icily. "There's more, "

//

/"Advice, /lass, advice. A warning, if ye will. To reveal Vangey's plan
to others, to /anyone, /even Filfaeril, will be to risk rumor of it
getting out and endangering the realm by luring wizards hither."

Myrmeen wrinkled her brow. "Dragon collectors, "

"Those who seek the spells Vangerdahast is crafting, spells they can't
help but see that he /must /craft, to find success, to bind and command
dragons. Some will see deeper and know that Vangey draws on the last of
his life to power such spells. They will see him weak, and dying
soon, perhaps sooner, if they can catch him at work and unprepared for
battle. Then the realm will be theirs to plunder of magic, his caches, at
least, or try to rule, through alliances with the more traitorous nobles
. . . and suchlike mischief all of ye should be more than familiar with."

The three women looked back at Elminster, shock and anger gone. Their
faces now held frowns of thoughtfulness. After a moment, they all
started to speak at once. Before any of them could form a single whole
word, they fell abruptly silent again, gesturing at each other to speak
first.

It was Caladnei who did so. "As Mage Royal," she said, lips thin with
determination, "I must deal with this. Mine is the duty and the
skill, however slight, when set against Lord Vangerdahast's,  at
magecraft. This doom is mine."

"I ... you're right, Gala," Princess Alusair said reluctantly. "Though
it feels like I'm sending you to your death."

"As it happens," Elminster said brightly, setting down his nearly empty
flagon, "Mystra commanded me to deal with this. Knowing both thy duties
and how ye'd feel about being left out, I came to collect and bring ye
along, the Mother of All Magic being of like mind."

"Well, if you're collecting women to come watch you swat Vangerdahast,"
the High Lady of Arabel spoke up, "I insist on coming along too. I don't
want to miss seeing Old Haughty get his, and someone besides magic-crazed
wizards should be present, to witness fairly and to report back to the
Crown."

Alusair nodded. "Well said, Mreen. Old Mage, "

Elminster smiled. "If Myrmeen Lhal desires to come along, then so she
shall, in all the safety I can provide."

Abruptly, his seat was empty. He, Caladnei, and Myrmeen were simply gone
from the room.

Crown Princess Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr gaped at their empty seats then
sprang to her feet, snatching up her scabbarded sword, and snarled,
"Elminster,  /Caladnei, /"

There was no answer but faint birdsong from outside. The Steel Regent
threw back her head and let her fury pour out in a wordless roar. No
chance to privately confer with Cala or Mreen, no chance for them to
prepare gear or make arrangements! The scheming old /bastard!/

She smashed the nearest door open and strode out into the forest,
striding hard. Her scabbard whirled back in her wake, almost slapping
handsome young Lord Malask Huntinghorn across the face. He blinked, came
out of his doorguard's stance, and started after the Crown Princess.

Ducking around wildly waving branches and swaying saplings, he reached a
dense thicket in time to see Alusair hiss out a stream of curses he was
glad he couldn't quite catch and reduce a defenseless sapling to
kindling with a few furious slashes of her sword.

Throwing back her head to shake the hair out of her eyes, she strode
purposefully to the /next /sapling. Malask Huntinghorn swallowed, drew
in a deep breath, and performed the bravest act of his young life, thus
far ... perhaps his last brave act ever.

"Princess," he said firmly, striding forward to catch at her swor-darm,
"that tree deserves to live, just as you or I do. The living green heart
of the realm, as Lord Alaphondar often reminds us, is its trees. I don't
think you should, "

Princess Alusair spun around far more swiftly than she'd ever done when
making love to him, faster than any battle-knight of the realm he'd ever
seen, and pounced on the scion of House Huntinghorn, flinging her blade
away to punch, kick, and claw.

Malask found himself on his back, winded and with a fierce pain in his
shoulder where he'd fetched up against a tree-root, and even sharper
pains erupting in his gut and ribs as the Regent of Cormyr slammed her
fists home, snarling and shouting in fury.

He was suddenly very glad indeed that he'd donned full forest-leathers,
codpiece in particular, to take his turn at guard, as knees and
knife-edged hands thrust home, slaps made his ears ring and his face
burn, and the woman he was sworn to defend thrust her nose almost into
his eye and shouted, /"Defend /yourself, you great rothe, damn you!
/Fight, /Malask!"

"M-my Queen, I, "

"I'm not your damn queen or /anyone's /queen, Lord Lummox! I'm a warrior
who feels great need of a sparring partner, right now! /Hit /me, you
great lump of cowering man-flesh!"

Malask swallowed, closed his eyes against a punch that almost closed one
of them for him, and reluctantly thrust one arm up and out. She swatted
it aside, bruisingly, and belted him across the nose.

"Aaargh!" he roared, eyes streaming as the pain stung him into trying to
twist and roll out from under her. "Gods, you've probably /broken /it,
Luse! I'll look like some sort of country straw-butt lout for the rest
of my life!" He shielded his dripping nose with one hand, wincing and
blinded by tears.

"Well, why not,  You /are /a country straw-butt lout!"

With a roar, Malask Huntinghorn forgot all about duty, princesses,
treason, royal persons, and how soft and ardent this particular royal
person had felt on occasion, and lashed out with a roundhouse swing that
had all of his pain and anger behind it.

There was a grunt, a sudden loss of weight atop his hip, and silence.

He blinked, swallowed, and knuckled his eyes feverishly to clear them.
"Luse,  /Luse, /"

//

/"That's /more like it," she snarled into his ear, as both of her fists
struck home, low in his ribs, driving the wind right out of him.
Groaning and flailing out, he punched, clawed, and punched again, and
somehow found himself staggering to his feet, under a welter of blows,
tearing a fluffy nightrobe clean off the Crown Princess of the realm as
he spun her off-balance so as to plant a solid blow to her breast that
sent her over backward to the ground, doubled up and spitting curses.

Glowering, he strode toward her, fists balled. She launched herself up
and into his gut, headfirst, hurling him backward.

He greeted the ground with a crash, a snapping of ferns and dry dead
branches, and a Crown Princess of the realm on his pelvis, punching at
him. Malask got in an uppercut that snapped Alusair's jaw up and back,
and she collapsed onto him with a groan, rocking back and forth.

"Oh, my jaw aches," she muttered, as she crawled up the body of her
battered guard, both of them wincing at their bruises, and kissed him.

"Gods above, Luse," he whispered, "is this one more way of hurting me, 
My nose . . ."

"I'll help you forget your nose," she said huskily, finding and tugging
at his laces. Malask Huntinghorn groaned and shook his head. Oh,
Alusair. Ah, fortunate Cormyr . . . and lucky me, too.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Ten

      SCHEMES AS BLOOD-RED AS RUBIES

/

Beware all schemes, O king, for such beasts have a way of shedding blood
on the floors of this kingdom like poured-out sacks of rubies.

/

The character Malarvalo the Minstrel
bookmark
in Scene the Fourth

of the play /Daggers In All Her Gowns/

by Nesper Droun of Ordulin

first performed in the Year of the Morningstar

Rhauligan was barely out of the turret when Narnra cast a glance back
over her shoulder and saw him.

She gave him a glare, ran on a few paces, stopped, peered off to the
left where the balconies and turrets of Haelithtorntowers jutted closest
to the wall, then took a few racing steps and launched herself between
the leaf-cloaked boughs of the great trees of the mansion gardens, in a
daring leap that . . .

. . . took her safely to a clinging landing on the head of a brooding
gargoyle, chin in hand, holding up one corner of a balcony.

Rhauligan hoped it was rock-solid carved stone and not of one those
stonelike monsters that would suddenly move to bite and claw, probably
when she was safely gone, but he was trying to land in the same spot.

Keeping his eyes on her to make sure she set no traps behind, Rhauligan
trotted along the wall, looking for the right place to make his running
jump.

He sighed, once.

Caladnei and Narnra, I'm keeping a tally here. And if the gods grant me
more luck than any man in the kingdom has enjoyed for the last century
or so, I just might live to collect it.

Rhauligan took his last two running steps with the wind in his face and
launched himself into the air. The balcony was enough lower than the top
of the wall that he'd been able to clearly see through the windows of
the room it opened into. No one was moving therein. He'd paced off the
run calmly enough, and now he'd just have to hope he'd been . . .

. . . right. He landed hard, numbing his elbows on the lichen-splotched
old gargoyle and losing a lot of breath, but his first surge of angry
strength took him safely up and over the intricately carved stone rail
onto a balcony that seemed far too spattered with bird dung to belong to
a house that held caring servants. The Harper took but an instant to
safely plant his feet ere he looked up.

The long legs and trim behind of Narnra Shalace were just vanishing
through an open window, high above.

As Rhauligan leaned out to peer, she slipped inside the window, favored
him with the briefest of glares, and closed it behind her. Through its
dung-streaked, amber-tinted glass, the Harper saw her turn its catch,
latching it firmly.

So. He could either climb the outside wall, and though he was the
stronger of the two of them, he was also much the heavier, to break that
window and force his way in or stand here on a nice level balcony and do
the same to a window or door.

Out of habit Rhauligan ducked low and turned back to peer over the
balcony rail. Its gargoyles were still gargoyles, and there was no sign
of guards or anyone else in the mist-beaded shade-gloom of the lush
garden below.

He spun again to the door, still in his crouch. Nothing moved in the
room beyond the door, which was dark and seemed to hold a lot of large,
draped things . . . furniture shrouded in dust-sheets. Rhauligan's eyes
narrowed. Lady Ambrur was certainly still in Marsember, or had been,
yester-morning, so this couldn't be the usual nobles' practice of
shutting up one house and journeying to another . . . not that current
local Harper wisdom knew of Lady Joysil Ambrur having any other abode.
Of course, she could be invited to some Sembian hunting lodge or
Cormyrean upcountry castle at any time, but. . .

Perhaps she merely found the house too large for her daily purposes and
used this part for storing the furniture she liked the least. Yes,
that'd probably be it.

The door had the simplest of latches but also featured an ornate inner
bar and two floorspike bolts, so Rhauligan undid a catch on his
boot-heel and slid the heel off, exposing it as the hilt of a
razor-sharp scriber.

A moment later, he was neatly removing the first shaped pane of glass,
cut along its putty-lines, and reaching in to undo a floorspike. He had
to work swiftly or Narnra would have time to descend the three levels or
so from the window she'd entered to this floor and get below and past
him . . . leaving him the entire gods-kissed, servant-crowded mansion to
search for her in. Yes, the score was still rising . . .

Out of habit he kept casting glances back over his shoulder to make sure
no one was on the wall or flying past, Why not,  Some of these nobles
sponsored or gave house room to apprentice mages, gaining the protection
of thiefly fear of such guardians, to see him and raise the alarm ... or
just practice their skills at putting handy crossbow quarrels through
intruding Harpers.

No such hazards presented themselves before Rhauligan got the doors
open. Once the floorspikes were drawn up, the doors could be made to
part enough to thrust his prybar between them, lifting the latch and
thrusting the inside bar up and out of its sockets.

He had the door open swiftly enough to dart one hand out to deflect the
falling bar from a crash down onto the floor, nice polished emeraldstone
tiles, alternating in diamond-shapes with white marble, into a thudding
impact with the nearest draped wardrobe or whatever it was and a fairly
quiet tumble down the cloth to the floor.

The Harper restored the bar to its rightful place, sheathed his prybar,
and advanced cautiously into the dark, quiet room. A mouse scurried from
under one shrouded thing to under another, but otherwise . . . nothing
moved but the dust. He was leaving a faint trail through it, he knew,
and soon found the piled-up extra end of a too-large dust-sheet to wipe
his boots on.

The room was large, and opened onto the next chamber of the mansion
through a great tapestry-filled arch rather than doors. Rhauligan
listened at the wall of cloth, hearing nothing, went to one end of
it, rather than disturb it trying to find its center parting, and slipped
his head around it.

He found himself looking at a large, dust-dancing stairwell, with a
railed landing joining it to his room and others out of sight beyond the
wall that cradled the stairs.

"Nothing," a voice called suddenly. "Something disturbed the doves,
right enough, a gorcraw, mayhap, but none of 'em had any messages. I
checked every blessed one."

Rhauligan hastily drew back a breath or two before a bored servant-woman
whose bosom resembled a large sack of potatoes trudged down the nearest
stair and went along the landing.

"Well, that's all right, then," another, sharper voice said from
somewhere under Rhauligan's boots, presumably the next landing down. "So
long as we miss nothing and catch no Lady-fury . . ."

"Huh," the large woman agreed, as she started down the next flight of
steps and passed out of Rhauligan's view. "Can't be thieves, unless they
can fl, " She stopped, stock-still and said in a different voice, "Hold,
now! That was it, the window was shut! Shut and latched! One of them
birds 'prolly came flying to get in and smacked right into the glass!
Send Norn down to check for one lying in the gardens, and get the
lantern, oh, and fire-pokers for the both of us! I'm not going back up
there alone!"

"Aye," Sharp Voice agreed, her voice fading as she descended unseen
stairs, "but what sort of thief shuts a window behind his-self, "

"An idiot thief, that's what sort!" Lumpy Bosom replied sourly, almost
driving Rhauligan to chuckle.

You have /that /right, goodwoman, you do indeed . . . and I'm assigned
to be her keeper, more's the pity. . . .

No, that was unfair. The Waterdhavian's only mistakes had been to
blunder after a wizard to get here, and to run from half the gathered War
Wizards and Harpers in the realm.

Well, she'd ended up with only one following her, hadn't she,  So perhaps
her lone hunter was the idiot. . . .

Rhauligan put away that wry thought and turned back to the task at hand.
So the window had been left open to let doves in and out of their cote.
Well, that explained the handy open window and the bird-dung . . . and
if Lumpy there had gone up the stairs to answer whatever alarm Narnra
had triggered in any sort of haste, the thief from Waterdeep had to
still be somewhere above him.

Of course, he now had to keep watch over the stairs so she couldn't slip
down past him and at the same time manage not to be seen by two wary
she-servants when they came back up here, and walked right past his
staring face, with pokers in their hands.

Perhaps the rooms on the far side of the stair . . .

Rhauligan was out along the landing and around the stair-head like a
hurrying ghost, and into . . . more dark, shrouded rooms given over to
dust. Smaller than the one he'd been in, one giving into another through
archways, again. Must be hard to heat in winter, with no doors to close,
and that was probably why this tower of the mansion had been the one
chosen to languish as storage. Cold storage, ha ha.

Well, he'd best turn and find the best vantage p, hold! What was . . .
another stair!

Rhauligan was across the room like a storm wind, already fearing he was
too late. This stair was narrower and steeper, a servants' route, no
doubt, and deserted. He peered at it then went chin-down to the dusty
floor and squinted up at the steps. Aye, there! And there! She'd been
down it, right enough, and not long ago.

* * * * *

Mask aid me, how big /was /this house,  A grand pile indeed, from
outside, yes, but to leave so much of it to the dark and dust! Was its
owner a half-witted hermit, clinging to a few rooms and shuffling about
mumbling about past glories,  Or shut up in a sick-bed, with dwindling
coins keeping fewer and fewer servants, 

Or were there newer, grander wings and towers and entire rambling
mansions beyond this, that she hadn't seen yet, 

Somehow Narnra suspected the latter.

"Just go on being the Silken Shadow," she breathed to herself, hoping
the Harper hound on her trail had given up or been caught . . . and
knowing, somehow, that she was just dream-wishing.

Yet she felt, good. When her prowls were going well, she seemed almost to
float along in the silence and the gloom, silence wrapped around her
like a cloak.

She felt like that now.

Narnra gave the darkness a fierce grin and went on, wondering what lay
ahead. Perhaps the stables, with a hay loft to hide in. And coaches. All
nobles had coaches, and coaches betimes went out through city gates. . . .

* * * * *

Rhauligan followed the stair down as quietly as he could, which was
quiet indeed. This was old, solid stonework and thick boards pegged into
place, none of your slapdash modern gaudy work.

As he went down, the noises of work, servants, of course,  began to be
audible: people chattering, laughing, hurrying back and forth laden with
things, someone chopping food on a wooden board or table, someone else
making banging and scraping sounds.

"Where're them brooms, then, " The rough male voice was accompanied by a
striding entry too sudden for Rhauligan to draw back. He froze on the
stairs as sudden light spilled across a landing below, as a man with a
long-ago broken nose and wheezing lungs snatched up a long-handled
pushbroom from where it leaned against a wall, spun around without
sparing a glance up the dark and dusty stairs where the Harper stood,
and banged his door closed behind him again.

Rhauligan hurried, in case the habit was to return the broom the moment
its job was done. He was past that door and on down the next flight ere
the door opened again, but by then the growing hubbub and light around
him, through various ill-fitting hatches in the stairwell walls, it
seemed he was passing a large, multilevel kitchen where a small legion
of servants were keeping quite busy, was considerable.

One hatch afforded him a gap large enough to peer through, and he put
his eye to it. Shiny copper vats or tanks greeted his view, with men in
aprons squatting at the taps filling great tankards as large as their
torsos. Below them, several steps down on another level in the same vast
room, stood a great table covered with flour and dough, with women
swarming busily around it. Steam from cauldrons was rising from a lower
level yet, down out of sight to his left. Rhauligan cast a glance right
across the chamber and froze again.

There, just visible through a forest of hanging pans and pots and
ladles, was another, open stair, and peering through that kitch-enmongery
was Narnra Shalace, just for a moment ere she melted back and away and
went on down those dark steps.

She must have passed through the rooms of the floor above and found that
matching servants' stair. So she was below him, now, and he'd have to
move like a man trying to catch the morrow.

Rhauligan raced down steps with more haste than quiet. Given all the
racket in the kitchen, he'd probably have to shout or bang one of those
pans with a sword-hilt to be noticed, anyway, and, 

There was a door at the next landing, facing neither into the kitchen
nor away from it but north into the "blind end" of the landing turn, and
he plucked it open cautiously, in time to see the heel of Narnra's boot
flick past. He was out into the cross-passage she'd been traversing as
fast as he could move, but she'd already stepped into a great room or
gallery beyond and darted to the right.

Rhauligan ran after her and froze, just before the archway where the
passage opened out into this larger chamber ahead.

It was a /very /large room, and lofty. This was almost certainly the
central hall of Haelithtorntowers, and he'd probably be stepping out
onto a promenade balcony part way up its walls.

Torchlight flickered below, all along the front of the balcony. Across a
vast ring of empty space he could see the far sweep of them, beneath an
archway that matched the one he was standing in. They gave light enough
to show the Harper the walls of this huge room rising up out of sight
and curving inward, probably to a vaulted spire far overhead.

Painted coats of arms, wooden plaques as large as a stable door, each of
them, and these were the old, fully-gilded sort with real helms and
crossed spears affixed to them, not the simply carved false adornments
more in favor, for some inexplicable reason, these days, adorned the
walls above the balcony, and there were many tall, dark, closed doors
between them. If Narnra didn't want to stay on display in this hall,
she'd probably creep to one of them and try to open it.

For his part, he ducked low again, so as to be close to the floor when he
thrust his head out to peer along the balcony in both directions,
seeking guards, Rhauligan hoped she'd find them all locked. All but one
that opened into a dead-end chamber where he could pounce on her, truss
her up, and go and announce himself to the Lady Ambrur and request that
he be allowed to remove his captive into the keeping of the Mage Royal.
Enough of this chasing about through laundries and cookshops.

Even before the Harper had finished making sure there were no guards or
servants within sight on this balcony, nor any signs that anyone often
came up here, he caught sight of Narnra. Keeping low and out of sight
below the balcony rail, she'd worked her way around the balcony to the
far side, obviously intending to depart through that matching
archway, but had now stopped to listen to the voices floating up from below.

And leaned daringly forward to hear everything.

Rhauligan frowned. He could hear only a few people engaged in private
converse, with no link of cutlery nor bustle of servants. Out of long
habit he cocked his head to listen, too.

A sentence or two later, he'd put aside all thoughts of trying to
capture Narnra Shalace.

"You're in no pressing hurry, my Lord Starangh, " "Not as yet, though I
reserve the full disclosure of my desired pace through the rest of this
unfolding day until I learn the reason you ask such a thing," the Red
Wizard replied calmly, inspecting the fingers of his own right hand as
if he'd never quite noticed them before.

"Well, if we've the time and you've no objections on the grounds of,
say, prudence considering our present company," the Lady Am -brur
responded, "I'd prefer to unfold the information you seek in an ordered,
chronological fashion, to tell it as a story, to use plain words. A brief
tale, not deep history."

The Thayan raised his eyes to hers. "Why don't you begin that way,  If
things become overlong or drift far from what most interests us all, we
can always cry warning and agree upon another manner of discourse, can
we not, "

"Indeed, sir," his hostess agreed smoothly. "Let us begin, then, with
the recent retirement of the Royal Magician."

Malakar Surth had been displaying some signs of irritation throughout
the preceding discussion, his mouth drawing into a thin, disgusted line,
his gaze beginning to wander around the hall, beginning with a glance at
what her gown displayed to the watching world of the Lady Noumea
Cardellith's bosom, and so had his partner Bezrar, who'd slumped in his
chair into a more sullen pose of boredom. Both leaned forward with
renewed interest when the Lady Ambrur looked down into her empty
tallglass for a moment then spoke to it gently.

"Vangerdahast ruled this kingdom for years. Azoun reigned, yes,
dispensed justice, and rode to war when the need arose .. . but by his
control of the Court, through manipulations of almost all of its
officials, the Obarskyrs themselves, and many of the nobles who had
dealings at Court, the Mage Royal held the day-to-day rule of this
realm. Cormyr was ordered very much as he wanted it to be,  until the
coming of what most folk call 'the Devil Dragon.' We all know what
befell Azoun and Tanalasta, but I also happen to know that Vangerdahast
had some very trying adventures, alone, and almost met his death, too."

The Lady of Haelithtorntowers looked up from the depths of her tallglass
to find the eyes of Harnrim Starangh dark and intent upon her. She
looked into them and added, "Not a few folk at Court remarked that the
Royal Magician looked more old and exhausted at Azoun's funeral than
they'd ever seen him before. Most put it down to grief, for the
friendship between the Mage Royal and the Purple Dragon was
legendary, and the stresses of battle, but among the most senior Wizards
of War there were murmurs of ... deeper failings."

"Say more, Lady," the Red Wizard purred, leaning forward with his
nonchalance forgotten.

"I believe it's safe to say that the death of Azoun forcibly reminded
Vangerdahast that no man lives forever and that he hadn't much time
left, He was growing steadily more frail. Yet we've all seen men
enfeebled with age cling to what little they have left like a withering
vine, hanging on grimly past all reason, until the hanging on prolongs
existence past all enjoyment or a natural end. Faerun knows legions of
liches because of wizards who fiercely desire not to let go of life."

The Lady Ambrur rose and took an idle pace away from her seat. Out of
habit all three of her male guests marked where she walked and laid
hands to the hilts of daggers or wands, but their hostess took only one
more idle step before turning about to face them again. "Vangerdahast
feared one thing more than his failing body: his failing mind.
Increasing forgetfulness is a deadly failure in any mage, the Mage Royal
of Cormyr in particular, and his had become bad enough in matters large
and small that War Wizards were noticing daily. The Mage Royal could no
longer juggle dozens of intrigues and managed rumors and timings of
events without dropping some of them, and could no longer deny this from
himself. He hated it, but he feared for Cormyr with someone else at the
helm, given the plentiful supply of traitor nobles, the headstrong
Princess Alusair, and the defenseless babe that the fifth Azoun was and
remains."

Lady Ambrur turned again to look at Lady Cardellith and said gravely to
Noumea, "Finding his replacement could have been an impossible job. He
could well have died still looking, but for the first time in his life,
Vangerdahast was truly lucky, or Mystra smiled upon him: He found his
Caladnei, and though she's no wise old Vangerdahast, she'll do. She has
youth, vigor, and the ability to work as well with Alusair as Vangey did
with Alusair's father. That left Vangerdahast free to retire before he
mishandled something into a real disaster and let half the realm know
that weakness now walked the Royal Court. So he hastened to do so,
seizing on his long-held desire to be free of the petty, time-wasting
intrigues and demands of Court etiquette and routine, and /do something
important /ere he died."

Lady Joysil Ambrur spun around to face the wizard Darkspells and the two
Marsemban merchants. "/That /is what drives Vangerdahast. gentlesirs.
That is what has driven him for some years, ever since he judged himself
successful in schooling and guiding the great Azoun. He saw himself as a
successful guide, teacher, manipulator, and helmsman of the realm . . .
but other Royal Wizards of Cormyr have been that. Vangerdahast wants
more. He wants to leave his mark in lore, so that men in centuries to
come will say, 'Baerauble was the founding High Wizard of the realm,
aye, but Vangerdahast . . . Vangerdahast was probably the greatest of
them all.' It's not a hunger rare among mages, I'm afraid."

Harnrim "Darkspells" Starangh did not smile at that observation, but
Lady Ambrur was carefully looking now into the round and startled eyes
of the importer Aumun Bezrar and no longer meeting the gaze of the Red
Wizard.

"Vangerdahast is a builder of great ships of state and their helmsman,"
she added, "so 'great things' to him doesn't mean blasting cities flat
or cracking open castles with their archwizards and kings still in them.
By /very /difficult and expensive means I've been able to learn what two
specific things he does hold important. One is personal: to sire a blood
heir and enjoy romance and companionship, something he dared not allowed
himself to do whilst serving as Mage Royal. One is his last gift to
Cormyr, his legacy: to craft a great feat of magic, a webwork of spells
that will defend and protect Cormyr after his death."

Abruptly Lady Ambrur sat down again and fell silent.

That silence stretched, almost echoing in the vast and largely empty
hall, until at last the wizard Darkspells stirred and asked softly,
"Have you any idea how this web of spells will defend the kingdom, Lady, 
Such a massive warding, if it is a warding,  would drink deeply of the
life of all things within it and could not help but be noticed. More
than that: It could not help but change life in Cormyr, both through how
magic works, and by what other properties it possesses. Such a thing
would become a treasure to steal, or a barrier to test strength
against, for many mages and could not last long. I doubt that even
Vangerdahast could successfully create such a thing. So ... a warding
seems unlikely. Have your . . . sources . . . any hint as to what this
great magic entails, "

The Lady of Haelithtorntowers nodded, unsmiling. "They believe it will
involve binding heroes to defend the realm in place of the destroyed
Lords Who Sleep."

"Heroes, " Starangh echoed, with a frown. "What great magic is needful in
binding a few men, even against their will,  Men can be compelled.
Finding them need not take long, nor the crafting of magic to do the
binding. The spells must be known to him as they are to me."

Joysil shook her head. "My information suggests that these are all new
spells Vangerdahast is crafting, and having great difficulties doing so."

Starangh smiled. "So ... he intends to bind more than mere heroes, then.
And he's doing this /where, /"

"There's a forest village on the Starwater Road," Lady Joysil replied,
"called Mouth o' Gargoyles. Magic goes wild when cast there. This curse
has been known for centuries and is demon-strably real. Certain senior
War Wizards, however, have been overheard telling particular Harpers
that a hidehold cavern was long ago established in the forest near the
village by a Royal Magician of the realm and used by succeeding Royal
Magicians. The magics they work are concealed from those who might
otherwise come looking for explanations; any radiances or blasts or
strange magical effects get blamed on the curse."

Harnrim Starangh's eyes narrowed. "So dozens of War Wizards know about
this cavern and what goes on there, and have truly managed to keep it
secret, for all these years, "

"No. Only a very few know of it, because the various Royal Magicians
normally go there alone."

"So who lurks in the woods, keeping outlaws and nosy Harpers and
blundering foresters away, "

"That," the Lady Ambrur replied, leaning forward to fix Dark-spells with
a very direct gaze, "is the most interesting thing about all of this.
Folk who blunder too close without following exactly the right route, and
no, I'm sorry, but I've not been able to learn the specifics of that
trail, encounter creatures of Mystra: watchghosts and wizardly wraiths
and the like, who turn them back with magic. Or they simply take one
wrong step and are teleported halfway across Faerun, seemingly to a
different place every time. Most War Wizards who patrol the area are
under orders only to observe who approaches and report such intruders to
Laspeera or her most trusted senior mages. Most of them know only that
something precious is located near Mouth o' Gargoyles and that the very
existence of this unknown valuable thing is a state secret."

"So presumably a select few senior War Wizards do know the correct route
to this sanctum," Starangh said softly, bobbing his chin onto his
steepled fingertips. He suddenly broke into a wide smile, blinked, and
added, "You shall be well paid, Lady Ambrur."

He opened a belt pouch, placed twenty thumb-sized rubies on the table in
front of him, and added, "Consider this but a first, trifling payment, a
gift, if you will. The worth of these is not be included in our
agreed-upon price, which shall be delivered to you on the morrow. For I
deem that you, /if you /forget all you've said tonight and speak nothing
of it to anyone else ever again or of the names and faces of any of us
three, have more than earned payment in full."

He favored Noumea Cardellith with a long, silent, thoughtful look but
said nothing to her.

Starangh rose in a single smooth motion, nodded politely to the Lady
Ambrur, and asked, "Have you learned anything more of interest,
pertaining to this matter, "

"Not as yet," she replied gravely.

"No matter. You have rendered me great service, Lady. I shall not
intrude further upon your time."

He bowed, spun around, and made for the door. Wordlessly, the two
merchants rose in his wake, sketched clumsy bows of their own, and
hastened to follow.

When the doors had closed behind them, Lady Ambrur looked at her
remaining guest with a smile. "Well,  What think you, "

Noumea regarded her with large, dark eyes, shook her head ever so
slightly, and said softly, "I do not trust that man."

"Nor should you," her hostess responded. "Are there spells upon the rubies, "

Noumea rose, went to stand over the stones, muttered something, and
passed her hand over them without touching anything. "Yes," she said
grimly, with no trace of surprise in her voice.

Lady Ambrur nodded. "Touch them not nor send any other magic at them. In
fact, cast no more magic in this room. Were I you, I'd use spells to
disguise myself this very night and lie low in some distant land for a
month or so. Red Wizards tend to have very long arms and sharply honed
senses of cruelty."

"But yourself, " Noumea asked, waving her other hand at the rubies. "What
if he sends something deadly with his payment, "

"I can protect myself," the Lady of Haelithtorntowers said softly,
acquiring a smile that was not at all dissimilar from that worn by the
Red Wizard.

"Like Vangerdahast, I too have some important tasks I wish to accomplish
before I die."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Eleven

      A WIZARD IN EVERY SANCTUM

/

And so at last I was forced to put the world behind me and go and hide.
I made myself a hole to hide in, pulled the hole in behind me, and there
I was: nowhere.

/

The character Greatghalont the Archwizard

in Scene the First

of the play /Endings In Innarlith/

by Skamart "the Clever" Thallea

first performed in the Year of Thunder

There was a moment of blue, endlessly falling mists, then solid stone
under their boots, bright morning sunlight, and a smell of burnt sausage
and scorched toast.

Caladnei blinked. "I've been here before. Just once, when Van-gey was
testing me, but then he cloaked it from me somehow. I've never been able
to reach it again."

Myrmeen Lhal was shooting wary glances in all directions, her sword
half-drawn. She gave Elminster an enthusiastically venomous look, so he
smiled and blew her a kiss, which turned her glare stony.

They were standing in a flagstone-floored cellar, the cross-vaultings of
its low, arched ceiling perhaps a handspan overhead. Ahead, beyond two
littered tables and a hoopback chair be-draped with some rather dirty
towels, was what looked like a kitchen: a scarred marble counter heaped
high with dirty dishes and pans, flanking two sinks. Above the counter
was a window, deep-set in a ferny bank and looking out through a few
trailing vines over a pleasant deep-forest glade.

Standing at the counter with a bowl of almond butter in one hand, a fat
loaf of bread under one arm, and his other hand wielding a knife that
was scooping and slapping between bowl and the sliced-off, exposed end
of the loaf, was an all-too-familiar man.

He was stooped and fat and wore dirty black robes and sandals. His wild
gray-white beard flowed down over his chest and reached in every other
direction, too. The mouth hidden somewhere in the midst of it was hard
at work creating the reason he hadn't heard the ringing sound of Myrmeen
half-drawing her blade, or Caladnei's softly wondering words.

Vangerdahast the wizard was singing a bawdy song about a lass from
Arabel, Myrmeen's lips tightened, who'd fallen under his spell, Caladnei
frowned, and was now begging for more . . . despite certain wizards
growing sore . . .

Vangey's singing voice was atrocious, a flat, rough wreck of a tone
cloaked in the exaggeratedly fruity stylings he'd no doubt heard the
haughtiest bards offer at Court (though they'd probably kept to one key,
something the former Mage Royal was in no danger of doing), and he kept
breaking off his song to choke, cough, and spit enthusiastically into
the sink.

His knife was layering a finger-thick and still growing deposit of
almond butter onto the end of the bread-loaf. Its swirl of oily brown
was already bedecked with sprinklings of parsley, chopped garlic, and
dill . . . and Elminster grinned slyly as he looked sidelong at
Caladnei's horrified face and watched it tighten in revolted
anticipation of what her former mentor would most probably do next, which
was, yes, to start to gnaw on the spread end of the loaf without
bothering to slice it off or find a plate, though where a clean one might
be lurking, in all the clutter, was itself a puzzling challenge, or, for
that matter, make any sort of nodded offering to the gods.

What Vangerdahast did instead was launch into a second and filthier
verse, through a mouthful of almond butter and bread while rocking on
his heels and rhythmically conducting his imaginary wanton lass as he
sang. In this manner, he turned away from the window just enough to
catch sight of three visitors he'd certainly never expected to see
standing in his empty pantry instead of the strongchests of provisions
whose arrival he was expecting.

He blinked, rocked back to face the window while singing the next line,
then turned again to frown at the pantry, perhaps in hopes the three were
some sort of momentary mind-dream or the result of recently emptying the
bottle he now plucked up from the sink to glare at.

The three figures did not go away, even after he spat the gooey remnants
of almond-buttered bread at them in sudden fear and mortification,
following these offerings with a roared, "How by all the Seven
feldurking Sisters /did you /get here, "

"Magic," Elminster replied brightly with the broadest of impish grins.

Vangerdahast's eyes blazed. He flung bread in one direction and knife in
the other, letting the empty wine bottle crash back down into the sink.
In the next motion he raised trembling arms and took a step toward the
Old Mage as if he were going to try to strangle Elminster. At last he
let his arms fall, looked from the tip of Myrmeen Lhal's now-drawn
sword, which came equipped with the face of the High Lady of Arabel
glowering at him over it, to the frozen and disapproving face of
Caladnei, the lass he'd picked to succeed him as Mage Royal . . . and
shrank visibly, letting out his breath in a sigh.

Vangerdahast shook his head as if to clear it, crossed his arms across
his chest to glare at all three of them as if they were common thieves
he'd caught publicly in a personally embarrassing act, and growled,
"This should /not /be possible. You arrived right atop my most powerful
teleport trap and somehow bulled through it. You three should right now
be standing bewildered in three separate and very distant spots on
Toril. Far enough away to win me some time to myself, I /had /every
reason to hope."

Elminster smiled again. "Remember, old friend, 'tis by Mystra's will
such things work . . . and I myself continue to live and, ah, work by
the same pleasure and divine power."

Vangerdahast shook his head in clear displeasure, and turned away. "You
shouldn't have come here. You shouldn't be here now. I've retired from
all the fawning and smiling and doing what's expected. My time is now my
own."

"Very well spent, I see," Myrmeen said tartly.

The former Royal Magician rounded on her. "You, miss, would do better to
hold and keep Arabel for the Crown, for a change! If you weren't so
determined to out-swagger and out-swordswash every man in the realm,
like a pale echo of proud little Alusair, perhaps you'd've settled down
to being a very useful governor instead of governing one man at a time
in your bedchamber! I, "

"My Lord /Vangerdahast!" /Caladnei snapped. Wo /one /should speak so to
any officer of the realm, nor to any lady! You, you disgust me! Your words
lead me to wonder what were you really thinking about me when you
praised me and named me your successor! 'Oh, here's some brown-skinned
trollop who'll bed more noblemen than I could bring myself to do', "

//

/"You be still, /little miss!" Vangerdahast roared, eyes catching fire.
"I've had about enough, "

"So have I," Elminster announced pleasantly. "Ye used to be far more
deft and sly in picking fights and making folk lose their tempers and
forget their intentions, Vangey. Ye're losing it, ye are. Wherefore I'm
going to be just as unpleasant to ye as ye've been to thy fellow folk of
Cormyr for, oh, some six decades now, hey, "

He took a step forward, not appearing to cast any spell or awaken any
ring, rod, wand, or gewgaw, but Vangerdahast floated up off the floor and
hung rigid, limbs unmoving. "Now, speak. Unfold what ye're really up to
here. Mystra wanted me to be a trifle more subtle about this, I'm sure,
but I find myself not in the mood to be nearly so gentle with ye. Ye
tried to enrage these two ladies so as to put their minds aside from
prying some answers out of ye. Why, "

"I, I don't want to talk about what I'm at work on to ... either of these
two ladies," Vangerdahast replied gruffly, "whom I'm both sorry to have
offended. I, no, I cannot. Caladnei and Myrmeen, forgive me, but your
presence here ruins and reveals everything. I can't be honest with you.
I daren't."

"Nay Vangerdahast," Elminster said calmly, "Ye dare /not /fail to tell
all and truly to these two: the Mage Royal of the realm, remember, and
an officer of the Crown to bear witness."

"You are no longer my teacher, El," Vangerdahast said coldly. "I need no
more of your lessons on obedience or moral authority. I would judge, as
many in Faerun do, that your own actions disqualify you from criticizing
anyone else in this world on such matters."

"Vangey," Elminster replied gently. "I'm not asking ye. I'm telling ye."

He took another step forward and added, "We both fell into the 'might
makes right, and I know this is right anyway, so just hold still whilst
I do it to ye' trap long, long ago . . . and I daresay we've both found
it easiest to remain there. I'm still there now. Ye /will /answer me."

"I will /not," /Vangerdahast snarled. "I, I . . ."

"Am disgusted with how cruel and tyrannical I can be, " Elminster asked,
his voice almost a whisper. "So am I, old friend. So am I. Yet I long
ago cast my lot with Mystra, and do what she needs me to do. Yet I've
not yet reached the point of being so disgusted that I refuse to do it
and defy her."

The Old Mage was aware of the two women backing instinctively away from
him, awe warring with apprehension on their faces. "And like ye," he
went on, his eyes never leaving those of his onetime pupil, "I feel the
talons of time clawing at me at last. Like ye, I know not how much time
I have left, but I know enough to feel 'tis not much any longer. So like
ye, this drives me to do all I want to do, as swiftly as I can, and be
damned to all these younger fools who stand in my way. I /know just /how
ye feel, Vangey. Believe me."

He lifted one open hand, as if offering something invisible to the empty
air. "So now, I'm going to ruthlessly compel ye, quite rudely, but 'tis
necessary and this way 'twill at least be swift."

Vangerdahast glared at him, shuddering and going red-faced as he fought
the invisible bonds of Elminster's magic. At last he barked out brief,
wordless frustration and gave up, to slump and hang limply in midair.
"Ask your questions," he said bitterly.

"I'm sorry, Vangerdahast," the Old Mage told him. "First then, precisely
what creatures are you planning to bind, with these secret spells you're
crafting, "

//

/"What /secret spel, "

//

/"Truth, /Vangey. The truth, if ye can still remember what that is after
so many years at Court," Elminster ordered, his voice calm but implacable.

Vangerdahast glared at him then snapped, "Dragons. Neutral or benevolent
dragonkind."

Both Caladnei and Myrmeen drew in breath so sharply that they almost
gasped, but said nothing, their eyes burning at Vangerdahast. So it was true!

Elminster spared them not a glance. "Willingly or unwillingly bound, "

The former Royal Magician seemed to shrink, dwindling in the air.
"Willingly, if possible," he murmured.

"To awaken at what triggers, "

"When called."

Elminster acquired a sour look. "Vangey," he murmured, "are we going to
have to do this by dragging every last word out of ye like so many
hooked sea-beasts being hauled ashore,  No one in this room thinks ye're
anything less than Cormyr's savior and staunch defender, the backbone of
the realm. We /admire /thy intended legacy, so why not discuss it freely, 
None of us three wants to see Cormyr overrun by Red Wizards and
Zhentarim, among many others, hunting for ye or for thy spells, so we're
hardly likely to pass on what we hear to anyone else. I'll even
mindshield these two ladies, if they desire it, so anyone who tries to
read their thoughts or memories will get blasted by magic that should
leave that anyone drooling-witless for a day or so. So why not just
speak freely,  Hey, "

Vangerdahast closed his eyes, sighed, and said, "Very well. I intend
that the guardian wyrms will be awakened by any being who utters the
right words of summoning. For the words to work, the speaker will have
to find and stand in the active area of the right portal, there should be
at least two 'right portals' per dragon,  while holding an item of the
correct substance."

"And that substance is, "

"I know not, yet. Most probably a particular sort of gemstone. I haven't
yet decided on that part of it. I'm leaning toward establishing two
allowable substances in all cases, either one of which will 'work.' Of
course, 'tis best if such substances will last down the years."

"Of course. Under what orders will these bound guardians operate when
awakened, "

The former Royal Magician cast a quick glance at Caladnei, and just as
quickly averted his eyes from her furious stare. "To defend and preserve
the realm," he replied, almost sighing the words, "its government, and
those of its folk who stand loyal. To strike at foes of the realm the
guardian identifies or that are pointed out to it by its summoner and
other beings it comes to trust."

//

/"It /comes to trust, "

"In the end, all things come down to trust," Vangey muttered quietly,
looking at the floor. "They always do."

One of the two women drew in her breath sharply again, swallowing a
tremulous sob that sounded the width of a sharp sword blade away from
bursting forth as furious words.

Elminster smiled a mirthless smile, glanced at the two ladies,  Myrmeen
standing watchfully, sword out, ready to menace either of the two
wizards, and Caladnei seething, her face white and her hands clenched
around a chairback so tightly that it almost seemed her grip would crush
the wood, and asked, "Whom would the guardians obey,  Whom would they ally
or cooperate with, "

"Their summoner would be their commander," Vangerdahast replied, "but
they'd be freed of obedience to that being, instantly and forever, if
ordered to harm any member of the Obarskyr ruling family, any castle or
fortification of Cormyr, and . . . other conditions not yet specified."

"Left free for you to amend at any time, " Caladnei snapped.

The floating wizard kept silent for a moment, but before Elminster could
order him to answer, he said heavily, "No. I ... I'd not yet decided how
long and precise a list of commands, and qualifications to those orders,
to place upon the guardians."

"And if an Obarskyr threatens the realm, " the Mage Royal asked sharply.
"What then, "

Vangerdahast turned his head to look at Caladnei. "I've been wrestling
with that very concern for some months now, on and off, but still see no
clear, correct conclusion."

Caladnei seemed about to say more, if her trembling was any indication,
something intemperate, but instead waved a furiously dismissive hand and
turned her face away.

"While in stasis," Elminster continued, as quietly and calmly as if
Caladnei had never spoken, "these bound guardians will be kept where, "

"In an extra-dimensional space anchored to at least seven portals around
Cormyr, only two of which will be made known to anyone but me,"
Vangerdahast replied promptly.

"Who'll know the location of their abiding, "

"No one, if I can keep it so."

Elminster nodded, took a step back, and let his former pupil descend a
little. "How are the wyrms protected when in stasis, "

What might have been a smile touched Vangerdahast's lips for a moment.
"Not at all, given how far my spells have progressed, thus far.
Protections are something I must craft, however, if this scheme is to
work at all."

Elminster nodded again. "Once loosed to serve, do the guardians return
to their bindings, "

"No," Vangey replied reluctantly. "They'd be free, though someone who
knew just which spells to cast could bind them again. The process will
be lengthy and require the immediate presence of the guardian to be
bound, so the dragon would have to be either subdued in some way ... or
willing to re-enter stasis."

"Mystra! Murderous mothering /Mystra!" /Caladnei shouted, boiling over
at last. "Mage, I am appalled! Revolted! Disgusted at this treasonous
betrayal of the kingdom we both love! How /could /you,  After serving and
stitching together this realm through years of strife and dire doom, you
set forth to shatter it out of pure pride,  O'erweening folly, "

"Oho," Elminster murmured. "Nice phrase."

The Mage Royal stalked past him to plant herself right under
Vangerdahast's lined and unhappy face and shake a furious fist up at it.
"I'm aghast that a Royal Magician of the realm, for you're still that,
whether you wear the title or not, could play such a dangerous fool by
contemplating forging this blade to strike at the very heart of Cormyr!
And to plot this without telling anyone, using /me /as your dupe!"

"Lass," the floating wizard told her sadly, "the very strength of this
blade is its secrecy and always has been." He lifted his head, his voice
growing stronger, and added, "You are the realm's hope and the realm's
future, and I believe I chose rightly. Yet you're but young at this. In
what is needful for Cormyr I know best, better than any man, maid, or
beast living, like it or not."

Caladnei's mouth dropped open in astonishment, her jaw working in rage
as she struggled through blazing fury to find the right words to hurl at
him, and Vangerdahast gave her a wintry smile and said, "I'll admit this
much, Gala: I've often hated what I've had to do in service to the
kingdom . . . and what those doings have in turn done to me, down the
years."

The Mage Royal stood with fists clenched at her sides, spitting and
almost weeping in rage. "You, you! You! There, no, how . . ."

A long finger stroked gently down her cheek, and she spun around in
surprise, eyes blazing and hands racing to shape a spell . . . only to
freeze in mid-gesture as she found herself looking into the face of
Elminster of Shadowdale. It was wearing a kindly expression.

"Easy, lass," he murmured. "Easy, now. Ye're right to be royally angered
at being kept uninformed, but imagine now that the future of Cormyr
depends upon thy wits and judgment being icily cool and calm, in the
moments ahead . . . for, behold!, it does. Stop raging and show the same
iron control that Alusair can manage for almost two breaths in a row
when she has to ... and hear me."

Caladnei was panting hard, eyes blazing at him, but she flung up her
hands in an 'all right' flourish. Behind her, Myrmeen, who'd acquired a
grim smile at El's mention of Alusair's self control,  gave the Old Mage
a nod and grounded her sword.

Elminster took hold of Caladnei's shoulders, facing her squarely, and
said, "There /is /some merit in the words Vangey's just spoken to ye,
Mage Royal. No matter how much ye may personally dislike hearing so."

"Well, /you'd /think so!" Caladnei spat. "You've done just what he
has, for centuries! High-handed, secretive, manipulative, deceitful, in
every wise /precisely /the same way as this sly old /dog /here!"

Elminster smiled and clapped her shoulders cheerfully. "Of /course /I
have! Ye strike right to the truth, exactly! If ye survive to serve
Mystra for as long as I've done, yell probably behave in much the same
way, too!"

"This is not," the Mage Royal hissed through clenched teeth, "any sort
of laughing matter! And don't throw me glib words about Mystra's service
driving you past sanity, either! If you can hurl 'right' and 'merit' and
little judgments all over the place, you must admit to retaining the
capacity to judge!"

Elminster smiled and embraced her, holding on like an imperviously
smiling wraith through the storm of kicks and thrown elbows and raking
fingernails and upthrust knees that followed. Through it all he crooned,
like a favorite uncle to a small girl, "There, there. Let thy rage flow
... let it out, there's a good lass. But ye can be so much more than
that. Ye can be a good Mage Royal, too! For a /good /Mage Royal, now
fully informed of Vang-erdahast's secret scheme and thus warned,
shouldn't waste more time tarrying here to rant and shout, when the daily
crises of the kingdom face her uncaring back."

He let go of her and stepped back, a trifle hastily. Caladnei glared at
him, bosom heaving, then set her jaw and said stonily, "Yes, you /are
/right, Old Mage. So long as you make sure I'm not blocked or barred
from reaching this place by spells, I should now take my leave, to
consider and find calm, and look ahead."

She turned and shot a meaningful look at Myrmeen Lhal. Only Elminster
had seen the grin that played along the mouth of the Lady Lord of Arabel
moments before. There was no trace of it now as Myrmeen nodded as if in
reply to an order, stepped forward to give both Elminster and
Vangerdahast level looks, and announced firmly, "I shall be staying, for
the good of the realm, to keep watch over Vangerdahast, here. Elminster,
please set him down on his feet again, and I must insist that you do one
thing more for me: Lay spell protections on me to keep me from being
magically mind-meddled with by semi-retired Mages Royal."

Elminster smiled. "Of course."

In the background, Vangerdahast's sputtered protests were firmly
ignored. The Old Mage spread his hands and took a long step toward
Myrmeen, and an opaque shield faded into existence out of nowhere to
enclose them both.

Vangerdahast slammed to the ground as if he'd been dropped off the end
of a cart. Wincing and limping, he approached the shield, only to come to
a dead halt as Caladnei strode around its curve to stand in his path,
two wands raised in her hands and a cold, hard look in her eyes.

"Go ahead," she murmured grimly. "Take that next step, and we'll both
regret the battle that follows. If I must die to defend Cormyr from the
man who made her great, I'll do so. If you wanted a spineless lap-slave,
Vangerdahast, /you shouldn't have chosen me."/

"I wanted nothing of the kind and still do not," the former Royal
Magician growled. "But, but what's he up to, in there, "

"Enspelling Myrmeen and her weapons, if he's thinking anything like I
am," Caladnei replied tartly. "You'll have to do a lot to win back our
trust, old man."

"Lass, lass," Elminster chided from behind her. "I'm going to have to
take ye away forthwith before ye can find anything else cold and hurtful
to say to the man who did ye such honor by choosing ye."

Caladnei whirled around, but a grinning Elminster laid a hand on her arm
before she could say a word, and, just like that, there was suddenly one
less Mage Royal of Cormyr and one less Chosen of Mystra in the littered
kitchen.

Across suddenly empty space, Vangerdahast and Myrmeen stood gazing at
each other.

Coldly he looked her up and down, from her drawn sword to her patched
and battered leathers, and a slow sneer crawled across his face.

Myrmeen surveyed him from head to toe with raised eyebrows, shook her
head, gave Vangerdahast a derisive grin, and strode right past him.

"Don't /touch /anything," the wizard snarled, whirling around to see
where she went and what she did.

Which was three paces away, to stand with hands on hips and slowly turn
to witheringly survey the state of his kitchen.

Swiveling slowly around to face him, the Lady Lord of Arabel wrinkled
her nose. "Is /this /what you've been eating,  No wonder your wits are so
addled!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Twelve

      DRAGONFIRE

/

Come storms, great waves, earth-cleaving, god-smiting lightnings, and
dragonflre, Faerun shall abide. Us smaller creatures on it,  I'm not so sure.

/

The character Blind Nars

in Scene the Second

of the play /Four Bloody Swords/

by Corsour Hamadder of Waterdeep

first performed in the Year of the Nightmaidens

The torches were guttering out now, one by one, leaving the great
soaring hall of Haelithtorntowers noticeably darker. Two long-frozen
figures in leather moved in sudden unison, both drawing back cautiously
from the balcony rail, and lifting their heads to regard each other.

Narnra Shalace did not give her pursuer her usual angry glare.

Like Rhauligan, she knew unfolding treason and disaster when she heard
it. This was the sort of softly menacing talk she was sure went on
inside the spires of the wealthy and nobility of Waterdeep all the
time, though she'd never been foolish enough to try to enter and lurk in
such places, with their alarm-magics, wardings, and enthusiastic guards.

No wonder nobles didn't want anyone close enough to hear what they were
saying. Caethur the moneylender would have had to double-deal for years
to reach the point of openly plotting ambitions like these.

She stared almost thoughtfully across the ring of emptiness at
Rhauligan, knowing that she'd just gained one more reason to elude the
Harper without being seen by others in this house. A very good reason.

Keeping herself alive at least a few nights longer.

* * * * *

It was a bright and breezy morning in Candlekeep. The sea-breeze blowing
ashore could better have been called a strong wind. In front of the Lady
Noumea Cardellith, as she walked the last stretch of the Way of the
Lion, the banners of a minor noble of Tethyr flapped and streamed in a
constant fury. The rearguard of that personage, six riders in gleaming
armor who rode with great spiked long-axes gripped in their gauntlets, 
were eyeing Noumea narrowly, at least two of them always crossing to
opposing sides of the noble party so as to keep full watch on her.

And no wonder. Through the wonders of magic Noumea may have looked like
a lone, bespectacled male merchant from Lantan, afoot and bearing only a
leather carrysack slung over one shoulder, but she'd arrived out of
nowhere, just suddenly /there, /in mid-step. And Tethyrian house guards
who hadn't seen teleport spells in use before had certainly heard of
them, and knew well enough to be wary in the presence of what must be an
accomplished wizard or sorcerer.

Or something worse.

Wherefore they turned to present Noumea with a leveled row of glittering
spike-points when the party reached Candlekeep proper and stopped to
parley with the monks of the gate.

Noumea came to a halt, nodded to them politely, and waited calmly
enough. When it was her turn at the tall gates, spell-shrouded vertical
bars as thick as her forearm, bearing the castle-and-flames device of
Candlekeep and a guard of five purple-robed priests, she gave the
expressionless monk who approached her a book from her sack and waited
while he carefully stripped away its wrappings.

"The Life of the Sembian Woodworm," he read aloud, his voice devoid of
judgment. With gentle fingers he opened the tome, glanced at a few
pages, stopped to peer at what were unmistakably the glyphs of
spells, minor wardings effective also against paper-worms, he noted with
an audible sigh of excitement, then looked up and said, "A notable,
valuable gift. You are most welcome within our walls, seeker of wisdom.
What's your name, your land, and your intent within, "

"I am Roablar of Lantan, come from trading up and down the Sword Coast
and most recently Sembia to examine certain texts. I'm most interested
in Thelgul's /Do Metals Live,  /and /Bracetar's Notes On Preservation of
Foodstuffs and Oils!"/

The monk smiled for the first time. It transformed his face, leaving
Noumea with the impression that it was not an expression he assumed
often. "Be welcome here, Roablar, so long as you treat books with the
reverence they deserve, eschewing fire, damp, the torn page, and the
removal of lore from the eyes of others. Cross the yard ahead of you to
the green-hued door, and give your name to the Keeper of the Emerald
Door. You'll be provided with food, a bath, quarters in which to sleep,
and a moot with the monk who will escort you on your first visit to the
rooms of the tomes."

"I thank you, sir," Roablar replied, bowing slightly and favoring all
the monks with a beaming smile. He was waved in through the gap in the
partly open gates and set off across the courtyard shifting his sack on
his shoulder, as all travelers do.

"Well, Amanther, " the monk who'd dealt with him asked, glancing at the
next supplicants, a large party of horsemen, still some way off down the
Way of the Lion.

The oldest, tallest monk of the five smiled faintly. "A mage, human
female, not old, wearing a very good spell-spun disguise. I daresay the
books she mentioned are already familiar to her; I doubt she needs to
peruse them again. Slyly learning spells is of course the aim of most
who enter covertly, but she feels different to me, somehow. She'll bear
close watching."

The other monks nodded. "Thaerabho already answers your signal," one of
them said, pointing at a monk strolling across the courtyard to casually
follow Roablar of Lantan up to the Emerald Door.

"Good," another grinned, rubbing his hands. "A new mystery to dissect at
table this night. One can never have enough delving and prying. It keeps
the soul young."

"A tongue more deft, Larth," Amanther admonished. "Say rather: Inquiry
into all things keeps a mind bright."

"That too," Larth agreed with a chuckle, which was echoed by the other
monks.

"Well, then, clever dissembler," Amanther said, waving at the
approaching cloud of dust and sun-flashing armor. "Deal you with these
next seekers!"

"With as much pleasure as humility," Larth replied cheerfully. "I'll
wager they'll proffer a family history or perhaps a text on the
genealogy or heraldry of their immediate region."

"Nay," said another monk, squinting at the banners. "I expect another
copy of Navril's /History of the Parsnip, /with some obscure local
collection of plays or minstrels' sayings to serve as their
entrance-gift when we reject old Navril one more time."

The chorus of chuckles was hearty but brief, for it was not proper for
monks of Candlekeep to be anything less than politely grave when first
greeting supplicants.

Across the Court of Air, the monk Thaerabho gazed at the shoulders of
the Lantanna talking to the doorkeeper and had to suppress an urge to
stop, cross his arms, and rub his chin in eager anticipation.

This was going to be one of the interesting deceivers. He could feel it.

* * * * *

Lady Joysil Ambrur stood sipping wine and watching her servants
reluctantly depart. Before ringing for them, she'd downed an entire
bottle of potent vintage without any apparent effects at all and begun a
second by the rather daintier means of filling (and refilling) her
tallglass. Though she still stood by her high-backed seat behind the
table, a new piece of furniture had made its appearance, in accordance
with her orders, in the hall nearby: a broad, simple bed covered with
luxurious linens, cozy-blankets, and pillows. Though it lacked a high
headboard carved with her coat-of-arms, it was a bed for her.

Silence deepened in Haelithtorntowers around Lady Joysil as she sipped,
regarding the rubies on the table, which lay undisturbed in their own
little oval of light dust in the only part of the table that (again at
her orders) had not been cleared and dusted.

The Lady of Haelithtorntowers was wearing a slight smile. She'd also
ordered all the servants to take a day off from their duties, and the
night to follow, in the luxurious guest apartments in the farthest tower
of her mansion, Firewyrm Tower. They were not to disturb her or return
until the next dawn for any reason.

Their obedience had been doubtful, wherefore, after their going, the Lady
Ambrur had taken a scepter from the hollow leg of a particular piece of
furniture and magically sealed the door that walled off the lone passage
linking Firewyrm Tower to Great Tower.

At the heart of Great Tower was the hall in which she stood, and as the
torches failed it was rapidly growing dark despite the brightening day
outside. Appropriate for a weary noble lady taking to her bed alone, and
Lady Ambrur did that now.

She took her glass and bottle with her, still showing no signs of being
tipsy, and retained all her garments, from her jeweled slippers and
glittering tiara to her rows of sparkling dangledrop earrings. In the
deepening gloom she kept her eyes on the table and sat on the edge of
her bed in calm silence, waiting.

Quite soon and suddenly ruby fire flashed from the gems, and four
black-clad men appeared on the table above those stones, crouching with
weapons ready as it groaned ominously under their weight.

Joysil daintily climbed up to stand in the center of her bed, spilling
not a drop of wine, and as she did so, soft white-and-green radiance
blossomed in the air around her, illuminating her bed, the table, and
all points between.

"Greetings, unknown guests," she said calmly. "I didn't think your
master would wait until nightfall. Red Wizards are /so /impatient."

The four hooded men in battle-leathers stiffened, beholding the calm
noblewoman. She was tall, large-boned, and lush of figure in her
magnificent gown, and a spectacular flood of slightly wavy, honey-hued
hair descended her back, to that point where a back begins to swell out
and become a behind. The nether tips of her tresses deepened to a
coppery flame-hue. The calm eyes surveying her visitors were steel-gray,
the slightest of age-wrinkles lurking at their corners. She held her
goblet-sized tallglass in one hand, and a wand had now somehow appeared
in the other.

The four snarled silently and hurled the daggers they held. The flashing
steel spinning through the air bore vivid crazings of purple that cried
"Poison!" to any astute observer.

They did not have to throw far, and their target showed no signs of
movement, but the whirling knives vanished a handspan from the Lady Ambrur.

A bare breath later, two of the men in black grunted, gasped, and
pitched forward from the table, to crash down through a chair to the
floor, and lie unmoving. Their own daggers stood out of their backs.
Another knife spun past the ear of the man who'd hurled it and back
toward the noblewoman again, only to vanish as before, snatched by the
loop teleport she'd cast, and reappear behind its hurler again, sinking
and spinning more slowly.

No one watched its next journey. The remaining pair of slayers burst
forward from the table, racing to the attack. The Lady Ambrur's only
reaction was to take another sip of wine.

One of her attackers plucked blades from all over his clothing as he
came, snatching and hurling a storm of steel. Daggers bit at empty air,
spinning over the bed to clatter and slide on the floor of the great
hall, for the Lady Ambrur all of a sudden wasn't there.

She appeared by the table, glass still raised to her lips, and coolly
triggered her wand. Its silvery beam lashed out to become a crimson
blast of exploding head and brains where it touched the slayer who
hadn't yet lightened his load of weaponry.

Headless and staggering, that black-garbed corpse wobbled forward to a
loose-limbed collapse onto the floor.

The surviving slayer whirled with a snarl, and sprang aside as the wand
fired again, leaping and rolling free of harm.

Swift and agile, he launched himself into an attack that dodged this way
and that, avoiding another wand-blast. Like the wind he raced forward,
to bring himself within reach of the noblewoman, 

, Who blinked away once more. The black-hooded slayer did not freeze but
kept running and dodging as he looked for her, and that saved him from
the next bite of her wand, which blew apart a large wyrmtongue-leaf
plant with its urn as he darted aside.

The wand spat again, striking aside a dagger he'd hurled in a flash of
sparks. Tasmurand the Slayer put his entire shoulder and balance into
another swift throw, right behind that first fang.

His reward was a burst of silver sparks. Lady Ambrur gave him a nod and
a smile as she let the ruined wand tumble from her hand. She saluted him
with her nearly empty tallglass and . . . blinked into nothingness again.

She reappeared on a landing of the ornate stair that swept up from
beside the high table, linking the vast floor of the hall with, he
glanced up, a promenade balcony that encircled the entire chamber high
above where he stood.

"Shall we dance, " she asked archly, for all Faerun as if she was the
hunter and not the hunted. With a snarl Tasmurand leaped for the steps,
still dodging and darting in case she snatched out another wand and
sprayed the stair.

Lady Ambrur worked a spell instead, performing the gestures with
flourishes like a cat at play. It bathed her slayer in purple flame when
he was still four running strides from putting his blade through her.

Tasmurand roared in fear and frantic effort, but no pain came, and
nothing seemed to happen except . . . she vanished again, leaving him
rushing onto an empty landing. He slashed furiously at the empty air
anyway, cleaving nothing with raging speed.

"I'm up here," she called pleasantly, as if guiding a guest who was a
long-established friend, and the slayer looked up again to see the
noblewoman smiling down at him over the balcony rail. He set his teeth
and sprinted up the second flight of steps because it was all he could
do, really. Tasmurand gasped for air as he sped upward, wondering
fearfully what that purple glow magic had been and when he'd feel its
effects.

The Lady of Haelithtorntowers watched his approach calmly, relaxing so
far as to cross her arms on the balcony rail and lean forward to watch,
like a Marsemban lass appraising the sweaty brawn of
stripped-to-the-waist dockloaders at work.

To Joysil's eyes, her last spell had worked just fine. Right now it was
telling her that her visitor bore precisely three enchantments upon his
person: two on daggers, one at belt, one in right boot, and a third within
a metal vial inside his left boot. Almost certainly a potion of healing.

Fair enough. Unhurriedly Joysil Ambrur twisted one of the rings she wore
and let its power sing out to enshroud her in a protective shield that
could be heard, as the faint, high-pitched singing continued, more than it
could be seen. She shifted around to sit at ease on and along the rail,
bringing a shapely leg up and lounging back on one arm like an avid lass
seeking to lure suitors, tossing her head to let her long hair tumble free.

Tasmurand's eyes widened at such craziness, but he neither hesitated nor
slowed. Breathlessly, he reached the stair-head and burst onto the
balcony, running hard around its promenade. Daggers flashed as he
snatched them from their sheaths, never slowing as he bore down on the
smiling lady.

He threw the first at just the right moment to spoil any spell she might
be waiting to complete until his arrival, and she unconcernedly threw
herself to one side, letting the dagger flash past . . . and pitching
herself over the rail!

It would be a killing fall to the floor of the great chamber, but no
doubt she'd magically whisk herself elsewhere again, ere striking the
smooth stone below.

But no! The Lady Ambrur flung out her other hand to grasp the bottom of
the rail as if frantically trying to catch herself from falling, but used
that grip only to swing herself upright in the air . . . ere she let go
and dropped.

Slowly, drifting down in a slow, gentle sinking that did not even lift
the hem of her skirts.

Tasmurand's mouth tightened. Was the woman such a fool as to trust in a
feather fall magic,  Did she think he'd run out of blades yet,  He flung a
dagger at her throat, which if she went on gently descending would mean
her mouth met it upon its arrival. It struck something unseen in the air
before her flesh and clanged to one side, tumbling harmlessly away down
to the floor below.

With a growl he plucked forth one of his enchanted daggers. The spell
this one carried was designed for just one thing: to shatter wardings,
shield spells, and similar barriers. An instant after it left his hand,
another, non-magical, dagger followed it, so that when the first stripped
away her defenses, the second would sink home in her breast. Done. He'd
shortly be looking at the corpse of just one more noble who trusted
overmuch in her expensive toys.

Tasmurand's hand was already on the hilt of his last enspelled dagger,
just in case. This woman was, after all, in her home and seemed not
fearful at all, though they'd been assured she was alone and no sort of
mage nor sorcerer.

She'd been lucky thus far, that was all. Yes, nimble and over-trusting
in her little tricks, possibly wearing yet another ring that commanded
some minor magic or other. Tasmurand started back toward the stair he'd
ascended, weaving from side to side of the deserted balcony and varying
his pace out of sheer habit. If he could get down to the floor before
she did and snatch down one of those tapestries, he could swing it
beneath her and then jerk her from her feet and drag her helplessly to
beneath his pounce, just one dagger-thrust would do such a one as this,
if he could drive it home where he wanted . . .

There was a sudden shuddering of the air, a building thunder that shook
his run into an unsteady sidestep and sent the smoking torches flaring
back into last flames of life. In their sudden, bright tongues a
silver-blue, scaled wall seemed to soar past his gaze, expanding up and
out into, 

Tasmurand the Slayer gaped up at the most splendid sight of his life, and
his last.

Filling the great height of the hall above him was a slim, lithe
dragon, if something the size of a Marsemban tallhouse could be said to
be slim. Most of that bulk was two great, batlike wings, spread in a
great V-shape that raked sharply back to end in the curling tail they
were rooted in, all down their lengths. Muscles akin to those of a great
cat shifted under iridescent silver-blue scales as talons spread wide in
the air, a long neck snaked down, and eyes of glowing turquoise gazed at
Tasmurand the Slayer as if they could pierce his leathers and see him naked.

Above those deep, riveting eyes the dragon's head swept back in two
great horns, and below them two cheek fins flared forth. Spiky,
membranous "beards" beneath these fins quivered as the great jaws
parted, and a great, glowing cloud of gas gushed forth, sweeping over
Tasmurand with force enough to pluck him from his feet and hurl him back
against the wall. He screamed, or thought he did, but the spicy,
flickering gas was alive with darting, swirling bolts of lightning, so
cold and yet so fiercely hot as they stabbed through and through him . .
. the smell of his own cooked and blackening flesh like roast boar as
darkness crowded in, his eyeballs sizzled, and he realized he could move
nothing . . . had nothing left of his limbs to move anyway, as his
fading, failing vision showed him crisped fingers crumbling away . . .

A blackened torso fell to the balcony, trailing thin plumes of smoke,
and the cause of its owner's death towered over it.

"Tell the gods," a great hissing voice informed the ears that were no
longer there to hear anything, "that you were slain by Amma-ratha
Cyndusk, a foolish dragon, but one not nearly so foolish as the humans
who thought to slay her."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Thirteen

      BUSINESS MEETINGS, BATHS, AND SUBVERSIONS

/

Looking back over all the years, I can't decide just which memories are
most important to me: the slayings, the midnight meetings of plotting
treasons and rule over all the Realms, the few fumbling moments of
lovemaking, or the even fewer really hot, uninterrupted, contented
baths. I can still recall the little floating dragon bathtoy my aunt
gifted me with, one spring... .

/

Thamdarl "the Wizard Unseen" From /Tyrant's Throne to the Arms of a
Goddess:/

/My Road To Mystra /

Year of the Broken Blade

The carpet was as soft as tomb-moss under her boots. The tomb-moss of
the City of the Dead... which was right where Narnra Shalace would end
up, or at least in the Marsemban equivalent, one of the canals for all
she knew!, if she didn't get clean away from here.

By Mask and Tymora, of all the deadly foolish mistakes . . . literally
leaping into this unknown mansion, full of nobles plotting treason and
lady mages who spoke so casually of shattering spells laid covertly by
others who'd just left... or had they really left, 

Flaming fury of Mask! She /had /to get away from here, had to ...

Narnra went down that dark and unfamiliar passage like a racing wind, as
stealthily as she could at full run, trusting in its straight,
uncluttered path to keep from crashing into anything. Statuettes and
plants on marble pedestals occurred often on both sides, but the central
rug stretched out clear and arrow-straight, on into the darkness, on to
... an ending.

The wall ahead was adorned with a huge statue, pale white and gleaming.
An elf female standing amid sculpted ferns like a queen, if, that is,
queens went outside wearing nothing but their crowns and haughty
expressions, with various naked male elves entwined around her legs and
torso, long whipswords in their hands. Their faces, like hers, stared
endlessly down the passage in eternal challenge. To either side of this
great carved group of elvenkind was a closed door. Narnra drew in a deep
breath and without hesitation opened the one to her right as quietly as
she could. It opened into, darkness, and steps leading down. /Thank /you,
gods!

As she crept down the unseen steps in a crouch, fingertips brushing one
wall, Narnra shook her head. A Red Wizard conspiring against the Crown
of Cormyr with this Lady Ambrur! Oh, there must be folk in Suzail who'd
pay well to learn about this! Why, 

Something caught hold of Narnra's throat and slammed her back against
the wall. It was a hand, reaching brutal and unseen out of the darkness
below her, and a second hand dug brutal fingers into her elbows and
slammed them against the wall too, one after the other, leaving her arms
all fiery numbness.

She couldn't snatch at her daggers, couldn't. . . The hands were at her
throat and the scruff of her neck, now, dragging her leathers up in a
grip that left her whistling and struggling for air.

"You, my little hare with long teeth," the voice of Glarasteer Rhauligan
muttered in her ear, "are coming with me."

Narnra's head swam, and she struggled weakly as deeper darkness crept in
... but the fingers never loosened.

* * * * *

The heavy, jarring fall woke her. She was hooded in something that
smelled of sweaty man and jolted on Rhauligan's shoulders. The Harper
grunted under Narnra's weight, stifled a curse then added in a curt
whisper, "Sorry."

Apologizing,  To me,  A bit late, you bastard!

He broke into a run, hard and swift, bouncing and bruising her but
somehow keeping his balance. His boots were on cobbles, now, with the
sounds of Marsember all around. More echoes, the distant rumble of
cartwheels, some chatter, and a growing din.

Rhauligan carried her into somewhere quieter that stank of dung, rotting
fish, and other decaying things, turned a few corners, scraped her boots
once against stone, and set Narnra down on what felt, and groaned, like a
rickety wooden cart.

She sat still as he fastened something around her neck then set her on
her feet and kicked away the cart. Its wheels set up a protesting squeal
that ended in a crash of wood against stone. Narnra heard the familiar
sound of a rat scuttling through refuse.

His hands were at a buckle, and . . . she was unhooded and blinking in
the sudden light of day, gasping as none-too-fresh air was hers once
more for the taking. Rhauligan shook out the hood, which proved to be a
vest. His vest.

Narnra drew in deep breaths, looking around. She was in a garbage-strewn
Marsemban alley, hobbled and with her thumbs and fingers wired together
behind her back . . . and the cord around her waist and thighs led up
to, she turned, lifting her head to look, and discovered she wore a
choke-leash, the underside of a rusty iron outer staircase. The leash led
there, too. It looked like the back stair of a warehouse that saw little
use but presented an unfriendly, rotting fortress face to Faerun anyway.

Rhauligan, of course, stood not far away, but out of any possible reach,
no matter how furiously she might try to strangle herself reaching him.

"Important folk seem very interested in you," he said thoughtfully as
their eyes met. "I wonder why."

Narnra shrugged at him through her tangled hair. "I know not," she
snapped, "but I do know that I'm not yours nor your Mage Royal's to take
and confine like some sort of pet or bauble, just as I was not
Elminster's to give!"

"I can scarce believe, she-thief, that you've not yet learned that if
anyone can do a thing to you, they've the right to do it, if they stand
for law, and you do not."

Rhauligan cast quick glances up and down the deserted, refuse-heaped
alley and added, "Brutal, yes, but outlanders like you who deal with the
Lady Ambrur are buyers and sellers of information . . . and the
whereabouts and doings of Vangerdahast is information that could make
you very rich and doom Cormyr at the same stroke. Had the Mage Royal not
commanded your capture, I'd be slaying you now, not bandying words with
you. I dislike slaying young lasses, but if I must choose between
spilling the blood of just one of them and saving a bright realm full of
them, my choice is clear."

Narnra glared at him, straining against the wires until her fingers
burned, and spat, "So you can sell the information yourself, no doubt,
or we'd not be in this alley. I know Waterdeep, not Cormyr. I couldn't
even find my way to a gate out of this city unless you let me search for
a bit. Who'm I going to sell anything to,  And how'm I supposed to know
anything useful to sell to a realm full of folk I don't even /know, /"

Rhauligan's only reply was a wordless, crooked smile.

"So what's going to happen to me now, " she snarled. "Why'm I here, "

"Business meeting," Rhauligan said, looking up and down the alley again.
"Important business."

"With, " Narnra demanded, staring around at the deserted, garbage-heaped
alley with a skeptical eyebrow arched.

A sensation broke over her then, a creeping and tingling quite unlike
anything she'd ever felt before. It was energetic, swift . . . and magical.

Narnra tried to curse, but her tongue seemed huge and heavy, and her
suddenly slack mouth not her own. She tried to toss her head and, with a
sudden leap of fear, found herself still standing motionless, still
gazing just where she'd been looking before.

The invisible, paralyzing force was streaming into her from off to her
left, about six paces away . . . where a heap of trash suddenly shifted
and rose up with a little grunt of effort, falling away untidily to
reveal a woman in trim dark robes, a gentle but noble face, and long
flowing auburn hair, one lock of which had gone white.

"With me, as it happens," the woman said gently but firmly. "I believe
we've seen each other recently. I'm Laspeera of the War Wizards."

Narnra glared at her, or tried to. War Wizards again, she thought, and I
can't even move my mouth to ask, or protest, or ...

Laspeera cast a smiling glance at the Harper. "I'd like to hear what's
so urgent that the smooth and urbane Glarasteer Rhauligan races across
Marsember like an overeager dog, toting smart-tongued street thieves."

"So you shall," Rhauligan replied and began to pant rapidly, his tongue
hanging out.

Laspeera gave him a look. "What's got into you, "

"Revealing my innermost overeager dog, Lady Mage," he replied brightly.

Laspeera sighed, waved one graceful hand, and murmured, "Get on with it,
faithful hound. I grow no younger."

* * * * *

Lord Vangerdahast of Cormyr leaned back contentedly from the table. His
stomach promptly rumbled, sounding every bit as contented as he was.

The plate on the table in front of him was empty of all but a few smears
of sauce, though it had been heaped high with rabbit stew not so very
long ago. Good sauce, that. . .

The former Royal Magician of the Realm reached for the plate, leaning
forward with tongue extended to lick it clean, but a grinning Myrmeen
Lhal reached in under his arm with the speed of a striking adder and
plucked the plate away. Vangey's fingertips thumped down on bare
tabletop, leaving him blinking . . . then turning with a growl.

"You can thank me whenever you remember your manners," the Lady Lord of
Arabel said impishly, heading for the washbasins beside the sink.

Vangerdahast scowled at her, which caused her to lift an eyebrow
reprovingly at him, over her shoulder.

Under the force of her disapproving gaze he sighed, waved his fingers as
if to banish what he'd just done, and muttered, "Have my thanks, Myrmeen
Lhal. You . . . surprise me. I thought you were merely the best of
Alusair's mud-spattered, eager she-blades, determined to outfight and
outsnap any man."

"Oh my, and here I thought you were just a manipulative wizard driven by
whimsy, a hunger for power, and a love of being mysterious and rude to
everyone in sight," Myrmeen replied merrily, hurling herself into
Vangerdahast's favorite lounge chair.

She bounced once amid its overstuffed, highbacked, and rather shabby
comfort, and bent to sniff, frowning in appraisal. Then she shot him a
scowl of her own. "Don't you ever /wash /things,  Gods' grief, man! The
lice are leaping all over me!"

She sprang up, growling in irritation, and clawed at buckles and straps,
rapidly shucking armor in all directions.

It was Vangerdahast's turn to rise hastily. "Now /don't /you start
throwing your skin at me! I knew, "

"You hoped," Myrmeen replied witheringly, bared to the waist with a
bundle of leather and chain and armor plate in her hands. Her dangling
suspenders, Vangey noticed with some surprise, looked very much like his
own.

"Now," she asked briskly, "where do you bathe,  You /do /bathe, don't you, "

"Huh-hahem. Ah, down that passage," he said, pointing. "There's a pool.
The, uh, stars above it are a spell that mirrors the real sky, not a
hole in the ceiling. The, ah, floating wooden duck is mine. I, "

Myrmeen strode forward, shifting her bundle against her bosom to free
one hand, and used it to grab her host by one elbow. "Come," she ordered,
starting to march him along.

"What,  What're you, , "

"My hair was filthy this morning, and 'tis worse now. You can help me
wash it."

"I don't, "

"Oh, yes, you do. Yours has been washed sometime this month, I'm sure of
it. Come."

She half-led, half-propelled the feebly-protesting wizard down the passage.

Scarlet with embarrassment and breathless in his enforced haste,
Vangerdahast vowed he would get his revenge on this ogre of a
she-swordcaptain, and it would be a revenge that would last a long, long
time and leave her begging for mercy.

* * * * *

The Harbortower turret was always cold and drafty, even at the muggy
height of the warmest, and stinkiest, summer weather . . . wherefore this
was not a popular duty-post among the War Wizards. When Huldyl Rauthur,
a War Wizard of middling rank, had agreed to take it with slightly more
eagerness than he'd ever shown before, old Rathandar had seen fit to
grimly remind him that the old turret wouldn't stand up to any really
spectacular experimental castings and that he'd personally lash some
lasting stripes into Huldyl's backside if he found even the slightest
sign of feminine companions teleporting or being teleported into or out
of the turret during Huldyl's shifts. Steamy chapbooks and richly bad
food, on the other hand, were quite understandable . . .

On this bright morning, however, Huldyl seemed unable to enjoy even one
of his stack of daring chapbooks and had barely touched his amber-roast
butterfowl, to say nothing of his sugar-nuts. However, he was quite alone
and had thrown no cloak over the bare cot by the back window to make it
even uncomfortably suitable for dalliance ... or slumber, for that matter.

Uneasily he strolled from room to room, peering out of the windows at
bustling Marsember below more than he bothered to squint into the
powerful farglasses aimed out to sea. "No pirates ho," he muttered, in
mockery of the cry excited young War Wizards seemed to veritably itch to
give tongue to ... and restlessly went back into the room he'd just left.

Rauthur was a short, stout man who always seemed to some people to be
nervous, because beneath his thinning brown hair, his temples were
always beaded with sweat. Those who knew him better, however, judged him
a good crafter of new spells and a sarcastic, often smug man whose green
eyes would blaze wildly when he was really excited or fearful.

There was no one to take note of his eyes at this moment, however, as he
stood alone in the turret, tapping fingers idly on the windowsill and
listening to seabirds flap and scream. He sighed, turned, started back
through the connecting archway once more, and came to a sudden halt.

The chair by the table bearing his books and food was no longer empty. A
young, darkly handsome man clad in black and silver shimmerweave lounged
there, an easy smile on his lips and /The Wanton Witch Said Yes /open in
one hand.

He lifted an eyebrow and the tome together. "A coded spell-book, perhaps, "

Rauthur flushed, and glanced at the floor. His guest might look like a
swaggering noble or idle merchant prince, but he'd met with Harnrim
Starangh of the Red Wizards before.

"I, ah, no. Uh, to make my superiors think I lacked a woman to smuggle up
here so they wouldn't scry us and see . . ."

"Me,  Ah, but only you can see my proper self. To the rest of the overly
curious world, I /am /a ravishing beauty in black silks, with the face of
someone you prefer to privately refer to as the Crown Princess Wrathful,
I believe."

"Princess /Alusair/, , "

"Oh, /don't gabble, /man! Be bold! Plenty of perfectly loyal folk of
Cormyr say arch or even biting things about the royal family and live to
repeat them more loudly at revels! Besides, you'll soon not have to
worry overmuch about what others think of you."

The Red Wizard lowered the chapbook with a brittle smile to reveal a
tight-rolled baton of parchment.

Huldyl Rauthur leaned forward eagerly, his eyes catching green fire, and
the wizard best known in Thay as Darkspells unrolled the parchment to
splay seven scrolls out in a fan array on the table. The sugarnuts were
in the way, and without even looking up the Red Wizard sent them
drifting smoothly through the air to hover by the War Wizard's face. The
chapbooks descended only slightly less smoothly to a soft landing on the
floor.

Hesitantly Rauthur plucked a sugarnut from the air and ate it.

Darkspells looked up at him, smiled again, and spread his hand in a
flourish above the parchments. "So there you are: the seven spells, as
agreed. The coins you've had already should be more than enough to buy
you a handsome abode in Athkatla, Waterdeep, Sembia, or anywhere more
distant, for that matter. These magics should enable you to slay with
ease any War Wizards who come hunting you. Practice their use in private
to ensure yourself of their stable and complete nature, power, and worth."

The scrolls rose in unison and drifted toward Huldyl in the wake of the
sugarnuts, which the War Wizard gobbled more of hastily, wiping his
sugar-coated fingers nervously on the front of his tunic.

Harnrim Starangh leaned forward over the table with an eagerness that
matched his own. "I hereby reaffirm my earlier promise: the same amount
of cash and seven more /very /useful spells will be yours when I've
safely reached Vangerdahast and gotten away again."

Rauthur fielded the scrolls with a chuckle, eyes alight. "I'm your man,
Lord Starangh, I am indeed. This is ... princely."

"Prince," the Red Wizard purred. "Now there's a title to aspire to. You
could, you know, if you time things right and use just the right spells
to tame Alusair to your will and bed. After she delivers you an heir,
there'd be no need to sit still for the searing of her tongue any
longer. A little spell-blast, a lot of mourning, and you could then do
as her father did: have your pick of all the women in the kingdom."

The War Wizard's chuckle was a weak one, this time, and he shook his
head, shrugged, and said, "Lord, you've more boldness in you than I do."
He shook his head again, in admiration. "Wouldn't that be something,
though . . ."

Darkspells let him ponder for a moment or two then said gently, "To bind
the trust between us, I'll now complete that linking spell . . . if
you're agreed, "

"A-aye," Rauthur replied, in a low voice. He ran a hand through the
thinning hair atop his head and blurted, "Remind me, Lord Starangh, of
its specifics. I'd not want to put a foot wrong, if you understand me."

"Of course." the Red Wizard said gravely, watching the last of the
sugarnuts hastily disappearing down Rauthur's gullet.

"Things that befall one of us also befall the other, at the same time.
These shared fates are drunkenness, injury, hostile, but not
self-cast, enspellment, and death. We will not share thoughts, emotions,
dreams, or other things I've not spoken of: these things and these only.
The spell will fade in a year." Starangh locked gazes with the War
Wizard and added in dry tones, "Which will give you plenty of time to
disappear from both Cormyrean justice and Thayan regard."

Huldyl Rauthur smiled rather uncertainly and grunted, "My thanks, Lord.
Do it."

Starangh nodded and beckoned the War Wizard over to him, rising from his
chair to hold up both hands, palms outward and fingers together.
Hesitantly Rauthur set aside the scrolls and held out his own hands to
match.

Palms touched. The Thayan nodded approvingly and murmured a short
incantation, awakening a tingling in them both that left their forearms
shuddering as they stepped back from each other.

"I'm ready to proceed when you deem the time is right. Contact me at any
time of day or night. I'll be pleased if you guide me through the
defenses of Vangerdahast's sanctum to him sooner rather than later, if
you take my meaning."

"I-I do," Rauthur assured him hastily.

Harnrim Starangh smiled thinly. "Just one thing more, Prince-to-be
Huldyl. If this linking spell between us is broken, I'll instantly be
aware of that and of your whereabouts at the time, and may well be
forced, for reasons of prudent diplomacy, you understand, to strike out
from afar with slaying magic to obliberate Huldyl Rauthur and whoever
helped you remove the spell."

His smile widened and stayed broad and promising as the man called
Darkspells silently faded away.

Leaving Huldyl Rauthur standing alone in the Harbortower turret,
shivering in fear, with /The Wanton Witch Said Yes /lying fallen at his
feet.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Fourteen

      NARNRA TAKES A TASK

/

Well, we all have to work at SOMEthing, even the gods. So pick up that
bucket, and let's have no more of your backtalk.

/

The character Farmer Juth

in Scene the Third

of the play /Troubles In The Cellar/

by Shanra Mereld of Murann

first performed in the Year of the Griffon

A small, bright, and airy turret thrusts up from one corner of the
Palace of the Purple Dragon in Suzail: a lone chamber whose four windows
are open arches that breezes blow through at will but no bird nor
raindrop enters.

The door that links that turret room to a corner of the top floor of the
Palace stands open, and guarded by four veteran Purple Dragons, at all
times. The turret had for some years been an abandoned dovecote before
the coming of Caladnei but was now a place much used by the Mage Royal
to think and pace and gaze out over courtyard and gardens, and think
some more.

Caladnei of Cormyr (as she pointedly preferred to be spoken of) often
teleported into and out of her turret room, but she'd never been known to
do so in the company of anyone else before, and the guards were quite
startled to suddenly hear the deep, hearty laugh of a fearless old man
from behind them.

They whirled around, spearpoints glittering, and gaped at what they saw:
the Mage Royal embracing a hawk-nosed, white-bearded old man in dirty
robes. Caladnei was weeping softly, and the old wizard, whom more than
one of the old warriors had seen before, cradled her shoulders with a
protective arm, saying softly, "There, there, lass. 'Tis overwhelming,
aye, but a sight all mages should see in their lives before they've too
much time to do foolish things unmindful of the glory we all share."

"Uh . . . Lady Caladnei, " one of the guards asked uncertainly, lifting
his spear to menace the old man.

"Lord /Elminster!/" the eldest of the guards said delightedly, clapping
a hand to his breastplate in salute. The gesture was echoed by the guard
beside him, as the other two Purple Dragons turned to gape at their
fellows . . . then turned back in horrified slowness to gaze at the old
man they were menacing.

Bright blue eyes gazed at them from under dark brows, and the Old Mage
nodded, winked, and lifted a finger to his lips to request their silence
ere gesturing down at the sobbing woman in his arms. The two guards
who'd saluted him nodded and pushed aside the spears of their fellows,
silently withdrawing a pace. Elminster gave them an approving nod.

"T-thank you, Lord Elm, "

//

/"El, /please, lass. Just 'El.' Or 'Old Mage' if ye want to scold me."
He took hold of the Mage Royal's slender shoulders and stood her back a
pace, to look gravely into her tear-bright face. "How do ye feel, "

Caladnei managed a smile, and then swiftly looked away . . . then,
deliberately, back up at him.

"Sobered. Shaken. And, may I say, vastly more respectful of you and of
Vangerdahast, too, damn him. I ... thank you. That was . . . magnificent."

"Much to think upon, eh, " Elminster reached out two long fingers to
touch her forehead. "This much I can do: make sure nothing fades of
this. Ye'll remember everything we saw, vividly, whenever ye call it to
mind. This shall be with ye always."

Caladnei shook her head wonderingly. "What a ... a ..."

Elminster chuckled. "Storm called it a 'whirlwind tour,' but I've shown
ye but a handful of highlights from all this vast and wonderful world of
ours. 'Twas time for ye. Ye needed it to set in perspective this fair
land ye guard and to temper thy rage with Vangey. Know ye this: When I
took him to see the same things, he wept even more than ye have, begged
forgiveness for his rudenesses, and told me he was shamed."

"I, I feel I should do the same," Caladnei said with an unsteady laugh,
ducking her head and looking up at him again.

Elminster recoiled. "What,  And rob thyself of the chance to get in some
really good rudenesses to me, first, "

The sorceress burst into startled laughter and clung to the old man's
robes for support. He hugged her fondly then, the eyes of the watching
Purple Dragons narrowed, reached down to his belt, fishing around in a
pouch there for something.

Cormyrean hands clapped dagger-hilts, tightened, and . . . fell away
unneeded, as Elminster's hand reappeared holding a length of fine chain.
He held it out where the Mage Royal could see it, waited for her to
notice it, and said gruffly, "Yours, lass. An anklet. Nothing valuable,
but, wear it. Now and always. If ye feel the need, and say the word
'amulamystra' while wearing it, I will come."

Wondering, Caladnei closed her hand around the delicate chain. The Old
Mage bent his head and bestowed a fatherly kiss on the top of hers.

Then her arms were empty and she was staggering forward off-balance
across a turret room that held no Elminster of Shad-owdale. Caladnei
looked around wildly and beheld only the four guards, staring at her.

She gave them a rueful half-smile like a child caught doing something
naughty, and the guards drew themselves to attention and saluted. The
eldest said politely, "Lady Mage, we've been requested to inform you
that the Lady Laspeera, the High-knight Rhauligan, and a captive await
you in the Dragonwing Chamber."

Caladnei drew herself up, suddenly every inch the brisk Mage Royal they
knew so well, and snapped, "I thank you." She smiled like a young lass
again, bent over and drew off her right boot, and clasped the chain
around her ankle.

"Looks good," a guard said gruffly, then turned as swift as any whiplash
to face away from her, at stiff attention. His fellows sprang to join
him in the maneuver, so when Caladnei straightened, she'd have no idea
which one of them had spoken.

She grinned at all four armored backs, parted two of them with firm
hands, and murmured, "Old lechers," as she strode between them and
marched off down the hall.

The guards saluted her in silent unison and went back to guarding the
open door.

* * * * *

Roablar of Lantan sat back and sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose
where his glasses pinched, then rubbing the eyes behind them for good
measure.

The everpresent hovering monk bent over the merchant. "Is there anything
you're not finding, goodsir, "

"Ah," Thaerabho murmured, to the Keeper of that particular reading-room
in Candlekeep. "It begins. Tis time for an unmasking."

Silent in his soft slippers, he started to move purposefully toward the
seated Lantanna.

"You can see what I'm seeking," the disguised Lady Noumea Cardellith
told her escort.

The tall, pockmarked monk ran a hand through his unruly, strawlike hair,
bent closer, and replied in a low voice, "All you can about the Red
Wizards of Thay, in particular recent writings. If you've come to
Candlekeep in search of their spells, I fear you've wasted your journey.
We keep those secure for very good reasons."

Without regarding them, Noumea was well aware that several monks were
silently drawing in around her. She smiled thinly.

"No, Esmer. What would a merchant of Lantan want with spells,  I live and
die by trade, and 'tis this new policy of establishing Thayan trade
enclaves and who in the Thayan hierarchy is behind it that I seek to
learn all about."

"I realize this is overbold, and you must feel perfectly comfortable in
refusing to answer," an unfamiliar monk murmured from her other side,
"but why, "

Noumea looked up and gave him a smile.

"If we're being so blunt: I suspect this is but the first step in an
elaborate plan to economically and then, covertly, politically dominate
all realms of Faerun."

"Of course," two of the monks said together, and at least another three
in the ring that had silently formed around her nodded.

"Wherefore my fascination with recent reports and writings," Noumea
added, indicating the sheafs of parchment and stacked volumes on the
slightly sloped reading-desk before her.

"I sense you're both well-traveled and worldly," a monk said from
directly behind her. "Permit me, then, to mention something not to be
found in these written records but only in the diaries we compile of the
news and rumor that comes daily to our gates."

"Please do," Noumea said politely, shifting slightly and indicating the
bench beside her. The monks smiled as if she'd passed some sort of test,
and the monk who'd spoken from behind her stepped forward and sat down
so close beside her that his robe almost brushed her hip. A white,
puckered old sword-scar adorned one of his cheeks diagonally, and his
hair was as gray as a sword in need of polishing.

"I'm Thaerabho," he said with a smile, "and my field is the doings of
those who wield magic in Faerun outside temples and priesthoods. You've
heard of the Chosen of Mystra, "

Noumea nodded eagerly, and Thaerabho's smile broadened.

"Then let me share this much: Some among them have been working against
the Red Wizards in a lovely manner. With spells they 'twist' many of the
portals established by the Thayans in their enclaves so those who use
such translocations can have spells stolen from their minds en route,
suggestions planted, memories and information 'read,' and so on."

"Sweet Mystra," Noumea whispered, genuinely awed.

Thaerabho nodded. "If the Thayans ever grow too strong in a particular
place, if I may speak cynically, the portal in that spot, or all of them,
along with, of course, whoever's using them at the time, could explode.
Or perhaps a suggestion planted in the heads of all mages who've ever
used one of the Thayan portals could be awakened, all at once, all over
Faerun ... a suggestion, say, to rush to a particular Thayan city and
attack Szass Tarn or some other zulkir there, before he accomplishes
some dread goal that will sacrifice them."

Noumea shook her head and asked softly, "What if I am of Thay or of the
Chosen and want no one in Faerun to suspect any of this, "

The monk whose nose was almost brushing her own replied, "No, Lady
Noumea Cardellith, you are of neither, and are not a Harper, either.
You're but a seeker after knowledge, and we arm all who come here with
the weapons of fact and lore and reason-sorted rumor. What they do with
such tools after they depart is not our affair. We but seek to arm those
wise, or cunning,  enough to come asking and looking."

"Who /are /you, " a shaken Noumea whispered.

The ring of monks smiled.

"Simple folk of Faerun who love old books, and learning, and reading the
thoughts and hopes and records of beings now dust," Esmer replied.

Noumea looked around at them all and shook her head. "I think you're
among the most powerful and dangerous forces on all Toril."

The monks stopped smiling.

"That, too," Thaerabho agreed lightly. "Knowing that, what will you do
now, Lady Noumea Cardellith, sometime mage and unhappy wife, " More monks
were in the reading-room now, drifting toward her from all sides.

Noumea stared at him for a long time, ignoring the silent assembly of
monks and the rods some of them held ready then lifted her shoulders in
a shrug. "I ... don't know."

The ring-wall of monks seemed to relax, and a few drifted away again.
Thaerabho's smile returned.

"Ah, the truth. The right answer to give us, always."

Noumea stared into his hazel eyes for a long time then drew in a deep
breath and asked, "What do you think I should do, "

"Ah," the sword-scarred monk responded eagerly, as several of the
closest monks drew in around her again, reaching in under the great
reading-desk to unclip folded wooden stools from its underside, and
sitting down on them. "Now you've done the next right thing. We'll not
tell you what to do next. We never do. We shall, however, tell you all
we can to help /you /decide where to go from here in life."

Lady Noumea blinked at him. "Why didn't I come here years ago, "

"Why indeed, "

* * * * *

As the guards swung the great doors open for her, the Mage Royal of
Cormyr looked in and up at the carved stone dragons frozen forever in
the act of erupting from the ceiling of the room ahead of her. The scene
was as magnificent as always, all scales, surging strength, and great
sweeping curves of wings, catlike and serpentine both at once.

She found herself on the verge of tears again, and almost fondly
muttered, "Damn you, Old Mage," as she entered the Dragonwing Chamber alone.

Three people stood in the center of its vast, empty polished floor
awaiting her: Laspeera, Rhauligan, and the thief who'd fled from the
cellars, captured at last. Narna Shalace.

Rhauligan was shrugging himself back into his vest, his belt still
unbuckled at his waist. Caladnei smiled thinly. She must have led him a
merry chase. The spell-thrall holding her now would be Speera's work.

She gave Laspeera and Rhauligan nods of thanks and approached their
paralyzed but unbound captive, banishing Laspeera's magic as she came.
"So we meet again, Narnra of Waterdeep," she began pleasantly.

The thief, who'd bent over to busily rub hands and ankles, shaking out
her limbs as if her body felt unfamiliar to her, did not reply.

"Narnra," Caladnei continued, "you stand in the Palace of the Purple
Dragon in Suzail, in the realm of Cormyr. As such, you're utterly within
my power. Should not mere prudence lead you to some measure of polite
cooperation, whatever your personal feelings toward us, "

The thief straightened up to give Caladnei a cold, considering look then
glanced over at Laspeera and Rhauligan. They gazed patiently back at
her, faces impassive.

Narnra tossed her head and glared at Caladnei. "You /have /an audience
for your grand speeches," she said, nodding at the man who'd captured
her and the woman whose spell had paralyzed her. "What d'you want of me, "

"Answers. A few civil, honest, and generous-with-what-you-know answers,"
the Mage Royal replied.

Narnra sighed. "I can't think what precious things I might know that
could possibly be of any use to you. You're not planning to become the
terror of purses in Trades Ward, are you, "

"No," Caladnei replied in a dry voice. "There! You see,  An answer, and
so easily and swiftly given, too. Try it for a short time, do well at
it, and you'll be free to go."

"Go /where, " /Narnra snarled. "Out into the streets of your city, to
starve,  Or be pounced on by the next of your soldiers who doesn't like
the look of me,  'Oh, sir, I'm just a thief from Water-deep, that's right,
a thief, and I've just been talking with your Mage Royal, and she', oh,
aye, I'm /sure /they'll believe me!"

"Do you love Waterdeep so much, "

"What,  Is /this /one of your questions,  Could you not have found a
traveling merchant, and ask, "

"Do you love Waterdeep so much, "

Narnra flung up her hands. "I /know /Waterdeep," she snarled. " 'Tis my
/home, /the only place I know, where I know how to get something to eat,
where . . ."

She fell silent, eyes narrowing.

Caladnei was smiling. "You see,  Honest answers are not so hard, once you
begin. Do it twice or thrice, and you'll have found the habit."

Narnra gave her a dark look and hugged herself as if she were cold.
"Wizards are /so /clever," she muttered. "I sometimes wonder how better
off we'd all be without them."

That earned her wry smiles from all three Cormyreans, and Caladnei's
voice was almost gentle as she asked, "Have you many friends in
Waterdeep, with whom you talk,  Share gossip with, "

Narnra hunched her head down and said nothing.

The Mage Royal frowned. "Enough of this," she murmured. '"Time, and past
time, for enforced truth." She muttered an incantation and traced a
pattern with her fingertips.

There was a sudden flash of blue-white fire, and she drew her head back
as if burned. "She's protected," Caladnei murmured, and cast a glance at
Laspeera.

Who shrugged and asked softly, "Elminster, " as she raised her own hands
and worked the same spell.

Seven blue-white stars flashed and spun very briefly around the young
Waterdhavian, who seemed in a trance.

"Mystra," the Mage Royal whispered and looked at Laspeera again, almost
helplessly this time.

The older War Wizard gave her another shrug. "So try the hard way, Gala.
We can only try spells as they seem necessary . . . and see."

Caladnei nodded unhappily, drew in a deep breath, glanced at
Rhauligan, who smiled grimly and gave her a nod of approval, and asked,
"Narnra,  How do you hear the news merchants bring, when they come to
Waterdeep in their caravans,  Do local wits cry news aloud in taverns in
return for coins, "

Silence.

"Narnra, "

The thief's reply was to burst into a sudden sprint toward Caladnei,
dodging twice. The Mage Royal flung up a hand to signal Rhauligan, who
was already moving, to keep clear and worked a swift, muttered spell.

/

One blue-white star, whirling away . . . and winking out.

/

Narnra plucked for a dagger to hurl and ruin the casting but found her
sheath empty and instead tried to duck around Caladnei, who politely
stepped aside.

"The door," the sorceress told the hard-running thief firmly, "is not an
option."

Narnra put her head down, growled, and ran. Invisible fingers were
already plucking at her, and she knew that with /two /wizards of Cormyr
in the room, her attempt at escape was doomed, yet. . . yet what else
could she /do, /

She was running in midair, now, treading hard on nothing at all, as she
floated backward toward where she'd been. She knew how comical she must
look yet kept on running. Spells were mind-tiring, everyone knew that, and
this Caladnei would have to set her back down sooner or later. If she
was already moving fast and got a little lucky, she could, just
mayhap, manage t, 

"Narnra, answer me: How do you hear news and gossip in Waterdeep, "

Narnra spat out a wordless snarl of rising frustration and kept right on
running.

"Narnra, "

//

/"Drown /you, mage! Blast and burn and rot you! I don't /care /about
your questions or your nasty little plots or the oh-so-fair kingdom of
Cormyr! Just /let me go!/"

"To steal in our streets," Caladnei said softly. "I think not."

"Perhaps worse than that," Rhauligan put in, holding up a handful of
Narnra's daggers. At the sight of them the Waterdhavian shrieked in rage
and darted a hand down the front of her breeches, to pluck forth a tiny
knife from a sheath over her most private of places, and hurl it
furiously at him.

Rhauligan sprang sideways, for her throw had been well-aimed, and
Caladnei's mouth drew into a hard line.

The next thing Narnra knew, she was greeting the far wall of the
chamber, hard enough to slam the breath out of her. She struggled,
sobbing for air, and found herself pinned firmly against the dark
paneling by nothing she could see at all.

/

Another blue-white star, winking and dying . . .

/

"How do you hear news and gossip in Waterdeep, " the Mage Royal asked
again. Her magic relaxed just enough to let Narnra breathe, and the
thief gulped in great shuddering lungfuls of air.

"Narnra, "

"Wizard, can't you tell I don't /care /about any of this,  Go mount a
dragon somewhere, and leave me be!"

"Narnra, "

"Caladnei," the Waterdhavian mimicked, in exactly the same tone the Mage
Royal had used, "go stuff yourself. /If you /please."

The Mage Royal's magic thrust Narna back against the wall again,
pressing so hard on her that she couldn't lift her ribs to draw breath.
She fought silently, twisting and writhing on the paneling, until all
too soon the world started to go dim, and drift___

The force eased, letting her gasp for air again. Narnra stared over the
heads of her tormentors and panted, drawing in precious air.

/

In chill shadow, a blue-white star goes out. . . .

/

"Sweet wind," she murmured, quoting a Waterdhavian harbor song.

"What's that, " Caladnei asked sharply.

"Sweet wind, come again," Narnra recited the line between gasps, eyes
meeting those of the Mage Royal. "Blow me away, far beyond pain."

The Mage Royal took a step closer, and Narnra noticed with surprise that
she'd been crying. Recently. "Narna, please tell me this," she said
softly. "How do you get to know rumors and what happens, all over
Waterdeep and in Faerun all around, "

"Caladnei," Narnra replied, just as softly, "I keep my mouth shut and my
ears open. Even when tyrant mages slam me about with their spells."

In the sudden thunder of unseen force that plucked her from the wall
then slammed her back against it again hard enough to rattle her bones
and her back teeth, Narnra thought she heard Rhauligan make the briefest
of chuckles.

/

Forlorn and drifting, another star flickers. . . and goes out.. . .

/

"Even then, " Caladnei asked softly. "How stubborn, thief, are you, "

Her magic snatched Narnra from the wall and slammed her back against it
again, hard enough to make a wood panel groan in protest. Narnra's limbs
bounced helplessly against the wood. She whined like a dog for breath,
fighting against the building pressure.

/

Silently, a fifth blue-white star flares, and is gone. . . .

/

Harder and harder the magic pressed her, only to relax when she was once
more on the shuddering edge of sinking into insensibility and let her
cough and choke and groan for breath.

"How, when in Waterdeep, do you get to hear gossip and news from afar, "
Caladnei asked calmly.

Narnra shook her head. The Mage Royal repeated the question, and the
Silken Shadow snapped, /"Away, /mage! Go and batter-bruise someone else!
Kick a guard, slap a child, whatever pleases you!"

The magic slammed her against the chamber wall and pinned her once more,
twice more, a third time.

/

Another star fading . . . leaving but one a-twinkle.

/

Caladnei repeated her last question in the same precise words every time
she let Narnra breathe.

/

The last star wavers, trembles in the darkness . . . and winks out. . . .

/

At Caladnei's fourth patient repetition, Narnra replied sullenly, "I
listen at windows and to folk muttering in alleys. I lie on rooftops
hearing merchants plot and scheme, how else can I learn where they'll be,
/and /their precious money, "

"Taverns, too, "

"When I'm thirsty and make it to South Ward or the docks, never my home
streets."

"Nobles' windows, "

"Never. Too dangerous. Why walk there when I can hear more idling beside
a street-seller unloading food after the highsun rush,  Nobles are all
high wind and preening, anyway, every third word a lie to impress or
manipulate."

"This is much easier, Narnra. Thank you. I'll see that you get plenty to
eat and drink when we're done. Now tell me: In all this daily chatter,
do you ever hear talk of Cormyr, "

"No. I think I heard the name of your land a few times when merchants
were talking hopeful prices. Sembia, mainly they talk about Sembians
buying all the lace and jewels and scent-oils. . . ."

"More coins in Sembia," the Mage Royal agreed, almost soothingly.

There was other magic at work, now, across the room. Laspeera was
casting something long and exacting. Narnra sighed and looked away from
the woman, discovered she didn't want to look at Rhauligan's faintly
smiling face just now, and brought her gaze back to Caladnei, who was
just beginning another question.

"Wait," Narnra interrupted swiftly, "why don't you tell /me /one,  What
spell's she putting on me, " From the wall where she was
still, lightly, held, she nodded toward Laspeera.

"One that will read the truth, or lack of it, in your words. It does no harm."

Narnra's dark eyes flamed for a moment. "And when you're done squeezing
all the truth out of me,  Will I be allowed to go on breathing then, "

"Narnra Shalace, know this: 'Tis not my habit to murder out-landers in
the Royal Palace of Cormyr, or anywhere else, for that matter. Those who
manage to refrain from hurling daggers at me or my fellow loyal
Cormyreans, at least. So you tell me now, d'you belong to any guilds,
brotherhoods, secret societies, trading costers, temple agent orders,
nobles' 'fellowships' ... or any other organization I've forgotten to list, "

"No. And I was never part of that conspiracy in the cellars."

"Have you any living kin,  Friends,  Particular foes, "

"No. Thrice no."

"Have you any outstanding debts, or agreements that bind you, "

"Nay."

"Are you under any threat at this time, facing reprisals if you do or
don't do a certain thing, "

"No. Present company excepted."

"Fair enough. Why're you here in Cormyr, "

"Mischance and magic, and being too curious. I followed a wizard who
spared my life. I knew not where 'here' was until after I arrived."

"What d'you lack most in life, beyond fame, high birth, and enough coins
to do just as you please, "

"My freedom," Narnra snapped. "What answer did you expect, "

"If you were free and we'd never seen you and you were wandering
Marsember unnoticed right now . . . what would matter most to you, if I
met you, showed you I could slay you with magic on a whim, and asked you
how you wanted to spend the rest of your life, "

Narnra smiled bitterly. "Getting away alive would matter most."

Caladnei sighed. "Could we move past fencing with tongues, Narnra,  I've
better things to do than hold you against the wall all day."

The Waterdhavian drew in a deep breath, eyed her captor, and said, "Mage
Royal, I just want to get rich without working, unusual that, hey, , and to
spend my days being free to do and go as I will, stealing what I can and
doing just as I please."

"Sounds like several noble ladies of Sembia I've met," Laspeera
muttered, an offering that earned her a silent 'Later' look from Caladnei.

The Mage Royal turned back to Narnra, relaxing her spell to let the
thief down off the wall onto her feet again. "Let's end this all the
sooner, if you're willing. Narnra, I think I know enough about who you
are now. Now, I'd like very much to learn all you know, suspect, or have
overheard as rumors in Waterdeep of any campaign to overthrow the
Obarskyrs."

"The who,  Oh ... the ruling family here, hey, " Narnra looked at Laspeera
then pointed to her own forehead. "Vouch for me in this, yes, " She
turned and met Caladnei's eyes, and the moment she was staring into them
said slowly and firmly, "Not... a ... thing. I've heard nothing at all
about anything political in Cormyr. Nothing until I got here, and all
that Rightful Conspiracy gabble in the cellars, and I'm still not sure
exactly what it was about. Discontent with the Crown, yes, but, " She
shrugged.

"Keep to Waterdeep, Narnra. Purchases of swords, or the hire of
warriors,  Backed by merchants or nobles of Waterdeep,  War-horses, 
Hedge-wizards being hired for trips overland,  The places might not be in
Cormyr; they could be Westgate, or Saerloon and Selgaunt in Sembia, or
Athkatla ... or Iriaebor."

Narnra shook her head. "No, Mage Royal, I swear to you, nothing like
that. A few horses and wagons between one merchant and another, yes, but
nothing that could mean war, and no huge chests full of coins setting off
anywhere, either. Not that anyone in Waterdeep would be fool enough to
let word get around about something like that, anyway."

"Truth, Gala," Laspeera said softly. "Utter truth."

The Mage Royal smiled and nodded. "Well enough. We had to be sure." She
took another step closer and asked quietly, "Do you know any magic,
Narnra,  How to cast spells, "

"No. If I did, would I be . . ." Narnra let her voice trail off instead
of asking something bitter.

"I'm sorry, Narnra. Is the body we can see now your true shape, "

"Yes," Narnra replied, taken aback. "How could it not be, "

"How indeed." Caladnei did not take her eyes off Narnra as she asked
over her shoulder, "Speera, has every answer given me by Narnra been
completely true, "

"No, Mage Royal. There's one thing she wanted to be true, but stood in
some doubt over."

"And that was, "

"Living kin. Until recently she was sure she had none . . . but now
knows better. The knowledge does not please her."

In the silence that followed, Caladnei eyed Narnra thoughtfully, and
then asked, "Are you going to tell me, Narnra, without greeting the wall
again, "

The Waterdhavian clenched her teeth, looked at the floor, and burst out,
"You've no /right to /do this. I don't want to spend the rest of my days
being hunted by every gods-cursed wizard in Faerun! Can't I keep this
/one /secret,  It's nothing to do with Cormyr!"

"I must be the judge of that," the Mage Royal replied softly. "Come,
Narnra, what harm can saying a name or two do you,  If 'tis nothing to do
with Cormyr, as you say, then it can't be a lineage exiled from here,
and so . . ."

Glarasteer Rhauligan cleared his throat loudly, and Caladnei looked over
at him, stepping smoothly back from Narnra to do so.

"You thought your parents were dead, right, " the Harper asked Narnra.

She looked into his eyes and said, "Yes."

"You've never had siblings, aye, "

"Yes."

"So you've just learned your mother, or your father, was alive, hey, "

"Yes," Narnra said, shrinking back from him as if he was going to hurl
something at her.

"You followed a wizard here, didn't you, "

Narnra glared at him and kept silence. Four people stared at each other
in the vast and otherwise empty room before Laspeera asked, "You're the
daughter of Elminster of Shadowdale, aren't you, "

Narnra shot her a look that had daggers in it and, reluctantly,  nodded.
Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper: "I... fear so."

She looked up swiftly. Rhauligan was eyeing her with bright interest,
while Laspeera's eyes had a strange expression that held several things,
pity foremost among them. Caladnei was frowning.

"In the cellars of Marsember, Elminster certainly didn't seem to be
treating you as his daughter," she observed, stepping closer again.

Narnra drew in a deep breath and told the floor tonelessly, "I don't
think Elminster knows he sired me."

The Mage Royal turned to Laspeera. "Does this seem likely to you, "

"The fathering,  Very. The not knowing all of his offspring and their
doings does surprise me, yes. I thought the Old Mage knew damned near
every time any wizard in all Faerun scratched himself."

Caladnei nodded and turned back to Narnra. "You realize the danger if
word of your parentage spreads." Her words were not a question.

The thief from Waterdeep nodded and said bitterly, "All too well." She
shrugged. "But as I seem doomed to spend whatever short remainder of
life is left to me as a helpless captive, tossed from one ruthless
wizard to another, present company very much included, it hardly seems to
matter."

Caladnei's eyes were thoughtful. "What will you do if I release you, "

Narnra shrugged again. "Steal all I can, probably, until I've coins
enough to buy caravan-passage back to Waterdeep . . . unless, while
thieving here in Cormyr, I like what I see enough to stick around."

Caladnei smiled sourly. "As Mage Royal, I've a better idea: You can
serve yourself best if you stay alive and serve Cormyr at the same time."

"Serve how, "

"As a paid spy while you thieve, with occasional offers of additional
monies for more daring tasks of plundering or 'placing' items to be
found ... as Rhauligan, here, does for us."

"So it's agree or you'll kill me, "

"Oh, no," Caladnei said softly. "I need information about Cormyr's foes.
It'll be much more useful to simply spread the news around Suzail that
you're Elminster's daughter, and watch the wolves come out of hiding to
get at you."

/

"I'll still die!"

/

The Mage Royal shrugged. "We all do, sooner or later, and you'll be free
to die in your own way, just as you believe all of us overbearing sorts
are." She waited. "Well, "

Narnra slid down the wall until she was sitting, sighed loudly, then
told the carved dragon ceiling, "I'm furious at being at the mercy of
any wizard." She turned her head to glare at Caladnei and added, "I
think I'll tell you so."

Rhauligan's amused snort was echoed, in far more ladylike manners, by the
two Cormyrean women.

"Moreover, before I agree to anything, I need to know not just the 'or
else,' but also the 'what else' and the 'what about after,' too."

Caladnei was almost smiling. "And those things would be, "

"The bad things you're not yet telling me about this . . . and what
happens to me when the Mage Royal of Cormyr deems me expendable."

Caladnei's smile appeared, wry but full. "Prudence at last. A bit late,
but making an appearance nonetheless."

She knelt close to where Narnra was sitting and said, "To save Cormyr,
we are /all /expendable. However, 'tis my hope that you'll become so
useful to us all that you serve loyally for years to come, whereupon you
might be rewarded with a 'way out.' A title, a nice mansion to live out
your wrinkled years ... a better 'after' than many can hope for. As for
the 'what else,' I need to know your trustworthiness and so would begin
by mind-reaming you directly."

"Turning me into some sort of brainless slug, "

"No. I'll /never /deal pain, mind-to-mind, as Elminster did. No, if you
were found wanting, I'd put you through a portal back to Waterdeep."

Narnra almost sprang up from the wall. "You can /do /that, "

"Oh, yes. I must warn you that the portal I know will deliver you into a
very public room of state in Peirgeiron's Palace. Have you a swift story
ready, "

"Being the daughter of Elminster ought to do," Rhauligan
murmured, earning him three glares at once.

Narnra bit her lip. "And ... I'd just go back to Trades Ward,  No one
following me, "

Caladnei shrugged. "Not from Cormyr."

Narnra looked at her. "This mind-ream: What will it do to me, "

"Show me your thoughts and memories as I rummage. If you'd like to
reassure yourself as to your fate at my hands, I can easily make the
mind-ream a two-way affair so you can judge me while I do the same to you."

Narnra stared at the Mage Royal, awed and strangely excited,  and
suddenly angry again. She scrambled up, took a few stumbling steps away
from Caladnei, waving at the Cormyreans to stay back from her, and
leaned her head against the wall. "I ... let me think."

"Of course," Laspeera said softly.

Breathing heavily, Narnra stared at the toes of her boots and thought
hard. How did she feel, 

Did she trust these folk,  Laspeera seemed motherly, Rhauligan
was, Rhauligan, dedicated to his task ... and Caladnei had beaten her
like a backstreet bully with magic, but not killed her when the slaying
would have been easy and Narnra had been stupid enough to goad her.
Repeatedly.

So how did she feel,  Truth, now . . .

I'm more terrified than eager. And I'm angry. Angry at myself for being
afraid, angrier still at Caladnei and Rhauligan for bringing me by force
into this choice. I'm burn-the-gods furious with Elminster for siring
me, just walking away, and luring me here from the streets I know.

"Truth," Laspeera said gently from behind Narnra. "Every word utter truth."

/

Gods, yes, she's been reading my every thought. . .

/

Narnra spun around with a frightened snarl, expecting to find all three
Cormyreans closing in around her, but everyone was just where they'd been
before, Caladnei still kneeling.

"If I agree to this . . . this madness," Narnra asked in a voice that
was far from calm and steady, "when will this mind-ream take place, "

The Mage Royal of Cormyr rose slowly to her feet, smiling a little
wryly. "In such matters, there's never any better time for boldly
reckless action than . . . right now."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Fifteen

      WHEN MARSEMBAN MERCHANTS GO WALKING

/

My son, it's not the standing merchants you need fear. It's when they
get to walking somewhere that you'd best beware. It takes a heap of
coming trouble for someone to get a merchant to walk anywhere.

/

The character Farmer Crommor

in Scene the First

of the play /Troubles In The Cellar/

by Shanra Mereld of Murann

first performed in the Year of the Griffon

The outermost of the ward-spells that cloaked the far corners of the
room in roiling mists flared into coppery flames of warning, and a
telltale chimed.

The darkly handsome young man clad all in black, open-fronted,
flaring-sleeved shirt, tight leather breeches, and gleaming

black boots, took his crossed feet down from the footstool, laid aside
his book and his goblet, and rose from his chair.

He passed his hand over a dark sphere of crystal that shared its own
upswept, teardrop-shaped duskwood plinth with an outer ring of smaller
spheres. Another ring of roiling mists obediently wavered into emerald
radiance and displayed an upright image in the air: a white-faced man in
brown robes that matched his thinning hair was standing uncertainly in
the midst of the emerald mists.

The man in black smiled and touched two of the smaller spheres. Two
rings of mist fell away into nothingness, and the third took on that
emerald hue. The Red Wizard then passed his hand over the largest
sphere, and the scene of Huldyl Rauthur vanished.

"Enter the archway and proceed," he told the air calmly. "The way before
you is quite safe."

The emerald mists at his feet flowed away to one wall in a purposeful
flood and climbed it to outline an archway on the unbroken stone, which
promptly split to reveal a long, rough tunnel through rock. A hesitant
figure was advancing along it.

"Be welcome," the Red Wizard said quietly. "Importance brings you, I trust, "

"Y-yes," Huldyl Rauthur made reply, as he entered the chamber. "I
believe 'tis time." The War Wizard was chalk-white with worry, and his
face glistened with so much sweat that it dripped from his chin.

A weak reed, Master Rauthur, Darkspells thought. And weak reeds break.

"Good," Harnrim Starangh told the man he'd bought. "Return to the
chamber you came from, and I'll follow in a matter of moments."

As soon as the fearful Rauthur started back down the passage, Starangh
passed a hand over a crystal and sent mists billowing up between them
once more. He drained his goblet in a long, unhurried quaff, plucked one
of the crystals from the plinth and slipped it into his codpiece, and
said words to the empty air.

Two men were promptly standing before him, blinking in startlement and
alarm. They went pale when they saw who was standing facing them.

Starangh gave the merchants Bezrar and Surth a sharklike smile. "I hope
you've eaten well. You're going on a journey."

"Eh,  What j, " Bezrar began, but fell silent as Surth kicked his ankle
savagely.

Starangh let them both see his smile turn soft and menacing and
commanded, "Stand still and silent. Please."

They did so, and he cast an intricate spell that laid a fog of
for-getfulness on them. Until it expired, they'd be compelled to seek
the retired Mage Royal, being drawn always in his direction, but stripped
from them was all remembrance of why they were seeking Vangerdahast or
who'd enspelled and sent them. Anyone trying to break the spell before
it ran out would reduce the two Marsembans to quivering mindlessness.

They stood like two gaping statues, no longer seeing the man who worked
a second, minor spell to place images of the animated suits of armor
known as helmed horrors in their minds. "When you see such a one,"
Harnrim Starangh told his two minions gently, "one of you will throw one
of /these /at it, so as to strike it."

The black-clad wizard took the limp hands of the two oblivious men, and
posed them so those of each man were cupped together. From a basket
beneath his reclining chair, Starangh scooped many small, shiny,
identical objects into those waiting palms: rune-graven ovals of metal
that bulged plumply at their centers but thinned to the breadth of armor
plate nigh all their edges.

He smiled at his two enchanted idiots, stepped around them to lay a hand
on the backs of both of their necks at once, and pronounced another word
that made them both vanish.

Humming a jaunty song, Harnrim Starangh made a last adjustment of his
crystals and rode a plume of mist down the passage to join Rauthur. It
was time to go hunting, for Vangerdahasts were suddenly very much in season.

* * * * *

Aumun Tholant Bezrar blinked, wiped his sweating face, and looked wildly
in all directions with every evidence of utter bewilderment. Trees, aye,
definitely trees.

As always, standing behind him like one more tree trunk, was his
companion in so many crimes, Master Malakar Surth.

Surth was clutching a handful of something that looked like oversized
silver coins, and frowning in puzzlement.

Bezrar looked down and discovered that his own fat, sweaty palm was
cradling another handful of the same things: ovals of gleaming metal
graven with intricate runes, nothing he could read or had ever seen
before, but the same things on each one. These long-as-his-fmgers
gewgaws bulged in their middles like snail-cakes but were flattened out
all around the edges like, well, again like snail-cakes.

So where by all the cozy Nine Hells had these come from, and where /was
/here, anyhow,  And how . . . how had he and Surth gotten here, 

"Uh, Surth, " he asked, seeking some answers. "Surth, "

"Bite your tongue til it bleeds," Marsember's richest dealer in scents,
wines, cordials, and drugs snapped, employing the standard polite port
expression for what slightly more highborn Cormyreans usually rendered
as "Belt up" or (if they were priests or elders) "Be silent."

Surth was glaring around at trees and vines and the deep damp green
vista of more trees, that stretched away in all directions from the
narrow trail they were standing on. His manner made it clear that he was
blaming the trees themselves for being here, at least for the few moments
it would take him to find someone nearby to blame.

"I don't know either," he muttered, as his face turned slowly to regard
his longtime partner. And darkened.

"What did you do to get us here, Bez,  You must have done something!
You're an idiot, you know that,  An idiot! You must have fiddled with
something enchanted or lit the fuse of that . . . that. . ." His face
went clouded, almost frightened, and he waved a dismissive hand. "You
know: that . . . man."

Bezrar drew himself up like an indignant walrus, puffing and sweating,
and jabbed Surth's chest with one fat, hairy finger. "Now, you listen
here, O mighty Malakar! /You're /the one who's always dabbling with
Shar-magic, dark little toys and mumble-spells and all that
untrustworthy idiocy! B'gads, you wound me, you do! Twasn't anything I
did to get us here! 'Twas that smiling . . . some magic word . . . that
green glow . . . him ... he gave us these, didn't he, "

He thrust out his handful of shiny gewgaws and said, "He must've,
because I sure by all the happy dancing gods haven't seen 'em before!
You're holding some too!"

"I /know /that, you fat little dolt," Surth snarled. "I can see and
feel, you know!"

"Odd's fish, but you can't /think /half as clever as you think you can,
now, can you, hey, "

"Oh yes, I can," Surth snarled, reaching for the hilt of his knife.

"Well, then, use your thinking part, whatever 'tis, and tell me /how /we
got here and /what /these things are and /how we get back to Marsember!"
/the fat smuggler roared, his longknife already out and jabbing
warningly at Surth's knife-hand. "Because sure as Shar's a dark lass,
this ain't Marsember!"

His shout echoed a little way through the damp trees, and something
unseen scuttled away from beside the trail nearby, leaving a trail of
quivering leaves.

Malakar Surth drew in a deep breath, wrestling down his temper, and with
a firm hand pushed the point of Bezrar's wavering knife aside. "Let me
think," he snarled.

Bezrar gave him a sour expression and flourished his hands in mimicry of
a high-nosed Marsemban servant bidding a Marsemban noble to pass this
way, or partake of this platter of viands, or do /something./

Surth stroked at his chin as if its clean-shaven point was home to a
handsome beard, stared around at the trees, and muttered, "Can't tell
where the sun is, and we mustn't get off the trail. This forest is
/big!' /He shivered suddenly and muttered, "Mustn't be here when night
comes."

Bezrar nodded, eyes widening in horror at the thought of long-taloned,
creeping forest monsters, slithering closer. ... He fought down a cry of
alarm and started looking in all directions at once, crouching and
waving his longknife wildly.

Surth gave him a sour look and murmured, "Fat, useless /idiot!' /He held
up a hand and said, /"This /way. I don't know why, but I'm sure this is
the right way to head. Shar must be with /me, thank /you for invoking
her, Bez. Come on."

The smuggler stood suspiciously looking in all directions, so Surth
plucked him sharply by the elbow while passing, jerking him into a
stumbling walk. No sooner had the fat wholesaler regained his balance
when Surth took firm grip of his elbow once more and just as firmly
propelled him into the lead.

Bezrar shot him a fearful look. Surth favored him with what was intended
to be a reassuring smile and said, "Go on, but mind you go /quietly.
/Don't worry. I'll be right behind you."

Bezrar's reply was a growl. The smuggler didn't quite dare to say that
knowing Malakar Surth was right behind you was no cause for a lack of worry.

He needed Surth to do the thinking, and to be with him in this vast and
rustling wood. The mere thought of, /what was that, /

"Mask and Tymora love me!" he cried, as a warrior in full armor rose up
from behind some bushes, visor down and drawn sword in hand. "Surth, "

"I see him," Surth said in a strange voice. Bezrar cast a very quick
glance back over his shoulder to see why his partner's voice sounded
like that, and saw that Surth had lifted one of his gewgaws in a
trembling hand and was staring at it with a weird expression on his face.

//

/"Malakar!" /he snarled. "Help me here!"

His eyes back on the armored warrior, he moaned in fear as the silently
menacing Purple Dragon drifted toward him. Aye, drifted, gods above, it
/was floating! /Its feet were right off the ground, toes pointing
downwards like a knight laid out for his tomb!

Yet that helmed head was turning to look at him then at Surth then back
again, and the gauntleted hands were swinging that great naked sword up
and back, ready to slash down and slay, 

//

/"Surth!" /the smuggler almost wept, his longknife shaking in his hand.
"Aid!"

Something bright flashed past his shoulder, tumbling end over end at the
floating warrior. It struck that armored breast, and the world exploded
in bright blue fire and ringing, tumbling shards of battle-steel that
half-deafened Aumun Bezrar and flung him off his feet back past a tree
or two and crashing down among bushes, very hard roots, and wet dead
leaves, with pieces of riven armor pattering onto the ground all around him.

"Bezrar, " his partner cried in fear, stumbling blindly forward along the
path and groping at the air. "Bez, where are you, "

Bezrar blinked at the leaf-shrouded sky overhead, deciding he was still
alive and could hear things through a faint ringing in his ears and
could feel all parts of his body with not much more than the usual pain.
He rolled over hastily, driving his longknife into wet moss and earth as
a handle, to puff his way to his knees and see . . . Malakar Surth
stepping straight into a tree, shrieking in alarm, turning to run, and
taking three wild, windmilling strides into, another tree.

Surth sat down hard, clutching at his head, and Bezrar, surveying the
now-empty path, found himself laughing wildly.

His chortles died away abruptly as he felt his free hand trembling. He
looked down and discovered that he was clutching one of the gewgaws like
a stone ready to throw and that it was glowing slightly, a blue radiance
that pulsed and faded under his astonished gaze. More than that:
somehow, in the moments of fear since he'd first seen that armored head
rise into view, his free hand had opened two of his pouches, tossed away
the palm-flasks of wine he carried there, and thrust all of the rest of
the gewgaws into the emptied pouches.

"Mystra, Lady of Magic," he prayed hoarsely, watching the trembling in
his hand grow stronger and realizing that /something /was urging him to
return to the trail and take it ahead in /that /direction and to go
nowhere else. "What by all your sacred mysteries is going on, "

Surth, he saw, was struggling to his feet, holding out another of the
gewgaws in one hand as if it were towing him forward.

"We . . . we're being led like mules," he gasped, suddenly drenched in
fear-sweat. "Oh, gods, we're going to die!"

As if in reply to his words, another silent armored warrior floated into
view along the trail. It headed purposefully for Surth, raising its
blade as it came.

Surth threw the gewgaw in his hand, and Bezrar hastily buried his face
in the moss and leaves.

The blast was even bigger this time.

The tug of the thing in his hand grew insistent. He struggled to his
feet and stumbled toward the trail. Surth was reeling among the
trees, and there was already another gewgaw in his hand.

"Oh, Bane and black doom," Bezrar muttered helplessly, as he found
himself heading for the trail as fast as his shaking limbs could take him.

* * * * *

"Wait," Rhauligan said suddenly. "What about that . . . protection, "

"The stars of Mystra did not bar me," Laspeera said, "and nothing
steered me in my reading. I think."

"You truly think the goddess herself . . . , "

"I don't know," Caladnei said firmly. "Narnra . . . did you see seven
stars,  Blue-white fire, "

The Silken Shadow stared at the three Cormyreans, sudden hope kindling.
I could play this as a shield, try to win free of this room and these
three, and . . . and . . .

As she discovered she didn't know what she'd want to do if she did win
her freedom, Laspeera suddenly turned her back.

She's still reading my thoughts! She knows this would be a ruse.

"No," the senior War Wizard said firmly, turning around again to face
Narnra. "Where the Mother of Mysteries is concerned, Narnra, none of us
who work magic can be sure of anything. Your mind has already shown me
that you saw seven stars go out, one by one, as the Mage Royal used
spells on you. Yet Mystra's protection may still encloak you, whether
you know it or not."

Caladnei nodded gravely. "I'd not like to proceed unless /you /say so,
Narnra Shalace. Mystra may take note of your willingness or your
refusal. So ... what say you, "

//

/My choice handed right back to me. /Narnra stared at the three
Cormyreans, wondering what other twists this day might hold . . . and
what she should say now.

The three Cormyreans stared back at her, waiting.

* * * * *

"Well, Lady Joysil, I'm certain that everyone believes they have the
misfortune to live in truly troubled times for Cormyr," Lady Honthreena
Ravensgar observed, triumphantly taking the largest nut-cake with one
hand and reaching for her just-refilled goblet with the other. "But
truly I think we /do." /She waved a profusely ring-adorned hand and
added, "Oh, I know that dreadful Devil Dragon no longer menaces half the
realm, gulping up knights and soldiers like snacks while ores and
goblins march, but . . . really, are things any better now, "

Lady Baerdra Monthor did not wait for the Lady Joysil Ambrur to answer
but said darkly, "Well, unlike /some /at this table, I am truly a
daughter of Marsember, and any misfortune to befall the Obar-skyrs and
the precious Royal Court in Suzail delights me! I'd be just as happy if
they all fell down some dragon's gullet by nightfall today and let us
regain rule of our own city! All these flirtations with Chauntea and boy
kings and that /unspeakable /Alusair riding wild over half the kingdom, "

"The /male /half, dear," old Lady Hornsryl Wavegallant observed
meaningfully, then tittered.

Lady Monthor waited for the ripple of catty mirth to die, and then
resumed her verbal onslaught right where she'd left off. ",  While some
unknown little hussy of an /outlander /runs the War Wizards, and
Obarskyrs trammel the rights of nobles here, there, and everywhere! Gods
above look down, could they do /worse, '/

"Well," Lady Thornra Bracegauntlet said gently, /"my /sympathies lie
with Filfaeril. A true Queen, of dignity and breeding, watching in
silence all those years whilst Azoun bedded everyone who didn't flee in
her skirts the moment his pennants were seen atop a distant hill, "

"Ah, /yes," /Lady Monthor sighed, looking at the ceiling in fond reverie
and almost spilling her goblet.

But for the briefest of exasperated sighs, Lady Bracegauntlet ignored
the interjection, and swept on. ", then watching her own daughter tear
the codpiece off any young man to take her fancy, while the other
daughter goes all foolish over a bad noble and goes and dies bearing his
child, and how are all the rest of us to know it's legitimate and
deserves to someday wear a crown, , and, "

"Years must pass before that little brat gets measured for any crowns,"
Lady Ravensgar said darkly. "There's many a royal get that's been fitted
for his coffin before his coronet!"

"Oh, stop /hinting, /Honthreena!" Lady Wavegallant said firmly. "If
you've started or joined one of these little conspiracies, tell us! We
want to hear all about it! As for Filfaeril, I hear she's doing quite
well in the bedchamber herself these days with that old stuffy fool of a
sage, Alaphondar!"

The Lady Joysil Ambrur had said little and continued to do so. She
smiled over her favorite tallglass, watched her wine and cakes disappear
with frightening rapidity, and deftly tugged out the choicest gossip.
The nine noble ladies of Cormyr who'd been lucky enough to receive an
invitation to this highsun-sup cooperated with enthusiasm, for they were
only too eager to demonstrate how in the know they were. Little hard
truth about conspiracies emerged, but Caladnei the Mage Royal, the Steel
Regent, and the Dowager Queen Filfaeril and her antics with Alaphondar
all came in for some colorful conversation.

After all, she thought with a smile, aside from occasional uncomfortable
duties in the bedchamber regarding the provision of family heirs, and
spending as much money on fripperies as possible, of course, that is what
noble ladies are for.

* * * * *

Rauthur turned suddenly. "What was that, "

"My . . . diversion," the Red Wizard murmured. "Merely a few bewildered
blunderers encountering the helmed horrors to snare the attention of
your fellow War Wizards, just in case some of them are in the habit of
spying on Vangerdahast."

Huldyl Rauthur mopped his pale face, sighed, and whispered, "Right. I
see. Well, here we are. This is one of the 'back ways in' to Old
Thun, er, Vangerdahast's sanctum."

"Old Thunderspells,  I've heard that term before," Starangh murmured.
"Are we likely to encounter alarm spells, or guardians, "

"No, no, we're inside all that. Vangey can't do spellwork if his own
castings keep setting off alarms and spell-backlashes. We just have to
keep fairly quiet, because he has a guest."

"Who might that be, "

"I don't know, but he's talking to someone who's right here to move
things for him, not someone at the other end of a farscrying spell or
crystal." The War Wizard led the way cautiously along a dimly lit
passage that smelled of damp earth. The tiles were damp underfoot, and
the rough-block stone walls were pierced at intervals by closed doors.
"Pantries and such, oh, there is one thing we have to watch out for!"

"Rauthur," the wizard called Darkspells said silkily, laying a hand on
the War Wizard's shoulder, "I don't like surprises. You should know that
by now."

"Uh, ah, /yes, /Lord! I-I-merely mean I forgot to mention something! Uh,
tha-that Vangerdahast conjures pairs of floating eyes and flying hands
that he uses as fetch-and-carry servitors . . . they won't be along
here, but we mustn't go left up ahead or we may run into them, and of
course, he sees through them, and . . ."

"Yes, that would be unfortunate. Is there anything /else /you're having
difficulty remembering, friend Huldyl, "

"N-no, Lord Harnrim. I, uh, through here. There're steps up. You wanted
to see Vangerdahast at work. . . ."

"Indeed," the Red Wizard breathed, his voice the merest of whispers and
his hand remaining on Rauthur's shoulder. "Show me."

Unseen behind the trembling War Wizard, Starangh's other hand slipped
the crystal out of his codpiece and held it ready in his hand, just in case.

The worn stone steps were a narrow, short flight that ascended into a
sort of garden room, where benches held shallow trays of flourishing
herbs and food plants beneath a ceiling of curving glass. Outside, a
great ring of thickly grown trees surrounded the domed ceiling, which
lay in its own little clearing, and among them, the Red Wizard could see
the motionless forms of a dozen or more helmed horrors, so many empty
suits of armor, floating tirelessly upright in the shade-gloom.

Rauthur had laid a hand on Starangh's arm, and he turned his head to
glare, only to see the War Wizard pointing down.

Through a gap between two of the old bedding trays, more glass could be
seen: a wall, this time, that overlooked an adjacent room whose floor
was much lower. Starangh found himself looking down on the moving heads
of a man and a woman.

Rauthur did something delicate with the air around them. There was a
momentary flicker of magical radiance, the merest of ripples, and voices
could be faintly heard, the words of the man and woman below.

The Red Wizard bent his head forward to listen intently.

A tiny whirlwind of flames circled in midair as Vangerdahast peered
critically at it. "Not enough," he grunted, "Not enough."

Tiny threads of lightning spurted from his fingertips and crawled
unsteadily through the air, flickering and darting to join the pinwheel
of flames . . . which flared into greater life, wobbled, and promptly
collapsed into winking sparks and fading smoke.

Vangey slammed one hand down on the table and rose on it to lean forward
and watch every last instant of his spell dying.

"Not a success," Myrmeen Lhal observed gently from the chair across the
room where she sat in full armor, her drawn sword across her knees.

Vangerdahast growled deep in his throat as she'd heard many a
hunting-dog do and whirled around to glare at her. "I can't work with
you /watching /me, curse it, woman! Why don't you take your sword and
your armored self out into the woods and shred some small, furry things, 
/Leave me be!"/

"No," the Lady Lord of Arabel said sweetly, smiling at him with her chin
cradled in her hands. Her gauntlets, he noted wearily, were perched on
the great carved horns of the chairback. "I /like /small, furry
things, even ones that wear wizards' robes and growl at me grumpily."

Vangerdahast growled again, more angrily this time, and brought his
other hand down on the table with a crash.

"Patience in all things, Lord," she murmured. "If you expect to craft
entirely new spells to bind dozens of dragons, you can't expect every
spell to be a simple thing, or other mages would have done it already and
bound every last one of them thousands of years ago."

"I've seen enough," the Red Wizard murmured in Rauthur's ear, "and shall
take my leave of you. Conduct me to where it's safe to depart."

Huldyl Rauthur nodded and led the way quickly back down the steps to the
passage, and along it the way they'd come. Halfway along the corridor he
paused beside a door and muttered, "Lord Starangh, within are some of
the floating eyes and flying hands that I know how to attune and
activate. Would you like to use them to, ah, see farther through the
sanctum than we've walked, thus far, "

The Red Wizard smiled. "How thoughtful, but no, thank you. Not this time.
You've been very helpful and useful, Rauthur, and I trust shall remain
so." He clapped the War Wizard warmly on the shoulder and added, "For of
course, to betray me is ... to die."

With that last whispered word ringing in Huldyl Rauthur's ears, the War
Wizard found himself suddenly alone, staring at, the empty passage.

Mother Mystra, he's gone right through the wards! The wards it took
Vangerdahast days of fighting just to modify!

Huldyl Rauthur shivered all over, like a wet dog, swallowed with an
effort, and hurried back to the garden room, to restore the silence shield.

So this is what true fear feels like, and everything up to now has been
mere . . . apprehension.

Gods, deliver me.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Sixteen

      A BUSY DAY FOR WAR WIZARDS

/

Then my spell burst among them, and, behold!, there were flamebroiled
WarWizards all over the place.

/

Morthrym of Selgaunt

/

Sixty Summers of Spellhurling:

My Career As A Mighty Wizard

/

Year of the Turret

The forest rocked again, and a flaming branch toppled into the trail,
bounced once, and rolled over. Malakar Surth strode up to it, smiling
confidently, and looked down at a curved shard of war-helm that was
slowly spinning to a halt.

"This," he said, hefting the next gewgaw and admiring its gleam,
"is, transcendent. Simply transcendent."

"Easy, too," Aumun Bezrar agreed from right behind him. "That's over a
dozen now, hey, "

Surth looked up at the leaf-hidden heavens. "Fourteen," he said icily.
"No thanks to you."

"Hey, now, b'gads! I blasted five of 'em!"

"Could you have done it had I not shown you how to vanquish these . . .
these enchanted suits of armor,  Bah, don't bother to parley and cavil, we
must go forward."

"Uh, aye. Forward." Bezrar frowned as he watched Surth stride on down
the trail into what seemed to be even deeper, gloomier stands of trees.
Shadowtops and duskwoods, as old as realms and as large as cottages,
soaring up into unseen gloom with moss-cloaked vines hanging here and
there like gigantic spiderwebs . . .

"Uh, Surth, uh, just one thing: why, "

The tall, thin dealer in scents, wines, cordials, and drugs froze for a
moment then said without turning, "I know not. We'll find out when we
get there."

He walked on, and Bezrar hastily shuffled after him, wheezing along for
a goodly way before he stopped and asked, "Uh, Mai, "

Surth rounded on him with a snarl. /"Don't /call me that!"

"Uh ... ah, aye, of course, Mai. I, just one /more /thing."

"What, " Surth snapped icily, hefting his shining oval device in his hand
as if he meant to hurl it at his longtime partner.

Bezrar held up his own gewgaw. "Uh . . . ah . . what happens to us when
we run out of these things, "

Malakar Surth opened his mouth angrily, but when he saw Bezrar's stare go
fearful and rise up over his shoulder, he shut it again and wheeled around.

Three helmed horrors were floating in menacing unison through the trees
ahead, converging on him. They bore huge battleaxes rather than swords
this time, and they were holding them raised and ready to strike.

"Tymora and Mystra both, be with us now!" he snarled, and flung a gewgaw
desperately. Malakar Surth didn't know what would happen to one of the
shiny ovals if he ever missed with one of his throws, and as he saw more
armored forms drifting out of the treegloom, he told both goddesses
fervently that he never wanted to find out.

The world burst apart in blue fire, he knew enough to duck down and
shield his eyes now, and one of the helmed horrors was gone. The other
two flew on toward him as if nothing had happened.

Which was when a distant voice said severely, "Brorm,  You /know /Old
Thunderspells doesn't want us hurling spells here, so close to him! I
don't know what you're blasting, but stop it!"

An armored form loomed up over Surth, a battleaxe gleamed as it swept
down, and, Bezrar snarled, "Eat flaming death, metal /pig!"/

The world burst bright blue again, tumbling Surth back head-over-heels
into a tanglethorn bush, this time.

He blinked at the sight of his own blood, glistening in red droplets in
a line across his thorn-torn hand, and heard that voice, a little nearer
and a lot more furious now, shout, "Right, Brorm, /that does it! /I
don't care how much the Old Man dotes on your spinach pie, I'm going to
flail your backside for you! Don't you /try /to run now, I may be older,
but I'm wise to your tricks, and 'twill take a lot to surprise old
Pheldemar of the Fireballs!"

Bezrar promptly blew up the third armored sentinel, and in the wake of
the blast, the two stunned Marsembans heard the unseen Pheldemar say
something very rude.

There followed a crashing of foliage off behind the trees to the right
of the trail, where the forest cloaked some gentle hills, a vigorous,
hard-striding man in battle-leathers marched into view, wearing a long
leather overcloak that flared out behind him with the haste of his
approach. His face resembled an old boot, his hair was steel-gray, and a
long black rod bristling with tiny spires and spikes that flashed with a
spectrum of winking radiances was clutched in his left hand. His right
hand wore a long, flaring-cut white glove, and a flickering radiance
like white fire surrounded it.

"Brorm, " he barked as he came up to the trail, peering suspiciously in
all directions. "Where by the brass breastplates of Alusair /are /you, "

His eyes fell upon the riven shards of a helmed horror on the narrow
dirt path right in front of him.

Pheldemar of the Fireballs gaped down at them in astonishment, a
dumbfoundedness that deepened as he glanced along the trail and saw more
chunks and shards that had recently been the very best sort of Cormyrean
coat-of-plate battle armor. He could see pieces of at least two helms
without taking another step.

//

/"Mystra" /he swore, softly but with feeling, and hurriedly called forth
a shielding-spell around himself from his rod. Whoever or whatever had
done this must still be lurking nearby. That last blast had been only
moments ago. Yes, there!, some of the shards were still rocking in the
wake of the force that had hurled them to where they now lay. The War
Wizard shook his head, went into an alert crouch, and advanced carefully
along the trail.

Almost immediately he caught sight of a boot. The leg wearing it
belonged to a man clad like a downcoast merchant, breeches, boots, the
hip-length tunic so little seen in the King's Forest or the uplands
where smocks were for field-work and belt-tunics for riding or stalking
in the forest, who was lying beside a tan-glethorn bush, eyes closed and
one hand a-dew with fresh blood. He'd never seen the man before. His
eyes fell to the belt, a long-knife, of the sort used in Marsember. /Just
/a longknife. Whoever this man was, he'd had something to do with the
destruction of the helmed horrors . . . but he certainly didn't look
like a brigand or a wizard or any prepared foe of Cormyr. As for whether
he was really senseless or not. . .

Pheldemar leaned closer, pointing his rod at the man. A blast of
conjured water sho, 

There was a sudden crash and rustle from right behind the War Wizard. He
whirled, rod rising, but was still halfway through his turn when
something large, hairy, fat and sweating smashed into him and ran right
over him, trampling hard.

"Reeeeaaaaaaaagh!" Aumun Tholant Bezrar screamed, waving his arms wildly
as he ran pell-mell through the forest, crashing into trees and saplings
wherever the trail wandered and his frantic flight did not. "Rrrrruuhhhhh!"

He was trying to frame the word "run" with his mouth and call it out to
Surth, somewhere behind him, but. . .

The War Wizard hit the ground with a grunt and bounced hard, rod flying
away into the shrubs. His body settled and lay still, limp and silent,
eyes closed.

Trembling with fear, Malakar Surth could see that much of the man
through the slit of his almost-shut eyelids. Bezrar was still screaming
through the trees, his cries echoing weirdly, and only the deaf could
hope to avoid noticing the sound Bez was making. "No more wizards, ever!
No more dealings with spellhurlers, oh no! I told Surth, I /told /him!
No! No magic, not for any price! No /no no NO!"/

Surth grimaced. With that racket this "Brorm" and probably some other
wizards couldn't fail to be here soon, all right, probably a /lot /of
other wizards. He had to leave. He had to leave /now./

The fallen War Wizard groaned and moved one hand, eyelids flickering. In
sudden terror Surth burst to his feet and ran right over the man.

He might have made it cleanly over the Cormyrean, but the gray-haired
wizard flung up one hand blindly, clawing the air for balance. Surth
tripped on it and went sprawling.

Clawing at moss and dirt, never slowing, he found his feet again with a
frantic mew of fear and ran on, pelting down the trail Bezrar was still
shouting his distant way along.

Pheldemar of the Fireballs groaned again, shook his numbed hand, and
rolled over. In the distance a head bobbed briefly in his field of view
ere its fleeing owner raced around a bend in the trees and was gone
behind a confusion of old, gnarled trunks.

Something gleamed on the trail in the mysterious man's wake, something
that was winking back sunlight as it spun around and around, obviously
just fallen.

Pheldemar got to his knees then up, took two unsteady steps, and saw his
rod. He retrieved it, wincing at the new aches he'd acquired, gods, that
man had hit him harder that the pony that had run over him when he was
but a lad!, and plucked up the gewgaw from the trail.

It more than filled his hand: an oval of shiny-smooth, polished silver
metal, with an shine of blue where it caught reflections. Thick in the
middle and thinning to its edges like a dainty-pastry, and graven with .
. . runes of power, yes, but not ones he'd seen before. This looked like
Eastern script.

His eyes narrowed. He turned it over in his fingers, finding nothing
illuminating on the obverse, and, the light dimmed behind him.

Pheldemar of the Fireballs made sure he turned around fast enough this
time, in a crouch and with his rod ready, 

Two helmed horrors were floating along the trail toward him. They came
to smooth halts, their enchantments recognizing him as a commander
rather than a foe. Pheldemar frowned down at the gewgaw in his hand,
lifted his gaze to the nearest helmed horror, and on an impulse tossed
the oval lazily at the chest of the armored sentinel.

The singing of his shielding, still in place around him, flared into a
high shriek as the helmed horror blew apart, tumbling its still-intact
fellow end-over-end through the air for an impressive distance. Shards
of twisted silver-blue battle armor crashed and rattled off branches in
all directions, pattering down through dancing leaves. Several pieces
sped into his shield and were slowed to a snail-drift by it. Pheldemar
stepped out of the way of the only one of these that was proceeding into
a collision with him and peered at it with interest as it ghosted past.

The surviving helmed horror was upright again, flying impassively back
toward the trail with its sword raised. Pheldemar looked at it then down
at the wreckage at his feet, and lifted both of his eyebrows aloft in
earnest.

"Well, now," he said thoughtfully, hand straying to the alarm-horn at
his belt. "Well, now . . ."

* * * * *

/

Ah, Great Mystra,  Goddess,  Are you here, in my mind, 

If so, what should I do, 

/

Narnra smiled wryly. /And if you're there, WHY are you lurking in my
mind, without telling me,  Are you a Cormyrean, perhaps, /

She expected nothing but silence in reply to that.

Silence she got, but also a stirring in the darkness of her mind.

Seven sparks winked, just for a moment, as if amused . . . and that was all.

* * * * *

Something like a wavering shadow appeared in the air of the room Rauthur
had first brought him to, thickened, and grew an arm and an alertly
peering head.

"I come from Suzail with urgent news for the Lord Vangerda-hast," it
announced excitedly, and then waited. Silence was the reply.

The head smiled, and surged forward, growing a body. It did not look
like the customary handsome form Harnrim Starangh was wont to wear, but
then he wasn't called Darkspells for nothing.

Aside from himself, the dim room was deserted. He cast a swift spell and
nodded in satisfaction. "Off that way, where the shield-spells grow
strongest," he murmured, "I must not go ... but here, these shields I
can work with. . . ."

That fool Rauthur's mind had been fearfully a-bubble with rushing
memories during their visit together, wherefore the boldest Red Wizard
in Cormyr now knew there were scrolls in plenty beyond /that /door down
this passage and also /that /one, which also led to a closet that held
some wands and a rod or two better left undisturbed because hidden
tracer-enchantments could well have been built into them. The really
powerful, and experimental, magics Vangerdahast kept hidden behind shields
that could slay, shields attuned only to him, but there'd be chances
enough to gain those later. First, the, 

"Blaedron,  Is that you, "

Starangh sent a slaying-snake spell through the air even before he
melted his body back into a shadow flickering among the pulsing shields.
The War Wizard coming around with the corner with a frown on his face
and a wand in his hand walked right into the fangserpent and managed
only the choked beginnings of a scream before his face was sucked away
by the magic, eyes, breath, flesh, and all.

Blood-drenched bone stared with empty sockets at Starangh for a moment
ere the man toppled.

Darkspells smiled and cast another magic that made the body a flickering
shield-shadow like himself. It'd reappear when the shields were
banished, of course, but until then . . .

He left the wand lying right where it had fallen and hastened on.

There was a flash of blue-white fire, and Vangerdahast laughed aloud.

"Yes!" he spat in delight, hands spread wide in the last flourish of his
casting. "Done, and perfect!"

He chuckled in triumph, scribbled a note on his parchments with some
panache, and rolled his eyes when Myrmeen asked from behind him, "Time
for a break, Master of All Magic,  Just a few moments to sip water,
stretch, and wipe noses, "

Vangerdahast whirled around, robe swirling grandly, and made a very rude
gesture he'd seen Purple Dragons present enthusiastically to each other
on several occasions.

Myrmeen decided it was her turn to roll /her /eyes.

Rauthur's mind held very clear directions on how to open the armory
shields for someone not keyed to them. Merely mutter the right phrase,
make the correct gesture, and step forward.

Into a chamber where two War Wizards turned startled faces toward him.

"Laspeera sent me!" Starangh told them anxiously. "There's, "

By then he was close enough to touch one of the men, releasing a spell
that twisted the man's only active enchantment, a personal shield; by the
kisses of Loviatar and of Shar, these Cormyrean mages lived like scared
rabbits!, into a quivering paralysis field.

The other man gaped at him, hands flashing up to shape a spell. The Red
Wizard reached into his sleeve, plucked a poisoned dart from a forearm
sheath that held two of them, and tossed it into the man's face.

The man shouted and clutched at his eye. Starangh lunged forward and
punched him hard in the throat. The War Wizard went down gargling, and
by the time he hit the floor the foam was coming to his mouth and the
spasms had begun.

Starangh stepped clear and let him thrash. He'd deal with these two
after he'd snatched what he'd come for.

The closet door had no lock. He used a daggerpoint to draw it open and
moved aside with it, just in case, but no doom lashed out. Inside were
dozens of pigeonholes labelled with unfamiliar glyphs, stuffed with
scrolls. He selected three at random, peered at them, then pulled out a
sack from his belt, shook it open, and started to fill it. There'd be
time to find out what magics he'd gained later. Tarrying here would not
be wise. He took the rolled parchments from the niches that held the
smallest number of scrolls, stuffed the sack until it was full
then, paused in mid-reach.

Something was winking in an empty niche: a tiny star of activation. The
Red Wizard stepped back. He'd seen the most powerful of zulkirs use such
things. Unless touched by the right being or counterspelled in precisely
the right way they visited disaster on anyone disturbing them. Its
presence meant that Vangerdahast had a second array of scrolls behind
this first one, and that he was far more powerful in his Art than
Sta-rangh had thought.

The Thayan frowned, whirled, and carefully cast the spells that would
burn out the brains of the two War Wizards from within and take with
them all remembrance of his own appearance. He plucked his dart from the
bubbling flames and took it with him, just in case. It had taken two
years of retching weakness to build up a resistance to killing doses of
staeradder, but he could now employ it without fear of dying from a
casual scratch.

The man War Wizards called Old Thunderspells was not a doddering old
fool but a graybeard magically much stronger than anyone in Thay gave
him credit for. Defying him with taunts and a flourish of spells would
be the act of a fool, and Harnrim Sta-rangh would not leap into the
recklessness that had taken so many ambitious young Red Wizards to their
deaths.

It was time for the velvet glove, not the fist of fireballs. He'd
arrange for Joysil to learn about Vangerdahast's scheme. In her dragon
shape, her enraged attack should destroy or weaken the old wizard.
Whatever befell in battle, more magic should be uncovered for Harnrim
Starangh to oh-so-casually find.

Darkspells of Thay departed the sanctum as hastily and stealthily as he
knew how.

The whirling flames collapsed again, taking a small and inoffensive
three-legged stool with them this time. It was flaming kindling in an
instant and drifting ashes the next.

"Blast! Damn and blast!" Vangerdahast said wearily, leaning on his
worktable. "There's something wrong with this last bit." He tapped two
lines of runes then brightened. "Hey, now! If I change, "

"Into a pumpkin,  Perhaps, but tomorrow'll be soon enough for that,"
Myrmeen Lhal said firmly, springing up from her chair and sheathing her
blade with a flourish.

She took the former Royal Magician firmly by one elbow and turned him
from the table, the pain causing him to blink at her, scrabble wildly to
keep hold of his notes then give up and stumble along as she towed him,
snapping gruffly, "You don't have to treat me like some witless sack of
grain, lass!"

"No, of course not," she replied fondly, leaning close to him with her
eyes dancing, "and I'll soon stop doing so just as soon as you stop
behaving like one!"

"Lass! Uh, /lass! /Myrmeen, damn you, girl! I've just a few tweaks more
to work with it and 'twill be /done, /damn it!"

"Of course, as you work right through the night and the next morning and
much of the day that follows it, doing those few little tweaks!"

Vangerdahast blinked at her as they went out into the passage. "But of
course, lass. 'Tis /magic."/

"Indeed," the Lady Lord of Arabel agreed, still towing him firmly along.
"And magic of a different sort will soon unfold in the kitchen, once
you're sitting there resting with a good stiff drink and I get started
on the cooking. Gods above, man, you've waited decades to play with your
spells, this one can wait for a single night longer."

"Oh, but . . ."

"Oh, but you're almost falling-down weary. Take a seat." The ranger
practically shoved Vangerdahast into a chair, clunked his best
drinking-horn down in front of him, and filled it to the flaring brim with, 

"Gods, woman! Old Amberfire! Where did /you get /this, "

"From your cellars," Myrmeen told him sweetly. " Twon't keep forever,
you know, and neither will you. When you're dead, you'll wish you'd
opened a few more bottles of it instead of always leaving them for 'the
right time.' The right time is always now."

The mighty innermost shields of the sanctum hummed and pulsed around
them as she unconcernedly started unbuckling straps and shucking armor
in all directions.

Vangerdahast blinked at the sight and swiftly looked away. He cleared
his throat loudly, took another swig . . . and slyly looked back at her
again.

Ignoring him, Myrmeen plucked out the towel that all wise Cormyrean
warriors keep strapped inside their breastplates beside the spare
dagger, towelled herself dry, and reached for the largest skillet.

"It astonishes me," she observed as she murmured the word he used to
ignite whatever she'd left ready in the firebox, and went to the pantry
cold-shelf for the crock of hog-fat and the string-sack hanging near it
for some onions, "how you managed to keep such a round little belly on
you, eating as you did."

"Well, lass," Vangerdahast grunted amiably over his drinking-horn, "I
was alone and therefore relaxed. However tardily I thought of victuals
and clumsily I prepared them, I could dine at leisure. No stress, see you, "

Myrmeen plucked down one of the kitchen knives she'd sharpened and
commenced to do deft murder upon the onions. One thing for the old
windbeard's magic: His cantrip made the stove hot in a hurry. She cast a
glance at the wood ready at hand, judged it wasn't time to add any yet,
and made busy greasing the pan. "How often did you end up groaning your
guts out over the sink or yon bucket,  Thrice I've scrubbed it and still
can't get rid of the sick smell! No stress then, I suppose, "

Vangey sipped, cast a surprised eye at how little remained in his horn,
and observed to the low-beamed ceiling, "The trouble with overclever
lasses is their tongues. Sharp like swords, and always jabbing jabbing
jabbing at a man."

Myrmeen snorted as the first onions hit the pan with a loud hiss and
replied, "The trouble with overclever wizards is their
hog-headed-stubborn insistence on always being right, which really means
the world must do everything their way. Now, if they were really
brilliant enough to choose the right way as their way, those tongues of
their lasses could get a rest, and there'd be no jab jab jabbery at all!"

Vangerdahast chuckled and brought his booted feet up on the footstool.
It had been months since it had been handy to do that with.
Someone, Mreen here, must have cleared all those old scrolls off it, taken
it out of the corner, and put it ready for him. Thoughtful lass.

He leaned back at ease and toyed with thoughts of what barbed comments
he could make next to hear her laugh again and bring another thrust back
his way. He hadn't chatted this way for years.

The retired Royal Magician of Cormyr sighed with contentment and drained
the last of his amberfire, as the warm smell of frying onions rose
around him.

* * * * *

The blind-shield behind him flickered as someone passed through it, and
an anxious voice asked quickly, "Huldyl, "

For the briefest of instants, Huldyl Rauthur froze in fear, then clenched
his fists, drew in breath, and turned, face serene and eyes widening in
unruffled inquiry. "Yes, "

Pheldemar Daunthrae stood in the guardroom, slightly out of breath and
sporting the beginnings of what would soon be splendid bruises. He held
his rod ready in his hand as if expecting a fight.

Huldyl eyed it then looked up at its bearer. "Some sort of fight, "

"We've lost about eight of the sentinel horrors, as far as I can tell,"
the older War Wizard reported tersely. "Intruders, at least two, though I
saw only one of them. Didn't look like warriors or mages or, or anything
except Marsemban merchants, actually. They were carrying some sort of
enchanted blast-bombs."

"Bombs, "

"Throw one, hit helmed horror, horror blows apart. Little circular
silver disc-things, with runes on them in Thayan or some other Eastern
script. No fuse, no trigger words, just throw, hit, and, boom!"

"They got away, these intruders, without leaving any of these, ah, bombs
behind, "

"I found one, tried it out, cost us a horror. One of them got stunned by
his own blast, I think, I heard the explosions, came looking, found him,
and was just bending closer when another one burst out of hiding and ran
me over from behind. By the time I had my wits again, the stunned one
was gone too."

//

/"Eight /sentinels,  Gods forfend."

Pheldemar nodded grimly. "Possibly just a foray to damage as many
sentinels as possible, but if they'd been carrying sacks of these
bomb-things and I hadn't come to see, they might have blasted their way
right to Lord Vangerdahast's front door."

Rauthur nodded. "Certainly seems a determined attempt to reach the
sanctum. The Highknights must be told."

"Aye. Shall I, , "

"If you would, yes, and have Thaerma take a look at you before you seek
rest, just in case they did you some harm you haven't noticed yet. Those
bruises look nasty."

"Thaerma,  Go back to the Court, "

"Oh, yes, I think so," Rauthur replied, in tones that made it clear he
was issuing an order. "Tamadanther took over your duty-guard as usual, "

"Aye," Pheldemar growled, departing with a none-too-pleased look on his
face.

"Come, come!" Huldyl said jokingly. "In a short time the gentle hands of
Thaerma will be . . ."

"We go way back, lad, she'n'me. 'Tis not the joy for me you imagine it
to be." Pheldemar turned the corner and was gone.

Huldyl shrugged, half-smiled, and turned back to his game of
plundercastle. The cards that showed the attacking Witch-Lord
wyvern-riders had struck him with damnable luck, and most of his
turret-warriors were dead already. Gloomily he moved one of the
survivors along the ring of turrets.

I'm just choosing which one he'll die in.

He stared at the board with more foreboding than he'd felt since just
before the last battle with the Devil Dragon.

Very much like the choice I've just made for myself.

Which is when he heard the running footsteps. Someone frantic, coming
fast and crashing into things along the way in his haste.

"Huldyl,  /Huldyl, "/

Darthym was one of the few half-elf War Wizards, and he prided himself
on being pleasant, soft-spoken, unassuming, and a mage of no gossip and
few idle words. Now, however, he was wild-eyed and panting.

"Huldyl, Jandur and Throckyl are dead! /Dead, /blasted down with spells!"

Rauthur erupted from his seat, spilling pieces and cards in all
directions. This must be Starangh's work, but he had to make his reaction
look right, and he'd been losing the damned game anyway. /"What, " /he
roared, trying to match Darthym's fire-eyed look.

"I-in the armory! Blown apart! Throckyl's head is just /sitting /there,
all by itself, looking out the door at me! I, "

//

/"Thank /you, Darthym. No sign of who did it, I suppose,  Look you: Go
and wake Sarmeir and tell him in my name that he's to stand duty-guard
with you here. Tell him all you want about what you found, but direct
the sanctum defenses if any of the outside guards report troubles to
you. /You're /in charge. I /must /report this to Laspeera without delay!"

//

/"Y-yes, /Rauthur!" The half-elf leaped away down the passage, glad of
something to do and direct orders letting him do it. Huldyl shook his
head and smiled grimly. Ah, such troubled times. . . .

He ran a hand through his thinning hair, wiped his sweating brows with a
knuckle, stood still, and cleared his mind.

It was still in place, as strong as ever. The mindcloak spell Sta-rangh
had given him was whispering ever so faintly at the back of his mind, a
ready wall to block all probing magics.

Even those of a suspicious second-in-command of all the War Wizards of
Cormyr. He was ready to go and make his report.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

MINDPLUNGE
/

The most punishing spell I can think of is one that hurls you into your
enemy's mind, and he into yours. Minds rubbing raw on each other, now
there's true agony.

/

Skandanther of Saerloon /Spells Are The Wings That Carry Me High/

Year of the Lion

Narnra looked up at the magnificent ceiling of the Dragonwing Chamber.
Huge sinuous scaled bodies, swirling and rolling over, frozen forever on
the verge of bursting forth in full and terrible glory . . .

Someone, probably several someones, with skill enough to sculpt something
much, much larger than they could see all at once had carved those
awesomely beautiful, /real /dragons. Someone who must have felt very
safe and secure here in Cormyr to spend the months, nay, /years /it must
have taken up on ladders in this room, sculpting such a masterwork.
Safe, secure, and paid well enough to eat. By a king or queen of Cormyr
who loved beauty enough to pay for the making and leave this chamber
unused for the sculptors to work. It would take a strong realm, a stable
realm, and a flourishing realm to permit that.

Narnra clung to that thought and let her eyes fall from the magnificence
to the emptiness of the vast room. That took confidence and wealth, too,
to leave such a large and therefore useful room empty of distraction and
so leave the carved ceiling that much more striking to the eye, and the
three people standing patiently facing her.

Rhauligan, the 'watchful hands- on-weapons agent of the Crown of Cormyr
. . . what she might become. Might.

Laspeera, the kindly yet powerful wizard. Regal and yet motherly, the
sort of person who's "always there," a solid part of the furniture
trusted by many, who'd be shocked when death finally took her because
they'd come to think of her as a pillar of Faerun. Like folk here had
thought of this Vangerdahast. . . like someone, somewhere, had
presumably once thought of Elminster, probably in a land now dust, in a
time long ago.

Caladnei. Her tormentor and the one in command here. The Mage Royal of
Cormyr, outranking the older two Cormyreans,  and at a glance an
outlander, her skin dusky. Probably resented by many at Court, who
wanted no stranger seizing power that should rightfully have drifted
into their hands.

Narnra's eyes narrowed. Laspeera should be one of those, yet she seemed
not to be. Wherefore this Caladnei was a witch who ruled minds by magic
or ... someone worthy of respect, loyalty, even love.

She stared into the dark eyes of the Mage Royal, who gazed gravely back.
Dark brows, stern, but not quite imperious, manner. A little frightening.

The woman who wanted to invade her mind.

Narnra found herself breathing faster, almost panting. Part of her
wanted to shout in revulsion, part wanted to hit out and run . .. and
part was sneakily eager and excited, wanting to see what would happen.
That was the spark in her that had taken her to greater and greater
boldnesses on the rooftops, and she loved it, though it was a lure into
trouble. There was something else rising in her, too . . . slow and
hesitant, deeply submerged for too long. She could taste it, catching at
the back of her throat.

Loneliness.

She'd been friendless and alone for far too long, Narnra against all the
world ... a world that was to her an endless collection of dupes, unseen
passing folk, the rich and powerful best avoided, a few sharks cruising
as she was, and, authority. The Watch, the Guard, the Watchful Order, the
Lords of Waterdeep: the folk who could slay and flog and imprison and
maim with impunity.

Narnra hated, feared, and despised all authority. These three people all
held it, Caladnei the most. How much of her fear and defiance was rooted
in her own hatred of authority,  How, 

Never mind. My choices are rough, and I've taken the best one. Mystra
even smiled at me. I hope. Let's get this over with.

"Well," she announced quietly, lifting her chin, "I'm waiting."

None of the Cormyreans laughed. The two women both took a step toward
her, and the Mage Royal stopped, obviously surprised by Laspeera's advance.

Laspeera kept on coming.

"Narnra," she said gently, "this will go best if you lie down. Right
here, on the floor."

Narnra blinked at Laspeera then doubled up and sat. The War Wizard sank
down with her as if she was some sort of delicate invalid. When she was
lying on her back on the floor, staring up at that splendid ceiling
again, Laspeera turned and called Caladnei over. Then she stood up and
calmly undid her robe, hauled it off, revealing a gown-like underrobe of
red satin, and rolled it.

Silently, she pointed Caladnei to the floor beside Narnra then slid her
rolled-up robe under the backs of their heads.

"A pillow, " Narnra asked incredulously.

"Something to keep you both from splitting heads open on the hard
floor," Laspeera replied rather severely, "if emotions surge. Now, hold
hands and begin."

"Yes, Mother," Caladnei replied in a gently mocking voice. Narnra found
herself smiling. The Mage Royal murmured a long, complicated rising and
falling incantation, and . . . the dragons overhead went away.

Warm and dark, descending, the darkness around flashing with a
bewildering whirl of half-glimpsed bright scenes, bursts of sound,
surges of anger, amusement, even weariness . . .

[Narnra.]

[Narnra, hide not.]

Surge of energy, darkness going rubyshine, lights and noise coming fast
. . . [Narnra Shalace!]

//

/I'm here. What do you want of me,  /[Show me your mother.]

Raven-black hair and kind emerald eyes, bent over her in a face as white
as bleached bone, cheekbones that made her look as exotic as she was
beautiful, tender deft hands cradling her so firmly and yet gently.
Maerj, the apprentices called her . . . Mother Maerj, comforting her in
a dark room, her sniveling still loud around them. "There, there, my
little one. Dreams can be bright as well as terrible. Like meals, some
are good and some bad, but we need them all, just the same. . . ."

As always, Narnra found herself aching to reach out and clutch her
mother's fingers, to cry her name, to speak her love and loneliness so
Mother Maerj would hear and smile and tell it was all right, everything
was all right.

[Of course. Come away, and see something of mine that will hurt less.]

Sudden raucous laughter, and thick smoke in a low-beamed, crowded,
candlelit inn common-room. Swaggering men with bright goblets in their
hands and weapons strapped all over them, striding past and
then, noticing her, and leaning close to peer.

"What's this,  Caladnei of the Scrolls, eh,  You read scrolls for fees, 
What idiot can't read a scroll, "

"One who has a /magic /scroll, sir, but can't work spells," Ca-ladnei's
young but firm voice said quietly, tight with the fear of coming trouble.

Three young, bristle-bearded, red-with-drink faces were leaning over her
now, peering, and breathing the fumes of golden Sarthdew she hadn't coin
enough for even a finger-flagon of, all over her.

"You a mage,  Who'd you study with, "

"No one, sirs. I ... my spells come from within."

"Well, now. What say your parents about that, "

No lass restlessly chafing under the rule of parents and afire to see
the wider world likes to be thought of as a child out on the sly, and
Caladnei's voice was stiff as she replied, "My parents let me find
myself and make my own dealings with Faerun. Do yours, "

There were snorts and roars and guffaws of mirth, and one of the men
bawled, "I /like /you, lass! Want to ride with us, "

"Where is it you ride, sir, and for what, "

"Across all wide and splendid Faerun, Lady Caladnei, in search of
adventure and lots of /these!/"

An eager hand un-throated a purse and spilled dozens of heavy gold coins
across Caladnei's little table with a flourish, leaving her gaping at
more money than she'd ever seen in her life before.

Some of the coins rolled, folk everywhere leaned to see, and a shorter
man in the group, almost a boy by his looks, plucked up one rolling coin
and tossed it idly with two fingers . . . right down the front of her dress.

There was another roar of laughter, and Caladnei knew her face was
burning. The mirth spread around /The Old Cracked Flagon, /and she
clenched her fists, wishing she were anywhere but here.

"Yours, lass," the first man roared. "Yours to keep, and plenty more like
it if you come with us! We need more magic to back up our blades!"

"Oh, but . . ."

"Hold, now," the oldest face among the men looming above her table said
quietly. "We'd best talk to her parents. I don't want to be hounded as a
slaver, snatching young lasses . . ."

"Gods, Thloram, anyone can see we're not /slavers! /Nor lechers,
neither, we've got Vonda for that!"

"Aye," a buxom woman whose lush curves were spilling out of a loosely
laced bodice purred, sidling past the men to appraise Caladnei with an
almost contemptuous eye. "And I can handle the lot of you! Don't worry,
dear, I'll see that they're too weary to come pawing you. Oh, stop
/laughing, /you hogs! Here, dear, take a handful of these coins, and
pr'haps Marcon will stop leering at you quite so overeagerly!" She
turned. "Stop pestering locals, you louts, or we'll have more trouble!
She's barely old enough to, "

"I'm coming with you," Caladnei announced suddenly, standing up and
hearing the stillness of utter astonishment spread across the
common-room in an instant. "Keep your coins, I'll win my own."

[Enough. Now . . . what's this,  Something hidden, not just from me, but
from yourself . . . something old. Let's see. . . .]

Cowering in her cot late on a dark night, as angry voices soar up the
stairs. A man with a fluting, patrician accent, some noble on the city,
she knows not who, is shouting at her mother.

Too far away to hear, too scared to slip out into the chill to hear better.

Her mother's replies, too faint to make out the words, but cold and
angry and sharp-edged.

The voices building, louder and faster, slashing and snapping like
crossed swords, then suddenly a mighty roar that shakes cot, room,
stairs, and all. A startled shout amid its thunder and . . . silence.

/

/

/No! No, I don't want to see this! I never wanted to see this again! It
never happened! Never never NEVER!/

/

/

/[Easy, /Narnra. See something else of mine, now. Something happier.]

Laughter and warm firelight, and Marcon pouring a river of gold coins
down onto her body while Bertro and Thloram Flambaer-tyn grin and clink
goblets with her, all of them bare and a-tangle amid the furs. Rimardo
hooting with laughter across the room and springing from the top of an
ornate wardrobe, newly purchased, every bit as fine in its carving as her
father's best work and priced accordingly, too, onto an unseen Vonda, who
shrieks with laughter and mock pain and slaps him energetically. Umbero
intoning solemnly through the midst of all the merriment: "Truly Tymora
smiles upon we of the Brightstar Sash! I make the count to be a full six
/thousand /full-weight gold coins, not counting what you're playing with
in here, and the odd ones!"

[But enough of my good times. Let's see something of like excitement
from you . . . yes.]

A warm summer night, all the roofs of Waterdeep flooded in full
moonlight, and Narnra in her shift gazing out at it all from her high
bedroom window. A ghost of a breeze from inland, warm and dry and
banishing the smells of salt and dead fish. The stirring excitement of
putting one leg over the windowsill, something forbidden, something
daring. . . .

The roof-slates rough underfoot but reassuring and standing now right
out under the moon and glorious vault of stars, only a few tiny clouds
torn and tattered off to the north. Nothing between her soft skin and
all the warm night but light, gauzy fabric. Boldly striding down the
sloping roof to the edge to get a better view of great Waterdeep spread
out before her and dark Faerun beyond. Looking idly over the edge,
seeing that it was a long, killing way down to the garden but being
utterly unafraid.

Suddenly, in the distance, across the silver vista of roofs, a lone dark
figure darting and leaping, a thief,  Someone hurrying on the rooftops.
Heart suddenly in throat, Narnra looking around at the roofs nearby,
that one so close ... a quick run in bare feet, a leap, the warm wind in
her hair, and landing catlike with a gentle thump that might just have
awakened a servant if the Maurlithkurs forced one to sleep in their
attic. On across their larger, sagging roof, tiles starting to go in one
place, sliding askew, to the one beyond and perching there amid on an
unfamiliar dormer hidden from her own window by the peak of the roof.

Perching like a carved gargoyle or an owl looking for prey, long legs
doubled up, feeling truly /alive, /and laughing at the excitement.
Castle Waterdeep soaring just over there and the great dark shoulder of
the mountain beyond, with the tiny winking lights of lanterns where
guards were at their lofty posts, looking down on ... /her./

Rush of fear, heart hammer-beating, laughter, springing aloft, and
turning a cartwheel on a flat bit of roof ere landing to strike a
wide-armed, defiant pose. "Yes! Here I am! Come and get me!"

Excitement like fire in her veins, leaping from roof to roof, and
finally back home to her waiting sill and in, in to wash filthy feet so
she'd not be caught come morning. Looking back at the window knowing a
whole new world, /her /world, lay waiting now. every night she wanted it.

[Ah. See then my moment of bold venture.]

Dimmer moonlight and Thloram murmuring, "Easy, now. The rest of us have
come this way before, and returned. 'Tis safe."

Caladnei's hand trembling with fear as she holds it out to him then
turns to face the cold, steady blue fire that bides so impossibly
between the two ancient stone pillars. Cracked and vine-covered, nothing
like the splendor she'd envisaged: no glowing runes on gleaming metal
nor sinister guardians . . .

The first portal she'd ever seen, and merely being this close to it left
her wet and shaking in terror.

"Where's our Caladnei of the Scrolls, " Thloram murmurs.

From somewhere she finds just enough will to force out a laugh and
stride forward into waiting blue fire, biting her own tongue in terror
to keep from sobbing. . . .

[Now, d'you recall your first theft,  Show me.]

The next summer, a night just as warm, Narnra better at tumbling, bolder
now. Often perching gargoyle-like on gables and around corner-spires,
watching folk of Waterdeep through their bedchamber windows, and learning
much more than some young lasses do.

Brawls and drunken fights and hurried little deals in dark streets and
alleys, a knifing or two, many snatch-and-run thefts . . . and this
night, one such that leaves a fat merchant on his backside grunting in
pain and a fleet-footed, desperate loader-of-wagons pelting down an
alley, heavy purse in hand . . . turning right beneath Narnra's perch
and racing up a rickety, groaning outside stair, gasping raggedly for
breath, snatching out a hand to a door-catch, and freezing to peer in the
narrow lit sliver of window, stand uncertainly for a moment with a
whispered curse at someone recognized within, and strain up on tiptoe to
perch the stolen purse up on the edge of the roof overhead. Going
inside, door banging closed, to raised voices and Narnra so excited she
thinks she's going to be sick.

Dare she,  Watch-lanterns down below and armed men tramping, clouds
blotting the moon . . . and like a night-viper, Narnra crawling
chin-first down the steep roof, grazing the tiles with her body as she
keeps low, Watch officers calling closer . . . down to where she can put
her hand on the purse, heavy and excitingly solid. And draw it
oh-so-slowly back and up to where she turns and steals away with it.
Opening it on another rooftop a safe distance away, when a cloud rolls
on to let the moon stab down and show her coins galore between her hands!

[But things have gone darker for us both, haven't they, ]

Great batlike wings and loose brown scales bristling from a gigantic
bulk, shoulders like shifting boulders as the wings spread in a banking
glide down . . .

Down toward her, great jaws gaping wide, stinging tail lashing the air.

"Help! Help!" Bertro calling weakly, blinded by his own blood, Umbero
sprawled senseless or dead over him.

Caladnei cursing just for something despairing to say as she starts to
run right at the swooping wyvern with no spells left and only a broken
sword in her hand, running like a mad thing into the jaws of doom
because her friends need aid. . . .

[No, I'll spare you those deaths. Every bloodletting leaves a stain on
those who see it. What of the death that overturned your world, ]

//

/No! No, damn you, mage! I don't WANT to, don't/, 

Her mother working late that last night, before the great blast that
left her broken and burned amid the shattered shell of her front parlor.
Magic killed her, of course, but whose,  A wizard who hated her,  No,
someone hired to slay, but by the House of Arte-mel, or the Lathkules, or
another, 

Bresnoss Artemel himself had brought the tiara to her shop, ringed by
eight bodyguards openly wearing Artemel livery. Its glory-rubies had
been the size of Narnra's fist, even the smallest ones were as large as
her thumb. They were to be recut and set in matched pairs into a
navel-length pectoral.

Maerjanthra had pinned the fine chain of the pectoral up on a
cloth-covered dummy to begin the task, even as word had raced through
the streets that a tiara worth millions in gold had been stolen from the
bechamber of House Lathkule, the finest jewelers among the nobility of
Waterdeep. Then, 

/

/

/No! /{furious turmoil, claw thrust shake} /NO! I won't see this! I WON'T!/

, Later, wandering alone and despairing across the pitiless rooftops,
weeping and raging. The rubies gone from the shop before Narnra, flung
out her windowsill by the heaving shuddering of the explosion, could
even climb back inside to ... to ...

/

Get out of my head, Caladnei! Get back go away leave me!

/

On the rooftops months later, as that winter came stealing in with
ever-colder breezes, still heartsick, still wondering: Had it been the
Artemels, wanting to silence Lady Maerjanthra of the Gems so she could
never reveal that the rubies had come to her in a tiara,  Or the
Lathkules, wanting to obliberate a long-time rival at gemcutting,
perhaps thinking her the tiara-thief,  Had an apprentice betrayed her
mother, whispering to the Lathkules, or . . . , 

/

/

/Caladnei! /(sobbing anguish, blind clawing and fighting}

[My apologies, Narnra. I've known sorrow too.]

Hurrying home to Turmish on a borrowed horse after hearing the dark
news, along winding upland lanes to the tiny Turmish village of
Tharnadar Edge. Her mother had been born there and now was gone, lost at
sea, not even any bones to bury.

Her father Thabrant, still tall but now dark-eyed, grim, uncaring. A
hollow shell of a man with no vigor left in him, not even any tears.
She'd cried for the both of them, arms fierce around him. He'd stood
like a statue, quietly telling her he'd never trust gods again.

He told her he was going to go home to Cormyr to die. "On the smallest
ship I can find, Gala, with the worst crew. I hope Talos and Umberlee
take me when we're on the waves, as they did her. I'll go to their
altars and curse them both before I go aboard."

No chance for either of them to say goodbye to the swift-tempered,
passionate bird of a woman who'd been the hearthstone for both their
lives: Maela Rynduvyn, slender, deft, and quiet-footed. Her hair russet,
the same strange eyes she'd given Caladnei, dusky-skinned, most
comfortable barefoot in old clothes. Drowned in a storm off Starmantle
on her way to Westgate to see a long-lost sister.

Her father had held his gnarled woodcarver's hands awkwardly that day,
the first time Caladnei had ever seen him do so. He'd cradled empty air
as if he were carrying something precious or hoped to catch it by never
looking at it but keeping always ready. He hadn't looked at the meal
Caladnei had made for them both or at anything but her. She'd shivered
often that night as she lay unsleeping in the dark watching him sitting
by the window staring back at her, because she knew he wasn't seeing her
but her mother. Only her mother.

/

/

/Mage, I don't CARE about your dead mother or anything of your life! I
just want this to be over and you to be out of my mind, my, my/, 

[Easy, Narnra. Easy. Show me the first thing that comes into your mind.]

Alone and hungry, that first winter, being passed a flagon by a man with
an easy smile, slouched outside the open door of his hut in Dock Ward.
It was more than wine, a fire in her belly that soothed and drove off
the chill and helped her laugh. They told jokes and tales and snorted at
each other's mimicry of the street merchants, and after a time Urrusk
had taken her inside to swipe the flies from a half-gnawed roast
goat-leg and hand it to her.

Her empty stomach had made her pounce on it and gnaw like a panther, and
he'd laughed all the more, refilling her flagon often and just laughing
when he fumbled with her lacings and couldn't find her belt and fell on
his face against her shins.

Another man had lurched in the door and backhanded Urrusk away. "Dolt!"
he'd snapped. "I hire you to lure the slaves, not ruin them!"

With a growl he'd reached up into the crowded tangle of oddments in the
rafter and brought down some jangling manacles, advancing on Narnra with
a glint in his eye that suggested he might continue where Urrusk had
been hauled off, after he, 

She fought weakly as he snatched at her wrists. His fingers were as cold
and hard as stone when he caught her, and he'd lifted her like a doll
toward a ring set into one wall, chuckling. Then up from behind him
Urrusk had lurched, face twisted in rage, and thrust the chain of the
second manacle around the larger man's throat, ere hauling hard.

The big man's eyes had bulged as he roared and tugged. Narnra had put
her shoulders to the wall and kicked him between the legs, as high and
as hard as she could, ending up bruisingly on her behind on the littered
floor as he staggered, found a wall with his face . . . and she was out
into the night like a rushing wind, running blindly with a Watch-patrol
soon after her. . . .

{Fear disgust rage helpless rage revulsion}

[Narnra, be /easy. /You're not the only one who knew trouble in Waterdeep.]

Sweating and panting in that upper room in the house off Soothsayer's
Way, where old Nathdarr ran his school of the sword better with one eye
than many men can fight with two. Caladnei the only lass in the room,
her desperate leaps and nimble blade-work slowly turning his contempt
into grudging admiration, until the night when Marcon and Thloram burst
in breathless to shout at her to flee with them, now!

While she worked to become better with steel, her companions of the Sash
had run riot spending their coins in the City of Splendors. Rimardo and
Vonda had foolishly tried to rob a noble, and his men had captured them
and tortured them to death, forcing from them the names of all in the
Brightstar Sash ... as the noble's guards had jeeringly told Marcon
whilst trying to impale him in a tavern, less than an hour ago.

He and Thloram had fought their way clear, with a mob on their heels and
four guardsmen in livery dead, and now the Watch had joined the
hounding. If she still had most of her gold, they knew where they could
buy room together inside a crate being loaded onto a wagon for transport
out of the city this night.

Nathdarr's look of admiration had melted back into sour disgust. He was
shaking his head as they ran out the back way into the night, but when
the mob came howling up to the front door of his training-room, he'd
calmly put his sword through one, two, and three of them before drawing
breath.

/

Such fun. So did you outlive all the others then come running to Cormyr
to hide, 

/

[Cruel, Narnra. I'll show you why I parted ways with the Sash. You
deserve that much.]

With Thloram dead and buried in the Rift, Marcon was the only one left
of the jovial band who'd plucked her up from her table at the Cracked
Flagon. Oh, he'd found replacements, more blades and wizards than ever,
younger and even more apt to swagger than Bertro had been, but /the fun
/was gone. Too many sad memories, too many absent smiling faces.

Wherefore she hadn't bothered to tell Marcon when Meleghost Telchaedrin
had sent word that she should come to him in private. If some decadent
Halruaan wanted to make an end of her, so be it. We all greet the gods
sometime, and Caladnei was past caring when her time would come.

The Sash was here in the Telchaedrin family towers to accept a
commission. Sarde Telchaedrin wanted them to hunt down a renegade heir
before the bloodtaint spell he'd crafted spread death to every corner of
Halruaa. It was a task Caladnei mistrusted, but the coin being offered
was staggering, another mark of suspicion that her younger comrades in
the Sash didn't seem to see . . . and Marcon obviously didn't want to
notice.

Lord Meleghost was an older uncle of Lord Sarde, considered "an odd one"
by the few Halruaans Caladnei had been able to mention his name to. In
his younger days he'd gone adventuring outside the Walls, bringing back
strange tales of colorful Faerun beyond the mountains. He was alone when
she arrived in the high-vaulted, empty marble hall, standing on a high
dais by a great oval window as tall as six tall men. Even beside it,
Lord Meleghost was a very tall man.

"Welcome," he murmured without the usual elaborate courtesies, extending
a hand to her. "Thank you very much for coming, and please accept my
assurances that I mean you no harm and intend no deceit."

Caladnei blinked in surprise then gave him a smile and her hand
together. "You seem in haste, Lord, a pace and a plain manner I must
admit I find pleasing. Please unfold your will to me without delay."

Meleghost nodded, peering at her over his long nose like an old and
weary bird of prey, and said, "As you wish. This commission is a ruse
that will lead you into disaster. Sarde is steering you into unwittingly
attacking a rival family of our realm. You should depart Halruaa, alone, now."

Caladnei nodded slowly. "I've been uneasy about this from the first."
She took a step forward and asked, "Why are you telling me this, "

Meleghost also stepped forward until their faces were almost
touching, his breath smelt pleasantly of old spices, and murmured, "I once
adventured with your father, and I mindscry him from season to season so
we can chat together. Child, Thabrant is dying. He dwells in a hut in
the hills north of Immersea in upland Cormyr and fails slowly, but he's
grown desperate to see you. He said to tell you that his pride is all
gone now and he needs you."

Caladnei stood trembling on the edge of tears, swallowing hard. The old
Halruaan folded comforting arms around her and bent his forehead to hers.

A moment later, grieving and confused, she felt a fire flooding into her
mind, bright white and irresistible. . . .

She gasped, or thought she did, and suddenly the thrill of a new spell
was in her mind, laid out clear as crystal for her to see: a
translocation spell that could snatch her from place to place. Teleport!
This was the magic wizards called teleport.

/

This should help you to flee Halruaa, so long as you never try to use it
inside one of our buildings, including this one.

/

His voice was like soft thunder in her mind. Impulsively she said back
to him, /I cannot thank you enough, but I insist that this not be a
gift, but a trade. This is the best magic I know. Please take it./

/The spell of flight,  I have it, but gladly I'll accept yours. A true/
/daughter of Thabrant Swordsilver to deal thus in honor. Fare you well,
Caladnei, and have a good life./

Weeping, she kissed his cheek, whirled away, and fled. It took a good
few teleports to reach upland Cormyr.

[Do we understand each other enough, yet, ]

/

Yes. Damn you, yes.

/

[That's good. I like you, Narnra Shalace. I hope you can come to like
me. But all is going dim around us because this is ... tiring. Very
tiring. You've been thrashing like a hooked fish.

/

Caladnei, I FEEL like a hooked fish!

/

Up from the rushing darkness, like a fish swimming up to sunlight, up to
the brightness and noise and, 

Flash of silver, crash of cascading swirling water, bells and horns and
bright burning . . .

Narnra found herself staring into the eyes of Caladnei, which were a deep
brown-red, and royal blue at the center, she saw suddenly, and the Mage
Royal was looking back at her.

They were both weeping silently, faces wet with tears, as they lay
together on their sides, locked in a fierce embrace.

Over Caladnei's curves Narnra could see Laspeera and Rhau-ligan standing
watchfully near, she holding a wand ready, he a drawn sword.

Trapped. Trapped and bound and cheated.

In sudden red rage Narnra tore herself free of Caladnei in a welter of
shoves, slaps, and thrusting knees and hurled herself back into the air
and away.

The Mage Royal's shielding spells flared into life like white flames,
enshrouding Caladnei from view.

Narnra landed, rolled, and came up running. Laspeera and Rhauligan were
moving, keeping between her and the doors!

She swerved away from them both, sobbing bitterly, and ran to the
farthest empty corner of the chamber, where she slammed her fists against
the unyielding wall until they hurt too much to go on pounding.

She sagged, forehead against a smooth and uncaring wall, and sobbed
until she was empty. Empty and . . . alone.

"Well, " the Mage Royal asked softly, from behind her. "Not the usual
training I give agents, but are you a mite more . . . content, "

Narnra whirled around to glare back at her. "Where's my /freedom, " /she
snarled. "Mind-chains, you give me! What you choose to show of your past
and what you want to take of mine! Content, /hah!/"

Caladnei's face looked as unhappy as her own. As Narna watched, a fresh
tear welled out of her eye and ran down her pale cheek.

"And your choice, " the Mage Royal whispered, holding out her hand like a
beseeching beggar.

Narnra looked at it and whirled to look away, breathing heavily.

What choice have I,  Where in all Faerun can I run to, 

What will she do to me if I refuse, 

Her mind whirled an image back to her once more: that glimpse of
Caladnei trembling with fear before the first portal she'd ever
seen, then forcing a laugh and striding forward into its blue fire biting
her own tongue in terror . . .

Caladnei, running toward a swooping wyvern with no spells left and only
a broken sword in her hand, because her friends needed her . . .

Friends. Someone to laugh with. That brought a new scene: Caladnei
laughing by a fire, laughing to cover her embarrassment and pain as old
tuft-bearded Thloram gave her warm spiced wine and pulled back the
sleeping furs to lay her bare for all to see and sew up the sword-gash
she'd taken in their victory that day . . .

Thloram, lying broken and dead after a fall in the Great Rift, his jests
and his comforting hands and his splendid hotspice stews gone forever in
an instant. . .

She would have liked to have known Thloram.

This woman had /lived /so much more than she had.

Like the legends said Elminster had, and still did, after a thousand
years of battles and monsters and fell wizard-foes.

It was a long, silent time before Narnra said slowly, not looking up, "I
believe, Mage Royal, you've found yourself a new, and, gods curse you,
loyal, agent."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Eighteen

      REVELATIONS AND MISSIONS

/

Know thy traitors and who's the kin of whom, and that's half the deaths
delayed. Averted, one more optimistic might say, but I've never been one
of those. I'm the other sort of fool.

/

Szarpatann of Tashluta

/

Advice to the Doomed:

A Chapbook for Would-Be Rulers

/

Year of the Twelverule

In a high, narrow, and deserted hallway outside the Dragonwing Chamber,
Huldyl Rauthur frowned thoughtfully. If the echoing spillover of the
Mage Royal's mind-ream hadn't been wrinkling his face in pain, he'd have
been grinning.

The backlash outpourings were making both the Highknight Rhauligan and
Mother Laspeera herself wince. Huldyl could feel their pain, too.
Between them, Caladnei and this sorceress Narnra must have minds to
overmatch any twenty War Wizards of the realm combined. Mother Mystra,
make that any /twoscore /mages of Cormyr.

So this little thief-lass was the daughter of the Great High Elmin-ster
himself, eh,  Small wonder Caladnei had rushed to make her an unwilling
agent of the Mage Royal, a sort of "Highknight on probation." Well, well.

It would be best to tell no one, not even Starangh. Just in case Huldyl
Rauthur needed something important to bargain with for his own life someday.

He'd better wait a few breaths and let everything settle down in there
before knocking. Reporting the trouble at the sanctum to Laspeera was
urgent, of course, but as the sayings went, prudence was prudence, and
an overbold War Wizard is a swiftly dead War Wizard.

* * * * *

"Gods bless you, Narnra," Rhauligan said roughly from somewhere behind her.

They'd waited for her and kept silence while she made her choice.

Narnra drew in a deep breath, spread both of her hands on the cold wall,
and pushed hard, forcing herself to turn around and face them without
taking however long she might have needed to muster up enough courage.

Her choice was made, the first bend of her road ahead clear before her.

"Command me, Mage Royal," she forced herself to say. She even managed a
smile.

* * * * *

Suddenly, Huldyl Rauthur was no longer alone in the corridor. A Purple
Dragon winked into existence, gave him a smile, and raised one hand
beckoningly.

The warrior's face melted, just for a moment, into that of the wizard
Darkspells.

Huldyl considered fainting for a moment then settled for just swallowing
hard and obediently walking toward the Red Wizard, who smiled, became a
Purple Dragon again, and led the way through another door.

* * * * *

The anklet was doing its work perfectly. Even better, Caladnei thus far
suspected nothing. A trifle too slow and trusting still, our Mage Royal
. . .

Elminster smiled wryly. To say nothing of the increasingly slow wits of
one Elminster of Shadowdale.

Caladnei's thoughts had certainly been in turmoil this last little
while, as she kept a hostile mind sane within her own, but the anklet's
light prying had been more than clear on one matter: Narnra Shalace /was
/his daughter.

"Bless ye, Mystra," he murmured. "This now calls for bolder action."

He called to mind her likeness there in his paper-littered study and
with a soft-spoken spell built it from a vivid mental image to an
apparently solid figure in leathers, glaring at him through dark hair.
Its pose was frozen as he strolled around it, peering critically and
adjusting hips there and height of shoulder /there. . . ./

He frowned, beckoned with his finger, and told the curved pipe that
answered his summons, "I can't remember how she /walked /and held her
hands when she moved. Time to go and take a peek."

Leaving the pipe floating mutely in front of a fading Narnra, he turned,
took a step, and vanished.

* * * * *

The bard wore leathers that were gray with age arid thick with
road-dust. His face was largely hidden behind a pewter tankard as tall
as a short warrior's breastplate, and he sat hunched over a table in the
gloom in the back corner of this particular taproom in Suzail because
this, specifically, the broom-closet door behind him, was where the
portal-link to Marsember was.

Roldro Tattershar didn't think too many folk of Cormyr, even Highknights
and War Wizards, knew about this particular portal anymore. Not even
most of his fellow Harpers had heard of it. Wherefore Roldro took care
to affix a villainous false mustache onto his upper lip whenever he
visited The Green Wyvern and employ garb far different from his
customary floridly flamboyant dress.

However, as he set down his tankard on this particular occasion, he
choked and almost swallowed his mustache when the air right in front of
him wavered and suddenly produced two men, standing with their backs to
him where there'd been nothing but empty air before. Swiftly and
silently Roldro put his head down on his arm and let his tankard loll
and lean in his thumb, looking every inch the passed-out drunkard.

"I can't stay long!" the shorter man hissed, running a nervous hand
through the few strands of brown hair that were left across his balding
pate. "I was about to report the ah, troubles at the sanctum to
Laspeera. A lot of palace duty-guards saw me pass!"

"How much do you think the Mage Royal and Laspeera know about the
details of Vangerdahast's work, "

Rauthur frowned. "Almost all of it. He trained both of them."

"No, no! His grand scheme, the one he's working on right now! Binding
dragons to be defenders of Cormyr!"

"Oh! Ah, /that /plan. Is that really what he's . . . ,  Gods! Uh, I'm, I'm
not sure. I can try to find out, but. . . well, I'm not a very sly
questioner."

//

/"That's /stone cold truth, Rauthur. Why not say you heard Van-gerdahast
muttering something to himself like 'these dragon bindings will never
work!' when his shields went down for a moment, as part of these
'troubles,' and mark their reactions, "

"Ah, yes, yes, of course!"

"Good!" The taller, thinner man muttered something else, and the room was
suddenly empty again of all but three tables, their chairs, and a Harper
feigning a drunken stupor.

Roldro Tattershar promptly sprang up from his chair like a bolt of
lightning in a hurry, yanked open the broom-closet door, and drained his
tankard in one long pull ere setting it down carefully on the table and
backing through the closet door.

Vangerdahast planned to bind dragons to protect Cormyr,  Well, well! It
was certainly time to stir the cauldron and see who bubbled to the top
first!

Besides, being a Harper was hungry and thirsty work, and the Lady Joysil
Ambrur would be sure to pay handsomely for /this /information.

* * * * *

Caladnei smiled. "Well, I'm sure you're in need of food, drink, a long
soak, and some sleep. We daren't give you those here lest someone see
you and take note that our hunted prisoner is now more of an honored
guest, but we can give you ample coins to get such necessities at an
inn. Rhauligan, "

The Harper rolled his eyes, told the ceiling in a mutter, "Always me!
Always! Have you noticed, " and from a pouch poured out an ample handful
of coins into his palm. He put all of them carefully into Narnra's hand.

"Hear then," Caladnei continued, "your first task: Find the traitor I
know is among my War Wizards, /not /by magic or by confrontation but
rather by observing the doings of certain War Wizards in Suzail from the
background, trying to stay unnoticed as much as possible."

Narnra raised an eyebrow. "You can't just mind-ream them, "

"Many have trap-magics bound into their shield-spells . . . moreover,
they do much better work for me when they think their little sideline
activies go unobserved."

" 'Little sideline activities',  Illict and corrupt this and that, "

"Some of them, yes. Others merely have undignified hobbies or socially
awkward liaisons, and I don't want them unhappily peering over their
shoulders expecting my cold eye on their backsides for the rest of their
careers, or those careers will end up being worth very little to me."

"Caladnei, I'm the stranger here. How am I supposed to know when a
surreptitious visit to a bedchamber or a murmured name traded for a few
coins is a little sideline and when it's high treason to Cormyr, "

The Mage Royal sighed. "A good point. Look, Narnra, I don't care, Speera
here doesn't care, Vangey in his day didn't care, and all the Wizards of
War knew it, if this or that hairy male War Wizard likes to put on rouge
and lady-gowns or roll in nutbutter honey behind closed doors. Or tries
to seduce every last noble lady, or lord, for that matter, in the realm. I
also don't care if they mutter future trade opportunities to every
merchant in the kingdom."

She waved an emphatic finger. "I /do /care if they go behind closed
doors to talk to rich Sembians, Red Wizards of Thay, Zhen-tarim, anyone
from Westgate, or nobles who seem to be using false names or who never
leave dockside inns in Suzail. I care if they go anywhere to meet alone
with independent mages or disappear for days on end into the mansions,
hunting lodges, or castles of our nobles."

She sighed and added in calmer tones, "If they do, /don't /try to
confront, harm, or follow them. Just come and tell me who went where.
I'll know, of course, if they're supposed to be doing something sly for
me wherever you saw them."

"And if I'm arrested as an outlander spy, "

"Demand to be interrogated by a senior War Wizard, something so feared by
most Cormyreans that they'll be impressed and won't think you're
bluffing. When you end up facing any War Wizard, tell them to contact
Laspeera or myself 'in the name of both Azouns.' They dare not ignore
that phrase. We'll tell them we've cast a spell on your mind as an
experiment and you may therefore do all sorts of odd things . . . and
aren't to be prevented from doing so."

"Well, /that's /true enough."

Caladnei looked hurt for the moment it took her to see Narnra's crooked
smile.

"I'm sorry," the Mage Royal said gently. "I know none of this has been
easy for you. Think of it as a long, grand theft and us as your fellow
gang members."

Narnra rolled her eyes and said briskly, "This is going to proceed much
better if I know who these War Wizards are, what they look like, and
where in Suzail I might have the slightest hope of finding them."

Caladnei nodded and reached out a finger to touch Narnra's forehead.
"Hold still. This is the easiest way, believe it or not."

There was a moment of icy tingling then images burst into Narnra's mind,
unfolding from momentary confusion into the faces of a dozen War
Wizards. Two women and ten men, all moving slightly, just as they'd been
doing when captured by Caladnei's magic. Names appeared in her head with
each one, reappearing whenever she turned her attention back to an image
already seen. "Thaeram Duskwinter, Bathtar Flamegallow, Calaethe
Hallow-thorn, Iymeera Juthbuck, Helvaunt Lanternlar, Bowsar Ostramarr,
Huldyl Rauthur, Storntar Redmantle . . ."

Narnra frowned, closed her eyes, and sat back, shaking her head slightly.

"Got those, " Rhauligan asked. When she nodded, he added, "Good," and
drew a much-folded square of vellum from his sleeve. It opened out into
an incredibly detailed map of Suzail that made Narnra lean forward in
awe to peer at the little dots that denoted every last building in the
city. The Harper put a finger on one dot and said, "This is a tavern
called The Downed Falcon, a favorite haunt of Flamegallow and Ostramarr.
And this down here is the, "

Narnra chuckled despite herself, looked slyly over at Caladnei, and
asked lightly, "No mental images of taprooms and ladies' privy-chambers, 
You disappoint me!"

Laspeera closed the door of the Dragonwing Chamber and turned to give
Caladnei an expressionless nod. Narnra had departed, presumably soon to
creep about on local balconies and rooftops, listening and peering at
certain War Wizards.

Caladnei gave Rhauligan a mirthless smile. "You know your task, "

"Shadow her."

The Mage Royal nodded. "Let yourself be seen only to prevent Crown
treason on her part or to save her life. Otherwise . . . just watch.
Unless we've been /very /lax, none of those twelve is a traitor, but
they've all met with Rightful Conspirators recently. I want to see how
some of them react if they happen to notice a stranger lurking and
watching /them. /If Narnra does spot you, tell her we decided we were
unfairly sending her forth without a proper grounding in our
politics, and offer to tell and show her more."

"Of course," the Highknight replied, rising.

"Some of those coins bear tracer-spells, " she asked him, nodding at the
door Narnra had left by.

He smiled. "All of them." With a wave of his hand to Laspeera and
Caladnei that was more of a salute than a farewell, Glarasteer Rhauligan
strode to the nearest wall, did something deft to its paneling, and
departed through a secret door neither woman had thought he knew
anything about.

"There goes a good man," Laspeera murmured.

The Mage Royal nodded. "Let's hope I don't get him killed," she sighed
bitterly. "I ... I truly wish Vangerdahast was still irritating half of
Cormyr by running things in his usual capable fashion. He'd handle
things /so /much better than I do."

Laspeera smiled and hugged Caladnei. "Keep feeling that way and I'll
know you're doing a gods-damned good job of being Mage Royal. It's folk
who think they're doing just fine because they're so brilliant and
masterly at magecraft who scare the backbone out of me!"

* * * * *

Rauthur blinked in surprise and peered in all directions. By the
sunlight and the smells, he was still in Suzail, but in some narrow
alleyway in the poorer, westerly part of the city, not in a passage
outside the Dragonwing Chamber.

//

/"This /isn't the Palace!" he protested.

"Indeed it's not," Harnrim Starangh agreed, in the instant before
something boiled up inside the War Wizard and blew apart.

//

/"Such /a suspicious War Wizard," he murmured as he surveyed the bloody
bones and smoke that had been Huldyl Rauthur a moment earlier. "Gone
missing just after so many deaths and disruptions at the sanctum, who
would have thought /he /was a traitor,  It just goes to show . . ."

He smiled as the plume of bloody smoke wafted away, leaving only a messy
pile of dog-gnaw bones for the next cur, or starving citizen of Suzail
looking for something to fill a stewpot, to find.

"I'm so sorry, Rauthur," he addressed them. "I fear I may have neglected
to mention a few details of that linking spell. Or this other magic, for
that matter."

He made a swift gesture. The skull rose, dripping, from the rest of the
tangle and floated in the air facing him, cloaked in the very faint,
flickering aura of his magic. The spell he'd just cast would preserve
the brain behind those now-eyeless sockets long enough for him to read
Rauthur's fading mind.

The wizard best known as Darkspells looked up and down the alley to make
sure he was unobserved, he'd chosen this narrow, bending way carefully,
noting this stretch between two large heaps of rotting, discarded crates
some days ago; there was no one coming now to see, and carefully cast yet
another spell.

Rauthur's mind was screaming at him.

"Why why why why /why, "/

"Never leave witnesses and co-conspirators," he replied softly, "and
they can never drag you down with them. Trust, my weak friend Rauthur,
is a weakness. A fatal weakness."

He bore down on the dying mind, forcing his way in through the shock and
pain and tattered memories, seeking first any contingency magics that
might be set to awaken against him. He didn't think Rauthur had the
power or skill to craft any such magics, nor access to those
Vangerdahast undoubtedly commanded.

As he probed deeper, it seemed he'd been right about contingencies . . .
but it also appeared Rauthur had really known nothing of much interest,
beyond the nicknames of a few fellow War Wizards that might prove
briefly useful as lures.

Oh, and one other thing, glowing here in the most recent 'must remember'
elements: One Narnra Shalace, currently a guest of the Mage Royal of
Cormyr, is the daughter of ... Elminster of Shadowdale.

Starangh's eyes lit up with excitement. "Well, well," he murmured.
"Larger fish frying right in my lap."

* * * * *

The doorguard sneered.

"The Lady Joysil will have nothing to do with street beggars," he said
curtly. "Be off with you, or I'll summon the Watch!"

The man in dusty, filthy leathers who stood facing him, an obviously
false moustache askew on his upper lip, gave him a rather cold glare and
said, "Joysil and I have done business together before and parted quite
amicably, I might add. /Quite /amicably. I'd not be here now if I didn't
have something urgent and of the gravest importance to impart to her,
and I'm /not /leaving until she's heard it, in private and from my lips
alone!"

The doorguard used the bracer on his wrist to rap a small, unseen gong
inside the doorframe, and stood his ground.

"And I am not allowing some stranger at this gate who could be any sort
of murderer, kidnapper, blackmailer, or common thief to reach the Lady
Ambrur /alone! /I'm paid to see to the safety of her person and
property, not allow any swift-tongued rogue in from the streets to wreak
whatever havoc whim moves him to!"

"So call the Watch," the man in dusty leathers said softly, "and we'll
all go in to see her together. I'll lay you a large wager that she'll be
most displeased, when she hears my news, that she has any sort of
audience to see her reaction."

The doorguard raised his eyebrows. /"That /makes me even more determined
not to let you pass. News of that sort should not be, "

"Yes, Melarvyn,  What's the trouble here, "

The steward of Haelithtorntowers was a brusque and efficient man. He was
not disposed to look kindly on any wastage of his time, trivial matters,
or unnecessary distractions. The doorguard knew this well and stepped
back with a tight smile as he indicated the dusty man standing on the
threshold.

"This, ruffian, is demanding an audience with the Lady Ambrur. He won't go
away, even when threatened with the Watch, and insists that his business
is urgent and that he has a personal relationship of some sort with the
Lady. I believe him not, but in fairness, "

"Fairness,  Melarvyn, since when /did fairness /play any part in life,
beyond nursery tales,  Since when have I allowed any hint of 'fairness'
into the daily governance of Haelithtorntowers, "

Without waiting for a reply, the steward looked coldly down his nose at
the aforementioned ruffian on the threshold and began, "As for you, sir, "

The dusty man peeled off his mustache and said quietly, "Enough foolery,
Elward. Take me to Joysil /now /or I'll inform the Watch of the fate of
Iliskar Northwind. And the matter of the missing Selgauntan crab
shipment last month. To say nothing of your part in the disagreement
between the Seven Traders and the port tax-takers here two months before
that. Or the new Marsemban trade-agent of the slaver Ooaurtann of
Westgate who goes by the name 'Varsoond.' But then, Elward Varsoond
Emmellero Daunthi-deir would know nothing about a buyer of slaves, would
he not, "

The steward had gone the hue of old cracked ivory during the stranger's
soft little speech, and he'd begun to swallow repeatedly, his left eye
twitching as if there was something in it.

The doorguard had slowly stepped back from Steward Elward Daunthideir as
his own face had slid from annoyance to rage to astonishment to
dumbfoundedness. His facial expression was now veering toward something
akin to amazement.

"Uh, wha ... whuh .. . ahem," the Steward began then suddenly smiled,
stepped forward to offer the stranger his hand and asked brightly, "Why,
Lord sir! Whyever didn't you mention all of this /before,  /Of /course
/the Lady Ambrur will be happy to see you, immediately, I might add, and
it would give me the /greatest /pleasure, it would indeed, to escort you
to see her myself!"

He ushered the dusty stranger across the threshold and in through the
thick outer wall of Haelithtorntowers with swift, florid gestures,
almost sweeping him along the short, curving path to the nearest grand
door of the mansion. The doorguard stared after them with an amazed
whistle on his lips and wonderment in his mind.

He broke off whistling to remark, "I'll bet it would, I do indeed,  and
I'll bet yon stranger had best look sharp, or he'll never reach the Lady
alive." His face darkened. "Whereupon /my /hide will be next, as old
Elward knows I heard all of that, too. Wherefore I'd best confide in the
Lady myself, and soon, too. Hmmm . . . what if she knows about all of
these matters,  What if he fronts for her in them,  Oh, /gods . . /."

The Lady Joysil Ambrur was in her retiring-room, reclining in a vast
couch strewn with a waterfall of pillows. Her gown was of a rose-pink
silk, her feet bare, and her hair unbound to spill and swirl across the
pillows.

Tomes were piled all around her, some of them larger than the tops of
her small, ornate side-tables. It was a wonder how her slender, languid
limbs could lift them, but perhaps servants assisted with the larger
ones. Some of them looked magical and dangerous.

One such was spread open on her lap as she looked up, more surprise than
annoyance in her gaze. The servants knew she was not to be disturbed
when . . .

Her steward bowed lower than she'd ever seen him do before and raised
pleading eyes to her. "Ah, Lady, a very /special /guest has come to us
in some urgency, with a private message for your ears alone! He says you
know him well."

A shapely eyebrow arched, long fingers closed the book and set it aside,
and a hand extended in a beckoning gesture.

"So bring him to us."

The steward bowed again, his manner fawning rather than its usual
careful, slightly disdainful dignity, and turned to the door he'd
entered by behind the hanging tapestry at the foot of the great couch.

Roldro Tattershar strode in wearing a grave expression. At the first
sight of him the Lady Joysil said sharply, "Elward, you may withdraw. To
the south pond, where the rainbow-fins are in need of feeding."

The steward nodded stiffly, face frozen impassively, and departed. The
bard in dusty leathers waited, his hand raised to signal silence, and
after a few breaths went quietly back to the door, opened it, and peered
out. Elward was gone.

He returned, nodding in satisfaction, and the Lady Joysil rose to
embrace him fondly and murmured, "What is it, Roldro,  No good news, I
can tell."

"Ammaratha, I've just come from Suzail, where I overheard two War
Wizards talking about the retired Lord Vangerdahast's current work."

"Yes, he's crafting new spells at his sanctum, difficult magics, it would
seem. Powerful ones, without a doubt. Binding spells to establish new
guardians for Cormyr to replace the Lords Who Sleep, who were all
destroyed. Some of his early ones had to do with finding and calming the
guardians he intended to hunt for, I believe."

The Harper nodded. "Indeed. So much We Who Harp also believe. However, I
doubt you've discovered just whom he intends to bind."

"I'll pay you what I did last time, Roldro, to learn this," the Lady
Ambrur said calmly.

"That much coin will be quite acceptable."

The noblewoman looked at him sidelong. "Why are you backing away from me, "

"To give you room," the bard replied calmly.

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, "

"Ammaratha, hear this: For his new guardians of the realm, Vangerdahast
intends to bind, dragons."

//

/"What, " /The air shuddered with a furiously rising thunder, and Roldro
Tattershar winced then scrambled back to the foot of the couch.

Silver blue scales flashed and shone, mighty wings spread and flapped
heedless of the cracking, groaning ceiling, and the glare of those
piercing turquoise eyes froze the cowering Harper where he crouched.

The great tail lashed, long legs sprang, and the ceiling was crashing and
falling in huge chunks of plaster, riven wood, dust and tumbling stone
all around Roldro. The room rocked, and its pretty oval skylight
vanished forever into tinkling shards. A much larger window was left
behind in its place: The entire top of the chamber gaped open to the
misty Marsemban sky.

The song dragon was soaring up into the blueness above the city-stink
and heading northward, flying fast and furiously.

Roldro stopped holding his breath, gasped for air, and promptly started
coughing furiously. He was covered in thick dust and could hear faint
shouts from below as guards and servants wondered aloud of the gods what
had happened.

Ammaratha Cyndusk was already no more than a tiny, dwindling dot. Roldro
struggled across the room, scooped up one of her jewel-coffers as the
first installment of his payment, and started searching for the way into
the secret passage he knew departed this room from the westernmost
closet. Crooked stewards he could handle, but crooked stewards commanding
a dozen or more furious and well-armed guards might well be another matter.

"May you find fair fortune, Ammaratha," he whispered, between coughs.
"If I could turn into a dragon, I'd not go roaring openly down on
Vangerdahast unless I was seeking my own swift death."

There was a decanter of wine on a shelf in the closet, and the last of
the Tattershars decided to take it with him and banish his coughing the
enjoyable way. The panel gave him some trouble, for the wall above it
was buckled and sagging . . . but he got it closed behind him a good two
hearty swigs before the furious pounding on the retiring-room door began.

"How /dare /he!" the song dragon roared into the wind of her own furious
flight. "How dare he!"

She ducked one shoulder and turned a little westward without slowing,
cleaving the air so fast that breathing was hard and her wings hummed
and hissed in their battle with the air.

"Such an insult to all dragonkind! Such colossal arrogance! Even if some
wyrms submit willingly to ages-long slumber and eventual perilous
service, the wizard's plan endangers us all! Once Vangerdahast has
developed binding spells that work on dragons, anyone who steals them or
acquires them after his passing can use them against any dragon!"

Her voice was ear-splitting, but the heedless skies made no reply. With
a snarl of seething fury she ducked her head and beat her wings in
earnest, darting furiously on toward the green vast-ness of the King's
Forest.

On to the sanctum where the villain Vangerdahast was lurking.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Nineteen

      DRAGONRAGE AND DECEPTION

//

/Deceit and falsehood wound me more deeply than mere daggers/,  /poisoned
or not. Thy tolerance may, of course, differ./

Selemvarr of Pyarados,

"The Old Red Wizard"

/

My Century of Might and Folly:

A Career In Robes of Red

/

Year of the Gauntlet

Outside the kitchen there was a mighty crash, and someone screamed. The
ground shook, setting the lanterns to swinging, and Myrmeen started for
the window in a wary crouch, blade drawn.

Vangerdahast did not look up from his spell. "Not /now" /he snapped.
"How am I ever goin, "

//

/"Vangerdahast" /the Lady Lord of Arabel snapped, "get over

here! There's a /dragon /digging out your sanctum like a dog hunting for
bones!"

"Eh,  A wyrm,  Excellent! I can try my, "

"I doubt either of the two War Wizards it's just flung away over the
trees would agree with that 'excellent' of yours," Myrmeen interrupted
crisply. "And I doubt this sword of mine will do much more than amuse
our unexpected guest! I've never seen this sort of dragon, silver blue,
but with the shape of a copper wyrm. . . ."

Vangerdahast made a small sound of exasperated annoyance, abandoned his
spell with a dismissive wave of his hands, and strode to the window.

"A song dragon! Well, now!" He rubbed his hands together. "I wonder how
her human form strikes the eye, "

Myrmeen gave him a strange look at about the same time as the massive
tail outside swung toward the window in a suddenly looming slap. The
windows crashed in, riven spells bursting into crawling fingers of
lightning that wrestled with the glass, splinters of frame, and
dislodged stone blocks, then stabbed out in all directions. The Lady Lord
shrieked as one bolt found her armor and writhed briefly up and down
her, and Vangerdahast grunted as another made one of his rings burst
apart without triggering its magics, almost casually flinging him across
the room as it did so. The north end of the kitchen groaned as unseen
pantries beyond it collapsed, the chambers beyond them dug open and
flung apart.

"Wizard!" a great, roaring voice hammered at them. "Where are you, wizard, "

Vangerdahast's answer was three carefully enunciated words that called
up the defenses of the sanctum.

The shields all around him flared 'white and /flowed /forward, in a
gathering charge that flung the song dragon back across the glade.
Helmed horrors came racing through the shattered trees like arrows,
converging on the thrashing wyrm. A pale green radiance began to gather
around Vangerdahast, leaking out of the empty air like so many humming
sparks to settle around him, cloaking him in rising power.

"Lass," he growled, in obvious discomfort, "see yon stone,  The one with
the rune on it, "

Myrmeen looked up at him from where she lay sprawled and gasping on the
floor, face white and hair scorched . . . then turned her head to look
where he was pointing.

"Pluck it up, and drink all you need of the healing potions beneath,"
the former Royal Magician of Cormyr grunted, striding past her with
green radiance surging and building around him. "For once have a little
sense and crawl away somewhere to lie quiet and keep out of the way. In
all that battle-steel, you're nothing but dragonbait: Yon wyrm breathes
lightning-gas!"

The Lady Lord of Arabel stared after him . . . and with trembling hands,
as she lay on the floor, tried to unbuckle and shake off her armor.
Vangerdahast cast a glance back at her, shook his head in disgust, and
flexed his hands.

Green radiances flashed, and all over the sanctum wands, rods, rings,
and odd diadems and orbs flashed, quivered, and grew green haloes of
their own.

Outside, the helmed horrors were hacking and stabbing at the rolling,
tail-lashing dragon, unaffected by the cloud of gas that gouted from its
jaws. Scaled claws snatched and flung them often, and from time to time
tore one apart in a flare of white radiances, the pieces of armor
tumbling separately to earth.

Vangerdahast calmly watched the song dragon writhe and roll its way
through the forest, toppling trees in all directions. If it started
working magic, he'd smite it with the whelmed power of the sanctum, but
until then, as long as his horrors held out . . .

These guardians didn't last very long, anyway. The flight enchantments
he gave them gnawed endlessly at the magics that animated and bound them
together, so they were a loss he could bear. The imprisoned criminals
who'd elected to be put into dreamsleep so their sentiences could be
used for these horrors would have sudden awakenings and probably an
unpleasant burst of nightmares, scaring their jailers and adding to the
meal preparation burden in the few remote keeps of the realm that had
been turned into jails . . . but they'd be there again when new horrors
were needed.

The horrors were swarming like angry hornets around the coiling and
rolling wyrm, smashed away in their dozens when it slashed out with
wings or tail, only to dart right back in and jab, jab, and hack again.
There came a brief shimmering in the heart of that fray, and
Vangerdahast lifted a hand, eyes narrowing.

In the next instant, the dragon collapsed, that great sleek scaled body
in the heart of the darting, armored cloud suddenly falling away to
being . . . not there.

And a staggering, panting woman clad in a few tatters of rose-pink gown
suddenly stood before the shattered windows, calling, "Vangerdahast, 
Wizard,  Where are you,  We must have words together!"

"I am here," Vangerdahast replied calmly, the green radiance rising up
in front of him like a wall. "Had I known you were coming, I /might
/have been more welcoming. As it is, I'd prefer that your next words to
me be your name and your business. Unless, of course, you'd like them to
be your /last /words."

The woman put a hand on the shattered window-frame and ducked gracefully
to climb down into the kitchen. Her state of dress made her lack of
weapons plain to any eye, but Myrmeen, still sprawled on the floor, laid
down the potion vial she'd just emptied and reached for her blade again.

"My name, Lord Vangerdahast, is Ammaratha Cyndusk," the woman replied,
stepping down onto the counter between two plate-racks in a catlike
crouch. She was tall, well-built, and wise-eyed. "In human shape I dwell
in Marsember, and folk there know me as Lady Joysil Ambrur."

'Ah, the lass who likes to know all secrets," the wizard replied,
nodding. "And must now have learned this one of mine. Who told you, may
I ask, "

"A Harper whose name you'll not learn from me, who told me a War Wizard
spoke of it to another War Wizard. Before I throw my life away trying to
end yours, I'd like to make sure I understand correctly: You're
developing spells to hunt, lure, and control dragons, intending to
accumulate a collection of dragons whom you'll bind, with other spells
you're also working on, as sleeping defenders of Cormyr, in much the same
way as the Lords Who Sleep formerly guarded the realm, "

"That is correct, yes."

"And you'll not be swayed from this scheme,  Into using, say, /willing
/War Wizards or Purple Dragons or other humans of Cormyr, "

"Human participation is likely, but I firmly intend to use dragons for
most of the realm's defenders. Are you interested, "

The woman suddenly vanished from the countertop, and reappeared with her
legs scissored around Vangerdahast's head. She twisted them sideways in
an attempt to break his neck as her body arched over backwards down his
front, and slapped both her arms out behind her to strike down his own
and ruin any castings he might try.

"In your death, wizard!" she gasped as they crashed together, her back
slamming into his ankles.

Vangerdahast still stood upright, his neck unmoved, so she threw herself
from side to side, whipping her legs back and forth, but she seemed to be
pivoting on something rigid, immobile, and as hard as stone. Something
shrouded in more brightly pulsing green radiance.

"Interesting view," the wizard managed to say, in the moments before
Myrmeen Lhal crashed into Joysil, tore her free from Vangerdahast, and
bore her to the kitchen floor.

They skidded along together as Vangerdahast frowned down at them both.
"Lass, I can fight my own battles, thank you. See this field around me,
this green glow,  It both protects my neck and keeps this song dragon
from regaining its real shape and crushing the both of us against the
walls and floor. It should also prevent her from teleporting again, now
that she's this close. Get clear, now. I want to talk to her."

Myrmeen gave him an 'are you sure, ' look, and he nodded. She rose off
Joysil, springing clear to keep from being tripped or having any of her
daggers stripped from her, and Vangerdahast laid a hand on her arm and
said gruffly, "Oh, and lass, thank you."

Myrmeen gave him another strange look and backed away to the sink.

"You might as well kill me," Joysil panted, from where she lay bruised
and winded on the floor. "Unless you renounce this plan of yours, and I
can somehow believe you, I'll just keep trying to slay you. No dragon in
all Faerun is safe once those spells of yours work and are written down."

Vangerdahast nodded, and green radiance flowed from his fingers. In a
room far away across the sanctum, two wands flickered and flashed. "I
fear you'll now discover that you can't move, Lady Cyndusk, or Ambrur, if
you prefer. I'd rather not be slain, thank you very much . . . and yet
there's truth in what you say. These spells shall be my legacy to
Cormyr. Others must be able to cast them after I am gone to augment the
ranks of defenders or replace those fallen in battle. Some wizards may
well use them less . . . judiciously than I shall. So, yes, I /am /a
danger to dragonkind."

He sighed. "I've spent my life wrestling down my own desires, and dreams,
and sympathies, to cleave always to one guiding and supreme pursuit: the
betterment and defense of Cormyr. I will do /anything /to keep this
realm strong, and its character much as it is now and has always been. I
believe it to be among the best achievements of /my /kind, dragon, and
want to keep it so ... whatever the cost to anyone."

He went to a drawer, pulled forth a clean tablecloth, and laid it
carefully over Joysil's frozen form. "I've no robes your size, but if
you don't mind some of my winter weathercloaks . . . the moths always
get at them, but . . ."

//

/"Wizard" /the helpless song dragon on the floor hissed, "you promote
the worst sort of slavery for dragons. Even if you find some willing
slaves to be your guards, these spells will get out, and there'll come a
day when the only wyrms /not /under the command of someone will be those
who die fighting after your other spells find them, lure them, and hook
them!"

Vangerdahast nodded a little sadly. "I had foreseen this consequence,
yes. Have you any bright solutions for me that I've thus far missed, "

"You, you /monster!" /Joysil stormed, trembling against the paralyzing
magics that held her. "Youuu, "

She tried to turn her head away as he bent near, and when she found she
could not, she shut her eyes and screamed, a cry that soon faded,
warbled, and died away.

"Sleep," the old wizard told her gently. "If Mystra smiles on me for
once, I'll have thought of something before I have to wake you."

He turned away with a sigh and added bitterly, "Or more likely not."

Myrmeen Lhal regarded him gravely. Her sword was sheathed, and there was
a strange look in her eyes, a different strange look than before. "You
could have slain her, easily, and did not. Why so, "

Vangerdahast regarded her a little sourly. "I've seen too many problems
in life to enjoy disposing of them by working murder any longer, lass. I
need some time to decide what best to do to calm and heal her."

The Lady Lord of Arabel nodded, folded her arms across her chest, and
said, "Yet the ruthless defender of the realm might say the best thing
for Cormyr would be to eliminate this dragon now, mercifully, while she
sleeps, helpless. One less foe, one danger gone, the realm thus that
small measure stronger."

"This is not the Devil Dragon," the former Royal Magician sighed, "and
truth to tell, lass, I've seen and done more than enough killing."

He shook out another tablecloth, spread it on the floor, and did
something that made the green radiance brighten all around them and
raise Joysil's rigid body into the air. Unseen forces lifted the
tablecloth up to her from beneath. Thus sandwiched in cloth, the body
floated toward the kitchen door.

"I believe," Vangerdahast added as he started after it, "I've finally
grown up enough to hold the view that folk whose views differ from mine
are not necessarily foes I should slay."

There was clear respect in Myrmeen's eyes as she looked at him, smiled,
and suddenly reached out to take his arm.

He patted her hand with his own, suddenly conscious of her hip brushing
against his, and looked back at her. As their eyes met, Vangerdahast
felt, with no small surprise, long-suppressed feelings stirring within him
once more.

* * * * *

Narnra rolled her eyes as she dropped down from yet another window.
Gods, what a lot of petty little bickering, arrogance, and rivalries!
These War Wizards were almost as bad as Waterdhavian nobles!

//

/Almost. /Bane come striding, if this was what the lawkeepers were like,
what might the nobles of Cormyr have to offer, 

"Who was that idiot who said, 'Always more treasure beyond the next
hill', " she muttered aloud, then froze again on all fours on a
potted-fern-crowded balcony as two War Wizards strolled out to stand at
the rail not four paces away, laughing cynically.

"Well, I always knew Old Thundersides wouldn't let go his grip on the
throne all /that /easily!"

"Dragons! After all the blood elves shed to snatch this land away from
being the private hunting-ground of various wyrms! I can't believe it!"

"I can. Who else sleeps for centuries, anyway,  Who else can last so long
and still be alive instead of undead and hating the living,  Who else in
Cormyr could he trust,  Our /nobles', "/

The two shared a bitter, derisive crow of laughter. The second robed
mage shook his head and replied, "Who can truly trust a dragon,  What
must they think of us humans who butcher, steal from them, take their
eggs, and . . . sweep them aside, where once they ruled all Faerun, "

The taller, older wizard shrugged. " 'Twas the elves did that to
them, oh, and that cult among the hobgoblins that thought eating
dragonflesh would make them into a larger, stronger breed .. . they used
to take more eggs than humans ever have."

"D'you think old Vangey will snatch some eggs and try to hatch wyrmlings
he's bound and brainwashed with spells, "

"Mayhap," the older War Wizard replied, turning away from the rail to
walk back inside, "but he needs grown ones, too. Wyrmlings are like
ignorant but recklessly overconfident youths, and can do about as much
unintended damage to themselves, as well as to whatever they're
/supposed /to be protecting."

Miraculously, the two mages didn't notice the rock-still thief crouched
on her fingertips. Narnra let out a long, slow breath as quietly as she
could, gathered in air, and sprang forward and over the balcony rail.

Vangerdahast's secret was out. Spellbound dragons to guard Cormyr! So
she'd found Duskwinter, and that jovial trim-bearded one in the bath
earlier had been Bathtar Flamegallow, more interested in floating carved
little wooden ships than anything else, that one, but his jokes had
certainly been amusing. Calaethe Hallowthorn was out near some place
called Jester's Green, and was being out and about in the countryside
suspicious,  She knew too little about these War Wizards to judge, but the
other woman she was to watch over, Iymeera Juthbuck, was a bit of a
wildcat when it came to strong adventurers, if the rather catty War
Wizard gossip could be believed, and what did the Harpers think of all
this, anyway,  Had Rhauligan told any of them, 

Ah, this was the place. Dark My Harp Yet Flaming. Gods, what a name!

Narnra paused on a rooftop, peering down at the old, ramshackle club. It
had once been a grand mansion, by the looks of it, before later owners
had grown it wooden side-wings in all directions. Well, at least no din
of bad minstrelry was clawing her ears from this distance, at least.

With a shock she realized that no less than three sentinels were
watching her, one from a tiny moon-window in the club roof and the others
from different buildings on either side of her.

To her relief, the one on the nearest building gave her a curt nod as
their eyes met. She responded with a grave wave of her hand and
proceeded down to the street to enter the club openly. If she'd been
seen anyway, it'd be best not to risk any bowfire.

The wig she'd "borrowed" through an open window a few frantic hours back
was slipping again, but she needn't have bothered with any attempt at
stealth. Dark My Harp Yet Flaming was dimly lit, crowded, casually cozy,
and, no music, thankfully, a-bubble with talk of nothing else but
Vangerdahast's plan.

"Gods, man, we'll be crotch-deep in slinking and grandly mysterious
mages with fireballs up both their unwashed sleeves the moment word of
Vangey's grand plan gets about!" one man with a lute strapped across his
back and daggers sheathed everywhere else all over his well-worn
leathers growled, slamming down a tankard as big as Narnra's head. "All
sorts of mages'll want his spells and kill to get them! Who controls the
most dragons, and first, will be able to settle a /lot /of old scores
before the rest of us can unite to try, and I say /try/, to rescue all the
Realms from him!"

"What if a dragon gets those spells and builds himself into a new Dragon
King, " a shortish man with a wildly bristling mustache responded.
"That's what I want to know!"

Narnra listened to this and similar loudly enthusiastic speculations as
she drifted through the club, playing the old game of feigning looking
for someone she knew.

When she recognized two of the Harpers who'd been part of that grim line
down in the cellars when Mystra herself had been awing the squitters out
of everyone, she sidled in their direction. They headed grimly up a
flight of stairs, listening to the chatter and exchanging sour glances
about it as they went.

Narnra walked away from the stair, around a corner, and raced up another
staircase she'd spotted earlier. The floor above would have a linking
passage, she was sure, and if not. . .

The creature at the top of the stair was the largest, ugliest half-ore
she'd ever seen, all pimples and open, weeping sores and yellow, roughly
broken-off tusks. Steady eyes that held promises of both humor and
casually swift death peered down at her as one claw-like hand drew aside
a fold of cloak to reveal the first six-bolt-at-once handbow Narnra had
ever gazed upon.

The glittering-headed bolts looked very sharp, and they were all trained
on her. Lips drew back from the great reeking mouth above them to
mutter, "And on your deathbed, little rat, you will, , "

Narnra swallowed, drew in a deep breath, and managed to say the word
"Harp" confidently enough that it didn't, quite, seem like a guess.

The cloak drew back over the bow, the head nodded grudgingly, and with
astonishing speed that mountain of flesh drew aside to let her reach the
head of the stair and pass.

She gave the, the /thing/, an expressionless nod as she did so and strode
down the passage confronting her as if she knew quite well where she was
going.

A door was open halfway along it, and a voice from just inside was
saying, "I care not. Let every sneak-thief and fat merchant in all
Suzail hear us debate, Sareene! I want them all aware and alert and
mindful of the danger we all face, because we /all /face it, no matter
who or where we are!"

"Naetheless, Brammagar, you're proposing a /very /dangerous double game!"

"What choice have we, "

The backs of the two men standing just inside the door looked very
familiar, so Narnra dared not ask what Brammagar's proposal had been.
Thankfully, someone else did it for her.

"I dare not leave Dragondusk right at this moment," said a strangely
remote, echoing voice, "and my magic was not working in time to hear
Brammagar speak. What proposal, please, "

"That We Who Harp protect Vangerdahast by lying in wait for all mages,
so as to have a chance at taking them down as they arrive to attack
Vangey . . . then, when the time's just right, we turn around and ruin
the old wizard's spell-work, to make sure he /never /manages to bind a
dragon by any new, more powerful magical means."

"And who among us gets to decide which mages we slay and which we let
live,  You're tossing maggots into all our soup, I say!"

"Kill as many as we can, regardless, and give some shred of power in
Faerun back to all of us who aren't spellslingers!" someone else
grunted, and a burst of argumentative voices began.

Narnra went on down the passage to the other stair as swiftly as she
quietly could. Traitor-wizards would have to wait. She had to get to
Caladnei in all haste. /This /must be reported to the Mage Royal without
delay!

Harnrim Starangh smiled down at the lithe figure in leathers as his
careful casting came to an end, and the building looming beside the
rooftop she'd just landed on started to topple.

No matter how swiftly she leaped, she couldn't hope to avoid its
thundering, crushing flood of stones. They'd bury the entire roof and
probably smash flat the building beneath it ...

The rolling crash shook his own perch, here atop one of newer and
loftier buildings in Suzail. The dust rolled up ... and with a groan
like a dying dragon, the building the thief had been trotting across
collapsed under its load of fallen stone, to the accompaniment of a few
fresh screams.

Yes. Exit Narnra Shalace, and enter, her impostor.

Trying to bargain for the life of his daughter with Elminster and all
the Chosen the Old Mage could call on was sheer foolishness . . . to say
nothing of what such an ... ah, /active /captive might do on her own,
whilst he was busy bargaining . . . but /being /Elminster's daughter
himself, now, yes! Even if the Old Mage caught up to him, the old goat
could be warned away from mind-thrusts and meddlings by claiming
Mystra's protection.

Yes. Risky, but everything to do with magic held risk. And if a certain
Darkspells could stay ahead of the Old Mage of Shadowdale and snatch War
Wizard magic by being Caladnei's little agent on the one hand and
Elminster's daughter on the other, he could gain much ere it became
necessary for Narnra to forever disappear.

The Red Wizard smiled thinly and waved his hand. The air beside him
obediently wavered into an image of the Waterdhavian thief he'd just slain.

He studied it carefully, peering and crouching to do so, before
beginning the spell that would give him Narnra's likeness.

Across a forest of rooftops, Glarasteer Rhauligan stared at the rising
dust in horror, his last glimpse of the frantically leaping Narnra as
the stones came down etched into his mind.

//

/"Narnra!/" he shouted, knowing that his cry was in vain. Nothing could
have survived that smashing blow from above, even if...

A movement caught his eye on another rooftop, and he found himself
gazing at a robed man who was just gaining a companion, as Narnra's image
appeared out of thin air before him. The man studied it, frowning and
ducking about to peer intently, and started to work a spell. His shape
rippled and started to change,  even as the conjured Narnra rippled and
started to fade.

Rhauligan burst into a run, leaping and racing across rooftops, jerking
out daggers to hurl and spitting furious curses non-stop, trying to get
close enough to ...

Harnrim Starangh struck a pose and looked down at the hand-mirror he'd
propped against the husk of a long-dead pigeon earlier. Yes, he now
looked like that pouty, hawk-nosed lass.

He retrieved his mirror, stowed it in an unfamiliar pocket, and gave
Suzail a farewell smile. It was time to see Shadowdale again, cozy up to
the oh-so-great Elminster, and learn a few of his secrets at last.

The figure atop the roof vanished abruptly, and Rhauligan's first dagger
flashed through empty air to clink and rattle to a tumbling stop at the
far end of an empty roof. The Harper's roar of rage followed it.

* * * * *

The street full of rubble and running, shouting men suddenly gained
another occupant. This one was tall, gaunt, and dressed in shabby robes
that vied with their wearer's long white beard in looking old and the
worse for wear.

Elminster raised one bristling brow and peered around, humming
thoughtfully as War Wizards and Purple Dragons came pelting up from all
directions.

Barring spell barriers, his tracing spell should deliver him to a spot
mere feet away from Narnra, and that could only mean she was . . .

Oh, Mystra. Oh, bleeding merciful Mystra.

Heedless of shouts calling on him to surrender or identify himself and
to lay aside all weapons, the Old Mage knelt by the great pile of
shattered and tumbled stone that reached to the very toes of his worn
old boots and muttered a very old spell. Some of the rocks right in
front of him glowed, and he spat out a curse that made the Purple Dragon
running up to him with drawn sword at the ready gape in surprise.

The old man planted his feet, shook back his sleeves, and raised both
hands to begin a casting, so the onrushing warrior did what he was
trained to do: bellowed to try and disrupt the wizard's concentration
and reached out with his blade to try to strike aside one of those hands
and so ruin any spellcasting.

The old man promptly surprised the Purple Dragon again, by dropping into
a crouch and whirling to face his attacker. The blade passed harmlessly
over one robed shoulder. The old man turned, taking hold of the
warrior's swordarm by wrist and elbow, and flung him at the rockpile
with a sudden shout of his own: /"Start digging, /you motherless dog!"

"There's the one who caused it!" a War Wizard howled, aiming his wand.
Elminster flung himself aside without bothering to turn and see who his
accuser was, and the wand-blast seared stones and sent the staggering
Purple Dragon into a shouting scramble for cover.

Elminster rolled behind a heap of tumbled rubble and snarled out a spell
that lofted most of the stones around him, plus the lone and by now
thoroughly astonished Purple Dragon, down the street in a bone-shattering
hail that left the advancing Cor-myreans strewn on their backs, cursing
and groaning.

Ignoring them, the Old Mage scrambled to his feet and peered at the
front edge of the rockpile, now much reduced by the scouring of his
spell. /There! /A bloody, leather-clad arm protruded from under two
large, wedged rocks. Elminster dug his hands in under one of them,
heaved with all his might, and succeeded only in making it wobble a few
inches to one side.

Gasping in defeat, he grimly cast another spell, this time plucking
stones straight up so as to not to allow the slightest possibility of
harming Narnra further.

She lay sprawled and senseless beneath a thick coating of dust, one leg
obviously broken, one arm a flopping and many-times-shattered thing, and
. . .

He winced, dragged that broken body as gently as he could out from under
the stones hanging menacingly aloft, and called up Mystra's silver fire.

Wielding it slowly and gently was always hard, healing doubly so, and he
persisted only long enough to discover that she was still alive and not
faltering. To do this properly, he'd have to devote all of his
concentration to the task, leaving himself defenseless and pressed
against his daughter, not a wise thing when more angry defenders of
Cormyr could arrive at any moment.

So instead, he shifted his outward appearance to exactly match
Narnra's, farewell, bearded old lawbreaking wizard, and got down beside
her to let out the silver fire slowly and carefully.

When a company of Purple Dragons arrived in a thundering of boots, it
was the work of but a moment to let the hanging stones fall with a crash
among them, while he lay still alongside the obviously injured Narnra.

Knitting and mending, drawing back blood here and teasing aside
shattered ends of bone there . . . Slowly he worked his way through her
broken body until he was satisfied she'd live. He could do the rest
better at his tower, where he could nurse and coddle properly instead of
fighting off War Wizards every few breaths.

Someone who was whooping for breath and whose footfalls crashed down in
hasty weariness burst onto the scene. Elminster turned his head and saw
Glarasteer Rhauligan lurching toward him over the rubble -strewn street
in as much haste as possible.

With a sigh, the mage got to his feet, picked up Narnra, ignoring
Rhauligan's sudden shout, and whisked himself and his daughter away to
Shadowdale.

Rhauligan staggered to a halt, staring in dumbfounded rage at the spot
where /two /Narnra Shalaces had just vanished, right under his nose.

"Bloody brazen hinges!" he gasped wearily, staring around in wild
frustration. /"Blistering /bloody . . . brazen . . . hinges!"

Florin Falconhand was whistling softly as he traversed the well-worn
flagstones that led to Elminster's tower. In his dripping left hand he
held no less than nine large greenfins, fresh from the river. The Old
Mage had a weakness for pan-fried greenfin.

It was time and past time for one of the Knights to invite Elminster to
dine, and, 

The ranger came to a sudden halt, hand flashing to the hilt of his blade.

On the path ahead, right at the halfway bend, on a gentle slope that had
been utterly empty a moment earlier, stood two figures.

Two identical figures, one of them carrying a limp, senseless third
duplicate who was shrouded in dust and blood and whose clothes were much
torn.

Florin stared. Aye, all three were the same slender, muscled woman in
tattered leathers and boots, with tousled, hacked-off-short black hair,
dark eyes, and a strong nose like a gentler version of Elminster's
hawk-beak.

Both of the upright women were staring at each other in obvious
surprise, unwelcome surprise.

Then the one carrying the third knelt quickly, snapped, "Stay back,
Florin!" and set down her burden. She started casting a spell while
still on her knees.

The other one was casting a spell too, obviously intending to blast her
double.

Florin's sword sang out as he broke into a trot, asking himself, /What NOW, /

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Twenty

      TO WAR

/

So it comes down to what it always does, when men swagger and dragons
fly: red war, and much death, and a lot of things ruined and cast down
broken. Little decided, much lost, many left to weep. Yet for the rest
of us, it seems to entertain.

/

Amundreth, Sage of Secomber

/

Thoughts on the Folly of Kings

/

Year of the Highmantle

Halfway along the passage, Ondreth stopped still.

"By the Dragon Throne," he gasped, putting out a hand to Telarantra's
arm, "what's that, "

His fellow duty-guard War Wizard followed his gaze down the longest
passage in the sanctum to what was traversing a cross-passage in the
distance and murmured in her usual deadpan manner, "Vangerdahast, the
Lady Lord of Arabel, and a woman in the thrall of his magic, I'd say, how
else would she end up floating along on her back in midair, with her
eyes closed, "

"No, no," Ondreth said excitedly, "I saw her change, in the battle!
/That's /the dragon that did us so much damage!"

"Is it indeed, " Telarantra asked softly.

The spell that clutched Ondreth Malkrivyn in an icy grip was as sudden
as it was unexpected. It was draining his life-force before he could
speak or even lift a hand.

The last thing he saw as the world dimmed for him was Telar-antra's
triumphantly smiling face above him, as she gently lowered his withering
body to the floor.

"Farewell, fool," she told him almost affectionately. "Know that the
Rightful Conspiracy values your sacrifice. My next spell will break the
stasis on yon song dragon, and we'll see how old Lord Windy Royal
Magician fares in battle /without /the risen defenses of the sanctum
ready in his hands."

She turned and did something, but Ondreth Malkrivyn was too dead to see
it, or feel the mighty blast that followed. It hurled the husk of his
body at the ceiling as the entire passage rocked, ceiling-tiles fell
like rain, and the sanctum tried to leap upward and join the sky.

* * * * *

Though he stood like a statue, Rhauligan was inwardly almost dancing in
impatience, but one did not interrupt the Dowager Queen of Cormyr in
mid-word . . . not when the Steel Regent was by her side, glaring
pointedly at impatient Harpers. Alusair even put an imperious finger to
her lips as Filfaeril bade Laspeera answer.

"The evidence of Amnian and Sembian backing is now clear," the most
senior War Wizard began, "and the nobles of this 'Rightful Conspiracy'
grow ever bolder. We would have seen swords out openly long ago, I
think, were it not for the wits of the wisest along them. One of our
Highknights died to inform us of this much: An elaborate scheme is
building, to slay all Obarskyrs in an orchestrated manner that will
allow the conspirators to win control of the realm while avoiding both a
ruinous ground war or, much, civil war after all of the Blood Royal have
been eliminated, by also slaughtering all other blood claimants to the
throne but one: their chosen, mind-controlled puppet. We're not sure
just which of the Crownsilvers, Huntsilvers, or Truesilvers is their
selected, and willing, dupe, but rest assured that, "

"We're doing all we can," Caladnei took over smoothly. "Of course." She
sighed, spread her hands as if to clear an imaginary table, or her
mind, and added, "One of the bolder moves Speera just referred to was a
clever attempt to snatch the young Azoun,  an attempt aided by hired
wizards. It was foiled by some alert knights and by our most trusted
mages, who constantly spell-scry the King from afar, 'watching the
watchers' who protect the king, for signs of treachery."

She sighed again. "If all that truly protected Azoun was his visible
bodyguard, that attack could hardly have failed."

The Mage Royal turned to look at Laspeera, and, gasped and reeled in pain.

Laspeera was similarly stricken, an involuntary moan of anguish bursting
from her lips as she stumbled forward. From across the room, among the
handful of War Wizards and Highknights guarding the inside of the doors,
came more outbursts of pain. One mage toppled to the tiles in a dead faint.

Rhauligan and the two royals reached out to steady the two, Alusair the
swiftest to speak. /"What's happened, /" she snapped.

"The sanctum," Caladnei gasped, clutching at her temples. "A
violent, very large, release of magic! We're attuned to its defenses. They
must have . . ."

"Gone down," Laspeera said, from her knees. She struggled to her feet,
pale and sweating, and added, "We must, "

The door-gong rang. Alusair and Filfaeril spun around and assumed regal
poses and expressions in an instant, and Rhauligan moved quickly to take
Caladnei's arm and turn her. The gong signified that the guards outside
had intercepted someone having a rightful need to enter.

Raised shield-spells flickered as the Highknights and War Wizards
guarding the inside of the doors opened one of them a trifle. The most
senior mage of that guard then murmured a message that his magic took
straight to Caladnei, for everyone standing with her to hear: /A herald.
Alone. We've stripped and spell-read him. He wears only a tabard of our
proffering./

Alusair put a hand on the hilt of her sword. "Bid him enter," she
ordered curtly.

The herald came barefoot, obviously naked under his tabard. He was
tight-lipped and pale, though whether his pallor was born of fear or
anger those in the room could not tell.

Only Caladnei did not recognize him. The man was a professional Sembian
herald-for-hire of long career and exacting correctness.

Stopping a careful six paces away, he bowed deeply to the Dowager Queen
and then to the Steel Regent before raising his hand in the "cupping
empty air" gesture that requests peaceful parley.

"Speak," Alusair said.

"I am asked," the grand voice rolled out in response, "to request the
presence of Queen Filfaeril Obarskyr of Cormyr and Regent Princess
Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr at Thundaerlyn Hall in Marsember on the morrow,
at First Candlelight, to discuss the bright future of this kingdom with
certain noble-born Cormyre-ans loyal to the realm who are concerned
about Cormyr, and represent those who are now the careful hosts of both
the infant King Azoun and the retired Royal Magician."

Filfaeril and Alusair both cast swift glances at Caladnei, who shook her
head to tell them that the claim, about Vangey, at least, must be a lie.

She mindspoke the two royals: /I believe we can protect you if you accept./

"It shall be our pleasure to attend in Thundaerlyn Hall, at the time
proposed," the Dowager Queen replied serenely, adding a nod of dismissal.

The herald seemed about to say something else, just for a moment, but
instead nodded, made his bows again, and departed. The Obarskyr women
stood watching him like grave statues until the doors closed behind him.

Caladnei turned her head. "Speera, "

Laspeera was still pale, but her mind-probe had been as deft as ever.
"He knows nothing but the words he memorized and cares for their
implications accordingly. He was given that message in writing in
Saerloon by someone unfamiliar to him, a hired Sembian intermediary, by
his looks in the herald's memory, and paid very well to hasten here to
deliver it."

"It's a trap," Alusair snapped.

"Of course," Filfaeril agreed quietly.

"So we send some spell-disguised War Wizards in your places, " Rhauligan
suggested.

Alusair shook her head. "No. We attend. In person. I'm more than weary
of perils unfolding in Cormyr behind my back or when I'm busy dealing
with something else, I'm /never /going to cling to the title of Regent
whilst sending others to sweat or die in my place. If the realm means
anything to me, I /must /be there."

Filfaeril nodded. "Well said. All of your well-chosen words apply
equally to me."

"Your Majesties," Rhauligan protested, "though my heart leaps to hear
you speak so, is it wise for the realm to risk both of you in one place, 
Hazarding the loss of all Obarskyr wisdom and influence, should
you, watching gods forfend, be stricken down together, "

He laid one hand on a vial at his belt, and asked, "Though I risk
treason and my own death, dare I allow you to so endanger the realm
while I have power left to prevent you, "

The Dowager Queen put a swift hand on Alusair's swordarm to forestall
any word or action and smiled.

"Rhauligan, the loyalty and service of you and men who act and feel as
you do is Cormyr's backbone and its splendor, not the surname shared by
we two. Yet in truth my daughter and I are both now expendable so long
as Azoun lives, is kept safe, and is guided and instructed well. You
must trust us that he is."

She impulsively stepped forward and wrapped her regal arms around
Rhauligan in a fierce hug.

As he blinked in astonishment, she snapped into his ear, "I, too, am
sick unto death of standing /watching /when I could be, should be, doing!
If Thundaerlyn Hall be a trap, so much the better! /My /Azoun would not
have wanted me to sit idle as the passing days carry me ever closer to
the grave ... as he never did!"

Filfaeril thrust him away to stare into his eyes and added, "If it makes
you feel better, Rhauligan, you may hide ready in Thundaerlyn and run to
my rescue if needful, but you may /not /stand in front of me like a
shield, or bundle me into some cloak-closet 'for my own good'! Do we
understand each other, "

Rhauligan went to one knee, brought her fingertips to his lips, and said
huskily, "Lady, we do."

* * * * *

"I said /back, /Florin!" the young lass snapped again, as the ranger
charged forward, blade raised. Her fingers never slowed in their deft
weaving, but mere paces away, her double ended the swifter casting of a
spell with a flourish and a cry of triumph.

Reddish-purple light burst into being in that one's hands and raced
forth in thin, arrow-straight beams from every one of her fingers,
stabbing at the lass who'd warned Florin off . . . only to strike
something unseen in front of her target, claw at that barrier, and rise
skywards in a building, trembling wave.

Florin Falconhand decided it was prudent to obey that warning and sprang
hastily away to the side and rear of the lass who'd hurled the spell, and
who was now grimly pouring her will and perhaps other magics into it,
drawing lips back from teeth in a soundless snarl and trembling to match
the arcing fires of her spell.

A thin sheen of sweat sprang into being all over her as Florin watched.
He took a step toward the lass who was hurling fire, and the other
identical young lass repeated her warning, in a waspish, somehow
familiar tone that made Florin's eyes narrow.

Could this be ... Elminster, 

His gaze went to the straining, warring magics overhead, where those
fires were being thrust over and around, curling back toward their
creator from above.

The sweating lass knew her danger and was already eyeing the roiling
power above her. Abruptly she sprang aside with a curse, ending her flow
of fire, but the overhanging doom followed her like a great gliding
dragon as she scrambled . . . and suddenly fell from above with a crash
that shook the meadow.

Florin was hurled from his feet as the ground heaved and the stricken,
desperately shouting lass vanished from view in the flames. Her double,
who'd sent this doom against her, stood still and firm.

Something confusing happened in the rolling, swirling inferno, and the
lass engulfed in it was abruptly some twenty paces off, sobbing on the
ground . . . still caught in fading, flickering coils of her own flame
that had clung to, and made the journey with, her.

Florin cast a quick glance at the lass standing calmly then started
toward the fire-wreathed one, looking back for a warning that did not come.

The spell-flames were dying away swiftly, now, and the lass within them
was beating at the ground in pain, writhing and weeping, raising a sooty
and tear-wet face to Florin that was, no longer feminine at all!

Florin pounced on the wounded man, ignoring the threads of smoke rising
from the blackened and ashen remnants of robes. A pain-twisted face
tried to shape a word, so he slapped that mouth with the wet greenfins
still in his hand. By the time the smoldering man had finished
sputtering and spitting, his wrists were pinned to the scorched turf
under the ranger's knees.

"Elminster, " Florin called back at the other lass.

"Indeed," a familiar voice replied. "None can hope to deceive ye,
gallant Florin!"

The ranger's reply was a swift, rude snort of derision, followed by the
words, "This dog has the look of a rogue mage. Should 1 be slaying him
about now, "

"Nay. I've a use or two for him yet. Hold him still, will ye, "

As he spoke, the likeness of the young, hawk-nosed lass melted away from
him, revealing an older, hawk-nosed, weatherbeaten, and very familiar
Old Mage of Shadowdale, who promptly bent and, with a grunt, picked up
the stricken lass he'd been carrying when he appeared.

Florin shook his head slightly and asked, "Are you going to tell me why
all three of you arrived wearing the same shape,  And who it really
belongs to, "

"No," Elminster replied serenely, "to thy first, but as to thy second,
this in my arms is truly herself: a lass from Waterdeep, a thief, so
watch thy pockets, hight Narnra Shalace. /That /beneath ye is a Red
Wizard of Thay."

The handsomest man in Shadowdale received this news with no evidence of
surprise, merely asking, "Will any of you be staying for a nice fish fry, "

"I'm afraid I know not, yet. We wait upon the temper of a woman."

"A, , " Florin looked down at the broken, white-faced body that Elminster
was laying tenderly beside him. "This Narnra, "

"Indeed. Hold the Thayan securely, now. Defeating his spell was a simple
matter of calling on the defensive enchantments of my tower, but now I
must work a rather exacting magic."

"I should hope so," the ranger murmured. "Sloppy spells give mages a bad
reputation, when the wrong castle gets blasted to dust, the wrong
thousand folk slain, and so on."

Elminster gave Florin a sour look. "Aren't there some ladies somewhere
ye could be causing to swoon about now, "

Florin raised both his eyebrows and the still-dripping bunch of fish.
"With these, "

The Old Mage sighed, gestured for silence, and cast his spell. In the
creeping silence that followed, both men watched as Narnra's broken body
slowly became whole again . . . and that of the Red Wizard took on her
injuries, sinking and twisting under Florin. As the Thayan began to gasp
and moan in pain, Narnra's eyes fluttered open, and she stared up at
them and felt her limbs, and sudden lack of pain, in wonder . . . and
growing apprehension.

"W-where am I /now, /" she murmured. "There was a rooftop . . . something
falling . . ."

Elminster took her shoulders and gently helped her to sit up. "That was
just magic, lass. Bad magic."

As Narnra got a good look at the unfamiliar green trees and meadows of
Shadowdale, and the pinched, pain-wracked face of the Red Wizard beside
her, all the color drained out of her face,  and she flinched away from
the hands on her shoulders.

"Will you send him back like this, " Florin asked quietly, eyeing
Narnra's shaken face.

"Nay," Elminster said quietly. "I'll teach him some magic, show him why
I made some of the moral choices I did, then set him loose . . . and
he'll choose his own fate, for good or ill. The world needs Red Wizards
just as it needs carrion-worms. Let's see if I can steer this one. My
Lady The Simbul herself cannot slay them all. However . . ."

He looked at his daughter, and said, "This wizard tried to slay ye with
his spells just now, back in Marsember. I place his fate in thy hands."

He put a hand on Florin's arm to signal the ranger to rise and step
back. Together they withdrew, leaving Narnra sitting facing the Reel
Wizard. Hastily, she scrambled to her feet, and backed out of his reach,
snarling, "Keep back!"

With an obvious effort, the Thayan started to speak. "I am too . . .
maimed to work spells or offer you violence."

"You tried to kill me!"

"I did."

"Why, "

"I needed you gone to impersonate you. To learn the secrets of Elminster."

She glared at him, then at the Old Mage, then back at him and spat
bitterly, "You're no better than he is!"

"True," Starangh whispered. "Right now, I'm much worse."

"What good are his secrets to you, "

"Power," the Thayan husked. "All mages crave power."

Narnra's eyes blazed. "To make slaves of the rest of us!"

Starangh tried to shrug, but the movement brought such pain that he
ended up writhing and groaning.

"Why don't you apprentice yourself to him or some other mage, " Narnra
asked. "Why kill and deceive, "

"Trust someone else as my master,  Leave myself so vulnerable,  That road
is the way of the fool," the Thayan told her, his voice a little stronger.

"Trust," Narnra told him furiously, leaning forward to drive her words
home with slow, soft emphasis, "is a strength."

"You /are /a fool," he replied.

"And you're a cruel idiot," she replied scornfully. "Are all Red Wizards
of Thay like you,  Preening villains, "

Starangh shook his head. "Just kill me and have done taunting."

"Why,  Do words of sense truly hurt you more than wounding magic, "

"Kill me," he pleaded, furious and ashamed.

"No," Narnra snapped, turning away. "My father shall have his chance to
twist and shape you, as he does to so many. Why should you escape my fate, "

* * * * *

The flash and flare of magic in their faces sent Vangerdahast staggering
back into Myrmeen even before the great silver-blue, scaled bulk burst
into being, shattering the low passage ceiling with a roar of mingled
exultation and pain then bursting forth skywards, flooding the sanctum
with sunlight.

With a surge of wings and claws, the song dragon turned and pounced on
the War Wizard Telarantra, rending her limb from limb before she could
even shriek, to turn and hand the dripping result to Vangerdahast.

"Here's your traitor," she said, in a soft and vast echo of her human voice.

Back on his feet, Vangerdahast stood facing her calmly, as Myrmeen
scrambled to her feet to defend him with her blade.

However, the song dragon did not strike. "Why," she asked the former
Royal Magician, "did you spare me, "

"Lady," Vangerdahast replied gruffly, "you fought for your cause as I
fight for mine. You've long dwelt among folk of Cormyr and must enjoy
our company somewise to have persisted so long in doing so. I bear you
no malice, and hope to turn you to support my plans."

"So I might become one of your willing defenders," she replied, a touch
of bitterness in that great voice. "Exhibiting the grand destiny of... a
useful tool."

Vangerdahast sighed. "Of course you'll see dragon-binding as evil. In
truth, I'd avoid it if I could find a better way, but for me, all other
things fall before my devotion to Cormyr."

"What has Cormyr done for you to deserve this devotion, "

The old wizard sighed. "Lady, defending this fair realm is what I /do.
/There is no higher calling, no greater task, no brighter boon to all
Faerun than this."

The great dragon head shook in resignation, those burning turquoise eyes
never leaving those of Vangerdahast, yet searing also into Myrmeen's wary
gaze. "What will you do now, Vangerdahast, if I fly away, gather a dozen
dragons, and return to destroy you, and your precious sanctum, utterly, "

The old wizard shrugged. "Try me."

"Are you not afraid, "

"No," the retired Mage Royal replied. "I'm growing too old to fear for
this wrinkled old hide."

"Do you not fear for your precious realm, "

Vangerdahast raised both of his empty hands in expressionless
silence, and spell-links shone forth in the air like silver spider-webs,
spanning emptiness between the rings on his fingers and the winking
radiances of risen spells and a dozen revealed wands. They formed a vast
and glowing ring around Joysil and pulsed powerfully enough that she did
not, could not, doubt that they could destroy her in an instant.

The song dragon regarded them . . . and shivered. "Will you use these, 
If I try to fly away now, "

Vangerdahast shook his head. "Nay. Sworn to defend Cormyr I am, but in
her defense I'll stand and fight those who come against her and me. I'll
/not /lash out and become a tyrant over those who /may /menace her or
rival me. I will /never /make Cormyr into the likes of Thay, or Zhentil
Keep, or Mulmaster, just to keep its name on maps."

He started to pace, as if forgetting how close and powerful she was, and
added, "I've far more to worry over than dragons, I've the usual
treachery among nobles, traitors among the War Wizards, and more than
one eager Red Wizard all seeking the downfall of the Forest Kingdom. Any
of them is apt to do more harm to Cormyr just now than dragonkind of any
sort."

He stopped and turned to face Joysil again. "I don't intend to bind any
unwilling dragon, and now I must take steps to link the spells you so
fear to my own life, so that if I'm slain they'll destroy themselves and
leave no mage empowered to bind you or your ilk."

The dragon's turquoise eyes studied him thoughtfully. Joysil sprang into
the air, swooped low and away behind some trees, and flew away, her
wingbeats fast and furious.

Myrmeen and Vangerdahast stood in the sunlight watching her distant form
dwindle, until the old wizard sighed, shook his head, and peered about
to see if there still was a passage he could traverse ahead of him. At
his shoulder, Myrmeen said softly, "You're either the greatest fool I've
ever met, or the greatest man."

Vangerdahast looked at her. "The former, I fear, yet I'll cling to some
pride in not trying to be the greatest villain, when the power to be so
has come into my hands, time and time again. 'Tis why I admire
Elminster, my sometime teacher, even though he infuriates me more often
than not. Temptation snatches at him and finds him wanting, over and over."

Myrmeen nodded. "I've met Elminster . . . long enough to come to know
him better than some high ladies of Cormyr know their husbands. A very
great rogue. We parted with swords drawn on each other, respectful, but
wary."

Vangerdahast lifted one bristling eyebrow. "That," he told her, "is a
tale I must hear in full someday."

He spun around to stride briskly down another passage back to his
spellchambers. "But not now. Now I must do as I promised Joysil and bind
my spells to my life."

"How swiftly can that be done, and at what risk to you, "

The retired Mage Royal shrugged. "In the space of a grand fool's speech
akin to the one I just uttered. The risk is no more than the one you
both apprehend: Slaying me ends this danger to dragonkind."

"What do you expect the dragons and the other foes you mentioned to do now, "

"Come here with all speed and slay us," Vangerdahast replied gruffly,
throwing wide the door to reveal a glimmer of lantern-light and walls
cloaked in a latticework of full scroll-shelves. "So I must get you
safely gone ere I must go down fighting. 'Twill be interesting to see
who gets here first."

"My lord, I'll not leave you," Myrmeen said, lifting her sword.

Vangey chuckled. "Lass, I can have you deep in dreamslumber and halfway
across Faerun before you can blink."

"But you won't," Myrmeen replied, diving forward to lie across a desk of
spell-scrolls challengingly, clasping the lit lantern to her breast.
"I've but to smash this, and let the flaming oil spill . . ."

Vangerdahast sighed. "All right, lass, what /do you /want, "

"To stand with you and die fighting at your side. I, too, am sworn to
defend Cormyr."

"Right then, so you shall. Now put that damned lamp aside, 
carefully!, and get your distracting self up and off my writings so I can
fulfill my promise!"

The binding took a long time, and Vangerdahast was trembling with
weariness when he finished. They exchanged glances, and Myrmeen put a
steadying hand on the mage's shoulder. "And now, "

The former Royal Magician shrugged. "And now we wait for someone to
attack. My spells are ready, each set to unleash when certain conditions
are met. We wait to die, I suppose."

Myrmeen gave him a dark-eyed look then set down her sword. "Well, then,
I'm going to dare to bed the greatest man Cormyr has ever known," she
said firmly, grasping at the front of his robe.

"I'm, Lady, I'm centuries too old for you," Vangerdahast protested, "and
ugly, besides. I, "

Her lips found his.

When he could speak again, it was to cough, shake his head, and whisper,
"Lass,  Would you, "

* * * * *

The fang dragon hissed in rage and fear when no less than a dozen wyrms
suddenly alighted on the edge of the great rock-cauldron mountaintop
that was its lair, but the song dragon that approached from among them
did so murmuring words of polite supplication in a soft thunder that
held no malice.

In truth, the fang dragon was gigantic among its kind and bore the scars
of many battles won, including a vast, rainbow-hued swath of scales on
one flank where a great old wound had healed imperfectly. Had the song
dragon been alone, it would have pounced and torn apart the overbold
intruder very swiftly.

"I need you," Joysil said gently. It had been a very long time since
Aeglyl Dreadclaw had heard such a sentiment. He laid aside his wild
schemes of escape and revenge in an instant to listen . . . and when she
was done speaking and laid bare the bald truth of her words with a spell
that Aeglyl had last seen cast in his youth an age ago, the great fang
dragon drew itself up and hissed, "Lead me, and I shall fight wing to
wing with you. This peril must be swept away for all our sakes."

The song dragon turned, flapped her wings, and all of the wyrms took
wing, climbing and drawing apart to let her and the newly recruited
Dreadclaw soar into their midst.

"We must hasten," Joysil called and hurled herself through the air
toward Cormyr, with a dozen dragons in her wake, a scaled host going to war.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Twenty-One

      NO SWORD SHARPER THAN HER TONGUE

/

The din of battle can be deafening, even to dying ears, but give me
twenty such deafenings over one bitter dispute with my wife.

/

Sarseth Thald, Merchant of Amn

/

Musings On Being A Merchant Prince

/

Year of the Turret

"B'gads, Surth! How much longer must we sit here in the dark starving,
eh, " Aumun Bezrar wiped his sweating brow with one plump and hairy
forearm, and waved at the window with his knife. "The rest of Marsember
grows richer by the passing hour, while here we sit!"

The tall, lean figure leaning on the windowframe straightened and said
icily, "We're /not /starving, Bezrar. You've sliced open a good dozen
cheeses since I started keeping count, and emptied an entire hand-keg of
Sembian jack, too! I chose this warehouse for two good reasons and the
plentiful supply of food was one of them. Mind you don't 'starve' too
much or you won't fit through the door when the time comes to go!"

"When will /that be,  /Stop me vitals, Surth, they can't care enough to
spell-hunt us forever, just as I can't eat cheese forever!"

"I /know," /Surth said darkly. "The /other /reason I chose this place,
dolt, is that crate you're sitting on. Tis full of Selgauntan
glowstones, and their enchantments, duly registered and duty-paid, should
hide us from any seeking spell that's not cast from right inside this
building. I hope."

"Odd's fish, Surth, don't you /know,  /For sure,  We could be cowering here
for /nothing, "/

"Stop waving that fish-gutter of yours and sputtering at me, /Master
/Importer Aumun Bezrar, and, "

Malakar Surth fell silent in mid-sarcasm and threw up a hand for
silence. With a warning hiss, he slapped a finger to his lips and took
two swift steps toward his fat, sweating business-partner to drive home
the urgency of his warning. With his other hand, he pointed repeatedly
at the floorboards below. Someone had entered the vast, cavernous ground
floor of their warehouse.

"You're sure this place is safe, " a cultured male voice asked
doubtfully, bringing a whiff of strong musk with it. Surth bared his
teeth in a silent sneer. A noble, for all the coins in Marsember.

"As safe as anywhere in this rotting fishgrave of a city," another man
replied in amused tones. "The rogues who own this cargo-barn haven't
been seen for some days, and small wonder, with the Watch looking
everywhere for them!"

"All the better reason to be wary," the perfumed noble said angrily.
"Who's to say there isn't a purple-noses patrol in here now or heading
here for a regular peer-about, "

A sudden glow flared below, shining up through gaps in the floorboards
to show Bezrar and Surth each other's tense faces.

"Behold," the amused noble said, "my glowstone. We can take a good look
about as we talk and be gone before anyone's the wiser.

If the Watch does burst in, saw you the 'storage for reasonable coin'
sign outside,  Well, we're two empty-handed nobles inspecting the place
to see if it's dry enough to store the next incoming shipment of the
wardrobes of Eastern silk our wives have gone mad for, hmm, "

"All right," the perfumed noble said grudgingly. "Shine it over there, I
thought I saw something moving."

"You did."

"Tymora's sweet tea, !"

"A big one, yes. No, let it go. A rat that big is the main nightfeast
for some dockers' families in this city."

"Thandro, you're /sick!/"

"So my mistresses often say, but they never refuse my gifts nor company,
I've noticed. Enough of this. Satisfied, "

"I suppose. Thundaerlyn Hall, yes, and I've found five minor baubles my
kin won't miss, a comb that slays lice, the head of a walking-stick that
knows north, that sort of thing."

"Good. How many blades can you muster, "

"Seven at least, three trained to the blade, and two experienced
hireswords. When and where, "

"Under the broken lantern on Thelvarspike Lane, you know it, , by five-toll
at the latest. We have to be in our places well before First
Candlelight, when the royals are supposed to arrive."

"They'll bring dozens of War Wizards and Purple Dragons, Thandro!"

"Of course. We of the Rightful Conspiracy shall be ready for them. Act
like you're out for a night of scouring the taverns, get to that
lantern-post, and all will be well. We've blades and wizards enough to
take care of any army the Obarskyrs bring, and yes, we expect to have to
deal with the Mage Royal and her bully-spells, too."

"I don't like it."

"Your sort never do, Sauvrurn. If it wasn't for men like me, you'd be
muttering darkly about Obarskyr misrule from now until doddering to your
grave seventy summers hence, doing nothing all that time but fuming. You
want a new Cormyr,  Well, we'll give it to you /and /the 'true power' you
crave so loudly. You can use it to order Alusair, or whatever's left of
her, brought bound to your bed by morning and stop boring our ears with
/that /oft-repeated demand, too. Who knows,  You might even get to father
the next King of all Cormyr, you lucky dog!"

"My family beast," the perfumed noble replied icily, "is the winged
lion, /not /some mongrel hound."

"Well, my Winged Lion," Thandro replied, his voice fading as he moved
toward the door, "just you be there under the Lightless Lamp before
five-toll, and you'll get your chance to leave the Steel Regent gasping.
If you don't have to slice her up like sausage-meat in the fray, that is."

"She'll be no match for me in swordplay, so keep your men well back. . . ."

Sauvrurn's voice faded entirely, and the two men in the loft heard the
door-bar crash back into place.

"B'gads, Surth!" Bezrar hissed, sweat streaming down his face like a
waterfall. "What have we gotten ourselves into, "

//

/"Nothing" /Marsember's wealthiest dealer in scents, wines, cordials,
and drugs snarled, "if you shut your loose jaws for once and help me get
the roof-trap open. We have to stay quiet, and move quick, and get as far
away as the walls of Marsember let us from all the bloodshed that's
going to erupt ere dusk! Whatever happens in Thundaerlyn Hall, this city
is going to be scoured out and turned upside down by every War Wizard
the realm can muster by highsun tomorrow!"

* * * * *

Florin Falconhand stood with his fish dripping forgotten in one hand and
his blade ready in the other, warily watching the sprawled Red Wizard.
Helpless at his feet, Starangh stared back. If glares alone could slay,
the ranger would have been done for, but as it was, the real battle was
taking place a pace or two beyond them both.

Narnra Shalace stood facing her father, her anger boiling over. "You're
no better than this grasping, evil Thayan!" she snapped. "You do just as
you please and have done for years! Years of meddling in the lives of
many, more for your own satisfaction and amusement than anything else!"

Elminster shook his head. "I've done most of my deeds and misdeeds in
the service of Mystra, the most powerful goddess of all," he replied
quietly. "For good or ill, I've been a finger or two of her hand and
acted as she commanded me."

Narnra waved away his words with a sneer of disgust. "You could've
refused! You could've renounced it all, if you hadn't wanted all /that
power!"/

El shrugged. "Want it or not, I have it, why should I not use it,  Who
better than myself can I trust to use it well, "

"It's not about power and control," Narnra snarled furiously, "it's
about doing the right thing."

"Ah, and what /is that /'right thing', "

Narnra drew herself up scornfully. "If you can't tell, "

Elminster said a single cold word that echoed across the meadow like a
thunderclap, freezing everyone. Narnra's face went bone-white and terror
flamed in her eyes as she found herself unable to move or speak.

Her father took a step forward and suddenly seemed a shade less old and
ridiculous. Contempt flared in his blue-gray eyes as he met her gaze and
said softly, "My daughter, just one more young hothead with all the
answers. The 'right thing' is whatever ye think it is ... but
unfortunately ye've seen so little of the world and are capable of
understanding so little beyond what's right at the end of thy nose for
thine eyes to fall upon easily that ye only see one 'right thing.' "

He walked right up to that nose and began to circle her, keeping close,
hands clasped behind his back, voice soft but fierce. /"Listen /to me,
lass: I'm guilty of whimsy and vengefulness and standing in judgment and
bad temper, willful meddling, and even loss of my wits, often, but before
I try to shape the world around me I also try to do something ye've not
yet learned to do: I try to look at things from all sides, to understand
disagreements and rivalries through the eyes of all involved . . . more
than that, to look ahead to the probable consequences of what I might do."

He stopped in front of her and said more gently, "Sometimes I may appear
heartless to ye, young Shining Eyes with thy heart ruling ye, but I
/think /about what I do, before, during, and after, and turn right
around to try to right my mistakes instead of striding on and dismissing
yesterday's misdeeds as gone and past, beyond recalling. If ye don't
grow enough to do that, /ye /are no better than this grasp-all, evil
Thayan."

He waved his hand, and Narnra found herself free to walk and speak. She
trembled, wondering if she dared say anything but found herself
whispering, "And you expect me to see all your manipulating as right, 
And wise,  Benevolent, following some master plan I'm too stupid or
impatient to see,  You think manipulating folk isn't the greatest evil
there /is, /"

"Lass, lass," Elminster replied wearily, "manipulating folk is what
humans /do. /If ye knew of my youth, ye'd know just how much I hate
mages who rule, and being manipulated . . . but I learned down the
centuries that 'tis best to do some steering of folk before the steering
is done to ye. Because, rest assured, 'twill be. I can at least be sure
of my own motives, and that I've thought about them, though whether they
be 'good' or 'evil' is for others to judge. The motives of others, I can
never be so sure about, until I see the glee in their eyes reflecting off
the bright blade aimed at my heart... as they swing it down."

"You . . . you're maddening," Narnra snarled, fists clenched. "You, you
heartless /monster!/"

"That's right, hurl back views that force ye to think by
name-calling, 'tis the grand old tradition, let it not down! Anything to
keep from having to think, or, Mystra forfend, change thy own views!"

Narnra glowered at her father. "Just how am I to learn how to think,  By
being taught by /you, "/

"Some folk in the Realms would give their lives for the chance to learn
at my feet," Elminster said mildly. "Several already have."

He turned away. "However, I think ye're not ready for that, yet. I'm too
useful to ye as the villain who sired then spurned ye, Old Lord Walking
Blame For All Things Dark. No, I think ye must find thy own teachers in
thy own way, taking no hint from me. See how well ye've received the few
words of advice I've offered here and now, "

Narnra took a deep breath and wrestled down her rage. "So what advice
would you give me, Old Lord, about where to go now and what to do,  /Not
/how to govern my own wits and what views to hold, but what to do next, "

Elminster met her gaze again and said, "Come into my Tower and have a
cup of tea. Let thy anger fade, and we'll talk. I'll give ye some
baubles of magic and mutter a lot of stale old advice then whisk ye with
my Art to wherever ye desire to be, and hand thy choice right back to ye.
As I see it, ye can travel and adventure and broaden thyself right away
... or reward Caladnei's trust by serving her as a loyal agent, then,
when ye grow restless, steer her into giving ye tasks that let ye travel
Faerun and see as much of it as possible. Ye'll always be welcome here,
and one of the trifles I'll hand ye will enable ye to call on me from
afar should ye need aid ... or even, make the gods gasp, advice."

Narnra stared at him and snapped, "The tea, I'll accept." She looked
down at the Red Wizard. "And him, "

"He lies in pain, awaiting thy judgment. Were ye very cruel, ye could
just leave him, or tell me to carry him off across the field to yonder
anthill, to itch and burn whilst we sip. Or I could restore him to full
vigor and give him a wand to smite us all with. The choice is thine."

"And if I said healing and the wand, " Narnra asked, her whisper a challenge.

"I'll do it... but have ye given thought to the consequences, "

"Yes," she snapped fiercely, setting her jaw. "Yes, I have. Do that for
him. Do it for /me."/

Elminster muttered something, made a shape in the air, then stared at a
spot above the Thayan. A smooth, tapering stick of wood promptly
appeared there and floated serenely above the twisted Red Wizard as the
Old Mage cast a more elaborate spell.

Harnrim Starangh gasped once, writhed and arched briefly, shuddered all
over, and sprang up, pale and sweating. He faced Elminster with wild
eyes, but the Old Mage stood like a statue.

The Red Wizard cast a quick glance at Florin, whose sword was now drawn
back for a deadly throw, then gave both Narnra and Elminster odd looks,
snatched the floating wand out of the air, and vanished.

Elminster calmly muttered something, waved at the place Starangh had
been, and turned away, offering Narnra his hand.

She did not take it, but followed him up the flagstone path to his
squat, leaning rough-stone Tower.

"Not much of a grand fortress, is it, " she asked tartly.

He shrugged. "We heartless monsters must make do."

Not quite hiding a smile, Florin opened the door for them, waving them
within with a grand gesture that was only slightly spoiled by being made
with a handful of still-dripping fish.

"Enter within," he said. "Old Lord Walking Blame and guest. I'll stand
guard here for returning Red Wizards, whilst you . . ."

"Try to learn to speak civil words to each other," Narnra replied a
little wearily, stepping past him into the dusty gloom.

Behind her back, the two men exchanged glances. Elminster nodded to the
ranger, said gently, "Do that," and went inside.

* * * * *

In a high window not far away across Shadowdale, Storm Sil-verhand
lounged with harp in hand, singing softly to herself. Her farm chores
were done, and it was time and past time to take some ease, even for
daughters of Mystra . . .

In mid-song she became aware of a shimmering below as her wards sprang
to life. She stilled her strings to call, "Yes, "

Standing in her courtyard, ringed with crawling blue fire, was a gaunt,
trim-bearded man holding something under his cloak. "Good lady," he
greeted her gravely, "I am Alaphondar Emmarask, High Royal Sage of
Cormyr, and I bring a thing most precious with me. Pray banish your fires."

Storm set aside her harp and swung herself through the window, floating
gently down to join her unexpected guest. She made an intricate
one-handed gesture as she descended, awakening an unseen magic that
seemed to satisfy her. Her next gesture made the flames sink away to
nothingness.

"Be welcome, Lord Sage," she said politely. "Will you stay, take
shelter, and dine,  I've pheasant roasting over one hearth and a cauldron
of rabbit stew a-building in the other."

"Thank you, Lady Silverhand. I cannot say what my reply to your kind
offer will be until I have your decision as to my . . . burden."

"The king you're hiding under your cloak,  He's right welcome, too,"
Storm said dryly. "I'll endeavour to keep you both safe, and unseen. No
doubt some in Cormyr would be quite upset to learn you're here, and
others . . . would become all too eager."

Alaphondar's smile was rueful. "Lady, you state matters very well. I'll
stay if you'll have me. How strong are your wards, "

Storm's smile was broader than his. "I /am /a Chosen of Mystra," she
reminded him gently. "Take off your boots, soak your feet in yonder oil,
and let me have a good look at the next scourge of womanhood in the
Heartlands."

Alaphondar winced. "Lady . . ." he started to protest then fell silent.

"I have my own reputation," Storm replied, "remember,  Which reminds me:
How is Fee, "

Alaphondar winced again. "Harpers see all, indeed. My royal lady was
well and happy when we parted some hours ago. I hope, oh, gods, I
hope, that I shall see her so again, soon."

"You," Storm said, sliding an arm around his shoulders, "need a drink.
Sit you down, and I'll get a scrying-crystal, and you can watch over
Filfaeril whenever you desire. Now, off with those boots, and haul forth
young Azoun before he suffocates under that dirty old cloak of yours!"

* * * * *

Narnra shook her head at the dusty stacks of parchment and books
crowding all around her and seemed eager to escape to the spartan,
less-cluttered kitchen, where a pass of Elminster's hand made the
hearthfire rise under a kettle. The Old Mage pointed at a shelf. "Teas.
Choose."

Narnra dubiously examined the jars thereon. "Dragonskull, "

"Just a little," Elminster replied. "Powdered fine, of course."

Narnra gave him an incredulous look. "So what," she asked
chal-lengingly, "dare I assume is in tea labelled 'Finest Thayan
She-Slave Skin', as this jar is, "

"One of Lhaeo's little jests. I'm sure it's far from the 'finest' skin."

Narnra sighed, shook her head and defiantly held out the Thayan jar to
Elminster. He took it without a word.

Silence stretched between them, enlivened by the climbing cry of the
kettle, until Narnra became restless.

"So impart," she said, peering around the little kitchen, "some of that
dusty old advice you spoke of."

"We all have to die and can take nothing of mortal riches or power with
us," Elminster replied promptly. "I've died several times already, and on
at least two occasions started over with nothing, not even my name. So
unless the cold decay of undeath beckons ye, remember, it ends for us
all. What matters is what we do with the brief time we have."

//

/"Your /time hasn't been so brief," Narnra flared.

Elminster bowed his head. /"That /is my curse."

Narnra stared at him then folded her arms and asked, "Why did you leave
my mother, "

Elminster stepped forward to take hold of her shoulders. They stared
into each other's eyes, noses only inches apart.

"Lass," he said gently, "just being near me gets folk killed. I speak
now not of foes I smite or fools who make reckless attempts to exploit
my power or presence to further their own dangerous causes, but folk who
simply get in the way or come to the notice of those who love me not. I
know of, and knew well, over two hundred 'hes' and 'shes' of all the lands
and races ye could think of who died in torment because some more
powerful foe thought I might have given something or told something of
importance to them ... or just to lure me within reach or cause me
distress when I learned of the torture later. And so, "

"And so you wrap this sorrowful 'I must do thus and so for the
protection of others' explanation around yourself like a cloak and
prance through life wenching and using everyone who comes within reach
as if they were your personal chambermaids, hmm, "

"Fair enough," Elminster said calmly, stepping back to pour two large
tankards of tea, "I suppose I do. Armed with this knowledge, ye'lldo, what, "

Narnra stared at him, chin balanced on her knuckles, and said, "Ask you
again: Why did you leave Maerjanthra Shalace, after wooing and bedding her, "

"To answer ye properly," the Old Mage replied gravely, "I must know the
answer to a question of my own. Have ye ever seen this before, " He
dipped a finger into his steaming tea, drew a complicated symbol on the
table between them with its wetness, let her gaze at it for a moment,
and swiftly wiped it away.

Narnra sat back, strangely excited. "No-no," she said, frowning, "I
don't think so. Wait. A jewel Mother crafted . . . and wore as a
pendant, for a time. Why, "

"Tis a symbol of the goddess Shar," Elminster murmured, "who among other
things works against She whom I serve."

"Mystra. You mean . . . what do you mean, "

"All gods and goddesses work through mortals. Shar is one whose
manipulations are legendary. Deservedly legendary."

Narnra frowned. "You think Shar was using my mother to influence you, "

El nodded.

"But that's ridiculous! That's, "

"What happened. I was in thy mother's arms, tongue to tongue, eye to
eye. I felt the darkness slide into her and reach for me. So did she and
whimpered and clung to me the tighter. I thrust her away and departed
out the window, glass and frame and all, as fast as I could move. Had I
remained, I'd have been taken or Mae-rjanthra would have been consumed
in Shar's hunger to corrupt me. Rather than bearing ye, thy mother would
have been left a crumbling husk."

Narnra stared at him. "So you went away, and my mother had me. Are you
saying I'm consecrated to Shar, a creature of the Mistress of the Night
from birth, "

"No," Elminster replied gravely, "or I'd have blasted ye to ash when
first I read thy mind. Only created creatures and those born of the gods
or their avatars or beings the gods spend much time mind-meddling with
while yet unborn come from the womb 'belonging' to this deity or that.
All the rest of us are free to choose our faith, influenced by any who
may try to sway us, of course. Ye are Narnra Shalace, free to choose.
Shar, or Mystra, for that matter, could possess and control thy body but
would burn it out in hours or days by the very might of their
manifestation. Failing that, ye're free to choose as ye will. I am not
free. Bound to Mystra am I, but Mystra desires all mortal creatures to
possess the freedom given them by personally wielding magic."

"A sword in every hand," Narnra muttered. "Which inevitably leads to
much spilled blood."

El bowed his head. "The highest price of freedom is always its misuse by
many."

Narnra turned away. "Mother seldom wore that pendant," she murmured to
the tea-shelf, running her fingers along it as if answers were going to
sprout helpfully among the jars.

Elminster kept silent, waiting.

His daughter turned around and looked at him in clear challenge. "What
if I tell you now that I defy your moral claptrap, Father, and go my own
way, stealing and thieving and never speaking to you again, "

"That's thy choice, and by Mystra's grace ye're free to make it. I'll
still give ye those baubles I spoke of, my promise of welcome here
whenever ye desire it, my friendship if ye'll have it, and my fond
regard even if ye don't."

"And if I fling all that in your teeth, meddling old wizard, "

"That will be my loss and sorrow," Elminster told his tankard quietly.

//

/"Damn /you, old man!" Narnra said, hurling what was left of her tea
into his face as she sprang up. "Damn you!"

Elminster sat with tea dripping off his nose and beard, and replied
calmly, "My damnation happened centuries ago the first time, and again
some dozen times since."

"Save such words for someone who'll be /impressed!" /Narnra snarled and
strode back through the dusty gloom to the door, snatching it open.

Florin stood just outside, arms folded, blocking her way.

She put her head down and charged right into him, punching viciously.

The ranger stood like immovable stone, absorbing her punishment, and
called calmly, "Elminster, "

"Let her go her way," came the calm reply. "She's discovering that
growing up is painful, when she thought she'd finished with growing up
some time ago."

Florin nodded and bowed to the furious, now-weeping Narnra, indicating
that her way was clear with a wave of his hand.

She stormed past him in tears, striding angrily out to where the
flagstone path forked. Ahead was the road, where a few carts were
creaking past, bearing farmers of Shadowdale who glanced her way
curiously, and to her right was a placid pool. She stood trembling for a
moment. . . then turned right.

At the water's edge was a large, flat rock. Narnra threw herself down on
it and gazed at the water, muttering soft curses.

He went away and left me. He just went away. And Mother died.

All this alone, all this clawing for coins and food, all this risking my
neck for /years /in Waterdeep . . .

And now I'm snatched away from home, and halfway across Faerun with no
way back, bound to /another /meddling wizard. All because of him.

/

And he sits there like an old stone gargoyle, looking down from the
ramparts of his years and being sad that I don't make the same mistakes
he did. Bah!

/

Narnra sprang to her feet and kicked at the earth, seeking to drive a
stone, any stone, into the water. The pond was like glass, her reflection
as clear as any mirror. She struck a pose. Huh; the Silken Shadow indeed.

Furiously she kicked at the earth again. Grass and dirt foun-tained, and
one tiny pebble flew, bounced, and found the water.

She watched its spreading rings for a time, and sat down to do so. This
place was beautiful. She lifted her gaze and looked around. A castle
keep, built with a strange twist to it, across this meadow, a cart-road
off to her left with a few mule-carts being led out onto it, a rock
twice the height of Waterdeep Castle rising right up out of the grass to
her right, behind /his /tower . . .

Atop it, helmed heads and a few spears. She was being watched. Even here.

You bastard, old man. You suspicious old . .. but no. Banners are
flapping up there, no one's moving, except there, to point down at the
road. They're watching the road.

I suppose someone will always be watching, wherever I go.

A gentle breeze arose, fresh and fragrant with wildflowers, and Narnra
lifted her face to catch it, and looked around at the rustling trees and
waving grass.

This was a fair place. It must be nice to live here. Wherever "here" was.

Some time later, Elminster quietly sat down beside Narnra and steered a
fresh mug of tea into her hand. "Ye, ahem, threw away the chance to
finish yours," he said gently.

Narnra gave him a red-eyed glance and, after a long moment,  took the tea.

Saying nothing, she quickly looked away, and sat cradling it and staring
at the pool.

After a time, she absently sipped it.

A little later, she risked a glance to her right. Elminster was sitting
silently beside her, looking out over the pool rather than at her, his
unlit pipe floating in the air near at hand.

Is he just going to /sit /there,  Waiting for me to beg his forgiveness,
cry for his acceptance, say I love him,  Knowing I can't run from him,
don't even know where to run to, and that he can blast me whenever he wants, 

I threw my tea in his face, shouted at him, why hasn't he blasted me already, 

What's he afraid /of, /

Narnra shot a glance at her father. He didn't look afraid of anything.
He was smelling the breeze, nose lifted, a half-smile on his face.

He doesn't look afraid, he looks smug. Damn him. Oh, yes, too late for
that. Such big words, such calm claims. Smug old man.

She drew in a ragged breath, looked away, and sipped from her tankard again.

It was getting cold, but grew warmer, even as she drew back and made a
face at it.

Narnra glared at Elminster. "Are you using your magic on this, "

"Of course," he said gently. "Ye prefer it warm, d'ye not, "

She regarded him, hefting the tankard in her hand as if she might throw
it at him. Again. "And you always use your magic to do what other people
prefer, "

"Nay. Most folk don't even know what they prefer. Most never stop to
think." He turned his head to watch some flower petals drift by. "Do they, "

You mean that as some sort of a thrust at me, old man,  You think clever
words can change everything, 

Narnra turned her back on her father again.

Every time she turned around again, however, he was still there. He
smiled at her once or twice, but she gave him stony silence. After a
while, she started watching /him./

He sat and looked around at Shadowdale, not seeming to mind.

Later, her tankard empty, Narnra murmured, "This place is beautiful."

"Aye. I sit here often. Dawn, sunrise, sunset, and dusk offer the best
views, of course. If ye want to bathe, soap-flakes and hair-scent are
under yon rock."

Narnra gave him a startled look. "You expect me to stay, "

Elminster shook his head. "I expect nothing, but I offered ye welcome at
any time ye might care to claim it, and ye might arrive some day
desiring to get cool or clean or wash the blood of someone ye disagreed
with off ye, so 'tis handy to know where the soap is."

"I suppose you have drying robes waiting under some other rock, "

"No, but if ye go and lie on yonder stone, yell find it both heats and
sucks away the damp. The black velvet butterfly hanging on the shrub
beside it is one of Jhessail Silvertree's hair-slides. She comes here
often to lay her hair out in a fan to get it properly dry."

It was Narnra's turn for head-shaking. "I, I don't understand you. You
seem tender and kind, you protest your noble reasons and causes, insist
you look at everything from all sorts of viewpoints . . . yet you use
people as if they were farm-beasts, love women and leave them as
casually as you change your socks, and-and, /why, /"

"Because I'm a mere mortal, twisted beyond sanity by what I've seen and
done, and by holding a goddess in my arms, and by living for far too
long," Elminster whispered. "I'm a crazed villain and a proudly
enthusiastic meddler as well as thy father . . . but I'd also like to be
thy friend. I take folk as I find them and leave judgments to the young;
I hope ye can learn to do that, too."

"Old Mage," Narnra told him firmly, "young people /have /to learn to
judge others or they never survive to become older. Yet I'll grant that
you . . . are more than I thought you were."

She turned to look directly into his eyes and added, "If I'd never known
you'd sired me, we'd already be friends. I'm . . . I'm trying to set
aside my anger over growing up fatherless then being left alone to fend
for myself after my mother died. I may be just one of uncounted
thousands of forgotten, abandoned orphans in Faerun, but I'm /me, /the
only person I've ever had to worry about, and, "

"Precisely. Ye're the only person ye've ever had to worry about. Go get
thyself a few friends, /real /friends, and ye'll have that many more folk
to worry over."

"And you worry about thousands, is that it, "

"Worry and do something, lots of things, endlessly, for them. Grieve for
all those I failed and those the passing years have taken from me. Whole
realms I loved are now gone," Elminster replied and added calmly, "Boo hoo."

Narnra snorted in surprised mirth and set her tankard down. "I could
learn to love this place," she said almost wistfully, and then turned her
head to look into her father's eyes and added slowly, almost struggling
with the words, "To accept you too, I think, with all your lies and
meddling. Someday."

"I'd like that," he said gently. " 'Twould mean much to me."

She nodded, and they looked calmly into each other's eyes for what
seemed a very long time.

Abruptly Narnra became aware, as she stared through it at her father, of
how tangled and sweat-soiled her hair was. Her gaze fell longingly to
the pool, and after a few breaths of silence she asked, "Would you mind
going away whilst I bathe if I promise to work no mischief, "

Elminster chuckled, took up her tankard, and laid a hand on her
shoulder. "I'll be up in the Tower preparing evenfeast when ye're done.
Florin has probably worn his sword-edge dull slicing edibles by now. I'm
not much of a family, lass, but ye're welcome, whenever."

Narnra gave him a strange look and waved at the pool. "There
aren't, snakes or biting turtles or anything like that, are there, "

"Nay," Elminster told her, as he conjured up a fluffy robe, towels, and
slippers, and bent with a grunt to lay them out on a handy rock. "I
asked the beast that eats them to depart when ye arrived, and it did."

She gave him a longer look, until he turned and added, "Trust me."

"I'm learning to," she said with a lopsided smile. "Don't make me regret
it. Please."

"Well, if ye'd like to toss your clothes onto yon rock, I'll snatch them
away with a spell and give them a wash whilst ye're soaking, because they
certainly need it. Knives and all, mind. I'll be careful not to let
things rust. Oh, and the little blades ye keep hidden in thy hair, too
they're starting to tarnish."

Narnra gave her father quite another look and said, "If you trick me . . ."

"I'll be overcome with remorse," he said with a grin and strolled off,
his pipe floating after him.

Narnra watched him go, shaking her head. Well, at least she had an
/interesting /father. When she heard the Tower door close, she disrobed,
carefully putting her gear where he'd indicated, all but one knife with
its sheath, which she laid ready at the water's edge.

She lifted the stone Elminster had pointed out, scooped up some flakes
of soap, and waded in.

The water was wonderful.

* * * * *

"B'gads, what if they find us here, " Bezrar muttered. "What tale do we
tell them /then, /"

"That we're thinking of importing some new sort of shingles from, from
Alaghon, and had to see if the barracks roofs would ever be a market for
us," his partner Surth hissed. "If you /shut up /for once, perhaps they
/won't /find us here!"

They both froze, there on the roof of the largest Purple Dragon barracks
in Marsember, as at least a dozen dragons, each larger than any barracks,
and far more impressive, swooped past, in a mighty hurry to get to
somewhere in the city!

The great wyrms passed over the barracks so low that Malakar Surth, the
taller of the two swindlers, could almost have touched one of those vast
and scaled underbellies by standing tall and leaping upward.

He chose not to do so. It seemed more sensible to faint instead.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Twenty-Two

      A LITTLE VICTORY

/

Sometimes, all you can do is take what little victory you can.

/

Sorbraun Swordmantle

/

Seventy Summers A Purple Dragon:

One Loyal Warrior's Tale

/

Year of the Prince

"Stand easy," Laspeera murmured. "Whatever happens, we've War Wizards
enough to keep you both safe."

Filfaeril and Alusair gave her identical sighs. "Speera, it's not that,"
the Steel Regent exclaimed, armor gleaming. "It's how many loyal folk
this will cost us, and how many noble families who lose their young
hotheads here will turn against us. When will Cormyr stop /bleeding, /"

"Here they come," Caladnei muttered, stepping back, as many men stalked
into the dimly lit hall, drawn swords glittering in the light of her
conjured light.

"Hail, Ladies Obarskyr," one of them called in a grand and cultured
voice. "Your attendance, even with so many of your mages, gratifies us. We
desire to discuss the future of our fair real, "

The noble staggered forward to fall on his face with a cough and lie
still, sword ringing on the tiles. His fellows whirled around with
shouts of anger.

Many men in robes were fading into visibility out of empty air, Thayans!
Harnrim Starangh glared coldly around Thundae-rlyn Hall and commanded
his fellow Red Wizards, "Kill them all, yon women first. Let no one leave
alive!"

* * * * *

Bezrar and Surth came back to Marsember at about the same time, with
damp and misty air singing past their ears as a grand rooftop, all spires
and skylights, rushed up to meet them. They were . . . oh, gods ... in
the grip of great talons.

Talons that were attached to a huge and iridescent silver-blue dragon.
Turquoise eyes burned into theirs with force enough to keep them
blinkingly, tremblingly awake. When both Surth and Bezrar would quite
happily have fainted again great jaws hissed in a soft thunder, "Open
those skylights so we can see and hear who's within. I've no desire to
provoke all the War Wizards and whatever other mages happen to be in
Marsember by tearing apart a few buildings at random and slaughtering
folk heedlessly."

"B-b-but, " Bezrar managed to splutter.

"However," Joysil told him, "I /can /make a few exceptions when it comes
to slaughtering if you provoke /me. /Yes, this is the roof of
Thundaerlyn Hall, and yes, I'm a dragon, just as you are Aumun Tholant
Bezrar and /you /are Malakar Surth. /Get those open!/"

The two smugglers leaped to the panes with frantic eagerness, fumbling
at catches that hadn't been oiled or thrown open in decades, decades of
sea-mists and incontinent birds and nesting fowl that . . . that. . .

"Oh, /gods!" /Surth hissed, his fingers trembling helplessly. "We'll never, "

Beside him, Bezrar drew his longknife, puffing like a walrus and
sweating a river, and brought its pommel down firmly through the dirty
pane in front of him.

There was a shout from within, and a roaring gout of flame burst up out
of the shattered skylight. A dragon banked sharply overhead, thrust out
its neck, and breathed something back.

Bezrar emitted a sort of frightened mew as he tumbled over backward.
Spells were bursting out of skylights up and down the roof now, shards
of glass tumbling in all directions, and dragons were diving down and
breathing death of their own.

It was, yes, a /luminescent /time to faint, Bezrar and Surth decided in
unison, and did so.

* * * * *

Caladnei and Laspeera did nothing but hold up shimmering
shielding-spells around Alusair and Filfaeril as they all rushed
together to the east end of the hall, which saved them, even as Red
Wizards by the dozens vanished in dragon-spew.

The very floor-tiles of the central open hall exploded, heaved, and
melted where the full fury of dragon-magic struck, and the roof started
to come down in great crashing chunks.

The two highest-ranking War Wizards reeled, moaning in pain and
clutching their heads, as their shieldings were torn asunder. Somewhere
down there, the Obarskyrs were on their own, now . . .

Doors burst open in the darkness all over the hall as Rhauligan and the
other Highknights decided that with War Wizards screaming and fainting
and igniting like torches all around them they might already be too late
to rush forth and perform a rescue.

The Red Wizards Starangh had been able to assemble were the youngest and
most ambitious Thayans handy in Sembia, but they neither trusted each
other nor had much experience in working carefully together in
spell-battle ... so in the flashing, bursting confusion of swooping
dragons and men running about with swords, they soon started hurling
death at anyone and everyone they saw, including each other.

Harnrim Darkspells looked around from a high balcony in disbelief as War
Wizards and his fellow Thayans hurled spells, chairs, and knives at each
other with equally blind fury. This was a swiftly unfolding disaster! He
had to, 

Something made him duck and turn, and the point of Rhau-ligan's
thrusting blade flashed harmlessly past his arm. With a curse, Starangh
teleported away, leaving the Highknight slashing empty air and airing a
few curses of his own.

Down below, terrified nobles were swording everyone in their haste to
escape what they correctly saw as a deathtrap. The ring and clang of
sword-steel rose deafeningly in the hall.

Rhauligan whirled around and raced down the nearest stair. He had to get
to Alusair and Filfaeril and keep them safe, whatever happened.

* * * * *

"Get /down, /Mother!" Alusair snarled, hacking a man to the floor
viciously and stamping on his throat. "That gown won't stop a child's
knife! I've got to set aside having to defend and worry about you! Too
many of these dogs are getting away!"

"Look, unnh!, to your own back, dear!" Filfaeril called, whirling her
overgown around a man's head and rushing past him to drag him
off-balance. Wildly slashing nothing, he went down, and she leaped in to
land knees-together on his chest, and drive her little jeweled dagger
into a face she couldn't see. "I'm Cormyr's past, daughter, /you're /its
future!"

Alusair laughed bitterly as two swords reached for her. "Yes, but for
how long, "

* * * * *

"Gala, we've got to get back to Luse and Fee," Laspeera panted. "They'll
get /butchered!"/

"If we don't drive off these dragons," the Mage Royal of Cormyr spat
back, "we'll /all /wind up fried, crushed, and entombed before six-toll!"

"They're drawing off!" Laspeera gasped, pointing. "Look! They're flying
away!"

* * * * *

//

/"ENOUGH!/" Joysil roared, in a voice that shook every spire in
Marsember. "We can do no more without destroying every human down there!
Come, to the sanctum!"

'To /the dragonbinder!" /dragon voices thundered in chorus, and wings
flapped and wheeled in the sky.

* * * * *

"Shields!" Caladnei cried, clutching at Laspeera. "Find them! We must
raise the shields around them again!"

Laspeera peered helplessly around the darkened confusion of the hall,
made a sound of exasperation, and cast a bright radiance spell out into
the chaos.

Everywhere, knots of men were fighting, their swords flashing. Bodies
lay huddled in their blood everywhere, too, and robed War Wizards waving
daggers were rushing down stairs and along balconies, shouting.

//

/"There!" /she cried, pointing to where she'd seen Alusair's familiar
hair swirl, just for a moment, amid a glimmer of clashing blades.

Hip to hip the two mages worked a casting, then collapsed with a groan.

"I worked an ironguard on them," Caladnei gasped. "Rhauligan's
coming, see, , and he should be able ... to take care of... men who can
only punch . . . and gouge and strangle."

"Wait, what's that, " Laspeera snapped. Where they'd thrown their shield,
something flared like a momentary star.

"Fee's teleport gem," Caladnei said with a grin. "She's taken them back
to the Palace. Find that portal, and let's get there before Luse tries
to bring every last Purple Dragon in the place back here!"

* * * * *

"What was /that, /Mother, "

"My teleport gem," Filfaeril gasped. "This dolt of a Dracohorn brought
his blade down on it, before I... before I..."

"Mother!" Alusair cried in alarm, whirling back to the queen. Filfaeril
was clutching at her side. She sat down against a heap of bodies,
managed a little smile, and said rather triumphantly, "Before I put my
little knife through his eye." She waved a hand. "Don't worry, I'm just
winded, not cut. I trust."

The singing of a shielding-spell, at least, Alusair hoped it was a
shielding-spell, rose around them, and she waded through the dead and
dying to get to her mother.

She was still two paces away when the balcony above, smoldering in the
aftermath of a spell, tore loose and crashed down on them.

* * * * *

"Hah!" Darndreth Goldsword cried triumphantly, as something splintered
and the door sagged open. "Out, lads! Out!"

The dozen or so nobles of the Rightful Conspiracy surged forward as one,
panting in fear and weariness. This had all gone so wrong, /dragons, /by
the gods!, wizards everywhere! More grim men with swords than they'd been
able to muster in the first place! And all the doors spell-sealed, too!

This was the only one they'd been able to get open, and now they'd have
to run far and fast before the Obarskyrs set the hounds of the realm on, 

Darndreth staggered back with a cry, almost spitting himself on half a
dozen swords. "Who, , "

"No one important," the lady who stood outside replied calmly, her eyes
large and dark in the glow of the conjured dagger and whip-sword in her
hands. "Just someone who grew bored in Can-dlekeep and looked in a
scrying-stone to see what was happening back in Marsember. Not that I
found anything surprising."

"Stand back!" one noble shouted.

"Make way or we'll kill you!" the youngest Goldsword added, in a snarl.

The lady slashed his thrusting sword aside with her own, the meeting of
blades numbing his arm as if he'd touched lightning. "You may try," she
commented pleasantly.

"Who are you, "

"The Lady Noumea Cardellith," she answered, parrying his furious attack,
"of Sembia. Stay within, traitors, and face justice."

"Justice! You're not even of Cormyr!" a noble panted furiously, trying
to reach his sword past Darndreth's shoulder to stab her.

"No matter. I stand for peace and honesty, whenever possible ... to
slaughter a ruling house always plunges a land into strife and outlawry
and suffering, and the lurking monsters and dark cabals alike come
prowling ... or have you so swiftly forgotten what befell in Tethyr, "

"Hah! You can't stand against us! One woman, alone, "

"I don't have to," Noumea gasped, as a blade drove her own sword aside
and two others thrust into her. "I only have to delay you, until, "

Glarasteer Rhauligan struck the knot of nobles from behind like a deadly
storm, four Highknights with him, and only five of the traitors had time
to start pleading. Their frantic attempts to make deals went unanswered.

* * * * *

Vangerdahast gently parted Myrmeen's arms and set her aside. "Tis done,
lady," he said gently. "Our time together. They've come."

He waved above the wide expanse where Joysil had felled so many
trees, and the Lady Lord of Arabel found herself looking up at a sky full
of dragons.

The song dragon arrowed down into a wing-fluttering landing in front of
their shattered window, the other wyrms wheeling and banking watchfully
above.

"Mage," Joysil said, "we flew to war, and this threat to Cormyr from Red
Wizards and traitor-nobles, at least, has been ended."

"In return," the former Royal Magician replied, silver and green fires
briefly shining forth in a visible web that made more than one dragon
hiss and rear back, "look, and see the truth of my words: I've bound my
dragonbindings to my own life. If I perish, they go with me."

"And so, "

"And so I'm ready," he said roughly, using a chair to climb up onto the
kitchen counter. From there he walked out onto what had recently been
his gardens and a pleasant glade, adding, "for you to slay me."

Behind him, Myrmeen clutched a kitchen chair so hard with
trembling-white hands that the wood groaned. Silent tears spilled from
her eyes as she watched Vangerdahast walk to his death.

An amethyst-scaled wyrm glided down, jaws opening to breathe on the
lone, trudging man, but Joysil threw out a wing to shield the retired
Mage Royal, and cried, /"Cease!/"

Vangerdahast stood very still beneath that vast wing, as dragon after
dragon thudded to earth, landing in a great ring around Joysil.

"We fought well together," she said in her voice of gentle thunder, "but
this human has ended the threat we gathered to destroy. He need not die.
I offer you my hoard, to divide among you if you now disperse and never
return to harm this Vangerdahast."

Myrmeen had heard a dragon rumble in thought once before, but when a
dozen of them were at it, the field shook to their purring din. Then the
great head of Aeglyl Dreadclaw nodded, and the fang dragon growled, "The
fray was . . . good, yes. I am content."

That set head after head to nodding, until all the wyrms had agreed.

"Seek you then the spire of the ruined keep atop Claw Peak," the song
dragon told them all, "and shatter it. Within it is a cavern stuffed
full of speaking gems."

//

/"Speaking gems!/" several wyrms echoed eagerly, and there was a general
rush into the skies.

"What," Vangerdahast asked, watching dragons dwindle into tiny specks
among distant clouds, "are speaking gems, "

Joysil snorted. "Magical things, wizard, nothing /you /should be meddling
with. Some four thousand-odd I had from the Church of Shar years ago . .
. when I saw the world somewhat differently." Those turquoise eyes
stared into the old wizard's for a moment longer before she asked, "What
is it you /really /want to ask me, "

Vangerdahast sighed. "My life. Why did you spare it, "

"I went to confer with the oldest, wisest dragon of my kind, who took me
to someone you know all too well: Elminster of Shadowdale. He offered a
solution."

It was Vangerdahast's turn to sigh. "I might have known. And that would be, "

Myrmeen saw something out of the corner of her eye. She let out a little
cry of alarm as she whirled around, snatching for her sword, and the Old
Mage rising from the hitherto-empty seat of Vangerdahast's favorite
chair obligingly offered it to her.

"Old friend," he said to the retired Royal Magician, stepping past
Myrmeen, "why not this: Use thy own spells to bind /thyself /as thy
kingdom's guardian,  Become a dragon. We Chosen can aid thee in that aim
with spells to do so that will transform thee, lengthen thy years, and
enhance thy vigor."

Vangerdahast frowned. "One dragon, to defend a realm,  Not even the Devil
Dragon could stand against. . ."

"No," Joysil said in her soft thunder. "Not one. I've long sought a
purpose to go on living, and I believe I've found it. I'll willingly
join you in stasis, as your consort."

Vangerdahast gaped at her. Then, very slowly, he turned to peer back
into the ruined kitchen of his sanctum, at the tearful woman standing there.

"No," Myrmeen whispered, face white and working. "No, I cannot give up
being human. I, I . . . Vangey, forgive me!"

"There's naught to forgive, lass," two old wizards said in unison. Then
they stopped and traded uneasy grins.

Myrmeen burst into tears, and groped for Elminster's arm. When he
proffered it, she clung to him, dragged herself upright, and fought down
her weeping until she managed to gulp, "Yet it would g-give me g-great
pride and pleasure to bear and raise your heir, Lord Vangerdahast, to be
trained as a wizard loyal to Cormyr."

Elminster lifted an eyebrow. "Mystra smile, but ye work swifter than I
do, Vangey!"

Out across the trampled grass, Vangerdahast made reply, with a very old
and very rude gesture.

* * * * *

A blood-drenched, battered figure rose from a heap of the dead in the
shattered ruins of Thundaerlyn Hall, shook aside some ashen,
still-smoking splinters of balcony, and limped across the rubble-strewn
floor, a notched and bent sword in hand.

"Mother, "

Another figure arose serenely out of heaped bodies not far away.

"I'm not dead yet," the Dowager Queen replied with a weak smile, wiping
blood from the sword in her own hand with the hem of her jeweled gown.
She surveyed Alusair critically. "Which is more than I can say for you.
You always /did /like getting dirty, didn't you, "

"Indeed," Alusair said with a sudden laugh, embracing her mother. "And I
still do."

Purple Dragons, Highknights, and War Wizards were eyeing them from a
discreet distance and shuffling closer. Filfaeril chuckled and told her
daughter, "Come, find us that portal back to Suzail, or we'll have to
spend the rest of the night answering questions!"

* * * * *

"Come, lass," Elminster said to Myrmeen, "ye need to eat. There'll be
naught to see now for some days, until all our castings are done."

He turned away to lead the weary and saddened Lady Lord of Arabel to a
chair, only to freeze as a voice thundered behind him. Joysil's voice.

"Mage, I've learned of your recent wranglings with a certain young lass
of Waterdeep, where is she right now, "

Something in that grim tone made Elminster spin around, letting go of
Myrmeen's hand and stepping away from her in haste.

"Ah," Elminster replied with a grin, "ye know the saying about wizards
never letting slip their secrets, "

"Almost as well as I know the one about how tasty wizards can be," the
song dragon growled. "So I'll amend my question into two lesser ones: Do
you know where she is, and is she safe, "

"Aye, and I hope so. Thy interest in her proceeds from, , "

"Dragons eat /their /secrets, man. Let me unfold this my way. There's
one more thing to be said. We know each other rather better than you
realize."

"Oh, " El asked, spreading his fingers to display the rings on them, rings
that winked with the light of awakened magic. "Is there an old score ye
need settled,  Some share of /my /hoards, perhaps,  Or is it my skin ye seek, "

"Once we sought each other's skin, Elminster of Shadowdale,  ardently and
often."

The Old Mage's eyes narrowed. "What name and shape did ye wear then, "

"For some years I was the sorceress and jeweler Maerjanthra Shalace of
Waterdeep."

Myrmeen gave Elminster an incredulous look and found the Old Mage's face
every bit as astonished as her own.

He managed a pale smile then bowed deeply to the looming dragon. "Well,
well, ahem, my apologies for knowing ye not, Joysil. So ye're Narnra's
mother!" He shook his head, adding hastily, "Well, now. I... I'll tell
her only much later, I think, when the lass is ready for such news."

"Wise choice," Joysil said in dry tones.

Elminster cast a swift glance at Myrmeen. Fresh tears were streaming
down her face, but she waved him away as she sat in a chair. Not just
away. She was waving him toward the dragon.

The Old Mage looked up, swallowed, and asked, "Wha ... ah, how d'ye feel
toward me now, ah, Lady, "

"Joysil. Call me Joysil." The great dragon head lowered, those burning
eyes seemed to sear through him, and the jaws beneath slowly . . . smiled.

"I must confess I'm, pleased, to see you so taken aback. You're learning,
El ... learning doubt at last. Archmages who /know just /how to rule the
world scare me, and you were worse than most.

One bed one night, another the next, no thought for the ruin you left
behind or what I went through, tearing free from Shar. Too many realms
to conquer, liches to blast, other wizards to humble, all stars in your
eyes and rushing to save Faerun, that was you. And yet I ... I love you
still."

"Ye . . ."

"I loved you then for the same reason I'm still fond of you, Old Mage.
Your tenderness. Your gentleness, your understanding. Never lose that,
El, or I might just awaken, leave Cormyr undefended, and come looking
for you." Joysil sprang aloft.

"I, I still care for thee, Maer, Joysil," Elminster called quickly,
stepping forward.

"I know, El. I know. So keep yourself alive for years to come, hold that
madness at bay, be happy with the Queen of Aglar-ond, and look after our
Narnra well, /without /smothering her."

"I ... of course. Her safety shall be, "

"The pleasure you endure now," Joysil said in a voice as dry as the
desert, "in return for the pleasure we shared then."

She flapped her wings once, circled so low over the Old Mage that
Myrmeen cried out in alarm, and whispered, "Farewell, El. I /do /love
you." She soared away, silver-blue in the lowering sun.

Elminster went to his knees as his spell flung his thought after her: /I
love thee, Joysil, and I love our Narnra. Trust in me./

He got back of flare of amusement. /Trust. Of course./

Elminster stayed on his knees, watching the sky where Joysil had gone
for some time.

"Well, now," he said finally, getting up with a wince and a hand on a
stiffening hip. He didn't look at the Lady Lord of Arabel, and she
watched him in silence.

"Well, now," Elminster muttered again, several times, as he peered into
larders, drew forth tureens, and gathered kindling for the hearthfire.

"He hasn't taken very good care of the place," a familiar voice floated
out of the distance.

Myrmeen's head jerked up. "Laspeera!"

"Well, you know Vangey," another voice agreed wryly, and Caladnei led
three rather battered-looking women down a rubble-strewn passage into
the kitchen. "Aha," she said as Elminster straightened up from the
growing fire. "He had help destroying things. I might have known."

The Crown Princess asked sharply, "So what happened, Mreen,  Is the realm
now at war with Elminster of Shadowdale, "

The Dowager Queen Filfaeril stood with her, both of them stained with
blood and looking as if they'd been in a battle.

Myrmeen shook her head, fresh tears glimmering in her eyes. "No," she
quavered, "but I'm not sure what to tell you first. I ..."

"What befell in Marsember, " a new voice asked from behind the two
highest-ranking War Wizards, causing them in turn to whirl around. "Am I
now holding the last living Obarskyr, "

The glow of a spell was just fading around the ankles of Storm
Silverhand, who stood with the infant Azoun cradled in her arms, the
sage Alaphondar at her side, Florin Falconhand standing watchfully by
with two swords drawn, and Narnra flanking him, drawn daggers in both hands.

Of course, everyone started talking at once.

* * * * *

Storm, Florin, and, surprisingly, Alaphondar and Filfaeril all pitched
in with the cooking, and the resulting feast was wonderful. Much
later, magic being a wonderfully useful thing, the shattered kitchen had
become a haven of warmth and softly leaping firelight, wherein all sat
at ease with boots up and glasses to hand, save for the snoring King of
Cormyr.

It was the first time in years that Narnra Shalace could remember being
truly happy.

"Forgive me," Myrmeen asked her politely across the table, "but I hear
the swifter, harsher speech of Waterdeep on your tongue. What brought
you to Cormyr, "

Narnra smiled. "I was thieving and followed a man I failed to rob, who
intrigued me." She nodded across the room, to where a white-bearded
wizard was gently spell-rocking a conjured cradle for Azoun Obarskyr and
humming a nameless tune, while rubbing the feet of a bootless Storm
Silverhand as she groaned in contentment. "Elminster of Shadowdale,"
Narnra explained, "who turned out to be my father."

"Elminster, " Myrmeen asked. "Your father, "

"Yes. Wherefore I happen," Narnra added, "to be one of the two or maybe
three women in all Waterdeep who /aren't /breathtakingly beautiful."

"Well, luckily the gods didn't give you the worst of his hawk-nose, or
his beard," Myrmeen chuckled. "I remember from my younger days that
being stunningly gorgeous was more bother than it was fun, being as I
wasn't an empty-headed, spiteful little bitch of a noble, looking to
spend my days marrying one nobleman and bedding all the others after
revels."

Narnra nodded, drew in a deep breath, and turned to Caladnei. "So now
that you know all about me, will you still have me in your service,  Or
slay me, "

"Of course I'll still have you," Caladnei replied warmly, and turned her
head to look at the Lady Laspeera. "As for why, you're the best one to
make answer, Speera."

Laspeera nodded. "Narnra," she said gently, "I, too, am a daughter of
Elminster. Welcome, sister. Truly, I am. . . . and there are a lot of us."

"Myself, for instance," Queen Filfaeril said calmly, causing Cor-myrean
jaws to drop all over the room. "Though neither of us knew it for some
years."

"Gods," Myrmeen said, turning to gaze at the bearded man by the cradle.
"You /have /been busy, haven't you, "

------------------------------------------------------------------------

      EPILOGUE

/

Humans like to mark endings, but such events are seldom the real end of
any tale.

/

Amaelree Windhover

/

One Elfin Minstrels' Robes

/

Year of the Splendid Stag

Brine. This leaking cog was loaded with sides of pickled beef,  bound for
Sembia. /Witch of the Dragon Waves, /indeed. Harnrim Starangh sighed and
hastened down the companionway. His spell would wear off in moments, if
some vengeful War Wizard didn't trace him by it before then, and none of
the other ships in Marsember were showing any signs of leaving soon.

He had to get out of Cormyr. With but three spells left to him, and
certain superiors among the Red Wizards certain to be looking for him
with even more fury than these law-mages of the Forest Kingdom, the
mighty Darkspells was going to have to vanish for a while. Perhaps for a
long while.

He had been close. So close . . .

Harnrim Starangh permitted himself a single soft but heartfelt curse
before he worked the magic that would turn him into a ballast-stone . .
. and toppled into the filthy water of the bilges.

* * * * *

Glarasteer Rhauligan was in no mood for delay. His burden had fainted as
he'd carried her along dark and secret tunnels from the portal. The
palace room they were in now was off limits to all but War Wizards, who
were lazyrobes all, which meant that instead of a lantern that had to be
lit, there'd be a hooded glowstone right about, /here./

In the revealed radiance the Highknight selected a row of steel vials
from one of the crammed shelves and started biting off their corks. Why
they couldn't make these so they were easy to open one-handed, he'd
never know.

He forced three of them down Noumea's lovely throat before her eyes
fluttered open and her flank ceased to feel like . . . well, like some
butcher of a nobleman with a sharp sword had slit it open.

"T-Thank you, sir," she murmured, staring at him. "You're . . .
Rhauligan. A Highknight of Cormyr, I believe. I owe you my life. Why, 
What do you intend for me now, "

Rhauligan shook his head. Quick-tongued, these Sembian nobles, even
while weary and weak with half their life-blood spilled. "Bed rest in
one of the state guestchambers yonder," he told her, "a meal if you're
up to it, and /I'm /certainly going to feast, even if you want
nothing, and we'll talk in the morning. Cormyr has a certain shortage of
nobles the realm can trust, right now."

"And one cast-aside highskirts woman from Sembia can make a difference, "

"Lady, one person can /always /make a difference, and their name need not
be Azoun Obarskyr, Vangerdahast, or even Glarasteer Rhauligan, for that
matter. What's Cormyr__or any fair realm, but a lot of lone persons, who
believe in the same thing, " "This is the dream you believe in, " Noumea
murmured, as Rhauligan picked her off her feet and carried her into the
next chamber.

"Lady fair," Rhauligan told her, as he laid Noumea gently on a bed and
started to arrange pillows behind her head, "'tis what gets me up in the
morning."

* * * * *

Bezrar made a choking sound and lurched toward the rail. The /Witch of
the Dragon Waves /was starting to roll and wallow already, with the
harbor barely astern.

"Nine blazing Hells," Surth hissed, swallowing hard to keep his own
gorge down, "are you going to do /that /all the way to Yhaunn, "

His fat business partner's reply was a whirl of impressive alacrity to
grip Malakar Surth's throat with fingers that were as hard as their
arrival was sudden.

//

/"You /shut up, for once, Cleversneer," Aumun Tholant Bezrar snarled
furiously, "or by all the gods I'll, "

He fell silent to gape up into the sky and shrank away from Surth to cower.

Surth whirled around to see what had frightened his partner, knowing as
he did so that it was an action he was going to regret.

He was right. Out of the mists something was gliding past, slow and low
and menacing. Something larger than the /Witch of the Dragon Waves, /and
far more graceful: a gigantic fang dragon with a rainbow-hued swath of
scales on one flank.

When it was quite gone, Bezrar and Surth swallowed in white-faced
unison, there as they cowered on the deck of the creaking, wallowing
merchant cog.

"We can't reach Sembia swift enough for me," Surth whispered, though in
truth he cared not if the rolling ship beneath him was bound for Yhaunn
or the Pirate Isles, or Westgate, or anyplace else in all wide Faerun
that wasn't controlled by Red Wizards. Yet.

"Well," Bezrar growled, from beside him, "at least we're well away from
Darkspells, and all his schemes. /That /one made me shiver, I can tell you!"