Bury Elminster Deep

CHAPTER FOUR

Th-that’s the last!” the carter panted through the curtain of sweat streaming down his large, reddened face. He backed hastily away from the silent men who’d been catching every hay bale he’d tossed, stowing them somewhere in the darkness beyond the alchemist’s alley door.

Panting even harder, he almost fell twice in his feverish haste to get around to the front of his wagon and whip his dozing drays into motion, to race away from Sraunter’s.

It was as if the carter expected death to reach after him. But Manshoon merely favored the dwindling, rattling wagon with a lopsided smile, straightened from his indolent lean against the wall, and sent the slack-faced men he’d been dominating into tossing hay bales back to the alleys. The spells he’d cast on them would slay them-and the carter, too-when he uttered a certain word. He’d do that well before highsun, long before any inquisitive Purple Dragon might think to get around to questioning them about anything.

If matters unfolded as planned, the good soldiers of Cormyr would be rather too busy for inquisitions when the sun rose over Suzail in the morning.

Manshoon closed and barred the alley door. Then he strolled into the littered chamber Sraunter was pleased to call his “concoction room,” where the alchemist was still feverishly busy at his task.

Under the lash of Manshoon’s spell, Sraunter was muttering and scuttling over his stained and scarred worktables, dancing and dashing across the room time and again to check and recheck various bubbling, glowing bowls.

Those hay bales had to be doused with something that would produce poisonous, oily, clinging smoke when they were set afire, and they had to be doused very soon.

But Manshoon trusted that Sraunter knew his work. He had three different mixtures curing, any of which should be enough to clear the Council chamber in frantic haste-and turn anyone stubborn enough to linger into a corpse. Three dooms should be enough to foil any single spell cast to quell smoke, and if the courtiers had ever heard of prudence (and what courtier hadn’t?) the mixtures should also be more than enough to make the courtiers delay holding the Council until they’d made sure no other perils were lurking.

Manshoon managed to keep himself from rubbing his hands in glee, but a fierce grin spread across his face. Ah, with his old foe gone, dark villainy was truly fun again!

“What is that? Smoke?” Amarune pointed at the chill wisps drifting and coiling in the deepest shade, where the trees stood dark and thick.

“Ground mist,” Storm and Arclath replied in unison. The young noble chuckled and gestured grandly at Storm to continue.

With a smile, she obliged. “What sailors call ‘fog’ when it’s near the docks or at sea. Found here most mornings. ’Tis the damp rising as the day warms.”

“Huh,” the dancer replied, hunched against the cold under the trees. “Doesn’t feel very warm yet.”

“Agreed,” Storm replied, cocking her head at a faint rustling in the distance. Fox, or the like, heading home.

All around the three humans, creatures of the woodland day were awakening; the King’s Forest was astir. El was back in her boots for now; Rune was herself again; and Arclath was leading them north, keeping to the forest but following the road.

It wasn’t far off to their right, and Storm had been expecting to see patrolling foresters for some time. The cabin was well behind them, but the cozy, private Delcastle hunting lodge Arclath had promised stood, according to him, more than a day’s brisk walk northward.

The nobleman came up beside her, Amarune on his arm. “Suppose,” he began conversationally, “you unfold to us just a little more of the, ah, life you and Elminster have been leading hereabouts these last few seasons. Our wizards of war seem to regard you as great foes of Cormyr.”

“That view of us appears to be gaining popularity among them,” Storm agreed. “As the passing years take from us older, wiser war wizards and elder courtiers, there is a growing ignorance of us and of She whom we serve-Mystra-in the wake of the great tumult that befell the Art. El and I find this somewhat annoying, given the centuries of work we’ve put into guarding Cormyr so that it’s still here for these magelings to strut about in.”

She smiled, shrugged, and added, “ ’Tis true each new youngling must be taught, but we’re getting older and clashing with arrogant idiots is less and less enjoyable.”

Arclath grinned. “Arrogant idiots like me, for instance?”

Storm shook her head. “You’re no idiot, Arclath Delcastle. Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake or Palace Steward Rorstil Hallowdant- those are idiots. Neither believe we are anything more than common thieves who’ve seen some threescore summers and spent some of those seasons worming our ways into the royal palace.”

Arclath rolled his eyes. “Come, now. You’re not expecting me to believe all those tales about you being thousands of years old, rearing Azoun the Great, tutoring dread Vangerdahast, and suchlike, are you?”

Storm lifted an eyebrow. Arclath rushed on.

“Oh, you’ve borrowed grand reputations from folk out of legend, I’ll grant, but there are no war wizards standing here to impress now. I’ve heard tell you’re really Stornara Rhauligan, and Elminster’s really Elgorn Rhauligan, your father? Older brother? Grandsire? The two of you are supposedly longtime lowly palace servants who were caught stealing magic items and dismissed for it. Some say you’re Harpers or spies for Westgate or Sembia. I… well, I don’t know what to think. It’s just the three of us out here, so let’s have truth, shall we?”

Storm Silverhand stopped and turned to face him, her hair stirring around her like dozens of restless snakes, and her eyes two silver flames. “I don’t expect you to believe anything at all, Lord Delcastle. I’ve noticed your opinion of us changes like the weather, but I hope you’re wise enough to arrive at shrewd judgments of folk, given enough time. So now that we’re together, you’ll watch and listen to us and draw your own conclusions accordingly.”

Arclath came to a stop, too, and faced her. On his arm, Amarune looked from one of them to the other, frowning.

“Very well,” he said calmly. “In the interest of mutual trust, let us assume that the answer you’re about to give me is utter truth and that I’ll believe it. So who are you, really? You and the cloud of slithering ashes who calls himself Elminster?”

“I am Storm Silverhand. Some ninety summers ago, I was the Bard of Shadowdale. Elminster is… Elminster. The Sage of Shadowdale, the Old Mage of legend. We were-are-both Chosen of Mystra, the goddess of magic. Her servants. Her Highknights, if you will.”

“Mystra. A dead goddess, who once ruled-corrupted, some say-all magic.”

“That Mystra,” Storm said calmly, silver tresses still playing around her shoulders like serpents. “Yes.”

“You’re not going to tell me she’s still alive? And that she has some secret, sacred mission for Rune?”

“No,” Storm replied. “I don’t have to.”

Arclath arched one eyebrow. “Oh? Why not?”

“Because I know she’s alive and can tell you myself,” Amarune interrupted firmly. “I’ve met her. And if she has some secret task for me, she’s said nothing about it.”

“Yet,” Arclath told her darkly.

Storm smiled. “Good,” she said briskly, starting to walk north again. “You know who El and I are and as much about Mystra as any mortal dare trust in. We can cover the rest whenever we’ve time to waste talking. As we trudge toward this family hunting lodge of yours, for example.”

Arclath frowned. “Lady… Immerdusk, do you prefer? I don’t believe we’ve quite finished establishing where we stand. Elminster steps into the mind of my beloved whenever he pleases, and is forcing her to…” He felt a sharp tug on his arm.

“Lord Delcastle,” Amarune said sharply, “you will refrain from making assumptions about me, and from thinking I’m some sort of cow or pet snail, docile and brainless, whom you can discuss as if I’m not here.”

“Forgive me, Rune, but that’s just it,” the young nobleman said earnestly, staring into her eyes. “I don’t know if your brain is your own, right now, or if that old wizard is inside your mind forcing you to think one way or another and even keeping you from knowing it!”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” Amarune flared. “Do you think for one momen-”

“Easy, lass,” Storm murmured, reaching out a hand to the dancer. “He can’t know. He hasn’t shared his mind with Elminster or anyone, and so can’t feel what it’s like, or-”

“I’m not letting-!” Arclath roared.

Storm’s slap to his codpiece startled him into silence midsnarl, leaving him staring at her.

“No one is suggesting you’ll have to,” she told him gently. “I was merely soothing Rune by pointing out to her that you have no way of knowing what it’s like when El is in your head. Let me tell the both of you right now that I’m deeply unhappy about his entering Rune’s mind, and I would have fought him to try to prevent it had I not thought it was necessary. His… ah, invasion makes it very hard for us to trust each other… but that’s all we can do now. Plead with you, is perhaps a better way to put it. Trust us. Please. Or this is going to end badly for us all, and soon.”

Arclath was astonished to see tears glistening in her eyes.

Storm smiled wryly and added, “Lord Delcastle, you should thank us. A tenday back you were bored and wandering through the days, chafing at the meaninglessness of your existence and desperate to find some purpose in your life. We’ve taken care of all of that. Welcome to the grandest life of all. Welcome to saving the world.”

Manshoon realized he was smiling again.

The alchemist must be almost done, now. Sraunter had already nodded at one mixture, frowned and stood back, and slowly let himself smile at the second, before carefully shifting it off the heat of the small fire in his grate, Now he devoted his complete attention to the third.

Since forcing the man into nightlong brewing-if that was what alchemists called it-Manshoon had kept himself out of Sraunter’s mind, not wanting to distract him at a crucial moment, or frighten him any further.

Instead, the future emperor of Cormyr had kept back in the shadows, idly examining the alchemist’s shelves for substances that might prove useful in the future, and thinking.

The moment he had effective control over Cormyr-open and absolute command or several steps short of that-he’d set the Dragons of the realm to hunting down Storm Silverhand.

She must be taken alive, with her wits undamaged.

Interrogating her at leisure should yield to him much he desired to know. Secrets of the Chosen, where magic was hidden, and the whereabouts of The Simbul-the onetime Queen of Aglarond, whose Art had been mightier than Elminster’s own. Mad and far too magically powerful for anyone’s safety, that one must be destroyed.

Sraunter turned and nodded eagerly, sweat dripping from his chin. “Ready. All three, ready.”

Manshoon let his smile widen. “Good man. You have saved Cormyr from itself.”

Horns blew a fanfare that the cool morning breeze carried far across Suzail, summoning the invited-the nobility-to the Council of Dragons.

Mreldrake hardly needed the arrival of the hurrying palace doorjack, and Manshoon’s surge from that man’s dark and knowing eyes into his own mind, to know it was time to begin his castings.

Manshoon’s mind was already sharing a crisply clear vision of the soaked and ready hay bales that Sraunter was igniting.

Few mages could translocate fiery materials without troubles, but Mreldrake’s mind was filled, overwhelmed, and steadied by Manshoon’s own, and the hay bales were only just beginning to burn.

Mreldrake caught a glimpse-briefly, before Manshoon firmly sealed that sight away and forced him back to full concentration on the complex spells he was working-of someone else Manshoon was scrying.

It was a noblewoman, unfamiliar to Mreldrake, who had long since risen and checked her appearance in her mirrors more than once already. The fanfare had brought her out onto a balcony to peer excitedly between towers and over grand roofs and the leafy tops of trees at the soaring royal palace of Suzail.

Coaches were already rumbling along the streets, and from her highest window the lady could see some nobles on foot, too, walking in their finery.

Dressed in her best, she hurried down into the streets to join them.

Then she was gone, and Manshoon’s dark amusement was all Mreldrake could see… that and flames rising and crackling from hay bales as Sraunter carefully set each one alight with the burning brand in his hand.

Then Mreldrake could discern something else through the heavy dark weight of Manshoon’s mind. Shouting and the pounding of feet. A bobbing view of a grand palace passage-through the eyes of the same servant who’d brought Manshoon to him-and thick, acrid smoke, its coils a deep, menacing blue warring with a greasy, baleful green, billowing out around the closed doors of the Council chamber.

Hay bale after hay bale his spells plucked from the dim crowding of Sraunter’s back room to the smooth oval of hitherto-empty flagstones at the heart of the Hall of Justice, with its rising tiers of empty, glossy, dark wooden benches all around, until… the work was done. All the little fires had been sent.

The alchemist’s shop went away, and Mreldrake was plunged into a strange, multiple-eyes view of hurrying Purple Dragons, various guards and war wizards being overcome as they arrived to try to investigate… a confused chaos of falling, staggering, then more shouting and barked orders and booted guards scrambling. Name of the Dragon, but Manshoon must have command over the minds of a dozen courtiers or more!

One scene swam nearer, of a palace passage with an angry woman storming along it, a wizard of war he knew all too well…

“No more fanfares!” Glathra called furiously down the passage.

“Lady Glathra?”

“You heard me!”

On the heels of that furious bellow, Wizard of War Glathra Barcantle spun around to part a curtain and say in a far gentler voice, “Your Majesty, I fear the Council cannot proceed. This day, at least. Not unless you want to die-and all the senior nobility of the realm with you.”

“Understood,” came the calm reply from the alcove behind the curtain. “There are some who would welcome that particular extermination, but I can’t count myself among them. I take it you’d prefer I withdraw, bodyguards and all, to the royal wing? Right now?”

“Your wisdom is as swift and keen as ever, Majesty.”

“Would that your flattery were shining truth,” came the affectionate, rather sad murmur. “We go.”

“Good,” Glathra breathed, letting the curtain fall and spinning around again to glare at a Purple Dragon lionar who was stumbling up to her, coughing hard, his face gray. He waved a hand, fighting to speak but failing.

A swordcaptain behind the lionar tried to speak in his stead, only to be plunged into helpless coughing and retching. “I–I-”

“Fools!” Glathra snapped. “Keep clear of the smoke! Close the doors across the passages by the Hall of Victories and by Queen Alvandira’s bower-open all windows and doors hard by us, here! We must get rid of the smoke!”

Catching sight of a wizard hurrying up from the other direction, she pointed at him and ordered, “Tracegar, strip all wizards of war from their assigned guardposts and get into the Hall of Justice and get rid of whatever’s causing this!”

“B-but-”

“There’ll be no Council this day! Do it!”

She turned back the other way, saw a young mage she recognized peering anxiously out of one of the rooms along the passage, and snapped, “Tarmuth, go after the king’s bodyguard, and make sure all of them put on night helms to keep them from being traced or influenced by spells! Hurry!”

Tarmuth nodded hastily and ran, but someone else was shouting at Glathra, and his voice was not friendly.

“Glathra,” an older mage called, appearing through a door with a handful of fellow senior war wizards behind him, “I don’t recall you being named lord warder! Surely-”

“Surely someone must guard the king before all else, Raeldar! Seeking to do anything less courts treason, does it not?”

“But why call off the Council?” another of the mages growled as they hastened up to her. Courtiers were appearing now, too, fleeing the smoke or appearing out of various chambers, drawn by the shouting. “The king will be less than pleased!”

“I have spoken with the king,” Glathra roared, her voice as deep and clear as many a burly Dragon swordcaptain’s, “and he saw in a moment what you have not: that the fires are not normal-hence magic is involved-and there must therefore be a traitor among the wizards of war, unless someone read our minds and so knew how to defeat our wards without alerting us or breaking them. Now, where does that compel your thinking, Brandaeril?”

The older wizard regarded her soberly, nodding as he considered and then announced, “Glathra is right. We have no choice but to delay the Council while we investigate. To do aught else could well be to doom King Foril and imperil the peace of the realm.”

“Aye,” Raeldar agreed reluctantly. “Ganrahast and Vainrence, if they were here, could hardly act differently. We must quell the smoke, learn all we can, cleanse the room, and cast new wards around it, then cry a new time for the Council across the city.”

Manshoon tightened his grip on Mreldrake’s mind, thrusting like iron-hard talons, and the suddenly mute, helpless wizard of war felt himself torn away from the scrying that had been showing him Glathra. In bewildering haste, his limbs not his own, he threw open his chamber door and hurried to the passage where everyone was gathering around her, to offer his obedient services.

It was too much to hope she’d be careless enough to let anyone who had a hand in crafting the first set of wards also work on the second, but a loyal war wizard would eagerly make the offer, so…

As he flung open the door and stepped into the crowded passage, Manshoon abruptly left Mreldrake’s mind. Entirely.

Which could only mean Mreldrake wasn’t expected to succeed in trying to be a part of the new wards.

He could grasp that much, no matter how dazed and shaking he was. Wiping sweat from his face and gulping to calm his panting, Mreldrake tried vainly to relax.

“You thought your work was done? Ah, but no, brave master of alchemy!”

Manshoon’s smile was gentle, but Sraunter broke into helpless shivering, chilled anew by sudden sheer terror. What now?

“We’ve merely begun,” Manshoon murmured, bursting into the alchemist’s mind before the man could even whimper. “We’re going for a little ride, you and I. You’ve done so well with the hay bales that you deserve good food and better drink, not to mention some laughter and a chance to restock your sadly depleted larder, in a score or more of the best-and worst-clubs, taverns, and shops across this fair city. Places in which you’ll oh-so-slyly spread rumors of various wild and mysterious attacks upon the palace.”

“But-but I don’t know what to say!”

“Ah, as to that, lose all fear. I’ll guide your tongue, and I’ve done this a time or two before. Rulers must learn to hear and steer rumors, or they soon run out of time to learn anything at all.”