Bury Elminster Deep

CHAPTER EIGHT

I n front of Burrath, his master stopped and peered up past the gate of watchful stone lion head, to the tiers of lit, many-paned windows rising into the night above.

“This is our destination?” he asked quietly.

The guide Glarvreth had sent to fetch his exalted guest merely nodded and rapped a complicated rhythm on a little panel in a recess set into the stone just beside the gate doors.

Lord Oldbridle stepped back, giving Burrath a swift “be ready” glance. Nothing in his master’s face suggested that Olgarth Oldbridle was impressed in the slightest by the Suzailan mansion of Andranth Glarvreth, wealthy and successful ironmongery and glasspane merchant-but then, these days, the jaded and cynical head of House Oldbridle was very seldom impressed by anything.

Inside Burrath’s quivering and defeated mind, Manshoon smiled, awaiting the entertainment soon to come. If anything in this part of the world was more haughtily ridiculous than a Cormyrean noble, it was a rising newcoin personage who hungrily sought to join the ranks of that nobility.

Like this man Glarvreth, who’d invited Oldbridle to dinner. Seeking his support, no doubt, which meant this meal should be an enjoyable feed rather than an agonized and ultimately fatal nightmare of poisoning.

The gates opened, servants bowed, and they passed within. Burrath held his peace, offering no challenges to the retainers who glared at him as he followed his master, striding along just behind Oldbridle’s right shoulder. They offered no open insult, for if a noble had been limited to just one bodyguard, that guardian should be considered extremely capable, well equipped, and dangerous.

Manshoon waited until the polite greetings were done and Glarvreth had politely asked if, as he fondly hoped, this evening found Lord Oldbridle in the fairest of health.

That was when Burrath leaned forward to murmur in his master’s ear, loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear, “My Lord Oldbridle, twice in the streets I caught sight of men I believe were following us. It is only right that Lord Glarvreth should know.”

If his master was annoyed at his bodyguard’s boldness or at Burrath’s referring to their host as if the man had achieved the nobility he so hungrily craved, he did not show it. For his part, Glarvreth flushed with pleasure at the honorific and gave a silent hand signal to his retainers. Burrath did not appear to even glance at their movements, but Manshoon knew how many departed and that they were armed with daggers and bowguns no doubt treated with venom.

They slipped out into the streets to hunt no one at all. Manshoon had invented the followers he’d made Burrath speak of, but he was certain Glarvreth’s zealous agents would find some. Slaughter was coming to the streets of Suzail, giving Emperor Manshoon something to crack down on.

Burrath knew only a little of what his master suspected-but Manshoon was well aware, from visiting certain minds in the palace, that Andranth Glarvreth headed a long-established covert Sembian presence in Suzail that had been patiently awaiting a good chance to seize power for years.

This Council seemed increasingly likely to provide a superb opportunity. Of course, Glarvreth’s cabal would have to thwart some rival undercover factions seeking to accomplish the same thing-such as the one headed by Kormoroth of Westgate. And if open civil strife broke out, they would have to be very careful as to which Cormyrean nobles they backed and whom they’d slay, betray, or thwart.

Some nobles wanted a return to elder days in Cormyr, when a handful of wealthy and powerful oldcoin noble Houses ran the realm and kept a puppet Obarskyr on the throne, with a royal magician who served the foremost Houses as the royal leash, And any wizards of war the kingdom might suffer to exist would be mere hedge-wizards who patrolled with the lowliest Dragons and did the bidding of swordcaptains. Newer and more minor noble families could be swept into graves at the earliest pretext, shopkeepers and farmers firmly reminded of their proper places underfoot. And Sembia taught a sharp, swift lesson in a war that would loot their coffers and restore the Bleths, Cormaerils, and the rest to staggering wealth and whimsical lives of ordering matters in cities and realms far away. Lord Alsevir and Lord Huntcrown led that faction, but there were some hints that each man was preparing to oust the other, if ever he got power and opportunity enough.

Then there were two smaller groups of oldcoin nobles who wanted the Obarskyrs gone and a new royal House on the Dragon Throne.

The schemers led by Lord Crownrood, on the other hand, wanted “the old rot” of all the long-prominent families swept from the kingdom. The likes of the Illances, Crownsilvers, and Huntcrownsuch would be exiled or exterminated, so past excesses and treacheries would never be repeated as the realm flourished anew under the wise and benevolent rule of King Melder Crownrood, of course. Manshoon could barely suppress a snort just thinking of those arguments.

The schemers led by the Goldfeathers and the Emmarasks wanted a ruling council of six lords-unsurprisingly led by House Goldfeather and House Emmarask-to choose a king to do their bidding, after which all the large and wealthy noble families not on the Council, old and new, would be stripped of wealth and titles and turned out of the realm by order of that stern new king. Just how the six ruling lords intended to manage that, Manshoon hadn’t yet heard… and he doubted they’d prepared any proper plan for carrying out that grand scouring, or could, when the time came, accomplish anything set forth in any plan at all.

The younger and more minor Houses understandably wanted no part of oldcoin rule. Manshoon had heard of factions led by Lords Halvaeron and Torchmore but hadn’t yet identified who really supported them or what plans and preparations-if any-they had made.

He had heard whispers galore among the nobility gathered in Suzail that someone was meddling in nobles’ minds-must be, to make the timid act so boldly and stalwart oldcoats abandon their long-nursed feuds so swiftly and completely-but there was no agreement at all as to who was doing it, and how.

Well, the “how” was magic, of course, but cast by whom? Hired outlander mages, or wizards of war playing their own games or serving the Crown in some dark set-nobles-against-nobles scheme-the identity of the caster was something titled Cormyreans could not agree on. Not even to decide if the mage who’d so emboldened and advised the young fool Stormserpent was the same spellhurler who must be hiding the commander of the blueflame ghosts from all the house wizards-and palace mages, too-seeking the ghost-wielder.

Manshoon suppressed a smile. It was nice to have one’s meddlings noticed and feared, even if no one knew who was behind them, yet. Ah, but the time for that would come…

They were being led into a high-beamed, splendid feasting hall. One of its walls was covered in magnificent relief carvings of hunting scenes, the opposite wall pierced by an impressive row of toweringly, narrow, arched windows. Polished platters gleamed back the reflections of many candles hanging in sconces, which also mirrored flickering flames all along the row of windows.

Glarvreth turned with a smile. “Be welcome to my table, Lord Oldbridle! Let us-”

The rest of his words were lost in a series of nigh deafening, shrieking crashes, as several of the windows burst into the room, shattering into countless tumbling shards under the boots of heavily armed men swinging on stout ropes. The men landed hard, staggering as they whipped out swords and hand axes, then set to work hacking and hewing anyone who moved.

Glarvreth shouted and fled, his guest forgotten.

Guards streamed into the hall, but the invaders ignored them. They raced after Glarvreth as the merchant wrenched open a secret door in the hunting-scene wall and plunged through it.

Lord Oldbridle tried to follow-but got chopped to the floor by the foremost armed intruder.

Burrath drove his sword over the dying lord and right down the throat of Oldbridle’s slayer. Then he sprang free and crashed through the door, shoulder first, before Glarvreth could shove it closed.

Flung backward by the door, the merchant promptly fled.

“Close it! Close it!” he shrieked over his shoulder as he disappeared down a dark and narrow passage that ran along behind the carved wall.

Burrath did so as fast as he could, hacking at an intruder trying to burst through, until the man fell back. The door slammed. Finding a bar and stout cradles to hold it, he barred the door for good measure.

Heavy blows promptly fell upon the closed door. He did not tarry to see how long it would hold.

“Who’s your foe?” he shouted, running after Glarvreth.

“Kormoroth of Westgate!” a shout came back. “Didn’t you recognize him? You just killed him!”

A heavy, metallic crash followed those words as some sort of portcullis slammed down across the passage in front of Burrath, separating him from the fleeing Glarvreth.

The bodyguard stopped, shrugged, and retreated down the passage past the barred door. Enthusiastically wielded axes started to bite through it, but it was stout and thick; he should have ample time to find another way out of Glarvreth’s mansion.

In the other direction, the passage ended at a door that opened into a back pantry. Cooks and maids scurried and screamed; his arrival sent them dashing headlong into rooms beyond.

Manshoon took his borrowed body after them, confident they’d take a back way out-kitchen slops must go somewhere, and almost always through a handy rear exit-and he could follow them to somewhere far from murderous cabals from Westgate.

Not that this night had been wasted. Far from it. Andranth Glarvreth was a badly frightened man, and the struggle for Cormyr’s future was now short one ambitious adventurer-merchant outlander. Ah, well, no doubt the butchery would manage to stumble along without him.

“Here,” Amarune said suddenly, ducking into a gate. “This is private enough!” She dragged Storm into the gateway with her and flung her arms around the taller woman.

“Rune,” Arclath hissed, still panting from having just jumped down from the saddle of a hurrying horse, wrestled the same winded and upset mount to a pawing, bucking halt, then plucked his white-knuckled lady down from that same saddle, “What’re you doing? This is the royal gardens! They’re guarded at night, and-”

“No harm done, lord, if your lasses come no farther in,” the calm growl of a veteran Purple Dragon came out of the darkness on the far side of the gate. “Unless-ahem-ye’re in need of some trifling assistance in, ah, handling them-”

“That won’t be necessary,” Arclath snapped, tugging a little tentatively at the two embracing women. He had hold, he discovered, of Storm’s elbow. In response to his pulling she made an ardent moaning sound, setting Rune to helpless giggling.

He let his hand fall, knowing without looking that ashes would be streaming from the tall Harper to his beloved. His Amarune was surrendering to Elminster.

Again.

“Damn you, wizard,” he said under his breath, catching himself just in time to avoid announcing to the guard-and all the Dragon’s unseen fellows; they never stood guard alone-that a mage was involved in this.

“The palace is still open to those announcing their belated arrival for the Council, I suppose?” he asked more loudly.

“No, lord,” came the firm reply, out of the night. “There’s been… trouble. The Council’s put off until morning, and palace and court both locked up tight now, under full guard. Were I you, I’d take yourselves well away from here until you hear the three horncalls on the morrow. If you or anyone tries to get in before then, we’ve orders to resist. Forcibly.”

“Ah. I quite see. My thanks, loyal sword.”

“Fair even to you, lord,” came the friendly reply.

Arclath sighed and tugged at Storm’s elbow again. This time she and Amarune came willingly back into the street with him.

“You have warm bathwater at Delcastle Manor, I presume?” the silver-haired Harper asked sweetly.

“We do,” Arclath replied curtly, setting a brisk pace down the Promenade toward the brightly lit stretch where it swept around the imposing front of the royal court. “And while you splash, Lady Immerdusk, I have some words I’d like to exchange with a certain Elminster.”

“Ye’re saving them, lad?” Rune muttered in Elminster’s voice. “Are ye now short of words, for some reason? I hadn’t noticed any lack of them!”

By highsun the next day, the bodyguard of a murdered noble might be a hunted man in Suzail-or might be far beneath the notice of local lawkeepers, if the Council went the way he expected it to. Manshoon took no chances. Burrath scaled the taller shop next to the alchemist’s and made the dangerous leap down onto Sraunter’s roof, landing with a teeth-rattling, roof-shaking thud that roused the reelingly exhausted Sraunter from his bed. Saving Burrath the trouble of shaking him awake.

Manshoon had the alchemist give Burrath something to drink that would send him right down into slumber and keep him there for a good long time, then forced the long-suffering Sraunter to yield up his own bed to the man.

Sraunter was too falling-down weary to argue. He fell asleep in the next room after scrabbling up the blanket he wanted from a seldom-opened chest.

Manshoon left him that way and rode one of the five beholderkin out into the night. There were dozens of little touches that still needed seeing to, if the Council was to be the splendid success-or, to those who liked Cormyr’s present ways and stability, the utter disaster-he intended it to be.

“These realms,” he murmured, causing the beholderkin to emit a hissing hum, “belong to those who care to shape them to their will. Until I eliminate all others who dare such shapings, of course.”

Arclath had firmly shut the door on the carefully expressionless faces of the servants who’d pumped the hot water up from the kitchen kettles, leaving them to think whatever thoughts they wanted to about the younger Lord Delcastle sharing the manor’s best bathing chamber with a mask dancer and an unfamiliar silver-haired woman.

Storm plunged into the large, pink, marble bath his mother liked to soak in, even before Arclath got himself turned around to offer her a robe. He suddenly faced a swiftly disrobing Rune, who promptly perched on the edge of the bath and told him, in Elminster’s growl, “Ye know this Council is going to fall into bloodshed and civil strife, don’t ye? With Foril slain right then and there, if Tymora smiles not and we don’t fight hard and well?”

“What?” Arclath snapped back at him. “Even with the mighty Elminster standing guard over it?”

Elminster shrugged. “How so?” He waved one of Rune’s arms down at her bare and shapely self-even as Storm rose like a striding sea devil from the bath, gesturing to Rune that the waters were all hers-and told the young noble sourly, “This body won’t even get me through the doors.”

Arclath’s mouth clamped down into a thin, hard line, and his stare became a murderous glare.

“Oh, no,” he spat. “No. I am not letting you into my head. I’m sure you can use some spell or other to force your way in and burn away my hold over my own body in mere moments-but I’ll fight you. I will never surrender my body, nor let House Delcastle’s vote and voice be stolen by… by a wizard I can’t trust, who could in truth be anyone, who… who…”

He ran out of words and clawed the air furiously, in an exasperated “away with you!” gesture.

Storm ducked under his flailing arm and plucked up a robe, leaving Rune to reply, as she in turn sank down in the warm, scented water, “I won’t be forcing my way into thy mind, lad. ’Tis not necessary. Yet. I’m merely warning ye to expect the worst. I can see it ahead, and I’m nigh powerless to stand against it.”

“So you’re not the legendary, all-powerful Elminster?”

“I was never all-powerful. Not even close. I was at best a scurrying, none-too-organized, overworked castle errand-boy. Aye, that’s the best way for ye to view what I did and was. I’m a lot less than that now. And, yes, there’s precious little I can do to stave off disaster at the Council.”

“ ‘Precious little’?” Arclath flung back at him bitterly. “So why do you always act as if you can take care of everything?”

El wagged a wise old finger in a way Amarune would never have done, and said mildly, “That master-of-all-things act accomplishes much, lad. All by itself. Try it; ye’ll see.”

“Gah!” Arclath burst out, words failing him again.

Storm tapped him on the shoulder. “After all that tramping through the forest, you need a bath,” she said gently. “And while you’re in there, sluice off a little of that seething anger and give us back the jaunty, debonair Fair Flower of House Delcastle that all Suzail is so used to seeing sporting airily about the streets.”

Arclath glared at her, trying-and succeeding-to keep his eyes above her chin and not straying down to the rest of her, which she was casually using the panels of the open robe to rub dry.

“And with Cormyr about to plunge into blood-drenched disaster, what good will that do?” he snapped.

“Entertain us all far more than your seething anger,” she replied gently.

“Gah!” Elminster supplied helpfully, before Arclath could find the breath he needed to make that very same comment again.

Arclath stared at him-or rather, at Amarune’s bare, wet body, as she stepped out of the bath to take the robe Storm was offering her-then turned and hurled himself into the bath in a great angry dive that sent its waters crashing against walls and ceilings.

Somehow, as bubbles roared past his ears and the half-dissolved scented soaps in the water made his eyes start to sting, he felt a little better.

He might be heading into the worst noble-slaughtering bloodbath Cormyr had ever seen, but at least he’d be clean and smell sweet.