Crown of Fire

Seventeen Business Before Pleasure

Mirt waved his saber; sunlight flashed and glimmered along its edge. More than one Zhentilar eyed that blade warily. The fat man obviously knew how to use it, and the bare fist that held it was as large as some men’s heads. Yet there were over sixty blades set against it, and nothing to protect the old one’s back. The outcome was certain; he and Shandril were doomed. A Zhentilar officer muttered, “Easy, now—strike all at once, and we’ll run him through from all sides like a pleasure-queen’s pincushion.”

There were scattered chuckles as the Zhentilar took the last few steps they’d need. Mirt stared around at them, wild-eyed, sword waving desperately. And then he smiled and flung himself backward, arching over Shandril’s body. He raised his arm as the warriors rushed in, and the plain brass ring on it flashed, once.

The air was suddenly full of whirling, deadly steel. As the blood spattered him and the screams sounded all around, Mirt drew back his arm and felt for the hilt of his saber. Only a short time passed before the blades vanished again, but the screams ended even sooner. The courtyard around him ran with blood; it looked like a butcher’s back-room floor.

Mirt grinned and clambered to his feet. “Handy things, blade barriers,” he said, surveying the carnage. His eyes searched the walls for archers or overenthusiastic mages. Tymora smiled on him, for once.

“Up, lass,” Mirt growled, and plucked Shandril’s limp form up from the flagstones. He draped her over his arms, his saber still held securely in one hand, and staggered across the courtyard, wheezing under his load.

The maid in his arms grew no lighter as he lumbered out through an archway, down a lane strewn with bodies of citizens the Zhents had slain, and turned left at the first cross street. Smoke rose from shattered towers here and there; fallen stone was everywhere, and priests and wizards rushed wildly in all directions, each accompanied by a trotting bodyguard. “The high priest is dead!” one mage shouted excitedly to another.

“Blasphemous nonsense!” another shrieked back, and the two men’s bodyguards surged into each other in a crash and skirl of viciously plied weapons.

Whether Fzoul was dead or not, the spell-battle had reduced the Zhents to a state of chaos.

Mirt was glad he saw no Zhentilar patrols as he made his way down the ruined streets, turning right then left. He trotted down avenues and up short rises, and still no soldiers blocked his way. A few folk gave him startled glances, and one warrior did step out of a tavern as he passed. But the soldier took one look at the blood-covered warrior with a drawn sword and a woman dangling in his arms—Mirt gave him a fierce grin—and his face paled. He hastily drew back out of sight.

“Tymora, I owe you one—or even two,” Mirt gasped, as he sighted the purple door he was looking for and crossed to it.

The door was closed, and the iron-caged lamps on either side of it had burned low. But Mirt kicked out hard, and the door boomed satisfyingly. Once, twice, and a third and fourth time his boot found its mark.

His toes were beginning to feel a little the worse for wear, but as he drew back his foot for another assault, the door swung open as far as its safe-chains would allow. A painted, pouting lady looked disapprovingly out. She surveyed Mirt up and down—blood, Shandril, and all—and her expression did not improve.

“We’ve had all the trade we can handle for the night, thank you—you’ll just have to come back morrow-even, and—”

Mirt handed her his sword. “Here—hold this.”

The lady hesitated, then took it, staggering for a moment under the weight of the old, massive saber. Mirt shifted Shandril more fully into his freed hand, and shoved his other hand under the pleasure-queen’s nose. The small silver harp winked at her, catching the light. Her eyes rose slowly from it to his blood-spattered face, and then she undid the chains hurriedly, whispering, “Come in!”

“Oh, Great Dark One, lord of the heights and depths, hear us!”

Elthaulin was in his element, intoning the ritual in the deepest, grandest voice he could manage, his words rolling into the farthest echoing corners of the Grand Chancel of the Black Altar.

“Lord Bane, hear us,” the thunderous murmur of half a hundred underpriests and postulants answered.

Elthaulin raised his hands slowly, trembling for maximum effect. “Bane, hear us!”

“Lord Bane, hear us,” came the massed response. Elthaulin let the dark purple faerie fire radiance ripple into view at the tips of his fingers and crawl slowly down his upraised arms. There were a few gasps from the assembled worshippers; the upperpriest hid his smile. That trick got some of the innocents, every time.

He drew breath for the Great Invocation. Only Fzoul could speak it, by tradition, but Fzoul had neglected to forbid Elthaulin from doing it in his absence, and Lord Bane would not be pleased by its omission. Then he stopped in confusion, peering at the back of the chancel. Underpriests had left their places by the doors and were running in the gloom of the sanctuary, stopping to bend over priests in the congregation. Priests were rising and leaving their places.

What is going on?

In shock, he realized he’d asked that question aloud—and grins were forming on more than one of the uplifted faces below. Fury washed over him, and Elthaulin strode to the edge of the raised dais and sent his voice booming out over the confusion. “Who dares disturb the worship of Bane, Lord Over All?” Abruptly he recognized the face of one of the priests hurrying up the central aisle, and his expression grew pale.

Fzoul snapped at him in a voice that carried to the far corners of the chancel, “Oh, stop that nonsense, Elthaulin. Bane has heard you and is deeply appreciative. This service of worship is now at an end. I need all priests of the rank of Trusted Servant or greater to assemble in the Robing Room. Watchful Brothers, guard the doors of the temple; all who have not taken the robes of Bane are to be escorted out. The Deadly Adepts are in charge. Haste—or perish!”

There were raised voices, and even screams, from the lay worshippers, but others left as slowly as they were allowed, enjoying the sight of priests of Bane actually running and looking startled and upset. Elthaulin let his faerie fire slowly fade, and he stood watching.

Fzoul turned on his heel without another word to his Priest of the Chancel, and headed for the Robing Room, priests thickly clustered around him.

Elthaulin kept his face carefully calm, but no one who looked at his eyes could have missed his murderous glare, directed at the retreating Fzoul. His dark eyes flamed almost as fiercely as the Black Hand of Bane behind him over the lesser altar. The altar was giving off black fire, the first direct sign from Dread Lord Bane in over a year. It was a pity no one noticed it.

In the Robing Room, Fzoul turned and held up his hands for silence. His head still throbbed painfully; the wild spellblast that had brought his bookcase crashing down on him had been one of the last hurled by the beholders in Spell Court. By the time he’d come to on the floor beside his desk, it was all over—the maid Shandril had vanished, beholders lay dead everywhere, and the citadel was in tumult.

Fzoul watched coldly as some of the priests in the rear of the rushing throng ran into the backs of their fellows before they realized the room was packed. When order and silence held sway, Fzoul said, “A terrible threat to our Brotherhood is attacking the Citadel of the Raven. I need all of you to help; the eye tyrants were in grave trouble when I left.”

If anything, the hush grew even greater. Fzoul could even hear the nearest Brother breathing.

The high priest looked around with cold eyes and added, “The Lord Manshoon recently established a gate magically linking the citadel with the High Tower. All of you, come with me now. We’re going to a place normally reserved for our brothers of Art—the Wizards’ Watch Tower. Beware—touch nothing and work no magic without my prior approval. There may be many magical defenses. We go to gain what magic we can seize, not to be caught in magical traps or mistaken castings. I shall go through the gate first. Orders are to be followed without question from this moment on—death shall be dealt on the spot for disobedience.”

He turned toward the nearest door and, without another word, led the way to the gate. Time enough for them to learn about spellfire when they were dying under it.

There was murmuring all around. Shandril seemed to be rising up through warm water toward a lighted place. Not far away, someone was talking. Soothing female tones, mingled with a deeper man’s growl—she knew that voice! Mirt!

Shandril opened her eyes and found herself looking at a truly amazing painted ceiling. Her eyes hadn’t wandered very far along its curves and colors before she felt her cheeks burning. Where was she?

She turned her head. Lacy undergarments hung on a rail on the back of a half-open door—with a whip dangling beside them. The voices were coming in through the doorway from somewhere below. She lay still in the lush boudoir and listened.

“I wish I’d seen that,” came one wistful female voice.

“Ye could hardly have missed it,” Mirt protested. “Beholders crashing from the sky, lightning flashing from tower to tower right over ye, here! Ye—”

The female voice that cut in then sounded rather crisp. “We were busy, Old Wolf. Busy at something that, if done well, rather holds sway over our attention and senses. Or have you never known the attentions of a lady?”

“No, Belarla,” Mirt rumbled, “I could never afford ladies, myself. I always had to settle for women!”

He was answered by one dry chuckle, and one sniff.

Then Belarla’s voice said, “Pass the ointment, Oelae—I feel rubbed raw. Aren’t those towels dry yet, Old Wolf?”

“They’re hurrying, they’re hurrying,” Mirt said. “I’m not used to thy stone irons … and besides, these towels got so excited, sliding over ye—”

“Enough! It may surprise you, Mirt, but when you’ve done this for a year or three, you’ve heard all the jokes and smart remarks so many times over that any feeble humor they might once have had is gone—quite gone.”

“Don’t ye love me any more?” Mirt asked in mock sobs.

“That’s another remark of the same sort,” was the dry reply. “Hurry up with those towels … we’ve got to be ready to leave the moment your maid is awake—or if she wakes not, whene’er we dare move her.”

“Where to?” Mirt rumbled.

“We’ve got to get her out of the city,” the other pleasure-queen said. “There’s no place to hide a woman in a house of pleasure.”

“Don’t ye have cellars?”

“The busiest places of all,” Belarla told him crisply. “Too many men like to pretend they’re in a dungeon—gods know why! No, Oelaerone’s right, Old Wolf. We’ve got to move her from here. Half the soldiers in the citadel will be in and out of here by next morning. My younger girls start coming in just after evenfeast—and the first customers hot on their heels.”

“Or something,” Oelaerone said quickly before Mirt could. “I’ve been in better places to defend against the Zhentarim than this old breeze-box, too.”

“If the Zhentarim discover Shandril’s here,” Belarla responded, “it’s not defending the place we’ll have to worry about—it’s dying well in the few breaths we’ll have left.”

A chill ran through Shandril. Here were yet more folk she’d pulled into danger. Mirt must have followed her to the citadel, somehow, and rescued her … she had hazy memories of seeing him running toward her after the last beholder had finally gone down. He’d brought her to a house of pleasure …. Typical of Mirt.

Her lips quirked, but she was too horrified to smile. These two ladies could be dead before night fell if the Zhentarim found her here …. And who can hide from the magic archmages wield?

The voices downstairs went on. As quietly as she could, Shandril swung her legs over the side of the couch. She felt empty and weak inside, and her arms and one hip were stiff, but she was whole and everything moved properly. Someone had sponged her face and hands clean, but she was still dressed. Experimentally, she held up a hand and gathered her will.

A dull ache instantly smote the back of her head from within—but her hand flamed with spellfire. She was ready for a fight. Stretching and wiggling her fingers, Shandril gathered her courage and slipped out of the room. If she could help it, she’d never bring death to any friends again … the way Delg had found death. Her lips moved in a soundless prayer: gods will it so.

With the air of a man who had expected to ruin a task but had triumphed instead, Mirt passed warm, fluffy towels to Oelaerone. She merely raised amused eyebrows, and Mirt harrumphed at her and reached for the bottle of wine they’d brought him. He took a swig of the ruby red Westgate vintage, sighed lustily, and took another. His lips were still at the mouth of the raised bottle when he saw movement out of the corner of one eye—Shandril, passing the doorway like a wind-driven ghost, on her way to the front entrance.

Mirt choked, coughed good Westgate Ruby all down the front of his clothes, and bellowed, “Shan! Stop!” The answering bang of the door told him she was out onto the street. Mirt groaned, pulled on his boots, stamping in haste, and snatched up his saber as he hurried for the door. “She’ll be needing me,” he said.

Belarla looked at the drawn blade and reached under the table.

There was a snapping sound as she twisted something free, followed by a grating noise as she slid a long, needle-like blade into view. It gleamed blue in her hand. “Where are we bound?” she asked calmly.

“The Wizards’ Watch Tower,” Mirt rumbled from the doorway.

Belarla raised her eyebrows and sighed. “Ah, well,” she said, as they hurried out. “I was getting tired of Zhentilar men, anyway.”

“A good life, while it lasted,” Oelaerone agreed, slamming the purple door behind them. “Lead on, Old Wolf.”

The time for secrecy was past. Fzoul strode across the antechamber. By the flickering light of the gate behind him, he pushed the eyes of the gasping maiden carved on the wall. Her ivory tongue slid out from between the parted lips, and he pressed it down with one finger. There was a dull grating sound, and the rest of the carved wall—satyrs, nymphs, and all—slid inward and sideways, revealing a dark opening. Fzoul snapped his fingers, and glow-fire swirled into being around that hand. Holding his arm high like a torch to light the way, he set off down the secret passage, excited underpriests hurrying behind him.

The passage was long, cold, and damp. Where it dipped in the center of its run, shallow puddles glistened on the floor. Fzoul ignored them, and the illusion of the lich rising from its coffin to stare at the intruders. He strode on past it—and right through the stone wall behind it. The passage continued into a round room somewhere beneath Wizards’ Watch Tower.

Fzoul set off briskly up the spiral stair there, passing the many closed doors that led off its steps. He climbed round and round until he was quite out of breath—and the stair ended at a door inset with a palely glowing white orb. He touched the door, hissed the word that opened it, and the light in the orb faded away. When it was dark and the door was safe to open, he waved a silent order to the priests behind him. Strong, eager hands slid the heavy stone sideways, and Fzoul stepped into the spell chamber he’d met Manshoon in, once or twice.

A man, the only occupant of the room, turned from studying glowing symbols on the floor. Orbs of shimmering glass floated above the runes, drifting in slow orbits above the symbols they were linked to. Fzoul came to an abrupt halt and said coldly, “I did not expect to find you here, Sarhthor.”

Sarhthor nodded, not smiling. “I could say the same of you, Lord Priest.” He waved at the floor. “I’ve been working spells, trying to trace the maid Shandril—she must be in the citadel still, cloaked by the scrying defenses we’ve built up so carefully. Otherwise, I’d surely have found her by now.”

“Have you set the magelings to searching in person?”

“That’s why you find me alone,” Sarhthor replied calmly. “My time for spitting orders is past.”

Fzoul gave him a sharp look but said nothing. The high priest looked down at the winking runes inset into the floor, and up at the orrery turning ponderously overhead, and finally said, “Well, I suggest we begin to work together, tracking Shandril by magic.” He turned. “Ansiber—you and all other Brothers of Striking Hand rank and greater, attend here to me. The rest of you—split into sixes and eights and search the citadel. Instant elevation to the Inner Ring awaits any priest who brings Shandril to me alive. Rouse the citadel against her!”

There was an excited murmur and a rushing of robes until only a dozen or so priests remained. Fzoul looked at them, nodded, and said to Sarhthor, “Have you any water?”

“The quenching-pool, there; the drinking-ewer, there—and, somewhat used, in the chamber pot behind that screen.”

“The pool will do.” The Master of the Black Altar turned to the priests. “Attend!” he commanded, and they hastened to his side. He pointed at the pool and ordered, , “Prepare it for scrying.”

The priests bent to their work, and soon a thin, dripping disc of water as large across as the span of seven men’s arms floated at waist height in the spell chamber, rippling and glowing faintly.

As he stepped forward to look into it, Fzoul smiled.

“She cannot escape us now,” he said in satisfaction.

Beside him, Sarhthor shrugged. “I’ve thought that before. Yet perhaps this time, we can make sure.”