Elminster Enraged

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The prisoners of Irlingstar, nobles all, had been gleeful about the first two deaths, but the explosions and the killing of Lord Quensyn Rhangobrar had, it seemed, abruptly changed their collective mood.

“Do something, constable!”

“Aye! Our hides are at risk, now! ’Tis your duty, no less!”

The shouts were loud, angry, and fearful, the demands that Farland do something many and shrill.

“Kill this drow here, for a start!”

That indicated dark elf gave the furious and tentatively advancing noblemen a wry smile, and murmured the last words of a spell.

And the very air around them flickered, flowed, and … every last noble facing the lord constable and the five standing with him staggered, sagged-and crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

In the silence that followed, Wizard of War Imbrult Longclaws spun around to fix the she-drow with a suspicious glare, his wand ready in his hand. “The wards are … gone, in this room at least,” he challenged her. “How did you do that?”

“Magic,” the dark elf told him serenely.

Gulkanun moved to face her, his wands in hands and taking care to keep well away from Longclaws. The drow had slipped aside when they’d come out into the room, to keep her back to a wall so she couldn’t be attacked from two sides. She was watching him realize this, and smiling. Gulkanun’s frown of suspicion grew darker.

“Duth Gulkanun,” she said to him, “I don’t like being in this body any more than you like having a drow telling you she-he-is a wizard of war. Yet if I’m going to have to constantly guard against you and Longclaws waiting for a good chance to blast me, I’ll not be able to obey my orders-the commands that come from Lord Lothan Durncaskyn, but that my oath to the Crown tells me I must regard as if they came from King Foril himself-with any speed or effectiveness. So what can I do to convince you I’m Brannon Lucksar? Do you want to hear watchwords? Some of the little secrets only we wizards of war know? Royal Magician Ganrahast’s favorite color?”

Longclaws snorted. “As if we’d know that.”

Gulkanun shot him a quelling glare, then turned and asked the drow challengingly, “What does Lord Durncaskyn most mourn the loss of?”

“Publicly? Knees that serve him well. Privately? Esmra Winterwood, who kept a gowns and lace shop in Immerford, and died of heartstop two winters back. He hoped they’d be wed, and was busily wooing her when she fell ill.”

Gulkanun and Longclaws looked at each other and shrugged. The drow was right about the knees, and probably about the woman, too. There’d been rumors …

Longclaws lifted his chin and fired his own query. “Just how did you come to meet Manshoon?”

“The first time? On a still-secret Crown task that took me to Westgate, years back. He ruled it as Orbakh, you know.”

“We do know,” Gulkanun said coldly.

The drow merely smiled. “My second time was in the Stonelands, after a spell duel I saw from afar while investigating something else, that brought a dragon down dead out of the sky. I was fortunate to escape with my life, that time.”

“Investigating what, exactly?”

“Let’s just say it had to do with shades seen trading in a … locale strategic to Cormyr. You’ll appreciate that certain orders prevent me from being more specific. I saw Manshoon again last winter, in an alley in Suzail, when he let his guard slip for a moment. He’s acquired a habit of talking aloud to himself. By now we’ve learned to watch for him, and heed reports of his being seen. After he visits a place, bloodshed inevitably erupts.”

“You’re not telling us all of your dealings with Manshoon,” Gulkanun said accusingly.

“No,” the drow said calmly, “I’m not.”

“How long are these nobles going to sleep?” Farland broke in. “I’m more than a little suspicious of this dark elf, myself, but it seems to me that a little reluctant trust is in order about now.”

“Well said, lord constable,” Arclath agreed quickly. “Crown mages, I’m no wizard of war nor palace insider, but I’ve sat around tables recently with Ganrahast and Vainrence and Glathra-more recently than any of you, I’ll wager-and it seems to me this, ah, lady is either Lucksar or knows enough of things only he would know that you’ll not catch him-her-out as a false Lucksar. I say trust her for now, and let her get investigating.”

“Investigating is our task,” Gulkanun said flatly.

“Mine, too,” the drow told him. “If you’d prefer we walk shoulder to shoulder in this, never parting, I’ve no objection-so long as you don’t use that agreement to restrict where I go and with whom I speak.”

Gulkanun and Longclaws traded glances again, then slowly nodded to each other, and sheathed their wands.

“Investigate,” Gulkanun told the drow. “We’ll stay with you, much of the time, and hear what you hear, see what you see, and heed what you do.”

The dark elf sketched a bow with liquid grace, then turned to the lord constable and said briskly, “In the interests of uncovering who’s blowing towers up and murdering folk in Irlingstar, I’m going to ask you many questions. Please take no offense; I seek information, not to insinuate anything.” She spun to regard the two war wizards and Arclath and Amarune and added, “By all means interrupt with queries of your own, as they occur to you. I am by no means ‘in charge’ here.” She turned smoothly back to Farland. “What do the wards of Irlingstar normally allow in the way of magic?”

The lord constable winced. “Beyond that they block translocation, sendings, and mind-to-mind contact in and out of the castle, I don’t know all that much about them. They hurl back most destructive magics cast from outside, and prevent quite a few from working at all inside Irlingstar, but as to the details … those were known to the Crown mages stationed here.”

He cleared his throat. “You may have heard that some of my predecessors betrayed their office-took bribes from prisoners, and the like. That may have had much to do with how little I was told about the wards. I’ve heard that both seneschals and lord constables in the past have known much more than I do, and I’ve seen-briefly, not to peruse and learn details-some written records of what the wards do. Avathnar had them sent back to Suzail soon after taking office. He told me they were just weapons against us if they ever fell into the wrong hands.”

The drow nodded. “So before any of these recent killings and explosions, just how many folk were in Irlingstar? Everyone, not just incarcerated noble guests.”

Farland frowned. “Two and twenty guards, who report to me. Me. Sixteen castle staff-masons, smiths, hostlers, and the like-who reported to Seneschal Avathnar. Avathnar. Eight who worked in the kitchens-all women from Immerford, some old, some young. And two message riders-Crown messengers in training-stationed here. Not counting the lord and lass, here”-he nodded at Arclath and Amarune-“we had twoscore-and-six prisoners. The castle can hold four times that, with every guest in his own cell. Er, could, that is, before the … south tower went down, and all.”

“Name me the most dangerous of those prisoners. Not the most annoying-I’m sure they all compete for that ranking-but those you judge truly perilous.”

Farland frowned. “Now that Rhangobrar’s dead-he was a real instigator and manipulator, who could stir many of them into any mischief he wanted, and usually avoid direct involvement himself-I’d say Cygland Morauntar, Bleys Indimber, and Raldrick Ammaeth. Young lords, all. The first two are heirs of their houses, and Ammaeth’s a second son who twice tried to arrange the killing of his older brother before he was brought here. Convicted murderers, all three; no morals whatsoever, no inhibitions. We’ve others who can be ruthless, cruel, and even savage in their bloodletting … but those three …”

“No compunctions at all?”

“None. They understand rules and customs and etiquette well enough, as constraints on others they can make use of-but not as anything that should bind them. Most of my efforts have been to keep their holds over others as weak as possible, and prevent any of them from getting together.”

“So those three we chain to the walls of separate locked cells, far from each other and the rest,” the dark elf suggested, “and the others we round up and temporarily confine in one place, disarmed of anything sharp or magical, and give them as much wine as they want to down.”

Gulkanun raised an eyebrow. “While we-?”

“While we search every other nook and cranny of this fortress for intruders.”

Farland coughed. “There are two persons in a cell, right now. They were outside the walls after the south tower fell. Asked for shelter from a dragon, gave their names as Harbrand and Hawkspike, and say they’re Crown-licensed investigators-for-hire. ‘Danger for Hire,’ they call themselves. Never seen two such clumsy law-sly rogues in my life.”

Lucksar smiled. “Take me to them, before we do any of the rest. I should be able to get them to tell us more than they’ve shared with you thus far.”

Gulkanun looked stern. “By enspelling them?”

“That wasn’t my intention, no.”

Arclath turned to the lord constable. “Let’s be about it. I’d welcome some answers-before the next blast.”

Farland winced, nodded, waved for everyone to follow him, and strode off down the passage.

“Well, someone connected to the palace is organizing treason among the nobles-and I’m getting more and more suspicious of Chancellor Crownrood.”

“We’re all suspicious of this courtier and that noble, Rymel. D’you have any evidence? Something that can be waved in his face, not ‘you were seen with Lord Stumblebones, and the next day Stumblebones got drunk and yelled that the Dragon Throne should be hurled down’ stuff. If that were all it took to get traitors into cells, half the court and all the nobles of the realm would be in the dungeons, right now!”

“No,” Rymel said heavily, “I don’t have anything I can openly challenge Crownrood with. Yet. But I think I know how-urrAAAghh!”

“Rymel? Rymel?”

The younger war wizard’s voice was high and shrill with fear. Vranstable had heard a man sob like that once before, after being stabbed. It had been the last sound that man had ever made.

So he got his wand out and ready before he peered cautiously around the corner.

“Rymel?”

Another wand-Rymel’s wand-was thrust into Vranstable’s mouth, choking him.

His own dying sob sounded even worse.

Manshoon shook his head as the second body slumped. “Killing these fools isn’t exactly difficult,” he murmured aloud. He wiped the wand clean on his second victim’s robes and retrieved the other wand from Vranstable’s hand. “Why, I’m doing Cormyr a favor, weeding out such weaklings.”

Elminster smiled. Aye, she knew these two.

“Well met, Drounan Harbrand. Or do you prefer ‘Doombringer’?”

The man she’d greeted gaped at her, then shut his mouth hastily without saying anything.

The drow hadn’t waited for a reply; she had already strolled over to the other man. “And you, Andarphisk Hawkspike-how are you keeping? Or should I call you ‘Fists’?”

The five Crown folk standing behind the dark elf watched the two men in black go pale.

“H-how do you know us?” Harbrand asked, finding his voice. “We’ve never met.”

The drow walked back to him, advancing until they were face to face, and gave him a knowing smile. “Oh? I know all about you, Drounan. Shall I share it with everyone? Even the things you might not want Fists here to learn?”

Harbrand swallowed. Hawkspike had turned to glare at him, but the drow stepped between them, and advanced leisurely on the scarred brawler.

“And you, Fists,” she purred, “are you ready for your partner to hear about … Sulblade?”

Hawkspike fell back, gaping at her. Behind the smiling dark elf, Harbrand was frowning. “What about Sulblade?”

Hawkspike shook his head frantically. “Don’t believe her, Droun! Whatever she says, don’t believe her!”

Oh, El, you are evil, Symrustar purred merrily, inside Elminster’s head.

The commander of High Horn quelled a sigh and gave the visiting wizard of war a sour look.

“No, nothing since Darlhoun’s murder,” he said shortly. “We’re not missing any more Crown mages. If you’d like to search for one, I hear Rorskryn Mreldrake’s still missing. Or have you found him yet?”

It was the war wizard’s turn to sigh. “Lord Sunter,” he said patiently, “I’m aware you hold little love for wizards. Yet there’s no need for anger on your part. We are on the same side, you know. We revere and guard the Dragon Throne, too.”

Erevon Sunter ran a hand down the old sword scar that gave his chin its twisted look, and he nodded abruptly. “I know. I’m just … unsettled. Fed up. Half the nobles in the land talking treason, darker rumors every day, monsters we’ve not seen in sixty summers suddenly everywhere, pouncing on my patrols …”

He looked up, fixed the war wizard with tired eyes, and growled, “Why don’t you tell me the truth, for once? What has brought you here, to stand and ask me your coy questions? Tell me. Something’s happened, that much is plain. Well, what?”

The Crown mage was young. He hesitated, then took a step closer and said in a swift, quiet voice, as if he suspected there were spies hiding in every corner of the commander’s office, despite it being at the top of the main keep tower, “Lord, wild magic has been seen in the skies by night, in many upland corners of the realm, these last few nights. Blue flames, great wild conflagrations in the skies, sometimes with a lone, flying human outlined at their heart.”

Lord Sunter studied him. “And you don’t know what to make of it, you mages, and you’re scared,” he said slowly. “Well, now you have company in that.” He got up, went to his suit of armor on its rack in the corner, lifted the visor of his war helm, and took out a decanter.

“Flagons yonder,” he said briefly. “Sit down, drink up, and we’ll talk. I want to hear the truth about these rumors of Vangerdahast coming back from the grave as some sort of spider thing.” He chuckled as he sat down again, and unstoppered the decanter to pour. “Probably pure fool-tongue wildness, being as they’re talking about that old goat Elminster striding around the royal palace, too, but …”

As he saw the expression on the young wizard’s face, his words faltered. “Oh, tluin. Hrast and tluin and all gods damn.”

“That about covers it, yes,” the war wizard whispered, holding out both flagons to be filled.

Arclath, Rune, Farland, and the two war wizards watched with interest. With a few drawled words Lucksar had terrified the rogues.

Rune could read their faces like two glaringly headlined broadsheets. The two men in black were suddenly facing a beautiful, menacing female drow they’d never seen before, who obviously knew all about them and could tell it to war wizards and a lord constable, in a cell full of chains and manacles in the heart of a Cormyrean prison they were already locked into …

“If-if you promise to swear by Lolth to say nothing at all about our pasts,” Harbrand stammered, “we’ll … we’ll answer any questions about why we’re here.”

“I swear by the deadly kiss of Lolth,” the drow replied. “Talk.”

“I-we-uh-”

“You came here to get inside Irlingstar, didn’t you?” the lord constable asked sternly. They nodded, and he asked, “To do what?”

“Fulfill our commission.”

“We gathered you were hired by someone,” Gulkanun said sarcastically. “To do what?”

“Get someone safely out of Irlingstar, then out of the realm.”

“Into Sembia. Who?”

“Uh, ah …”

“Look at the shorter one!” Rune snapped suddenly.

An odd expression had appeared on Hawkspike’s face. It had gone from anger, in place of its customary surliness, to apprehensive, to queasily uncomfortable. They watched that discomfort grow, and be joined by astonishment.

“What’s happening?” Farland barked. “Is someone using magic on you?”

Hawkspike suddenly tore open his codpiece, snatched out something small and metallic-that was starting to glow-and flung it as hard as he could, high over everyone’s shoulders, through the doorway and out of the room.

They heard it clatter on the flagstones and slide.

“What was that?” Farland roared, rushing to pinion Hawkspike’s arms. “Sirrah, if you’ve-”

From the passage outside there came a sudden roar. A roar that burst back into the room like a hurtling dragon, filling it with force and fire.

Royal Magician Ganrahast suddenly clutched his head, shrieked, and crashed down face-first onto the table, thudding against its polished top senseless and staring, blood streaming from his eyes and nose.

“Here we go again,” Glathra snapped, rushing to his aid. Vangey had already scuttled along the table to the stricken Royal Magician. Vainrence and Storm crowded around Ganrahast, too.

“Don’t touch him!” Glathra warned the silver-haired Harper, but she was ignored. Storm stared at her own finger, used that stare to make blood well up out of it somehow, and thrust that bloodied finger up Ganrahast’s bleeding nose.

After a moment, she reported calmly, “He was working with the mindlink. Something struck at him through it.”

“Well, lady?” Vangerdahast demanded gruffly, dancing impatiently on his spider legs. “Can you heal him?”

“I’m healing him right now,” Storm replied, “but Vainrence, if you can fetch in some real healers-priests, Wizard of War Sanneth …”

Without a word the lord warder bowed his head and hurried out.

“What are you doing to him, exactly?” Glathra asked, sounding more apprehensive than suspicious.

“Holding his mind. Like something frozen in ice, I’m keeping it as it is right now, so it can’t get any worse. Shielding the rest of it against the damage.”

“I didn’t know you could …” Glathra let her words trail off, not knowing what to say next.

Storm gave her a gentle smile. “We should get to know each other better, Lady Glathra. If you knew more about me, you might just begin to trust me.”

“Might,” Glathra echoed, managing a wan smile.

“Then,” Storm added dryly, “we could even start to work on liking each other.”

Glathra winced. “I deserved that,” she whispered. Vangerdahast walked away down the table, carefully not looking in her direction or saying a word. Storm merely smiled.

Then many priests and war wizards were crowding into the room, Vainrence with them.

“Sanneth,” Storm said as firmly as any king, “cast your spell-you know the one-and link to me. Holy ones, please heal this man, as gently as your prayers can. Sanneth and I will guide what the gods give you.”

She was obeyed without query or hesitation, but it seemed a long, tensely silent time before Ganrahast groaned, his arms jerking around for a few moments. Then he tried to sit up, closing his staring eyes so he could start blinking wildly.

“Ganrahast?” Glathra asked. “Royal Magician?”

One of the priests wiped away the blood. Ganrahast sniffled, shook his head, groaned again, then gasped, “Y-yes, it’s me. I’m … back.”

He looked at Storm, and Sannath beside her, and added fervently, “Thank you.”

Both the Harper and the war wizard merely nodded gravely. Without a word Sannath stood up and quietly ushered the priests out of the room.

“Well?” Vangerdahast rasped the moment Vainrence had closed the door on them. “What by all Nine of the Hells happened?”

Ganrahast smiled wanly. “I, ah, felt the scrutiny or at least the reaching out to me of a team ring. Its wearer was seeking me. I in turn reached out to the mind wearing it-a mind I don’t think I know, which suggests that the ring wasn’t being worn by anyone who’s supposed to have one. Yet I can’t be certain of that; I didn’t have long enough to, to …”

“Taste that mind, and identify it,” Storm murmured helpfully, earning herself a surprised look from Glathra.

“Taste, yes. What I did manage to feel was that the mind of the ring wearer was of tremendous power. It sensed me, sought to block me-and then, everything seemed to … explode.”

“Whereabouts was that mind?” Vangey asked sharply.

“In the northeast of the realm, somewhere remote,” Ganrahast murmured slowly, grimacing as his attempt to remember brought on throbbing mental pain.

“Irlingstar,” Glathra said grimly. “Of course.”

Sraunter’s cellar was again aglow with Manshoon’s scrying spheres. The incipient emperor of Cormyr sat at his ease in their midst, intent on only one sphere. In its depths, he was watching a black dragon he’d spotted flying among the Thunder Peaks while seeking isolated war wizards at work in the eastern borders of the realm. If he could destroy them, he would awaken fears of a Sembian incursion, so as to draw more wizards out for easy slaying.

There was something intriguing about this ancient black wyrm. It wasn’t one he’d ever ridden or conversed with, to be sure-but it seemed familiar, somehow …

In his sphere, the dragon was swooping closer to the prison keep, Castle Irlingstar-and an explosion promptly erupted from an upper room of the castle, blowing out windows amid gouts of flame and tumbling stone dust.

Manshoon blinked in startlement, and from its hasty back-flapping, followed by angry circling rather than fearful flight, the dragon seemed startled too.

It glided very close to the castle walls, passing the keep and peering in … then, though Manshoon saw no attack upon it, nor any reaction at all from inside Irlingstar, it flapped away in frantic haste, as if pursued by its bane, fleeing into the mountains.

Something powerful must be in there, to cause explosion after explosion. Something unusual and powerful, if it could frighten an experienced and powerful dragon …

Manshoon waited to see if more of the castle would blow up, in case the dragon had fled an explosion it could see was imminent.

Yet time passed, and no second blast occurred.

So, now … a fresh problem. How to scry past or through the castle wards, to see inside Irlingstar …