Elminster Must Die

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Mreldrake gave the Purple Dragons a nod and an unpleasant smile and disappeared rather hastily back through the door he’d come from.

The swordcaptain looked at the two lords who might not be lords and pointed imperiously at another door, one that stood open. “Walk that way, saers. We’ll be escorting you-and won’t hesitate to make holes in you with our spears, so try nothing foolish.”

“I rarely do,” the possible Ganrahast impostor informed the man with dignity as they set off, the Dragons shifting position to keep their prisoners menaced before and behind by leveled spears.

After a few strides he added, “I require your name, Swordcaptain.”

“Yet will receive only disappointing silence,” came the prompt reply. “I don’t take orders from prisoners.”

The perhaps-false Royal Magician stopped and spun around to face the officer directly, ignoring the spears that thrust at him warningly. “In the name of the king,” he barked, “yield unto me your name!”

The officer hesitated.

“As you seem to be a stickler for orders,” Vainrence put in softly, “suppose you obey one of the standing ones.”

“We’re required to give our names to Dragons of superior rank, certain courtiers, and … uh,” the swordcaptain replied, wincing. “Ah, Lord Ganrahast, I am Paereth Vandurn. Swordcaptain Paereth Vandurn.” He regained his gruff confidence almost visibly, thrusting his chin forward. “So, who are the two of you-really?”

The prisoner who might or might not be Lord Vainrence thrust a spear aside with one hand to wag a disapproving finger at the swordcaptain. “You’re less than polite, Slamburn, and I’ll tell this war wizard so! Lead us to him!”

“I am not-,” the swordcaptain began heatedly, but he stopped as he saw smirks appear and as hastily vanish from the faces of more than a few of his men.

Drawing a deep breath, he managed a brittle smile and said, “But of course, Lord Warder. If you’ll kindly proceed through yon door, obeying the directions of the nice men in uniform holding the spears pointed at you, you shall have your opportunity to speak to a war wizard soon enough. For the greater glory of Cormyr, of course.”

“For some years,” Elminster informed Vandurn haughtily, “those very words have been mine to speak: ‘for the greater glory of Cormyr.’ ”

“Ahhh, good,” the officer replied heavily, his smile becoming decidedly desperate. “Very good. The door, now, is just this way …”

On the far side of the ring of spears from the swordcaptain, someone among the stone-faced Dragons snickered.

“Who did that?” Vandurn snapped. “Who? I’ll be requiring some nam-”

He broke off and fell silent just a moment too late.

The Royal Magician began the laughter, and the Lord Warder swelled it with hearty guffaws, but at least two Dragons joined in-and then they all did, mirth ringing around the passage.

With one exception. In the heart of it all, a certain crimson-to-the-ears swordcaptain clenched his jaws and silently steamed.

Talane. That name echoed like a curse in her mind, the chant of some dark seer desiring her doom … Talane.

One night, and she was undone. One night-no, less than half an hour-and her life had been shattered, her freedom gone.

She was caught in the ruthless talons of someone she didn’t even know.

Amarune felt exhausted. Bone weary. With a full night facing her.

Disheartened, the bards called it. When singing about someone else. She wished that was who felt that way, instead of her: someone else.

She pushed open the side door of the club and slipped inside. It was hours before she’d have to be up on that stage, but this was her usual routine, and what most Dragonriders’ dancers did: come early, soak in a long bath, dry off slowly in a warm room and have her hair done by Taerlene or Mrarie, eat a hearty meal, and then sink into a nice long nap. All of it behind the club’s closed doors, so she’d be safe inside, not having to run the gauntlet of leering admirers that would await her if she arrived later.

The dressing room was silent and empty. She frowned. Usually four or five of her fellow dancers who followed the same routine made it there before her …

There was something in her accustomed chair. A large sack, it looked to be. Laundry, dumped here by one of the maids, getting interrupted?

The door swung closed behind her with its usual slight squeal-and then her chair spun around by itself to face her.

Or, no-the man sitting in it had turned it with a kick, to face her and warm her with his easy smile.

No sack, after all. The Lord Arclath Delcastle was lounging in her chair.

“Well met,” he said brightly, his smile growing even broader.

Amarune was too startled to be polite. “What are you doing here?” she blurted.

“Waiting for you, obviously. I paid your fellow dancers some rather large sums to be primped at the Gilded Feather today, to leave the room clear for me. For us.”

The Gilded Feather was the most expensive pretty-parlor in all Suzail. Though it was only a street away, Amarune had never been inside it. Its noble patrons tended to sneer at mask dancers, and its staff did rather more than sneer.

“Us?”

Gods above, no. Trapped by the mysterious Talane, and now this.

Oh, he’d been nice enough to her, and all nobles were crazed, but … stlarn it, she and probably most of Suzail thought the prancing fop Arclath Delcastle preferred men in bed and admired women merely as diversions.

But it seemed as if he was going to turn out to be another nightmare. One of the “obsessed” who stalked dancers and made dangerous nuisances of themselves until they had to be dealt with. Not that dealing with noble heirs was easy.

Well, farruk the Purple Dragon, she was going to deal with him, right away! It would cost her lots of forgone coins in the years ahead, but-

Whether or not it dissuaded him, she was going to beat the natal innards out of him! He’d be a laughingstock if he went to the Robes about her, so the worst that could happen would be her arrest-which would at least get her away from the spying of Talane and out of that bitch’s reach, and perhaps win her a little time to think of a way to flee that trap.

Without another word or wild thought, Amarune set her teeth and went for him, hands like claws and knees ready to drive in hard and see if she could dent that ridiculous codpiece he was wearing.

“Lady!” he said reproachfully, ducking and twisting with surprising speed-and lashing out a hand to ensnare one of her wrists.

Successfully. Gods, but he was strong!

She clawed at him with her free hand, catching a nail on something.

“Lady,” the lordling panted, wriggling like an eel under her, his free hand grabbing at hers, “I don’t want you to misunderstand my-uhh! — motives. I’m not here to-ah! — assault your-uh! — charms!”

He caught hold of her other wrist. With a shriek, Amarune slammed herself down on him, pelvis riding his belt buckle bruisingly, so she could get close enough to bite him. And managed it. Hard.

He roared out a less-than-coherent curse of pain as she wrenched her hands free and clawed at him again, raking at his face.

“Easy, wench!” he snarled, slamming a forearm across the side of her head hard enough to twist her half off him into dazed darkness. “I might need some of these limbs in the years ahead, you know!”

“You should’ve thought of that-,” Amarune panted at him as light and sound came back to her in a throbbing rush that left her head ringing, and she tried to claw at him again viciously, “before you-”

“Sat down in a chair in an empty room, after paying for the privilege?” he snapped. “Stop this! By Tempus, lass, leave off! I just want to ask you-uhhh! — some questions!”

“Oh, like how many of your friends will I pleasure for a cut price? Or will I let Lord Delcastle’s pet hired wizard give me feathers and a tail for the night, so you can ride a peacock at last? A peacock on a peacock? Hey?”

Right out of breath from that outburst, Amarune had to put her head down, shuddering, to snatch air as they struggled. Under her, the noble straightened one arm and thrust her up and away from him.

Gods, he’s strong. If he really loses his temper …

Amarune twisted, slapped at him, and tried to jerk free all at once-and Delcastle’s hand slid from a tight grip on her shoulder to a good hard grip on her left breast.

Farruk! That hurt!

“Sorry!” he blurted hastily, letting go. Amarune backhanded him one across the face as hard as she could, then used her other hand to do it again, rocking the chair.

“No,” he groaned as she slammed an elbow into his ribs, “not those sort of questions! H-heed me, lass! You-unhh-you were listening to all we said, my friends and I, when you were dancing for us! Whom did you tell?”

“Tell what?” Amarune snarled into his face. “You think I’m some sort of spy?”

“Yes, but I need to know for who-uh, whom! The nobles behind the murders at the palace?”

“What?” Amarune lost her temper utterly, sheer rage almost choking her. “You think I-”

Words failed her. Shrieking, she clawed Delcastle’s belt dagger out of its sheath and stabbed at him, the blade going wide as his forearms slammed against hers in a desperate parry. Before she could try again he’d clutched her dagger wrist, fingers tightening this time.

Sobbing in pain-he was crushing her wrist, he was crushing it! — she flung all of her trembling weight and strength behind trying to drive it down into his throat, before …

Just as Delcastle kicked out desperately, trying to make the point of the dagger miss the throat it was just about to slice-the door banged open.

The blade missed its mark as the chair lurched sideways, giving Amarune a momentary glimpse of Tress looking horrified, with some of the club bouncers right behind her, before they all rushed forward.

A moment later, Amarune’s head rang from a furious slap. Tress tore the dagger away from her even as that blow landed.

“Are you mad?” the owner of the Dragonriders’ shrieked into Amarune’s ear. “D’you know what will happen to us-to the Dragonriders’-if you kill a noble? Girl, you’re fired-fired! Get out of here at once, or I’ll call the Watch and let this noble set the Black Robes on you!”

“A-a moment,” a battered Arclath groaned hastily from beneath Amarune. “Good Lady Tress, I fear you misunderstand. I paid this, ah, highly professional dancer to do this!”

Sudden silence fell, and the club bouncers stopped trying to haul Amarune off the man under her and hurl her bodily up at the waiting ceiling.

Tress stared at what she could see of Lord Delcastle, then at the panting, obviously furious Amarune atop him.

“Isn’t she a peerless actress?” Arclath managed to croak, waving his free-and bleeding-hand at the dumbfounded, on-the-verge-of-tears Amarune. “Superb, eh?”

Tress returned her stare to him, incredulity warring with disgust across her face. To hide her own similar expression, Amarune dropped her head to stare at the floor, her disheveled tresses falling over her face.

“You … you welcome being beaten and overmastered, Lord?”

“By the right high-spirited lass, yes,” Arclath assured the club owner almost eagerly, his bright smile returning. “My friends and I saw this one yestereve, and I knew she was the one for us; I came asking for her this morn, you’ll recall. Now, please believe me, I did not intend to imperil her position here, and she did not want to trammel the routine of this night’s mask dancing … wherefore we sought to transact the seeing-to of my needs here and now. Please accept my apologies for the misunderstanding and the upset this has caused. The arrangements-and therefore all fault-are entirely mine. I’ll happily pay for any damages; your dancer has been magnificent, far outstripping even my high expectations!”

Tress stared at him for a while longer before turning her gaze to Amarune.

“Is … is this true, Rune?” she asked in obvious disbelief, but seeing the offered road out of this for them all.

Struggling not to cry, bewildered and seeing nothing but traps yawning on all roads she might choose ahead, Amarune managed to lift her chin and say, “Y-yes.”

Tress sighed a long sigh, closing her eyes for a moment, then gave a polite nod to the torn and bleeding noble in the chair.

“Please accept my apologies for the interruption, Lord Delcastle. Pray proceed.”

Without another word she ushered the half-grinning bouncers out, not seeing Amarune open her mouth and raise a hand to protest-only to freeze and stay silent.

When the door had closed again, Amarune glared at the man still beneath her and hissed bitterly, “So now you have a hold over me, just as you sought! What’s this all about, anyhail? What foolish game are you playing?”

“No game,” Arclath murmured, rising from the chair but with gentle courtesy holding out a hand to assist her in standing rather than being dumped on the floor as he did so, as if she were his equal.

When he faced her, however, standing very close to her so that their noses almost touched, his smile was gone.

“You were listening to us while we talked, my friends and I,” he murmured, his voice low and his eyes boring into hers. “Why? Whom did you tell what we said about the council-or will you tell?”

“No one,” Amarune hissed back scornfully. “Who would care?”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “I can call to mind a score of nobles who will be hungry indeed for every detail,” he said slowly. “How much will it cost for your silence?”

“Why do you ask?” she whispered bitterly. “Whatever answer I give, having me killed will be cheaper, won’t it? For a silence you can truly trust in?”

Arclath stared at her expressionlessly, then bent, plucked up his knife from the floor where Tress had flung it down, and handed it to Amarune, hilt first.

“I trust you right now,” he told her quietly, pointing at the dagger and then at his throat, before leaning forward to offer it, undefended. “Completely.”

They stared at each other, Amarune trembling-until she slapped his dagger back into his hand and snarled, “I need a drink.”

The door behind them promptly opened, and Tress stepped in with a tray that held a decanter and three metal goblets.

“Thought you’d say that,” she told them with a nonchalant smile, obviously not caring that they’d know she’d been listening at the door. “Compliments of the house.”

Arclath and Amarune exchanged glances. Then, slowly, they both started to chuckle.

The passage was a long one, and the moment the laughter died away, the furious swordcaptain set a brisk pace along it, forcing his prisoners almost into a trot. He speeded up still more as they approached a darkened stretch, where by some servant’s oversight no lamps glimmered in the sconces that in an earlier age had held torches.

Into the gloom they plunged, Vandurn snarling orders, and his men beginning to pant, the prisoners stumbling as they were prodded into greater haste.

“Get going!” the swordcaptain barked at everyone. “I’ve half a mind-”

“Well, that’s true,” Vainrence agreed loudly, drawing snorts of mirth from several of the nearest Dragons.

Then it happened.

There was a sudden burst of light around the Royal Magician’s head, and a smaller one abruptly flamed into being around the brow of Lord Vainrence, wildly whirling and crackling bolts of light out of nowhere that stabbed from one man to the other, brightening into a shared nimbus.

“Stop that!” the swordcaptain roared. “Stop it at once!”

Then he saw his prisoners were staggering and clutching their heads as they sagged, clearly as taken aback by the sudden magic as he and all his men were.

The eerie light snarled louder than Vandurn could, drowning out his shouted orders with a louder voice, a panting madwoman’s voice that soared and wavered in lost, mournful pain as it thundered up and down the passage: “El! Oh, my Elminster! Where are you? I need you! I’m dying … dying! Elminsterrrrrrrrrr!” The last word became a shriek, a raw animal cry of agony and need that sent everyone to their knees, clutching their ears as that scream raced through their heads and ran around and around in their minds, howling in desperation and keening in despair … keening …

When at last it faded, Swordcaptain Vandurn lay senseless on his back, his sweat-drenched face staring at nothing. Around him, most of his Dragons were the same, sprawled and motionless; the remainder were curled up and sobbing or groaning, spears fallen and forgotten.

Elminster and Storm stared at each other, their own faces wet and wild.

“Well?” Storm panted, bosom heaving; her Vainrence guise was melting away with every sobbing breath.

“Go to her,” Elminster snapped, snatching things of magic from inside his robes and pouches at his belt in almost feverish haste. “As fast as you can, and feed her everything you have to! Then get back here!”

“But, El-”

“Go! I’ll be fine here. Something’s happened to her, and we must find out what. Go! Use the Dalestride; the time for stealth is past.”

“It’ll be guarded,” Storm warned breathlessly. The Dalestride was a portal linking the Room of the Watchful Sentinel with a certain glade just west of Mistledale. Reinforced by Caladnei, it had survived the Spellplague, and King Foril and his wizards of war and highknights knew all about it; it was never unguarded.

“Good.” Elminster’s sudden smile was as ruthless as that of an old and hungry wolf. “I’m glad of that.” Almost hungrily he added, “I’ll go with you to open the way.”

“If they stand against us-Alusair and Foril, Ganrahast and Vainrence-”

“The wise ones will stand aside and live,” the Sage of Shadowdale told her grimly, snatching her hand and starting to stride back down the passage. “The fools will taste consequences … and Cormyr will be the stronger.”