Elminster Must Die

CHAPTER FOUR

The room was small and round. It was also dark, stale, and very dusty. Hardly surprising, being as it hadn’t been used for years. Until now.

Marlin Stormserpent edged into it with shuffling care, trying hard not to bump his hot shuttered lantern into the untidy mounds of broken furniture crowding the chamber.

It had taken him some trouble to slip away from the family servants unseen, curse their diligence-but that was nothing to what trouble he’d find if just one of them followed him and overheard any of what was about to be said.

The stout old door still had a bolt, massive and old-fashioned, and he shot it firmly across before daring to open the lantern enough to see his way through the maze of yesteryear’s marred elegance.

Dust lay like a thick fur cloak over much of this uppermost room in the most disused turret of Stormserpent Towers. Marlin’s lip curled. Of course.

His home was one of the older and grander noble family mansions in Suzail. Once there had been far more Stormserpents clattering and prancing and sneering around the place, but, well … a lot of things had been grander once.

And perhaps-just perhaps-might be again.

From atop what looked like a cloak stand, Marlin took up an ordinary-looking glass orb, a milky sphere a little smaller than his head, the sort of idle ornament that had been fashionable fifty or sixty Mirtuls earlier. He went to a small round table and sat in a lopsided chair drawn up to it, setting the orb atop an empty and garishly heavy metal goblet that stood on the table.

Marlin squared his shoulders then touched the smooth, curved glass, murmured a certain word, and … a glowing cloud slowly appeared in the air above the orb and thickened into silvery smoke.

Smoke that twisted, swirled, and became the glowing image of a person.

Lothrae.

He had no idea who Lothrae really was, behind the mask the man always wore.

As always, Lothrae sat in front of his own orb in a chair with an upswept back like falcons’ wings, in a room somewhere with walls of once-grand but now cracked and mold-stained gilt stucco adorned with a pattern of little blue griffons.

“You are late.” Lothrae said those three words like cold stones leisurely dropped into an abyss.

“I-had some trouble getting free of my mother and the servants, Master,” Marlin stammered, rattled in an instant and hating it. “You warned me to avoid suspicion above all else, so …”

“Understood. It is time.”

Marlin swallowed. “Time? To begin at last?”

“To begin at last. Indubitably. I know where six of the Nine are, beyond doubt, and have strong suspicions as to the whereabouts of the seventh. Any two of them should be able to win past the paltry wards left to the Crown of Cormyr these days-and destroy any war wizard they can catch alone.”

“The Nine?”

“Marlin,” Lothrae said softly, “don’t pretend you know nothing of this. You are certain the Flying Blade holds one of the Nine, and have long suspected the Wyverntongue Chalice holds another. You just don’t know how to call forth or compel the Nine-wherefore all your stealing of old texts and drowning sages in drink seeking to pry secrets out of them. You’ve been so clumsy about it that some war wizards figured out what you were up to long ago.”

“They-they-?” Marlin knew he was going white; he could feel the coldness rushing across his face.

“No, they’ll not come bursting in on you. I took care of them as they discussed you, before they could spread word of your fumblings among all the wizards of war. Right now, among those who’re left, you’re suspected of being as restless and opportunistic as any other arrogant young fool of a noble, but no more than that. I was going to wait until we’d found and secured all of the Nine, but we’ve run out of leisure; some clever war wizards have remembered the old tales and have started their own search for the Nine, with an eye to making Cormyr unassailable. It won’t be long before one of them starts wondering if the Flying Blade of the Stormserpents might just be something the Crown should confiscate-for the good of the realm, of course. So it is time.”

“Yes, Master! Time for-?”

“You to hear and obey, Lord Stormserpent,” the cold voice coming out of the orb told him dryly. “So listen well …”

It was getting harder and harder to force the courtier to be Lothrae; the Cormyrean’s mind was actually growing stronger. Almost enough to begin fighting him.

Astonishing.

Though after all his years, he really shouldn’t be astonished at what humans could-and did-do.

The strain of controlling that distant body was making this other host, a body chosen largely for its youthful agility and darkly handsome appearance, sweat profusely. He sent a mental slap through their fading link that should leave the courtier dazed and staggering for a time, and withdrew from the man’s mind entirely.

Leaving himself just time to wipe his dripping face and stride to the door. If there was one redeeming quality shared by Cormyr’s more ambitious nobles, it was punctuality. Only the lazy, stupidly overconfident, groundlessly self-satisfied, and hopelessly old-fashioned made a habit of being fashionably late.

Not that there weren’t plenty of those among the nobility of the Forest Kingdom.

His hand was reaching for the door bolt when he heard the careful knock.

He slid the well-oiled bolt aside soundlessly, drew the door open, and murmured, “Be welcome, Lady Talane.”

He felt rather than heard his guest stiffen, and added, “Yes, I know who you are. I’ve known for a long time, yet the wizards of war, the highknights, and the Crown behind them are still unaware of your … hobby. Take reassurance from that.”

His guest hesitated on the threshold then sighed and stepped into the room.

It was small, dim, and richly paneled-panels that could hide any number of doors where none were visible. It held a small table with a lone chair and a sideboard. Not a picture or banner adorned any of its walls; they were bare save for a single small, round mirror. The small, plain fireplace was empty and cold. Though he was slender and darkly garbed, he dominated the room like the prow of a great gilded warship.

“You could have ruined me and chose not to,” she stated, her voice just on the tight side of calm. “Meaning you have some other use for me. May I know it?”

“Informing you of that is why I asked you here. Will you sit, Lady, and take wine?”

Without taking his eyes off her for a moment, the darkly handsome man opened one of the sideboard doors, drew out a tall, dark, slender bottle of wine and a sleek wineglass, and advanced to place both on the table beside her, ere smoothly backing away again.

“I’m given to understand this Arrhenish is highly regarded at court; pray satisfy yourself that the bottle is still sealed. You’ll have to pour your own, I’m afraid. In the interests of discretion, no one else is closer to us than my agents down at the doors-who I posted there primarily to make sure you reached this room alone, bringing no tiresome bodyguards or hired slayers with you. Wisely, you made no attempt to do so. Know that no wizard of war-nor anyone else, if it comes to that-can spy on us here with spells, nor approach us without my becoming aware of it. We may both speak freely.”

The noblewoman nodded. “I could kill you right now,” she announced calmly, hefting the bottle of Arrhenish as if to throw it, various rings on her fingers glowing into sudden life. “Give me good reason why I should not.”

Her darkly handsome host smiled and held up a languid hand to count points off on his fingers. “Firstly: I am not here. You would be slaying a mere husk of meat under my control, not me. Secondly: you are not the only person in this kingdom to own and use powerful magic. Thirdly: I have plans for Cormyr. Big plans. If I want you or any other noble dead, that can be accomplished with swift ease. The kingdom would profit from many of those deaths, believe me. Yet a select few nobles can be very useful to me and to Cormyr, and if they willingly serve me in furthering my efforts, I’ll reward them handsomely. If they refuse, of course …”

“They die,” the noblewoman replied promptly, uncorking the bottle. “And you deem me-thus far, at least-one of these select few.”

The darkly handsome man gave her a deep and smiling bow. She did not fail to notice that his eyes never left hers for a moment, and she had no doubt he controlled magic that could smite her before her rings could do anything at all.

Very slowly she held up one hand for him to see, spread her fingers, and made the rings on them wink out. Then she unhurriedly poured herself a glass, raised it to him in her other hand in salute, and quelled those rings, too.

Then she sipped.

After a moment, evidently finding nothing amiss with its taste, she visibly relaxed, allowing herself a small smile. “Your health, mysterious lord. How much are you now going to tell me?”

“As much as you want to know. I am familiar with both your family holdings and your personal hideaways, from the rented Sembian properties-even that squalid pleasure-girl bedchamber by the docks in Saerloon, with all of its persistent little crawling and biting inhabitants-to the fishing boats whose ownership is so carefully not linked even to you. I’ve even seen that little cottage in the nether wilds of Harrowdale. In short, there’s nowhere you can run to that I can’t find you-and if you go straight to the king of Cormyr or the Royal Magician and unburden yourself of all you learn here in hopes of gaining more by that unexpected loyalty than by working with me, let me inform you that I have planned for such duplicity. Not only would you die very promptly and painfully, Cormyr itself would be plunged into a war from which very few of its nobles would emerge. Certainly not a single member or byblow of your family; I would see to that.”

The hand that then set down the half-empty wineglass trembled only slightly. “I understand. Speak then, Lord; tell me of the part I am to play.”

“You will continue to do what you are doing as Talane. The blade in the night, the silken threat, the use of coerced or unwitting intermediaries whenever possible. Pursue your career of self-enrichment, insofar as it doesn’t conflict with the tasks I give you to do. I will not explain why you’ll be asked to do this or that-though you are welcome to your own speculations-but the ends I seek include a new rule for Cormyr in which more of its folk enjoy better lives. Some noble families will abruptly disappear, but others will be rewarded, even elevated. Given present company, I might mention the Truesilvers, who should, if your loyalty to me holds, rise to be the foremost family of the realm, firmly separated from the royal House and therefore unlikely to be dragged down with them by the seemingly endless would-be usurpers, but wielding more real power than anyone short of, say, the Royal Magician.”

“I … appreciate that.”

“As a measure of my unfolding trust in you, Lady, let me speak of the powerful magics that will almost certainly soon be in play in Cormyr. Listen well; familiarity with these perils may keep you alive.”

His guest smilingly turned her head and cupped an elegant hand behind the ear she’d just put closest to him.

The darkly handsome man did not quite smile. “About a century ago,” he told her, “certain mages began to forcibly imprison particular persons within magic items-or rather, in stasis. Their return was linked to specific actions taken upon those items.”

He spread his hands in a gesture of loss. “Their reasons for doing so did not come to fruition and are now largely obsolete; all of the imprisoners have perished. Some of their imprisonments persist, but the great chaos of magic that befell back then twisted their magics awry. Some of the prisoners were lost forever when their items were destroyed; some escaped their captivity but also lost their wits; and some are still imprisoned, but … changed. Having powers like spells they never had before, for instance.”

“They emerge uncontrolled?”

“Your own wits are as swift as always, Lady. Some are indeed self-willed and dangerous to whomever releases them. Others can’t be returned to imprisonment, once out, but can be compelled by the bearer of their item. A few may yet be the perfect slaves they were intended to be. All that have thus far emerged have been wreathed in eerie blue flames, and so are known among wizards as ‘blueflame ghosts,’ though what rages around them are not flames any stoker of a hearthfire would recognize, and they are not ghosts.”

“And some of these items are in Cormyr.”

“Indeed. Notably some containing members of a once-famous band of adventurers known as ‘the Nine.’ Rumor has spread among certain of your fellow nobles that all of the Nine-including the lady mage who later became notorious as the bride of the Blackstaff, and one of the Chosen of Mystra-are secretly under the command of a handful of Cormyrean nobility, who can use them to slay, harass, or seize things from rivals or … anyone. As is the way of rumors, these views are overblown. It’s highly likely that the Lady Mage of Waterdeep never survived to be imprisoned, and it’s simply untrue that nobles are striding around this fair realm right now knowing what prisoners are linked to their baubles and covertly using them.”

“Yet.”

The darkly handsome man smiled like a wolf. “You continue to please me. ‘Yet,’ indeed. In truth, a very few nobles do have custody of one of these imprisoning items, and others are kept in the royal palace in Suzail, the property of the Crown-who, so far as can be determined, have no idea what they’re harboring.”

“And as these blueflame ghosts may well be very dangerous, it’s best they be handled through expendable dupes. Nobles and courtiers you can manipulate.”

The darkly handsome man was suddenly beaming. “Your mind outleaps storm lightning.”

His guest eyed him thoughtfully. “You’re not telling me much,” she said. “Of course.”

“Of course. Prudence is not unknown to me.”

The noblewoman regarded him in silence for as long as it took to enjoy another slow swallow of wine, then asked, “And so?”

“So our work together shall begin. Worry not about contacting me; I’ll speak to you when I desire to-and I’ll be aware when you feel the need to contact me. You should assume that I am aware of your smallest breath and your slightest facial expression, from this moment on.”

That earned him another silent, cool look. “And so?”

The brief ghost of a smile did touch the man’s lips at that. “Your first tasks shall be these. Legend recalls Elminster, sometimes known as the Old Mage or Elminster of Shadowdale; he is real and is somewhere in this city right now. Seek to learn what guises he uses and what he’s busy doing. Learn also what magic in the royal palace and royal court buildings can easily be removed. Be aware that I have other eyes, ears, and hands in the palace; sadly, like the high houses of many a kingdom, it comes furnished with traitors behind every door. Feel free to liberate all you can without bringing Crown suspicion or pursuit down upon you-so long as you bring every last enchanted item, hiding or holding back not one of them, to me for inspection. The items I deem needful to my purposes, I shall retain; the rest you may keep for your own ends. Go now.”

The lady who betimes called herself Talane set down her empty wineglass, said formally, “My lord,” bowed her head, and withdrew.

The darkly handsome man regarded the door she’d closed behind her for some time before he murmured, “And if you dare turn traitor on me, Lady, I’ve someone who will enjoy dealing with you appropriately. Someone too dead to disobey me.”

He took another glass from the sideboard, filled it with Arrhenish, sipped, then made a face at himself in the mirror.

“I must do something about these Cormyreans and their execrable tastes in wine,” he told his reflection. “When I sit on the Dragon Throne, those who make and sell overly sweet swill like this will be swiftly drowned in it. My subjects will share in my delight in the finer things. I won’t even style myself ‘king.’ ”

Giving the mirror a smile, he tossed the wineglass casually into the fireplace. As the musical peal of its shattering died away, he sketched a herald’s flourish with one languid arm and added mockingly, “All hail Emperor Manshoon.”