Realms of Infamy

So High a Price
Ed Greenwood

Year of the Turret

Sunlight flashed from the highest towers of Zhentil Keep and flung dazzling reflections through nearby windows. It was a hot Mirtul day in the Year of the Blazing Brand.

A ledgebird darted past one window, wheeled on nimble wings, and called like a carefree trumpet. But then, it did not know how little time it had left to live.

Manshoon smiled slightly and crooked a finger. The bird exploded in a puff of green flame. Humming the latest minstrel tune, the wizard watched scorched feathers drift away. Trust a bird of Zhentil Keep to fly unwittingly to its doom, singing off-key. Well, things might not be that way much longer…

The first lord of Zhentil Keep smiled as he caught sight of himself in an oval mirror floating upright in a corner. The image, jet-black hair gleaming, returned the expression. Its robes were of the finest purple silk, worked with rearing behirs in gold. The sleeves were the latest flaring fashion, and the upswept collar was cut in the style of city lords.

With the faintest of rustlings, Taersel drew a hanging tapestry aside and murmured, "The one you expected is here, Lord."

Manshoon signaled for his servant to bring the guest and withdraw, but then to wait unseen behind a tapestry. To show he understood, Taersel touched the hilt of the throwing knife hidden in his ornate belt buckle.

"Arglath," Taersel announced, then bowed out. The cloaked guest moved forward with a strange gliding motion, as if his feet didn't quite touch the floor.

"Yes?" Manshoon asked coldly.

His guest shrugged off his cloak and replied in tones just as glacial, "I presume you're finally ready to move?"

"I believe so," Manshoon said flatly.

His guest had soft, unfinished features. On second glance, most folk would have guessed him a mongrelman- something not quite human-and have drawn back, muttering and reaching for weapons. They'd have acted rightly.

Hair melted and fell away as the man's features swam, glistened, and split to reveal a single green, liquid eye. That unblinking orb grew until Manshoon looked into a giant eye that swayed at the end of a long, snakelike neck. The body beneath hung shrunken and empty, like discarded clothes drooping from a wall peg.

"Speak, then," the strange visitor's cold voice came again. "I've little patience for humans who enjoy being mysterious."

Manshoon gave his guest a wintry smile. 'There will be open slaughter at the next council meeting. Those who oppose me will die there. When Zhentil Keep is mine, your kind will have what they desire: a powerful city full of hands to do your bidding, fresh meat to feed you, and men who fear and kneel before you."

"Do not presume to understand my kind so well," the creature responded, drifting slightly nearer. "More than that, Manshoon, do not presume to understand-or imagine that you can command-me." Writhing worms of flesh sprouted from its spherical body.

A gasp of horror came from behind a nearby tapestry. Then a crossbow bolt burst out of that same curtain, whipped across the chamber, and was driven sharply aside by an unseen magical force just in front of the floating eye. The bolt ended its flight in a splintering crash against a wall.

Eyes opened in the ends of the monster's still lengthening stalks. One blinked.

The tapestry drew aside by itself to reveal the mouth of a passage-and Taersel, who was now sprawled on his face, crossbow still in his hands. Thin wisps of smoke rose from his body.

"It is not wise," the eye tyrant said silkily, "to threaten 'my kind.'"

Manshoon stared into the beholder's many eyes and replied steadily, "I am too useful for you to slay-and too wise to attempt an attack upon you." He nodded at his sprawled servant. "This man acted of his own accord to protect me. Foolhardy, yet he is as useful to me as I am to you. I trust he has not been harmed."

"Not overmuch." The beholder drew nearer, its many eyes yellow with displeasure. "When next you speak in council, we shall be there. Yet know this, Lordling: unless you and your minions take greater care, a day of harm may soon come to you all."

"Unless we take great care," Lord Chess said in an inner room of another tower not far from Manshoon's home, "a day of harm may soon come to us all."

The other nobles at his table shifted in their seats. Most of the city's young noblemen were present. Some hid nervousness by taking flamboyant sips of the Mulhorandan lion-wine in their goblets. Others assumed superior smiles and settled into even more indolent poses in their great, finely carved chairs.

"We do not fear upstart mages," one said with a practiced sneer. "Our sires and our grandsires smashed such foes. Why should we quail? The least of our guards can destroy these Zhentarim."

"Aye," another rumbled amid murmurs of agreement. "Let the graybeards in council yap and snap all the day long! I see naught to threaten Zhentil Keep or to prevent our coins piling up. The council responds whenever those dolts in Mulmaster dare another challenge, or a Thayan wizard deludes himself into thinking he's mighty enough to rule us. On most days, the council simply keeps our fathers and the rest of the dotards busy – and keeps their noses out of our affairs!"

"And just how many affairs have you had, Thaerun?" one noble asked slyly.

"Aye, this tenday?" someone added through the general mirth.

Chess frowned. "Have you no care for the snakes in our midst? Agents of Thay, of the Dragon Cult- even of Sembia and Calimshan- are unmasked every month! Their dagger points are always closer than you credit."

"Ah," Thaerun said, leaning forward to tap the table in triumphant emphasis. 'That's the point, Chess. They are unmasked – by the watchful wizards Manshoon commands, and by Fzoul's tame priests. That's why we tolerate these haughty longrobes in the first place! They watch our backs so we can get on with the business of getting rich!"

"And wenching," someone murmured.

"Drinking," another added. "What is this chamberpot-spill, anyway, Chess?"

"The finest Mulhorandan vintage," Chess said dryly. "Not that you'd recognize it, Naerh."

Naerh spat on the table. "That for your pretensions! My family's as old as yours!"

"And as debauched," Thaerun murmured.

Chess smiled thinly. "You do well to enjoy your ease while you can, Lords. Tis a precious luxury, lost if just one of our foes decides to make war on us."

Thaerun leaned forward again, his eyes cold. "I do enjoy it… and I shall. Every luxury has its price-but our ease costs us only the blood of a few fool altar-kneelers and hireswords from time to time. That's a fee I'll pay willingly. Save your veiled threats. The Blackryn name is a proud one-and one I'm always ready to defend." Twinkling points of light burst forth around his hand. They coalesced into an ornate scepter whose tip pulsed and glowed.

A noble sighed. "Oh, put it away, Thaerun! You're always trying to prove how battle-bold you are, and showing instead your utter lack of subtlety. We've all got one or more of those! You think yourself the only one in Zhentil Keep with wits enough to carry magic, when we must all hang our blades by the door at feasts?"

Another noble scratched the untidy beginnings of a beard and added, "Aye, and if you ever use it, Blackryn, 'tis the blood of one of us that'll spill. Then the bloodfeuds'll begin again. That is too high a price for the liking of the council. They'd probably put you in beast-shape to spend your days as a patrol-hound north of Glister… for the few days before you met death."

He leaned forward, uncrossing glossy-booted legs, and added, "Enough hard words. More wine, Chess, and tell me of the maid with green hair you were with last eve! I'd not laid eyes on her before. Where've you been hiding her?"

Chess smiled as a silver tray bristling with bottles and decanters rose from the polished wood in front of him and floated slowly down the table. "Yes, her hair was green last night. The Shadowsil, she's called. One of Manshoon's mages-so don't even think of wenching her, Eldarr. She could slay us all with one wave of her hand."

"And that, Thaerun," Naerh said dryly, "would also be too high a price for your liking!"

A well-fed man in robes of the latest slashed, counter-folded Calishite finery spoke for the first time that night. "I have been long away," he said, "but word has spread far of the Zhentarim: dark wizards, ruthless mage-slayers who gather ever more mighty magic. I would know more. Tell me plainly: what befalls in our city? What lies ahead that you fear? "

Lord Chess sipped at his wine. "Manshoon, leader of these Zhentarim, has become first lord of the council. He I plans to do much more than chair the debates of squabbling merchants. He speaks of Zhentil Keep as 'his,' as if he were king over it!"

More than one noble laughed in derisive dismissal, but Chess held up a quelling hand. "Manshoon is a mage of power. He's gathered wizards great and small who think as he does. He's slain or driven out many of the mages who might oppose him. These Zhentarim work together. Think on that, my lords, and consider how you'd fare if twenty came to your feast, drank less than they pretended, then attacked you with spells!"

There were dark murmurs. Chess looked around grimly. "Worms you may think them, but they can slay us all. Have you not noticed how many of our great lords-even our last battlelord-are ill and keep to their beds? Old age, aye… But what if they're being helped to their graves? Before you scoff, consider: spells may not slip past all the expensive wards and amulets we wear, but there are other ways. I know Manshoon well. We grew up together. He is a master of slow, wasting poisons that deal gradual death and raise no alarm. He killed his parents thus, to gain their gold."

Chess set down his goblet, and his voice grew more urgent. "Each day the Zhentarim grow more haughty. I fear they'll seize power soon, using spells to sway the council. Manshoon must act before the council approves the opening of the wizard-school that the Beldenstones are sponsoring, which will draw independent mages by the score to our city. And final approval for that is to come when the council next meets."

"Aghh! Enough of this fear-talk!" Thaerun snarled. "We've heard you spout this before, Chess! How can any wizard- even a band acting together-break the spell-shields and the priests' scrutiny? Those blackrobes grow rich by keeping all of us striving against each other. Priests don't like rivals! They'll slap these Zhentarim into the dust as soon as the mages dare to act openly!"

"Think you so?" Lord Chess leaned forward. "What if I told you Manshoon meets often with the most powerful of the priests? Aye: Fzoul, the master of the Black Altar, himself."

Shocked silence fell, and Chess added with more calmness than he felt, "It is the 'impartial' priests' vigilance that keeps council meetings free of spell-deceit. Mayhap that is only a fancy-tale." He reached for his goblet again, bejeweled fingers trembling.

"There's more, isn't there?" Naerh asked, eyes on his host's face.

Lord Chess nodded. "Taersel tells me Manshoon meets with someone more powerful in magic than he-someone he keeps secret from High Priest Fzoul. You've heard rumors of beholders prowling the city by night…"

He looked around at the silent, pale faces. "Now are you afraid, my lords?" He drained his goblet and added, "As the next council meeting is on the morrow, it may be too late to do anything but be afraid."

The beholder bit down. Blood spattered, and a suddenly headless body twisted and flopped like a landed fish.

Lord Rorst Amandon, battlelord of Zhentil Keep, passed a hand over his scrying crystal. The bloody scene faded.

"So passes Lord Hael's hope," he murmured. "Hardly a surprise-and probably not the only uninvited visitors to Manshoon's Tower who'll meet their gods this night. Such feeble attacks won't stop the Zhentarim now. Still… Hael's thieves got farther than I'd expected."

The old lord's hand trembled as he reached for a decanter beside the bed. As always, Etreth was there to put a drink into the palsied grip.

Possession of a scrying crystal that could pierce spell-shields meant death if either the city's priests or wizards learned of it-but Lord Amandon was past caring. He lay on his deathbed, and knew it. By the time Manshoon's poison had been detected, its ravages had gone too far in his aged body for magic to mend. The most expensive sages knew no antidote, once the poison took hold. The first lord had been thorough. Enough, at least, to slay Lord Amandon.

The old warrior looked wearily around his bedchamber, gazing at his favorite broadsword and the portrait of his wife, dead and gone these seven years. He might join her before morning, whatever befell the mad wizard's schemes.

"I… can wait no longer, Etreth," he muttered. "My body fails. I can barely drink without your aid, now."

Looking up, he saw bright, unshed tears in his loyal servant's eyes. Rorst turned his head away, moved. Years they'd been together, as he'd led the armies of Zhentil Keep to rule Thar and the northern coast of the Moonsea with brutal efficiency-something he was less and less proud of, as the years passed. He'd never noticed the gray creeping through Etreth's hair, and the man's moustache was white!

The battlelord sat up, cushions tumbling. "The time is come," he growled. "I have one last command, good Etreth: go and summon the one I told you of."

"Now, Lord? And… leave you? What if-?"

"I'll do without," the lord said firmly, "until the one I must deal with is here. Go, Etreth, for the honor of the Amandons."

He set down his goblet. It clattered in his trembling hand. Rorst frowned down at it, then raised fierce eyes. "Go," he said roughly, "if you care for me at all."

The old servant stood looking at him a moment, turned with what sounded like a sob, and hurried out.

Rorst Amandon glanced at the darkened scrying crystal and wondered if he'd last long enough to see this final battle through. His eyes wandered to Desil's portrait, drank in her familiar painted beauty, and turned again to the scrying crystal. I am a man of the sword, he reflected with a wan smile, itching to be part of the fight until the very last.

The well-oiled door to the chamber's secret exit closed behind the last guest, and Lord Chess sat alone. A full goblet rested forgotten before him as he idly turned a plain ring around and around on his finger.

Nothing short of an angry god could stop Manshoon now. The first lord was as powerful in sorcery as he was a master of strategy. He'd be ruler of Zhentil Keep before the snows came. That would have been unthinkable only a year ago, with all the wily, battle-hardened nobles of the Keep between the arrogant mage and mastery of the city.

Then old lorltar had named Manshoon his successor as first lord-under magical compulsion, many thought. Within a tenday, many of the proudest nobles-those who had no love for the upstart first lord or commanded strong magic-fell ill. No cause could be found, but the tavern-rumors carried the truth. Now those same taverns housed talk of the Zhentarim slaying rivals openly. And when the uproar began, Manshoon was supposed to have some secret weapon to wield, one beyond the spells of his ever-growing band of gutter wizards.

The monied among the work-a-day Zhents fiercely opposed every plan and deed of the swift-rising Zhentarim, but that mattered little. The merchants learned early there was no safety to be bought after one opposes a magic-wielder. As for the rest of the populace-well, the rabble never played much of a role in politics, apart from being swayed to one cause or another by well-staged public spectacle. Not much different from the other folk of the Heartlands, really.

The ring Chess had been turning gleamed and caught his eye. He regarded it thoughtfully. The plain band had cost him his best hireswords; he'd paid very expensive assassins to kill them after they'd refused to part with it. But it was worth the bloodfees and the loss of their service. He wore it constantly these days.

Manshoon wasn't the only one in the Keep with secret weapons. Chess could call forth a loyal dragon from the ring whenever the need might come. That might be as soon as tomorrow, he thought grimly as he reached for his goblet once more.

"We've been foes more years than I can remember," Lord Amandon said, rising. His guest had arrived swiftly, indeed.

Sweat from the effort of standing sprang out on the old lord's brow. A moment later, he felt himself borne on unseen hands back to bed, to settle once more among the cushions. The pain and trembling eased-but all his will could not entirely stifle a whimper.

"Be at ease, Lord Amandon," said his guest, standing cloaked in shadow. "Greeting me should not bring ye death."

The old lord raised an eyebrow. "Myrkul stands ready at my door… 'tis why I sent for you. I need Manshoon stopped, but not slain."

"When, and how?"

"As soon as next highsun, I fear… at the meeting of the ruling council."

"A meeting so guarded by spells that my approach would call forth all the mages, priests, and armsmen Zhentil Keep can muster."

"There is a way in," Lord Amandon replied. "Take the shape of a being who is expected, and you'll be free to enter."

"I smell a trap."

"Aye," Amandon said. "There is… But not for your skin. Certain secret names I've learned, coupled with your power, can entrap a being, to its death. I give you my word-as battlelord of Zhentil Keep and as an Amandon: I mean no attack against you."

"I believe ye," came the voice from the shadows.

Lord Amandon sighed. "You show more trust than most in this city, these days."

"Lack of trust is a more widespread problem than ye may think, Lord," was the dry reply. "Now, these secret names-"

At the heart of the High Hall of Zhentil Keep was a vast, echoing room. Usually it stood empty. Today every seat was taken, and those who could not find seats in the council chamber, but had importance enough to force admittance, stood on the stairs, anxious at what might occur-and even more anxious not to appear so. Rumors about the rise of the Zhentarim and the growing anger of the nobles enfolded the city like a cloak on a chill night. Would the cold-faced priests of Bane stop the wizards' grab for power with spells of their own? That might plunge the city into spell-battle and ruin. Or would they remain as impartial as they'd always claimed to be?

Through the murmur of excited talk, bright morning light fell past the shoulders of standing citizens into the oval well of concentric benches to splash the central debating floor with sun-fire. Lord Chess looked grimly down from his seat into that pool of light and stroked one of his rings.

One man stood alone in the brightness-a man in rich robes, who surveyed the chamber as if he owned it and every person there; a man hated more than most, in a city of many hatreds: Manshoon of the Zhentarim, first lord of Zhentil Keep.

He gave the crowded benches that soft half-smile many had learned to fear, then said, "There is just one matter more."

Manshoon took a thick sheaf of parchment from a front bench and waved it. One scrip escaped his grasp and fluttered away. Someone snickered, but Manshoon crooked an eyebrow and let his hand fall open. The papers began circling his head in a slow, stately ring.

“These reports cite increased aggressions by our foes," he said, his voice carrying to the uppermost reaches of the chamber. "See how many there are?"

He indicated one paper. "Here we read of citizens slain by villainous, deluded followers of the discredited high imperceptor."

He pointed at a group of parchments. 'There we read of unfair fees and taxes heaped upon our merchants by no less than seven cities of the Dragon Reach."

Manshoon's finger moved again. "Or perhaps you'd prefer to report of open assaults on our caravans by the brigands who style themselves the Cult of the Dragon!"

The first lord spread his hands. "Is this not monstrous? Should we not sharpen our swords and ready our spells?"

"No," someone replied flatly from the middle benches. There was a murmur of laughter.

Manshoon let it run its course and die. "Yet there's more. Much more. The survival of our very city is at stake!" "It always has been," someone called. "Aye, show us something new to back up those old words!"

Manshoon replied, "Very well. Look, all! Look well?' He waved a hand and stepped back. The debating floor darkened. Motes of light winked and sparkled in that magical gloom, swirling suddenly into the ghost-form of a robed man. The stranger sneered, then raised one hand to shape an intricate gesture. A soundless bolt of lightning lashed out from that hand into the upper benches. Councilors cringed back-and then gaped as images of three Zhentarim wizards well-known in the city suddenly appeared among the benches. These ghost mages hurled back magics of their own.

The harmless shadows of sparking, slaying spells flashed and leapt. Manshoon stood calmly in the midst of their silent fury and said, "I call on the high priest of the Black Altar!"

Fzoul rose and bowed gravely. His flowing red hair and moustache stood out like frozen flames against the dark splendor of his robes.

Manshoon asked in loud, solemn tones, "Are these images false?"

Fzoul held up a gem that filled his fist and glowed with magical radiance. He peered through it at the spell-phantoms, then shook his head. "No. These images record what truly befell." He bowed again and sat down.

"Behold," Manshoon said triumphantly, pointing at the image of the stranger-phantom. "A Red Wizard of Thay!" He surveyed the dumbfounded councilors and added, "Confronted as you see, in this very chamber, two nights ago!"

Silent spells splashed and grappled. Sudden green flames raced up the Red Wizard's limbs. The struggling man's flesh dissolved in the inferno until only black, writhing bones remained. The watching councilors saw those bones collapse into ash.

In the hushed silence that followed, Manshoon's voice carried clearly. "Saw you the scroll at his belt?" The smoking image faded as he waved at it, but many councilors nodded.

"I recognized it," the first lord said grimly, "and checked our records chamber. The naval treaty we recently signed with Thay is missing! We are defenseless against Thayan piracy-but the concessions we surrendered to get that agreement are still lost to us."

Manshoon raised his arms and voice together as he looked around at the benches. "And this is but a piece of paper! What if this wizard had come with killing spells, seeking your money? Or your throat? Or your children, to sell into slavery?"

There was an excited, angry buzz, as councilor looked to councilor. Manshoon let it grow into a roar, then waved for silence.

"Zhentil Keep needs strong guardians against such perils. You saw the bravery and skill of three Zhentarim with your own eyes, preventing the destruction of this hall-or worse. I can keep this city safe with more stalwart, loyal mages such as these… But I need your permission to do so." He stepped forward grandly, so sunlight outlined him. "I must have the right and the power to defend you!"

Then Manshoon continued more quietly, "I must be free to train and equip forces to properly defend our city. I must have the authority to whelm and direct them in emergencies. I move that the formal powers of the first lord of Zhentil Keep-my powers-be so increased."

The chamber erupted. Red-faced old nobles pounded fists on their benches and bellowed, "Never!" There were shouts of "Tyranny!" and others of "Well said!" There were also cries of "Let the lord speak!" and "Wisdom at last!"

From out of the tumult, somewhere in the upper benches, came the wink and flash of a dagger spinning end-over-end through the air. Manshoon calmly watched it come. At the last instant, after most councilors had seen the whirling blade, the first lord waved his hand and muttered a word. The blade blossomed into a small shower of sparks and was gone.

Fzoul Chembryl rose, dark robes swirling. His voice was loud and level. "From chaos and strife can come only harm. Whatever is decided here, we must have order in this city, and the rule of law." He surveyed the hall slowly and sternly before he added, "We have heard a proposal of some controversy-and seen the clear urgency behind that proposal. Let us put this matter to a vote. Let this council decide-now!"

One old nobleman protested, "Matters of import shouldn't be decided in haste! This is not well done! This council never speaks or acts hastily!"

High Priest Fzoul answered coolly, "Daggers are never thrown in this council chamber, either." He folded his robes around himself with dignity and sat down.

A young lord rose and shouted over the angry talk that followed. "Let us have a vote. Something must be done, or we all waste our time here!"

There were supportive cries of "A vote! A vote!" Most seemed to come from the benches where wizards sat.

Manshoon nodded. "A vote has been called. Will any other councilor speak for it?"

"I speak for it!" cried an excited young noble in the upper benches, to be answered by a slithering of hisses.

Manshoon's voice silenced them all. "A vote has been twice called, and the duty of this council is clear. Let us vote."

Fzoul stood again. "By rule, any vote for or against a first lord is called by the senior priest present-yet I think it not right for the servants of holy Bane to act so boldly in this purely secular business of Zhentil Keep. If Councilor Urathyl will honor us?"

The young noble who'd seconded the call rose, flushed with pride. "The first lord asks this council to increase his powers and those of the Zhentarim he commands. Who stands in support of this request?"

Here and there around the chamber councilors came silently to their feet. There were not many. Urathyl counted them twice, including himself, and called the count- nineteen-to Fzoul, who confirmed it.

Less happily, the young noble drew breath and said, "Let all against the request stand to be counted."

Benches scraped and echoed all over the chamber. Urathyl counted and called forty-six councilors.

Fzoul bowed. "The count is correct, and has Bane's blessing. The request is den-"

"Wait!" The strong, sour voice of Lord Phandymm cut across the high priest's words. Fzoul bowed, surrendered the floor with a gesture, and sat down.

The senior noble, known as a loud opponent of the Zhentarim, struggled to his feet. He was trembling, and his solemn face slipped into fleeting contortions several times. His hands clutched at his bench for support. "I-I think we are too hasty, and have voted with our hearts, with too little regard for the safety of fair Zhentil Keep. It irks many of us-myself included-"

Phandymm's eyes grew wild, and he gabbled for a moment before his voice cleared. "Irks us, I say, to see one so young making what some see as an arrogant, dangerous grab for the scepter of absolute rule over our city. And yet… if we set aside our anger, what he proposes is only sensible! Have we not seen the perils lurking in the shadows of this very hall? Have w-w-weee-?"

The noble's face twisted and spasmed again. His body Jerked about as if buffeted by unseen hands. He passed trembling fingers over his face, and sat down. "I-I cannot say more," he mumbled.

"Magic," a councilor shouted suddenly. "Someone's using magic on Phandymm!"

"Magic! Through the spell-shields?"

"Aye, Zhentarim magic!"

A Zhentarim wizard rose angrily. "I resent that charge! Will the high priest examine Lord Phandymm? I am confident no spell will be found upon him!"

Fzoul rose and bowed again. "As this meeting unfolds," he said dryly, "it occurs to me that perhaps I should simply remain standing." There were chuckles amid the growing tension. Again Fzoul peered through the glowing gem to seek out any trace of sorcery-and frowned.

"I find no magic," the high priest said firmly. "But there is something…"

He crooked a finger, and a small flask rose from th breast of the hunched lord's robe, sparkling as it drifte smoothly into the air. All could see the potent wine within.

"Ah," Fzoul said, amid a spreading ripple of laughte When the mirth had diminished, he let the flask sink bac and said delicately, "Lord Phandymm seems in some. emotional distress, but his deep feelings for the safety of our city are clear. And from the wisdom of more years than most of us boast, he has called for a revote."

The Zhentarim wizard who'd denied the presence of magic sprang to his feet, voice triumphant. "I move a revote proceed!"

Councilor Urathyl almost fell over his feet as he rose to shout, "I speak in support!"

Fzoul bowed again. "A revote must now occur."

Manshoon sat silently at his front bench, smiling a little. His gaze never left the face of the sweating Lord Phandymm.

From his high vantage, Lord Chess saw a little glow in the first lord's eyes, and was sure: magic. He leapt to his feet. "Enough, Manshoon-and all of you Zhentarim! Let all foul magic be left outside this hall. The councilors of Zhentil Keep must deliberate with clear wits!"

Manshoon turned his burning gaze from Phandymm- who fell back senseless in his seat, head lolling-to Chess.

The nobleman felt a sudden heaviness tearing at his mind. He gasped, then roared in fury as he felt his tongue thicken and words come unbidden into his mouth.

The first lord smiled at him as cruelly as any cat cornering his prey.

Chess glared into that mocking smile as he struggled against his own muscles. The lesser rings of protection on his fingers smoked, flared into tiny blue flames, and burned away. The searing pain cleared his senses. Desperately, Chess drove his arm up-it moved slowly, as if coming from a great distance-to stare at the one ring still on his hand. It flashed.

Sudden golden radiance swirled in the air over the central well of the High Hall. It spun ever-brighter until the stunned councilors saw it become a large black dragon, vast and scaled, its head like a gigantic horned snake. Mighty wings clapped, once.

The wind of that wingbeat smashed many men flat against their benches. The dragon hissed, loud and angry. Acid foamed and bubbled at the edges of its jaws, and the chamber was suddenly full of the eye-watering stink of its breath.

Men screamed. The dragon turned its snakelike head, terrible hunger and mirth in its eyes. With its tail, the wyrm casually smashed a councilor and his bench into a bloody heap of pulp and splinters.

That crash was answered with a ringing like angry bells as the tall windows of the chamber shattered-and true nightmare descended on the council.

The dragon whirled, gleaming scales shifting.

Three orbs, black against the bright sunlight, drifted into the chamber through the broken windows. Eyestalks writhed as each dark sphere looked down with a single unwinking, central eye. A large, many-toothed mouth split one sphere in cruel laughter.

"Beholders!" a councilor shrieked.

"The rumors were true!" another shouted. "The Zhentarim are in league with beholders!"

All across the chamber, councilors and citizens shrieked and scrambled over benches in a frantic rush to flee. The dragon roared and spat a smoking plume of acid at the foremost beholder, but the air suddenly filled with glowing rays, which lanced out from the beholders' many eyes. At their touch, the acid hissed into smoke.

Lord Chess felt Manshoon's mind-attack falter and fade. The noble flung himself under his bench and tried to reach the dragon's mind, to turn its fury on the first lord before Manshoon could work worse magic.

The dragon's will was clear and hard, far mightier than the nobleman's. Bent on destroying its many-eyed foes, the dragon ignored his silent commands. Chess growled in exasperation.

Across the hall, Zhentarim mages came to their feet. They boldly ignored the dragon's lashing tail and used the panic to follow their own dark plot. Triumphant sneers twisted their faces as they hurled balls of fire and bolts of lightning at the keep's proudest and most powerful nobles. Many lords snatched out magical rods and wands of their own, striking back with fury.

Overhead the dragon roared in pain, writhing, as many rays stabbed at-and through-it Smoking wounds appeared all over its body, raining hot blood down on the men fighting below. Swords and knives flashed as men slashed and grappled along the benches. Chess tried again to reach the dragon's mind, but felt from it pain that made him shout aloud and recoil so violently he cracked his head on the underside of the bench. When he'd recovered his senses, he settled on drawing his slim ceremonial sword.

A Zhentarim mage hurried past. Chess rose as another wizard rushed by. Coolly, he ran the man through.

The wizard coughed, convulsed, and hung heavily on the noble's blade. As Chess wrested his steel free, ripples of radiant magic rolled out from the beholders to strike the dragon.

The mighty wyrm flickered and grew pale as wave after wave of bright magic broke over it… until Chess thought he could see benches and struggling men through it.

A breath later, the still-roaring dragon simply faded away.

The noble looked around, blade raised. Zhentarim wizards were blocking every exit, using magic to hurl back fearful councilors, preventing all from leaving. Spells snatched blades from hands all over the chamber, or made drawn steel burn as if aflame. Even as his own blade seemed to catch fire, Chess saw a man curse as his sword clanged to the floor. Then Chess was forced to let his own weapon fall.

Manshoon stood at the center of the hall, gloating openly. The wizard's grin was wide as his gaze took in the moaning and the fallen. Then the first lord glanced up at the three beholders.

His triumphant smile slid suddenly into open-mouthed astonishment. The beholder Manshoon knew as Arglath had turned-and rays lashed from its eyes to rend its two fellows.

One eye tyrant burst, spattering stunned priests and mages below with its gore. The other spun through the air, torn apart and blazing, to crash down in ruin on a cluster of vainly shouting Zhentarim wizards. The treacherous beholder floated slowly across the chamber. Lord Chess cowered as its dark, awesome bulk halted above him, eye-stalks curling like a nest of angry snakes.

"Enough killing," the eye tyrant hissed in a deep and terrible voice that brought the hall to sudden silence. "Let order be restored and all magic cease. Let all able councilors return to their seats-and I do mean all, Manshoon."

The first lord of Zhentil Keep froze in the midst of frantic spellweaving. Failing magic flashed and faded around him as he glared up at the beholder. Chess saw fear and hatred war with each other in Manshoon's eyes.

Fear won. For now.

The second vote, taken with the beholder hanging dark over the terrified councilors, was not even close. The special powers requested by the first lord were denied.

At the beholder's bidding, Lord Chess was named "Watch-lord of the Council." His vote was stripped from him, along with any authority over the armsmen of Zhentil Keep. But he was made supreme in directing council affairs. None could now lawfully set aside the council to seize rule over the city… not even ambitious archmages.

More than a few eyes saw Fzoul, the supposedly impartial high priest of Bane, turn white with fury. There was a general hiss of anger at his revealed connivance when Man-shoon strode around the ring of benches to lean over the priest and murmur a few words. The price of the uncloaking was high, but the words needed to be said.

"Make no defiance," Manshoon breathed. His face was a calm mask; only his burning eyes betrayed the fear and rage that were almost choking him. "I was close with Chess once, and can be again… close enough, at least, to make him move at our bidding."

Whatever reply Fzoul might have made, his own eyes still dark and ugly with rage, was drowned out by the beholder's cold, hissing voice. It had silently descended to hang close above the two men.

"It is hoped among my kind," the eye tyrant said with deep sarcasm, "that the events of today have taught you both the folly of such clumsy, drawn-swords villainy. Those who deal in rashness are changed by their dealing-and not for the better. The waste caused by the violence you began should make your lesson as clear and as painful to you as it has been to the rest of this council."

The beholder rose swiftly, eyestalks still trained in a deadly array on the two. Then it added almost bitterly, "But the curse of humans seems to be the nimbleness with which they forget."

Manshoon straightened, opening his mouth. His expression foretold words of proud defiance, but the beholder was already disappearing through a shattered window. Its parting words echoed around the hall. "Behave with rather more subtlety in the future, Manshoon, if you wish to enjoy our continued support!"

Silence fell. The councilors sat frozen in fear of what the first lord might do in his rage.

Manshoon stared up at the window for a very long time. Then he smiled thinly, raised one hand in what might have been a salute-or a wave of dismissal-and quietly walked out of the hall. Wordlessly the surviving Zhentarim rose and followed, their dark cloaks sweeping out like the wings of so many determined birds of prey.

Lord Chess watched them go and let out a breath he'd been holding a long time. As he made his own way out, he was careful not to glance at Fzoul Chembryl. He could feel the cold weight of the priest's gaze. The master of the Black Altar had been known to lash out in fury himself.

Cold sweat was trickling down the newly appointed watchlord's back by the time he strode out of the chamber and turned hastily aside to where hurled spells could not reach. He sighed then. There were still some chasms, it seemed, even the Zhentarim and the priests of Bane did not quite dare to hurl their spells across. Yet Chess sighed again and hurried away, keeping a wary watch behind as he went.

Awe and terror filled the streets of Zhentil Keep when a beholder of gigantic size drifted, dark and silent, over the city in the brightness of highsun. Ignoring the startled folk below, it floated between spires and high turrets with menacing purpose. Coming at last to the clustered towers of a high, grand stone castle, it paused by a certain window.

There it erupted in a puff of smoke that seemed to draw the window open. None below could see a robed, bearded man in the heart of the smoke. He stepped over the sill into the tower beyond. The beholder drifted away, its body beginning to dwindle, until it was only wisps of darkness that soon faded to nothing.

It had been a long wait. Lord Amandon was breathing raggedly as the high window of his bedchamber squealed open and the chill north breeze slipped in. The surface of his scrying crystal misted over.

Etreth started forward, sword drawn, when he met the challenging gaze of a white-bearded old man who stepped through the window and strode down empty air.

"Well met, Rorst Amandon," the newcomer said in a voice both dry and deep.

"Welcome, Elminster," the old lord managed to gasp. Etreth came to a halt, open-mouthed. Only then did he remember he held a sword.

Elminster looked at him and, in tones that were not unkind, said, "Put that toy away."

Lord Amandon struggled to speak. "I've… no time left to waste words. That was well done, Lord Mage. You kept your word. My price is met. I'm glad I lived to see the bargain sealed."

Elminster bowed. "I shall keep my word in times to come. This I swear: neither Fzoul nor Manshoon shall die by my hand or spells… however much ill they work." He bowed. "My payment, as agreed, for the names you gave."

Etreth stared from one old man to the other. Lord Amandon nodded. "I do not want Manshoon dead, whatever he may have done to me," he said. "Zhentil Keep needs a strong leader against growing foes… But I did want him held back from becoming a tyrant, ruling over a city twisted into little more than a fortress." His breath faltered. For a long moment the nobleman struggled to gather strength- and then spent it in a shrug. "So… even evil old men can be of use to you, eh?"

"Aye," Elminster said, watching the battlelord with something rather like sadness in his eyes. "I salute ye, Lord. It has been an honor to do battle against ye, all these years."

Lord Amandon lay back against his pillows and said faintly, "And now I fear it is ended, Elminster." He turned his head to look into the eyes of his servant one last time. "Farewell, Etreth. Have my thanks-and all my wealth." Then his gaze swept across his broadsword to the portrait of Lady Amandon. Elminster's eyes followed.

Tears welled up in Etreth's eyes, so he never saw the mage lift a hand and murmur something, face very gentle.

A moment later, the slim, demure lady in the painting seemed to turn, recognize her lord, and smile. The painting glowed as she stepped out of it, a figure outlined in faint white fire, face radiant with welcome as she extended loving arms to her lord.

"Desil," Lord Amandon quavered, tears in his voice. "Oh, Desil!" He raised his wasted arms with surprising speed, reaching for her.

As she came to him, the old nobleman struggled up from the bed to meet her-and fell headlong, crumpling to the carpets without a sound.

The radiant figure hung above him for a moment, looking down with a smile before fading away. Etreth made a convulsive moment toward his lord, then looked at Elminster. They both knew Amandon was dead.

"Lady Amandon," Etreth said, weeping. "Oh, the gods are merciful! She-" The faithful servant froze and brushed away his tears. " 'Twas thou conjured her up," he said slowly. "Why? Why help one who stood against you down the years?"

Elminster raised an eyebrow, but his voice was empty of sarcasm as he replied, "As your master said, even evil old men can be useful. Thy lord was useful to me as well as to his city… And as we old men know, if long years are to be ours, debts must be paid."

As the Old Mage turned toward the window, Etreth saw that his hands shook with weariness.

One of those hands rose in a salute as Elminster gained the windowsill, turned, and added softly, "No matter how high the price."