The Best of the Realms, Book II

SO HIGH A PRICE

So high a price

So willingly paid

Hot blood flows

And a ruler is made.

Mintiper Moonsilver

Ballad of a Tyrant

Year of the Turret

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

A small, brown ledgebird darted past one window, wheeled in the air on nimble wings, and merrily gave out its tiny call, like a carefree bugle. But then, it did not know how little time it had left to live.

A man looked out of the window, smiled slightly, and crooked a finger. The bird exploded in a puff of vivid green flames.

Manshoon watched the scorched feathers drift away and went on idly humming the latest popular minstrels’ tune. Trust a bird of Zhentil Keep to be out of time, and off-key. Well, no longer.

Manshoon looked down on the city below. He’d soon be looking down from a far loftier tower, if all worked out as he’d planned. His robes were of the finest purple silk, worked with rearing behirs in cloth-of-gold; his sleeves were the latest flaring fashion and his upswept high collar was of the sort only lords should wear. His jet-black hair gleamed in the sunlight as he leaned forward out of the window to better see the streets below. A slight shimmer in the air marked the closing of the invisible curtain of protective magics that surrounded him, in the wake of the scorcher spell he’d used on the bird.

A soft, deep chime sounded in the depths of the tower. It was followed by the faintest of stirrings as Taersel drew a hanging aside and murmured, “Fzoul Chembryl, my lord.”

Manshoon nodded and signed that Taersel should withdraw and return by one of the side passages to stand unseen behind a tapestry nearby. Taersel touched the hilt of the concealed throwing knife built into the ornate buckle of his belt to show he’d understood.

The man who was shown through the hanging a breath or so later looked like a well fed, self-important merchant, grand cap set on the side of his head with arrogant self-assurance— no doubt to cover a balding spot—rings agleam on his fingers, and robes of the latest slashed and counter-folded Calishite finery. He bowed and husked, “We are alone, great lord?”

Manshoon nodded. “We are.” The figure facing him flickered, seemed to melt and run riotous colors for a moment, and then spun into sharp focus once more, revealing the lionine mane, somber robes, and familiar features of Fzoul, High Priest of The Black Altar.

“The time is at hand?”

Manshoon nodded. “I grow weary of the sniping, petty threats, and backstreet whispers of these haughty nobles, and haven’t the time or interest to spare for hunting them down one by one, in their lairs.” He smiled. “Let it be done all at once. Dramatic, bloody, impressing those who watch, and goading the High Imperceptor into even more reckless bids to regain the temple from you.”

Fzoul showed his teeth in a smile of more cruelty than mirth, and said, “Savaging the hands he sends to smite us will be pleasure indeed, but be warned: If my priests are to remain useful, we of the Altar must be seen to take no part in your bid for power. None of my faithful will stand against you, but neither dare we work openly for you.”

Manshoon inclined his head. “It is enough.” He indicated a nearby decanter of black wine with a slow wave of his hand, but Fzoul shook his head, shivered, and the fat merchant faced Manshoon once more.

“There’ll be time enough for drinking when this is done, and your title is more than empty words, First Lord,” came the husky, false voice of the merchant.

Slowly, very slowly, Manshoon nodded again.

The decanter’s level had fallen by half when the hangings parted again, and another man came through them to see Manshoon. He moved with a strange gliding motion, this one, as if his soundless feet didn’t quite touch the floor. Taersel treated him with careful, silent respect.

The First Lord of Zhentil Keep, whose mind had been far away, going over every detail and dovetailing manipulation of his plans, opened eyes that were very dark and said coldly, “Yes?”

His guest straightened, flinging off the worn and stained gray weathercloak, and answered as coldly, “I presume you’re finally ready to move?”

“I believe so.”

The long-haired man facing him might have been a barbarian, but for the soft, unfinished look of his features. At a second glance, most Zhent folk would have guessed him a mongrelman, not quite human at all, and drawn back with mutters and wary touches of whatever weapons they bore.

They’d have been right. The hair melted and fell away as the features swam, grew white and glistening, and parted in the center to reveal a green and liquid eye. It grew and grew, until Manshoon was looking into the gaze of a single giant eye in a spherical head that bobbed at the end of a long, stalklike neck, swaying as it regarded him. The body beneath hung shrunken and empty, like discarded clothes drooping from a wall-peg.

“Speak, then,” the cold voice came again, a hissing, rumbling edge now audible within it. “I’ve little patience for humans who enjoy being mysterious.”

Manshoon gave the thing a wintry smile, and said, “It is to be open slaughter, as you wished, at the coming Council meeting. Those who oppose me—you know them—are to be slain. When effective rule of Zhentil Keep is in my hands, your own plans and wants will be addressed. So long as our ways lie together, your kind will have what they most desire: rule of a powerful city of men, full of hands to do your bidding, fresh meat to feed you, and strong men who will fear you and kneel before you.”

“Do not presume,” the cold voice responded, as the human body dwindled almost to nothing and the spherical head grew larger, drifting slightly closer, “to understand my kind so well. Most of all, Manshoon, do not presume to understand—or order about— me.”

Fleshy, writhing protuberances sprouted from the spherical body like giant worms, and a soft gasp and a clatter came from behind the tapestry where Taersel was hiding. A moment later, a crossbow bolt whipped across the floor of the chamber with a loud and vicious crack.

Eyes opened in the ends of the still-growing stalks. The tapestry was drawn aside by an invisible hand to reveal the dark mouth of a passage beyond, and lying sprawled on its stones, the motionless, facedown form of Taersel, a crossbow still clutched in his nerveless hands. Thin wisps of smoke rose from what remained of the protective amulets he’d worn about his wrists.

“It is not wise,” the cold voice of the eye tyrant said silkily, “to threaten ‘our kind.’”

Manshoon stared into its many clustered eyes and replied steadily, “I am too useful to expend, and too wise to mean by this what you accuse me of. The man is as useful to me as I am to you. I trust he has not been harmed.”

“He has not been harmed … yet.” The beholder grew larger, its eyes flashing yellow in displeasure. “Unless he takes great care, however, that day will soon come.”

* * * * *

“Unless you take great care,” Lord Chess said, leaning forward in his chair in an inner room of another tower, not far away, “that day will soon come.”

The other nobles at the table shifted in their own chairs. Some hid their nervousness by flamboyant sips of the potent golden lion-wine of Mulhorand in their goblets. Others smiled in a superior manner and settled themselves into even more indolent poses in the great, fine-carved chairs in which they lounged.

“We have no fear of upstart priests, nor of ambitious merchants elsewhere in the Realms,” one said with a practiced sneer. “Our fathers smashed such foes in their day—and their fathers, too, before that. Why should we quake at such news? The least of our guards will destroy them.”

“Aye,” another agreed, amid general murmurs of approval. “So what if the graybeards yap and snap at each other in Council all the day long? Let them! I see naught in Faerun that threatens Zhentil Keep, nor stands in the way of our coins piling up. The Council moves in time whenever those dolts in Mulmaster dare yet another challenge or a Thayan wizard sinks so far in decadence that he loses his wits and thinks to come and rule us—and the rest of the time, it keeps our fathers and the dotards busy, their noses out of our own affairs!”

“And just how many affairs has it been, Thaerun? ” another noble asked slyly.

“Aye, this tenday?” added another, amid general mirth.

Chess frowned. “Have you no care at all for snakes in our midst? Agents of Thay, of the Cult of the Dragon—even of Sembia and Calimshan—are uncovered every month! The points of their daggers are always close—closer than you credit!”

“Ah,” Thaerun said, leaning forward to tap the table in front of him in triumphant emphasis. “That’s the point, Chess. They are uncovered, by the watchful wizards Manshoon commands and by Fzoul’s tame priests. That’s why we tolerate those haughty longrobes in our city in the first place! They watch behind our backs, so we can get on with the business of getting rich!”

“And wenching,” someone murmured. “Drinking,” another added, and someone asked, “What is this chamberpot-spill, anyway, Chess?”

“The finest Mulhorand vintage,” Chess said dryly. “Not that I expected you to recognize it, Naerh.”

Naerh spat insolently onto the table. “That’s for your pretensions! My family is as old as yours!”

“And as debauched,” Thaerun murmured, and there was a general roar of laughter.

Chess smiled thinly. “You would do well to enjoy your ease while you have it,” he said softly. “It is a precious luxury, soon lost if just one of our many foes should decide to go to war.”

Thaerun leaned forward again, his eyes cold. “I do… and I will. Every luxury has its price, yes, but as this one costs only the blood of a few fool money-scuttlers and hireswords from time to time, it’s one I’ll pay willingly. Save your veiled threats. The Blackryn name is a proud one—one I am always ready to defend.” There was a scattering of twinkling points of light at his wrist, and that hand suddenly held an ornate wand that pulsed and glowed.

Another noble sighed in disgust. “Oh, put it away, Thaerun! You’re always trying to prove how battle-bold you are, and managing to show only your lack of subtlety. We’ve all got one or more of those! You think you’re the only one in Zhentil Keep with wits enough to carry magic, when we have to hang our blades up at every door when we party?”

Another noble scratched the scrawny beginnings of a beard and added, “Besides, if you ever use it, Blackryn, ‘tis the blood of one or more of us’ll be spilt, then the blood-feuds begin again, and that is too high a price for the liking of the Council. They’ll put you in beast-shape, to spend your days as a patrol-hound somewhere north of Glister … until you find death, that is.” He leaned forward, uncrossing glossy-booted legs, and said, “Give us more wine here, Chess, and tell me more of that maid with the green hair I saw you with, last eve! I’ve not laid eyes on her before—where’ve you been hiding her?”

Chess smiled, as a massive silver tray bristling with bottles and sparkle-cut decanters floated up from the polished wood in front of him and began a slow, drifting journey down the table. “Yes, her hair was green last night. She’s one of Manshoon’s wizards, Eldarr. The Shadowsil, she’s called—and don’t even think about it. 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, eh?”

* * * * *

“I—I’ll live, lord,” Taersel muttered, hauling himself weakly up out of the chair.

The beholder hung watchfully at the other end of the chamber, its eyestalks curling and reaching like a nest of menacing snakes.

“As I promised,” it rumbled.

Manshoon nodded, curtly. “Indeed. What else would you know?”

The eye tyrant drifted nearer. “You’ve said your plans will strengthen Zhentil Keep, making it a better tool for our uses, and yet its most able warriors and senior nobles are stricken by the tens and the dozens—this is by your hand, is it not?”

Manshoon shrugged. “I don’t deny it. My poisons are slow, however; my enemies fall ill and fail slowly. Their family businesses and stratagems do not collapse with them, but are taken up and carried on by younger, more able hands.”

“Hands more loyal to yourself.”

“If my plans come to pass, more loyal to you, as well.”

The beholder seemed to dwindle, and grew a misshapen tail. As the two men watched, the tail thickened, writhed, and became once more a human body. “When the Council next meets, you shall have our support,” it said simply, and turned away.

* * * * *

When the well-oiled door that led down to the secret ways out had closed behind the last guest’s back, Lord Chess sat alone at his table, a full glass forgotten before him. Idly he turned a heavy gold ring around and around on his finger as he thought about Manshoon. Nothing short of an angry god—or two dozen Red Wizards of Thay, or perhaps Elminster—would stop that one now. Manshoon was as powerful in magecraft as he was a cold and cruel strategist, and he’d be the real ruler of Zhentil Keep before the snows came again, for sure.

A year ago, that would have been unthinkable, with all the wily, battle-hardened old nobles of the Keep between the untrustworthy, arrogant mage and mastery of the city. Most of them were fiercely opposed to every member, plan, or work of the swift-rising Zhentarim. No surprise there: all merchants know there’s no safety when one must deal with magic.

Then old Iorltar had named Manshoon his successor as First Lord—under magical compulsion or at least under the threat of magical destruction, many thought—and Manshoon and Fzoul had grown very friendly. Or revealed a long-standing alliance, more like. Then the oldest, proudest nobles—all of whom commanded strong magic of their own, or had no love for the upstart First Lord—had begun to fall ill. Again, no shred of proof could be found. But the whispers in the taverns of the Keep knew the truth. Now the talk was of open violence, soon, and of some sort of secret weapon Manshoon had ready to wield, beyond the tricks of the ever-growing band of “gutter wizards”—ruthless and lawless freewands from all over the lands about the Sea of Fallen Stars—who followed him.

Lord Chess reached for his glass. The ring on his finger gleamed in the lamplight, and he regarded it thoughtfully. It had cost him dear—his best band of adventurers slain to a man by killers whose fees had been expensive indeed—but it had been worth it. He could call a dragon forth from it, in need. He wore it constantly, these days. Manshoon wasn’t the only one in the Keep with secret weapons.

“This young wizard has lived far too long already,” the High Imperceptor of Bane said softly. The burning light in his pale eyes was reflected in the glossy blackness of the polished marble tabletop. The listening priests nodded at his words, waiting for more in silence.

“If he sees the end of this summer, he may well build Zhentil Keep into a fortress against us. Manshoon must be destroyed.” The High Imperceptor swept a glance of fire all around the table, then turned away. “See to it,” he added.

“Aye, Dread Lord.”

“Report it done by this time on the morrow,” the One True Servant of Bane told the wall beside him, “and I shall be pleased.” He looked up at the huge Black Hand of Bane that floated above them all, silent and motionless, and murmured, “Fail in this before six nights are out, and Almighty Bane shall be displeased.”

“Hear the will of Bane,” the gathered priests chanted in unison. When they looked up, the High Imperceptor was gone from the holy sanctum.

* * * * *

“He’ll move soon.” Lord Hael coughed from his canopied bed in the corner of the room. He rarely moved from it now; the stout sticks that helped him keep his once-mighty frame upright were covered with dust.

“At tomorrow’s Council meeting, belike,” Lord Phandymm said sourly. “With all of us old lions too stick—or too dead— to stand and vote against him.”

“It’s poison, right enough. Else those with amulets would be laid low like the rest of us,” Lord Hael went on, as if he had not heard. “Then that snake’s spells will rule the Keep, and bring us all into tyranny, then war, then cold ruin, at the last.” He struggled to sit upright in the gloom under the canopy, then shrugged. “At least I’ll not be around to see it.”

Another of the old nobles turned to look at a younger man, who sat uncertainly on a chair in another corner. “Your father was one of the first, young Belator,” he said sharply, “and we know you turned to old Rorst for guidance. What says he, of Manshoon the snake?”

“Aye,” Phandymm echoed, “what says Battlelord Rorst Amandon?”

Lord Belator swallowed, nervous under the sudden and unexpected weight of the keen old eyes fixed on him from every corner of the room, and said softly, “The Lord Amandon bade me tell you all this: We have a secret ally, whose name and station shall remain known only to him—until the Council meeting on the morrow, when he’ll reveal himself, if he must, to save our collective hides.”

There were chuckles. “His exact words, no doubt?”

Belator nodded vigorously. “He made me repeat them, several times.”

Hael laughed in the darkness. “Good old Amandon,” he said. “There’s hope for Zhentil Keep yet.”

* * * * *

The stars glittered in the clear, cold night sky. Manshoon watched them, looking down uncaring and unchanging at the struggles of men, so far below. The lamps of the gods, some called them. There was a sudden flare of light from below him; someone had broken one of his lesser wards with a cleaving spell. He smiled slightly. There’d be an attack tonight, of course.

* * * * *

She knelt, a dark shadow in the nightgloom of the courtyard, and placed the stasis-scepter carefully upright on the stones before her. It winked once as she released it, and stood upright by itself, holding killing spells, alarms, and enchanted creatures—like the silently-snarling gargoyles at the corners of the courtyard—at bay, immobile and ineffective. They’d still have to beware monsters that masqueraded as stone and pitfall traps full of waiting blades, but few wizards kept many such around their city homes unless they had no friends and an inexhaustible supply of apprentices.

The other six, silent in their felt-soled boots, glided after her as the best thief of Westgate moved to the wall beside the door of Manshoon’s tower and started to climb. Her feet clung sure-footed to the stones, and she swarmed swiftly up the wall.

Vrale passed the first window without stopping. A little above it, she twisted aside with sudden urgency as her touch on some stone triggered an old and rusting spear-blade to grate outward, seeking vainly to impale her. Shaking her head, the thief moved sideways and upward for a time, and went on, climbing right up to the claws of another crouching gargoyle.

Its cold eyes moved, watching her—but before her touch could free it into motion, the thief swept another precious stasis-scepter from her belt up into its mouth. It remained immobile as she looped the black climbing-cord around its head and let it fall for the others, waiting below, to follow her.

Then she drew forth the last and most powerful of the Netherese artifacts she’d been given and held it up before her as she surveyed this last, uppermost window carefully. The smooth glass orb remained dark, with no telltale wink or glow to warn her of magic. Good—as she’d expected. Holding the orb ready before her eyes, she climbed past the window and then descended from above, walking carefully so as to peer into the darkness from the very top of the arch.

The chamber beyond held tapestries, a table, and some other rich furnishings, half-hidden in darkness. The orb showed her the faint glow of a “small things” shield against birds and insects, but the room beyond it, though it held many strong enchantments, was empty of life. The thief extended

one of the thin rods she carried in her boots through the opening, but no blade scythed down and no alarm sounded. She drew back the rod, twisted it onto the end of another rod, and thrust it in farther. Still nothing. Slowly she entered, holding her body tense for many a long breath, waiting to leap out again. Darkness and silence hung unbroken. She screwed the hook onto the end of her doubled rod and reached back out the window to pluck at the cord, twice.

There was an answering quiver from below; they’d started to climb. The thief, ears straining in the heavy silence, peered around the room as she waited, unmoving, clinging to the wall. Things were never safe and simple when you were entering the home of an archmage.

There was a sudden scrabbling sound—shockingly loud in the stillness—from just outside the window. A stony scraping. Heart in her mouth, she saw the dark bulk of the gargoyle rise up past her, blotting out the stars, then saw it hurl the cord away.

The thuds and thumps of the bodies smashing against the suddenly-bright courtyard below were worse than any screams could have been. She fought down her own wild urge to scream and looked quickly around the room for a place to hide—any place.

Then the darkness in front of her fell away. She was staring into a forest of eyes that stared back unwinking at her from the end of ten eel-like stalks. The dark spherical bulk of their central body was beyond them, floating lazily in the air. Its magic had cloaked it from her and now she felt herself held against the wall by an unyielding force. She was helpless in its power.

“Welcome,” it hissed and rumbled, and she heard the cruelty in that lazy greeting. The thief trembled. Through her rising sobs, she whispered, “Kill me quickly. Please.”

“Certainly. I shall bite your head off when the time comes.”

Light grew in the room beyond. The weeping thief heard a man say pleasantly, “First I need a few questions answered. Then you may want a few moments to beg and plead—and offer to do things for me. I’m looking forward to that.” The First Lord of Zhentil Keep strolled into view and waved a finger. The thief felt various metal buttons, fastenings, and weapons darting and tearing their various ways free of her and flying out the window. Her steel-nailed gloves, her belt, her gorget and stomach-armor—most of her clothing left her or was torn to ribbons. She shuddered and closed her eyes.

Then a warm and courteous hand was reaching her down from the wall.

She lashed out with the sharpened smallest fingernail of her hand, but its poison found nothing. The hand was a conjured force, not the man himself. Horrified, she found herself looking into the cold, dark eyes of Manshoon. His smile broadened as she curled her finger to scratch her own palm and felt the burning heat spreading swiftly through her own veins.

“Ah, no. You won’t escape me that way. My magic will keep you alive until I’m done with you.” Staring at him, Vrale the thief opened lips that were suddenly purple and numb from the poison—and found that her body was no longer her own. Gripped by his spells, she could not even scream.

* * * * *

The beholder bit down. Blood spattered in all directions as the bare body of the thief twisted and flopped like a landed fish. Lord Rorst Amandon passed a hand over his scrying crystal and the scene faded.

“So passes the hope of the High Imperceptor,” he murmured. “Hardly a surprise, and probably not the only unwelcome visitors to Manshoon’s tower who’ll meet their gods tonight. Still, Etreth, they got farther than I expected.”

His hand trembled as he reached for the goblet beside his bed. In a trice, Etreth was there, to bring the drink smoothly into his hand. Both men knew Lord Rorst lay on his deathbed; by the time Manshoon’s rare and insidious poison had been detected, its ravages had gone too far in the aged body for mere hired spells to repair, and the most expensive sages reported no known antidote for whatever Manshoon had used. It was addictive, too; those who tried going without food and water to escape it ended up shuddering, spasming, and crying out for food and drink. The young wizard had been most thorough.

Thorough enough, at least, to slay Lord Rorst Amandon. The old, bearded warrior looked wearily around his bedchamber, his gaze slowing as he looked upon the weight and curve of his favorite broadsword, then on the portrait of his wife, dead and gone these seven years. Well, he might be joining her before morning, whatever befell in the Realms with this mad wizard’s schemes.

“I—can hold on no longer, Etreth,” he muttered. “My body fails … so wasted, now, I can barely drink without your aid…”

He raised weary eyes to meet Etreth’s gaze. Bright tears stood unshed in his loyal servant’s eyes. Rorst turned his head away, moved by the sight. They’d been together for years and before now he’d never noticed the gray creeping through Etreth’s hair… why, his moustache was white! The lord gathered all his strength and sat up straight, cushions falling away.

“I may not last the night,” Lord Rorst said, in almost his hearty tones of younger years. “So the time is come; I have one last command to lay on thee, good Etreth. Go and summon my ally the way I told you, when all this began.”

“Now, Lord? And—and leave you? What if you nee—?”

“I’ll do without it,” the lord said firmly, “until the one I must deal with is here. Go, Etreth, for the honor of the Amandons.” He reached deliberately to set the empty goblet back on the table; it clattered in his trembling hand as it came down. Rorst frowned at it, then raised fierce eyes to regard his watching servant. “Go,” he said roughly, “if you care for me at all.”

The old servant stood looking at him for a moment, then turned with what sounded like a sob and hurried out. Rorst Amandon nodded, looked at the darkened scrying-crystal for a moment, and wondered if he’d be able to hold on long enough to see this all through. His eyes wandered to Desil’s portrait, drank in her familiar painted beautv for lone moments, then turned again, involuntarily, to the scrying-crystal. He was a man of the sword, he reflected with a wan smile, itching to be doing things until the very last.

* * * * *

The vast, echoing central chamber of the High Hall of Zhentil Keep was crowded. Its huge, high windows threw bright morning light down the oval well of concentric benches to the central debating floor at its heart. One man stood there; a young man in plain but richly-cut robes, his speech smooth and calm. A man hated more than most, in a city of many hatreds. Manshoon of the Zhentarim.

The First Lord of Zhentil Keep had deftly moved the Council through several minor items of business, referring a stiff argument over grain import storage to a committee of senior lords for converse before it need be voted on by the Council. Then he began to hew his way toward ruling Zhentil Keep openly, even as the rumors all over the city had hinted. From a stonefaced wizard seated at a front bench he took up a thick sheaf of parchments and waved them around his head. One escaped his grasp and fluttered away. Someone snickered, but Manshoon merely crooked an eyebrow and all the papers began circling his head in a slow and stately ring.

“These are reports of the increasing resistance and defiance of our foes,” he said, his voice carrying to the uppermost reaches of the chamber. “See how many of them there are?”

He waved a hand. “Some of our citizens slain by the villainous, deluded followers of the discredited High Imperceptor; unfair and trumped-up fees and taxes on our merchants by no less than seven cities of the Moonsea and Dragonreach; and open warfare made upon our soldiers and caravans by the brigands who style themselves The Cult of the Dragon. Is this not monstrous? Should we not look to sharpening our swords and readying our spells?”

“No,” someone replied flatly from the middle benches, and there was a murmur of laughter. Manshoon let it run its course and die away, then added almost gently, “But 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!”

That last speaker was one of Fzoul’s priests, speaking as he’d been ordered to. Manshoon smiled tightly and replied, “Very well. Look, all! Look well!”

He waved a hand and stepped back, and the central well in which he stood darkened slightly. Motes of light winked and sparkled, and suddenly the image of a robed, sneering man stood in the open space, one hand raised in an intricate gesture. A soundless bolt of lightning lashed out from that hand, leaping into the upper benches, whose occupants were gaping up at the images of other men—three Zhentarim, known by sight to them all—that had suddenly appeared atop the benches and were hurling spells of their own.

The silent images of crackling, crawling magic flashed and leaped through the air; Manshoon stood calmly in the midst of the flashing tumult and said, “Behold! A Red Wizard of Thay!” He looked around at the dumbfounded Councilors and added, “Confronted, as you can see, in this very chamber, two nights ago!”

Silent spells splashed, grappled, then died away. They all saw green flames race up and down the limbs of the struggling Red Wizard—if it was a Red Wizard—saw the man’s flesh dissolve in that conflagration until only black, writhing bones remained, then 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 image of smoking ashes faded away even as he gestured to it, but many of the Councilors nodded. “To my sorrow, I recognized it, and checked the records chamber of this Hall. The naval nonaggression treaty recently completed with Thay is missing. We are left defenseless against Thayan piracy—but with the concessions we surrendered to get that agreement still lost to us.”

Manshoon raised his arms and his voice as one as he turned to look around the chamber. “And this was but a piece of naDer! What if this wizard had come for vour monev? Or your throat? Or your children, to sell them into slavery?”

There was an excited, angry buzz of comment as Councilor looked to Councilor. Manshoon let it grow for a time then waved for silence and went on. “Zhentil Keep needs strong guardians against such perils. You saw the bravery and skill of three Zhentarim here with your own eyes, preventing destruction of this place—or worse. I can keep this city safe with more stalwart, loyal mages such as these … but I need your permission! I must have the right and the power to defend you.”

Manshoon turned on his heel to look around at them all again, speaking more quietly. “I need the might to govern in the face of such cruel and energetic foes. I must be free to train and equip forces to properly defend our city, and have the authority to whelm and direct them in emergencies! I move that the formal powers of the First Lord of Zhentil Keep be so increased.”

The chamber erupted. Everyone was on his feet, shouting. Red-faced nobles pounded gnarled, white-haired old fists on their benches and bellowed, “Never!”

There were shouts of “Tyranny!” and others of “Well said!” and “Shame!”

There were also cries of “Let the Lord speak!” and “Wisdom at last!”

From somewhere in the upper benches came the wink and flash of a dagger, spinning end-over-end through the air toward Manshoon.

He watched it come, calmly, then raised his hand and—at the last instant, after most of the Councilors had seen it and fallen into shocked silence—disintegrated it with a wave of his hand and a muttered word. It became a small shower of sparks, then was gone.

In the silence that followed Fzoul Chembryl, High Priest of the Black Altar, stood and in a loud, level voice said, “From such chaos and strife can come only harm. Whatever is decided here, we must have order in this city, and the rule of law.” He let his words fall into the silence, for emphasis, then went on. “We have heard a proposal that has caused some controversv—and seen the clear ureencv behind that proposal. Let us now have order, and put this matter to a vote forthwith. Let this Council decide— now!”

There was a hubbub of excited talk. One old nobleman said loudly, “Matters of such import should never 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.” Then he folded his robes around himself in dignity and sat down.

There was more excited talk, then a young noble rose and said, “Let us have a vote. Something must be done, or we are all wasting our time here!”

There were supportive cries of “A vote! A vote!” Most of them seemed to come from the benches where the Zhentarim sat.

Manshoon looked around the chamber calmly and said, “A vote has been called. Will any other Councilor speak for it?”

“I speak for it!” cried an excited young noble from the uppermost benches. There were hisses, but Manshoon raised his hand in triumph and said quietly, “A vote has been twice called, and the duty of this Council is clear. Let us vote.”

Fzoul stood up again. “By rule, the call is mine, yet I think it not right for the servants of holy Bane to act in the secular business of Zhentil Keep. If Councilor Urathyl will do the honors?”

The young noble who’d seconded the call stood, flushed with pride, and called, “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, a Councilor silently came to his feet. There were not many, and Councilor Urathyl counted them twice, himself among their number. Then he called the count—twenty-and-one—to Fzoul, who confirmed it.

Less happily, the young noble drew breath and said, “Let all who stand against the request stand to be counted!”

Chairs scraped and echoed all over the chamber, and many Councilors stood. Forty-six, Urathyl counted, and called it out. Fzoul bowed, and said with dignity, “The count is correct and has Bane’s blessing. The request is den—”

“Wait!” The sour but strong voice of Lord Phandymm cut across the High Priest’s words. Fzoul bowed to him, indicated surrender of the floor with a wave, and sat down.

The senior noble, known to most as a loud opponent of the Zhentarim, struggled to his feet. He was trembling, and his expression seemed to slip several times as his hands clutched at the bench before him for support. “I—I think we are too hasty, and have voted with our hearts, thinking too little of the safety of fair Zhentil Keep. It irks many of us—myself among them—” Phandymm’s eyes grew wild, and he gabbled for a moment before his voice cleared, and he went on, “Irks us, I say, to see one so young making what some would see. as an arrogant and dangerous grab for the scepter of absolute rule over our city. And yet… and yet, if we set aside our anger, what he proposes is only sensible! Have we not seen the perils that lurk in the shadows of this very Hall? Have w-w-weee—?”

The man’s expression slipped and struggled again, and his body jerked about, as if plucked at by unseen hands. “Magic,” a Councilor muttered. “Someone’s using magic on Phandymm!”

“Magic!”

“Aye, foul magic!”

One of the Zhentarim wizards got to his feet and said, “Lord Phandymm seems in some emotional distress, but his deep feelings for the safety of our city are clear, and from the height of a measure of years greater than most of us, he has called for a revote. I move that the revote proceed!”

Councilor Urathyl almost fell over his feet rising to shout, “I speak in support!”

Fzoul stood up again. “A revote must now occur.”

Lord Chess had been watching Manshoon, who sat silently in his front bench seat, smiling a little, his gaze never leaving the face of the sweating, gabbling Lord Phandymm. Lord Chess watched a little glow leap in the mage’s eyes, and was sure.

Then he was on his feet, snarling. “Enough. Manshoon!

And all of you Zhentarim! Let all foul magic be left outside the chamber, so the wise Councilors of Zhentil Keep can deliberate here with clear wits!”

Manshoon turned a gaze that burned from Phandymm— who collapsed, senseless, into his seat—onto Chess, who felt its sudden weight and power tearing at his mind. He gasped, then roared in rage as he felt his tongue thicken and words come unbidden into his head.

The First Lord smiled at him. Chess struggled, tried to sit down, then amid rising desperation brought his arm up, as if from a great distance, and stared at the ring that gleamed, golden, on his finger.

There were shouts and gasps as the air over the central well of the High Hall swirled with sudden golden radiance, drifting and spinning, ever-brighter, and the dumbfounded Councilors saw a large black dragon fade into being in the center of the chamber.

Its wings beat once, the wind smashing many Councilors flat against the benches behind them, and its hiss was loud and terrible. Acid foamed and bubbled at the edges of its mighty jaws, and the chamber was full of the eye-watering stink of its breath.

Some of the Councilors were screaming as the dragon turned its head, a terrible hunger and mirth in its eyes, to look around at them all. Its wings swept up lazily once more. Its tail casually smashed a Councilor to pulp amid the splinters of the bench where he’d sat moments before.

Then the tall windows of the Hall shattered with the sound of angry thunder, and nightmare came to the Council.

Three spherical monsters hung silhouetted against the bright light of day. Eyestalks writhed and swung about them, and they laughed coldly.

“Beholders!”

“The rumors were true! The Zhentarim are in league with beholders!”

Then Councilors were screaming and scrambling all over the chamber in a general rush to flee. The dragon roared and spat a smoking, sparkling plume of acid at the foremost beholder, but the air was suddenly full of rays of magical light erupting from their many orbs, rending the magical shields that hung over this central chamber of the Hall. Cowering under his bench, Lord Chess was shocked to see Zhentarim mages stand up in their seats with triumphant sneers on their faces, boldly ignoring the dragon lashing the air so close overhead to hurl handballs of fire and bolts of lightning at some of the most proud and powerful noble Councilors.

Various of those Lords snatched out magical rods and wands of their own, striking back with snarls of fury. Overhead, the dragon roared deafeningly in pain. Smoking wounds were appearing all over its body, opening here and there with terrible speed to rain down blood on the men fighting in the benches. Swords and knives flashed in the growing gloom as men grappled with each other in the tiers of benches. Chess drew his own slim ceremonial sword and rose up from behind his bench as a mage hurried by. Coolly, he ran the man through.

The wizard coughed, convulsed, then hung heavily on the Lord’s blade. With some difficulty, he slid it free and turned in time to see the still-roaring dragon fade away, enveloped in the magics of the eye tyrants who hung over the central well of the chamber. With a last echoing rumble, it was gone.

Chess saw something more, too—Zhentarim wizards had reached every visible door out of the chamber and stood blocking passage there, using magic to hurl back their fearful fellow Councilors, preventing any more from leaving. More spells were snatching swords from hands all over the chamber, or making the steel burn as if in a furnace. Chess saw a man swear and snatch his hand away from his sword, letting it clang to the benches. Then his own blade seemed to catch fire.

He let it fall and dived back beneath his bench. Peering out from under it, through a mist of pain, Chess saw Manshoon gloating openly, his smile wide as he looked around him at the ruin, the moaning men, and the three menacing beholders.

Then the First Lord’s triumphant sneer slid into a look of astonishment. Overhead, the largest beholder had turned stealthily. Rays had lashed out from its eyestalks to rend its two fellows.

One burst apart, spattering the stunned priests and Zhentarim mages below with its gore. The other spun through the air, blazing and torn apart, to crash down in ruin atop a group of wizards, crushing them to screaming pulp.

The lone remaining beholder floated slowly across the chamber. Manshoon hurled a spell at it, but the death he sent was repulsed. Lord Chess cowered under his bench as the dark, awesome bulk halted just above him, eyestalks swiveling.

“Enough lawless killing,” it hissed in a deep and terrible voice that left the Hall in sudden silence. “Let order be restored. All magic shall cease, or I shall slay those who launch it. Let all Councilors who are able to do so return to their seats. That means all, Manshoon.”

The First Lord of Zhentil Keep paused in the midst of frantic spellcasting, hastily-erected defensive spells flashing and glowing around him as his hands faltered, and cast a glare up at the eye tyrant in which hatred and fear warred with each other—and fear won. For now.

* * * * *

The second vote, with the beholder hanging dark and menacing above the thoroughly terrified Councilors, was not. even close. The First Lord’s requested special powers were denied and, at the bidding of the eye tyrant, Lord Chess was named Watchlord of the Council—his own vote stripped from him along with all power to order about any armed man of Zhentil Keep, but his will in establishing the business of the Council made supreme, to stop anyone from overthrowing the Council and establishing sole rule over the city. Even ambitious archmages.

More than a few eyes in that chamber saw that the face of the supposedly impartial High Priest of Bane was white with anger. There was a general hiss of fury at his deceit when Manshoon strode around the ring of benches to lean over him 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 a calm mask. “This is good for the stability of the city. I was close with Chess once, and can be again—enough, at least, to make him move at our bidding.”

Whatever reply Fzoul might have made, eyes still dark and ugly with rage, was lost in the cold, hissing tones of the beholder, who had 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 villainy, and how those who deal in evil ways are changed by their own dealing, and not for the better. The violence you chose to employ should have made your lesson as clear and as painful for you both as it has been to the rest of this Council, not least those who’ve died this day.” The beholder began to rise, its eyestalks still trained in a deadly array upon the two men, and 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 drifted straight toward the shattered window it had burst in by at his bidding, such a short time ago. As it disappeared from view, it roared its parting words loudly enough that they echoed about the Hall. “Behave yourself with rather more subtlety in future, Manshoon, if you expect to continue to enjoy our support!”

The Councilors, frozen in their seats in fear of what the First Lord might do in his rage, watched in silence as Manshoon stared up at the window, face composed, for what seemed 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 turned and walked out of the Hall. Wordlessly, the surviving Zhentarim rose from their benches and followed him, their dark cloaks sweeping out like the moving backs of so many determined, marching ants.

Lord Chess watched them go and finally let out a shaky breath that he’d been holding for a long time. As he rose, found his now-cool blade, and made his own way out, he was careful not to look over at where Fzoul Chembryl still sat.

* * * * *

There was awe and terror in the streets of Zhentil Keep when a beholder of gigantic size drifted, dark and silent, over the rooftops of the city in the brightness of highsun. It ignored the screaming, scrambling folk below, and threaded its way between spires and high turrets across the city. Its deliberate route took it at last into the clustered towers of a high, grand stone castle, where it paused by a certain window.

Then its spherical body erupted into a puff of smoke, the panes of that window were drawn open by an invisible force, and a robed, bearded man stepped out of the heart of that smoke onto the sill of the window—and in. Behind him, the smoke fell away from the window and drifted away, fading into nothingness.

* * * * *

It had been a long wait, and Lord Amandon was breathing raggedly as the high window of his bedchamber squealed open and the chill northern breeze came in. The surface of his scrying-crystal misted over in an instant.

Etreth was already starting forward, his own sword ready in his hand, as the white-bearded old man with the challenging gaze stepped through the window and strode down empty air. “Well met, Rorst Amandon,” he said in a voice that managed to be both dry and deep at the same time.

“Welcome, Elminster,” the old lord managed to gasp.

Etreth came to a. halt, open-mouthed, then seemed to remember that he held a sword. Elminster looked at him with a smile and said, “Put that toy away,” in tones that were not unkindly.

“I’ve—not time left to waste words,” Lord Amandon gasped, struggling to speak clearly. “That was well done, Lord Mage. My thanks. I’m glad I lived to see it.”

Elminster bowed. “It was good ye did—and I’m sure ye appreciated what I did for Zhentil Keep more than either Manshoon or Fzoul.”

Rorst managed a smile as Etreth stared from one of them to the other, mouth still open, sword forgotten in his hand. “I did not want Manshoon dead, whatever he may have done to me,” the old lord said, eyes on Elminster’s. “Zhentil Keep needs a strong leader, to hold it against its growing foes, but I did want him held back from becoming a tyrant over a fortress-city.” His breath faltered. “Even evil men can be useful.”

“Aye,” Elminster said, watching him 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 bowed his head, where he lay propped against his pillows, and said faintly, “And now I fear it is ended, Elminster. Farewell, Etreth. My thanks—and all my wealth—is yours.” He turned his head from smiling into the eyes of his servant one last time, to sweep his gaze across his broadsword to the portrait of Lady Amandon. Elminster’s eyes followed his.

Through welling tears Etreth saw the white-bearded mage lift a hand and murmur some words, his face very gentle.

A moment later, the face in the painting seemed to turn, see her lord, and smile. Then she was stepping forward, a figure outlined in faint white fire, face radiant with welcome, as she extended welcoming arms to her lord.

“Desil,” Lord Rorst quavered, tears in his own voice. “Oh, Desil!” He raised his wasted arms with surprising speed, reaching for her.

As she came to him, the old noble 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, then faded away. Etreth made a convulsive movement toward his lord, then checked and looked up at Elminster. Both men knew Lord Amandon was dead.

“Lady Amandon,” Etreth said, weeping. “Oh, the gods are merciful!” Then he froze, brushed aside tears with one gnarled, impatient hand, and turned to look up at Elminster.

“Nay,” he said slowly,” ‘twas thou who conjured her up. Why, lord? Why help one who’s stood against you—a longtime foe?”

Elminster replied, “Even evil men can be useful. Your 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.”

He turned toward the window and Etreth saw that his hands were shaking with weariness. One of those hands rose to salute the faithful servant as the Old Mage gained the windowsill, squared his shoulders, and turned back to face him. Elminster smiled and added softly, “No matter how high the price.”