Laspeera gave Vangerdahast a withering look. “You know very well we can’t scry into the Halls. How long have you had Narbridle and Rortaebur working on unraveling that webwork of spells? And it’s not as if I have nothing else to do but keep watch on His Majesty’s pet adventurers for him! Lord Goldfeather’s secret little meeting in Marsember should be starting very soon, and—”
Vangerdahast winked, chuckled, and strode on. “I have every confidence in you, Wizard of War Laspeera Naerinth. When you’re furious with everyone, all the time, you’ll have reached where I am now—and my long hunt for a successor will be done.”
Laspeera stared at the royal magician’s dwindling, departing back, her face going pale and her mouth hanging open.
Nothing came out, so after a time she closed it.
Beyard Freemantle looked down at the bolt quivering in his gut. It had pierced his armor neatly, going into him about the length of his forefinger.
So I’m dead, he thought, as he doubled up around it, feeling wet looseness rather than pain. That was fast.
His legs seemed to be bending under him like storm-wet flowers. Then he found himself bouncing on very hard stone, his arms and legs loose and flopping and his sword clanging away somewhere.
Then the pain hit.
Bey struggled to find breath enough to scream … and struggled …
He couldn’t even writhe. He was lying on his side, probably looking very dead—and fervently wishing he was dead. Anything to take away this stabbing, burning agony.
Tymora and Tempus, be with me now … gods, the pain!
Irlgar Delbossan was red-faced and sweating, hay still trailing down over his head from the tines of his fork, but his smile held genuine pleasure. “Very good, milord. I’ll—”
Then the horsemaster’s face changed. Lord Hezom turned to follow his gaze.
Behind him, the War Wizard Marsteel had stepped soundlessly into this inner room of the stables, face as unreadable as ever and clad in the same black robes he always wore. “King’s Lord,” he said proudly, “I’ve news.”
“Yes?”
Marsteel kept silent, shifting his gaze meaningfully to Delbossan.
Hezom swallowed a sigh and asked, “Concerning?”
“Matters of state, Lord.”
“Involving any or all of the Swords of Eveningstar, Lord Tessaril Winter, or Lady Narantha Crownsilver?”
“Yes,” the wizard said.
“Then speak freely,” Lord Hezom said. “Master Delbossan has every right to know whatever you desire to share with me. The Wizards of War have entirely too many vital secrets of the realm to keep, to fall carelessly into the habit of trying to make everything a secret. Have you by means of magic heard from Tessaril? Has she detained Narantha, to keep her from getting killed in the Halls alongside the Swords?”
Marsteel flushed. “I—yes, Lord Hezom, that is the heart of my news. We have and she has.”
“Good to hear,” Delbossan blurted. “I was fair worried over that. The lass—ah, from what young Florin said, she was … far from ready to taste adventure. If ye know what I mean.”
“Yes,” the war wizard said gravely, “I do know what you mean. The Lady Crownsilver is now in residence in Tessaril’s Tower, with several Wizards of War watching to see she remains there. Her father rides north to Eveningstar right now to reclaim her. I know not if he still intends to bring her here to you, Lord Hezom; when last we spoke with him, his temper was less than serene.”
Delbossan chuckled. “I’d love to hear that moot at Lord Winter’s tower. From safe hiding, of course. The Haunted Halls are probably the safest place in the realm for the Swords, about now.”
“I hardly think,” Marsteel said, “that it would be proper to eavesdrop on such a reunion, and in any event—”
“The Wizards of War are going to do it anyway,” Lord Hezom said. “I stand with Master Delbossan in this, Marsteel: I’d like to listen in on that meeting, too. You can arrange that for both of us, can’t you?”
The war wizard flushed again, opening his mouth to snap a firm denial.
Then the voice of the herald from Espar, from right behind his ear, startled him: “Of course he can—and should, so the king’s Lord of Espar and the king’s Herald of Espar can best administer local Crown affairs. Lord Crownsilver’s conduct and state of mind are vital knowledge. Horsemaster Delbossan may as well hear things firsthand, too; after all, his will be the task of rushing a mounted escort across the realm if the need arises. Shall I speak to Vangey about it for you?”
War Wizard Elgaskur Marsteel’s face was a deep crimson, now, and his mouth was opening and closing like that of a gasping fish. He looked, in fact, distinctly ill—and as he instinctively stepped away down the stables so as to bring the faces of all three men into view, he was terribly afraid he’d find them all smirking at him. “ ‘Vangey’? Mystra and Azuth be with me,” he muttered to himself. “For if I displease Royal Magician Vangerdahast, I’ll need all the favor and protection of the both of you.”
“Bey!” Agannor roared, running full tilt down the passage. Ahead, the door was closing.
He ran hard, his boots pounding and his own breath roaring in his ears. “Don’t you die on me, you motherless bastard! Don’t you—”
The door was seven running strides away, then six, and not quite closed yet. He bent his free arm in front of him to bring that shoulder up, to crash into the door and drive it wide—
The door swung wide open, leaving him stumbling onward as he looked right into his own death.
His shout going wordless, Agannor Wildsilver sprang, his sword flashing.
Chapter 15
DEATH ALWAYS SO CLOSE TO US
It is wise to remember always that no matter how grand our realms rise to be, how plentiful our coins, and how exalted our station, death is always so close to us that it can reach out a bony hand to our throat and drag us down in an instant. The trick is to fill our lives with splendid instants, so that when death does come, we’ll at least be enjoying ourselves.
Dhammaster Dauntinghorn
The Young Stag: Memoirs of the Splendid Years of One Noble
published in the Year of the Behir
The helmed, armored warrior standing just inside the door had a long sword in his hand, held low. He was ready to lunge up and under Agannor’s gorget, belt, or cod for a gutting thrust—and he had two fellows flanking him, the sharp points of their blades glittering.
As Agannor burst through the door, something large and dark smashed into the side of his head—a hurled crossbow, rattling as it crashed home and sent him reeling.
He’d barely begun that stagger when the first blade slid into his guts like an icicle, deep and very cold. Agannor grunted, waving his sword vainly.
The second blade sliced him like fire, riding up under his breastplate, and in. He sobbed as it lifted him off his feet—then somehow fell back and away and off it again, blind and breathless in his agony.
Agannor was dimly aware of falling back through the door and bouncing on stones, retching blood. His world exploded into roiling red mist, and he had no idea at all that the three warriors had snatched up the crossbow and fled, or that he was lying with his boots across the threshold, kicking wildly and feebly in his agony.
Horaundoon sat on the edge of his bed in the Tankard, sniffling through the part of the hargaunt that shaped his bulbous nose. Anger was burning dark and slow at the back of his mind to match the prickling sensation in the gorget hidden under more of the hargaunt—the prickling that told him that some busynose of a war wizard was still scrying him.
That scrutiny had latched onto him on his first lurching climb of the inn stairs, and hadn’t let up since.
He was so tempted to lash out with a spell that would snuff out the spy’s mind in an instant.
Yet he dared not. That sort of death would bring a mustering of war wizards, and draw the attention of Vangerdahast himself. Too many even for Horaundoon of the Crawling Doom to spe
llblast. In such a battle he might manage to slay many, but the inevitable death would be his own.
So here he sat, twiddling his thumbs and feigning weary boredom. With every breath he took, that attitude became less and less an act.
Stlarning war wizards.
Islif Lurelake ran like the wind, her armored coat clanging and clashing, with Florin and Pennae right at her heels. South down the cross-passage, to come at the crossbowmen from another way.
She skidded to a stop at the passage-moot, expecting to eat a volley of crossbow bolts when she turned the corner. Gasping for breath, she balanced herself—then ducked around the corner, just as quickly dancing back.
A crossbow cracked. Its bolt hummed past, shattering against one of the statues amid a burst of lightnings.
Their foes were ready and waiting.
She traded glances with Florin, trying to think what best to do next—and Pennae hissed in the forester’s ear: “Stand still and let me climb you.”
“Yes,” Florin replied, tensing.
Islif watched the thief swarm up Florin to his shoulders. Pennae crouched there for a moment, froglike, the passage ceiling close overhead—then launched herself forward in a great springing leap that sent Florin staggering back but hurled Pennae high across the passage-mouth, to strike the floor in a forward roll.
Two crossbow bolts sought her life. The first hummed past well in her wake, to crash into the old crossbow on its tripod—and send it toppling from its mount to clatter harmlessly on the floor.
The second missed her heels by a fingerwidth and raced on, collecting crackling lightnings as it passed between the statues. It shivered noisily against the bronzen doors, fragments pattering to the floor.
Pennae landed, rolled, and ran on into the darkness.
Islif and Florin were already moving, ducking around the corner again, trusting that not even the swiftest windlass-cranker could have wound up a crossbow to fire again, so soon after five shots. They were trusting their lives, of course, on the hope that there wasn’t a sixth crossbowman, or more.
They’d trusted well, it seemed.
No bolts came humming at them, and they could see no foe in the light of Islif’s bouncing lantern. The room beyond the rusty bars held no foes.
Panting from their sprint, they ducked through the bars—and almost hacked at Pennae, who burst through the open door from the southern slant passage.
“Where’d you—?” Islif gasped, waving her sword.
“The stone goblin. I tried to pick it up to be a shield, but—too heavy. Much too heavy,” Pennae gasped back. “Hoped to catch our attackers here.”
“Whoever they are, they’ll be waiting for us outside,” Florin said. “With their bows ready.”
“So we find shields,” Islif told him, “somewhere in here, before we try to come out.”
“And let Doust, Agannor, and Bey die?”
“And just how many of us d’you want to join them in their graves?” the warrior woman snapped. “If we go out there while they’re waiting, bows aimed at the d—”
“Be still!” Pennae snarled fiercely, clutching and shaking them both ere flinging out one arm to point. “Look! ‘The rest are hidden in the door,’ remember?”
They looked where she was pointing. Agannor’s feet were still kicking feebly across the threshold, keeping the thick door open—and in the exposed doorframe they could see a tall, narrow slot of darkness.
Islif swung her lantern. It was a niche, running back into the wall, with something dark in it that looked like wood. Pennae pounced.
“Watch for foes!” she snapped, waving at the distant entry doors. Florin spun around obediently, but Islif watched as Pennae, on her knees, held her dagger ready in one hand and with the other drew forth … a flat wooden box, dark with damp.
The thief’s arm started to spasm and shudder. She looked up at Islif, a tense frown on her face.
“There’s a spell on this,” she breathed. “I can feel the tingling clear up my arm! Let’s take it yonder. Get Agannor back so we can close the door.”
Islif and Florin sprang to do so, dragging the white-faced Agannor a little way into the slant passage. He was gasping blood and moaning when they started—but he’d fainted by the time they’d finished.
“Stand guard over him and the door,” Pennae ordered. “Throw his sword and dagger at anyone who opens it, whether they have a crossbow or not.”
Then she clutched the box to her breast and ran down the slant passage, past the silent, huddled heap that was Bey, to the clustered lanterns of the rest of the Swords.
Their weapons were drawn and their faces were grim—and Doust lay in their midst, pillowed on Semoor’s leather jack, looking weak and pale. On the floor behind them was a dark and sticky lake that hadn’t been there before: Doust’s blood, the crossbow bolt Semoor had drawn forth lying at its heart.
“Martess! Jhessail!” Pennae hissed. “There’s magic on this. Strong magic.”
Jhessail spread her hands helplessly, but she and Martess knelt on the other side of the box from Pennae as the thief carefully set it on the floor.
Drawing in a deep breath, Pennae looked up into the intent gazes of the rest of the Swords, then down again at the box. Its lid was a slab of wood that slid along two grooves carved into the inside of its side walls, with a thumb-dimple handle. Pennae used the point of her dagger rather than her thumb to gingerly slide it open.
And nothing happened.
Everyone waited, barely breathing, but still nothing happened. Quietly. Martess laid her fingers on the box, flinched, and then asked, “Preservative spell, or some sort of message magic? We’re feeling it because it’s collapsing, perhaps?”
“ ‘Perhaps’ just about anything is happening,” Pennae agreed wryly. “But this is good to see.” She pointed down at what the box held: a row of nine metal vials.
“Fine steel, completely free of rust, cork-stoppered and wax sealed … and all of them bear this same symbol.”
She pointed at the nearest mark, a tiny red-painted character that looked more or less like a human right hand.
Atop the vials lay a scrap of parchment bearing the words: “Rivior, these are the last. With these, my debt is discharged. Look to see me no more.” The message was signed with an elaborate rune.
“Never seen it before,” Jhessail said, “but it takes no learning to know ’tis a wizard’s sigil.” Martess nodded.
“So these are—or were—potions,” Pennae said. “Magic quaffs.”
“But drinking them does what?” Martess asked.
“And are they all the same,” Jhessail put in, “or is that mark the mage who made them?”
“Or the smith who made the vials,” Pennae pointed out.
The three women stared at each other. There were shrugs ere they turned with one accord to look at Doust.
“He’s dying,” Semoor said bleakly, on his knees beside his wounded friend, “so pour one of those down his throat. You can’t hurt him more.”
Pennae took up a vial, sliced the wax with her dagger, teased forth the cork stopper, and sniffed the open top. Then she cradled Doust’s head and put the vial to his lips, her thumb ready to become a stopper if he choked or spat.
Doust swallowed it down and his eyes flickered. Then he looked up at them, brightening visibly. “Pain going,” he gasped. “Just like that.”
Pennae nodded. “Clear, colorless, and no stink to it that I could smell. Sparkled, going into him.” Doust was looking stronger, and his face was less pale. “Taste?” she asked him.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he jested feebly. “Cool, tingling … hard to find words … like swallowing a cool breeze.”
“Good,” Pennae said, letting his head fall back onto the jack. She looked at Semoor. “Watch him. If anything goes bad—he starts to turn to stone or grow scales or something—shout out quick!”
Sliding the case shut, she took it up and hurried back down the passage to Bey, Jhessail and Martess ri
ght behind her.
The warrior looked dead, but his mouth was open. She sat on his stomach and poured the potion down his throat, slapping her hand over his face to keep the potion inside him if he coughed—and he did—then pulled the crossbow bolt out of his innards.
He bucked and tried to roar, under her, but Pennae rode him firmly back to sprawled ease, then left him to race on to the last fallen Sword.
Agannor’s slow, feeble spasms became a convulsive heave upward when the potion slid down his throat—then his twisted face smoothed out and he looked at her.
“Healing quaff,” he said happily. “You never forget the taste. A priest of Tempus fed me one, once; cost me all the coins I had.” He relaxed with a gusty sigh. “My thanks!”
“Six left,” Pennae said, rising. She thrust the case into Jhessail’s arms. “These’d cost us hundreds of lions each at a temple. So don’t drop it.”
The flame-haired mageling looked down at Agannor. “So they’re all going to be … all right again?”
Pennae spread her hands. “If the gods will.”
“Ah,” Semoor muttered, helping Doust to sit up, “but what if the gods won’t?”
Halfway down the passage, Bey was already reeling to his feet, leaning on the wall and managing a smile.
Florin said, “I think we’ve done enough strolling around the Halls this day.”
Bey gave him a twisted grin. “I’ve certainly lost the stomach for it!”
“You,” Pennae said severely, “can be wounded again, know you!”
“Indeed,” Islif agreed, then said to Florin, “We all want to get outside again, but not to swallow crossbow bolts doing it.” She looked at the mages. “Remind me what spells you have.”
“A magic missile and something that helps me strike true,” Martess replied.
“Batt—ah, a magic missile,” Jhessail added.
“So you can do harm to quite a few crossbowmen, but you have to be able to see them—and they’ll take one look at either of you, waving your hands and chanting, and know just where to send their bolts.”
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