by Ed Greenwood
“There’s a secret stair at the end of the plate and cutlery storage,” El informed her.
“A plate and cutlery storage?” Myrmeen asked him rather wearily. “And just where might that be?”
El grinned wryly. “Hidden behind sliding panels, in the wall between the servery and the passage that leads to the larder.”
“Well, of course a hidden cupboard would have its own secret stair, so the forks and spoons can go visiting of nights,” she agreed sarcastically. “How remiss of me not to think of it.”
“Could happen to anyone,” Elminster replied airily. “Now, if ye’ll go with me and fetch some more chamberpots from the unused bedchambers, so ye need not share a pot with hairily uncouth males such as the Lord of Waterdeep here and myself—worry not, we shall share the darvorr … There’s a storeroom for such, but ’tis in the ruinous upstairs, and I’d rather not chance the floors.”
“Dropping in on the head of, say, Maraunth Torr right now would not end well, no,” Mirt agreed. “So if Mreen and I get some soups and stews going, and get these smallfowl onto spits, you can tend them the night through?”
“Of course. I expected to have such duties. To ready meals for the morrow without a night shift would require … magic.”
“Ha ha,” Alusair said politely. “What about what’s left of Yusendre?”
Mirt chuckled. “Aye, that’s going to stain something terrible.”
“I meant,” the spectral princess told him severely, “that when we can risk magic here again, spells can be used to learn things from the dead—but not if whoever slew her has spirited away the remains. I doubt even Elminster can interrogate a bloodstain.”
“Not sober, no,” Mirt agreed, “but—”
The room rocked soundlessly a third time, and they all exchanged sour looks.
“Better go check on Yusendre,” Myrmeen suggested, “and—I can’t believe I’m saying this—bring what’s left of her in here for the night. We can use the giant domed platter; the one intended for serving whole elk, by the look of it.”
Mirt headed for the door into the butlery. “If,” he suggested cheerfully, “there isn’t another body on it already, just waiting for us under the dome.”
Myrmeen rolled her eyes. “If I scream, will he stop?”
“I doubt it,” Alusair told her. “Does Vangey?”
Myrmeen sighed, shook her head, and went to the butlery door, in time to see Mirt lumbering into view with the great platter under one arm, and its dome under the other. She got a good look at both, as the Lord of Waterdeep turned to sidle past the big board where the keys to all the rooms hung, so his arm wouldn’t sweep half of them onto the floor.
Well, she’d seen less ornate litters for corpses.
How much use would it get, in the days and nights just ahead?
TALL AND CURVACEOUS in her leather armor, the Steel Princess leaned against the countertop, arms folded. She looked every bit as solid as a living person, but El knew he could reach right through her if he had to, to pick up a ladle or a spice vial or some of the hanging herbs. He tried not to, to spare them both the mild pain, and because it was politer. He knew that aside from a mind voice from an invisible source, this was the easiest form for her to take, and sapped her Weave energies the least.
For she was a Weaveghost, something El wouldn’t even mention unless she asked him directly. He knew how to make Weaveghosts his slaves, and would just as soon that knowledge wasn’t foremost in her mind whenever she had dealings with him, or any of the Chosen of Mystra. Underlying fear and mistrust do things to friendships.
They could speak mind to mind over short distances, but even that took more energy from Alusair’s all-too-paltry measure, so they’d been talking aloud, face-to-face.
Talking in low tones, as Mirt snored on the table behind them with teeth-rattling vigor, and Myrmeen slept still and much more quietly on the countertop across the room. Stoking the fires made the most noise, but El had done this a time or seven thousand before, and was able to keep it a matter of a calm minimum of movements and din. He was quite content to stand watch until morning, stirring the stews and turning the roasting smallfowl.
Around them, the old mansion was quiet, creaking from time to time as old houses do, but free of tumult—or at least, of affright and doings that reached this far, into what was really a servants’ wing.
“I found it was hard to let go, yes,” Alusair was admitting quietly. Then she smiled at the knowing look Elminster gave her, and added, “And still do.”
“That’s better, lass,” El said approvingly. “Honesty is best. Remember, when it comes to not being able to let go, I know. Believe me.” He drew forth a steaming gurthwing from under the hearth hood, inspected it critically, then plunged it into the waiting tray of sauce, ignoring the resulting sizzling and spitting to look up at her and add, “Perhaps it will help to reflect on this: every last aging noble of the realm, high and low, goes through the same thoughts, as their body fails them and their deathbeds beckon—and they know their children think differently than they do, see the world and Cormyr and their places in it in ways far from their own, may not even care if ancestral castles stand empty and abandoned until falling down … and there is nothing, nothing they can do to bind their willful offspring beyond their own greeting with the grave. Control passes; it happens to nigh everyone.”
“I know,” Alusair agreed quietly. “And yet …”
“So Vangerdahast watches his son wear the mantle of Royal Magician very differently than he did, and Myrmeen beholds an Arabel very different from hers, with a Crown lord nothing like she was, and ye—ye see a regent of the realm very different than ye were, who herself must cope with old nobles throwing the deeds and mien of the Steel Regent in her face.”
Alusair smiled a little bitterly. “And that is something I never foresaw, though I should have, I suppose. Not with all the years of nobles spitting at me that ‘Cormyr has kings, not women trying to sneakily rule in their stead,’ and ‘no regent has the right to do that, least of all an insolent chit of a girl who thinks she can outride and outhunt and out-duel any man.’ Should I visit her, and tell her to pay those who lash her with their twisted memories or empty legends of me no heed?”
“If ye think it will help. Myself, I think that right now, Raedra Linesse Enchara Obarskyr has quite enough on her platter, what with Baerovus still on the scene and Erzoured not only still around but now something of a hero—”
Alusair snorted. “That worm! I’d like to separate his black heart from the rest of him. Leaving him alive—for the short time it would take to sear it on a spit in front of his eyes and serve it to him on a platter.”
“My, my, aren’t we the bloodthirsty wench! Years of learning patience and prudence and diplomatic niceties swept aside in a trice …”
The ghost princess shrugged. “Can I not harbor my own opinions even now, El? I’m dead, remember! Only a memory in the land I love, shining or otherwise—mostly otherwise. Reduced to spying and helping in small ways, as I am here and now, while I sourly watch half the nobles in the realm hammering away at Raedra to get wed and have royal babies and so save Cormyr—oh, and heed their choice of who she should take to the marriage bed. Such as, hem hem, themselves, for instance. Fough! Have we accomplished nothing since I was getting into trouble with my mother and Tanalasta wasn’t?”
“Lass, lass, ye changed Cormyr forever. As markedly as thy father did before thee, and as Foril did aft—”
“Hah! And look how that turned out!”
“Easy, lass, easy. We none of us can refight what is in the past, nor change it. We can tell lies about it, aye, but that truly is hollow villainy. Is it not enough to know that ye left Cormyr a better place—not more carefree, not more proud and delusional, but better, for by far the greater part of its folk—than ye found it? Your riding with your Blades did more to knit the realm together than all Vangey’s strivings and thy father’s heroics!”
“You truly think s
o?”
“I know so, lass. I care about Cormyr, and watch over it as much as I can—what with all the lunacy and ambitious deviltry alive in Faerûn all the time.”
“Ah, yes. Tell me some of the latest, El. I miss the Harper agents murmuring in the ear of Queen Fee, and Vangey telling us what little he cared to.”
“And in the spirit of his prudent discretion, what is fit for thy delicate ears? Let me see now …”
“What isn’t, Old Mage?”
“Well, then, the Cult of the Dragon is stirring again. Right now, ambitious individuals within their ranks seek certain masks …” El let his voice trail off.
Ghostly or not, the face of the princess could register exasperation very clearly. “That’s all you’re willing to share? El, El—oh, to the Nine Hells with it; all I really care about is what peril this poses to Cormyr!”
“Precious little. Most of the strife I foresee will be on the Sword Coast and its backlands.”
“Well, then, tell me of perils Cormyrean! Conspiracies we should look for, hidden dealings soon to lash out in the light of day—the sort of things that gave Obarskyrs a reason to put up with the wizards of war.”
“I’m not infallible or all-seeing, and never have been. Moreover, I’ve been rather busy with … larger things. Protecting the Weave and preventing the triumph of Thultanthar over every farm and wilderland pool from sea to sea to ice sea, for instance—yet with that said, I know only of the usual small, petty cabals and schemes among nobles. Mainly concerned with ensuring that whoever sits on the Dragon Throne, their own noble House will have as much freedom as possible to do as they please, laws and taxes falling more heavily on others. In other words, the usual.”
Elminster flicked some hot stew into the palm of his hand from a ladle, tasted it, and reached for more salt. “Right now,” he added, “I’m more concerned with this noble ye’re giving tongue to, and what’s happening here under his roof. I don’t want these murders to become a runaway sequence of slaughters, and I fear they could turn into just that.”
“Pruning the ranks of the deadlier archmages of Faerûn isn’t what Mystra sent you here to do?”
“How much have you guessed about that?” El asked softly.
The ghost princess shrugged. “Almost nothing. Why speculate, when I can just ask you outright? I know what rides you, old man—and I know you love Cormyr as much as I do. So trust me. Talk.”
Elminster sighed, set down a ladle, strode a few restless paces away until he fetched up against the counter where Myrmeen lay deep in slumber, then turned and came back to where he’d been.
“The more gods meddle, the worse things get,” he blurted out. “I’m sure this comes not as news to ye. Nor does it to most of them, but they can’t resist trying to bend mortals to their will directly, especially when they see rival deities doing so. Mystra …”
He picked up the ladle again and waved it thoughtfully in the air, choosing his words carefully. “Mystra desires to stay out of daily doings in Faerûn as much as possible, to let mortals find their own ways in life. Yet She hopes the stresses of this scramble for the Lost Spell might scare the mages engaged in it into seeing a little more sense … or at least a trifle more daily self-discipline in their behavior. If we could just get them to agree on some things, or even work together, that would be a great step forward for life in Faerûn.”
“Hah! You think they’ll listen to anything the Old Weirdbeard suggests? Except as something to be fought against, renounced, or foiled as thoroughly and spectacularly as they can?”
“Ye see my problem as clearly as I do,” El replied wryly.
“And so?”
“And so we’ll see what I achieve through the good offices of ye and Myrmeen and Mirt.”
“And if we fail?”
El shrugged. “Then we fail. At least we’ll have tried, and will know where we stand with these particular preening idiots.”
“Well, that’s something,” Alusair observed wryly. “At least you see that mighty mages—like you—are preening idiots.”
“Oh, lass, I knew that centuries ago. I’ve spent more centuries trying to become the best preening idiot amongst them—and damn me if they haven’t given me savage competition for the title!”
“Once more, you leave me unsurprised,” Alusair murmured
THE NIGHT CLOAK regarded the thin stiletto that had just thrust viciously out through the keyhole, seeking her life. She was utterly calm. After all, she’d been a Harper for a long time—and before that, had apprenticed to, among others, both Elminster of Shadowdale and Khelben “Blackstaff” Arunsun.
“A rather pointed greeting, my lord,” she commented. “Have you problems at home with irritatingly persistent peddlers, perhaps?”
Her words fell into a little silence, but before it stretched so far that she was moved to shrug and walk away, a reply came from the other side of the door. “And who might you be, Lady?”
“Alastra Hathwinter,” Alastra replied, and added dryly, “We’ve met.”
“Indeed. Are you alone?”
“I am.”
“And do you often knock on the doors of strange men late at night?”
“No. Usually they knock on mine.”
“And the reason for this exception?”
“I seek to negotiate with you, Maraunth Torr. Your might in the Art is impressive, your accomplishments formidable, and for some time I have been wondering how best to contact you. We Who Harp could benefit from certain cooperations with you—as could you. As you’re obviously awake, this might be a good time to discuss matters. Or at least arrange a better time.”
The stiletto withdrew, she heard the door bolt rattle, its lock click open—and the door swung ajar.
Maraunth Torr stood a little way beyond it, a long dark rod in his hand, one end of it aimed at her. He regarded her expressionlessly.
She smiled politely, but that made a sneer rise to his face.
“Tell me, Lady Hathwinter, do your ‘negotiations’ of this sort often succeed? And why the coyness, for one of your known profession; whatever is wrong with the plain old word ‘seduction’?”
“Nothing,” Alastra replied flatly, “save that it has nothing to do with my visit. Your flatter yourself overmuch, Lord Torr. My ‘known profession,’ as you term it, has furnished me with an army of splendid bedmates, and a far larger one of less than splendid partners. I’ve ridden the ride more than enough times for one life, and am not here at your door for pleasures of the flesh. If you’re not interested in business propositions, I’ll depart.”
Maraunth Torr’s face became expressionless again.
“Perhaps I was overly hasty in my judgments,” he said politely. “Please come in.”
“Thank you,” Alastra said gravely, and stepped across the threshold.
“Please,” he said, setting down his rod on a side table, and waving at a desk and chair. “Will you sit? Oh, and pray close the door.”
She half turned to do so, then stopped turning and kept her gaze on him, reaching back and closing the door by feel. That expressionless face of his told her far more than he thought it did. He was going to try to kill her, here and now. This close to her, and trusting arrogantly in his own power to prevail where others had seen their spells go awry. Oh, yes, he meant murder. So was Calathlarra innocent; had he been the one in this high old house dealing death all along?
She watched him steadily as she closed the door.
Whereupon he shrugged and launched the spell meant to strike her down anyway, their eyes steady upon each other all the while.
The air boiled up into bright winking sparks that enshrouded Maraunth Torr’s head and shoulders; a trick of the twisted local Weave that was tugging magic awry, no doubt.
Yet his spell, over the bare two paces between them, lashed out at her with its usual fury, breaking over her in a wave of eldritch fire.
It harmed her not at all. Her counterspell was instantaneous and drew on the enchanted Harper pi
n she wore at her throat for its power, so it might well work, even here with the Art unreliable.
It did. There was a flash so brief it seemed hardly more than a flicker, and Maraunth Torr’s ravening fire was simply—gone.
His astonishment was so deep that his eyes went wide, and he almost gasped. He recovered quickly, though, turning that gape of his mouth into a swiftly hissed incantation.
The Night Cloak winced, recognizing the spell. A strong one that would go a long way toward slaying her if it struck home. She was either going to suffer great pain a moment from now, or—
There was a screech, as of rending metal, and a blinding burst of emerald flame that left her blinking at raging purple afterimages. Something swirled past her in the air like a scimitar trailing flames, and—
Maraunth Torr screamed.
Tears blinded Alastra in a sudden torrent, and she blinked furiously, sidestepping out of sheer habit. When she could see again, her would-be slayer was still staggering around his bedchamber, writhing in pain and clawing at the air with trembling, spasming fingers that wriggled like eels.
He was wild-eyed and soot-scorched, and the hair on the right side of his head was all burned off—to say nothing of his clothing, now gone all down that side of his body.
My, my; what a magnificent man. Blistered all down his flank and leg, mind; when magic went wild here in Oldspires, it really went wild.
He stared at her like a trapped animal, dazed and fearful, bewildered.
Well, well. Humbled by his own spell. Mystra did have a sense of justice, after all.
Alastra strode forward and took hold of one of his trembling hands.
“You,” she announced crisply, “need to be taught some lessons. Come with me, little boy.”
Then she looked him up and down, and smirked. “Perhaps a seduction is in order, after all. Just to seal whatever deal we make. Or I dictate.” She turned and made for the door, towing him along. Reeling a little, he accompanied her willingly.
