by Ed Greenwood
Alusair smiled. “Drawing on your vast experience of same, I’m sure. Yes, aside from Tabra not stirring nor being visited by anyone. First, Alastra called on Maraunth Torr, then almost immediately the two of them went back to her room together, Torr looking rather scorched—and his customary confidence entirely absent. Then Manshoon visited Shaaan—”
“Oooh,” Myrmeen interrupted. “I like that not.”
“But the Zhentarim lord was rebuffed, and departed immediately, repeatedly calling out in pain as he went. Before our oh-so-charming Serpent Queen could get her door closed, Calathlarra—who’d somehow picked the lock and got out of the bedchamber we locked her into—arrived on her threshold and requested admittance. She was accepted, went in, and remained.”
“For how long?”
“Until I stopped patrolling, after you rang the gongs. I suspect she snuck back to the room we locked her into after everyone else had headed for the feast hall, and is playing starving imprisoned innocent in there right now.”
“Should we check on her?”
“Tabra first,” El decided, and nodded to Alusair—who raced for the kitchen door, winking out of visibility before she got there.
“Mreen,” El commanded, “lock thyself in until we return.”
“And when you do that, the dishes will be waiting,” she warned.
“Of course. The dishes are always waiting.”
THEY STOPPED OUTSIDE Tabra’s door.
“She’s in there. Still abed,” Alusair murmured, out of the empty air. “She locked her door, but didn’t bolt it.”
Mirt looked at Elminster. “And if she won’t let us in?”
Elminster drew on a length of fine chain at his throat, hauling a key up into view. “Master key,” he said, before pulling it off and using it. Luse, stand guard over her after we depart.
As you command, Alusair’s impish thought came back.
El rolled his eyes and knocked at the door.
There was a whisper from within that none of them could decipher. They traded glances, then El shrugged and swung the door wide.
The disfigured last apprentice of Ioulaum was in bed. She regarded them, managed the wan beginnings of a smile, and whispered, “Well met.”
“Ah, but how well are ye, Tabra?” El kneeled beside the bed. “Forgive me?” he asked, laying a hand on her bedcovers and raising his eyebrows in a query.
She nodded, and he gently drew back the covers.
She was naked, her ribs standing out clear all down her gaunt flanks. Intricate tattoos covered the inside surfaces of both her forearms, and there was something—ink?—on her fingertips.
No, just on the fingernails of the smallest end fingers of each hand, which had been clipped or carved into sharp points.
“Poison?” El asked quietly, holding up one of her hands so it was between their faces.
“Ink. I always keep my end nails sharp, so I can dip them in ink to write letters. It saves having to procure or carry quill pens, which are regrettably fragile, I’ve found.”
Elminster nodded, replaced Tabra’s arm gently by her side, and looked her body up and down closely.
She lay still, apparently unembarrassed or angered, but when he asked gently if there was anything she wanted to share with him, or needed, she gave him that wan half smile again, shook her head, and said, “Just let me sleep for now. And mind you lock the door again.”
They were around the corner of the passage and in front of Alastra Hathwinter’s door before Mirt jerked his head back over his shoulder in the direction of Tabra’s room and said, “She’s up to something.”
El nodded. “Of course. Aren’t we all? The question is, what?”
He tried Alastra’s door, and found it locked. He knocked, but there was no reply. A second and louder knock was also answered by utter silence. El used his master key. No one greeted them, and he and Mirt peered around the room, looking for anything out of place.
Alastra’s clothes had been laid out neatly across the seat that faced the fireplace. She, too, lay abed naked—but the bedclothes were a roiled mess beneath her, and she lay sprawled atop them, staring forever at nothing somewhere near the ceiling.
The Harper’s throat had been cut savagely—and she’d been sliced even more deeply all down her front, laid open in a huge trench full of blood, into and out of which small beetles were busily scurrying.
Into that trench of gore her Harper symbol had been thrust, upright and bloody, for whoever found her to see.
Mirt stared down at it. “Murdered by someone who hates Harpers?”
El shrugged. “Or by someone who wants all to believe so.”
Mirt gave him a sidelong glance. “Surely Mystra must know who did this.”
El shot back a sharp look. “That doesn’t mean she’s going to tell me—or any of us. The more foolish and brutish among the gods meddle openly, as they’ve always done. The wiser ones are now trying to leave mortal troubles to mortals—for the less gods walk among us and work openly upon us, the healthier we are and the greater we become.”
“Oh?” Mirt asked, with a frown. “Do all the priests know this?”
El shrugged. “The farmer who never stops uprooting and inspecting his cabbages nigh kills them with his attention,” he explained, “whereas the one who plants them well and then lets them be, grows sturdy ones, and many of them.”
“So I’m a cabbage,” Mirt said dryly. “That explains much.”
ELMINSTER HAD CHOSEN the lord’s study as the place for Lord Halaunt to meet with each aspirant seeking to gain the Lost Spell. It was a small, pleasant room hard against the west wall of Oldspires, dominated by its one window, which looked north along the west wall of the mansion, where moss and then grass fell away from the old stone walls.
Two comfortable chairs faced each other across a central desk, and the Sage of Shadowdale’s respect for the real Lord Halaunt had risen a trifle upon discovering that the chairs were in every respect identical; the lord did not seat himself taller or more grandly or comfortably than any guest in this room. A few shelves of trophies of past Halaunt lives were let into the magnificent wood-paneled walls, and the Halaunt arms stood proud in relief on the wall behind the desk, flanked on the side walls by expansive and magnificently detailed maps of the Heartlands and the North on one side, and the Shining South and the Utter East on the other.
The desk was gleamingly bare and empty.
Mirt and Myrmeen were back in the kitchens, barricaded in and preparing highsunfeast, but Elminster assisted Lord Halaunt in entertaining one guest after another. As a scribe and witness, so far as each spell-seeking wizard saw, but in truth, he mindtouched Alusair as he went to fetch each one and escort them in, and in silent flashing thoughts made her aware of what he deemed key about their pasts and characters.
“They’ll still do this, after Alastra?” Alusair asked Elminster, before he set off to escort the first guest in.
He nodded. “They know ye’re going to be slow and careful, after what befell Alastra. And I’m sure all of them are counting the days until the spellstorm fades away. They have time to make good cases, and know we’ll take time to consider carefully. They’ll do this.”
Manshoon came first, and El warned Alusair, Even more of a snake, this one, than ye know. Utterly evil, and a barefaced expert liar. Yet strong enough in his Art, and longsighted enough in his thinking about Toril, for Mystra to offer him the status of Chosen.
Was the Lady of All Mysteries drunk, or love-smitten, or so bored as to be unsane, when making that offer? Alusair thought back tartly, and added quickly, You needn’t try to answer that. I’m merely acquainting you with my reaction to your news.
She then made Lord Halaunt smile and nod gravely at Manshoon as the vampire entered the room, stopped to pose and tender his own smile, and then strode to the chair his noble host was wordlessly indicating.
“So, Lord Manshoon, you seek my Lost Spell, yes? No change of mind, no second thoughts on this matter?”<
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“I do seek the Lost Spell,” Manshoon confirmed smilingly, “and am prepared to pay handsomely for it.”
“We’ll get to such details; I have concerns I’d like to discuss with you first. I possess, as you’ll appreciate, only the one spell, yet would seem to have far more than one suitor for it.”
“And the notion of selling copies of the spell to more than one of us sits ill with you? You’d get much less from each purchaser, as they’d not be getting something unique, but perhaps the aggregate of all the payments …”
“Try to swindle wizards, my lord? I think I’d like to live a little longer than that.”
“I was not envisaging any deception, Lord Halaunt, merely an alternative to having to choose just one of us. However, as the choosing is entirely at your pleasure, if the idea is not one that engages you, let it be forgotten. For I do indeed seek the Lost Spell, and I mean to have it.”
“Why?”
“Pardon?”
Lord Halaunt’s face was a gentle picture of momentary puzzlement. Standing behind his chair like a watchful statue, Elminster’s face was expressionless. “Why do you want the Lost Spell? What would you do with it?”
“Why, to bring peace to Cormyr, and then between Cormyr and Sembia, fair lands that could enrich all Faerûn if all strife was settled within and between them, and they could use this peace to bend their best efforts to prosperity.”
“A grand venture, indeed, but I believe I’d like to hear something else.”
“Something else?”
“The real reason, Lord Manshoon. Not what sounds lofty or pretty, but the truth. I understand plain, unglazed honesty comes hard for many who rule or wield power among merchants, to say nothing of wizards always suspicious of rivals, but I would hear it from you, or at least the fruits of your attempts to grapple with it. So, the truth now; why do you want the Lost Spell, and what for?”
Manshoon’s calm was unruffled. “I have ruled both cities and organizations, large and small, and one of the lessons I’ve learned is that deceit comes expensive; there is always a cost, and therefore lies are to be avoided whenever possible, and the straightforward simplicity of the truth cleaved to. I have just done so, here and now, with you. The reason I gave is the real one. I foresee not only personal profit in dwelling in prosperous lands at peace, wherein enterprise and energies can be devoted to enrichment, but betterment for all. And from that core, hopefully an improvement that spreads, to make all Faerûn better. Is that not good enough reason?”
“It is. You are to be commended—for your eloquence, if nothing else. Tell me, what do you see as the role of nobles, in this better, enriched Faerûn of yours?”
“Why, the nobility are both the guides of commoners, fonts of worldly wisdom and judgment—in many places, they can continue to serve as magisters, adjudicating local disputes—and best placed to be sponsors and investors, to drive progress and profit from it. In this corner of Cormyr around us, for instance, Lord Halaunt need not be the lord who keeps to his house in serene privacy, but the key to mercantile success for many a hard-working commoner, who will then be beholden to House Halaunt, and look up to Lord Halaunt as a wise counselor and leader.”
“You paint an attractive picture. So, then, to your offer. You know what the Lost Spell is, but you alone can establish its worth to you. What are you prepared to render unto me, if I give the spell—solely and utterly, retaining no copy of it, nor sharing it with another—to you?”
“Coins almost beyond counting, Zhentish mintings in the measure of seven thousand thousand in all, and extensive land holdings in Sembia, consisting of twenty-three city properties in Saerloon, twelve dockside and two uptown buildings in Selgaunt, and three large upcountry farms, with all the superior horseflesh reared on them and the crops currently planted.”
“That would seem a rather ordinary offering, in return for the extraordinary. Generous in extent, yes, but utterly … mundane.”
“It is but a beginning,” Manshoon replied smoothly, “though I must confess that to me your reception seems a trifle cold, coming from a lord who I would think would not be willing to part with the Lost Spell at all, were he not in a state of material want. What do you seek, beyond coins and land? Valuable city land and rural properties, the smallest of them thrice as large as your land here?”
“I confess I’m not entirely sure what I seek,” Lord Halaunt replied. “Until I hear it.”
“Pardon?”
“You may have it again, Lord Manshoon. The pardon of a bored, jaded old noble who confesses to something of a gnawing inner emptiness … yet does not know what will assuage it. Wherefore I shall hear out every offer, before I accept one—or none. So if I thank you and ask you to withdraw now, do not think you have failed. Not yet.”
“And are you thanking and dismissing me?”
“That moment draws close, yet it would seem you have more to say to me. Pray proceed.”
Manshoon leaned forward in his chair. “Lord Halaunt, I am a favored of Mystra—I enjoy the respect of the goddess of magic herself. Of all the wizards who will seek to persuade you to place the Lost Spell in their hands, I am the only one you can trust to use the Lost Spell wisely, to bring peace to Cormyr and then between Cormyr and Sembia. I shall swear to pursue that noble aim, upon the secret names of Mystra and my own, sworn for years upon her altars—so that if I stray, or say false in this, she shall destroy me utterly. I alone you can trust.”
“I shall bear your words in mind, but be advised that I shall be less than surprised if the rival seekers of the Lost Spell make different claims as to their trustworthiness,” Lord Halaunt said mildly. “I thank you for your most generous offer, Lord Manshoon.”
It was a clear dismissal, underscored by Lord Halaunt starting to rise from his chair and Elminster gliding forward to stand by Manshoon’s seat.
The vampire rose, anger gleaming in his eyes for the first time, but he bowed and said as smoothly as ever, “Lord Halaunt, please remember: I am the only candidate who will use the Lost Spell responsibly. To give it to any of the others is to court disaster—perhaps swift and personal disaster. I myself am the only one who can handle the spell.”
“I shall remember,” Lord Halaunt promised, meeting Manshoon’s smoldering gaze calmly. “I seldom forget things, as it happens.”
And he stood behind his desk and watched Manshoon go out. Only after Elminster turned in the doorway to give him a wink did he add softly, “Though perhaps the Halaunt memory was better before a certain uncaring blackguard had a large and wantonly destructive hand in burning my mind out.”
Oh, well said, El commented, as he turned and went out into the passage to fetch the next supplicant.
Gods, he’s annoying, Alusair replied, letting her exasperation flare. A moment later she staggered, her face going tight, and Elminster rushed back in the door.
In time to see her smile, wave one arm dismissively, and sit back down again. It would seem Mystra is still on the job, the ghost princess thought. And Manshoon is hopefully now nursing another pounding headache.
He’s certainly persistent, El thought cheerfully, and went out again.
He left their minds in contact, in case Manshoon’s just-rebuffed mental charge was followed by a stealthier invasion, and so heard Alusair’s next thoughts as clearly as if she’d directed them at him, rather than to herself.
Favored of Mystra? Why, I wonder? What’s he working on for her? Was this peace in Cormyr and Sembia part of it, or is he up to something darker? That puts him on another throne somewhere, perhaps?
El nodded to himself. What was the old Manyfaced up to, indeed?
And was merrily slaughtering archmages who came within reach, here at Oldspires, for example, part of it?
SHAAAN’S SMILE AT Elminster, as he led her along the passage, held more than a little challenge. She was as beautiful as ever, long gowned and serene this morning. Ready for battle.
More vicious than Manshoon and more powerful, El war
ned Alusair, through their mind touch. She’s part serpent, she goes her own way and gets her own way, and her hauteur is a cover for a cold, calculating mind that sees and plans years ahead. She doesn’t want to rule all Toril, just be obeyed utterly in every corner of it she happens to set boot in.
Charming, the false Lord Halaunt thought back sarcastically. I loathe her more than ever—and with good reason, it seems.
Shaaan strode into the room, stopped, and struck a pose, obviously expecting Elminster to announce her. When he held silence and merely glided around the desk to take up his station behind Lord Halaunt’s chair, the tall, scaled woman announced herself.
“I am Shaaan the Serpent Queen. I have no equal in mastery of magic. I could have forced every realm to kneel before me, and now be ruling an empire that takes in all Faerûn and beyond—yet I have not done so, for tyranny over others does not interest me.”
It was a clear invitation to a particular question, so Alusair—quelling an inner sigh—asked it.
“Well met, Lady! Tell me, in light of what you’ve just said, what does interest you?”
“The beauty and elegance of magic, and what can be done with it. New things that can be accomplished through the Art. The Lost Spell is an opportunity to experience and explore something new to me, and I ache to have it.”
“And is that really the reason you want the Lost Spell?” Lord Halaunt asked, gesturing to the empty chair across the desk from him.
Shaaan ignored it, instead turning to one side, to stride across the room toward the map on that wall.
“But of course! Lies and deceptions are the tools of the petty, of those who lack the might of the Art and strength of morals to be bold and open and forthright! Why should I say anything to you that is not the truth? What do I gain by that, save to sow mistrust and waste time that is precious to both of us?”
“I quite see. Well, then, in the interest of wasting no more time, what is your offer to me?”
Shaaan whirled around from the map, drew herself up, and flung her arms wide. “Lord Halaunt, you shall be ruler over all of Cormyr—with every coin of its considerable wealth, from taxes and fees to the gems of the Crystal Grot itself—if you yield up to me the Lost Spell! For I shall use it to conquer Cormyr, Sembia, and all the lands of the Moonsea, the Dragonreach, and the Dragon Coast—and then whatever other lands take my fancy.”
