by Ed Greenwood
Lord Halaunt blinked. “I say, that sounds—”
The Serpent Queen swept on. “I shall unleash my peerless magical power to bring about a burgeoning empire in which strife shall be curbed, and a new age of peace and prosperity brought to all!” She spun around in a flourish of her gown, and almost raced to the chair, seating herself with another grand flourish. “My own magic is so mighty,” she said fiercely, “that I can do this whatever the opposition; I just need the Lost Spell to make me unstoppable!”
Lord Halaunt blinked again, his jaw dropping. Alusair couldn’t help herself.
Shaaan smiled triumphantly and rose like a great ocean wave ascending to smash down a shoreline tower, adding, “And I will transform and rescue Faerûn—or else! You, sirrah, can stand with me, and benefit—or against me, and be destroyed!”
And with those dramatic words, the Serpent Queen turned and swept out, flinging the door wide in her wake.
And leaving Alusair to turn and stare at Elminster, who was struggling to keep a straight face.
I had no idea Shaaan was such an overly dramatic bad actress, the ghost princess thought. Does she really get her own way through such histrionics? I thought she’d be all cool, oh-so-superior menace.
So, El agreed, did I. Perhaps this making an offer business really bores her.
Lord Halaunt sighed loudly, then slumped in his chair and growled, “Bring on the next one.”
And Alusair added silently, into Elminster’s mind, I shall never understand archmages. Present company included. For all those years I thought Vangey was a royal pain in our collective behinds, but now I see what a gentle, reasonable, simple fellow he was. By comparison, you understand.
Oh, I do, El thought back at her. If it makes ye feel any better, I’ve never understood most archmages, either. And I’ve been one for centuries and tutored hundreds of them. The Art … does things to minds that wield it.
You don’t say. Alusair’s mind voice was caustic. You don’t bloody say.
CHAPTER 11
A Little Tumult
DO YE NEED A BREAK, BEFORE THE NEXT SUPPLICANT?” ELMINSTER murmured, leaning over the desk. “I know ye’re past drinking, but …”
“Your kindness is noted and appreciated,” Lord Halaunt rasped, “but no. I am man enough in my own house to sit through the blus-terings of—what is it? Two more wizards?”
“Ye’re keeping count?”
“I’m wondering if Calathlarra, having freed herself from the room we locked her in, will have the gall to make an appearance at this door, to say her piece.”
El chuckled. “Our minds stroll down similar paths. I doubt it, somehow, but I, too, have been wondering.”
He straightened up and made for the door. Malchor Harpell next. The closest thing to a ‘good man’ among our still living guests. Yet a shrewd man, a veteran adventurer, and although there’s a dark mark in his past, he was once the patriarch of a family that makes ye Obarskyrs look like staid, stay-at-home say-nothings. The Harpells have interesting minds.
Oh. They’re all wizards, right?
Ye have an overly smart tongue, Luse. It’s going to get you into trouble someday.
“Going to?” Old man, have you not been paying attention to my, ah, distinguished life?
Elminster chuckled again, by way of reply, and went out.
MALCHOR HARPELL STOPPED and bowed to Lord Halaunt. He looked quiet and distinguished, like someone accustomed to rule. Alusair made the Lord of Oldspires stand and bow in return, indicate the empty chair across the desk, and murmur, “Lord Harpell, please … have a seat.”
“Thank you,” Malchor replied politely, taking it. Alusair stared thoughtfully at the man. The neatest beard she’d ever seen, a razor-straight fringe outlining the man’s jaw and chin, those fierce black eyebrows, and almost black, dark blue eyes. Calm eyes, with a hint of steel in them, and a larger hint of lurking humor. She liked this one.
“So, Lord,” she made Halaunt say briskly, “you want my Lost Spell. Why?”
“To further my mastery of magic, and to keep it out of the hands of the cruel, the tyrannical, and the reckless. I am a man of scruples and self-control, and I fear I cannot extend that same judgment to some of the other mages under this roof.”
Alusair couldn’t keep Halaunt from smiling at that, and didn’t want to.
“Fair enough. It has been my custom at this point to ask folk sitting in that chair the real reason they want to gain the Lost Spell—but as it happens, I believe you.”
Malchor made no clever comment, but merely nodded and waited.
Leaving Alusair more impressed.
“So instead,” she had Halaunt say, “I’d like to hear your offer. What will you give me in return for the Lost Spell?”
“Service—and coin. I expect to pay handsomely for the spell, in coinage and tradebars and gems. Yet more importantly, I want to devote the services of many adventurers I’ve established working relationships with, down the years, to procure for you, Lord Halaunt, whatever you desire from all over Faerûn.”
“Whatever I desire?”
“Whatever things you most want to collect. Art, small decorative sundries, a menagerie—even, perhaps, companions to make your life less lonely. To restore House Halaunt with strong, vigorous heirs, and to show all of them the world and parts they can play in it, so you’ll sit at the heart of a busy, prosperous, happy family, engaged with the world and a major player in it. Respected and listened to in Cormyr and Sembia, and even in fabled Waterdeep.”
“And if this family proves not so happy?” Halaunt grunted. “And my sons and daughters betray me?”
Malchor gave the Lord of Oldspires a wry smile. “As to that,” he replied, “I have experience to spare in handling a fractious family, though it was long ago. I’ll be your guide and your chief defender and weapon.”
“All those? You’ll be a busy man.”
Malchor shrugged. “I am that already. Why not keep busy building and defending something good in the world? Lord Halaunt, your family can be that—a House Halaunt strong and ever-growing, with interests everywhere across Faerûn, and good lives for all your kin. Strong sons and smart daughters standing with you. Your own legion. Think on it.” Lord Halaunt sat back in his chair, blinked once or twice, and promised gruffly to do so.
GODS, EL, THAT man almost had me crying there. Promising a lonely old man a family. He had me.
He’s very good at it, isn’t he? He’s had to handle some difficult and strong-willed folk, his kin among them. And he can do what he promised, though if he made it sound as if ye’d be his only concern, he was misleading ye; that man juggles almost as many plots and concerns and projects as I do. So there are some good archmages. Ye might want to cling to that, as ye entertain our next supplicant.
Oh?
Aye. Imagine a younger and more brash Manshoon, who doesn’t think he needs to bother to be subtle.
Oh. Alusair’s mental wince was painful for them both. Like so many young nobles I’ve had to deal with, in my latter years, since the Blades.
Indeed. This one’s worse. Be on thy guard.
Wheeeee. Princesses of Cormyr mastered biting sarcasm at an early age, and for this one, that had been a long, long time ago. Elminster winced.
And went out to fetch in the last supplicant of the day.
MARAUNTH TORR WAS as handsome—and as full of himself—as ever.
He smiled at his host almost condescendingly, inclined his head graciously when offered the chair, and seated himself.
“I am prepared to pay thirty thousand thousand gold coins for the Lost Spell,” he said as he did so, “and to provide you with sixty spell scrolls that you can sell as your financial needs suggest—useful, valuable spells but not rare or unique magics.”
Lord Halaunt blinked. “And why is the Lost Spell so valuable to you? What will you do with it?”
“Keep it safe. It gives a wizard much power, and is therefore very dangerous. As I very much doubt any of
the other wizards you’ve spoken with have bothered to point out. I alone respect the danger to Faerûn, and not just what I can do to my enemies once I wield this spell. Which makes me your only sensible choice.”
Lord Halaunt had grown a puzzled frown. “Say on.”
“I alone know the great responsibility the Art brings, because of its great power, and I alone of all mages here at Oldspires haven’t misused magic to rule or try to rule others, to shatter realms or conquer them. So if you yield up the Lost Spell to me, little will change in Faerûn except that a certain Lord Halaunt will be much richer.”
Maraunth Torr’s face grew sad. “If, on the other hand, you choose another, the only responsible thing I can do is to destroy whomever you have chosen, so the Lost Spell can’t be misused.”
He stood up, and added gently, “And when that distasteful deed is done, I will rightfully punish the lord who made it necessary, for his slighting stewardship of Faerûn, by killing him in some suitably slow, painful, and fitting manner.”
Elminster could feel Alusair silently seething, but she made Lord Halaunt’s jaw drop and the man shrink back in his chair and tremble, as if terrified.
“So,” Maraunth Torr said with a silky smile, “I must advise you, Lord Halaunt, to choose wisely. All of your guests are well aware that the spellstorm will last another four days. A lot can happen in four days. Would you prefer to spend them with me as your defender against the other wizards within your walls? Or … not?”
The old lord turned to look helplessly at Elminster, standing still and silent by his chair.
At that, Maraunth Torr added coldly, “Yonder old fool and charlatan has deceived you as he has deceived so many, down the years. He is no font of wisdom or sound advice, but merely the latest opportunistic grasper to take the face and name of a minor wizard who died centuries ago, and has been impersonated ever since by self-aggrandizing scoundrels seeking to gain much by trading on the fell reputation of Elminster of Shadowdale.”
And with that, Torr turned on his heel and swept out of the room.
Lord Halaunt regarded the open door this last supplicant had swept out through, and sighed.
I’m surprised you didn’t destroy him, Alusair thought, as Elminster passed her on his way to close the door.
El shrugged. “If I destroyed everyone who said rude or less than true things about me, Faerûn would be nigh-deserted of creatures that can talk. Besides, ’tis best to know more about foes, so as to best gauge what dangers will be left lurking and unattended when it does become necessary to destroy them.”
“So, old friend, what now? Do I go to my bedchamber and await some murderous mage deciding to just seize the Lost Spell rather than paying anything for it? Or do we sit back and wait for these survivors to have a go at eliminating each other?”
“Neither. Lord Halaunt goes back to the kitchen and we hide him in the plate and cutlery storage, but I tell everyone at highsunfeast that he’s retired to think over the offers—and ye patrol invisibly again, and see what everyone gets up to. I’m afraid the chance for any sort of friendly or even cordial accord among our guests is past; of those remaining, I think only Malchor has the will for it—and he needs someone else to accord with.”
“If we’re handing out the Lost Spell, he’s certainly the only one I’m inclined to give it to, as things stand now,” Alusair said, “but to announce him as our choice will be to doom him.”
“As surely as we doomed poor Alastra,” Elminster agreed. “But our choice or not, he has to survive this folly of Mystra. I’m expecting Calathlarra to try something before long … and I’d not be surprised if Tabra gets involved in a little tumult, too.”
“A little tumult?”
“A murder. Victim or murderer.”
“So is she—?”
“ ’Tis not that simple, lass. It never is.”
“That’s ‘Highness’ lass, to you.”
“Hah! I recall when ye were a squalling babe, wet at both ends!”
“I was one of those for most of my life, as I recall,” Alusair told him dryly. “Well, let’s take Old Crustiness here down to his secret plate cupboard, so I can start patrolling—and get all of this over faster. Four more days of murder or spell duels, before the spellstorm fades and some enraged archmages get unleashed on Cormyr, and Faerûn beyond. If, of course, they haven’t all killed each other first.”
“Nay, lass, that last won’t happen. Nothing’s ever that neat and tidy, except in books.”
HIGHSUNFEAST WAS AN informal affair of soup, roast wildfowl, cheeses, brandies, and wines, served in two adjoining rooms: the Copper Receiving Room and the Green Audience Chamber immediately west of it. Shaaan and Maraunth Torr kept to the dark bower of deep-emerald tapestries and black carpet, Malchor to the brighter burnished pink-orange copper-ceilinged and copper-plated chamber, and Manshoon strolled back and forth between the two.
Absent were Calathlarra and Tabra, of course; Elminster intended to serve them their highsunfeasts privately, later.
Lord Halaunt should hear their offers for the Lost Spell, too, but the need to do that could be used as a delaying tactic if need be, over the next several days. During which time, if El knew anything at all about the characters of the four guests now devouring everything in sight, the wizards trapped inside Oldspires were apt to grow more than a mite restless.
Aside from Malchor, all of them had sent insults and condescension Elminster’s way throughout the meal, but had derived little satisfaction from doing so; the smilingly silent steward simply ignored their barbs.
“He smiles,” Maraunth Torr told Manshoon as Elminster passed, “because he can’t think of replies to our sallies, and the truths we tell wound him.”
Elminster merely smiled more broadly.
“Smile on, Elminster of Shadowdale,” Maraunth Torr added coldly. “You’re not nearly as clever as you think you are.”
“Could we speak of something else?” Shaaan drawled. “Something at all interesting?”
Manshoon favored her with his usual half smile and asked politely, “And would converse on the topic of the future we’d like to see for, say, the Heartlands of Faerûn be deemed both interesting and safe common ground? Or have you another preference, Lady Serpent?”
Shaaan’s eyes flashed, and she smiled. “Lady Serpent—I like the sound of that. My thanks, Lord Manshoon.”
“Not at all, Lady Serpent. Pleased to be of service to you.”
“Actually,” Maraunth Torr put in, savoring some sharp purple-marbled cheese from Ulgarth with evident surprise, “I’m interested in hearing your future plans, both of you. As much as you care to share publicly, that is. Something a bit more detailed than ‘I intend to rule the entire world,’ please.”
“I intend to control whoever manages to get closest to ruling the entire world,” Manshoon drawled. “Let someone else do all the gruntwork before I step in and reap the fruits of their labors.”
“And what if you attempt that, Lord, and find a certain Lady Serpent standing in your way?” Shaaan asked quietly.
“That will be interesting,” was all the reply Manshoon made, ere raising a goblet to his lips and sipping long and deeply.
Maraunth Torr raised his voice enough to carry through the open doorway into the other room. “And what of you, Lord Harpell? What are your future plans?”
“My future plans,” Malchor replied dryly, coming to the door with a plate of peppered pickles breaded and fried in shaltikho oil, “are just that: in the future. As in, I haven’t made them yet. I’m too busy pursuing my present ones.”
“Which are?”
Malchor regarded Maraunth Torr thoughtfully. “Not for the likes of you to know. Yet there is one ongoing project I’ll share, being as it can scarcely be hidden from anyone who devotes an afternoon to looking and pondering: breeding. As in, making sure that members of wealthy or accomplished families have children together, thus knitting their clans … to create combined factions that can in time rival
those now most prominent across Faerûn—or simply control them, from behind the scenes, by co-opting the highest-ranking and most senior faction members.”
Maraunth Torr crooked an eyebrow. “That would seem work that would benefit one’s children or grandchildren, not oneself—and frankly, I’m not in the business of pleasing grandchildren before myself. I need plans and schemes that bear immediate fruit.”
“So you do,” Shaaan agreed. “After all, for every man, the world ends when he dies. Knowing one has a legacy not easily swept away is all most do so far as the far future is concerned; triumphs are things happening now, not yesterday’s gone glory or tomorrow’s empty boasting.”
“Nicely phrased,” Elminster murmured, bending over her with a large decanter of wine in his hands. “Care for some Clalel?”
“Vintage, yes, but none of the muck they’ve bottled this decade. What year?”
“Forged Sigil,” El replied promptly. “Lord Halaunt has only just tapped the cask.”
“Has he now? Did he do so after finishing all the earlier Clalel in his cellar?”
“He did.”
“Hmmm. Pity, that.” The Serpent Queen drank deeply, murmured her appreciation, and sank back into the cushions of one corner of the high-backed lounge she had to herself, along the south side of the room.
As Elminster turned away, she added, “You might just leave the decanter, Elminster. And save yourself all those trips trotting back to refill me.”
“Ah, now, why didn’t I think of that?” he replied affably, setting the decanter down on the side table her drink was already at home upon.
Mirt and Myrmeen came in then with steaming platters of roast braerwing and tallgoose hash, and as the onetime Lady Lord of Arabel passed El, she murmured in his ear, “We took what’s left of Alastra down to the cold cellar, wrapped in an old weathercloak to spare the Halaunt carpets along our way. It’s getting a mite crowded down there.”
