Bury Elminster Deep (Elminster Book 7)

by Ed Greenwood

  “You make an admirable echo, good Sraunter, but someone—nay, several someones—have espied your lit lamps and approach your shop entrance. So open the cage and close this door. Now.”

  The next few moments were a whirlwind of panting activity for Immaero Sraunter, and his accustomed feelings of grim superiority and darkly sinister accomplishment had quite vanished by the time he found himself puffing and panting his way back through the curtain to blink at the customers shuffling into the gloom of his shop.

  Manshoon had vanished sometime during that whirlwind, Sraunter knew not quite where, but he was uncomfortably aware that five beholderkin that could slay him or almost any Suzailan with casual ease roamed free in his strongroom—where he kept his poisons, his best drinkables, and most of his coin.

  Not that this undesirable state of affairs would continue for long, if his suspicions were correct. And when it came to matters of personal misfortune for Immaero Sraunter, they usually were.

  The boldest shopper’s request struck his ears, then, and he heard himself answering it with the ease of long habit.

  “Dragonmere eel essence, Goodwife? Well, there’s not a lot of call for that, particularly at this time of night, but—”

  Arclath’s face hardened. “Trust? Trust? Hah, you don’t fool me, wizard! It’s you in there, Elminster, and you have my lady ruined or bound silent. She’s a mask you put on when you seek to deceive me!”

  He sliced the air with his sword, weaving a glittering wall of steel as he took two slow, menacing steps forward, forcing his beloved back.

  She looked so hurt, through her tears …

  He scowled, reminding himself that this was really Elminster, just using his Amarune’s body. “You must cease this evil of riding living folk! Right now!”

  “Or you’ll—what?” Rune asked, regarding him sidelong. “Carve me up, Arclath? Kill me, the mask dancer you call your lady and say you’re doing all of this for? And when you’ve butchered me, and I’m lying hewn apart in my blood all over this floor, what then? How will you stop the wizard you so misjudge then?”

  Baffled anger was rising in the heir of House Delcastle. She was right, Dragon take it! How could he strike at the wizard without harming Rune?

  Arclath realized, as she reached the far wall of the hut’s lone room and sidestepped along it, that his advance had taken him far from the brazier. Hastily he shuffled back the way he’d come, trying not to stumble in the abandoned bedding as he retreated, without taking his gaze off her for a moment.

  Spell, she might cast a spell … he needed something to throw and another hand to throw it with. Ah, his dagger, of course, but—

  Oh, damn and blast! Why was life always so difficult?

  “These endless complications are irksome, but then, complications are what give life its interest,” Manshoon murmured aloud as he strolled along one of the quieter streets of Suzail’s Windmarket neighborhood, hired lamp boys before and behind.

  “Irksome, did you say, saer?” a Purple Dragon swordcaptain asked, passing at the head of his watch patrol.

  Manshoon gave the man an easy smile. “Minor annoyances, I assure you. The cut and thrust of mercantile trade brings obstacles to the most prudent investments and stratagems. I’ll be happier when the Council is past, and matters have, ah, settled down somewhat.”

  The watchman smiled back. “You and me both, saer. You and me both.”

  They traded nods and continued on their separate ways, the patrol in the direction of the distant docks, and Manshoon bound for the walled compounds and grander towers where the wealthiest and most noble citizens dwelt.

  Yes, Sraunter would prove useful indeed. The man’s shop was in a central—yet not overly popular—location. Manshoon’s collection of bases across Suzail was certainly growing quickly.

  As he walked, Manshoon reached up and slapped himself on the cheek. “I must stop talking to myself. A bad habit, acquired during too many long, dark years of scheming, and all of that is almost behind me now, with Cormyr practically in my grasp.”

  He gave a bright smile to a surly carter sweating along under the weight of a full keg, received an astonished stare in return, and sauntered on with a light heart.

  Elminster dead. By his own hand, thorough and certain. Yes.

  That extermination opened so many doors and made so many perilous trails safer and easier. Though it did mean some rethinking of strategy.

  With his need for haste gone, it was now imperative to delay this Council of the Dragon. With Stormserpent and his fellow young hotheads down, he needed time—another day should suffice—to replenish the ranks of noblemen serving him.

  When the Council inevitably turned into a bloodbath, he wanted particular royalty, courtiers, and nobles slaughtered, not mere random murders.

  Tailored bloodletting saved so much time.

  Elminster quelled a sigh. Lord Delcastle was growing wild-eyed, apt to do nigh anything—and becoming truly dangerous.

  Oh, Rune’s body was agile enough to snatch up furs and blankets to trammel the blade the young fool was waving around, or even fling them over his head to blind him, and smite him cold—but Rune was naked, and Storm might as well be, and that sword was sharp. Someone was going to get hurt.

  And it was all so unnecessary.

  The coffer young Arclath was threatening him with was empty, until El departed Amarune—and Storm could just as easily store his ashes down the toes of her boots, or for that matter, scoop ashes that weren’t him at all from yon hearth for the angry young lordling to destroy to his heart’s content …

  Ah, Storm was awake, throwing off the effects of the darfly. Through her glossy fall of silver hair, El saw the gleam of one eye opening a trifle, for just a moment.

  Which made his role clear. He had to keep Arclath talking and all the lordling’s attention on him.

  “Arclath,” he said in his best imitation of Amarune’s gravely earnest manner, going to his knees and spreading his arms wide, “what can I do to convince you? I am your Rune, and … and you’re frightening me. I don’t know how to prove anything to you!”

  He had to keep his eyes from straying to Storm and drawing Arclath’s attention to her—but at the back of the mind they were sharing, Amarune had seen that eye open, too, and had instantly become interested in watching her.

  Unthinkingly she reached for control of her eyes. They tussled mentally for a silent moment, until El brutally won that battle by shaking the dancer’s head violently and making her look away and down at the blanket-littered floor.

  “Arclath?” he sobbed, not daring to let Amarune look up.

  “Rune,” Arclath snarled, “if you are Rune and not the wizard, please believe me when I tell you I’m just as scared. And baffled about how to be sure you are … well, you.”

  El managed not to smirk. Would he have been any more eloquent, at Delcastle’s age? Likely not …

  Behind the young lord, Storm had set about freeing herself. Arclath knew his work. His belt was stretched tight, cutting deep grooves in her arms. Storm stretched like a great cat, arched herself even further, then relaxed, having tested the limits of her bonds. Which weren’t much.

  Yet it seemed she’d learned enough to decide what to do next, without any hesitation at all. As El fought not to watch, with Amarune providing no help at all, Storm made her move.

  “And I don’t know how to prove to you that I am Amarune. Elminster can’t control me for long, but … well, he’s not the monster you make him out to be.”

  “Hah! That must be you, mage! My Rune would never submit to tyranny without fighting and shouting about it every moment she could draw breath!”

  Behind the angry lordling, Amarune and Elminster saw Storm dislocate one of her shoulders with a twisting thrust and a grimace of pain. That loosened the swordbelt enough that she could wriggle in painful silence, pull and slide out of Arclath’s tight strapping, leaving the belt clinging to the shirt she left behind.

  She rolled ov
er with slow, infinite care, as bare as the day she was born and in utter silence, keeping her injured shoulder from harm. She kept rolling, across the furs and blankets to the hearth.

  Elminster tried again—and this time felt Amarune in full agreement with him. He let her take over her voice midword, hoping he wouldn’t regret it.

  “Arclath Delcastle,” he began severely, “how do you”—she took over so smoothly that there wasn’t the slightest hitch in the angry sentence—“know what I would do? I pleasure men for a living, remember? I do so because I need to eat, and to keep from freezing in Suzailan winters; I’ve never been able to afford the principles you cloak me with!”

  At the hearth, Storm wasn’t reaching for any weapon nor doing anything at all to cover herself or tend to her shoulder. She was—El had to quell Rune’s disbelieving stare—making tea.

  “You’re not my Rune,” Arclath snapped. “Fancy words for a mask dancer, wizard! You’ll have to do better than that!”

  In their shared mind, Amarune’s anger flared. She tugged at El for control of all her body, and he yielded it. This should be good.

  “Arclath, are you truly so foolish? Or just too angry to think? Do you really believe a glib tongue, cogent arguments, and cultured words belong only to the highborn and a few courtiers? Are we beasts to you, barely able to do more than grunt and snort? We unwashed citizens who are your dupes, your servants, your slaves? For that matter, have you any idea what mask dancers—gods spit, what any two-coin pleasure lass—get to overhear, in any given season? I am Amarune Whitewave!”

  Still on her knees, she wrapped her arms around herself and snapped, “And this body is mine! I’m not some old wizard pretending to be your Rune; I am your Rune! Get that through your thick head, Lord Highnose Delcastle—if you can!”

  Arclath blinked. “Uh—ah—but Rune, how can I be sure? I—”

  “You can’t, Lord Delcastle! None of us can! All of us must trust in others in life or shun them completely and wander the wilderlands alone—until the first prowling wolf or hungry bear gets us! I have to trust you; you have to trust me; and we both have to trust others—the bard and wizard with us, for instance. Now, let me tell you something!”

  Arclath blinked at her, then—wisely, El thought—nodded. And refrained from pointing out that Rune had been doing just that.

  Good lad. Ye might live through this, after all.

  “I am hurt, Arclath. I have just met a goddess. Face-to-face—stlarn it, and she touched me! It was terrible, and it was wonderful. I was lost in awe and wanted nothing more than to come back here and tell you how utterly magnificent it was. The most shining moment in my life thus far, possibly the finest happening I’ll ever know. And you’ve ruined it, Arclath, utterly ruined it! I need to share it with you; I need you to understand it; and what do I find? You’re waving a sword around as if that will solve everything! How typically noble! Gah!”

  “B-but Rune, he’s stolen your body!”

  Amarune exploded up off the floor and marched right up to Arclath, slapping his sword aside with the flat of one hand, angry eyes glittering. “Now you listen to me, Lord Delcastle! Elminster—my ancestor, and don’t you high Houses set much store by your bloodlines and hallowed forebearers, hey?—has borrowed my body. With many misgivings and no intention of keeping it, and I have seen that in his mind. We share my head, remember? I’ve seen his thoughts, and I know. Him I need not trust, because I know what he thinks and feels.”

  She halted right in front of Arclath, chin to chin, not quite pressed against him, and said fiercely, her breath on his face hot with anger, “And hear me well, Arclath Delcastle—that borrowing is fine with me. So, if you care about my feelings and my freedom at all, it should also be fine with you.”

  Arclath stared into her eyes, going pale, his sword sinking forgotten in his hand.

  “If you can’t accept that,” his Rune added, “perhaps you’d better instead accept that none of this is really your business at all.”

  The young noble lord studied her face, and then he shook his head and backed away, sword coming up again.

  “No,” he said. “No. You’re not my Rune. These words are coming from Elminster, seeking to trick me. Wizard, what have you done to my lady?”

  Amarune clenched her fists at her sides and leaned forward to let out a shriek of frustration.

  Arclath fell into a fighting stance, sword up. “You’ll have to do better than that!”

  “Why?” asked a gentle voice from just behind his right ear. “Can’t we all calm down and sit by the fire to chat about this? I’ve made some tea.”

  Storm Silverhand! How had she—?

  Arclath spun around, sword slicing the air to lash out—

  And came to a sudden halt, shaking and aghast.

  Not only had he almost struck down a naked, unarmed woman, but during his whirling turn, fingers like iron fangs had come out of seemingly nowhere and done something to his wrist to make his sword fly free, then taken his sword arm in a grip he very much doubted he could break.

  Storm was stronger than he was. Not to mention much more beautiful than he’d ever be, and pressed against him.

  “Applying a binding over clothing won’t keep captive someone willing to shed her garments,” she murmured. “You might with advantage remember that, Lord Delcastle.”

  She added a friendly smile, and it was as if the sun had risen in the hut. Silver tresses rose, seemingly on their own, to stroke his cheek and trace the line of his chin.

  Arclath stared at her, fighting to keep his eyes on her face. Gods, but she was stunningly good-looking! He—he—it was hard not to stare at all of her or refrain from taking a half-step forward and feeling all of her. If they struggled now, their contact would be both vigorous and … intimate.

  “I—I know not what to do,” he blurted, feeling a soft hand (Rune’s, and stlarn it, she was unclad, too!) slide around his waist from behind.

  He sighed and gave up. “Where’s that tea?”

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  I HAVE A LITTLE PLAN

  Two steps into the room above the shop of Immaero Sraunter, Understeward Corleth Fentable came to a sudden halt, his eyes going very wide. “I—I—”

  The smiling man seated down the far end of the table, at Sraunter’s elbow, waved an airy hand.

  “Ah, Fentable, you remember me? Favorably, I hope.”

  Fentable was too busy sinking into shocked horror to manage a reply—a state of mind he saw mirrored in the eyes of the third man at the table.

  Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake looked as if he’d swallowed a fatal dose of poison, and only just realized it.

  They were all the mind-slaves of the man at the end of the table. The handsome, amused man whose dark eyes devoured Fentable.

  Under their thrall, he sat down in the last empty chair, barely noticing he was doing so.

  He, Sraunter, and Mreldrake had been pawns of the dark-eyed man until some brief time before yestereve, when he’d withdrawn from them and made them forget all about him.

  Now he was back, to begin their servitude anew.

  “I know we all know each other,” Manshoon said, “though I’ll admit I’d not intended us all to ever meet like this. Yet, circumstances change, and my paramount needs with them. So, gentlesirs, hear and heed attentively.” He gave them a soft, sharklike smile and added, “as I know you will.”

  “Pull,” Storm commanded, turning away from him. A trifle gingerly, Arclath obeyed.

  “Harder,” she added. Setting his jaw, he put his strength into it.

  Suddenly, her arm moved sickeningly in his grasp. The silver-haired woman grunted like one of his guards taking a dagger thrust, reeled a little under his hands, and gasped, “Good. Back where it should be.”

  Disengaging her arm, she turned to face him and growled with mock severity, “Now don’t make me have to do that again.”

  Arclath drew in a deep and somewhat unsteady breath and then let it out ag
ain before he dared to reply, “I’ll try not to, Lady Immerdusk.”

  Storm rolled her eyes. “Just ‘Storm,’ please. Whenever I hear that title, I feel several centuries older.” She reached for his tankard with the arm he’d just put back into its socket. “More tea?”

  Arclath nodded, glanced at Amarune, and looked back at Storm. “I’m … ah, sorry to the both of you. To all three of you, rather, but Rune most of all. I—this is still going to take some getting used to, for me.”

  “You’re not alone,” Amarune told him. “Raise the door bar again, and let’s get some sleep. I’m not just tired now; I’m cold.”

  Storm proffered tea with one hand and a sleeping fur with the other. Then she leaned between the two Suzailans, long and sleek and shapely, to blow out the smoldering brazier.

  “Let’s snuggle up. Elminster can keep watch.”

  Arclath’s head came up. He gave her his best frown, and then peered all around the hut’s lone room … but saw only the two women. When his gaze came back to Storm, she looked amused.

  “Try to get a little more used to it,” she said. “Start now.”

  Arclath sighed, sketched a parody of a court bow, and sank down among the blankets. His life had changed dramatically in a bare handful of days, and the changes still seemed to be coming—and coming faster.

  He hoped he’d manage to stay in his saddle during the wild ride ahead.

  Manshoon favored the three frightened faces around the table with an affable smile.

  He was indulging himself like the most overblown nobles, he knew, with all of these leering, airy utterances and glee—but by the kiss of Bane himself, it was so utterly fun playing a dastardly villain to the hilt. And after all, why not? Who was to stop him now?

  With Elminster dead, a blithely unaware and scarcely defended Cormyr was a certain Manshoon’s for the taking, if he set no foot wrong in overeagerness.

  So call this jauntiness a reward, richly won foolery that, after all, had more than a century of accomplishment behind it—unlike the empty, sneering strutting and peacock-screeching of this kingdom’s young nobility.