by Ed Greenwood
Mirt lurched sideways, nearly turning an ankle on a broken cobble, and growled a curse.
A pace farther on he asked, “How much longer are we going to be carrying His Lordship, hey? He’s not getting any lighter!”
“When the spell that’s locked his limbs wears off,” Storm replied, “or El decides he might not need to cast something more pressing.”
“Huh. That’ll be never, if I know mages,” Mirt growled. “Why—”
Rune, carrying the other end of Arclath, turned her head sharply and hissed in Elminster’s deep whisper, “Silence! Head down and look away yonder!”
A jerk of Amarune’s head signaled the direction in which Mirt was to turn; the tone of El’s voice made him obey unhesitatingly.
Two bare breaths later—time El spent murmuring something—four riders on fast horses burst past them, out of the night.
Looking up from under bushy brows, Mirt kept his eyes on the mask dancer’s slender shoulders and was rewarded with the sight of her turning to point a finger at the second rider.
The sound of hooves died away.
“Someone’s in a hurry to leave town,” Mirt commented, “an’ you know who, don’t ye?”
“Young Lord Stormserpent,” El replied shortly, “with some of his bullyblades. I cast a tracer on him.”
“Wisely done,” Storm said wearily, her silver tresses uncoiling themselves from around her head to bare her face again, “but if it lasts long, I’ll be needing healing. Magic or a long and well-tended rest. Preferably both.”
“With warm baths as often as ye desire, hey?”
“You know women well, Lord of Waterdeep.”
“Better than I know magic. This tracer, it drains ye, the longer old Mightyspells here holds it on our fleeing lordling?”
“It does.” Storm sighed, coming to a halt. They’d reached the gates of Stormserpent Towers. El had noticed they stood open in the wake of the four departed riders, and he stopped to peer in.
“No guards that I can see,” he murmured. “Not even servants out to close the gates again. Come. The stables.”
“And if someone confronts us?” Mirt growled. “We’re a mite encumbered.”
“We’re playing a prank on Lord Stormserpent and Lord Delcastle, at Lord Windstag’s request,” El replied promptly. “If they don’t seem to believe us, Storm and I—Rune, that is—will take our clothes off. That usually seems to distract most guards and pompous male servants.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” Mirt growled.
“We’ll need you if they’re female guards or pompous servants,” Storm said brightly.
No one challenged them or even showed a face from the Stormserpent mansion as they slipped into the darkened and deserted stables. El borrowed Storm’s dagger, kindled the faint glowstone in its pommel, and went straight to a corner where an old carriage stood at such a lean that it was obviously not usable. Beneath it was a torn and huddled heap of rotten awnings, thick with dust and the litter of many mouse nests.
“We hide the magic that Glathra and her hounds can trace here,” he announced in a whisper. “Then go.”
They did that, in smooth haste. Storm gave both El and Mirt Harper ironguard rings to wear, and they were back out on the road with the still-paralyzed Arclath to continue their journey to Delcastle Manor in the space of a few breaths.
Mirt looked back seven times, but the Stormserpent gates never closed.
Targrael marched along the sweeping street as if she owned it. She was, after all, a Highknight of Cormyr—the senior Highknight of the realm, regardless of what the living thought—and watch patrols of this wealthy neighborhood of noble mansions were frequent and apt to pounce on skulkers. The haughty, however, they’d learned to treat with respect.
She’d already been several streets south, on the far side of the Promenade, seeking Manshoon—for if he found her before she found him, she’d be swiftly back into slavery. In her fist was a palace gem, a very old Obarskyr treasure. Gifted by elves, so the tales ran. Most of what it did had been forgotten, but it functioned as a keen detector of awakened Art, close by.
Manshoon was far from the only spellhurler apt to be busy this night, in this city crowded with nobles and afire with scheming intrigue, but Targrael knew his love for constant spying, and walked the streets hoping the gem would catch the steady flows of Art that attended multiple scrying eyes.
Yet she found none.
She’d become increasingly mindful that with every step she took she gave the old vampire more opportunity to notice her. And that the longer the gem was missing from where it should be, in Duar’s Retiring Room, the greater the likelihood that wizards of war would come looking for her.
It was probably best to rethink this bold searching, return the gem, and hide herself in the haunted wing. Yet, she might as well pass Stormserpent Towers on her way back and try the gem there. Manshoon had spent much time riding the feckless Stormserpent lord recently, and even if the young fool had more than earned his own violent disposal, there remained the matter of the blueflame ghosts and his ownership of items that controlled them.
She’d have to be swift. The nobles’ streets were well-nigh deserted—though she’d caught a distant glimpse of three revelers carrying a wounded or more likely drunken companion home—and Manshoon was as likely as anyone else to take an interest in the wealthy and powerful and the uses he could make of them.
Coming round the curve, she saw something that almost made her stop in surprise—and after a moment of hesitation, quicken her stride. The gates of Stormserpent Towers stood open.
Almost all of the grander mansions had high walls around their grounds to keep out thieves. Not to mention persistent hawkers or creditors and unwanted, garden-trampling gawkers. Those who had such expensive barriers tended to use them, especially by night. If a carriage or greatcoach wasn’t about to enter or depart, gates would be firmly closed and locked. To see an unsecured entrance and no servants standing watchfully by the opened gates was unusual.
No watch patrol behind her, and none to be seen ahead. There were no side streets near, and the unbroken line of mansion walls afforded no cover for a patrol—or anyone else—to lurk, ready to pounce.
So with head held high and shoulders back, Targrael strode right up to the gates and into the grounds of Stormserpent Towers, as if the gates had been left open for her.
Six strides in along the deserted, night-shrouded carriageway, the gem in her hand warmed slightly. Not the flare of active spells nor the steady rise in temperature that heralded the nearness of always-functioning wards, but a sharper, smaller kindling.
There was palace magic here! A small amount of it, but nearby and very recently arrived …
Targrael frowned. Then she took a step to the left. Yes. Turning, she crossed the width of the carriageway, onto the lawn to the right. No, fainter, so back to the left.
The house rose straight ahead, though of course the carriageway reached it in a series of long, graceful curves. Off to the left, just past this stand of duskwoods, was … the stables.
Targrael went into a crouch and turned sharply to the left, departing the carriageway for a stretch of lawn that would let her go around behind the duskwood bower, to reach the stables from the side or rear.
If a watch patrol or any inquisitive war wizards were lurking in the stables, she wanted to see them before they saw her.
Once behind the trees and closer to the stables—which loomed up dark, silent, and seemingly deserted—the gem in her hand grew warmer with every step she took.
Could Elminster be up to his old tricks, thieving palace magic? Or was this his cache of stolen enchantments? A walled noble compound wasn’t the hiding place she would have chosen, but perhaps he intended that if his loot was discovered, the Stormserpents would be blamed.
For years he’d posed as old Elgorn Rhauligan, working at the palace with his sister—Storm Silverhand, his fellow refugee from the service of fallen Mystra. They were
still working together, weren’t they?
Aside from a few scurrying mice, the stables were deserted. The gem led Targrael straight to a small sack of rings and wands. Sleep wands, except for one that blasted and one that spat sticky webs. War wizard issue.
So unless a cabal of Crown mages was plotting something, these were stolen.
Most likely by Elminster and Storm, or some Stormserpent servant. Not by Marlin Stormserpent; that one would take them inside his walls and hide them somewhere in the mansion he thought was secure, behind all its wards and shieldings.
Frowning, Targrael put the sack back as she’d found it, covered it again with the long-decayed awning, and stood pondering. Should she seek Storm Silverhand around Suzail? Lush of figure, beautiful, and with that long silver hair, it was more likely a man would notice her than either Elminster or Manshoon—particularly if those wise old mages didn’t want to be noticed.
Should she try to find such noticing persons and question them?
Or do the wiser thing, return to the palace, hide, and work on her patience?
“Bah!” she told the night loudly, turning on her heel.
The wiser, patient thing for once.
Huh. Undead or not, death knight or no, she must be getting old.
Manshoon slid eagerly back into his darkly handsome human body. Beholderkin were fine, better than drifting along ghostlike as vampires could, but he liked to be solid and in the sort of body he’d been born with, when it came time for serious thinking.
It was time right now, here in the cellar of the alchemist. A squalid place by some reckonings, and he’d certainly known more luxurious surroundings—he still missed the soaring gloom of his Tower High back in Zhentil Keep, even after all these years—but increasingly it was starting to feel like home.
His scrying globes glowed patiently as he sat up, ran his gaze over them all to make sure nothing really alarming was unfolding anywhere—nothing was—and sat back to ponder.
So his old foe was alive, or perhaps undead. Elminster was back in Suzail, back with Storm Silverhand. Not destroyed, after all.
And not, so far as he could tell, preparing to smite one Manshoon.
Which was odd; if Elminster had slain one of his clones and the next had awakened, it would do as he’d so often done—found some way to hit back, hard. Swiftly, too.
Not so boldly as to sacrifice yet another of his selves, but to make it very clear to Elminster that he hadn’t been vanquished and was back undeterred.
So what, then, was Elminster now up to?
Well, meddling, of course. ’Twas what the Old Fool did. Trying to rule thrones from behind them, sway this lord into giving him food and a bed while he stole magic and coins from that lord, or in this case the royal family of Cormyr. Stay close to the rich and powerful, whisper in their ears, get them to do what he wanted them to do—just as he’d been doing for centuries.
Manshoon knew the lure of power himself. It was the elixir; there was nothing stronger.
Yet, he’d done it all himself, not ridden the skirts of Mystra the Mighty, never stolen into the heart—and bed—of a goddess to shelter in the warmth of her smile and fondness. He’d earned his might, where sly old Elminster had wormed it out of a doting goddess. Oh, that worming had worked, all right, and who could have foreseen that the great goddess of All Art, Our Lady of Mystery, the goddess, would fall?
Of greater importance now was this: with the Weave to call on at will, and all Mystra’s servitors and other Chosen to use and abuse, Elminster had become lazy in his own Art. Had spent years doing this and doing that, for Mystra and for himself, but seldom honing greater Art, mastering more magic.
So the great Sage of Shadowdale, alone now with all his friends and easy power gone, was behind and beneath Manshoon the truly mighty.
Be he Orbakh of Westgate or Manshoon of the Zhentarim before that, he himself had worked the greater Art and had improved his skills through his own work, not by godly gifts or reliance on abundant ready aid. He was the better mage, the true archwizard.
Which in turn inevitably meant Elminster, the sly but lazy, could but follow in Art where Manshoon had led.
Was Elminster not seeking to steal all the magic he could? Oh, to feed his mad, chained-somewhere lover, yes, but did he not examine each enchanted item he took, to learn all he could before he took it to her?
So, while Emperor-to-be Manshoon rode the minds of all he chose, Elminster must be a step behind, doing what Manshoon had formerly done. Using many selves, clones awakened when their predecessors were destroyed.
Yes, that was it. Must be …
He had killed Elminster, had destroyed him. Burst right through his body, dismembered him, then burned him to ashes.
Accomplishing all of that quickly, leaving his foe unattended for not even an instant, all the while watching hard for the slightest sign of any escape. There had been none at all.
So somewhere, as Elminster had died, Elminster’s next clone had awakened. Fearing to face death again at the hands of the one who’d so effortlessly slain him, he’d used magic to disguise himself as a young lass—the mask dancer who was his own descendant—and no doubt forced the real Amarune Whitewave into stasis, in some hidden cave or crypt, to await his future need.
Which would come when he mastered the Art of riding the minds of others, as Manshoon could now do, and took over his descendant’s younger, stronger body for good.
In the meantime, there must be other clones of Elminster, hidden deep in Suzail.
And, whereas he could leave frustrating and foiling the current Elminster to his tools, finding and destroying the waiting selves, the clones, must now be Manshoon’s foremost task.
Let his noble cabals scheme and slay; when highborn ranks were thinned he could return to that game and still seize the Dragon Throne, or decide who precisely would warm it until he deemed the time ripe for that puppet’s disposal.
Before all, starting now, he would hunt down and destroy hidden Elminsters.
So, where in Suzail, if I were Elminster, would I hide my waiting selves?
Or … wait!
He himself had tasted death many times, often thanks to this same Elminster. He’d grown used to it, had become harder and stronger. Not so his slayer.
This hiding, this failure to strike out at Manshoon, might well mean that Elminster—the awakened clone—was cowering somewhere. That his death had plunged him into fear of Manshoon, so he remained in hiding, using spells to see and hear through a puppet Amarune Whitewave.
Which would mean the question should be, where, if I were Elminster, would I hide myself in Suzail?
Well, somewhere I could keep at least one clone near at hand. Somewhere servants couldn’t stumble on it, nor the general public. Somewhere unlikely to be searched without warning by Purple Dragons or, more importantly, by wizards of war.
Yet, this was the thinking of Manshoon the accomplished ruler and war leader. How would Elminster see things and think?
The man is sly but lazy, thinks himself clever but often takes the easiest way. He’s lasted for centuries and has been the favored servant of a goddess; the man has pride, is pride. And he seeks to be like me, the more successful archwizard, without rising to such dominance the hard way.
What better way to hide from the war wizards and live lazily, in luxury and wielding magic whenever he pleases, than to “hide” himself as a powerful wizard?
Yes!
Why if he was, say, Larak Dardulkyn, he could dwell in the heart of Suzail in a near-fortress, awash in luxuries, able to hurl spells at will without raising suspicion, and be fawned over, to boot!
Larak Dardulkyn …
The most powerful independent mage in Suzail. An ideal mask for an Elminster clone to wear.
Manshoon sprang from his chair and strode into the midst of his scrying spheres.
This one could readily be set to scry that haughty wizard’s mansion, yes …
But when the picture of the mans
ion swam into view, Manshoon shook his head in astonishment. When had all of this befallen?
The tall mansion of Larak Dardulkyn was half gone, one side torn open to the sky, and in the rubble-heaped heart of the devastation he could see the archwizard huddled on the floor, with ten helmed horrors circling him in a troubled, uncertain floating dance.
Well, now! If this was Elminster, behold a Bane-sent opportunity! Slay him now, while he’s laid low—but go in hard and fast and powerful, in case whoever humbled him is still around. If Dardulkyn wasn’t Elminster, it was still the best chance he could hope to find for plundering the place or coercing the man into becoming another useful thrall.
Manshoon hurried across the cellar. His most powerful beholder would be best—of the living ones, not a death tyrant.
Yes, beholders remain impressive beasts, when it comes to forcing one’s way in.
“There’s no need to worry Arclath’s mother,” Storm told them. “His stricken self got us through the gate—that’s enough. Set him down here.”
They were on the grounds of Delcastle Manor, on a gently rolling grass slope, between a garden carefully planted to seem wild and a more formal terrace that fronted a boundary orchard.
“Too tired for fencing with noble matriarchs, hey?” Mirt grunted as they laid Arclath gently down.
“More than too tired for almost any nicety you care to name,” Storm murmured, “and hoping Arclath can plunder some healing potions from his family vaults—if they hold such treasures—before I’m finished. El, try to do this quickly.”
“Aye,” Elminster replied, his voice still sounding incongruous from Amarune’s young, shapely body. “Lie ye there, Storm, and I’ll put myself between ye and the lad, and we can do this without ye having to even sit up.”
“Healing him again?” Mirt asked, lending his arm for Storm to lower herself to the grass.
“Yes,” Storm replied. “Holding him where he is while he works a spell, actually, but it’s the same thing. I heal as he drains, to keep him stable.”
“I’ll stand back, yonder, and keep daggers at the ready,” Mirt growled. “Seeing as ye haven’t any spells to spare for making me young and thin and strong again. Or stopping my feet hurting.”
