Bury Elminster Deep sos-2

by Ed Greenwood

  He gave her a hopeful leer and added, “Two lasses, one a mask dancer and the other with silver hair that moves by itself? ’Twill do wonders for my reputation.”

  Storm gave him a look. “Mirt, your reputation needs something a little larger. Conquering a kingdom, fathering dragons… that sort of thing.”

  Mirt drew himself up and gave her his best grin. “It does? Well, now… just whereabouts in this bright realm do ye keep yer dragons?”

  The most powerful-at-Art wizard in all Suzail was also the wealthiest, but had not become so by ignoring credible requests for his hire.

  Even requests that came after full night had fallen.

  So it was that by invoking his name, rank, and family wealth, Lord Arclath Delcastle won admittance past an expressionless porter.

  Who led him along a passage lined with two dozen rows of magnificent and identical armored warriors who turned in perfect unison and utter silence to regard him after he passed-and whom he strongly suspected were recently created helmed horrors, the sort of guardians a handful of the oldest and wealthiest noble Houses boasted a single one of, each.

  The passage opened into a lofty hall dominated by two curving staircases ascending into unseen gloom. It was lit by the pale, silver-blue glow of an endlessly cycling mobile of floating swords, daggers, and stranger pointed and barbed weapons that hung in the air above the center of the chamber.

  The porter led Arclath straight across the room and under the weapons, without paying them any attention.

  Arclath noted bloodstains on the floor-old and faint, but unmistakable, and more than a few-under the silently flashing and gleaming blades.

  Seeing them, Arclath could not help but look up at the whirling storm of steel. At least until he was safely out from underneath it.

  Whereupon, his eyes fell upon a new menace. It seemed Larak Dardulkyn liked to impress, or rather intimidate, his guests.

  Only after the visitor tore his gaze from the whirling scimitars and falchions did he notice four direhelms, the smoothly flying armored guardians that looked like armored men, brandishing two swords each. Men, that is, who were simply missing from the waist down.

  One floated watchfully above each of the visible doors out of the chamber. Their heads turned smoothly to follow Arclath’s progress across the room.

  The porter led Arclath to the door across from the one he’d entered by, opened it, and wordlessly waved the Fragrant Flower of House Delcastle through.

  Into a gloomy, high-ceilinged audience chamber of black-painted paneling adorned with strange-looking symbols Arclath strongly suspected were for show, having no real meaning or use at all.

  Unless, that is, they were examples of the recent fashion among archwizards to enspell drawings or painted runes. Magic unleashed at a touch, or if the drawn device was damaged.

  Yes, that was likely, wasn’t it?

  The room held a simple black table, with two chairs facing each other down its sleek length.

  Arclath made no move to go near them but strolled slowly around the room, peering at the runes and glyphs-or impressive-looking, mock-mystical nonsense symbols, if that’s what they were-as he passed. No other door was visible in the room except the one that had been firmly closed behind him, but of course any of these panels might open. Or the floor or ceiling, both of which had their own symbols. Their faint glows were the only lights in the room.

  Arclath strolled, and no one came.

  On his third slow circuit of the room, he thought one of the symbols had changed behind his back to a new configuration, but he could not be certain.

  Impressive. Or trying hard to be.

  Time stretched. Arclath waited alone in the dusty silence for an audience that, it started to seem as unmeasured time unfolded, might not befall until morning.

  Upon reflection, he found that this bothered him not at all. Here, deep in this fortresslike mansion that shouted out the fell arcane power of its owner everywhere one looked, he was-or at least felt-safe from Elminster and Storm, Glathra and all her wizards of war, Stormserpent’s blueflame ghosts, the third ghost and whoever was controlling it, and all other mages ambitious nobles might hire.

  As a wizard for hire, Larak Dardulkyn had a reputation for being both coldly impolite and very expensive, so if Arclath was going to succeed in enlisting his services against Elminster, to keep Amarune-and his own mind, too-safe, he had best be patient and polite.

  Idly he tried to figure out what he could of the layout of this floor of the mansion. He was probably slightly more than the height of a tall man above the streets that surrounded the place on three sides, judging by the number of steps he’d ascended to the front door, and… well, unless the tales about wizard’s houses being larger inside than they were on the outside were true, he’d walked pretty much clear across the width of the building. There should be a street on the far side of that wall.

  This had once been old Raskival Rhendever’s house-a crabbed old merchant Arclath could just remember from his youth, a hunched-over man with two canes. Before that it had belonged to Lord Sarlival, last of his line, who’d kept a mistress there with the full knowledge-and abiding fury-of his wife. Or so the tales Soundlessly one of the panels opened, and a tall, rather homely man with unpleasantly glittering black eyes stepped into the room, his high-collared black robes swirling.

  Ah, yes. Menacing archwizard; must look the part.

  “Lord Delcastle,” Dardulkyn said coldly. “What do you want?”

  “To hire you to protect me and another person I am fond of from a mage who wants to control our minds.”

  Dardulkyn raised one eyebrow and indicated one of the chairs with an abrupt thrust of his hand. “Sit.”

  Only after they were both seated did he ask, “Who is this mage you believe imperils you?”

  “He’s… Elminster. Elminster of Shadowdale. The Elminster.”

  Dardulkyn snorted, sending an icy look down the table. “Lord Delcastle, you’ll have to do better than that.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  FEARING WORSE, IF LED

  No,” Arclath said patiently, “I am neither mad nor-I believe-mistaken. I do mean Elminster.”

  “Did he call himself that?”

  “He did, and others did, too. Including the Lady Glathra, a silver-haired woman who calls herself Storm Silverhand and certainly looks like the Storm Silverhand of legend, and-”

  Dardulkyn waved a dismissive hand. “Tall, imperious or rude, strikingly beautiful, long silver hair that moves by itself? I can make you look like that, or myself, for that matter, with a simple spell. You have been deceived, young lord. Threats to invade the mind are usually just that: threats. The magic is simple enough, but there are dangers to the caster that far outweigh any benefits. Competent workers of Art don’t splash in such waters.”

  “Saer Dardulkyn,” Arclath said carefully, “I find myself not caring much if I am imperiled by an incompetent madwits or a competent archmage of peerless power. I have heard his voice come out of my beloved’s throat, have had conversations with him-her, that is, but with him in her head-that I could not have had with… my lady were he not present, and he has pressed me to let him into my mind. After what I’ve seen and heard, I know he can do this, whether he is truly Elminster or not. I also care not if he’s taken the name Elminster to impress me or half Faerun-it’s what I’ve seen him do that impresses me, not the name he uses.”

  Dardulkyn leaned forward. “And just what have you seen him do?”

  “Well,” Arclath began, “I… uh…”

  Dardulkyn made a grimace that might have been meant as a smile. “Precisely. Lord Delcastle, it seems to me that you are wasting my time. Yet, you are determined to try to hire me?”

  Arclath sighed. “Yes. I must say you hardly seem eager to take my coin!”

  “I’m not.” Dardulkyn turned one of the rings adorning his fingers, and there was a sudden singing in the air between them. “Come no closer to me, or you will be harmed.�
��

  “What? Saer mage, I assure you-”

  “No, Lord Delcastle, I will assure you of something, now. You are my prisoner and will remain so until it suits my purposes to let you go.”

  “Whaaat?”

  Arclath sprang to his feet, the chair toppling, and snatched out his sword.

  “Behold the usual response of arrogant nobility to anything they dislike. Hence the shielding magic I just raised.”

  “But-but why are you doing this? Are you in league with Elminster?”

  “There is no such person, anymore. The real Elminster is long dead, with his goddess. Oh, there may well be any number of lackspell charlatans using that name, trusting in the Elminster of legend to frighten those they fleece. I’m not interested in such buffoons. I am, however, interested in you, Lord Delcastle.”

  “Why?” Arclath snapped. “Am I an attractive prisoner?”

  Dardulkyn tapped his fingertips together thoughtfully as a small, wintry smile rose onto his face. It hovered there for a moment, as if uncomfortable to find itself in such an unaccustomed spot, and swiftly faded away again.

  “Not in yourself, no. Don’t flatter yourself, Delcastle-though I know most of you younger lordlings do nothing else.”

  The wizard rose and strolled across the room. Arclath felt a sudden pressure in front of him, shoving him back. Dardulkyn’s shield moved with its caster.

  “No,” the wizard drawled, gazing idly around at the symbols painted on the black walls, “I believe you are the leading envoy of one more faction of scheming nobles, of the various factions circling like vultures around the fading days of old Foril’s reign. This ‘Elminster’ business is just your less-than-candid way of hiring me and so binding my services to your faction. Which in turn means you can be a valuable captive in any bargains I may need or want to make with your faction. If they deem you disposable, I’ll at least have weakened your little cabal by the resources of one member-a wealthy one, at that.”

  “Wizard,” Arclath asked sharply, “are you mad?”

  “All wizards are mad, nobleman. Or seem so to thick-skulled clods like yourself, who see the world as a place of coins and willing wenches, swords and threats, and can never know the glories of the Art.”

  “I see.” Arclath backed away. “And just whom do you work for? Yourself, I know, but what faction counts you as a member?”

  “None of them. I stand apart from all this tiresome thronestrife. If representatives of other cabals visit in the days ahead, I may well capture them, too, and assemble a collection.”

  “To what end? Do you think you can bargain with every noble House in the land? All of whom have House wizards and can hire more mages, so you’ll end up battling many spellhurlers at once?”

  “Ah, spoken like a true noble. Power is something to be fought for and used to fight with, is it not?”

  Arclath frowned. “Power is the art of getting what you want without the use of brute force.”

  Dardulkyn smiled again. It looked no healthier than the first time he’d tried it. “You surprise me. That’s quite correct. I intend to fight for no one and against no one-unless someone is foolish enough to assault my home.”

  He strolled forward until his shield forced Arclath to retreat again. “I’ve decided to take no sides in the increasing chaos and strife, until the time comes when all surviving factions are eager to bid huge sums and concessions for my services.” He spread his hands.

  “I’ll then accept the best deal, settling for no less than a peerage and court rank, and ideally, a position of real power behind the throne comparable to that enjoyed of old by Vangerdahast. Yet, without any of the responsibilities or need to obey royalty that accompanies the title of royal magician or court wizard.”

  He looked Arclath up and down and sneered. “I’ll be a lord then, Delcastle-and, I suppose, on my way to being as low and brutish as you.”

  “I suppose I’m meant to feel insulted,” Arclath replied, “but I find, rather, that I feel ill, Saer Dardulkyn. I came to find aid against Elminster and was prepared to pay well for it, but it now seems Elminster is a lesser evil than I’d thought him to be.”

  “Well, we all have to start learning about the world sometime.” The archwizard sneered, taking another step forward.

  Arclath gave ground then suddenly turned, vaulted over the table, and rushed along the wall toward the door he’d come in by.

  The wizard sprinted across the room with astonishing speed to thrust Arclath back from that exit-when Arclath was a mere stride away.

  “That,” Dardulkyn said severely, breathing heavily, “was not wise. I will summon some of my guards to take you elsewhere.”

  “They’re helmed horrors, aren’t they?”

  “Indeed. Of my own crafting. It would be very unwise to dispute with them.”

  Arclath nodded. So the door was unreachable-until the helmed horrors came through it, whereupon the wizard would step back, taking his shield with him, and leave the realm’s favorite Delcastle sharing a wedge of the room with them. The panel Dardulkyn had come in by was likewise unreachable.

  But what of the other panels? He turned and dashed across the room again, vaulting the table and slamming hard into one of the panels on what he’d thought might be an outside wall.

  It gave a little, so he sprang at it again, putting his shoulder into it. The panel thundered, yielding more than a little this time.

  Dardulkyn was raising his hands to cast something, an angry frown on his face, by the third time Arclath struck the panel.

  It gave a groan and rebounded open like a sprung door-revealing a window beyond!

  A large, clear window of bubble-free glass, of the most expensive sort that it took too many golden lions to buy. Framed by frilly, feminine draperies and a matching valence!

  Arclath crossed his arms in front of his face and throat, clutching the pommel of his drawn sword foremost, and launched himself at the window, hoping it bore no strange spell or other that would hurl him back.

  It didn’t.

  The crash was tremendous.

  Arclath was vaguely aware of shards hurtling out in all directions, a strip of garden about as wide as the shoulders of a large man, a dark Suzailan street beyond it-and between garden and street, an ornate, many-curlicued, wrought-iron fence that looked quite sturdy.

  It was.

  He crashed into it and slid down it, trapped between stone mansion and fence. A fence that could no doubt spit lightning or extend iron claws if Dardulkyn had time enough to make it do so.

  Snarling in frantic effort, Arclath leaped up, caught hold of the upper curlicues, and launched himself up and over, landing with a crash and the ringing clang of his dropped and bouncing sword.

  A noise that should bring a watch patrol down on him in a trice, in a good neighborhood like this.

  He rolled, snatched up his sword but didn’t waste time trying to snatch his breath, found his feet, and started to run.

  No patrol, of course- why were there never any blasted Dragons when you needed them?

  “A rather frosty converse,” he heard Dardulkyn announce calmly. “Late night bargainings seldom go well. However, I can’t allow an energetic and talkative young noble to escape me, knowing what he now does. So, a simple spell will hold you, Arclath Delcastle, until my horrors collect you.”

  Arclath dashed to one side of the street, trying to hide himself from where the archwizard could see and aim. Did paralysis magic work like that? He couldn’t remember; he had only heard it talked about twice, and “Oh, hrast,” he cursed, feeling a sudden creeping lassitude, his limbs slowing. “Oh, no! No…” It was like trying to stride through a neck-deep pool of placid water.

  He tried to fight his way onward but slowly became aware that, although his heart was pounding and his limbs were straining, his surroundings just weren’t changing any longer.

  He was standing still.

  Oh, naed.

  “Hold!” Mirt grunted. “A man was running o
ur way, up ahead there-and he’s just stopped.”

  “Awed at the sight of the famous Mirt the Moneylender, Lord of Waterdeep, no doubt,” Storm replied from just behind him, as she towed the lolling and loose-limbed Amarune along. Rune could walk by herself, all weakness gone, but had to be led to keep her from falling.

  “Nay, lass, not ‘stopped’ normal-like. Paralyzed by magic. I’ve seen it done often enough. Someone froze him midstride. An’ damn me if he doesn’t look familiar.”

  “What sort of familiar?” Storm asked warily, trying to see past the fat man’s bulk.

  “Arclath Delcastle sort of familiar,” Mirt replied, a few lurching strides later. “By the looks of things, he just burst out yon window. The one with the dolt in evil wizard robes standing glaring out of it.”

  Storm clamped a hand on Mirt’s shoulder to bring him to a stop, then peered around him as if he were a large, concealing boulder. “Oh, he didn’t.”

  “Obviously he did,” Mirt rumbled. “Didn’t what?”

  “Went to see the calmly ruthless Dardulkyn, wizard-for-hire most puissant of all Suzail, to hire himself some magic,” Storm replied. “Means to ward away Elminster from certain minds, no doubt.”

  “And negotiations went poorly?”

  “It seems so. Rumor declares Dardulkyn has a personal army of helmed horrors, so he’s probably watching over Arclath until they can collect him.”

  “So, we collect him first,” Mirt growled, lurching forward again and dragging Storm along with him, “and use Arclath as our shield against his spells, being as the lad’s already frozen, hey?”

  “Hey,” Storm agreed ruefully, expecting something terrible to smite them at every step.

  Mirt didn’t look toward the window or walk warily. He simply tucked Storm under one arm to keep her on his far side from the wizard’s mansion, lurched up to Arclath, thrust his free arm between two noble legs and up to catch hold of the back of Arclath’s belt, boosted the frozen lord up onto his hip, and kept on walking.

  The first spell struck them about six paces later, as Mirt was busily turning Arclath to keep him between them and the window.