Bury Elminster Deep

by Ed Greenwood

  “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.

  Why shouldn’t he?

  Yet he’d missed chances and marred perfect schemes before. Elminster or no Elminster, this realm was still a prize.

  A prize yet unconquered which had rebuffed formidable foes before.

  Moreover, it had too many mages—however lacking in spells, prudence, and cunning—propping up its throne to dismiss its taming as an idle day’s undertaking.

  Chortlingly manipulating or not, he must keep to his plan. Part of which held that he must not, under any circumstances, publicly announce his presence or even existence for some time to come. He must always work through others. Overboldness and impatience had been his besetting flaws in the past; hereafter, he was determined not to repeat them.

  “New flaws for old,” he murmured to himself. “That’s my road …”

  “L-Lord?” Sraunter dared to ask. With a smirk, Manshoon waved the question away.

  He had planned all along to cause an uprising at the Council—not a hard thing to achieve, after all—in hopes of bringing about a few deaths. An Obarskyr or two and a handful of nobles. Particular nobles. That should eliminate some of the stubborn stalwarts in his path and push Cormyr to the verge of war.

  At least three different Sembian cabals sought the same ends but, hopefully, were as of yet unaware of his presence. So, too, were some rather foolishly overambitious merchants of Westgate, and of course the Shadovar.

  If this ignorance was genuine and continued long enough, these other players might unwittingly help make this Council of the Dragon a blood-drenched disaster. If he managed matters properly, they would remain ignorant of Manshoon for a tenday or more … which should be time enough.

  The upheaval of violence and a failed Council would of course afford a chance to move his pawns higher in the court hierarchy, and “his” nobles into favor.

  Yet there was a problem.

  And why not? There was always a problem. Usually a host of them.

  This particular problem was rooted in Elminster’s meddling, of course. One last gift from his hated foe.

  With Stormserpent’s treason exposed and most of that expendable lordling’s callow young noble allies wounded and abed—and so unable to attend the Council—Emperor-to-be Manshoon lacked time to reach and influence replacements for his cause, new nobles he could manipulate into furthering his schemes at the Council and thereafter.

  The ghostly Princess Alusair had hounded him out of the palace, but faded rapidly once outside its walls, so he’d eluded her and set about founding another base nearby in Suzail. Enter handy Sraunter …

  He hadn’t planned to awaken Fentable and Mreldrake as his agents again so soon after withdrawing from their minds, and doing so was a trifle clumsy, but changed circumstances forced new strategies—and they were the most efficient agents he could bring to bear.

  Hence this little meeting.

  “For the good of the realm,” he purred, “the Council must be delayed. By a day, no more.”

  Fentable and Mreldrake relaxed visibly. The frowns didn’t leave their faces—achieving even a day’s delay would entail much work and unpleasantness—but it was far less perilous than some of the things they’d obviously been fearing he would say, and a postponed Council did have one or two advantages …

  “That is … good,” Fentable said cautiously. “The last Dragon reports have six or seven lords still on the road, journeying to Suzail. They might well not have arrived in time, and that in itself might have done grave harm to peace among the nobility.”

  Mreldrake looked dubious. “At the cost of peace among those already here, who are restless enough. With another day and night to work mischief, what with all the drinking, the harbored feuds, and the armed bullyblades they’ve all brought with them …”

  Manshoon shrugged. “So much was on your platter already.”

  Sraunter cleared his throat. The other three all looked at him.

  He stared back, flustered by the sudden attention, and then stammered, “B-but delay the Council how?”

  “Well, as to that,” Manshoon said, “I have a little plan.”

  That made it his turn to be stared at.

  He smiled back, not discomfited in the slightest. “In fact,” he purred, “it’s why I arranged this little meeting. You three will cause the Council of the Dragon to begin a day late—though fear not, no one outside this room will know who worked the delay. If, that is, you play your parts according to my instructions.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “If any of you get, ah, creative, on the other hand, the consequences could well be disastrous. Yet, we’ve worked well together in the past. I know none of you remember that, but then, that’s the beauty of it. If the days ahead go smoothly, I’ll see that you forget all about them—and need never fear a prying Highknight or wizard of war tricking something out of your mind. You’ll be able to—in all innocence—swear you know nothing at all about it. Because, you see, you won’t.”

  He smiled, laced his fingertips together, and sent his brightest smile around the table, giving them time to shiver and then recover themselves.

  Informed slaves are obedient slaves …

  Lord Arclath Delcastle came awake very suddenly, alert and tense, and far from his usual slow, languid surfacing amid warmth and silky, soft bedsheets. He had a feeling that he was rousing at his customary time, near dawn. His skylight was nowhere to be seen, though, and his face was quite cold. He felt badly cured fur against his cheek, and from around him came the smells of wood smoke and damp duskwood and—

  And someone bare and warm and shapely was pressed against him, with her arms around him.

  “R-rune?” he whispered, his eyes flying open.

  He found himself staring into the face of his beloved. Amarune was holding him as they lay on their sides, legs entwined and arms around each other, noses almost touching. Her eyes were closed and stayed that way, her breathing soft, slow, and regular. Asleep.

  Arclath remembered everything then, and hastily twisted up onto one elbow to look around the cabin. The brazier was out, but the hearth was lit, the teapot sitting atop the soot-blackened grate. He saw no sign of Storm.

  Good. For the moment, at least, he and Rune were alone. He could speak freely.

  He kissed her, gently but insistently. Her eyes snapped open; she’d obviously been feigning slumber.

  “Mmmm?” she purred.

  “Ah, Rune,” he whispered, “I—ah—love you very much and want to talk to you. Right now. While it’s just the two of us.”

  “Ah,” Amarune told him with an impish smile, in the gruff tones of Elminster. “Ye young lordlings don’t waste your chances, do ye? Well enough, because I want to talk to ye, too. So, start spouting words, lad. ’Tis a new day, but growing older fast!”

  Arclath tensed but managed to quell his urge to thrust the warm and curvaceous body away from him.

  “Ah—uh—damn you, wizard! Can’t I ta
lk to my Rune without you stepping between us?”

  “Lad,” the wizard’s growl answered him, Amarune’s eyes fixed on him, “ye can. Hopefully—with but a very few exceptions—ye will. Ye see, I’ll be using thy lass as little as possible and seeking a suitable replacement to ride. Ye have my word on that.”

  “Your word?” Arclath said bitterly. “And what is that worth? My own has been … somewhat devalued.”

  “Lad, I like this as little as ye do, and thy lady’s not exactly blissful about it, either. She’s my descendant, mind, and I want her unhurt in body and mind, so I’ll try to take very good care of her. I say ‘unhurt’ because she is, after all, in here with me and aware of everything. That I have violated her as few have been violated, I grant. I’ve tried to apologize for what there can be no proper apology for, and failed, but she’s seen my need and reasons in my thoughts and accepts them. She’ll tell ye so, though ye’re just going to have to accept her word when she tells ye it’s her speaking and not me. If ye do not, I see her soon bidding ye begone, noble name and wealth or not. Now, can there be peace between us?”

  Arclath stared thoughtfully into the eyes of the mask dancer so close to his. The woman he’d come to love, so swiftly and deeply that he was still a little disbelieving. Had the wizard used a little love magic? But no, he’d been nowhere around when … or had he?

  Shards and stars, did any of that matter? He did love his Rune, more than he’d ever loved anyone before, and—and what could he do to thwart this Old Mage, anyhail?

  Nothing. Nothing at all, but be there for his Amarune and hope she won clear of Elminster soon, unharmed. Or as unscathed as possible.

  Which meant making common cause with the Sage of Shadowdale was the only prudent thing to do.

  “Aye,” he said aloud, awkwardly. “There can be. Peace between us, I mean.”

  Amarune’s slender-fingered hand clasped his as firmly as any warrior’s, and a bright smile spread across her face.

  “Good, glad that’s done,” El growled then, causing her to roll away and fling back the furs. “Rune’s bladder is bursting!”

  Understeward Corleth Fentable was in none-too-pleasant a mood, but even if the fearful shadow of Lord Manshoon hadn’t loomed everpresent in his thoughts, Fentable’s displeasure so early in the morning was hardly surprising.

  Unless ordered on duty by Palace Steward Rorstil Hallowdant, he seldom saw the dawn or much of the bright and chill early morning that followed it.

  He was here on Hallowdant’s orders, curt and stiff, snapping commands at half a dozen war wizards and twice that many Purple Dragons. More soldiers were standing guard in all the crimson-carpeted passages that led to the newly refitted Hall of Justice, where the Council of the Dragon was to be held. They were making certain all maids, doorjacks, and everyone else stayed well away.

  Fentable’s superior would probably have delegated this duty to him regardless, but the understeward had the minor satisfaction—if it could in truth be deemed that—of knowing it was no accident that Hallowdant had suddenly fallen ill. He was doubtless groaning away in his garderobe, enduring the effects of whatever Sraunter had provided for a servant—another of Lord Manshoon’s pawns—to slip into the decanter Hallowdant was wont to sip from whenever he awakened at night.

  Manshoon left no detail unattended. As he’d reminded them all to frighten them into utter loyalty.

  Fentable’s tight mouth became a thin line of fury.

  “The search, saer, is done,” a young war wizard reported. “The chamber is now clear.”

  “It wasn’t?” he snapped.

  The mage (what was his name, now? Darmuth? Tarmuth?) sighed audibly before replying, “Two mice, a dozen ants and beetles, and a manycrawl. All dead now, and removed. Four miceholes, blocked. We are wizards of war, saer.”

  And sensitive indeed about taking orders from mere courtiers, for once, though they weren’t quite certain if they dared defy the understeward, in the absence of Royal Magician Ganrahast and Lord Warder Vainrence to tell them all what to do.

  Fentable kept the grim smile he felt like wearing off his face and nodded, lifting his eyes to direct the briefest of glances past the mage’s shoulder at Mreldrake, whose answering nod was almost imperceptible.

  “Now ward it,” Fentable ordered, “and close and lock the doors—or lock them first—or—well, do those things in whatever order you need to, to make the Council chamber secure!”

  He turned away. The moment the war wizards withdrew, guards would be posted outside all doors into the chamber, so the entire palace—and inevitably, given Suzailan gossip, most of the city, ere highsun—would know the room was secured.

  Not that it truly would be. Not with Mreldrake as one of the warders, who would then know the precise details of the ward spell and so be able to modify the many-person teleportation he would later cast in secret at Lord Manshoon’s command, to bypass the wards.

  Oh, this was going to be a memorable Council, to be sure.

  Amarune made it to her feet and managed two unsteady steps through the tangled furs and blankets before reeling and starting to topple.

  Arclath scrambled up to catch her, knowing even as he tried that he was strides away from where he needed to be.

  “Rune!” he cried, vainly reaching for her. Amarune flung out a hand, kicked her feet free of the bedding underfoot, and staggered in an off-balance run sideways until she fetched up against the cabin wall and slid down it.

  The door had banged open by then, and Storm—clad in her worn leathers, with fresh kindling in her arms—had burst through it, flung the wood at one wall, and launched herself across the room.

  Arclath got there first.

  “Rune,” he pleaded, putting his arms around her, “are you all right? Be well!”

  “No, I’m not all right,” his lady muttered—and it was her voice, thank the gods, not Elminster’s!

  “That wizard is draining the life out of you, somehow,” Arclath snarled, helping her to her feet. “We’ve got to get you to a mage we can trust, to do something about this!”

  “No,” Amarune said, turning to look into his eyes, their noses bumping. “No, ‘twasn’t El. The goddess took it. Mystra.”

  Arclath gaped at her, and then frowned in anger and worry. He turned to look at Storm—and was frightened to see her even more concerned than he was.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  DARK VILLAINY AGAIN

  Ah, but there’s one familiar stink my nose tastes not,

  Something missing that is always there. Ah! There,

  I catch a whiff! Friends, ‘tis here, and we can begin!

  Aye, that’s the reek unmistakeable! Dark villainy again.

  Old Grauthum the Gravedigger, in Act I, Scene IV of

  the play Burying Three Kings by Aumraerus Fethurmyr

  first performed in the Year of the Wrathful Eye

  Th-that’s the last!” the carter panted through the curtain of sweat streaming down his large, reddened face. He backed hastily away from the silent men who’d been catching every hay bale he’d tossed, stowing them somewhere in the darkness beyond the alchemist’s alley door.

  Panting even harder, he almost fell twice in his feverish haste to get around to the front of his wagon and whip his dozing drays into motion, to race away from Sraunter’s.

  It was as if the carter expected death to reach after him. But Manshoon merely favored the dwindling, rattling wagon with a lopsided smile, straightened from his indolent lean against the wall, and sent the slack-faced men he’d been dominating into tossing hay bales back to the alleys. The spells he’d cast on them would slay them—and the carter, too—when he uttered a certain word. He’d do that well before highsun, long before any inquisitive Purple Dragon might think to get around to questioning them about anything.

  If matters unfolded as planned, the good soldiers of Cormyr would be rather too busy for inquisitions when the sun rose over Suzail in the morning.

  Mansh
oon closed and barred the alley door. Then he strolled into the littered chamber Sraunter was pleased to call his “concoction room,” where the alchemist was still feverishly busy at his task.

  Under the lash of Manshoon’s spell, Sraunter was muttering and scuttling over his stained and scarred worktables, dancing and dashing across the room time and again to check and recheck various bubbling, glowing bowls.

  Those hay bales had to be doused with something that would produce poisonous, oily, clinging smoke when they were set afire, and they had to be doused very soon.

  But Manshoon trusted that Sraunter knew his work. He had three different mixtures curing, any of which should be enough to clear the Council chamber in frantic haste—and turn anyone stubborn enough to linger into a corpse. Three dooms should be enough to foil any single spell cast to quell smoke, and if the courtiers had ever heard of prudence (and what courtier hadn’t?) the mixtures should also be more than enough to make the courtiers delay holding the Council until they’d made sure no other perils were lurking.

  Manshoon managed to keep himself from rubbing his hands in glee, but a fierce grin spread across his face. Ah, with his old foe gone, dark villainy was truly fun again!

  “What is that? Smoke?” Amarune pointed at the chill wisps drifting and coiling in the deepest shade, where the trees stood dark and thick.

  “Ground mist,” Storm and Arclath replied in unison. The young noble chuckled and gestured grandly at Storm to continue.

  With a smile, she obliged. “What sailors call ‘fog’ when it’s near the docks or at sea. Found here most mornings. ’Tis the damp rising as the day warms.”

  “Huh,” the dancer replied, hunched against the cold under the trees. “Doesn’t feel very warm yet.”

  “Agreed,” Storm replied, cocking her head at a faint rustling in the distance. Fox, or the like, heading home.

  All around the three humans, creatures of the woodland day were awakening; the King’s Forest was astir. El was back in her boots for now; Rune was herself again; and Arclath was leading them north, keeping to the forest but following the road.