Elminster Must Die sos-1

by Ed Greenwood

  The explanation was an untidy collaborative affair that made the heir of House Stonestable snort loudly-and the other two nobles seated around Stormserpent’s table roll their eyes a time or two.

  For his part, Stormserpent drained his glass at a gulp and had to refill it. When their mumblings died away, he barked, “None of you were so drunk or angry as to threaten retribution on the Dragons or Delcastle when you gained more power, did you? Did you?”

  “No,” all three of the late arrivals replied with puzzled frowns, genuinely believing they hadn’t-and, luckily for them, therefore sounding convincing.

  Marlin Stormserpent shook his head in exasperation and waved them toward his decanters. “Sit. Lack of self-governance-and tardiness-once court and palace are aware of us, will cost you your heads, so consider what you’ve just been through a warning to be remembered and heeded. Now, where were we?”

  With Marlin still on his feet pacing excitedly, there were-or would be, once the tardy trio got their glasses filled-six nobles around the table, all young heirs of lesser Houses. That is, scions of families who had long been frustrated that larger clans, such as the royal Houses of Crownsilver and Truesilver, and perennially masterful wealthy schemers like the Illances, always crowded them out of all real power.

  Most of the lesser nobility had quietly striven for centuries-against several handfuls of Obarskyr kings-to force the Dragon Throne to give them “their due.” Marlin’s conspirators, however, were largely drawn from newbloods, families ennobled after the exilings of House Bleth and the dispossessions of the Cormaerils and others.

  Young and wealthy nobles can find sycophants and toadies in plenty, but friends among their fellow nobles are rarer to come by and harder to keep, among all the feuding, pride, and burning ambition. Nobles tend to cling fiercely to the few real friends they do make-and friendships had inevitably complicated Marlin’s choice of conspirators. Choosing a man he wanted might well bring along a second one he might not have ever chosen to trust with secrets that could cost noble necks.

  Yet among the young heirs of Houses available in the realm, Marlin judged he’d done about as well as he could, if he wanted to retain any semblance of dominance at all in enterprises that could lead to swift graves if handled poorly. He had no stomach at all for recruiting stronger fellows who’d thrust him aside into the role of lackey-or scapegoat-once success was near.

  They were all in their seats; Marlin sipped from his glass and studied them, his face once more a smoothly unreadable mask decorated by the faintest of smiles.

  Windstag was a good blade and better hunter, but the sort of big, florid, blustering hothead that could all too easily land them all in disaster-and, there beside him, Sornstern was a nothing, Windstag’s toady. Dawntard, though sly and a drunkard, had swift and sharp wits and could steer Windstag where none of the rest of them could.

  Dawntard could be trouble, though; trouble for Marlin himself. The sort who waited for weakness and then betrayed fellows to step forward and seize the spoils for himself. So were Handragon and Ormblade, for that matter; he must take great care to keep the three of them opposed to each other, not working together.

  Irlin Stonestable was sour-faced and dour of outlook, one who’d endure and do what was needful and no more-but stand like stubborn stone for the cause, when others would slip away and run.

  Mellast Ormblade he still could not read as much as he wanted to, nor had he means enough to blackmail. The man was the worst snob among them, but a saturnine, sophisticated, smooth-tongued diplomat, who just might deserve to look down his nose at almost everyone else in all the realm.

  Marlin knew a bit more about Sacrast Handragon, whose family’s fortunes had fared perhaps the most poorly of them all-but what he knew made him firmly resolved to treat Handragon with wary respect. The man had the face of a statue when he wanted to, and iron self-control his every waking moment, it seemed. Swift and ruthless when that would benefit him, and a superb diplomat and actor all the time.

  Aye, Ormblade and Handragon would bear watching. Hard and constantly too.

  He smiled, raised his glass, and announced, “It’s time, friends, for me to impart some truths.”

  By the gods, how he loved watching men stiffen in fear, waiting for his next words! This must be how it felt to be king.

  Marlin waved a dismissive hand at the paling faces and stiffenings around the table, and let his smile broaden.

  “Have no fears! This is not a moment of betrayal, I assure you. Rather, it is when I demonstrate my deepest trust in you by revealing my dearest secret: the very thing that made me dare to think a small, loyal-to-each-other band of true nobles could succeed in remaking-in rescuing-the land we all love. Before I reveal it, let me reassure you once again that no war wizard-not even the Mage Royal himself-can eavesdrop on us here. I have assembled magics they cannot hope to master or win past.”

  He waited a moment, seeing by their burning stares that he had their interest, all right. No superior and sneering detachment rode any face around the table just then.

  “I have a weapon in my keeping that legend trumpets often but very few folk suspect truly exists. One we can use to conquer Cormyr when the time is right. Friends-fellow conspirators-I have a hold over someone I will not name nor breathe any hint of where this someone is hidden. Someone whom spells protect me from revealing by coercion, spells that I can use to kill in torment any who seek to coerce me. Lords, I control … a long-imprisoned Obarskyr!”

  A wordless, hastily stifled murmur-almost a gasp-arose. Then silence. The silence of men leaning forward eager to hear, excited and delighted.

  “We must work out the details of my grand-and, yes, treasonous-scheme together, in meetings to follow this one. Yet here is its general outline. Agents I’ve been training-with, from time to time, your assistance-will deal with any courtiers who learn too much about us as we proceed. Our work shall be to eliminate living Obarskyrs-without betraying our own identities, and as much as possible delaying anyone seeing this goal of royal elimination-until we can present the one who’s under my hand as the sole remaining true Obarskyr!”

  He fell silent to let them burst out with their questions.

  “Coronation,” Stonestable murmured. “And then?”

  Marlin gave them all a warm and friendly smile. “At my covert bidding, this new king will name me Lord Chancellor and Marshall Supreme of the Realm-and appoint all of you to the other major offices of the kingdom.”

  “And then?” That was Handragon, his voice soft and almost lazy.

  “And then,” Marlin purred, “Cormyr will be ours, and we can all settle all the scores we want to. I have my little list, and I’m sure all of you do, too. I expect much blood.”

  The Sage of Shadowdale sank down into a crouch in the reeking alleyway, peered through the best of the many gaps in the untidy heap of rotten crates between him and the crowd of Purple Dragons milling about in front of the Bold Archer, and listened hard.

  Not so much to the Dragons, for he’d heard Dragons who knew little but were being grandly the-entire-realm-rests-on-my-proudly-uniformed-shoulders about it more than a time or two before.

  No, he was intent on the two persons in the little throng who weren’t wearing Dragon uniforms: Lord Arclath Delcastle and the dancer who was with him, her cloak swirling open at every step and trying to take her robe with it. Amarune Whitewave, pride of the Dragonriders’ Club. His descendant.

  Hopefully his successor.

  She was keeping silent and staying at Delcastle’s side, as the young lordling asked questions of various Purple Dragons. He got some curt answers from the lowest-ranking, and a few “I know not” shrugs, but Dralkin’s telsword answered his query with a blunt, “Who are you two? And why are you here, instead of keeping back beyond our sentinels?”

  Arclath smiled. “I,” he informed the Dragon officer loftily, “am Lord Delcastle, and I am charged by the war wizards to learn as much as I can about what’s happened here.�
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  The telsword regarded him expressionlessly for a moment and then raised his arm to point at the barely clad Amarune. “And her?”

  “She,” Arclath replied grandly, sweeping an arm around his ill-cloaked companion, “is with me!”

  “Just for the evening?” another Dragon asked cynically from behind them. Arclath whirled around to confront the man, but couldn’t tell which of the six or seven impassive veteran Dragons standing there had spoken.

  He turned back to Amarune to say something supportive-and saw she was both pale and trembling with weariness. The excitement of the fray and seeing bloody death was wearing off or hitting home or whatever such things did. There was only one gallant thing to do.

  “Lady fair,” he announced, “Suzail seems all too full of brawling nobles-and worse-this night. Menaces who may well reappear, despite the vigilance of these dedicated Dragons. Pray, allow me to escort you safely to your place of rest!”

  Amarune eyed him for only a moment ere shaking her head wearily. “No, Lord Delcastle, not there. The kindness of an escort back to the Dragonriders’ forthwith, however, I’ll not refuse.”

  “But of course!” Arclath replied with a smile, bowing low. Far wealthier and more respectable women didn’t want lords to know where they lived-neither location nor depth of squalor. Well enough.

  “I can promise you, Lady Dragonrider, that you’ll be quite safe. There won’t be just one upright and well-bred man guarding you; there’ll be me, my title, and my honor-so that’s three!”

  Amarune rolled her eyes amid amused snorts from several of the Dragons. “I’m not Lady anyth-oh, never mind.”

  “Of course not,” Arclath told her jovially. “I barely ever use my mind at all!”

  Heralded by a louder chorus of snorts, the two of them set off back down the street. Elminster kept his eyes on the Dragons and was not surprised to see the telsword point at one of his men and then at the departing noble’s back.

  That Dragon nodded and started to drift off down the street after the lord and the dancer, walking casually to a nearby doorway and standing in its shadow until Amarune looked back. When she was done doing so and the pair walked on, Delcastle airily declaiming something about local architecture, the Dragon strode a little way down the street into another, deeper doorway to await their next look back.

  Throughout all of this, the rest of the Dragons studiously failed to notice their departing fellow, returning instead to their aimless back-and-forth strolling and muttered conversations.

  Elminster let them get well and truly into these before he slid out from behind the crates and walked slowly out of the alley, hunched over, affecting a rolling limp, and paying the milling Dragons not even a glance. They returned the favor.

  So as the Dragon skulked down the street from doorway to doorway, a hunched and limping old man followed him.

  Around the curve of shuttered shopfronts, as the street bent in a southerly direction, all four went.

  Elminster considered the Dragon’s shadowing about as subtle as a series of warhorn blasts, but Arclath, at least, never looked back.

  Neither did the Purple Dragon, so when the Dragonriders’ was a little more than a city block away, the stooped old man limped a little faster.

  Which meant that he calmly caught up to the Purple Dragon in the space of a few breaths to murmur in the man’s ear, “Have my apologies, loyal blade, but I fear common thuggery is about all I can manage, these days.”

  “Err-uh?” the startled soldier grunted intelligently, turning to face Elminster-and receiving a well-worn dagger pommel hard and squarely right between his eyes.

  As the senseless Dragon slumped heavily into Elminster’s arms, leaving him staggering under the sudden weight, Lord Arclath Delcastle decided it was finally time to look suspiciously behind him.

  However, all he saw was a drunken Purple Dragon staggering down to a wavering chin-first meeting with the cobbles, a sight that evidently didn’t strike him as suspicious at all.

  As he shrugged, opened the door of the Dragonriders’ Club, and waved Amarune inside with another low and florid bow, Elminster rolled the Dragon against the nearest wall, out of the way of any wagons or carts, and ducked into the nearest alley that came furnished with a handy heap of refuse to hide behind. After all his years, he knew the night streets of Suzail very well.

  With a grunt or two, El leaned his weary limbs against the alley wall and settled down to wait for Amarune to reappear.

  “Pleased, Lord?”

  “Indeed, Gaskur. It went well,” Marlin replied, making the gesture that told Gaskur he was dismissed for the night.

  Smiling, the younger Lord Stormserpent watched his servant vanish down the back stair, then strode into his own rooms and started locking and securing doors.

  He was just about done when blue flames erupted from a nearby wall, as the two ghosts of the Nine stepped into the room with dripping bundles in their hands. The thief, Langral, plunged one hand into his bundle-someone’s cloak, darkened with blood-and drew forth a head that stared blindly past Marlin’s shoulder, features frozen in terror.

  The face of Seszgar Huntcrown; its look of fear was certainly preferable to its usual sneer.

  Satisfaction became triumph. Deed done, that swiftly and easily.

  “Take all that to the furnace,” Marlin commanded, staring hard into their cold smiles and repeatedly visualizing the room, the way there, and tossing their bundles down into the flames. If the writings spoke truth, they should be able to see what he was thinking in his eyes. “Then return here to me without delay.”

  After what seemed like a long time, the two flaming men nodded, turned, and walked through his wall … at just the right spot for the shortest journey to the furnace.

  Marlin surveyed the trails of blood they’d left behind, then went to his board-his private one, far better stocked than the one most guests ever saw-selected a flask of Rhaenian dark he’d noticed going cloudy, and used it to sluice away the blood. Gaskur could scrub away the faint results in the morning.

  “Farewell, Lord Huntcrown,” he murmured. “My, my, the dismembered bodies are piling up. I must remember to have Gaskur rake the bones out of the furnace ashes before a servant who might report them to Mother sees to that little chore.”

  He selected a clean flagon and the decanter that held his latest preferred throatslake: Dragonfire Dew, a fiery amber vintage from somewhere barbarous in upland Turmish. Cleansed throat and nose, kindled a fire below, and left a taste like cherries and blackroot on the tongue between. Ahhh …

  He was well into his second flagon when his blueflame ghosts returned. He set it down, took up the Flying Blade and the chalice, and told them, “Well done.”

  Did those wide, steady, cold smiles waver a little when he began to will them back into their prisons?

  It was hard, that much was certain, thrusting back an imponderable darkness in his mind that might have been their silent resistance or might just have been the weight of the magic. He was sweating when he was done-but he managed it, setting blade and cup, flickering an angry blue, on the table in a room suddenly empty of grinning, blazing men.

  Right. I am the master of Langral and Halonter … and soon, of many thousands more.

  Taking up his flagon, Marlin made for his bedchamber. High time to snore a little and dream of being a mighty and ruthless king of Cormyr.

  As he unbuckled and shrugged off garments and kicked them away across the floor, Marlin sipped more Dragonfire Dew and pondered the part of his scheme he’d neglected to tell his fellow nobles.

  He controlled no long-lost Obarskyr, but he was going to make one.

  His two blueflame ghosts-they were hardly ghosts, really, but he liked the phrase-would one by one, at his direction, slay all the highknights and war wizards. He’d replace those dear departed with his hirelings, one by one as they fell, until the Obarskyrs had no one attending them who was truly loyal.

  Then, of course, it would be their
turn. He’d slay them all, every last living Obarskyr, and then present one of the Nine he commanded-Halonter looked the more Azoun-kingly of the two-to Cormyr as a “true Obarskyr” from the past.

  Throughout all of that, he’d keep his fellow conspirators handy, up to their blood-besmirched elbows in the killings and ready to be framed as scapegoat “traitors”-and slain before they could implicate him-at any point in the proceedings where other Cormyreans became suspicious or any of his deeds got inconveniently witnessed.

  Even if Lothrae produced more of the Nine and wanted to call a halt to his use of his two … well, Lothrae would hardly be eager to pass up the chance to rule Cormyr from behind the scenes.

  It was, after all, one of the richest kingdoms in all the Realms.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A STORM IN SHADOWDALE

  It had been a glorious day in Shadowdale, but the sun was lowering in the deep forest of the hills around the dale. Long shafts of light stabbed in under the trees to gild ferns and set aglow the broad leaves of the asthen-thorn and halabramble bushes that cloaked the toppled trunks of fallen forest giants.

  Storm Silverhand crossed a glade like a slow and patient shadow, making as little noise as possible. She’d meant to be there much earlier, but the need for stealth and leaving no clear trail conquered all else. She’d draped the wizard’s cloak over her distinctive hair to make herself a cowled, anonymous figure.

  Twice she’d sunk to her fingertips to crouch in motionless silence as foresters with ready bows came stalking through the trees, following the trapline trails aseeking dinner. Their bows were more to keep off bears and worse than to bring down game, but it seemed there was always one who’d loose a shaft first and worry about what it had hit later.

  It had been years since Storm had been the Bard of Shadowdale in anything more than legend; she farmed her land and mothered Harpers under her roof no more. The folk of the dale would think her a ghost or a shapeshifter or perhaps an accursed reminder of the Spellplague-and try to put an arrow through her or set their dogs on her, as likely as not.