Elminster Must Die sos-1

by Ed Greenwood

  “Still heading hard and true for the nearest wharf,” Amarune agreed grimly. “Right now, I can’t even pay for this cheese-let alone the wine-without leaving myself too short to please creditors who are quite likely to treat me far more harshly than Mother Maraedra.”

  “I’m paying, lass. Considering what I’m going to be asking ye to do, filling thy boots with gold right up as high as thy throat won’t begin to be fee enough.”

  “You want me to take part in one of your spells? As some sort of sacrifice? Does it involve bedding thirteen nobles at once?”

  Elminster chuckled. “Nay to your last query, and ‘in a manner of speaking’ is a fair but also fairly useless answer to your first two questions. I want to train ye.”

  “As some sort of wizard? Sorry, but-”

  “As my successor.”

  “Doing what, exactly?” Amarune eyed the old man across the table sidelong. She found him likeable but nothing near trustworthy. He probably was mad, and just how, it seemed, she was about to find out.

  “I am … old. More than a thousand winters old. Yet I live still, because … I have a job to do. Ye might call it ‘Meddler On Behalf of Mystra.’ I wander the world meddling in things-the way kings rule, the way folk think, how they roast meals when they can get meat; all of that-to make the Realms better. Oh, and get no thanks for it, save many attempts to kill me.”

  “So I’d expect, if you meddle with how kings rule. So Mystra has been dead for a century, and you’re giving up, is that it?”

  “Almost,” he whispered.

  Studying him, Amarune went on munching, astonished at how quickly the cheese and biscuits seemed to have vanished. The old man had eaten, so far as she could recall, just one of each. She frowned; were they tainted with something?

  “You eat the last few,” she ordered.

  Elminster smiled, shrugged, and started spreading himself a biscuit.

  Watching him devour some cheese then the biscuit and wash them both down with wine, Amarune asked curiously, “Weren’t you the one who was supposed to have been Mystra’s lover, or some such?”

  “Yes,” Elminster agreed simply.

  “So who warms your bed these days?”

  “A mad queen. Not often.”

  Amarune shook her head then watched him refill her glass.

  Well, this would make a good slumbertime tale, until she fell on her face and into the land of dreams …

  “Tell me more,” she said, sipping. Happy dancing hobgoblins, but this wine was good!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  TO FILL THY BRAIN WITH WEAPONS

  So ye see, lass, that’s the dream I’m still living for. Imparting hope, making this little thing better and then that one, for all, not just the rulers and the rich … and doing it all in the name of Mystra.”

  “To keep her memory alive.”

  “Exactly. To keep her name and what she stood for firm and deep in the memories of folk, so there’s a chance-a ghost of a chance, mind, but better than none-that she’ll return.”

  “So the deeds, the fireside and tavern tales … ghost stories, indeed.”

  “Ah, now, forget not the faithful!”

  “Oh, yes, the hidden cult of Mystra-worshipers I’d have to lead. Well, that would certainly make me feel special, if I went in for such things.”

  Elminster gave her a sour look across the table. “Is that all ye’ve been hearing, in my blathering? ’Tis not about Mystra, nor thy power or benefits-’tis all about the dream of setting things right in the Realms, which I and Storm Silverhand and the Simbul and all the other Chosen devoted so much of our lives to, through the Harpers and by other means. Even if Mystra never returns to us, we will have bettered the Realms-worth doing in itself, lass! Achievements far greater than most kings or priests ever even intend to accomplish, let alone the paltry results they manage!”

  Amarune poured herself the last of the wine and sat back with a sigh, eyeing the man who claimed to be her ancestor.

  “You want me to carry on with this self-appointed, never-finished work of saving the entire Realms,” she said grimly. “Cast aside work I do well and take pride in, the life I’ve built for myself-a life I like, mind, no matter how low and coin-poor it may be-and do dangerous and, no doubt, often illegal things and be thought crazed by everyone, for … a dream. Your dream. The dream of a century ago, of dead gods and struggles lost and done when my mother was yet young.”

  Elminster smiled. “Aye. I knew ye’d see to the heart of it in an instant. That’s my lass; blood runs true.”

  “I have not agreed to anything, old man,” Amarune told him angrily.

  “True, true. Yet, having seen the world more clearly, ye will. Not now, not perhaps for years yet, but … ye will. Ye will find ye cannot stand back and look away when there are wrongs that need righting and suffering that need not be and things that could be better for all and less cruel for many. We’re meddlers, we cursed few. ’Tis in the blood.”

  “Not my blood,” Amarune snapped. “I’ve more sense.”

  “Ah. That would be why ye go out brawling of evenings with Lord Arclath Delcastle,” Elminster told his nigh empty tallglass dryly. “ ’Tis the sensible thing for a mask dancer to do.”

  Amarune flushed crimson. “I like Arclath. And if the king’s writ means anything, it should mean lasses and jacks of Cormyr can choose their friends freely, noble or common, rich or poor, and not answer to anyone for it. Given years enough, it should make the realm stronger, as all citizens know each other better, and no one will sneer at a freeman or goodwife because of the name they were born with or the-”

  “Ye preach to the converted, lass,” Elminster murmured. “Who d’ye think fixed the wording of the writ, one night while Foril lay snoring not a spear-length away? Took me much of the night to fake his fist, so he’d look at the changes in the morning and think he had roused himself in the night to make them, not that someone else came stealing in to set things to rights.”

  Amarune stared at him then said sarcastically, “And I suppose you arranged half the noble marriages of the last decade, and you secretly tempt and test every last war wizard, too?”

  “Nay. Just two marriages, and I’ve only managed to test the loyalty of about a third of the current wizards of war-Vainrence keeps a very close eye on them all, and getting caught vetting his fellowship of law wands would be worse than not probing them at all.”

  Amarune stared across the table. “You’re serious. You’re farruking serious.”

  “Of course. Drink that down, lass; we’re just getting started. Having swept the legs out from under the tiny stool ye are so pleased to call the life ye’ve built for thyself, ’tis merely my duty to fill thy brain with weapons, to help ye defend that stool so it has any chance at all of lasting a little longer. I’ll be needing ye to help me find and steal certain little gewgaws that hold the ghosts of the Nine, but first, for thine own protection, ye should know the truth about this Talane ye’re now haunted by …”

  Despite the hour and the fact that Stormserpent Towers was an abode of nobility, the Purple Dragons banging on its doors were most insistent. The burden of their repeated demands was the desire to speak with Lord Marlin Stormserpent, without delay.

  Sleepy, exasperated servants failed to convince the soldiers to wait until a time fashionably after morningfeast, and so in the end reluctantly roused Marlin and brought word to him that soldiers of the Crown were at his gates, would not leave, and wanted audience with him immediately.

  Marlin went from surly sleepiness to wide awake and stiff with alarm in a proverbial instant. His first act was to curtly dismiss his servants, telling them he was quite capable of dressing himself.

  Indeed, he was well on his way to being garbed by the time the door closed behind the last of them. Running a hand over his stubbled face and deciding not to take the time to shave, the heir of House Stormserpent stamped his feet into his boots, snatched up the scabbarded Flying Blade and buckled it on, thrus
t Thirsty well into the breast of his jerkin, and gave his pet’s head the double tap that told it to bide quiet until he called or hauled it forth again, and took up the chalice into his hand as if he had been disturbed in the act of drinking from it.

  There. Ready. He glowered at his nearest mirror ere turning and hastening down to the forehall to meet with the Dragons.

  When he came down the stair, they were standing in a grim, silent little group, waiting for him.

  “Well?” Marlin asked shortly, sparing no breath on greetings or even a pretense of politeness.

  “We have need of your aid, Lord Stormserpent. Please come with us. Just as far as your front doors, yonder.”

  “Why?” Marlin snapped. “What’s-?”

  They said nothing, turning in unison to tramp to his doors.

  Marlin glared sidelong at his silent servants then followed the Dragons.

  One front door of the Towers was ajar, and there were more soldiers outside.

  “So what’s all this about?” Marlin asked, stepping aside to avoid being caught in the doorway with Dragons all around him.

  “We need you to identify this dead man,” a telsword told him gravely. “We’ve been told he’s a servant of yours. Truth?”

  By then, Marlin was gaping down at the corpse on the litter, and his face was heading for the same dead-white hue that the body sported. It was Gaskur, the man he most trusted in all the world. His personal servant for years, his trade agent … a huge sword cut that left his throat gaping open told anyone with eyes how he’d died.

  “Who … who did this?” Marlin blurted, his own throat closing around sudden tears, the room seeming to silently rock around him.

  A firm hand at his back steadied him, and he was vaguely aware that the soldiers who’d been watching his face with intent and suspicious frowns were relaxing, some of them looking almost pitying.

  “Where did you find him?” Marlin asked, his voice quavering like that of any young lass. Hearing no reply, he shook his head fiercely and turned away.

  “That is my servant, yes,” he told the air blindly as he headed for the distant board across the forehall and its gleaming array of decanters. “Gaskur by name, a man true and loyal. I trusted him more than anyone.”

  He found the decanters and turned. “Will you join me in a toast to a good man? And for the love of all the gods, tell me how he died!”

  “Does the word or name ‘Talane’ mean anything to you, Lord?” The telsword’s voice was near and low down, as if the Dragon was half-kneeling so he could see Marlin’s face.

  Marlin opened both eyes and told him fiercely, “No. Gods, no. Never heard it before now. Who or what is Talane?”

  “We’d like to know that ourselves, Lord. It was written on the roof of a many-tenants house not far south and west of here, in your man’s blood. His throat was slit, as you can see, and his body hurled down from that roof into a midyard. Can you tell us why he may have been there, Lord Stormserpent? Was he out and about in the city on your bidding?”

  Marlin shook his head, pouring himself a drink with hands that trembled. “He lived here in this house, and so far as I know had no kin nor friends-nor property, for that matter-in Suzail. I know little of his habits and doings when on his own time, but mark you: Gaskur was trusted, and his time off was his own, to forge and further his own life, not dance always in Stormserpent livery.”

  “Thank you for your assistance and for your offer,” the telsword said gravely, “but we’re in some haste, now. We’ll leave you to your private grief and take the remains of your man with us; the wizards of war will want to examine it.”

  “Good,” Marlin said bitterly. “You do that. And come back and tell me what they find, for if the Crown does not find someone and make them pay for this-this foul murder, loyal swords of the realm, hear me well: I will.”

  “Lord Stormserpent, we hear and will do so. Your sentiments do him honor, and yourself as well.”

  And with that, the Dragons were gone in a hasty thunder of boots, leaving a shaken Marlin Stormserpent to sip liquid fire and listen to the doors of his home boom shut.

  After he’d downed a flagon, refilled it, and emptied it again, one of the House servants murmured at his elbow, “Lord? Will you be wanting any-”

  “Leave me be,” Marlin said curtly. “I would prefer to be alone. Let no one follow where I go.”

  He filled the flagon once more and drained it in a single quaff that left him gasping. Slamming it down on the board, he said curtly, “Wash that,” and turned away to stride blindly across the forehall toward the grand stair.

  “Talane” was a mystery, perhaps a mere fancy to send the watch astray. Gaskur had almost certainly died under the treachery of one of his fellow conspirators; the most recent task of importance he’d given Gaskur was to spy on their doings and meetings for any sign of possible betrayal.

  “Nobles,” he hissed furiously, quoting a jest that usually left him wildfire-leaping hot. “Can’t trust them even as far as you can hurl their severed heads.”

  By then, he was up the stair and through a door and waving sleepy servants back to their beds. A few more halls and doors, a few more locks and bars seen to, and he would be alone, all servants kept well away from him.

  Back in his own rooms, he scooped Thirsty back out of his jerkin and set the stirge on a perch; Thirsty hated the magic that was about to be awakened and always demonstrated that by defecating copiously and digging claws in deep, too. Drawing and downing a hasty glass of wine from his favorite decanter, Marlin set aside the chalice and the Flying Blade, too, caught up his bedside lantern, and headed for the uppermost room of the most ruinous tower.

  Dust still lay thick over much of it, in the lantern glow. From the cloak stand he retrieved the milky glass orb, took it to the small round table, and set it atop the heavy metal goblet standing there.

  Settling himself into the lopsided chair, Marlin touched the orb, murmured the word, and watched the familiar glowing cloud appear. As swiftly as if Lothrae had been waiting for him-a thought that made his eyes narrow in suspicion, for just a moment-the cloud became the image of the masked man sitting in the falcon-back chair in front of his own orb.

  “Yes?” Lothrae greeted him simply.

  “Master,” Marlin Stormserpent began fearfully, and related Gaskur’s fate and his own fears of treachery, ending with, “What should I do?”

  “Stop acting weak and fearful,” came the cold reply. “Stop looking over your shoulder for treachery, and attracting the suspicions of every last Purple Dragon or war wizard who may set eyes on you. Carry on as boldly and insolently as if nothing at all has happened. The way you were conducting yourself before.”

  Lothrae leaned forward to speak loudly and firmly. “If there’s a traitor in your conspiracy, this is your best armor; he has struck against you, and behold, you are so strong that you simply ignore the blow.”

  The masked man spread his hands. “You can live looking behind you at every shadow, fear strangling you-but that’s hardly a life worth living, is it? Continue with our plan, and the throne can one day be yours. Waver, and it shall never be. Break, and it’s your life you’ll be frantically seeking to cling to, not dreams of kingship. But none of this should be new to you; you should already be well aware of the choices before you and the risks woven around each of them.”

  “Yes, yes,” Marlin agreed hastily. “Yes, I’ll do that-uh, those things.”

  Nodding, Lothrae was abruptly gone, leaving nothing but dark and empty air above Marlin’s orb.

  Cursing softly, the heir of House Stormserpent restored things to their rightful places, took up his lantern, and hastened back to his own chambers.

  Lothrae had spoken of the best tactic, but those bold words did nothing at all to lessen the danger. Someone who’d sat around his table plotting treason-or even a cabal of several of them, grinning at him behind their masklike faces-wanted him dead.

  Taking to his bed was easy enough, but fin
ding slumber proved harder. Fear was in him, his mind whispering peril after betrayal after knife in the dark.

  Marlin tossed and turned, hissing curses through cold sweat after drenching cold sweat, fear never leaving him. He was so agitated that Thirsty took to flitting back and forth across the bedchamber, flapping from post to post of Marlin’s great four-poster bed.

  It was no use. He could not sleep. Not when there could be a dozen hired slayers prowling Stormserpent Towers at that moment, blades in hand and gentle smiles on faces, drawing nearer … and nearer …

  “Farruking Hells,” he snarled, thrusting himself up from the bedclothes in a fresh fury.

  He staggered as his bare feet hit the floor, but yawningly steadied himself against the nearest bedpost, then made for the chalice and the Flying Blade.

  When Langral and Halonter of the Nine were standing coldly facing him once more, blue flames raging endlessly about them, Marlin commanded the two ghosts to watch over him as he slept and guard his person from all intruders.

  Thirsty the stirge hastily flew from the bedpost up to the loftiest corner of his highest window to perch well out of their reach.

  Langral and Halonter nodded silently at those orders. Silently flaming, they took up positions over Marlin as he settled himself on his pillow once more.

  He’d feared he might not be able to sleep with the blueflame ghosts looming so close and menacing, but before he could so much as fully remember that fear, dark and falling oblivion claimed him.

  And so never saw the thief and the fighter of the Nine, standing there in their flames, turn to regard each other over Marlin’s faintly snoring form-and then in unison look down at him, open contempt on their faces.

  “Saving the world or not,” Amarune mumbled, finding her nose perilously close to the tabletop for about the tenth time, “I can’t stop yawning.”

  “Of course, lass. Ye need rest. We’ll talk more on this later.”