Islif gave him a cold look. “So am I, as it happens, but I think you and Semoor are going to sit down with the rest of us and have a long talk about any of us using magic on each other without agreement aforehand.”
Semoor frowned. “Oh? What about her?” He pointed at Jhessail.
“She,” Islif said, “isn’t an idiot. You two, I’m increasingly not so sure about.”
“Well,” Semoor observed with a bright smile, “that’s reassuring.”
Chapter 10
ALL NINE OF THE HELLS BREAK LOOSE
The Realms tremble whenever
The last six or so of the Nine Hells
Break loose again
To spill their latest bloodshed
Any fool can scream and die then.
The trick is to notice, earlier,
When the first few Hells silently gape wide
Dark smiles heralding the doom to come.
Aumra Darreth Vauntress
One Bard’s Musings
published in the Year of the Wanderer
Laspeera rose with the ring in her hand, face expressionless, and told the lionar and the first sword quietly, “You were right to summon me.”
“Someone was spell-blasted here,” the lionar said grimly.
She lifted a finger to tap her lips and warned him, “You didn’t say that, and you won’t say that again. Anyone who hears you might just be the one who decides it’s necessary to silence you forever.”
“Does—does the ring identify who died?” the first sword asked. “There can’t be that many unicorn-head rings like that.”
The lionar gave him a sharp look. “There aren’t. They’re worn by all alarphons in the war wizards.”
Laspeera nodded. “Of whom, it seems, we now have one fewer in the service of the realm.”
“Three fewer, actually,” Ghoruld Applethorn purred into the glow arising from his scrying crystal, “but who’s counting? Any moment now you’ll remember I’m the senior alarphon, and should know where all the others are. Idiot novices like Lacklar included.”
He turned to look at the row of fingerbones in the open coffer behind him, and added with a crooked smile, “And as it happens: I do.”
Tarnsar’s Platters was one of the better dining-houses on the Promenade—good food, attentive staff, and pleasant decor, without the breath-robbing prices of the truly haughty establishments. As a result, it was always crowded to the doors, and nigh-deafening with the chatter and clatters of hundreds of excited Suzailans.
Two men having the appearance of middling years and wealth pushed and sidled patiently through the crowded passages of the Platters, seeking a certain back room where strangers off the street seeking to dine weren’t customarily seated. They knew two young war wizards were wont to dine there, in a curtained-off back alcove of that room, and enjoy a quiet post-prandial game of lanceboard.
Reaching the archway they sought, they slipped through door-curtains enspelled to quell all sound, into the dimly lit, seemingly deserted room beyond. Then they padded as quietly as they knew how—which was very quietly—to the booth nearest the alcove, and settled down to listen.
“… and this Elminster had written in the margins!” a young voice murmured indignantly. “Right in His Majesty’s book! The gall of the man!”
“He’s legendary for that,” a voice that sounded as young, but more nasal—and calm—replied. “What did he write?”
“Well, I copied it out, to study and make sure ’twasn’t a code, or some such. He wrote: ‘The death of an old hero, gone toothless, is not tragic. It may seem so, but the tired old bones are at peace, in pain and loss no more. The bards and minstrels and those who spin tales in taverns have been handed the freedom to make the hero what they want him to be, glowing giant or otherwise, unfettered by such inconveniences as the truth.’ I mean, how trite! Does he think no one but him has ever thought such thoughts before?”
“You’ve never taken Alaphondar’s ‘High History of the Realm’ classes, have you?”
“No! Crashing old bore! Why?”
“You would have heard that Elminster wrote that over twelve hundred years ago, for the eyes of King Duar, when Duar was but a lad and grieving over the passing of various grand old lords at Court. If you flip through some of the other volumes that used to be Duar’s, you’ll find some far more, ah, fascinating advice.”
“Oh? Such as?”
“How and when to get royal heirs—and how not to. The arts of pleasuring others, and the best ways to refuse without offending.”
“You’re jesting! Old Nastyspells giving advice on wenching?”
“Huh. If that makes you incredulous, picture him doing so to a young and callow Vangey!”
“Mystra spew! Gods Above and Below! I … I …”
There followed a tapping sound that might have been a fingernail on a hard-polished lanceboard, and the other war wizard chuckled and added, “I suppose this is as good a time as any to point out that your seneschal is imperiled by both of my champions.”
What? Tluin! Armandras, you sly bastard!”
“Why, Corlyn, you credulous ramhorn-head!” Armandras sounded amused. “Such endearments!”
The two listeners looked at each other, nodded, and retreated to the doorway as quietly as they had come. The moment the two war wizards fell silent again, they advanced down the room once more, pushing past some chairs noisily.
“In here,” Harreth stage-whispered to Yorlin, as they headed straight for the curtain. “No one can overhear us in here.”
The two agents of Lord Yellander took a table just the other side of the curtain from the one that must be hosting that customary game of lanceboard, where the hidden war wizards couldn’t help but overhear them.
“Right,” Yorlin said excitedly, leaning forward across the table. “This is private enough, so out with it, man! What’s this so-secret news?”
“Ever heard of Emmaera?”
“Who?”
“Better known as Dragonfire. Long-dead, practiced her magic around Halfhap? No?”
“ ‘Dragonfire’ I heard once or twice, years back … something about animated swords, I think. A legend, not anything Vangey found useful.”
“That’s the one! Well, the swords are real—and they’ve been found! What’s more, they’re guarding Emmaera’s treasure, all her spellbooks and wands and such, that’ve been rumored in Halfhap to lie hidden here, there, and everywhere for years!”
“So who’s the lucky finder, and when will he show up to blast us all to feast-meat?”
“Well, that’s just it: no one has all the magic—yet. Y’see, there’s this old inn in Halfhap, the Oldcoats Inn, and it has the usual old, damp cellars. Well, some of them, on one side of things, have been getting a lot damper. So they wanted to dig out more space, for storage, over on the dry side. Which is when, about a tenday back, they found that one of those old cellar walls was just a single stone deep.”
“Someone threw up a wall across one end of a room to hide its back half.”
“Exactly! Well, behind that wall are a heap of chests and coffers and spellbooks and cloaks and wands and I don’t know what all—but no one can get close to them.”
“Some sort of flesh-eating field? Or a spell that fills the air with hungry snapping jaws when you try to step forward?”
“No, better than that! That’s where the swords come in! Emmaera Dragonfire put a ring of flying swords around her treasure to guard it, and the swords burn with all-consuming dragonfire! The innkeeper paid his pot-boy to put on armor and try to get to the treasure, and the swords cut through it and his body under it like he was smoke! He was smoke, too, in less than a breath! A little ash on the floor was all that was left of him!”
“So the likes of Vangerdahast might be able to stroll in and pluck this treasure, but the rest of us—”
“Are like to be kissing death, right quickly! Not that such fears’re stopping the local adventurers! They’re hurrying down from Tilvert
on just as fast as horses can bring them—and dying just as fast!”
“No real wizards among ’em, then?”
“Not yet. Or rather, hadn’t happened when the trader who told me left for Arabel. I heard it yestereve, from him and two others after him, who’d all been on the same run, straight through Arabel to here. Yet surely if someone snatches it, we’ll hear all about it! If things fall quiet, it’s a hoax or too deadly, or—”
“Or our gallantly watchful and protective war wizards have rushed in and hushed it all up,” Yorlin said heavily. “Well, now. This bears thinking more on—over a good deep drink. Or three. Let’s go get us some thirstquench.”
“The brilliance of your plan overwhelms me.” Harreth chuckled, as they rose and hurried out, not daring to wink at each other until they were beyond the door-curtains.
Leaving two war wizards staring excitedly at each other across a forgotten lanceboard—and then springing up to return to work early from their highsunfeast for the first time in their professional lives.
“Of course not,” Duthgarl Lathalance agreed, giving the innkeeper a smile of cold promise. “Dissatisfaction on my part would prove to be … unfortunate.”
Maelrin’s own smile never wavered. “If you’ll just follow me …”
“Of course.” The handsome Zhentarim dropped a hand to his sword hilt as two rings on his other hand glowed briefly. If the keeper of the Oldcoats Inn saw those things, he gave no sign of it as he lifted his lantern and led the way up the stairs.
Lathalance peered around the room and then nodded.
Maelrin bowed. “We customarily serve newly arrived guests with a light repast, at no charge. Shall I have something sent up to you?”
“What sort of something?”
“Ale, zzar, or clarry, and soup, stew, or venison or fowl pie?”
“Mulled ale and a pie. Venison.”
Maelrin bowed again and withdrew, leaving the Zhentarim standing alone in the room staring at the window.
The moment the innkeeper was gone, Lathalance went to the window, took down its bar and threw open its shutters, and discovered an outer set of shutters rather than any glass. He opened them, looked out over the three-man-height drop into the stableyard, and replaced everything as before.
Then he went slowly around the room, peering at walls, floor, and ceiling before half-smiling, and taking up the lone chair in the room. He moved it to the empty center of the room, turned it to face the closed but unlocked door, sat down in it—and was asleep in moments, a sleep that lasted until a floorboard creaked ever-so-slightly in the passage outside his door.
By the time the two serving-jacks knocked politely at that door, Lathalance was wide awake, on his feet, and striding confidently forward to greet them.
“Is it him?”
Maelrin smiled thinly. “He’s a ‘he,’ yes. If you mean ‘is he the Zhentarim?’ the answer is—undoubtedly. I saw their sigil on his dagger hilt. He’s a wizard and a warrior; he could probably fight us all at once, just with blades, and prevail. So it’s the nauthus and the nutmeg.”
The cook nodded and uncovered a platter that had been pushed to the back of his bench; the undercook took it up on a paddle and thrust it deep into the massive stone oven.
The cook unstoppered the nutmeg vial and stirred a generous handful into the mulled ale warming on the iron rack above the oven vent. Separately, they were harmless, the nutmeg a spice and the nauthus a fatty thickener for gravies and cooked sauces. Together, they acted as a deadly—and swiftly virulent—poison.
The Lords Yellander and Eldroon loved poisons. And as everyone on staff at the Oldcoats Inn now worked for them, the loves and desires of Yellander and Eldroon reigned, as Lathalance of the Zhentarim was about to unfortunately discover.
Lathalance sipped appreciatively. The mulled ale was very good. He sipped some more, and turned to the venison pie only reluctantly. It was steaming hot, and smelled—ahh, yes …
It tasted even better than it smelled, and he had to stop himself in mid-forkful to avoid burning his gullet.
And then a different sort of fire bloomed inside him, racing up and out his nose, and—
Lathalance convulsed, slowly went purple—like a bright over-ripening fruit—and slumped over in the chair, staring wide-eyed at nothing.
After a time, the fly that had come into the room with the food got tired of walking all over the half-eaten pie and the rim of the tankard, and buzzed over to Lathalance, where it walked daintily to and fro over his staring eyes.
“Has it worked, yet?”
“Long since, if he ate any at all. Unless he has some sort of magical protection.”
“Huh. If he had that, he’d be down here trying to hack us all apart already! Torence, Orban—trot up there and see if our Zhent guest’s deep silence means what I think it means.”
“And if he’s as right and bright as a spring day, and tries to kill us?”
“Wear the rings. His spells will be hurled back from you and his blades will pass through you harmlessly, and you’ll have a wonderful story to tell in taverns.”
The two serving-jacks gave Ondal Maelrin sour, disbelieving looks, but they’d been bullyblades in the service of Lords Yellander and Eldroon for long enough to know what would happen if they disobeyed Maelrin. Like every lass and jack in the Oldcoats Inn, they served Yellander and Eldroon in matters shady and sinister. At least at this inn, playacting meant regular meals and a roof over their heads and ale and wine whenever they felt thirst.
Wherefore they donned the rings, nodded curtly to Maelrin, and went up the back stairs with their swords drawn.
It had been more than a tenday since the secret panel in the back of the wardrobe had been used, and its hinges squealed.
“Bane’s brazen boll—” Orban snarled, ere a glaring Torance slapped him fiercely across the throat to silence him.
Like two black shadows the serving-jacks came out of the wardrobe and crossed the room to the man slumped in the chair. Torance leaned forward to peer into the Zhentarim’s staring eyes from less than a finger-length away, and then nodded.
“Dead, right enough,” he told Orban. “Glorn hasn’t dug the grave yet—Old Ondal wants it big enough for five or more, not just this one—so for now we’ll have to put him under the hay in the end sta—”
The dead man’s hands shot up to sink fingers deep into Torance’s throat, and squeeze, hard.
The startled serving-jack fought to raise his sword and draw breath, kicking and flailing—but the dead man in the chair ignored his frantic hacking and throttled him all the harder, standing up suddenly to haul Torance off his feet and swing him.
The dying man’s boots caught the fleeing Orban across the back of the head. The dead Zhentarim let go of Torance to let him sail across the room and crash into a wall. Lathalance sprang forward to pounce on the fallen Orban, pinning him to the floor with both knees, and brutally twisted his head.
The moment that thick neck broke, Lathalance was up and across the room again, to serve Torance the same way.
Bleeding copiously from the deep cuts Torance’s sword had inflicted, the dead Zhentarim then picked up the two men he’d just killed, stumped to the wardrobe with them, and shouldered through it into the servants’ passage beyond.
As he dragged the two dead serving-jacks down the back stairs, Old Ghost made the body he was animating grin hugely. Ah, but he was enjoying this.
Frightened faces gaped at him as he passed the open door of the staff ready-room with his limp burdens. He gave them Lathalance’s best grin—or as good a grin as a purple body streaming gore from where one side of its head was largely sliced away can manage—and went on down the cellar stairs, to dump them.
In his wake, staff bolted in all directions, some seeking weapons, others a place to hide, and a few the portal, to report to their masters and plead for much armed aid—and swiftly.
Lord Yellander and Lord Eldroon strongly favored teamwork and plentiful reinforcements
.
On her hurried trip through the Palace to Ghoruld Applethorn’s chambers, Laspeera ordered the two Purple Dragons back to their duties and collected a trio of on-duty war wizards. Her words brought stern excitement to their faces and the wands at their belts into their hands. She set a brisk pace, and let them scramble to keep up with her.
Applethorn’s office door was closed, and she smiled wryly at the words on the card in its placard-slide: “All inquiries to Laspeera of the Wizards of War.”
It was written in Ghoruld’s hand, right enough. She raised her left hand, calling up the powers of the ring on her middle finger—and then stopped and frowned, throwing up her other hand in a quelling warning to the younger mages behind her.
The door bore the usual spell-lock, and the trap magic that would hold immobile anyone passing through the doorway without the lock spell being properly ended. Both usual war wizard practice. Yet there was something more …
The ring winked in warning as she attuned it to ignore the lock and the hold, and seek that additional magic. Behind her, the other three war wizards waited patiently.
It was … something hostile, of course, but why the emptiness? Laspeera wondered The … oh, Mystra! It must be a feeblemind trap! Very dangerous to all mages, and so very much non-usual war wizard practice.
“By all Nine of the Hells,” she murmured. “That it should come to this.…”
And then she shook back her sleeves and began to cast counter-spells with her usual unhurried, cautious care.
Jhessail yawned, groaned in sleepy protest, and turned over in the bed for perhaps the twentieth time, kicking at the linens that enshrouded her.
“Can’t sleep?” Islif asked from beside her, throwing out a long arm to gather her close. “Try remembering all the things we did together in Espar, dreaming of being adventurers. That’ll have you snoring soon enough.”
“I’ll try. Can’t you sleep, either?”
“Not until Pennae here stops waiting for us both to nod off, so she can get up and go creeping around the inn. I don’t want to have to spend far too much time, later, searching for her body.”
Swords of Dragonfire Page 11
