Untold Adventures

by John Shirley

  Yet true lords of the keep, for all that. Sixteen citizens who could quietly bring armies into the city without having to fight past the city walls or disembark at the docks.

  They threatened the rule of anyone who sat on a throne in Zhentil Keep by their very existence. So they must die, and soon. The Zhentarim must seize and command their portals.

  He had known this for years, but only now were his spells ready. Only now could he strike.

  It was merely a matter of not putting a foot wrong in his swift, well-planned advance.

  “If there is to be a Lord of the Darkways,” Manshoon told the empty air around him, “let it be me.”

  He smiled at how much information he’d gathered by impersonating the wizard he’d just slain, Handreth Imbreth. Darklash Ayantha had screamed long and loud, and had proved every bit as tough as he’d expected. She should still be alive to scream for him a last time or two, when he was done here.

  He reached out and pulled the cord that would tell his servants to open the doors and let his three most trusted underlings into the room.

  Waylords, Waylords Everywhere

  “He wants to know all you can call to mind of the waylords, so start thinking,” Sneel said unpleasantly.

  Kelgoran glowered. One day, Lorkus Sneel would take a step too far …

  “Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking the Brotherhood’s warriors are dullards,” Cadathen warned Sneel, as calmly as if he’d been discussing unchanging weather.

  “I don’t,” Manshoon’s most accomplished spy replied coldly and flatly.

  “Very well then,” the wizard Manshoon trusted most—because, they all knew, his Art was far too feeble to challenge the master’s—replied affably, “don’t make the mistake of treating them as if they are. It will only turn to bite you, when you’ll least be able to afford that.”

  “Spare me your granddam’s advice,” Sneel hissed. He turned to face the warrior again. “Well?”

  Ornthen Kelgoran was a veteran of many skirmishes in Thar and beyond, a hardened warrior who had become wise to the ways of the crowded stone city of Zhentil Keep, and who was Manshoon’s best slayer of those who crossed him. He smiled. “Well, what?”

  Sneel sighed. “Don’t be—”

  “A dullard? Sneel, your arrogance is only surpassed by your inability to judge others. A serious failing in a spy, I’d say.”

  Before Sneel could reply, the warrior swept out one brawny forearm in a florid herald’s gesture, a violent movement that made the spy flinch.

  Kelgoran chuckled and began to declaim. “Most important among the waylords—those the rest will follow—are five men.”

  He held up one hairy finger. “Srabbast Dorloun, a dealer in textiles and footwear, and a greedy, coldly calm, burly mountain of a man. I know little of his hired wizard, Tanthar of Selgaunt, beyond an impressive reputation: scruples, powerful magic, widely traveled.”

  A second finger rose. “The importer of smoked meats and fine wines, Besnar Calagaunt, who reminds me very much of you, Sneel. Thin, apt to sneer—but unlike you, handsome and elegant. Unmarried, too, and a scourge of the ladies—but a devout follower of Loviatar who lives and works with two young priestesses of the pain goddess, Darklash Ayantha and Painclaw Jessanna. I expect he’s covered with scars, under all those silken jerkins.”

  A third finger joined the other two. “Fantharl Halamaun, perhaps the wealthiest of the lot. He can afford two wizards of reputation: Ardroth Thauntan of Chessenta, and a handsome, mustache-twirling Tethyrian who styles himself Valandro the Mysterious and defends himself with three swords that fly around under his command. You can be sure the master pays special attention to him.”

  “Leave the wizards to the master,” Sneel said coldly. “Tell me of Halamaun.”

  “Short, ugly, a glutton. Grasping and greedy—the man’s a landlord and a coinlender, what more need I say?”

  “His trades.”

  “Uh, builder. And repairer of most buildings in the keep.”

  “Very well. Your fourth?”

  “Mantras Jhoszelbur. Trader in metals and ores, owns our biggest foundry, two weaponsmi—”

  “Three. He owns three, and is busily buying out a fourth.”

  “Very well. That many weaponsmiths’ shops, five ships I know of”—Kelgoran paused, one brow raised in challenge, but Sneel merely nodded, so the warrior continued—“two steadings where war horses are bred, reared, and trained, and a smallish coster or two. More interesting than all of that, though: Stormwands House. His own little school of wizardry, composed of the elderly mage Paerimrel of Amn and a dozen or so students, all young. They call themselves ‘the Stormwands.’ Jhoszelbur’s old, short tempered, and—”

  “Who are the most powerful of the Stormwands, the ones we must be wary of?”

  “—ruthless. There are two Stormwands to beware: Rorymrar and Jonthyn. My men and I have gone drinking with them more than once, under the master’s orders. They are … less accomplished than they believe themselves to be, but dangerous nonetheless.”

  “That’s four. The fifth?”

  “Ambram Sarbuckho, a—”

  Four guards in full and gleaming black armor stepped through the tapestries in front of them, then drew the tapestries back and secured them with their chains. The full-face helms that kept them anonymous made their voices boom; the nearest commanded, “Enough. The master is not in a patient mood. Enter.”

  The doors were thrust wide, revealing a thin wisp of smoke that coiled and then rose like a snake about to strike.

  The three men had never seen such magic before, but they knew better than to hesitate. They strode forward, right through the smoke, and the guards slammed the doors behind them and went to their crossbows, fixed by firing ports that pierced the walls of the room beyond. Their loaded and ready bolts were tipped with a poison only Manshoon would take no harm from—for the First Lord of Zhentil Keep was a careful man.

  The Prize of Indispensability

  Manshoon waved the three to the waiting seats at the far end of the long, polished table, and regarded them expressionlessly. These were his most accomplished servants, which meant they were adept at acting loyal.

  Sneel, Cadathen, and Kelgoran—useful to him in that descending order, yet utterly disposable whenever the need arose.

  “As Sneel has no doubt revealed without actually saying so,” he said flatly, “I have decided to free Zhentil Keep from the tyranny of the waylords. Now.”

  He looked to his spy. “Begin subtly spreading word through our usual mouths that Halamaun is finally sick of Dorloun, and is covertly gathering hired bullyblades to start killing Dorloun’s employees, suppliers, and clients whenever they can be caught alone.”

  He waited for Sneel to nod, then added, “You are also to start rumors that Jhoszelbur has decided to crush his longtime and increasingly successful rival Calagaunt. Further, you are to ensure that servants of all the waylords hear that the First Lord of the city is gathering power to decide who shall rise as lords in Zhentil Keep, and who shall be forced out of trade, the keep, and if need be, continued life. Then report back to me for additional orders.”

  Sneel nodded, but made no move to rise. The hint of a smile rose to Manshoon’s lips.

  “You are dismissed. Tarry not to try to overhear my orders to these two.”

  “Of course,” Sneel replied, nodding low over the table before rising and smoothly making for the doors.

  Manshoon waited for a signal—a single tap against the wall—after the doors had closed behind his departing spymaster. Then he looked at Kelgoran and spoke again.

  “Gather your worst and most bumbling blades—those we need to test, and can easily afford to lose—for assaults on the mansions of Dorloun, Halamaun, and Jhoszelbur. Muster them at the warehouses, at the slaughterhouse, and at the Black Barrel; you choose which, for which. They’re not to move, show themselves, or swing blades at anyone before I say so.”

  Kelgoran’s nod was quick
, and came with a pleased smile; he had already risen before Manshoon added, “Yes, you’re dismissed.”

  The warrior’s eager hastening brought a swift closing of the doors and the tap that followed them, leaving Manshoon and Cadathen alone together.

  Whereupon the First Lord of Zhentil Keep drew a small, plain bone goblet from under the table, then an even smaller knife. Cadathen went pale.

  “A renewal,” Manshoon said calmly, drawing the blade along the outside edge of his hand. Dark red blood welled out, and he held his hand to let it run down his fingers and drip into the goblet, as he licked the knife clean and slid it across the table to Cadathen.

  Who deftly trapped it with his hand, rose and went to the goblet, gave himself a similar wound, licked the knife, and set it carefully down beside Manshoon, his hands trembling slightly.

  When the goblet was full, the master’s murmured word and swift gesture would enact the blood spell. After they both drank, any harm suffered by Manshoon would instantly also be dealt to Cadathen.

  White-faced, he whispered, “Why is this necessary, lord? Again?”

  Manshoon smiled. “Call it a precaution that should hurt a loyal Cadathen not at all, but bestow upon a Cadathen of darker deed or intent a fitting traitor’s reward. I need your silence, but also need you to know my plan, so you can adjust matters out in the streets and mansions to ensure it has the effects I desire. So heed well.”

  He cast the spell, they both drank from the glowing goblet, and Manshoon waved Cadathen back to his seat.

  Only after the still-pale wizard was settled again did he add, “The waylords will be broken—or eliminated—by an enchantment I have just perfected, that will very soon be cast upon all of the Darkways. Anyone who passes through those portals thereafter will die, horribly and instantly, as my spell transforms all the blood in their veins to a potent flesh-melting acid.”

  Cadathen looked excited, but uneasy. “But will the Darkways not prove useful, in time to come?”

  “They will. As doors that open when I want them to, not doors standing open always that can let sellsword armies hired in Sembia flood into the very heart of Zhentil Keep whenever some greedy Sembian or other decides our gems and metals make the keep worth the trouble of plundering. Even beholders can slay only so many sellswords before they get overwhelmed and hacked apart. And should such a dark day come, wizards like me—and you—will survive far less time than elder eye tyrants like Argloth or Xalanxlan.”

  Cadathen nodded, wincing.

  “So traversing the Darkways will be fatal except when I remove my spells,” Manshoon purred. “And only I will know when those times are. Making me too valuable for anyone who cares for Zhentil Keep to slay. I love being indispensable.”

  Windtatter Moon Rising

  Rain had stopped lashing at the windowpanes, and there was moonlight at last.

  A weary but very happy Lord Bellander rose on his elbows and gazed out the window.

  “Ah,” he murmured. “A windtatter moon.”

  “Indeed,” replied the senior priestess lying bare and beautiful in the bed beside him. “It’s why I’m here.”

  Bellander lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? Not for me?”

  Bride of Darkness Orlpharla sat up rather briskly. “The Dread God revealed to Lord Holy Fzoul that the next windtatter moon would bring great peril to House Bellander. I’m here to keep you alive until morning.”

  “And after that?”

  “After that, Lord Bellander,” Orlpharla said coldly, “your survival is in your own hands. Our most recent visions suggest we’ll be rather busy trying to keep Zhentil Keep from erupting into civil war.”

  The Reapers Loosed

  There arose heavy thuds of many staves and axes crashing against the doors, right on cue. His hired armsmen had timed matters rather well.

  In response, guards shouted and came running; Manshoon smiled tightly and worked the spell that would make them really shout.

  They did more than that. Some of them screamed and fled wildly through the mansion, crashing past tables and toppling sculptures and suits of armor.

  The illusion he’d spun, of a beholder drifting menacingly forward, all of its eyestalks writhing, would circle the room he was in now.

  The room where Waylord Fornlar Darltreth’s Darkway flickered and glowed, now alone and unguarded.

  His more important casting didn’t take long; this was his tenth murmuring of the spell. When he was done, the Darkway blazed up brightly for a moment as if angered by his magic, then settled back down to glowing just as it had before.

  The First Lord of Zhentil Keep gave it a sardonic salute and smile, and let his ring take him on to the next mansion.

  Most of the waylords were elsewhere, gathered at Harlstrand House—whose wine cellar was the best, and feasting hall the grandest—to debate what to do about a certain upstart Manshoon and his rising power in the city. Sneel was very good at what he did; one waylord-shaking crisis, conjured up in less time than it took to eat a good meal.

  He stood then in a rather colder room, hung with dark tapestries and occupied by another Darkway—and two astonished guards, who raised their spears and reached for an alarm gong.

  Manshoon waved one hand and gave them slumber. His armsmen would need some time to hasten through the streets and reach the front doors of this high house; it would be best if no alarm was raised until their sudden assault on its doors.

  This was all going very smoothly. He strode to where he could stand over the guards, and look to see if they had any useful magic he could confiscate.

  “Let the reaping begin,” he murmured aloud, “and the fortunes of the waylords wane.”

  Interlude in Innarlith

  “Outlander!” the High Constable of Innarlith roared, “Come forth!”

  On either side of his broad, bright-armored shoulders stood a trio of impassive constables, their armor as gleaming as his own, wands ready in their hands. When one challenges a wizard, it is best to be prepared.

  High Constable Lhoreld smote the door with his mace, a glancing blow that marked but did not dent it, yet sent an echoing thunder through the bedchamber behind that door. “Elminster!” he bellowed. “You were seen to steal royal paints and brushes, and bring them to this place! Thief, stand forth!”

  The door swung open.

  Out of the lamplit dimness beyond strode a tall, slender, white-bearded man, barefoot and in fact—the High Constable’s eyes bulged—wearing only hundreds of smears of dried paint and a lady’s diaphanous nightgown pulled around himself. He leaned unconcernedly against the doorpost in what could only be described as an indolent—even jaunty—pose.

  “Aye? Have ye brought wine?”

  High Constable Lhoreld went a little crimson around the temples, and his nostrils flared. On either side of him, his constables went from looking impassive to looking stern as they hastily leveled their wands at the man in the doorway.

  “You stand in the Fortress Royal, wizard!” Lhoreld shouted. “In the name of the Spaerenza, Royal Ruler of Innarlith, I arrest you to face justice! You have stolen her art supplies—”

  Elminster made a rude sound, and a ruder gesture. “Pah! I have not.”

  “Do—do you mock me, man?” The High Constable was incredulous. “The Spaerenza’s paints are all over you, from head to toe! D’you think me blind?”

  “Nay,” Elminster drawled. “Merely stupid.” He peered, to make sure none of the constables was clutching a decanter behind his back, then added, “Too stupid to bring any wine, at least.”

  “I’ll not bandy words with you, wizard! I require your instant submission—on your knees, man, and hold out your wrists to be manacled! You’ll be brought before Her Exaltedness for your punishment forthwith, and—”

  “Punishment? Surely ye might want to determine my guilt, first? Or perhaps my innocence? Or has Innarlith no laws at all but the whim of its High Constable?”

  Lhoreld was now purple and shaking. “Do—do you serious
ly mean to claim you did not steal art supplies, when sworn witnesses—over a score of servants and courtiers—saw you do so?”

  “I do mean to make that very claim. I stole nothing. And I can produce my own witnesses to attest to my claim.”

  “Oh? Outlanders in your employ?” The High Constable sneered.

  “No, personages that even a thick-headed windbag of a High Constable might have heard of. Let me begin with the Spaerenza herself. Then a certain Lord Wizard of the city, Uldimar Bronneth—ye may know him better as the Marquavarl; their son, Prince Hajorn, oh, and the Princesses Amaelra and Marinthra, too.”

  “Ah hah. You are aware that bearing false witness against the royal family of Innarlith is itself a very serious crime?”

  “I am,” Elminster confirmed, smilingly. “I believe ye’ll find them happy to state my innocence in this matter.”

  The High Constable’s utter disbelief was written very clearly across his face. “Oh? And I suppose the Lord Protector can speak for you, too?”

  “No, I fear not,” Elminster replied gravely. “However, both of his subordinates—the Dukes Henneth and Porlandur—were present, and can attest—”

  “I’ll bet they can.” Lhoreld sneered. “I’ll just bet they can. In fact, wizard, I’m going to wager my career on that. If you can’t get any of these worthies to swear your words are true, you’ll wither away to bones chained to the coldest, wettest wall in the deepest of our dungeons, down where the rats go to die! I’ll escort you there myself, without delay! Stand forth from yon doorway, or my men will smite you down!”

  “Really,” Elminster said reprovingly, like a kindly but disappointed mother to an angry child, “that won’t be necessary—”

  “Wizard, step away from yon door!”

  With a sigh and a shrug, spreading open and empty hands, Elminster did as he was commanded, the constables smoothly surrounding him—whereupon the constable directly behind Elminster was imperiously swept aside by someone else coming to the door.