Spellstorm (23 page)

Oh. They’re all wizards, right?

Ye have an overly smart tongue, Luse. It’s going to get you into trouble someday
.

“Going to?” Old man, have you not been paying attention to my, ah, distinguished life?

Elminster chuckled again, by way of reply, and went out.

M
ALCHOR
H
ARPELL STOPPED
and bowed to Lord Halaunt. He looked quiet and distinguished, like someone accustomed
to rule. Alusair made the Lord of Oldspires stand and bow in return, indicate the
empty chair across the desk, and murmur, “Lord Harpell, please … have a seat.”

“Thank you,” Malchor replied politely, taking it. Alusair stared thoughtfully at the
man. The neatest beard she’d ever seen, a razor-straight fringe outlining the man’s
jaw and chin, those fierce black eyebrows, and almost black, dark blue eyes. Calm
eyes, with a hint of steel in them, and a larger hint of lurking humor. She liked
this one.

“So, Lord,” she made Halaunt say briskly, “you want my Lost Spell. Why?”

“To further my mastery of magic, and to keep it out of the hands of the cruel, the
tyrannical, and the reckless. I am a man of scruples and self-control, and I fear
I cannot extend that same judgment to some of the other mages under this roof.”

Alusair couldn’t keep Halaunt from smiling at that, and didn’t want to.

“Fair enough. It has been my custom at this point to ask folk sitting in that chair
the real reason they want to gain the Lost Spell—but as it happens, I believe you.”

Malchor made no clever comment, but merely nodded and waited.

Leaving Alusair more impressed.

“So instead,” she had Halaunt say, “I’d like to hear your offer. What will you give
me in return for the Lost Spell?”

“Service—and coin. I expect to pay handsomely for the spell, in coinage and tradebars
and gems. Yet more importantly, I want to devote the services of many adventurers
I’ve established working relationships with, down the years, to procure for you, Lord
Halaunt, whatever you desire from all over Faerûn.”

“Whatever I desire?”

“Whatever things you most want to collect. Art, small decorative sundries, a menagerie—even,
perhaps, companions to make your life less lonely. To restore House Halaunt with strong,
vigorous heirs, and to show all of them the world and parts they can play in it, so
you’ll sit at the heart of a busy, prosperous, happy family, engaged with the world
and a major player in it. Respected and listened to in Cormyr and Sembia, and even
in fabled Waterdeep.”

“And if this family proves not so happy?” Halaunt grunted. “And my sons and daughters
betray me?”

Malchor gave the Lord of Oldspires a wry smile. “As to that,” he replied, “I have
experience to spare in handling a fractious family, though it was long ago. I’ll be
your guide and your chief defender and weapon.”

“All those? You’ll be a busy man.”

Malchor shrugged. “I am that already. Why not keep busy building and defending something
good in the world? Lord Halaunt, your family can be that—a House Halaunt strong and
ever-growing, with interests everywhere across Faerûn, and good lives for all your
kin. Strong sons and smart daughters standing with you. Your own legion. Think on
it.” Lord Halaunt sat back in his chair, blinked once or twice, and promised gruffly
to do so.

G
ODS
, E
L
,
THAT
man almost had me crying there. Promising a lonely old man a family. He had me
.

He’s very good at it, isn’t he? He’s had to handle some difficult and strong-willed
folk, his kin among them. And he can do what he promised, though if he made it sound
as if ye’d be his only concern, he was misleading ye; that man juggles almost as many
plots and concerns and projects as I do. So there are some good archmages. Ye might
want to cling to that, as ye entertain our next supplicant
.

Oh?

Aye. Imagine a younger and more brash Manshoon, who doesn’t think he needs to bother
to be subtle
.

Oh
. Alusair’s mental wince was painful for them both.
Like so many young nobles I’ve had to deal with, in my latter years, since the Blades
.

Indeed. This one’s worse. Be on thy guard
.

Wheeeee
. Princesses of Cormyr mastered biting sarcasm at an early age, and for this one,
that had been a long, long time ago. Elminster winced.

And went out to fetch in the last supplicant of the day.

M
ARAUNTH
T
ORR WAS
as handsome—and as full of himself—as ever.

He smiled at his host almost condescendingly, inclined his head graciously when offered
the chair, and seated himself.

“I am prepared to pay thirty
thousand
thousand gold coins for the Lost Spell,” he said as he did so, “and to provide you
with sixty spell scrolls that you can sell as your financial needs suggest—useful,
valuable spells but not rare or unique magics.”

Lord Halaunt blinked. “And why is the Lost Spell so valuable to you? What will you
do with it?”

“Keep it safe. It gives a wizard much power, and is therefore very dangerous. As I
very much doubt any of the other wizards you’ve spoken with have bothered to point
out. I alone respect the danger to Faerûn, and not just what I can do to my enemies
once I wield this spell. Which makes me your only sensible choice.”

Lord Halaunt had grown a puzzled frown. “Say on.”

“I alone know the great responsibility the Art brings, because of its great power,
and I alone of all mages here at Oldspires haven’t misused magic to rule or try to
rule others, to shatter realms or conquer them. So if you yield up the Lost Spell
to me, little will change in Faerûn except that a certain Lord Halaunt will be
much
richer.”

Maraunth Torr’s face grew sad. “If, on the other hand, you choose another, the only
responsible thing I can do is to destroy whomever you have chosen, so the Lost Spell
can’t be misused.”

He stood up, and added gently, “And when that distasteful deed is done, I
will
rightfully punish the lord who made it necessary, for his slighting stewardship of
Faerûn, by killing him in some suitably slow, painful, and fitting manner.”

Elminster could feel Alusair silently seething, but she made Lord Halaunt’s jaw drop
and the man shrink back in his chair and tremble, as if terrified.

“So,” Maraunth Torr said with a silky smile, “I must advise you, Lord Halaunt, to
choose wisely. All of your guests are well aware that the spellstorm will last another
four days. A lot can happen in four days. Would you prefer to spend them with me as
your defender against the other wizards within your walls? Or … not?”

The old lord turned to look helplessly at Elminster, standing still and silent by
his chair.

At that, Maraunth Torr added coldly, “Yonder old fool and charlatan has deceived you
as he has deceived so many, down the years. He is no font of wisdom or sound advice,
but merely the latest opportunistic grasper to take the face and name of a minor wizard
who died centuries ago, and has been impersonated ever since by self-aggrandizing
scoundrels seeking to gain much by trading on the fell reputation of Elminster of
Shadowdale.”

And with that, Torr turned on his heel and swept out of the room.

Lord Halaunt regarded the open door this last supplicant had swept out through, and
sighed.

I’m surprised you didn’t destroy him
, Alusair thought, as Elminster passed her on his way to close the door.

El shrugged. “If I destroyed everyone who said rude or less than true things about
me, Faerûn would be nigh-deserted of creatures that can talk. Besides, ’tis best to
know more about foes, so as to best gauge what dangers will be left lurking and unattended
when it
does
become necessary to destroy them.”

“So, old friend, what now? Do I go to my bedchamber and await some murderous mage
deciding to just seize the Lost Spell rather than paying anything for it? Or do we
sit back and wait for these survivors to have a go at eliminating each other?”

“Neither. Lord Halaunt goes back to the kitchen and we hide him in the plate and cutlery
storage, but I tell everyone at highsunfeast that he’s retired to think over the offers—and
ye patrol invisibly again, and see what everyone gets up to. I’m afraid the chance
for any sort of friendly or even cordial accord among our guests is past; of those
remaining, I think only Malchor has the will for it—and he needs someone else to accord
with
.”

“If we’re handing out the Lost Spell, he’s certainly the only one I’m inclined to
give it to, as things stand now,” Alusair said, “but to announce him as our choice
will be to doom him.”

“As surely as we doomed poor Alastra,” Elminster agreed. “But our choice or not, he
has to survive this folly of Mystra. I’m expecting Calathlarra to try something before
long … and I’d not be surprised if Tabra gets involved in a little tumult, too.”

“A little tumult?”

“A murder. Victim or murderer.”

“So is she—?”

“ ’Tis not that simple, lass. It never is.”

“That’s ‘Highness’ lass, to you.”

“Hah! I recall when ye were a squalling babe, wet at both ends!”

“I was one of those for most of my life, as I recall,” Alusair told him dryly. “Well,
let’s take Old Crustiness here down to his secret plate cupboard, so I can start patrolling—and
get all of this over faster. Four more days of murder or spell duels, before the spellstorm
fades and some enraged archmages get unleashed on Cormyr, and Faerûn beyond. If, of
course, they haven’t all killed each other first.”

“Nay, lass, that last won’t happen. Nothing’s ever that neat and tidy, except in books.”

H
IGHSUNFEAST WAS AN
informal affair of soup, roast wildfowl, cheeses, brandies, and wines, served in
two adjoining rooms: the Copper Receiving Room and the Green Audience Chamber immediately
west of it. Shaaan and Maraunth Torr kept to the dark bower of deep-emerald tapestries
and black carpet, Malchor to the brighter burnished pink-orange copper-ceilinged and
copper-plated chamber, and Manshoon strolled back and forth between the two.