Spellstorm (23 page)

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.

Absent were Calathlarra and Tabra, of course; Elminster intended to serve them their highsunfeasts privately, later.

Lord Halaunt should hear their offers for the Lost Spell, too, but the need to do that could be used as a delaying tactic if need be, over the next several days. During which time, if El knew anything at all about the characters of the four guests now devouring everything in sight, the wizards trapped inside Oldspires were apt to grow more than a mite restless.

Aside from Malchor, all of them had sent insults and condescension Elminster’s way throughout the meal, but had derived little satisfaction from doing so; the smilingly silent steward simply ignored their barbs.

“He smiles,” Maraunth Torr told Manshoon as Elminster passed, “because he can’t think of replies to our sallies, and the truths we tell wound him.”

Elminster merely smiled more broadly.

“Smile on, Elminster of Shadowdale,” Maraunth Torr added coldly. “You’re not nearly as clever as you think you are.”

“Could we speak of something else?” Shaaan drawled. “Something at all
interesting
?”

Manshoon favored her with his usual half smile and asked politely, “And would converse on the topic of the future we’d like to see for, say, the Heartlands of Faerûn be deemed both interesting and safe common ground? Or have you another preference, Lady Serpent?”

Shaaan’s eyes flashed, and she smiled. “Lady Serpent—I
like
the sound of that. My thanks, Lord Manshoon.”

“Not at all, Lady Serpent. Pleased to be of service to you.”

“Actually,” Maraunth Torr put in, savoring some sharp purple-marbled cheese from Ulgarth with evident surprise, “I’m interested in hearing your future plans, both of you. As much as you care to share publicly, that is. Something a bit more detailed than ‘I intend to rule the entire world,’ please.”

“I intend to control whoever manages to get closest to ruling the entire world,” Manshoon drawled. “Let someone else do all the gruntwork before I step in and reap the fruits of their labors.”

“And what if you attempt that, Lord, and find a certain Lady Serpent standing in your way?” Shaaan asked quietly.

“That
will
be interesting,” was all the reply Manshoon made, ere raising a goblet to his lips and sipping long and deeply.

Maraunth Torr raised his voice enough to carry through the open doorway into the other room. “And what of you, Lord Harpell? What are your future plans?”

“My future plans,” Malchor replied dryly, coming to the door with a plate of peppered pickles breaded and fried in shaltikho oil, “are just that: in the future. As in, I haven’t made them yet. I’m too busy pursuing my present ones.”

“Which are?”

Malchor regarded Maraunth Torr thoughtfully. “Not for the likes of you to know. Yet there is one ongoing project I’ll share, being as it can scarcely be hidden from anyone who devotes an afternoon to looking and pondering: breeding. As in, making sure that members of wealthy or accomplished families have children together, thus knitting their clans … to create combined factions that can in time rival those now most prominent across Faerûn—or simply control them, from behind the scenes, by co-opting the highest-ranking and most senior faction members.”

Maraunth Torr crooked an eyebrow. “That would seem work that would benefit one’s children or grandchildren, not oneself—and frankly, I’m not in the business of pleasing grandchildren before myself. I need plans and schemes that bear immediate fruit.”

“So you do,” Shaaan agreed. “After all, for every man, the world ends when he dies. Knowing one has a legacy not easily swept away is all most do so far as the far future is concerned; triumphs are things happening
now
, not yesterday’s gone glory or tomorrow’s empty boasting.”

“Nicely phrased,” Elminster murmured, bending over her with a large decanter of wine in his hands. “Care for some Clalel?”

“Vintage, yes, but none of the muck they’ve bottled this decade. What year?”

“Forged Sigil,” El replied promptly. “Lord Halaunt has only just tapped the cask.”

“Has he now? Did he do so after finishing all the earlier Clalel in his cellar?”

“He did.”

“Hmmm. Pity, that.” The Serpent Queen drank deeply, murmured her appreciation, and sank back into the cushions of one corner of the high-backed lounge she had to herself, along the south side of the room.

As Elminster turned away, she added, “You might just leave the decanter, Elminster. And save yourself all those trips trotting back to refill me.”

“Ah, now, why didn’t I think of that?” he replied affably, setting the decanter down on the side table her drink was already at home upon.

Mirt and Myrmeen came in then with steaming platters of roast braerwing and tallgoose hash, and as the onetime Lady Lord of Arabel passed El, she murmured in his ear, “We took what’s left of Alastra down to the cold cellar, wrapped in an old weathercloak to spare the Halaunt carpets along our way. It’s getting a mite crowded down there.”

“I doubt we’re done yet,” he muttered in reply, “but—”

He broke off to stare as an unexpected visitor glided into the room from the south stairs: the silent, ghostly shape of a sad-faced gowned woman holding her nearly severed, much-bandaged head on her shoulders with the one hand she had left, her other arm ending in a cloth-wrapped but dripping stump.

The chatter in the room died away as everyone noticed the gliding apparition. She paid no one the slightest heed except Elminster; she met his
eyes with a fierce look, then pointed with her stump through the Copper Receiving Room, drawing back her truncated arm to thrust it forward repeatedly to make the fact she was pointing clear.

Even to dunderheaded old Chosen of Mystra
, El thought wryly, and was rewarded with the briefest of grins crossing that ghostly face.

So this was Luse, but he knew who she was pretending to be.